I'd originally intended for this to be a major revision of my other story. But I think I'm just going to focus on this one as a story by itself - I feel like I ran my other one into the ground (even though there are only two chapters so far). Some aspects are going to be really similar, for those that have actually read the other one. Thanks!

This chapter is pretty short, but I had fun writing it. Hope it's fun to read!


Chapter 1

"What are we looking for again?" Dean asked absently, digging around in the duffel bag.

"Not women's underwear," Sam replied with a slight roll of his eyes.

"I'm merely being thorough."

"Right. Anyway, just anything that looks unusual or out of place. Hex bags, old amulets or anything that just looks old?"

"Well, haven't found anything. Except that she loves primary colors."

"We have to figure out why someone wants her dead," Sam said, frowning as he looked over the room again.

"Okay, the thing doesn't seem to have much a pattern, for one," Dean mused. "The first one – Duane Marshall – he was a cop. You know how I feel about cops. Number two – Elaine Duncan…worked in the prison. And, number three, Jillian Carter. Principal. The things we hunt definitely have a vendetta against dicks."

Sam shrugged. "But what about Kate? She doesn't seem much like a jerk to me."

"We don't know her," Dean reminded him, flipping back the comforter.

"Dean. What are you doing?"

"The importance of being thorough," he replied, winking.

---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----

I looked around the dingy motel room and sighed.

Even in a weird type of hiding, I'm still confined to creepy rooms like this. Granted, I'm not expecting a 4 star penthouse, but I've seen all the disco-themed honeymoon suites in Middle America.

And that made me wonder. If I hadn't known any better, I'd say that Dean and Sam Winchester were a little more than just brothers.

I suppose this may have been the only room available.

My own room in the motel down the road – by the local hangout, the gas station – had a heart on the door. And a mirror over the bed.

Anyway, that's a good thing. If the two of them were gay (ignoring the fact that they're brothers, obviously), that would be a huge loss for the female kind. A huge loss.

I'd enlisted their help just yesterday. Actually, I should say that they forced me to enlist their help. Apparently they thought I was well on my way to becoming an evil spirit's victim, and being the heroes they are, they took it upon themselves to help. I think I may have hit my head a little too hard, because I seemed to have left out the tiny fact that I'm in their line of business. It shouldn't be that big a deal.

I padded over to the mirror and studied my reflection. Thank goodness for the complimentary pink slippers…unless they're leftovers from the room's previous guests, I thought with a shudder. Best not to think about that.

Oh dear. He sure did a number on me. There was a small bruise on my cheekbone, and one to match above my eyebrow. God, even the hundred-year old spirits have lost all sense of chivalry. I guess that's somewhat understandable…but that's beside the point.

I glanced over at the window to make sure it was properly salt-lined.

Then I untied my robe and checked for bruises elsewhere on my body, because everything sure ached like hell. You would think I'd be used to this, having hunted most of my life. I don't really mind the bruises – they're actually pretty cool, especially when they turn a nasty bluish color. It's the dislocated shoulders and broken bones that piss me off. I'm going to be honest and say that sometimes, I just don't have the balls to pop a shoulder back in. So during those times, I get myself rip-roaring drunk, pop a few aspirins – bad idea, folks, but effective, for me at least – and set everything back in place.

I was so sure my left shoulder had come out during the throw-the-hunter-around game that the spirit seemed to think I wanted to take part in. He was wrong. Anyway, not dislocated, but it still throbs slightly. Inhaling sharply, I ran my fingers over the greenish-yellow bruise on my abdomen. My wonderful run-in with the bookshelf – before it toppled over and dumped all its books on my back.

"Kate?"

I tied the sash around my waist and returned to the main room.

"I'm still here," I greeted, edging closer towards the two of them. Call me girly and pathetic, but standing amongst two fairly gigantic – in height – men makes me feel safer. Men or guns and knives, same difference.

"Anything happen while we were gone?" Dean inquired, eyebrow raised as he half-tilted his head towards my getup.

I felt my face turn red. "I found these in the closet. And no, nothing. Did you guys find anything?"

"Your room's clean. Are you absolutely positive that no one would want you dead?"

I shook my head. "Look, I think I can handle this on my own."

"Even if you can," Dean said in an unbelieving tone, "this isn't just about you. It can, and will, strike again."

"I can handle it," I repeated, deciding I wouldn't tell them I was a hunter. Besides having someone die on you, the worst thing would be having other hunters think you're a failure. They'd no doubt pin it on the fact that you're female. Well, that, and the fact that you obviously aren't too great at your job.

"You're not leaving," Sam instructed. He opened the refrigerator and threw me a can of Coke. "We have pizza if you're hungry."

"I'm good," I replied.

I guess I'm not leaving.

Okay. Not complaining.

"No enemies? Nothing? Come on, no one's a saint," Dean said, sitting on one of the beds with a bottle of beer.

I snorted. "I'm no saint. The only person that may have hated me for a bit died a few years back."

The two of them shared a glance.

"I ran over her cat. But I bought her a new one and she got over it," I added quickly, settling down on the other bed.

Sam remained standing.

"You bought her a new one," Dean intoned. "You're no saint all right."

"Yeah, well, I guess that's not a good example."

"All right. Focus," Sam stated forcefully. "What's the motive?"

The TV turned on by itself before anyone could answer.

We all turned to stare at it for a few seconds.

Then the radio turned on. White noise.

And we know what that means.

"Did you touch the salt?" Sam asked in a somewhat stressed tone.

"No. It must have blown away when you came in," I replied, wishing to god that I had my bag of weapons. But alas, it is safe in my car.

"Here," Dean yelled over the static, as the lights started flickering. He threw a shotgun at Sam, who then pointed it steadily at the door as they closed in in front of me.

Accio bag! I thought, hysterically, seeing as how I couldn't see anything past their broad backs.

No dice.

"Get the girl and leave. I'll deal with Casper," Dean ordered, pointing his gun towards the bathroom.

Sam responded by grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the window. "Come on!"

Oh goddamn.

"No!" I yelled, having to raise my voice to be heard. "Give me a gun."

"What? Do you have a death with? Go!"

"Come on Kate, we don't have time to –"

I'd grabbed his shotgun before he could finish his sentence, and rushed towards the center of the room, in a pink bathrobe and fuzzy slippers.

The door burst open, bringing with it insane gusts of wind and flying particles.

"What the hell are you doing!" Dean yelled, pushing me out of the way.

You're miiiine, a ghostly voice carried over the wind.

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Great.

That was my last thought before I was unceremoniously flung into the refrigerator.

Groaning, I reached for the shotgun that had fallen from my grip midair.

Through the pain, I caught a closer glance at the thing so bent on killing me. What in the hell? A priest? I gave it no second thought before I tried to shoot the thing.

Fucking hell, I thought as the salt hit the wall instead.

In the back of my mind, I wondered why Sam and Dean weren't doing anything. I could hear them yelling, but I couldn't make out the words.

I raised the gun again, only to be thrown perilously close to the light fixture on the wall, all the way across the room.

All I could do was watch as the priest-spirit inched towards me and gripped my throat tightly with one hand. I couldn't even utter any sounds. Or scream.

Even as I was beginning to lose consciousness, I was sending telepathic messages to the two hunters hanging around doing nothing.

You have sinned, the priest whispered in a low tone, his eyes bloodshot. You have killed. You have lied to the one person that cares about you. You have no soul.

I wanted to protest all counts, but clearly was not able to.

I tried to cough, but it died deep within my chest, and only came out as the tiniest of gasps. What the fuck are those hunters doing, the voice in my head rattled on and on, as my eyes rolled back and my arms stopped fighting aimlessly.

A loud bang sounded, and then the pressure on my throat was gone.

Gasping for air, I fell to the ground and promptly passed out.