PROLOGUE
Spiked heels clacked emphatically along the empty road. Overpriced, ill-fitting, black pants swept over stilettos with each step taken. A snug, also black, suit jacket was tugged over thin hips before a shimmering, silver tie was adjusted around a pale neck by an equally pale, delicate hand. Black hair styled with artificial curls blew back with the increasing ferocity of the wind. Eyes of mismatching color - one blue, one green - gazed far ahead at the smoldering wreckage on the horizon as an eyebrow arched and a smirk grew on thin, pink lips.
The space was closed ever so slowly, and the heels strutted around the long, black car that had once been called classic, bound for the semi-truck that had barreled into it at incredible speed. A click and a squeak emanated from the colossal door and mixed with a hissing coming from under the hood of the black car as it was pulled open. More clicking from stilettos as they climbed the steps into the semi. The homicidal, demonically possessed truck driver looked up into conflicting eyes before feminine hands wrapped around his neck and head and twisted, causing several bones to bend and inevitably snap.
"This little accident wasn't on my list," a sweet, sugar-coated voice floated on the polluted air. The dead driver was then tugged out of the cab and thrown to the hard pavement.
Heels clicked once again around the totaled automobile, joining the low-pitched screech from a long fingernail gliding across the back door and driver's side door. Hands rested on the door over broken glass from the obsolete window and all-knowing eyes peeked inside.
"Winchesters," the once saccharine voice took on a disgusted tone. "So much trouble for three extremely sentimental boys." Bleeding from the stray shards of glass, hands that had only moments before stolen a life slid rearwards to the back door where the head of the eldest Winchester son lay lifelessly.
"Hello, Pretty," a whisper through the wind so softly, yet still the hunter's eyebrow flinched. Fingers brushed through his short, blood-stained hair, and then the door was jerked open and torn away from the car completely where it fell to the ground with a disturbing crash. The Winchester had been resting against it and came tumbling out of the mangled vehicle until cool hands grasped him beneath his arms and extracted him slowly and somewhat carefully. He was deposited onto the rocky road on his back where he mumbled incoherently in his almost comatose state.
The driver's side door was ripped away next, flung beside its twin with a matching reverberation. The youngest Winchester son was considerably bloodier and worse off than his brother and completely unconscious. "Out you go, Gigantor." Capable hands clamped onto his dirty jacket and shirts and tugged until he was lying next to his older sibling on the rough highway.
Stiletto heels clambered into the driver's seat, leading to the staining of the valuable suit. Fingernails grazed over the warm-to-the-touch head of John Winchester - the man to bring about trouble for him and his family all because of a personal vendetta against a Fire Demon - and a smile spread across pink lips.
"Father Winchester," the voice was taunting now, daring. "Open those pretty eyes for your favorite valentine."
John's head moved slightly toward the left, toward the familiar voice, and his eyelids began to flutter. After several moments, they opened completely and he found he wasn't surprised to gaze into the blue and green eyes he'd come to know all too well over the course of his lifetime.
"Sam and Dean," he forced out.
"They're fine," she assured, smiling slightly.
John proceeded to cough and hack and he didn't need to see that the liquid he was expelling was blood. "It's time, isn't it?" he inquired.
Her eyes narrowed into tiny slits. "It's time," she confirmed.
John grinned delightfully and nodded, though it ached to do so. "I've been waiting." He anticipated a moment before continuing, "Well, get on with it."
"Not so fast, Johnny Death Wish," she chided. "We have unfinished business, you and I."
"No, we don't," John refused. "I did my part and now I'm done."
"You're right about that," she sighed, reaching an arm behind the seat and fixing John's wrinkled clothing against his chest. "I am finished with you. But you, Father Winchester, must name your successor."
John's teeth clenched. "That wasn't part of our deal."
"I'm making it part of our deal."
"You can't do that."
"Oh, but I can." And she grinned brightly. "All part of the reason why it's so great to be me. Now ... which son will it be? Sam or Dean?"
"No," John reiterated firmly. "Stay away from my sons, you bitch."
"Ooh," she feigned offense, furrowing her eyebrows and molding her lips into a well-defined O shape. "That hurts my feelings, Johnny. Really. Especially since you, of all people, are in no position to refuse me. Last chance ... Sam ... or Dean?"
"Go to hell," John ground out.
"Been there," she snarled, thrusting her face toward his only centimeters from touching him. "I found it quite lovely, as a matter of fact." She inhaled profoundly, smiling as she exhaled, seemingly to calm her frazzled nerves, should she have had any. "Maybe you need some convincing, yes?"
There was no reply from John, as she placed her hand above his heart, tapping a slow, slow rhythm. "Do you feel that, John?" she whispered against his ear, her hot breath rushing over his bruised and bloody skin. "It's the heartbeat of young Sammy. He seems to be losing his battle while his father, who is perfectly capable of saving his life with just one name, refuses to do so."
John culminated his remaining strength to lift his head. She abided him, lying back against the seat so that he could see his son lying beaten and dying on the road. He sighed heavily, dropping his head back, and gulped.
"A name, John," she said. "Give me a name and your sons will live long, prosperous lives."
John hoped his sons would forgive him. "Dean." The woman's eyebrows rose. "He's the stronger of the two."
"I thank you, John Winchester," she derided, gazing hard into his eyes.
"If you hurt my sons ..." he started.
"You'll what, exactly?" she interrupted angrily. "You'll haunt me?"
John sighed, knowing he was beaten. "I kept up my end of the deal," he said, his breathing quickening. His reluctant partner tilted her head. "What about your end?"
"Have I ever led you astray, John?" she admonished.
"No."
"No, precisely." She grazed his cheek compassionately. "And I wouldn't dream of letting you down now." Her eyes left his eyes and looked outward into the field in the distance, and John's eyes slowly followed.
"Mary?" he whispered, once the bright, blurry image of his late wife came into perfect view.
"Now get the hell out of here, Johnny," the woman commanded, placing her hand over his eyes.
But still John could see. See his wife. As his heart slowed and eventually stopped.
She watched with circumscribed eyes as John's other-worldly self embraced his long-dead wife. And then she rolled her eyes and her lip curled as she wriggled out of the twisted mess of the Impala. "See," she spoke to herself. "Sentimental. Makes me ill." She stood tall between Sam and Dean Winchester, who were just as spiritless as before.
Squatting, she examined Dean first. "How you doin', Pretty? Doin' all right?" He gave no answer, but his steady breathing and heartbeat were enough information for her, and she turned to Sam. "How 'bout you, kiddo?" She settled a hand over his heart, barely able to appreciate the faint thrumming. "Gonna give your heart a little nudge, Sammy," she told him, tapping his chest four times. His heart responded immediately, throbbing like the heart of a healthy twenty-three-year-old.
"All right," she sighed, standing once again to brush away the remnants of dirt and any other particles that might have gathered on the suit jacket. "Shall we?" She bent down, grabbing the collars of Sam and Dean's shirts behind their necks, lifting them into sitting positions, and commenced walking, dragging them behind her. "Got a long walk ahead of us, but I'm sure you boys can handle that."