The carpet on the stair treads was threadbare and dirty. Emma touched the railing briefly, then pulled her hand away. The worn wood was coated with a thick patina of grunge. This was nothing like her mother's house. Nothing like the building where she'd undergone training and endured her first initiations. Those ancient, brutal rites, shrouded in the trappings of luxury: sparkling crystal chandeliers, fine-veined marble, wood polished to a mirror shine, lush Persian carpets. The hotel stairwell smelled of stale cigarette smoke and piss. Nothing, Emma imagined, like the houses and apartments of the other girls' fathers.
Because her father wasn't a doctor or an attorney, or an investment banker like her mother had believed him to be. Her father was a hunter. A vigilante. An enemy of the tribe. Armed, aware of what he was up against, and therefore dangerous. Very dangerous. The matrons had warned her. Her final initiation would be more than the usual challenge. Emma knew the tactics she must use. Take full advantage of the element of surprise. Break down the door. Strike without hesitation. Kill him, quickly, before he had the chance to kill her.
She was prepared. She'd waited and watched, as she'd been trained. The other hunter, her father's brother, had driven off. Her father would be alone in the dingy hotel room. It was time. Her footfalls were silent on the stained and smelly carpet of the hallway. The door, when she reached it, was marred with scuffs and scratches. Emma swallowed hard. She reached inside her jacket and touched the handle of the knife concealed in her sleeve. Reassured by the heft of the weapon, she took a deep breath and knocked lightly.
No response. Emma knocked again. The seconds passed, marked by the throb of her heart. Too much time, she thought. He was already suspicious.
"Hi. You don't know me," she greeted when the door finally opened, "but my name is Emma." He didn't answer, didn't question the presence of a teenage girl alone in a fleabag hotel in a rough neighborhood late at night, just looked at her. Emma's pulse sped up in spite of her stern warning to herself: control.
"I need your help," she rushed on, words she'd rehearsed since the car had dropped her off a block from the hotel. "I think I'm in trouble, and you're the only person I can trust."
"Why?"
"Because you're my father."
"How'd you find me?" Dean fired back. He was calm. No, more than calm. Cold. It didn't faze him, facing the child he'd fathered just days before. No, not a child. A monster, Emma thought. That's all she was to him, another monster to be hunted. Somehow, the notion calmed her. She could be cold, too. She was no helpless child. She was a warrior, trained to endure pain. To inflict it, if necessary.
"They've been watching you," she explained, "ever since Mom got pregnant."
"Well, if you're such a prisoner," Dean retorted, "you mind telling me how you escaped?"
The question was unexpected. For all his suspicion, he didn't know she was there with the tribe's blessing. Emma felt a sudden urge to laugh. Telling him she was there to kill him seemed like a bad idea.
"I waited until lights out. The women who watch over us change shifts a little after ten," Emma improvised.
"Uh-huh. And you left because…" Dean left the words hanging, a clear invitation to explain herself.
"They stick you in there, and you trust them. It's all you know. And you don't question what they want you to do," she told him, earnest. "Terrible things. That's why I had to leave. They tortured me," Emma went on, holding up her arm for his inspection. The wound was still raw, the mark of the tribe red and angry-looking on her slender wrist.
"They told me I had to endure pain so I could be strong like them. But I don't want to be like them," she insisted.
"Okay," Dean relented. "Come on in."
She followed him into the room, pulling her pink overnight bag behind her. Emma looked around, eyes taking in the peeling wallpaper, the decrepit furniture, the clutter of books and papers, but none of it really registered. The man locking the door behind them was her father, the same man who'd visited her mother the day before, who'd smiled and spoken to her, not knowing who she was. He looked very different now, in blue-collar clothes instead of a suit, cold and suspicious instead of charming. The calm she'd drawn upon as she'd stood at the door was quickly being depleted. This man wasn't family. This place wasn't home. Home was with her mother and the rest of the tribe.
But to take her rightful place with the Amazons, she'd have to kill him.
"Have a seat," Dean offered. To Emma's ears, it sounded like a command. She sat down on the end of one of the beds.
"Okay," he went on. "Let's assume that you're not..." He hesitated.
A monster, Emma thought.
"Like them," Dean concluded. "Yet." He leaned against the table, where every scrap of lore that could possibly pertain to Amazons had been stacked in a haphazard pile.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Get me away from here," Emma said, pleading now. "You're a good man. My mother told me that," she offered, improvising again. She realized her mistake as soon as she'd voiced the words. He didn't warm to her at the flattery. If anything, he seemed even more suspicious.
"I seriously doubt she said that. And if you knew me, you would seriously doubt it's true."
Emma pondered that. The matrons of the tribe had warned her. Dean Winchester and his brother were dangerous. But were they really criminals? Mother Charlene had told her that they were, and she should know; she was a police officer. And, Emma thought, a murderer, like all the other members of the tribe. Was her father any different? She had to believe that he was.
"You're right," she admitted. "They told me you were a bad man. A hunter. So maybe you'll understand about me. Maybe you can protect me. Just long enough so I can get away. Then I'll leave you alone," Emma promised, her hopes fading. "I know you don't want me," she added, trying to resign herself. To her surprise, however, the words seemed to crack his cold facade.
"All right, let's not... go there, okay? This isn't a matter of…" Dean gestured, seemingly unable to find the right words. "You get this isn't a normal situation, right?"
"How would I know?" Emma's voice broke. "Three days ago, I wasn't even alive. Now here I am. My mother threw me into that place. And my father... well…" She hesitated, battling the hot, shameful prickling of tears. Amazons were warriors. Proud and strong. They didn't cry. Defiant, Emma refused to allow the gathering tears to fall.
"You get this is my last chance to have anything normal ever, right?" she demanded sharply, drawing on anger and frustration to block out the hopelessness and fear as her father stood and walked to the window. Emma felt the blade of her hidden knife, warmed by the heat of her body, smooth against her skin. For one desperate instant she thought of drawing it, leaping across the room, stabbing it between his shoulders as he looked down at the street. Then he turned back to her and the moment passed.
"You look exhausted," he told her.
"And starving," she accused, though it wasn't his fault. "It's been a tough sweet sixteen. So you believe me?" She'd just given serious thought to killing him. It wouldn't be surprising if he'd thought of doing the same to her. But he folded his arms and nodded.
"You'll help me?" Emma asked, hating her vulnerability, but unable to stop herself from blurting out the question. Her father watched her, arms crossed, his expression considering.
"If you really want help."
Emma hesitated. He still didn't believe her. She felt the reassuring weight of the weapon concealed in her sleeve, her guilty secret. She opened her mouth, then shut it, unable to think of anything more to say to convince him. Slowly, she returned his nod.
"Well, now, what happens when they find out you're missing?"
"They may have already found out." How long had she been in the hotel? How long did it generally take to kill a man? To carve the sigil and collect the trophies?
"And they'll hunt me down," Emma said with conviction. Her father nodded again and crossed to the grimy kitchenette.
"Look, I know this is going to be hard, but if I'm going to get out, I have to do it now," she urged as he opened the refrigerator.
"We got cheese and a leftover burrito," Dean announced just as the door to the room slammed open. He whirled at the sound, drawing his gun.
Sam stood in the doorway, pointing his own gun at Emma, who leapt to her feet, the knife dropping from her sleeve into her hand. She dropped smoothly into a fighting stance, as she'd been trained. Her eyes flared, becoming inhuman, the skin around them glowing red, pupils dilating. But he didn't shoot. Instead, her father's brother stood still, though poised to attack. Watchful. Waiting. Emma forced herself to regain control. Pointedly ignoring the big hunter in the doorway, she turned to face Dean, still on her guard.
"You were asking if I believed you," he said quietly. Once he'd registered who had just broken into the room, Dean aimed his gun away from Sam, pointing it unwaveringly at Emma instead. No hurt, she thought. No surprise. He'd been expecting her to turn on him all along.
"They said you'd be a challenge. You already knew about me...what I am. I couldn't just walk in unarmed and beg you to help me," Emma insisted. Her voice quavered in spite of her effort to keep it steady.
"I figured you'd chat me up... try and catch me off guard. Almost worked," Dean said dryly. "I was expecting your mother."
"Turns out, it's the daughters," Sam interjected. "She was going to kill you. Her final initiation into the tribe."
"She hasn't killed anybody yet," Dean replied. He took his aim off Emma, slowly setting the pistol on the table. "And she's not going to, are you, Emma? Put the knife down."
"Dean!" Sam gave his brother an incredulous look. He kept his gun trained on its target. Emma looked from one Winchester to the other. Her fingers flexed on the knife.
"Please don't let him hurt me."
"Nobody's going to hurt you-" Dean began, but Sam interrupted, furious.
"What did you say to me, when I was the one who choked? What did you say about Amy?" His voice rose. "'You kill the monster!'"
"No!" Dean shouted. Then, in a more normal tone of voice, he went on. "Sammy, look at her. She's not a monster. Not yet. She's just a kid."
"No," Sam insisted. "Look, man, I know what you must be thinking. But she's not yours. Not really."
"Actually, she is, really. Put the gun down, Sam. Everybody," he demanded, turning to Emma. "Everybody just… just stand down. We can figure this out."
Sam shot Dean a look of pure exasperation, but slowly lowered his gun. Emma reluctantly eased into a less combative stance, lowering the long-bladed knife incrementally. She looked back to Dean again, locking eyes with her father. He knew what she was, and yet, Emma thought, he was defending her. She hadn't been able to convince him with words, but maybe she could prove herself with actions. She turned the point of the knife toward herself, balancing the weapon along her forearm. Emma offered the knife, hilt-first, to her father. Dean's eyebrows rose at the archaic, oddly formal gesture.
"Thank you," he said gruffly, taking it.
Sam waited until Emma surrendered the knife before tucking his pistol into the back of his waistband. He watched the teenager, clearly distrustful. Emma felt a surge of nausea, her body reacting to the emotion of the past few minutes. Her legs felt weak. Before her knees could buckle, she sat back down on the bed.
"You're making a mistake, Dean." Standing over Emma, the brothers exchanged a long look.
"Maybe I am. But I can't just gank her," Dean retorted, his voice harsh. "And I can't let you do it, either, Sammy," he hurried on, anticipating his brother's next words. "I get you, Sam. I do. I could be wrong about the kid. Hell, I probably am wrong. But we have to give her a chance."
Sam looked at the girl, sitting slouched and unresponsive even as they discussed killing her. Monster or not, she wasn't posing a threat at the moment. She looked small and vulnerable. He spread his hands, momentarily defeated, but the glare he gave Dean made it clear the subject was far from closed.
"All right. Let's get out of here, stash the-" Sam paused, at a loss for words. He gestured at Emma.
"Stash her someplace safe," he went on sourly. "Then we go back to the 'mother ship' and take out the rest of the tribe. Unless this sudden sympathy for monsters extends to your new in-laws?"
Dean glowered but let the sarcastic query slide. Swiftly, he began boxing up the scattering of books and loose papers, first making sure Bobby's flask was secure inside his pocket. Within minutes, the Buick Riviera pulled away from the hotel and drove off, a new passenger in the back seat.