Picture this.
A man is running through the forest—just off the government-watched state park grounds outside Olanta, South Carolina. He's a hunter, chasing down prey for food and for sport. However, this time around he's found himself on the wrong end of the deal. In a trip gone amiss, he's now being chased—his predator in hot pursuit and moving through the trees faster than any person ever should. He knew there had been disappearances in that neck of the woods recently. He'd be damned if he succumbed to the same thing; call it a matter of pride.
It's a common trope for the protagonist in this situation to stumble upon some sort of obstacle—such as a vine or a tree branch—that causes them to trip. It has been used countless times in cinema. Our hunter here never bought into it; after all, it was just to manufacture tension. No real person was idiotic enough to trip like that without fail. At least, that's what he would have said before his current situation. Given it was the dead of autumn, the floor was covered in hazards that were all delicately concealed beneath layers of brown leaves. It was much more difficult to remain upright than he'd imagined it'd be. Still, he held his ground. He knew enough about hunting to know he couldn't stop. He wasn't sure whether he was gaining ground on his pursuant or not, but he dared not look back. He was struggling enough to stay on his feet running forwards; backwards was suicide.
He heard his chaser call out for him. "You can't out run me," the voice said—a woman's voice that sent chills down his spine. Breathing heavier than ever, he picked up his pace slightly.
"Try me, bitch," he taunted, now feeling more confident than was warranted. As if to intentionally put him in his place, the woman appeared in front of him. He could have sworn she showed up out of thin air. Desperate to survive, he stopped himself before reaching her arms' length and darted off in the opposite direction.
For a time, he couldn't hear her following him. He wanted to believe she'd stopped her chase, but he, as a hunter himself, knew that was a simple delusion of arrogant optimism. It was a tactic he'd used himself many times; being as still and quiet as possible while never losing sight of the target, giving a false sense of security and stripping it away with blood.
He refused to be eliminated using his own tactics, humility be damned. However, out of a blend of curiosity and nerve, he paused for a hot second to turn and look around to try and pinpoint her location. After all, if he went in blind, for all he knew he'd be heading right for her, and he couldn't afford to take that chance with his life literally hanging in the balance.
He was panting as he surveyed the surroundings. In every direction he saw nothing but uninterrupted forest; everything looked identical between north, south, east, west, and everything in between—with the exception of his own trail of footprints coming toward him from the northwest. Wherever she was, it could be absolutely anywhere, and, as it stood, he'd have no way of knowing unless she wanted him to.
Feeling somewhat defeated, he sighed and decided to start heading dead east. Better to keep going in the wrong direction and die trying than to stand still and wait for an inevitable death. Besides, if by chance he picked the right way, he had a chance of survival—and he was the gambling type.
So, now with more resolve than ever, he sprinted through the trees, hoping to lose her amongst the foliage.
He didn't.
Just like she had done earlier, she appeared before him from seemingly nowhere, stopping him dead in his tracks. However, before he'd been lucky enough to get away. He couldn't manage to repeat it.
He was now in her grasp, thrashing and fighting like his own game would in his place. Too little, too late, but he began to sympathize with his prey in that instant.
She separated his head from his shoulders with nothing but brute force, and that was the end of that.
Sam and Dean Winchester assumed the hunt a week later.
27 October
"Run me through what we're dealing with again," Dean instructed Sam as he drove down I-95. It wasn't often that the Winchesters entered states via the main-access highways—tolls are a bitch, after all. However, when the opportunity presented itself, Dean wasn't necessarily going to shoulder it. What could be more appealing to him than taking the interstate? The only place Dean Winchester was more in-his-element than when on a hunt was driving fast, one hand on the wheel, windows down. And so here he was doing exactly that, hauling ass from one comfort zone to the next.
"Last week a man was found dead in the forest outside Olanta. With his head detached. Ripped clean off his shoulders."
"Ripped?"
"Yeah—like, actually ripped."
"Sounds like one of ours."
"And get this—he's not the first body. Two women went missing the week before, and a group of men on a hunting trip vanished just a few days before them. All seven were found dead—but by a bullet to the heart."
"That doesn't sound like one of ours."
Sam shrugged. "I mean, seven deaths so close together like that—followed by an eighth that has the coroner stumped? We've driven farther for less, Dean."
"Fair enough, then," Dean conceded with a shrug, putting the pedal closer to the metal as he picked up the pace to Olanta.
Within an hour, they arrived at their motel, a conveniently-located lodge-style joint just a few miles from the supernatural hunting ground. However, they'd chosen the spot for more than its proximity. As it stood, the eight corpses belonged to people who'd rented there and never made it home. A place that suspicious warranted a Winchester's attention.
"We need to book a room," Dean informed the clerk, inclining his chin to appear professional.
"We're not open. The property's taken a nasty hit from all the recent deaths—bad publicity and all," she replied. "Sorry, boys. Looks like you'll have to find somewhere else." Sam noted how she signed what she was saying as she spoke.
"Lot of disabled patients out here?" he asked, looking down to her hands then back up to her face.
She nodded. "It's a bit of a popular destination for the elderly; we see a lot of people come in out here that are hard of hearing or blind or otherwise. Helps make my job easier if I can sign," she informed. She cleared her throat. "But none of that matters, because we're closed. Good day, gentlemen."
"We have cash," Sam said, stepping forward to stand next to Dean, who shifted slightly to his right to make way. "And, well, we're here on federal business."
"Federal?" she asked, skeptical. She narrowed her eyes, examining them and their effects. "I highly doubt that. Take it elsewhere, would you? I've had my fill of hunters this week."
"Hunters?" the Winchesters echoed in unison. They both looked at one another before directing attention back to the clerk.
"Yeah—you know, hunters. Surly men, deep voice—bit of a gut. Gun fetish. Hunters. This far into the woods, it's not uncommon for them to turn up here, but usually we don't see this many until deer season. But everyone's just dying to catch the thing responsible for these killings—or, the person, I suppose. It's been a crazy couple of weeks 'round these parts."
Dean rolled his eyes and looked back up at his brother. It appeared that they and the clerk had two differing definitions of the term hunter. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and placed a hand on the table as he looked to her again, intent on securing the location. "Look, uhm…" he trailed off as he eyed her name tag. "Rebecca. We're not hunters, okay? We're federal. We have proof," he insisted.
"Let me see it, then."
"Sure thing," Sam assured. He and Dean reached into their jackets and procured two charlatan FBI badges. "Agents Coverdale and Lifeson."
She pursed her lips, clearly still put off by the situation. "Right. And why exactly did the FBI send a member of Deep Purple and the guitarist from Rush into God's country, South Carolina?"
"Your town's got eight dead bodies on its hands, Rebecca. Sounds like our kind of gig to me," Dean answered. "Now, how about that room?"
She rolled her eyes, but obliged. "Here's a key," she replied, handing it to Dean. "Good luck with your investigation. Everyone either goes into that forest and comes out with nothing or doesn't come out at all."
"We're professionals," Dean assured. "I think we got some tricks up our sleeve whatever the hell is out there isn't prepared for."
She shook her head, but her smile told a different story. "Like I said," she responded, turning to face him. "Good luck."
§§§§§
The Winchesters took up, albeit temporary, residence in the motel, tossing their bags onto their respective beds and looking the place up and down. For a joint in the backwoods, it was decently well-kempt—far better accommodations than they typically received. There weren't any mysterious scents or stains, so it was a success in their eyes—though perhaps their bar was too low.
Settled in the best they could be, Sam pulled his laptop from his belongings and plugged it in. He sat down at their table and gave Dean a shrug. "What do you say we hit up the morgue?"
"Thought you'd never ask," Dean replied, faking wistfulness.
Sam rolled his eyes but gave Dean a reluctant chuckle. He took a second to find the address before getting back to his feet and following his brother out the door.
Once they arrived, they were greeted by the local coroner—an aging man with a boy's features and a short fuse. He scowled at their badges upon being presented them, long enough that Sam and Dean began fretting they'd maybe been found out.
To their relief, they hadn't been. The explanation they received was, "Damn feds. If you're here, it means we got so much more paperwork to deal with. You know, I moved out of Charleston and into the country to avoid shit like this."
Dean and Sam exchanged looks before Dean raised an eyebrow to the coroner. "Right, well, our apologies, I guess?" he replied, somewhat taken aback. "How about we make this short and we'll get out of your hair as quick as we can. Hell—we'll even handle that paperwork for you."
The coroner pursed his lips, leading the boys to the morgue where he pulled out the slot containing the relevant cadaver's body and a bin that held his head. "Here he is, gentlemen. Adam Frost—good hunter, but that's about all I could tell you. Bit of a drifter. Been in and around these parts for years, but didn't own any properties in town—motel hopper, I assume. That's all we got on him."
Sam nodded slightly, surveying the remains. "Thank you," he said. "We'll take it from here."
"Hey, you're taking over—whatever you say," the coroner replied, stepping out of the room. "If you want the other stiffs, I've got the women, but the men I can't speak for."
"What happened to them?" Dean asked, his interest now piqued. "I thought you said they were killed by a shot to the heart."
"No, I said the women were killed that way, but I guess the reporters tagged the men with that line too. Those bodies were incinerated."
"You cremated them?" Sam questioned.
"No—not us. Whoever killed them. We never issued a presumed cause of death for them because the bodies were ash by the time we got to them. Best guess? Whoever killed the girls shot the men and tried to cover their tracks. But word got out, and by the time this… psychopath got around to the women and Adam over there, he couldn't be bothered anymore."
"Right," Dean replied, looking back to Adam's corpse. "Thanks."
"Good luck, you two," the coroner scoffed. "The Bureau's about to have a field day with this one." With that, he left, allowing Sam and Dean to discuss their angles.
"What the hell?" Dean asked.
"I got nothing."
"No, seriously, Sam. What the hell?"
"Dean, I don't know. Three groups of targets, three distinct causes of death? Five bodies cremated? I couldn't begin to explain this."
"Maybe it just ain't our problem, Sam. Some deranged dick shot the women and burned the men alive."
"And then what? Developed superhuman strength and decapitated Adam with his bare hands? Yeah, you're right. Sounds like your average Dahmer to me."
"Alright, alright, settle down. We'll keep digging, but, Sam, I don't even know where to start."
"Start here," Sam suggested, placing Adam's head in front of his brother.
Dean sighed, pulling the bin towards himself. "What exactly am I looking for here?" he asked as he began examining, his face reflexively contorted in disgust.
"Anything helpful," Sam replied with a shrug. "How should I know?"
Dean rolled his eyes but kept digging nonetheless. Sure enough, he uncovered something useful. "Well, that's a gamechanger," he said, his eyes widening slightly.
Sam inclined his head. "What is it?"
"Marie Antoinette's got himself a set of retractable vampire fangs," Dean said with a sigh, pushing the bin away from himself. "Things just got interesting."
"Alright, so maybe Adam was responsible for the deaths and a hunter got to him."
"Right, because so many vampires like to shoot and/or burn their prey without taking a bite for themselves."
"Maybe not," Sam sighed. "So then what the hell?"
"You ask that like I have any more answers than you do," Dean scoffed. "I'll tell you one thing though—I'm willing to bet those women ate bullets made of silver."
Taking up his brother's hunch, Sam read the names on the slots until he found one he recognized from the article and pulled her out. In a small plastic bag next to her, he found the bullet she took and tilted his head to the side. Sure enough, "Silver," he confirmed. As he went to put the body back, his nail grazed her shin and ripped a tear in her flesh. His body tensed as he pulled at the skin, taking it clean off the muscle. "Shapeshifter's skin," he assessed.
"I'll repeat," Dean replied. "Things just got interesting."
§§§§§
"Okay, so clearly it's some kind of… super-charged something, right?" Dean said, pacing around the motel room as he and Sam tried to come up with a theory.
"It's got to be a hunter," Sam established. He was situated in front of his laptop, sitting at the table with his head in his hands, thoroughly defeated in the moment. "There's nothing else it could be. It's only going after monsters, right?"
"Yeah, sure," Dean conceded. "But that last kill wasn't something your average hunter could swing, Sammy. Something's definitely up around here, I just can't for the life of me figure out what the hell it is."
Sam sighed, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. "You got me," he replied, shaking his head slightly. "I don't even know if I can say for sure we should even be after it."
"How do you figure?"
"Well, I mean, so far it's done nothing but good, right? In theory? It's taken down a vampire and two shapeshifters—and that's what we know of. Those five men could have been anything. Isn't it more of a public service than a threat?"
"Sammy, when has it ever been that easy?" Dean scoffed. "I want to say I agree, but I don't feel comfortable walking away from this just yet—not until we get some other information at least. If it's actually helpful, we'll let it walk—we've done it before. But let's at least do our damn job and do it right first, how about it?"
Sam shrugged. "Sounds good to me," he agreed. "But how do you figure we find anything out. So far, it's only ever gone after inhuman things, and the two of us are flesh and blood men."
Dean pursed his lips, stopping his pacing to come up with a plan. "Do you think it'll go for Cas?"
Sam raised an eyebrow. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, so he closed it and sighed through his nose, looking down to his hands. Dean inclined his chin as he awaited his brother's verdict, which couldn't come sooner—he was growing fairly impatient.
"He's supernatural, ain't he?" Dean added, vouching for his idea.
"He's an angel, Dean," Sam scoffed.
"Which makes him not human."
"But he's not a monster," Sam refuted. "So far this thing's only gone for Eve's creations. Who's to say something of God would do the trick?"
"Who's to say it wouldn't?" Dean replied. "Look, if you got a better solution, I'm all ears. Until then, I say we give it a go."
"So what—we offer him up as bait to the supernatural killing machine?" Sam questioned, now looking his brother dead in the eyes, narrowing his own.
"I think Castiel can hold his own against… whatever it is that's out there."
Sam shook his head.
"Like I said, I'll take whatever solution you seem to have that's any good."
Sam sighed. "Alright, fine," he conceded. "We'll give it a shot."
"That a boy, Sammy."
"But we're tailing him—keeping him out of trouble."
"It's almost like he didn't spend millennia fighting heavenly battles or something," Dean chuckled. "He's an angel, Sam. Give the man some credit."
Sam rolled his eyes, but he wore a smile nonetheless. He extended his hands toward Dean. "Well," he prompted, clapping them back together. "It's all you."
"What? Why?" Dean protested, furrowing his brows.
"Because—after everything—the man still answers to you better," Sam replied coolly. "And besides, it was your idea anyway. So pray to him."
"Yeah, look, I've got a better idea," Dean said, retrieving his cell from within his jacket. "We're living in the 21st century, Sam. Who needs praying when I have an angel on speed dial?"
Sam shook his head at his brother, but his smile still remained intact. "I guess that works too," he conceded, standing up and leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
Dean pulled up Cas' number in his contacts and tapped it to give it a rang, casually putting the phone to his ear and resting his arm against the headboard of the bed waiting for the line to pick up. Impatient as he was, he began drumming his fingertips on the headboard.
"Dean?" a familiar voice greeted, confused but inviting nonetheless. Dean noted the hint of concern in his friend's salutation—after all, Dean only ever called from a hunt if something was horribly sideways, so as far as Castiel knew the Winchesters had gotten themselves somewhere they couldn't get out of. "What's going on? Are you okay?"
"We're fine, Cas," Dean assured with a light chuckle. "Calm down; nothing's wrong. We're just following up on a hunch."
"What is it, then?"
"This hunt got a little… stranger than we were expecting. Figured you could help out," Dean said, putting off asking for help for as long as he could manage it.
"You're going to need to tell me more if you want me to actually be able to do anything, you know."
"Basically, whatever the hell we're tracking—it's not after humans."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Everyone that's died has been a monster; the most recent was a vampire, the women were shapeshifters, and the group of men could be fucking anything. The point is, Sam and I aren't exactly this thing's type, if you catch my drift?"
"You're asking me to bait your trap."
"Well, when you put it that way…"
"Where are you?"
"Olanta, South Carolina. It's just shy of a day's drive out here from the bunker."
"I'll get there as soon as I can, Dean."
"Thanks, man. Really owe you one. And hey, for the record—Sam and I will be right behind you the whole time. Got nothing to worry about."
"I wasn't worried, Dean. If I were worried, you'd have known. But Dean—are you sure this is going to work anyway?"
"What's stopping it?"
"I mean, I'm not human, but I'm an angel, Dean. I don't know of anything but a demon, a hunter, or another one of us that'd be dumb enough to try and contest that."
"Right, Sam said the same thing. But unfortunately, we're fresh out of werewolves and ghouls, so looks like you're the best bet we got right now, don't it?"
"I'm on my way," Castiel replied, hanging up once he had.
"He's on his way," Dean relayed to Sam, tossing his phone on the bed with a shrug.
§§§§§
Before Castiel would arrive, the Winchesters had almost a full day on their hands to kill. Sam insisted they use the time to figure out as much as they could in the meantime. After all, a full day open on a hunt was a godsend. Dean, however, substantiated that they lay low and wait it all out. After all, they still weren't going to attract their prey's attention; it hadn't been taking humans the whole time it had been active, why would it start just because the Winchesters were in town?
"So what? We're just supposed to sit here with our thumbs up our asses doing nothing? What if whatever's out there hasn't been doing this out of the goodness of its heart, Dean? We could try to snuff it out, wouldn't you say?"
"It's a good idea in theory, Sammy, but it's not going to go for us. Our friend out there ain't got a taste for human flesh—what was the word for it Travis taught me?"
"Long pig?"
"Yeah, that. It hasn't got a taste for long pig, and you know it. So what's the use in going out there to achieve nothing when we could actually take a moment to breathe? I mean, really, Sammy. When in the hell does a hunter ever get the chance to take it easy for roughly 20 hours?"
"Fine. You stay here and do jack, and I'll go use this time to our advantage."
"You say that until you come up empty-handed."
Sam rolled his eyes and headed out the door anyway. He wasn't angry with Dean for their disagreement; it wouldn't be the first time something along the lines had happened, after all. Still, he was just competitive enough to have his mind, body, and soul gunning for something to prove his brother wrong—for no reason but pride, as it stood. Leaving Dean behind, he wandered out into the lobby. Truth be told, he was heading out blind; other than Castiel, who wouldn't be in for a good bit of time, they had no leads—hell, they weren't sure Cas would prove to be a lead anyway. Nonetheless, he was determined to make some sort of progress in the meantime, leads be damned.
As he looked over the lobby, his eyes caught Rebecca and a realization came to him. "Of course," he said to himself, making strides toward her as she stood still at her post behind the front desk. He continued talking to himself, saying, "Everyone that… thing out there got—every single monster—rented out here." He was beginning to put things together; Rebecca would have met all the victims. Surely her resolve to remain in her position despite the closure of the motel and her establishment's connection to the deceased wasn't coincidental. As fate would have it, hunting wasn't a profession rife with coincidence.
She noticed his approaching before he said a word. Odd, given how quiet his footsteps were. Upon seeing him, she tensed her entirety. However, once he arrived, she cleared her throat and threw her hair over her shoulder, acting casual. "Agent Coverdale," she greeted, feigning a collected smile.
"Rebecca," he returned, inclining his chin. "I have some questions to ask you," he informed. He tossed his counterfeit badge to the side. "Off the record," he added, leaning into her.
Her eyes widened and Sam noticed her getting slightly less comfortable. "If you're trying to ask me out, the answer's no. Some advice? Get a less intimidating tactic."
"I'm not looking for trouble. Or a hook-up, actually. I just want some intel."
She sighed. "Yeah, I know. Figured you were going to ask about the goings-on 'round here at some point. Expected the 'off the record' play too. I know your kind, Winchester."
He narrowed his eyes. "You know my name?"
"Yeah, of course. You're a friend of hers, she said. She told me you and your brother would be around eventually. Said not to get in your way. So I'm not."
"Right," Sam said, nodding slowly. "And who might she be?"
Rebecca shrugged. "Hell if I know. She never said."
Sam sighed, but kept his shoulders back.
"And besides, you have to give me credit. My kind knows a hunter when he walks in the door," she scoffed.
"Your kind?"
She nodded. "Lycanthrope, werewolf, whatever you want to call it. I was born into it—second generation. But don't worry about me, Winchester. All I've done the whole time is help her find her targets when they walk in that door," she said, pointing to the entrance. "I can sniff out a supernatural being as easily as a human, you know. It's been a major help, she said."
Sam pursed his lips.
"Honest to god, I haven't hurt anyone. Use your brain, Winchester. I obviously live in the middle of god's country for a reason, right? I've been feeding off wildlife my whole life. You got nothing to worry 'bout with me. And as far as she's concerned, you needn't worry there either. All she's doing is exactly what y'all would in her position—hunting."
"Thanks, Rebecca," Sam said abruptly, not bothering to pay proper thanks for the insight. He turned and walked away, heading straight out the door. Whoever—whatever—she was, he was going to find her. What he'd do when he did, he wasn't sure, but that wasn't important in the moment. She knew him—and presumably his brother. The hunt had gotten more personal and exceptionally more interesting, as it had been by the minute it would appear.
§§§§§
Castiel finally arrived, and upon meeting Rebecca the two of them were instantly apprehensive of one another. "We're not open," she stated before taking note of his scent as she rummaged through papers on the desk. Once she did, she looked up at him, her eyebrows furrowed.
"Werewolf?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. "Did Dean call me in on a werewolf hunt? Must be losing his touch."
"What the hell are you?" she asked, panting. "I can tell you're not human, but I—your scent is unfamiliar."
"I'm an angel of the Lord," he informed coolly. "And I'm assuming you're the problem around here. Though, admittedly, I'm curious as to why you'd prey on Eve's descendants and not humans."
"Check your facts, feathers," she taunted. "None of those bodies had their hearts missing. That ain't werewolf behavior. Please just—just leave me alone, okay? I'll give you a room, information, whatever. Hell, I won't even tell her you're supernatural; I'll say you're just a passing man in need of shelter and she'll leave you right alone."
"Who will?"
"God, not this again. Look, you little tree topper, I don't know. All I can tell you is two fucking Winchesters show up here and an angel follows them and the whole thing is above my paygrade. Just leave me out of it, okay?"
Castiel rolled his eyes, but obliged. "Alright," he conceded. "You said the Winchesters? How do you know them?"
"Because she does," Rebecca said, her voice still tense. "She told me not to get in their way, so I've been nothing but help. Ask, uhm—I don't know who's who, but I gave the giant one all the intel I have. I'm trying to be a wallflower here. Just like she wanted."
"Right," Castiel said. He inclined his chin. "Well, we want to meet her," he replied. "So if you could do me a favor and tell her I'm… not human, that'd help."
"She doesn't have the equipment to kill an angel; just enough to take out the run-of-the-mill lowlifes. You know, vamps, wolves, skinwalkers, the like."
"Then tell her I'm something else."
"Fine, okay, I will. Just, for the love of Christ, leave me be otherwise, alright?"
"You have my word."
She stepped away from the desk and headed into a room marked Employees Only. As Castiel made to go to the Winchesters' room, he heard her call out the number to him.
He headed there, but was stopped in his tracks partway down the hall by Sam, who'd just come back in after seeing the headlights from Castiel's car. "Hey, Cas," he greeted, his hand resting on Castiel's shoulder. They continued towards the room.
"Are you and your brother aware that the clerk is a werewolf?" Castiel asked, ignoring the greeting entirely.
"I am," Sam replied. "I decided to do some digging while we waited up for you. And I hate to break it to you, but I think you made a trip out here for jack."
"What?"
"I'll explain it when we get to the room. Dean's going to want to hear all of this."
§§§§§
"A ghost?" Dean and Castiel exclaimed in unison.
"So why is she only going after monsters?" Castiel asked, his eyes narrow.
"Because she was a hunter when she was alive," Sam answered. His eyes met Dean's. "She knew us. I didn't get a look at her, but Rebecca at the front desk told me everything she could. She didn't know what exactly the hunter was, but the second I went out to that forest, I felt cold spots out the ass. It's a hunter's ghost, guys. It's got to be. That's why she's only after creatures, not people. I guess she thinks it's her unfinished business, you know? Hunting whatever remains on this god forsaken earth? Noble enough, I suppose."
"How exactly does Rebecca know anything about this?" Dean asked, now more confused than before. "And how does this… ghost even know us? I don't know of a hunter—let alone an ally of ours—dying out in Olanta."
"Rebecca's a werewolf," Sam and Castiel informed simultaneously.
"A werewolf?" Dean scoffed. "This just keeps getting better. I take it Smitey McSmiterton over here iced her, then?"
"Not exactly," Castiel admitted.
"Why not?" Dean exclaimed.
"Because she's only feeding off the wildlife," Sam interrupted.
"Actually, her diet was fairly inconsequential. I told her I would let her be as long as she cooperated, and I like to keep to my word," Castiel replied. "Conveniently enough, however, yes, she's harmless."
"So let me get this straight," Dean said, gathering his thoughts. "Clerk lady's got claws, and we're hunting the ghost of one of our own who's so damn dedicated to the life she's out here taking them out from the grave. Except—and here's the kicker—apparently she's a friend of ours or something? Ain't buying it."
"Well, I say we go talk to her," Sam suggested, rising to his feet.
"I told Rebecca to tell her I'm a monster, not an angel. I should be enough to draw her out," Castiel said coolly.
"You told Rebecca to relay information?" Dean asked.
"She can sniff out the supernatural, Dean. So when someone walks in and asks for a room, Rebecca lets the hunter know whether they're game or not. It's a pretty efficient system, seeing as nothing's made it through this joint without her ending them," Sam replied.
"Naturally," Dean remarked. He stood up too, and Castiel followed. "Well, alright, then. Let's talk to her."
And so the trio headed out to the woods. On their way through the lobby, they talked Rebecca into tailing them. After all, she and their ghost friend had a connection, so they thought her presence would be helpful should something go sideways. She was less than thrilled about it. "You told me you'd leave me alone, angel," she pouted, staring daggers into Castiel.
"Honey, he's gotten worse than a glare for less; no one likes a whiner. And besides, we'll leave you alone after we talk to your mistress. No one's going to hurt you, but we need you here in case she doesn't want to reason with us," Dean said, stepping in to defend his friend.
Rebecca scoffed, rolling her eyes at Dean. "She's not my 'mistress,'" she insisted. "We have a mutual thing. I give her targets, she protects me—keeps hunters off my trail."
"We're here," Dean retorted. "She clearly couldn't hold up her end."
"She said you were an exception."
"We get that a lot," Dean remarked, prideful.
"In the midst of all this chatter, did she ever tell you why the Winchesters get a pass?" Castiel asked, trying to mediate the tensions. "Usually that's a red flag, you know. These boys' reputation doesn't help them."
"Thank you, Cas," Dean sighed, patting him on the shoulder. "I appreciate the optimism."
Castiel squinted his eyes, tilting his head. "Nothing I said was positive, Dean."
Dean shook his head, but he wore a smile. "Angels, man," he commented to Sam, who had been tuned into the conversation but remaining out of it. He wanted to keep his focus on the hunt.
"I didn't bother her with too many questions. She didn't have many for me, so I left it well enough alone too. Besides, I didn't really give a damn, truth be told. Never had a hunter 'round keeping my ass alive before; she's been nothing but helpful to me. So whatever her reasons, they were good enough for me, honestly. But she did say y'all were friends when she was kicking—or allies? Either way, didn't seem like there was bad blood to me," Rebecca said with a shrug. "But ghosts are tricky. Hard to communicate between the veil. I could have gotten the wrong message."
"That's comforting," Dean said.
They all stopped, simultaneously feeling the temperature drop drastically.
"Got you, bitch," Dean called out to their guest, looking around the forest. No response. "Alright, here's our play. Rebecca, Sam, and I will hang back here and greet her if she pops up. Cas, you go out and… act like a… what is it you told her he is?"
"A banshee. She never tires of icing them," Rebecca informed.
"Alright, Cas, go act like a banshee," Dean instructed.
"I do not know how to do that," Castiel admitted.
"It ain't hard," Rebecca said. "Just don't do anything… angelic or whatever. Be natural. She already thinks you're a banshee, so it's not like she'll test you."
"Fine," Castiel replied, though still holding his doubts.
The four split up with Rebecca, Sam, and Dean waiting behind Castiel, hidden in the shadows of the forest.
It didn't take long for the signs of paranormal activity to pick up radically once Castiel was seemingly on his lonesome. The temperature dropped even further as the leaves in the trees began rustling. A gold dagger flew from a distance and grazed Castiel's shoulder despite his attempt to dodge it. Had he not been able to move, it would have pierced dead through his heart. As it happened, it was merely a flesh wound to his vessel; he would heal, no problem. After all, the ghost wouldn't possess an angel blade, so what could she possibly do to him that'd be a threat.
"You missed," he called, taunting her into the open.
He caught a quick glance of her, as she did him, and then there was silence; the wind ceased. Castiel furrowed his brows, confused. "Banshees are female," the ghost called out to him. "Who are you?"
Castiel looked behind him to where Dean was hidden, eyes wide. He shrugged, alerting Dean of his predicament. Dean's response was simply a nod. "Show yourself first," he commanded.
There was no response. Perhaps she hadn't heard him. So he repeated, louder this time, "Show yourself."
Rebecca tapped Sam on the shoulder. Making a point of him noticing her signing as she spoke, she told him, "My partner is deaf. She couldn't hear in life; she can't hear in death. Your angel friend's shouting is futile."
"She's deaf?" Sam asked, lights beginning to turn on in his mind as he realized who it was. "No way in hell… I forgot she died in this neck of the county, but I—I thought she was gone for good? She was dead."
"That's how ghosts work, Winchester," Rebecca retorted. She stepped out into the open, beside Castiel. She signed to her, "It's Rebecca. Come out, please."
There was a brief second of dead air before the ghost followed suit. "You're the angel," she stated coolly, looking Castiel up and down. "Castiel, I believe. They've mentioned you before. But what are—I thought there was a banshee?" she asked, looking over to Rebecca.
"Never was, Eileen," Sam greeted, revealing himself now. He spoke slower than usual so she could read his lips in spite of the darkness, even though Rebecca stood off to the side translating his words into sign language for her. Dean followed shortly thereafter. "It's been awhile."
Eileen smiled brilliantly upon seeing Sam and Dean. "Well, I'll be damned!" she exclaimed. She looked at Rebecca, near tearful with excitement. "Why didn't you just say the Winchesters were in?"
"Because you never know with spirits, honey. You've been out here awhile, so I wasn't sure if you'd started… fixating yet," Rebecca admitted. "Besides, it's all good now."
Eileen nodded. She looked Sam and Dean over individually.
"This raises a problem though, you know," Dean said, the first to bring down the mood almost inevitably.
"How so?" Sam asked.
"She's a spirit, Sam. We can't leave her."
"Well, we can't burn the remains," Sam contested.
"Yeah, about that," Dean said, turning his attention to Eileen again. "How are you here? I assumed the Brits would have burned your bones." Rebecca signed his words too, which made up for his faster pace than Sam's. He slowed it down slightly when he noticed her squinting to make out the movements, and he took a step closer to her.
"They did," she informed. "But they were careless enough to off their targets using hellhounds. Traces of my blood are everywhere around here. There's no way they could have prevented this. Hindsight's a bitch."
Dean scoffed, amused. "Still, what exactly are we supposed to do about this?"
Castiel, saying nothing, stepped forward and placed a hand onto Eileen's forehead. The outline of his hand began to glow, and Rebecca, Sam, and Dean looked on with intrigue. All three expected him to be sending her off to Heaven, and so when he stepped away and revealed Eileen still standing before them, they were taken by surprise.
"What the hell did you do, Cas?" Sam asked, looking Eileen up and down.
"I brought her back," Castiel replied, proud. "I figured there was no getting rid of her, and you two could use the allies. So I did a little resurrecting." There was a pause. "It pays to have an angel around, you know."
"Yeah, no shit," Dean remarked, utterly thrilled. "You're the MVP, you know that?"
And so all five exited the forest. Done with their hunt, the Winchesters and Castiel headed back to the bunker, taking Eileen with them. Rebecca opted to remain in Olanta, but made sure to keep the Winchesters' contact information. "If anything else pops up in Olanta, y'all will be the first to know," she said as she shook the boys' hands.
And for a time, all was relatively pleasant, all things considered.