A/N: This is a brief description (oneshot) of a 'retired' hunter and her reaction to the coming Apocalypse. She has made a whole new life for herself, away from hunting and the supernatural. Will she turn away from those who need her yet again or face her denial and fight again?

One of several I have about various peoples', hunters', etc experiences and reactions with the Apocalypse. Not everything is about Sam and Dean, right? Just kidding!

Read and Review pleeaassee. thanks...

Never Going Back to Okay

It wasn't like I didn't know it was coming. I'm not blind or deaf, and I'm certainly not dense enough to not realize it. I just, didn't want to. I mean, would you? You didn't always have to go to dump bars to hear hunters talk. Sometimes, it was like we all shared a certain wavelength. We knew in our gut when a storm was just a storm, or when it was the byproduct of something much more sinister. We were completely capable of telling the different between a drunkard's fantasy rendezvous with a werewolf and the real thing. We could separate a small child's nightmare or overzealous imagination after witnessing one too many horror flicks and the factual account of a monster lurking the neighborhood, even if the parents didn't believe them. It was something that was ingrained deep inside of all of us. I'm not sure if we were simply born this way, destined to do what it is we do; or if these sixth senses were developed and mastered, becoming part of our identity over time. Either way, when the Channel Five News reported of the twelve missing person that week in our town alone and Channel Eleven covered the story of torrential storms in Chicago; I didn't need to listen to any further news castings to be sure. In fact, I hadn't needed to watch the television to confirm what my gut had already known.

"Babe, is something wrong?"

The usual comforting voice applied no affect on me for once.

"I'm fine, Jake, just couldn't sleep. Go back to bed darling. You have work early and I have no intentions of being the cause of any of your morning grumpiness."

I flashed him a fake grin and he returned it with a soft touch of lips to my sweating forehead. Thankfully, he was too exhausted to notice.

I fingered the remote as he retired back upstairs.

It's not possible.

Reassuring myself was a waste of time and I knew it deep inside myself. It wasn't like I didn't know it was coming. I'm not blind or deaf, and I'm certainly not dense enough to not realize it. I just, didn't want to. I mean, would you? Denial, alongside red wine, was my closest companion. Neither of them ever truly made reality go away but they were good enough for me. Jack Daniels used to make everything disappear, at least for that night. I would withdraw to some desolate and unkempt bar where they would be less apt to notice my fake credit cards or pool hustling skills. I would win over a few games while having a few drinks and when it became a burden to stand and I was just about to start losing money, I would retire to a barstool and a bottle. I'd use whatever cash I had previously gained to purchase the remaining alcohol as to provide myself with a cut off. Still, I was pretty damn good at pool so that cut off was pretty far down the liquor cabinet. Everything I had seen, everything I had done was gone in those hazy moments of pure bliss. Now the sheer smell resurrected every old memory I had worked so hard to suppress.

I glanced up the stairs, after my innocent, oblivious, and gentle-hearted husband. He could never know the things I had come to face over the years. He could never know the places I had been, the things I had allowed myself to do. And he could never know what I was about to do.

Retirement at thirty is a tad ridiculous, I know. But hunting, I had somehow convinced myself, was merely a career. I denied, as I so easily do, my heritage and upbringing. I told myself that I could not continue it forever. I longed for a normal life, with a normal husband, and a normal family. I will admit it; I am a sucker for the white picket fence dream. As I stared up at our bedroom door though, I knew none of it was true. Hunting was, is, and will always be, my life. I ran away from it once and God knows how many people died that I could have saved.

I hurried quietly to the basement and pulled forward a dark and dust covered chest from its long residence in a back corner. Thrusting the heavy top open, I pulled out a drawer carrying several childhood trinkets and playthings, revealing the true purpose of the trunk. Inside, laid a clutter of now yellowing books and aged weapons. The process came naturally. I slipped on the various sleek holsters on my wrists and ankles. My left arm cradled a miniature Bowie blade, pure silver of course. My right wrist hugged an iron rod that stretched almost to the bend of my elbow. I quickly rummaged in the chest, resting my hand against small and sharp, feeling a sudden slight fire in my palm and disregarding the red stain on the found weapon. The knife was small but was her mother's and had spared both their lives in various scrapes. I tucked it hastily against my right ankle. Grabbing an old pack and shoving a few more necessities inside I turned and made my way to the living room. The small piece of metal rested coolly against my chest, the chain catching pieces of my hair as I pulled it off. Joining it with the small lock on the top drawer of my sewing cabinet, I reached in and pulled out my faithful .45, nestling it in the small of my back, under my jeans.

I was ready, well sort of. I had worked real hard at this denial thing and was comfortable with it. But, no. I am not going to be like them. The loss of my older brother may have prompted my parents to surrender and put away their salt and holy water for good, but not me.

As there was a planet worth saving and people in it to save, I would now again, and forever be, a hunter.