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The song is "City" by Sara Bareilles.

His name was Dean Winchester. He was a hunter of…demons. I have trouble wrapping my mind around the concept, even after Azazel explains everything – the coming war, the youngest Winchester's part in it, how without the youngest the world would fall. It makes me smile to think I was doing some good. Saving the world, and all it cost is one man.

XXX

Dean Winchester is twenty-eight. No pets. No family outside of his brother. He drives a black sixty-seven Chevy Impala, and is wanted for murder in Louisiana. I kind of like him, but this is not the time for that. The last piece of information Azazel told me was that I would find him in a bar. But I decided I wasn't going to find him. He was going to find me.

XXX

There isn't a bar where I find them. But there is a small night club. It serves beer. It'll do. It's hiring singers.

It's almost crazy to think I would be hired, and I almost don't apply, but how else will I make an impression? I've done the low-shirt-short-skirt job before, and the men never remember me. Or they wouldn't. If they lived. This situation calls for a certain finesse. I finesse I've never tried, to be sure, but I'll do it. I have to do it. I want to learn, to know, to understand. Just looking at my ring gives me chills. I want that kind of power. Who wouldn't.

I am surprised when the manager told me I can start the next night. I haven't had to sing in so long, and lying on my bed in yet another foreign hotel room gives me too much time to think about that. I haven't done a lot of anything recently. All my marks have been younger men, and all were swayed by flesh rather than skill. It's nice to have a challenge. Nice to have a change of pace. Maybe I won't become so bored this time. Maybe I'll actually enjoy-

My phone rings. The number is out of state, but I know who it is. It's always the same.

"Carrie."

"Eve. You haven't called."

"I haven't needed to." There is a silence on the other end of the phone, and I can see Carrie fuming. She doesn't like my independence. She never will.

"How did you last one go."

"Quickly." No need to entertain her with details. She's done the same thing a million times over.

"Good. I have another for you." Hamlet would be complaining about another rub. Carrie has a no nonsense tone, and I worry that she won't understand. I'm not giving her a chance.

"I don't need another."

"As long as there is one, you need one."

"I have one."

"You what?"

"I'm in Utah."

"Why?"

"I was approached by a…man last night. We came to an agreement."

"He saw you?"

"Yes."

"We don't operate that way, Eve." What she should have said was she didn't operate that way. Clients called a restricted number. Left a message with details. Carrie called back if we were interested. We never saw them. They never saw us. The mark was dead in twenty-four hours. All for a mere three hundred thousand. It's a good system. It never fails. I'm branching out.

"I'll call when I'm done."

"Eve don't hang-" I hang up on her. I don't need the criticism and the fatigue that comes from an argument with her. I also learned long ago that she will win. Carrie always wins.

I sit my phone on the ornate nightstand next to the bed. It looks like it belongs there. The brilliant red of the metal against the deep chocolate of the mahogany fits in some twisted fashion. I probably should burn it. The phone. The nightstand too. I fall asleep with flames dancing in my head. There are worse nightmares.

XXX

The small club is packed as I walk in. Who knew this many people lived in such a pointless town. And why is there dependency on alcohol so great? Already, numerous bottles and glasses line the sleek granite of the bar. The manager spots me, hurries over, "You be ready in five." I don't like commands, but I refrain. I need this.

Until the five minutes pass, I take a seat in one of the high barstools. It gives me a good view of the room and the door. I'll see him.

The girl that's singing is slightly off key. I have taken voice lessons since I was old enough to babble, and the dissonance bothers me. A lot about this place bothers me. There a cracks in the ceiling that threaten to swallow me whole, cracks in the floor that burn my feet through the soles of my boots, and shimmering lights that do not create the effect of an intimate and romantic setting. Now I know why everyone is drinking.

The door opens and reveals two men. Is it them? The lighting makes it impossible to see. Someone grabs my shoulder. Immediately, I am on my feet, facing the stranger, fingers playing on my thigh through the thin, black fabric of my dress. But it's just the manager, hands open in front of her, murmuring an apology. I have no time for this. He motions to the stage. "What are you singing?" he asks. I don't know. I ask the pianist to follow. She agrees.

"A new treat for everyone," the manager degrades me with his introduction, "From the fingers of God himself. Eve."

I don't like it, and he will know it, but now I have a job to do. What do I sing?

"There's a harvest each Saturday night. At the bars filled with perfume and hitching a ride."

One of the two men claim my empty seat. I'm still unsure. The piano's music joins my own. "A place you could stand for one night and get gone. And it's clear this conversation ain't doing a thing cause these boys only listen to me when I sing,"

The one left standing stares at me. It's him. I cannot tell from his physical appearance, but it's something in his eyes. Something strong and possessive. "And I don't feel like singing tonight all the same songs." He leans forward, says something to the man in the chair, and starts walking toward the stage. There is an empty table close to the side. It's no longer empty. His eyes are a strange mix of blue and green.

"Here in these deep city lights. Girl could get lost here tonight. I'm finding every reason to be gone. There's nothing here to hold on to. Could I hold you?" If there's one thing every girl knows it is that eye contact is the key to any situation. That fact is intensified as I catch his glance. One of my hands curl around the aging microphone, the other around the hem of my dress. Just a little more skin.

"The situation's always the same. You've got your wolves in their clothes whispering Hollywood's name. Stealing gold from the silver they see. But it's not for me."

This man is the only one in the room. I'm singing to him. Is it working? "Here in these deep city lights. Girl could get lost here tonight. I'm finding every reason to be gone. There's nothing here to hold on to. Could I hold you?" It's working. I am the only woman in the room. A little more thigh.

"Calling out, somebody save me I feel like I'm fading away. And I'm gone." And I am, and it's strange. I feel as though I'm watching with him. Urging him to take that first step. Prodding him to wonder who I am. What I do. Am I a threat? A friend? A lover? "Calling out, somebody save me I feel like I'm fading. I'm fading." Does he dare? "No, no." Yes. My voice has become softer, richer. The pianist is slowing down. He stands. "Deep city lights. Girl could get lost here tonight. I'm finding every reason to be gone. There's nothing here to hold on to. Could I hold you?" I take a deep breath. Open my fingers to let my dress go. Water the seed I have just planted. My legs are shaky as I walk off stage. Am I really thattroubled?

He is waiting at the edge of the stage. He extends his hand to help me down. It is warm, calloused, gentle. He smiles. "I'm Dean."

His grasp warms the silver of my ring. "Eve."