A/N: Hey, guys! Sorry for not updating! I've been struggling to figure out where I want to go with this story. I've made outline after outline, but I think I might have an idea. If not, anyone's welcome to PM me their thoughts on where they want the LUCIFER/CLARA pairing to go :)

Anyways, enjoy. and thanks so much for the reviews! They mean so much to me-I've never really written for Clara before, or Lucifer. So any constructive thoughts are welcome!

As soon as she could get rid of the chill that ran down her neck when she read the note, Clara tossed it away in the rubbish bin that had been neatly set up for her by the counter.

Something's definitely going on. Mind restored to a place somewhat sane, and safe (as if the act of throwing away the note was some kind of spiritual cleanse that could 'somehow' restore sense and order into her bizarre little world), she immediately went and locked her door.

The fact that someone had broken in while she had been hospitalized, and buzzed in to her apartment by a mysterious neighbour who somehow knew her name (even though she hadn't introduced herself to anyone) freaked her out more than any malicious alien she had encountered on her Tardis travels.

There was just something so inherently frightening about an unknown threat hovering around a person. Like watching a really terrifying horror movie expecting to be scared, but not knowing what precise moment when you're going to be scared. Waiting for the thrill of the fright was like a gamble in a way. You didn't want it happening, and yet, in that strange, inevitable premonition sixth sense human beings have always seemed to possess, you sort of just wanted the scare-fest to hurry up and move on, to be done with the suspense.

God.

What was she going to do now? Go to sleep? She wouldn't have been able to sleep if she had taken one of those odd sleeping pills her Gran took every now and then. It was a point of principle, wasn't it? Not sleeping. How could she, knowing some stranger had broken in carrying in a bunch of furniture?

Nice furniture, though.

Creepy as the gesture was, her apartment never looked better.

Somehow, with everything put in its proper place, the apartment finally seemed more...welcoming. A weird juxtaposition considering the circumstances of the origins of the furniture.

But then that also begged the question: If someone could have easily broken in during her stay at the hospital, then said someone could theoretically break in if she were sleeping...right?

Clara shook her away the depressing thought. No. I'm not going to be one of those scared little girls in those horror films. I can handle this. Just gotta take precautions, that's all.

Plus, there was also the possibility that whomever had buzzed her in could have been thelandlord. He lived in the building. She didn't know specifically which apartment, so it could very well be the one she had buzzed for help.

Squaring her shoulders, but also careful not to stretch the muscles near her ribcage as she moved quickly, she went to the fire escape window and locked it.

Thinking of the window in her bedroom, and the tiny, but still wide enough in size for a tiny body to squeeze through, one in the bathroom, she ran to both, sliding the lock in place like a businessman striking a deal. Quick. Efficient. Not leaving any time for second-guessing.

On entering her bedroom, she was shocked to find her cot gone, and replaced with a queen-sized bed with an added wooden headboard. The blankets were the same ones she had purchased, but the sheets had been replaced with white silk, the expensive-looking kind she imagined the queen would sleep in.

"This is really getting creepy, now." She muttered to herself. Then a thought struck her. She tensed, wondering whether or not to act on the thought. Would the mysterious benefactor have gotten everything for her? Judging by the kitchen utensils and the living room furniture, all bets were off.

She inched towards the small closet, not quite sure what to expect. Perhaps a serial killer would jump out at her, and slice her to bits like in those films.

No one would find her body for weeks. She'd just decay, slowly, day by day, and by the time anybody actually bothered to find her, she'd just be rotting pile of flesh with her killer on the loose somewhere.

"Stop it, now you're just deliberately trying to scare yourself."

The palms of her hands started to sweat, tingling with that same manic energy that appeared whenever situations like this confronted her. It was a weird energy-both ticklish, and slightly painful, the way adrenaline would be sometimes whenever she ran down an exploding corridor in times that now seemed far away and lost.

Bracing herself against whatever was in the closet, Clara fought the sudden urge to run away and hide. Before the Doctor, and especially before Danny, as a young girl Clara had always been very impressionable. It didn't take much to scare her. Even the well-obvious, seen-from-a-mile-away less than pleasant intentions from a school bully still had ill effects on her consciousness.

Hiding seemed like a great option. Just find a place, and stay hidden while the threat passed. It was easy. As a skinny little thing, she had no strength to fight back, so of course it was the only thing she could do.

Sometimes, if a particular thing frightened her, she'd find a really good hiding place-under the clothes in the laundry room or huddling beneath some hedges in the backyard-and it would take hours for her parents to find her.

"Come on, Oswald."

She yanked at the closet door, a scream already in place in her throat. Just in case.

But when the door released in her hand, opened, she had to stifle a giggle at her paranoia. There, resting against the wall on the floor was her suitcase, still packed and ready. No new clothes had been added.

Sighing in relief, Clara relaxed.

...

Unsurprisingly, she slept very little during the night. She had been afraid to sleep in the bed the burglar's hands had touched. Maybe the guy (her benefactor being male seemed statistically more likely, and also, she suspected it might have been the same man she saved when she jumped off the fire escape) actually turned out to be a mass murderer.

Did she really want to sleep on the same bed a mass murderer had touched?

So she ended up lying uncomfortably on the floor, with her blankets, waiting until the pink skies of dawn appeared through her window to finally crash out.

She awoke only a couple hours later. Bleary eyed, and ready to punch someone's eye out, Clara sat up, momentarily forgetting her surroundings. It was when she started to get to her feet, and the pain in her side sang, that she recalled the previous night's discoveries.

She groaned.

Maybe she should phone the police today. That would be the right thing to do, wouldn't it?

...Too...early...for...thinking.

Yawning, she ignored this particular train of thought. She shuffled to her newly decorated kitchen, and glanced at the shining coffee pot. A pot of coffee couldn't hurt, could it?

...be good to..have...some.

Another yawn stretched her mouth wide and open, and caused her head to bend back just slightly, much like a lion yawned.

Coffee it is then.

A cup and a booted up laptop later, Clara decided that she might as well make use of the free stuff. Moving to another country with little in the bank account was eye-opening. Her pay-roll at Coal Hill had been well-off, enough so that she could afford her flat to be downtown where all the action apparently happened, and the space inside to be bigger than the one she currently lived in.

Whatever pain she suffered back in London, she had it relatively easy.

It wasn't like she was poor now, but if she didn't get a job soon, she might as well prepare to be shipped back to London. Besides, as much as her paranoid mind wanted to make her believe, Clara sensed the stuff was just a gift.

Nothing serious. No secret bombs beneath the sofas. She knew because she checked.

Funnily enough, she wasn't so freaked out by the furniture anymore. It was tasteful, and free. Well, free for her. Expensive at somebody else's cost. But still free for someone. Perhaps what she needed the whole time was to sleep on the decision.

Laptop ready, she opened up a browser, and immediately began job-hunting.

The laptop was the same one when she had first met the Doctor. Small, yes, but with her technical savvy, it was faster than the ones she had seen her co-workers playing around with at the school.

"If I can't find them, you definitely can't." He sat across from her, staring intently as if daring her to challenge him. She smirked, only happy to oblige.

"They uploaded me, remember? I've got computing stuff in my head." She grabbed the laptop, and slid it back to her side again.

He slid it to his side. "So do I."

"I have insane hacking skills." It was so bizarre, the information that just seemed to pour inside her bed about computers. Before, it had seemed like such a difficult puzzle to try and solve. Frustrating, and never working for her, but now...ever since that weird uploaded experience with the spoon-head thing, the dots just seemed to connect.

"I'm from space and the future with two hearts and twenty seven brains."

"And I can find them in under five minutes plus photographs. Twenty seven?" So she was boasting. How could she not? She had just acquired a skill that, if she wanted to, could get her into MI5. If she wanted to.

"Okay, slight exaggeration."

"Coffee, go get. Five minutes, I promise." She rather liked this flirtatious-banter-thing with this strange man, anyway. He was weird, but oddly funny.

"The security is absolute."

"It's never about the security, it's about the people." Unlike anyone she had ever met before. Extraordinary.

Within about five minutes, she had drawn up every single decent teaching job in the city. A solid minute of debating about the prospect of teaching again, and a face made at the awful thought was enough for her to cross out all the postings.

Right. So she wasn't going to be a teacher anymore.

Her brows furrowed. But she still had her degree to put to use.

Maybe she could just be a well-educated waitress?

Clara laughed.

"Okay, maybe not. But let's not leave every stone unturned." Something her mum used to say.

A couple of intense, focused searches later, and she leaned back in her chair, fruitless.

So she wasn't going to be a teacher, anymore. And definitely not a waitress, either. Hmm. What option did that leave her?

"Lorry driver." She muttered, thinking about the assets she had put on her C.V. She had her driver's licence, and it was in a high enough class to operate a vehicle containing commercial goods. Danny never actually believed her when she told him. But legally, she could actually operate a lorry truck.

The idea was so absurd and random, but she took a liking to it. She heard it paid well in America. And even if it didn't pay well, she'd always be on the road anyway. She'd be practically living on it.

Lots of roads to travel...never in one place too long...

Clara smirked. It was definitely absurd to go from teaching at a highly-established school in England to a truck-driver (was that the right term? Eh, she could google it) in America. Stranger things had happened to her, though.

A smile tugged at the corner's of her lips at the thought of the one particular adventure with the Doctor. But the smile disappeared just as quickly as it appeared.

She focused on the screen again.

Tucking a stray strand of her brain locks behind her ear, she picked up her furious typing speed again, this time in search of wanted lorry drivers.

Several hits came up.

Grinning, Clara clicked on one.

...

Four hours later, after having run around the city in search of the job site, and after proven to the employer-a tall, broad shouldered skeptical man-her full competence as a lorry driver, and dependability (which involved heavy flirtation, and an impressive display of her driving skills, along with showing him documented proof she could operate the trucks there, and her work visa) she was hired.

Her assigned trip wouldn't be until the next morning, which gave her a little time to recover a bit from the hospital.

Needless to say, she'd neglected to mention the stitches she had from her stab wound. She figured it'd probably detract from her ability to be hired.

Clara went back home to her apartment, and relaxed on one of the sofas. Leather.

She sat for a few seconds, careful with her stitching, utterly spent from the day of trying, and found herself staring curiously up at the ceiling, where, a few nights before, she heard the sound of heavy footsteps running.

Higgins and Mathews. What case warrants a so-called F.B.I agent to nearly kill a man? Did their supposed case involve tracking down a terrorist threat? Was that why that Dean fellow was so pissed off with her? Had she interfered in an important case by jumping on him? Well, that was what 'Sam' had told her. Hmm.

A light rattling sound interrupted her thoughts. Curious, she looked up at her quiet apartment. Nothing there.

Sighing, she went back to staring at the ceiling.

None of it made any sense. No F.B.I agents would be reckless enough to kill a terrorist in an alleyway. And anyway, that wasn't their job, was it? F.B.I agents arrested threats. They weren't above the law.

Clara frowned. But they sure as hell seemed to think they were.

A quick peek at their credentials on the F.B.I site wouldn't hurt, would it?

Warily, she reached for her laptop, cursing when she realized it was back on the kitchen table.

Sighing, she stood up to go and get it, and was met by the colour of gray.

"Oomph." She mumbled, stumbling back. The gray was a t-shirt beneath a darker over-shirt.

She raised her head until she was met with a pair of playful, green eyes.

The apartment was tiny, which meant it lacked in a great deal of alternative escape route if anything blocked her front door and the hallway window to the fire escape. She'd be trapped, which she was thanks to Creepy Guy over there.

"You come one step closer and I'll hit you so hard you'll..." Clara left the threat unfinished. She had been about to say, 'I'll hit you so hard you'll regenerate' but then she had caught herself.

Whoever this was, he was no time lord she could boss around. Standing roughly five foot eight, tall, but not as tall as that Sam Higgins 'agent' she met at the hospital, he still managed to tower over her. Being as short as she was, anyone over five foot five towered over her. It was frustrating at times to have the taller, model-type friends to have to always crane her neck upwards to get a word in edgewise.

He lifted his hands in surrender, smirking at her threat. She raised her brow at that, peeved that he hadn't taken her seriously.

He was tall. Looking at him more closely, she could see that beneath the playfulness was an inexplicable coolness-an even detachment to the world around him. Bit of unshaven stubble on his cheeks, and chin. So keeping up a clean appearance wasn't his thing. He was also standing less than a foot away from her. Okay.

She backed away a few inches.

"Believe me, sweetheart, I'm not comin' any closer." He said, lowering his hands. He rolled his shoulders, yawning. "Do you mind if I..." His hands, rough, dry, and skin cracked at the knuckles, gestured casually towards the sofa.

Too stunned to really speak, Clara only nodded. Oh, god. There was that familiar tingling sensation in her hands again.

"Great," he sauntered past, still keeping some distance between them, and, with an exaggerated sigh of something like contentment, plopped down on the leather cushion. "You know, or well I guess you wouldn't, would you? The place that I was keeping upstairs still needs to be refurnished. I was thinking of doing something along the lines of urban nightmare-tasteful, and serene-like while at the same time really creepy. Like stepping into an Edgar Allen Poe story."

He crossed his legs on her table, stretching.

"You like stories, don't you? I mean, you were a teacher, after all. I'm curious-did you ever get to whip out your metric stick and punish," at this word, his voice lifted a little. "-any naughty little boys?"

When Clara didn't answer, he sighed, waving her off.

"Oh, right. Sorry. You're probably still wondering if I'm some serial killer ready to cut open your throat." Her breath hitched at the visual. He chuckled.

"Don't worry-I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to thank you, actually." He studied her for a moment, contemplating something. The room was once again silent.

Clara could have sworn she heard her own erratic heartbeat in her ears.

He must be that boss the man I saved was talking about in his note.

Cautiously, Clara found her voice, and asked, "For what?"

"What do you think for?" He shook his head, the word 'DUH' describing his tone to a tee. "You saved my associate's life from those hunters. Without you, he would have been killed, and I..." He shrugged. "Well, let's just say business for me would be that much harder."

"Hunters? You mean those F.B.I agents."

What the hell was she doing talking to this guy? Never mind what he said about not killing her. She had a distinct feeling-from what, she didn't know-that he was dangerous, and if ticked the wrong way, it could have disastrous results for her.

Head thrown back, his raucous laughter filled the room.

"F.B.I...?" He laughed harder, shaking his head. "You're cute as a button, but you must be dumber than you look because if you believe that bologna than I'm wasting my time here."

Clara bristled at the comment.

"Oi. I don't care who you think you are. Serial killer or not, if you call me 'dumb' one more time, I'm going to make sure that'll be the last words to ever escape your mouth. And even then, I won't be finished with you. You hear me?"

The man grinned, baring surprisingly pearly whites for someone so careless in his appearance.

"You know, you've got a lot of pent up anger there in that little control-freak heart of yours. Nothing original of course, but definitely entertaining."

"Control-what?"

"Control f-r-e-a-k. You know. Always having to be 'the man' in all situations. I quite like that in a woman. It's sexy."

"Have you been... spying on me?" Even as she said it, she saw the stupidity in the question.

"Look around you."

The furniture.

"Look." She made sure her voice was even. "I really couldn't care less who you are. I don't want to know who you are. I'm glad I saved your friend...and thanks for the furniture, really, but...you're creeping me out. Could you just...leave? Please?"

The man looked affronted. Mockingly so. Hell, every expression he made seemed to be a mockery of human emotion.

"I'm offended, Clara Oswald." Clara Oswald. She narrowed her eyes at him. Oh, god. He was the voice in the buzzer. "I thought you enjoyed not knowing things? From what I heard, wherever there's a mystery, there you'll be at the forefront of it all."

"Who are you? How do you know who I am?"

"What can I say? I'M JUST THAT GOOD." He smirked.

"What do you want with me?" PhonethepolicePhonethepolicePhonethepolice.

He jumped from the sofa, the abrupt movement catching her off guard.

"I already said my thanks, so I guess that's it. No...hang on. There was something else...oh yeah. Almost forgot." He went over to her, and took her hand in his, placing a demure kiss on it before she could react. "The name's Lucifer. Or Satan, or the Prince of Darkness if you prefer. Personally, I like 'Bringer of Darkness. Has a sexier feel to it, don't you think?"

Clara pulled her hand away.

"Were you dropped as a baby? 'Cause if you were, I am so, so sorry. But you should be put in a mental institution if you really expect me to believe that rubbish."

"There's that anger!" 'Lucifer' smiled. "Unfortunately for some individuals, I wasn't dropped as a baby as you so kindly put it. Nope. I am the one and only Devil. You're welcome to bow."

"I'm calling the police."

He shrugged, as if to say 'go right ahead'. In fact, 'Lucifer' didn't seem too bothered by her declaration. She might as well have shouted to him that she had brown hair, or that roses were red for all the difference it made.

Instead of behaving like a normal serial killer, he simply glanced at his nails and bit them out of boredom when she made for her cell phone.

She expected him to fight or grab her or do something to stop her. But no. He appeared completely relaxed.

She grew genuinely pissed off at his lack of a reaction.

"Why aren't you doing anything to stop me?"

"Hmm?" He focused his attention back to her. "What was that? Oh. Wait a minute. This is the part where I slice you up like hunted game, right?"

Warily, she nodded. This is the weirdest conversation I've ever had with a serial killer.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I'm not Dexter. I don't just kill pretty girls like yourself for the hell of it." When he saw that she really was ready to phone the police at his offhanded comment, he quickly added, "Just kidding. I don't kill pretty girls at all." When that didn't work, he continued with a somewhat exasperated sigh, "Hey. I told you. I'm not here to kill you. I'm just here to thank you for what you did back there in the alley. That took some guts, kid. And you didn't get out completely unscathed, did you?"

His gaze dropped down to her side, the one above her left hip.

"I got stabbed. That's what you serial killer types like to hear, right?"

He sighed.

"For the last freaking time I'm not here to kill you. If you really aren't as dumb as you look, then you would believe me."

That tingling sensation in her hands hadn't quite gone away, but she was discovering that the more she conversed with this lunatic, the calmer she became.

She crossed her arms.

"Even if I were to believe you're so called 'Lucifer' bringer of darkness, then that would mean you not only did a very creepy thing by breaking into my apartment, but also are the root of all evil in the world. Which is not only beyond insane, but also impossible."

"Why?" 'Lucifer' stepped closer until the tips of his feet touched hers, and the heat of his breath felt on her cheeks. "It's just as plausible as your little adventures with the old man in that blue box."

And her world flipped upside down.

"How do you know about that?" She whispered.

Lucifer grinned. "I love that you don't even bother denying it. That makes things a million times easier for myself."

She glared up at him.

"Okay, okay. Time for some answers. Well, keep up, sweetheart. If I've been spying on you to know that you're not only a control-freak, and wickedly excellent school teacher from Blackpool, then it's not a stretch to learn that I also know about your little mishap with that boyfriend of yours a while back, and your other boyfriend-the ancient one with the attack eyebrows."

So he knew about everything. This...lunatic, this mad man, he knew everything about her. Even about the Tardis, and the Doctor. How long exactly had he been spying on her?

As if reading her mind, he said, "Don't worry. I haven't been spying on you too long. I wasn't made aware of your existence until the night you saved one of my-"

"-associates?" she finished for him.

He nodded.

"Exactly. But your life is very interesting, Clara Oswald."

She looked away.

"I'm serious. Time travel. Space travel. Aliens from other planets, and galaxies...Seeing things beyond your wildest dreams. You've seen more than your fair share of the wonders of the universe, haven't you?"

"I don't understand. What is it exactly you want with me? I don't travel with him anymore. That's..." She blinked away any unhappy tears. She wasn't going to cry about the Doctor. She'd moved on. And besides, she especially wasn't going to break down in front of a Satan worshipper. "That's not what I do anymore."

Lucifer nodded.

"Oh, I know."

"Then what? I saved your friend's life. You said your thanks. I heard you. You can go now."

A soft, appreciative smile glinted in his worn features.

"I can't just leave you here to be a truck driver, can I?" Clara waited for him to go on. It was...mad, in a word, to listen to him, and actually believe what he had to say. But...he knew about things he shouldn't have known about. No one-apart from U.N.I.T knew about the Doctor. He couldn't have gotten his hands on that kind of information in a matter of days unless of course he was genius with computer hacking as she was.

But he didn't strike her as a hacker.

"Like it or not Clara, your destiny lies in greater things than trucks and long, boring roads. I know you think you're done with a better life-an interesting life, but I don't think you are."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well," he exhaled. "You haven't called the police on me yet, have you? And..." He grasped her hand again, but instead of placing his lips to it he held it in his own. "You could have pushed me away by now, but you didn't. I think..." He twined his fingers through hers, brushing the top of her hand with his thumb. The nervous tingling in her hands intensified to an electrifying buzz. "-you believe me."

Swallowing her nervousness, she cleared her throat to steady herself.

"I don't think I do, actually."

He raised a brow.

"Yeah?"

"Y-yeah."

"Is this proof enough?"

Pulling her shirt up-to Clara's protest-he placed a hand on her stitches, and a white, hot light bolted from his hand. The light dimmed after a few seconds, then went out. Immediately, the ache in her side disappeared.

Clara stared at him, incredulous. Her eyes widened when she saw that the stitches had disappeared, replaced with normal, healthy skin.

"How'd you-"

"I'm Lucifer. I'm still technical an angel, if you remember the Bible correctly." He rolled his eyes. "They got the gist of the story right. I fell from heaven, yadda, yadda, yadda. Became the root of all evil. Blah. Blah. Blah."

"But-"

"Angel. Healing powers. Am I awesome, or am I awesome?"

Despite the insanity of the situation, a smile tugged at the corners of Clara's mouth.

"So. Lucifer." She said after a few moments.

"Yup."

"Satan."

"Yeah."

"Prince of Darkness?"

"Bingo."

"And you're standing in my living room...which you bought yourself?"

He nodded.

"Correct. Although, I didn't set it up. I had you guy you rescued do it. He was the one that left the note."

"Yeah, got that far myself, but thanks."

The Devil's standing in my apartment. I'm in Chicago with the bloody Devil holding my hand.

A wave of hysteria bubbled to the surface. Backing away from Lucifer, Clara groaned.

"Just a minute. Got to process all of this..."

"And there goes the neighbourhood." He mumbled.

"Devil...Satan. In my apartment... Saved one of his minions...Oh my god."

"Hey. Relax. I already told you did a pretty amazing job at that. Not many would have, but you did."

Clara closed her eyes, and inhaled as much air as she could. She held it in for a few seconds...A few more seconds...A few more seconds...Until he grasped both her shoulders, and commanded in a clear, authoritarian voice,

"Exhale."

Her cheeks deflated as all the air left them.

She opened her eyes again, and there he was still. Lucifer. Green eyes and all.

He was examining her, concern clouding the greens of his irises.

"Better?"

She nodded.

"Much."

"You're not the first to freak out after I let the cat out of the bag."

"I believe that." She let out another breath, this one shakier than the last, and gradually, she calmed herself down. "I don't get it, though."

Another eye-roll from him.

"What don't you get?"

"If you're the Devil, where are the horns? And why aren't you ripping me to shreds? Aren't you supposed to be the root of all evil?"

Chuckling, he only shook his head.

"No horns. Too tacky. And I told you-I'm not Dexter. I don't kill pretty girls. As for the evil part..." He shrugged. "No one's perfect."

Clara giggled.

"Just for your information, trucking's not going to be my profession. I'm not going to back to teaching, and I don't want to be waitress, either. Tried that in my third year at UNI, and...I didn't like it as much as I thought I would. Trucking's just a job I need right now. And plus, with it, I get to travel."

Why am I telling him all this? Well, he already knew so much about her life. There probably wasn't much that could surprise him. But it was Lucifer she was telling it to.

"You don't have to do that."

Clara stepped away from him again, this time to go and sit on the sofa. She needed something solid under her now wobbly state.

"Sorry, no offense, 'Lucifer', but I don't want to be your Queen of the underworld."

"That wasn't what I was asking."

"Then what were you asking? 'Cause, right now, it just seems like you're trying really hard to hit on me."

Sighing, he went and sat across from her.

"I need your help."

"What could the devil want with me?"

"For starters," he smiled cheerfully. "There is your expertise with the computer. You could help me track down some people I need to find."

"Who?"

"People."

Annoyingly, he didn't add anything else.

"Why can't you get your minions to help you?"

His smirk grew wider at the mention of the word 'minions'.

"Oh, them?" His expression darkened. "They're all a hapless bunch. Not much use to me with the kind of people I need to find."

"What if I refuse?"

"If you refuse the Devil?" Lucifer leaned back in the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. "Some things would happen that I wouldn't directly be responsible for." He had said so nonchalantly, so casually, as if he were making a comment on the weather instead of a possible repercussion of a wrong choice made, it still had a weight of deadliness to it that haunted her.

Clara shivered.

"If I help you, will you leave me alone?"

He met her pleading gaze.

"If you want. But I still believe your destiny lies greater than trucks and roads, and apartments, and Chicago. If you decided to keep helping me, who knows? Life might open up for you."

Clara shook her head, not liking the insinuation in his words.

"No thanks." She weighed her options. She already saw his ability to heal. Growing up, of course she had heard stories about Satan and the special 'powers' he held. But she had always ignored the stories because to her, Heaven, Hell, all of it didn't exist. But now that she was face to face with the man himself...if she didn't agree, she would be getting herself killed. If she helped him though, what sort of entangled mess was she walking into?

Clara held her head in her hands.

"Who would I be looking for?"

He grinned.

"Sam and Dean Winchester."