Prologue: Painting the Picture
Picture this: A five-mile dirt road, winding and bumpy with absolutely nothing to look at besides trees on all sides. At mile .5, you lose sight of the road behind you. At mile 4, you can vaguely see a run-down shack. There's a trampoline to its left, about two times the size of the shack. You've never been on a trampoline before.
You're Sam Winchester, and you're here for business.
You're Sam Winchester, and your brother is a righteous man. Your brother is a tool for a Heaven that's falling apart. Your brother's body has been taken over by an angel. This isn't the first time something like this has happened. You're tired. You've been driving for hours. You are not in the mood to deal with all this.
Picture this: A small, one-butt kitchenette. The scent of brownies, hot and fresh, just out of the oven. Sunlight streaming through a crack in the walls. No doorways, just the kitchenette, and then what one might consider a living room.
A recycling bin face-down in the center of the 'living room'. That's the coffee table. Hot brownies on a cracked plate on a face-down recycling bin that doubles as a coffee table. Next to that, a large pile of clothes. Or a chair, depending on who you ask.
On that chair is a woman. Mickey Orswell, nineteen-year-old werewolf. Not quite homeless if a one-bedroom, broken-down shack in the middle of the woods counts as a home. She's had four brownies already. She's too high to care if she's homeless. These brownies are fucking amazing.
There's a television in front of her, probably the nicest thing she owns. She's hooked up a PlayStation2 to it, barely running anymore after all these years, and she's about ready to have the weirdest gaming experience she's had since she played Dance Dance Revolution with the demon who gave Billie Eilish a music career in exchange for her soul. Cool dude.
Unfortunately for Mickey Orswell, Sam Winchester has just knocked on the door.