She pitched her tent just outside the blast-range Castiel would create when he would bring the righteous man from Hell. And every night she prayed. She would pray to Lucifer, apologies, mostly, and often, when she could only feel her gut churning with displeasure and guilt; singing, soft melodies and songs that she had heard in her world. Trying her best to make Hell just a bit more bearable for a while.
The first time she'd managed to pry herself away from the grave had been the first of only nine trips.
She'd done as many things on her list in eight hours that she could manage.
She'd swindled a motorcycle (much to her chagrin), and gotten new plates.
She'd gotten an anti-possession tattoo, in the form of a decorative tramp-stamp on her lower back. With the money she'd nicked from swindling poker-games and pool, she'd gotten several more tattoos. The warding Castiel had gotten when he'd become human, trailing in a rope around her left ankle. Her right ankle held a few other symbols, mostly magical ones, and the horn of Gabriel, something she was sure she was going to need at least once.
She pitched a tent in the area she'd chosen for the three months, looking over the notebooks she'd filled with every detail she could possibly manage after her dreams. She'd bought a heavy-duty duffel bag, and purchased hunter-clothes, as well as trying to determine the tells of hunter-catering establishments for things like spell ingredients.
That had been the last time she'd left the grave for more than eight hours.
When she'd gotten back, she'd felt such a painful pulling sensation she only managed to knock herself out at the opening of her tent.
It rang in her head that morning. As clear as a siren.
Dean Winchester is saved.
She didn't know how she could understand it. The odd language sounding like butchered greek, ringing in a pitch higher than anything conceivable, but it was clear and smooth as she repeated it on her tongue.
She lied in that tent for hours, only getting up once she felt the pull completely disappear, and a lingering sense of completion flood her chest.
A snapping was heard a ways away, and, as she carefully poked her head out of the zipper, taking in the two and a half feet of grass that would have been the difference between her campsite and a pile of ash, she managed to catch sight of the grave being pawed at from below. Quickly scrambling to get out of her tent, she snatched the shovel from its place beside the door, bolting for the grave and immediately shucking the dirt out of the way. She could hear quite, yet hoarse screams from beneath her, and when she had seen the hand break surface she had lunged for it and pulled. The dirt, after her many times of loosening it after rainstorms or hot days, fell away with ease, and she had to use all of her weight to get his shoulder, then his head, above ground. Now with a more stable grip, as he was clutching her arm, too, he scrambled to get out until he was finally up, while the woman promptly fell back with the shift in weight.
With over a hundred pounds of male crushing her to the ground, she managed to roll him off with the last of her energy and fall onto her back with a dry cough.
Both humans lied there, gasping and wheezing, for several long minutes, before the blonde haired man had managed to push himself up onto his elbows, and turned to look at the woman beside him.
She was pretty, in a delicate sort of way, but the scar on her cheekbone, directly below her left eye, said something else about that. She was dressed in a light grey tank top, with a dark blue flannel over it, a pair of ragged, dark jeans with torn knees and sturdy grey boots. A leather pouch was strapped to her right thigh, and an old bag lied limply on the ground next to her, looking just a few pounds short of falling apart. She was dressed like a hunter.
Her pale nails were chipped, and filled with dirt, probably from the frantic digging, and her messy, long brown hair looked like she had just rolled out of bed.
"Are you alright?"
Despite him being the first to sit up, covered in sweat and breathing now close to normal-ish, she had been the first to speak. She had turned a pair of small, greenish hazel eyes up to him, a frown tugging at her mouth as she tried to sit up. She managed, after a few seconds, and rummaged around in her back pocket, before pulling out a small flask. She held it out to him calmly, letting him silently stare at the engraved, biblical designs, before taking it, and uncapping the lid. He drank the water fast enough to warrant a cough, and he felt the small, soft hands rubbing his back before he had heard her move. He was dazed, and rightfully so, so when she was maneuvering herself behind him and helping him stumble to his feet toward a now obvious campsite almost inches from the blast range, he felt justified in his numb shock.
"There's a store, just up the road awhile," her voice was quiet, and careful, and he managed a slight nod when she hurried toward the tent and pulled out a thick, dark grey duffle bag. She left the tent standing, after pulling out a gas can and dousing it, lighting a match to set the camp ablaze before returning to his side, and grasping his hand to lead him toward the less-destroyed line of brush.
She managed to get him to sit awkwardly on the back of the seat, shoving her duffel in the sidecar of the 1954 BMW bike. She had a feeling the guy she stole it from, (well, stole was a strong word, he really shouldn't have bet his ride in a drunken game of poker), wasn't too happy about losing the beautiful machine, but she was far from complaining when she'd managed to get everything packed and settled before handing the helmet to the blonde.
"Safety first."
"So, what's your name," the question broke the near twenty-five minute silence between the two adults when the male had spoken up, half-way finished with a water-bottle and his third energy bar. She was tinkering around with the cheap, plastic keychains on the counter. She glanced up from the small fob she was inspecting to meet his pale green eyes, her chapped lips pressed tightly together when he raised an eyebrow in question, "I don't think I can keep calling you "Motorcycle-girl" in my head."
"Eat," she stated instead, turning back to her task with focussed, eyes, "My name isn't important." "It damn well is," his voice was raspy with disuse and dryness.
"Go wash your face, you're filthy, then we'll talk," she gave the order at a softer volume as she lifted a chain to inspect it's design.
"What in the Hell is this-?!" His demand was sharp, and he had come back into the main store from the staff bathroom to see the short woman loading bags with food. Mostly energy bars, but also things like candy or chips. When she looked up at his entrance, he could see the surprise on her face at his lifted sleeve, where he displayed the giant, red mark on his skin.
"Does my hand look that big to you?" the sarcasm in her answer was enough to stun him, not expecting the slight laugh in her voice, but when the melancholy returned to her eyes, and she returned to her bag stuffing, he shook himself out of it and hurried over to her. "What are you doing?"
"Packing food and water for our trip," was the soft response when she'd gotten to her knees to fill the bag with the entire stock available with hostess pies. He caught himself blinking at her dumbly, before his mouth started working again, " Our trip..?"
"I'm not letting you hitchhike," was her only response, dutifully followed by, "Get the water from the fridge-thing, and some coke, if they have it. A magazine or two, if you want them, it's going to be a boring ride."
He was hesitant to do as she said, but, after feeling the dry, aching soreness of his throat, he shook his head, and did as she said. He'd sort out all the details later, and he'd question her on everything as they left. No way was he letting her take him god-knows-where.
"Don't. Touch. Their cash box."
Her sharp, almost annoyed words had his palm halting over the buttons of the machine, she'd instructed him to find entertainment and other things he might need, and, on his way for cash, stopped him cold. "I have enough. We already took food and water, we're not robbing them blind."
"How much do you even have?" he grimaced toward the worn, clearly old bag at her hip, but her glare and cleared throat brought his eyes back to her angry ones. "Enough, like I said . Now come on. We don't exactly have a lot of time before-"
A static noise cut their conversation off cold, and the girl looked immediately startled, a curse leaving her lips as she fumbled with her bag and pulled out a clunky pair of headphones.
"Oh shit- put these on- hurry-!"
"What's going on-?" he was notably tense by the sudden jump from the television, the radio buzzing on soon after, and his muscles coiled as if in preparation of a fight. "Put these on-!" her voice was louder now, authority and fear leaking into her tone as her eyes darted for the windows, "Do you want your ears to bleed-?! Hurry up-!"
The radio had picked up static, and a ringing was starting to echo throughout the store. The girl quaked in her spot, practically throwing the headphones across the aisle toward Dean when he'd moved toward the salt. Her arms covered her head as she crouched down, Dean doing the same just as the windows exploded, glass shooting inwards and coating the floor and stock in glittering crystals.
Ever so slowly, she lowered her arms, grumbling Enochian under her breath as she hissed profanities and used His name in vain in every way that she could.
She would punch Chuck in the face the second that she met him, she didn't even care anymore.
"You should listen to me when I give you a warning," her voice was soft again, and she winced when he'd turned his angry eyes to her. "I don't want you to get hurt. You could have gotten cut by the glass."
"Who. Are you?" his demand, while met with a moment of silence, did not go unanswered, and when she had met his eyes, her hesitance was gone, and a small, relaxed level of grudging acceptance was in its previous place.
"I'm the girl who gripped you tight and pulled you from that grave, the man who pulled you from perdition is not in league with me."
"What?" he sounded confused, as well as slightly angry, so she shrugged her shoulders, and glanced pointedly toward her bike, almost breathing a sigh of relief that the headlights and taillights had not burst. "I'm here to help you."
"How do I know you're not a demon?" his question was stern and indignant, his hand fisted around the salt container he had leapt for pre-explosion.
"I was carting around holy water, which you happened to drink all of, by the way, and I have salt rounds loaded into the shotgun in my bag. I don't think demons make a habit of carrying that around."
He watched her like a hawk for a few seconds, both of them unmoving and simply eyeing each other down. However, with a simple flick of his wrist, a spray of salt had covered her from her head to her torso. Her eyes pinched shut briefly, but she looked otherwise unmoved, sticking out her tongue to catch the stray crystals on her face before shooting him a look that conveyed how done she was with the conversation. "I prefer salt on my nachos, my fries and in my cottage cheese, please do not make a habit of putting it in my clothes or hair. I hate sand enough as it is, please don't add to my dislike of finely-ground substances."
"..Where are we going?" he asked after a moment of watching her shake the salt from her hair and clothes, briefly catching his eyes on her figure before shaking himself out of it and addressing the problem, "I'm not going to be carted around god-knows where with you, not knowing anything."
"We're going where you choose to go, or have you not been listening," she spoke up, huffing as she turned to grab the bags that had fallen and stuffing a few magazines into the pile beside what he'd added, rolling her eyes skyward at the sight of Busty Asian Beauties before shoving it deeper inside and slinging it over her shoulder. "Don't you have someplace to be? A house to return to?"
"..."
He was silent when she managed to push the bag into his chest, giving him a small, serious nod when she stopped in front of him, "That's what I thought. Now come on, I'm not letting you drive her, but I'd rather you didn't take anyone's car. Now, do you want bitch or side-car? I put you in bitch for the drive because I wasn't sure if you'd manage to get in and out dehydrated, but you seem fine, now."
He glanced briefly at the rather small, bullet-shaped car attached to the bike, and closed his eyes to hide his eye roll.
"...I'll take backseat."