Disclaimer: I don't own, just borrowing for entertainment purposes. I don't own the 'Biker Bob' character, either. He belongs to Meg Cabot, author of the Mediator series.

They have the Colt.

That's all I could think as I sat on the dirty, cement floor of the jail cell, my knees drawn up to my chest, my face in my hands. I was dripping wet, cold, and just plain miserable. Aidan, Thea, Noah and Vi were sitting on the floor by a wooden bench; avoiding the two other criminals we were sharing the space with. The first guy was a loner with ragged clothes, dark makeup, a ton of piercings, and a lime green Mohawk. The other dude was huskier, and had tattoos covering his large arms. He was wearing a motorcycle jacket, jeans, a black bandana, and shades. He had a handlebar mustache, and a buzz cut under the bandana. I, meanwhile, had situated myself away from the rest of our juvenile delinquent group, trying to do some heavy-duty thinking.

The police have the Colt.

Damn them. We had risked our lives to get that gun. Oliver—wherever he was at this moment in time—had confronted his father to get it for us. It was one of the most powerful weapons in the supernatural world. And now the authorities had it in their possession, completely oblivious to what it actually was. What were they going to do with it? Put it away in some storage place, under lock and key? If they did, at least the demons wouldn't be able to get it back. However, it didn't do us any good not knowing where it was.

All I knew was that I had to get it back.

I screwed up royally on my very first hunt alone. What a great hunter I am. I have years and years of training, and I end up landing myself in jail. I had to fix this mistake somehow, before things got…

Well, worse than they already were.

"What's a pretty little lady like you done to get yourself in here?" A voice asked. I looked up to see Biker Bob standing over me. For such an intimidating man, he didn't seem too bad. Not yet, at least.

"Stupidity." I muttered.

"You don't look stupid to me." He replied, crouching down to my level.

"Well, then let's just say I made a horrible mistake."

"Is that it? Everyone makes mistakes. It's all a part of our human nature, is all. We make mistakes just ta learn from 'em."

I never expected to get such a wise statement from a Hell's Angel.

Biker Bob lifted up his shades, and regarded me for a moment. "You seem familiar…it's not that I've seen ya before, but maybe heard of ya…somewhere…"

"Maybe. I mean, me and my friends were plastered all over the TV because of the car chase."

"Miss Winchester." A new voice called. My head shot up to see a cop standing by the cell, keys in his hand.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Police want to question you."

Lovely. This was kind of a 'been there, done that' thing. Key words being 'kind of'. I had been interrogated before, on the night of Kylie's death. But this time, I was the criminal. I rolled my eyes and got up, walking to the cell door. Vi whispered a 'good luck' to me as I left. The cop handcuffed me again, and led me down a few halls to an interrogation room. He opened up the door, and I stepped inside and took a seat at the table. The cop stood in the room until the door opened again, and a tall, African American man entered, wearing a suit under an FBI coat.

Crap. The FBI? This was definitely not good. I had lied to plenty of cops in my short lifetime, but not a FBI agent. With my luck, he wouldn't believe me at all.

"Miss Alyx Winchester," he greeted, taking a seat across from me, setting the folder and bag her had carried in on the table. "My name is Victor Hendrickson."

I didn't say a word. The last thing I wanted to do was be questioned by a freaking FBI agent. Seriously, could this get any worse?

"You've made quite a record for yourself, Alyx…and your only sixteen," he stated. "Car chases, speeding, driving with a fake license, destroying public property, fake credit cards, desecrating graves…"

How did he know about those? What, was he some kind of psycho stalker?

Reading my shocked expression, he laughed. "Yes, Alyx, we know everything. I know a lot about your family, in fact."

"Oh, please…do tell." I replied, leaning in closer.

"Well, you were raised by your father, Dean, and uncle, Sam. Your mother, Jo, died when you were a baby. You know, it's weird…there seems to be a number of deaths in your family." Hendrickson mused.

"Don't I know it." I muttered.

"It's sad, really, that your Daddy's got you following in his footsteps."

"What?"

"Your father and I go way back, Alyx," Hendrickson explained. "He probably neglected to inform you about some of his dirty little secrets."

"Such as?"

"Dean Winchester is a murderer. He killed women in St. Louis, Alyx. Last time I saw him, he ended up breaking out of jail with your uncle."

Dad, a murderer? Yeah, he killed supernatural creatures, but he wouldn't kill another human being. Wait…St. Louis…wasn't that the Shapeshifter gig he told me about once? The one where the thing turned into him?

Ah. Now I get it…Hendrickson, what a dumbass. He got it all wrong…

"My dad didn't kill anyone."

"And I suppose your dear old grandpa didn't do anything wrong, either? Or your mother? They've been mixed up in some things as well."

Okay, now this guy was really pissing me off. You do not insult a Winchester and get away with it. Especially deceased members of our family. That was incredibly low.

"You don't know anything about us," I said, furious, getting to my feet. "So, I'd shut up and stop talking bad about my family if I were you."

"Sit down, Miss Winchester," Hendrickson advised. "We're not done yet." He opened up the bag he had brought with him, and pulled out a plastic bag. "You're not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell this is."

In the plastic, zip-lock bag was the Colt.