Chapter 9:Let him who holds the devil hold him still (PART I)

It had been two months since Ash's death, and life was staring to repair itself. She found it more difficult that it should have been; having the constant presence of the species responsible for her brother's death did not allow her to feel the closure her mother would have had. Her demon captor worked in sales; it was all she had to not sacrifice herself to return her brother to her. But she couldn't think such things; look where it got the Winchesters.

Yes, she had heard all about the Winchesters. Not from her mother, or from Bobby, or from the boys themselves. She heard it from Crowley, who came to gloat about it as soon as he could. He stole significant glee from the idea of having one of the Winchester boys in the pit, and she knew she would not be able to stomach the reason why. Why him? Why was Dean so important? Never mind. She couldn't worry about it now.

She hated Tuesdays. Every Tuesday her son-of-a-bitch of a boss at the bar rostered her on from 9am til close for, she was sure, no other reason than to stare blatantly at her ass as she completed the daily cleaning rituals. He was twice her age, balding, and sporting a very prominent beer gut which he fed constantly every day via his own product. The amount of stock wastage which went to him every day was near alarming, especially on Tuesdays. No one drinks on Tuesdays; the bar was always dead.

She collapsed onto her couch at almost 11pm, very much glad to be done for the day. All she wanted now was to just close her eyes...

'Wake up sunshine,' came a voice directly in front of her. She screamed and reflexively punched Crowley square in the face.

'Damnit woman!' He yelled, grabbing a towel from the shelves next to the bathroom in an attempt to stem the flow of blood from his nose.

'You're the one who snuck up on a girl, no, a hunter while she was sleeping!' She yelled back. 'Be thankful I didn't have a gun on me.' He stared at her, clearly thinking up some vile retort. He shrugged, obviously deciding against it.

'Fair call,' he said, throwing the towel atop a pile of dirty clothes.

'What'd you want?' She asked tentatively. He handed her a post-it note. 'Oh come on Crowley. You know I hate hunting on Tuesdays.'

'I intended for you to do it tomorrow anyway. I have appointments in the morning which would keep me from making a house call,' he answered. Not in the least bit interested in what those "appointments" entailed, she nodded and placed the post-it on the fridge. By the time she turned back around to face him, he was gone. Thank God, she thought to herself, and quickly changed into her pyjamas and went to sleep.

The mark was just over the border in Eau Claire, so it didn't take her long to track down. It was unusual for Crowley to have her leave the state; usually he liked to keep her close to home. In any other circumstance she would see it as an insult to her hunting expertise, but usually she didn't mind at all. It was easier this way; she had built a home in Duluth, even if Crowley was keeping her chained there. God she hated the bastard.

Or maybe she didn't. She couldn't lie to herself about something like this.

It's a known fact that sex releases a hormone called Oxytocin, noticeable in the male but far more prominent in the female. It's the hormone which causes feelings of ecstasy, warmth and attachment; the physical appropriation of love. It's released after every orgasm.

And the damn bastard made sure she had one every. single. time. Perhaps that was his plan; to make for an unrealistic adoration to keep her attached to him; to trick her into believing the situation she was forced into to be tolerable, preferable, pleasurable. Enjoyable.

Bastard.

Everything would be so much easier if coital relations weren't included in their bargain. She could just hunt for him, and this would just be another job. She could return home every night, fall asleep, and wake up the next morning to do it all again; no complications. But instead, she had to come home to him, near every night, and share his bed. Seven months had passed without any messy complications; she did not know how long the honeymoon period would last.

But looking at everything he has put her through, everything she has been forced into, she knew she couldn't love him. And even if she did, regardless of her feelings for him, it would be certain that neither hell nor earth could persuade him to reciprocate them. Demons can't love, they can only hesitate.

Yes, love would be a very one-way street.

But she was curious. Curious as to what it would be like to sleep with him, like actually sleep with him. Sex in the personal, not business sense. She'd done more with a lot worse before she'd even met him, and it's gotten to the point where she wouldn't hate the idea of taking him up on his original offer before all her rules came in; before her fear made it all so detached, before she'd decided to take the pleasure out of their business. She knew she couldn't handle the idea of doing it every night; she couldn't handle the idea of letting herself fall in love with him. Maybe just one night she could pretend she was actually in a healthy relationship with someone she wanted to be in a relationship with? She was only human after all.

Damnit girl, she growled at herself, snap out of it. The situation can only be complicated if you let it be.

She arrived at the apartment complex which housed the mark she was assigned. Despite being five minutes early, she noticed the windows of the flat she was after had being blown out.

'Shit,' she said, rushing out of the car and up the stairs. She reached the place only to find the door ajar. She grabbed her gun and slowly creaked open the door. But, she needn't have worried; the entire place was devoid of life. However, it looked as though someone had dropped an A-Bomb on the floor; the place had been torn apart. Clearly there had been a long struggle.

She turned and walked through the kitchen to the living area, only to find the man she was after. Or, what was left of him. He had been shot several times in the torso and head, and had bled out on the floor. She turned him over and studied his face; he was about 30 years old, fit, and of Islamic descent. She cringed at the look of horror on his face.

Turning around, she saw something which shocked her more than the sight of the dead man lying on the floor; splattered across the wall in what looked like the man's blood was "Fuck off Arab". The disgusting display of racism made her want to be sick. However, this did not look like her game, and reached for her phone to call the cops.

'Don't call the police,' came Crowley's voice from behind her.

'It doesn't look like anything supernatural Crowley, more like super-nationalism. Don't think it's our kind of case.' Crowley walked to the shattered window facing the street and wiped his finger across the sill, picking up some powder as he did. He walked back and showed it to her.

'Sulfur,' she stated bluntly. Clearly a demon had been here. She could have slapped herself for jumping to conclusions so quickly. Something didn't add up; why make such a mess? Why kill someone with a mortal weapon then slap a racial slur across the walls? Why would Crowley mix up the times when he never had before? This was one case he had no choice but to give her info on.

'What's the deal Crowley? Why would a demon go to such lengths to cover up his tracks? And why would he bail early? This time I need more information, especially if you want me to go after it.' He nodded; obviously he knew she was right.

'The demon's name is Hastur, a … colleague of mine. He's been gathering followers to make a play for the upper ranks. But I see he anticipated your arrival.'

'Whoa Crowley. You're in a bit over your head with this one; I'm not good enough to take on that sort of a job without backup. I would have been killed!' She was getting angry, what was he thinking sending me after a thing like this!

'I had every faith in you,' he said simply.

'Yeah well, that was foolish of you,' she spat. He didn't say anything for a long while, clearly trying to think things through.

'He doesn't surface much, and tracking him is difficult as all hell. Racial slurs are usually his calling card, but they're rare at most. This is the first I've heard of him in months, and I doubt he'll make an appearance any time soon now he knows I'm onto him.'

She remembered, years ago while working the bar, of a hunter discussing a demon with such a style.

'I've heard of it before,' she said, and he looked at her curiously. 'A hunter, Rufus Turner, was tracking a demon after finding an Irishman dead. Apparently he only picks vessels he can defame after to create a racial scapegoat.'

'Well then, we have our next lead,' he said. She could sense he was about to leave.

'Whoa whoa whoa wait! First of all, I'm not going to see Rufus; the man is crazy; and second of all, I'm not going after this demon alone. It's nothing short of suicide.'

'Well then get those bloody Winchesters to go with you! And I'm sure you can find a way to persuade the old hunter to help you; but that's your problem, not mine.'

'Maybe I should just sleep with him…' she said, purely for annoyance. He threw her a "sure, good luck with that" look before she spoke again. 'I've been told he won't talk to anyone without a bottle of Johnny Blue. I don't have $200 just lying around.'

'Not my problem.'

'Okay. We've established you want things done at any cost, so long as it is of no cost to you. But we have also established that you need me, and if I refuse, you won't kill me.'

'Don't be so sure.'

Ignoring him, she continued, seeing how much she can get out of the bargain; 'I will do this for you. But I want a favor from you.'

'What d'you want?' He asked, skeptically.

'At this stage, that's for me to know and you to find out when I'm 100% sure I want it.' Not surprisingly, he looked thoroughly confused.

'Take it or leave it.'

'Take or leave what? You haven't bargained for anything!' He growled, clearly frustrated at her ambiguity.

'I'm waiting…' she said, arms folded, tapping her foot on the floor in mock impatience. The glare she received in return was equivocal to a proverbial smack across the face.

'Fine. Whatever. Do what you want. Keep me posted.' He said, disappearing shortly after.

Win! Now the bastard owed her.

A/N

Look at me writing another chapter! Apologies that it's only 2,000 words. Usually I write a good 2,500 to 3,000 but I'm finding spare time to be painfully sparse. I was originally going to join chapter 9 and 10 together, but I don't have time to write the other half, and thought I'd at least give you guys something to last you the painful winter that is writing fan-fiction whilst studying full time and working 30 hours a week at a restaurant.

I don't know if you caught it, but this chapter is a bit far out left-field to what I've been writing previously (which, I have been planning for ages), and I hope you don't hate me for it!

Oh, and you'll be saying hello to the Winchesters soon! Yay! Although that'll be hard to write, considering with Jo with her small amount of screen time it has been easy. It's going to be far harder to keep the boys in character with how developed their canon characters are.

Love your face! And your reviews! They're epic. I LOVE IT!

-thesolitaryone-

xXx

(P.s. There has been some issues with the spelling/grammar of this chapter when uploading onto the site. I've hopefully fixed everything, but let me know if I haven't).