It seemed like time just stopped. Dean stared at me, anger slowly building in his eyes, making his jaw clench. He had his hands clasped in front of him, gun tight in his grip. It looked like he'd punched something, because a small trickle of blood was dripping from his fingers.
For some reason I knew—the feeling had settled into my gut as soon as I had stepped into the bar—that today was going to be a bad one. Something was going to go wrong, and from the looks of it several things already had.
"Want to tell me why you were in there with Crowley?" Dean's voice was deep with anger, strained. I could tell I was in it deep, my heart began to thunder in my chest not with adrenaline, but out of fear. Something in me told me I should be running, running hard and fast and very far away from Dean within the next few seconds. For once I decided to listen to that something. I knew I couldn't run past him and out into the street, and I felt a surge of relief that I had kept hold of the door so it was open.
I didn't dare move just yet. "I-I…h-he f-f-fou-nd me. W-w-wants s-s-s-someth-thing fr-rom m-me. I-I-I d-don't kn-ow w-what, y-y-your e-entrance s-s-t-topped me fr-rom find-ding out."
He frowned, obviously deep in thought. I took this opportunity to edge backwards while he was looking away, and once I was almost halfway through the door I grabbed the inside handle and pulled it shut quickly. Dean's head snapped up in response to the groaning of the old hinges, and my last sight of him was leaping forwards to grab hold of the handle. I looked around the tiny hallway to try and find something to jam the door with, but there was nothing. We wrestled for the door, and I braced my feet either side of the frame, pulling with all I had to close it, flicking the lock on the handle. It was extremely old, and as Dean began to pound on the metal the entire thing groaned. I backed away, not wanting to go out into the bar. There were three doors in the hall, two being the bathrooms, but the third was opposite the back door, with a grimy sign that read 'office—no access'. I tried the handle, surprised to find it unlocked.
The thuds and booms of Dean throwing himself against the old door became muted once I had closed and locked the door to the office, but I still jumped when the crash of the metal finally giving under his assault sounded behind me. There was a blacked out window, which was stuck when I tried to open it, and that appeared to be the only other way out. I knew it was a matter of time before Dean figured out where I'd gone, but I didn't want too much noise, so breaking the window was out of the question.
I tried desperately to lift the window, making sure the lock wasn't a problem and using what was left of my energy to yank the glass upwards. It lifted about a foot, and slipping through was a piece of cake. I shoved it back down, the slam of it hitting its frame louder than I'd expected but by the time anyone came to investigate I would be long gone.
I dashed to the main street, covering my face with the hood of my jacket, hands jammed into my pockets hopefully looking like a delinquent teen. I stopped in front of a clothes store a couple of shops down the road, taking the opportunity to glance back to the bar. A sleek black muscle car was parked out front, a figure slumped in the back seat and another sitting on the hood of the car, leaning back against the windshield. From where I stood I could tell that was Sam, his long brunette hair messy from his fingers constantly running through it. It appeared he was worried about something. I tried to make out the figure in the backseat, and as I looked at them they turned their head to look at me, and I started when I recognised Crowley. How had they caught him?
As soon as I saw the door to the bar open I turned away, strolling down the street the opposite way I had come, finding a sign for a service station a couple of 'miles' up the road, since the town's—Lebanon, hadn't Crowley said?—was out of service. I heard the rumble of the Winchester's car as it cruised down the street, and I fought to keep my nerves in check, forcing myself to walk naturally.
Why was I running from them? Hadn't they saved me from Crowley? I had no idea why, but I feared Dean's wrath. Hopefully at the service station I would be able to catch a ride with a trucker or some friendly road-trippers to a major city—somewhere with an airport would be nice. Home sounded like a really good idea right about now.
The service station was full of trucks, a few SUV's and a Winnebago on the far side. I tried to talk to a couple of the SUV owners, but they all made up excuses like they lived locally or were just assholes. I avoided the truck drivers—they would be my last resorts—I'd seen my share of horror movies. A diner was attached to the service station, and I went inside, hoping for a stroke of luck. A bell tinkled above me, the warm air inviting compared to outside. One of the waitresses was about to come up to me when a male voice called out.
"Ah, Ripley. Glad you made it."
I didn't recognise the man who had spoken. He was a weasel of a human being, so thin I could see his collar bones beneath his skin thanks to a very loose t-shirt, lanky, greasy hair, yellowing teeth and a crooked nose. His skinny fingers were clasped on the tabletop in front of him.
Heart thundering in my throat I sat down opposite him, knowing full well what he was. For some reason I was nervous—like I knew he was about to tell me something terrible.
"It's such a pleasure to finally meet you."
"Wh-who are y-y-y-ou?"
"Call me Weasel." He extended a wiry hand, but when I didn't move to take it, it dropped almost forlornly onto the table. "I assume you know what I am by your reaction, then. I work for someone currently rivalling that buffoon Crowley for Hell's throne—"
"Abaddon."
His smile was thin and cruel. "Yes. She is very interested in your…anger management issues."
That sent a shiver down my spine. Why would a Knight of Hell care about me? So I couldn't control my temper—big deal—did she know about Dean's problems too? Did she want a death match between the two of us? Why did supernatural beings always have to interfere with my life?
I found that the anger crept up on me this time, and it felt normal to hiss in a low voice at the demon "Abaddon can shove it up her ass. 'Interested' in my anger? Sure she is. And I'm Hello Kitty." This made him laugh, but it did nothing to dissuade this beast roiling in the pit of my stomach. My breaths began to grow loud and heavy, adrenalin making my hands shake. In the seconds before I felt myself snap, I only had one thought.
Everyone in this diner is going to die.