Chapter Text
It was Tuesday. Not that it meant anything except that it was Tuesday, but as you swirled the whiskey in your glass you mentally registered that it was Tuesday. Maybe that’s why the bar was pretty empty. How many people found themselves in a bar on a Tuesday at 11 at night? Well, you.
Taking a sip of the burning liquid, the cheap burning liquid, you put the glass back down and looked back at your Surface, a few news articles lingering on the page. The bar had touted free wi-fi, which was part of why you were even in here, and also kind of strange to be honest. You supposed it was why the group of four across the room were here, too. Four men. One looked fairly young, though it was none of your business. The one with the longer hair who also looked taller than a tree, even sitting, was scrolling through his laptop.
A part of you recognized them as Hunters. It was a radar most had. Well, you had it. The four busy talking didn’t seem to even register you which was just as well. There was a potential demon case in the area that you were focused on. It had seemed some had congregated in the town and you’d taken it upon yourself to check it out. Working alone was always easier, albeit more dangerous, but less messy. You could do things like drink whiskey in a shitty bar at 11 at night on a Tuesday wearing an oversized black t-shirt and loose jeans.
You were well aware of the group of people that suddenly entered the bar. You had also been aware of the two well-dressed men who’d been eyeing the group of four for the better part of an hour. It didn’t really phase you, though. Even as words were exchanged with the head of the group.
You knew, though. You always knew.
Voices raised. The few patrons who didn’t seem to be a part of what was going on scrambled out of the bar. Yelling began. And you sat, content, at your little table, drinking what was left of your whiskey and looking at articles.
“Time to leave, lady,” a voice, deep and rough, came from your left. You glanced up with a bored look across your features, eyeing the man dressed in a long, black shirt with well-kept jeans. His eyes turned black, then back again. Your own eyes went back to the screen and finished the whiskey before putting it back on the table.
You didn’t move.
Had you looked, you’d have seen a snarl, the man, the demon, upset. You’d watched the group of four get up and begin a confrontation with the others already, now in the open area by the bartop itself. All of this would have scared an average person, or even rattled a Hunter.
Reaching up, you scrolled through the page of your Surface, only stopping when it was slammed down by the blonde man who had yelled at you, “You deaf or just fucking stupid?”
You let out a slow sigh, eyes falling to the four men who had noticed you, exchanging words between themselves and the group of over a dozen individuals at the front, “he doesn’t have his powers” you’d heard muffled, “there’s too many of them” another had spoken, “I’ve only got the blade” another let out.
Leaning back in your chair you looked up at the man, “That was rude. Apologize.” The look of boredom hadn’t left your features.
A few chuckles came from the man and the two others you realized were with him now, the man from the main group shouting over, “Get her out of here or kill her. I don’t care which.”
“Hey fuckhead,” you called over to the dark haired man in a white button-down and black slacks, the one who appeared to be heading the operation, “I’ve got a question.”
Things seemed to have gotten quiet, the four men from before looking at you with terrible confusion.
Smirking, he called back, “I’ll happily entertain. Please, do ask.”
“What do you call a pack of demons in a bar at midnight on a Tuesday?” You smirked, reaching to the side to grab the slender baseball bat you’d laid on the wooden chair next to you.
He narrowed his eyes as he turned to face you in particular, the three near you stepping back as you stood with the bat in hand. A simple, metal baseball bat. Well, save for the etchings in it. Etchings so slight one would miss them if they weren't looking.
“Fucking dead.” You reeled back with both hands clutching the handle and swung hard, landing a hit to the blonde man’s head, the crack deafening as he collapsed to the floor, eyes crackling as though an Angel Blade had been thrust through him.
The two that had been by him came at you with alarming speed, but it didn’t bother you. Unflinching, you swung the bat in an upwards movement at the first, landing a hit that sent her falling back, ducking as the third grabbed at you. Commotion had broken out completely and the four men at the front were now grappling with the rest of the demons. It was chaotic. Fuck yes.
Standing up and having gained the upper hand by getting behind the third, you slammed down the bat on his back, another crack ringing out as you reached to your belt and withdrew a blade, slamming it through him. Another sparking of eyes, another demon dead.
The second, the one knocked back, got to her feet and ran at you. Tucking the knife away you swung the bat at her. You had practiced this. You knew this. You could predict every damn move. So when she grabbed the bat, prepared for it this time, she smirked confidently. In turn, you grinned, “Gotcha.”
She had no time to register your movements, agile and trained, as you whipped your hand behind your back and withdrew a pistol, hardly aiming (or needing to) before letting out a shot point-blank at her head.
Like a ragdoll her head fell back, her body collapsing to the floor as her eyes crackled as the other two had, the demon slain within the form it had taken.
Your eyes were focused now as they shot back up, watching the men grappling as best they could. Putting down the bat, aware that you would need more freedom of movement for the delightful mess ahead, you walked forward with purpose. But the man with dark hair had other ideas. He grinned widely as he spotted you, his eyes black with his deranged attempt at intimidation, as though you hadn’t just killed three demons in the span of less than a minute.
The six-shooter was still in your hand and you knew you had five bullets left. That was all you needed. The demon held out his hands, the men who’d been fighting off the demons (the youngest, however, unconscious on the ground), had stopped along with the others to watch. The dark haired demon swiped his hand to the right, as if to throw you, but nothing happened. You winced ever so slightly before standing straight, “This isn’t Tinder, sugar. But let me help you swipe left.”
It happened in slow-motion, your hand raising and taking aim as you remembered your favorite book, the one you had memorized, the one you had told your dad you wanted to model your life after when you were just fifteen, ‘I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I aim with my eye. I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I shoot with my mind. I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart.’
The shot rang out, echoing within the bar, the world silent except for the bullet that soared through the air, dancing out of the chamber with purpose and precision. There was no movement save for the bullet that found itself planted into the skull of the man who had lead this doomed excursion into a bar, thinking they might take out Hunters.
His eyes flickered black, orange, his mouth agape as he gurgled his final sounds from this corporeal form, his body collapsing slack to the ground, the demon gone. The man gone. He was dead before he had the chance to register the sound of the gun.
Lowering the weapon you looked at the rest, “You can keep trying to kill me, and them, apparently,” you loosely gestured to the men in plaid, “or you can leave. Pick one.”
The demons exchanged looks before swiftly exiting the bodies they had inhabited, black smoke shooting forth from the mouths of the men and women that were left. The bodies left over crumpled to the ground, leaving behind silence once more.
Taking a breath you closed your eyes briefly, holstering the pistol once more. Four bullets. Fine.
Opening your eyes you walked calmly to the bar and behind the counter, grabbing a bottle of Jack and taking a swig. Not that anyone would care. But the men did. The one in the trenchcoat was tending to the young one on the ground, but the other two stepped forward with caution.
Putting down the bottle you watched the man with the startling hazel eyes as he locked onto yours, “Who are you?” He looked confused more than anything.
You smiled and walked out from behind the bar, grabbing your bat as you made your way to your table, beginning to pack up your things, “I’m not the one who was just the target of a demon ambush. So who’re you that the demons are so interested in?” You cocked an eyebrow as you slid the Surface away, slinging the black bag over your shoulder.
He traded looks with the other man before going back to you, “Dean. Dean Winchester. And my brother Sam. That’s-”
“-Castiel. And Jack. Right? Figures. Winchesters.” You interrupted.
By now the brothers were used to people recognizing them, but they weren’t used to this. A woman who had just killed four demons and terrified the rest back to Hell. Or wherever they’d come from.
Looking over at Jack on the floor, Castiel crouched with him, you watched Cass use his Grace to heal Jack. It caused a strange ache in your stomach as you watched, distracted enough not to notice Dean had gotten closer to where you were, “Listen, sister. I don’t know you, but I know what you did isn’t normal. You’re not any Hunter we’ve encountered and you’ve got weapons that apparently take down demons. How the hell do you even have a gun that does that? Only one we know of was the Colt.”
You could feel the cool metal of your pistol against your bare skin from where you’d tucked it away, and the blade you’d used as well. The bat was still gripped in your hand and you considered his words. It was unlikely he’d ever met anyone like you. You’d kept a low profile for a reason. But this had forced your hand. You never meant to be at a bar with Team Winchester, helping save their sorry asses.
Dean’s voice tugged at you in a strange way you couldn’t quite place, though. Biting your bottom lip you turned away, brushing back some of your hair, “There’s a lot you boys don’t know. A lot the Men of Letters don’t know. You’re legacies, right?”
Sam squinted, “How do you know that?”
Sighing and looking back at them, watching as Castiel helped Jack to his feet, you shook your head, “You’re right, Dean. I’m not like any Hunter you’ve met. You need Lucifer dead, and I can help.”
An eerie quiet sets over the bar and you’re suddenly aware you’ve touched a nerve.
“I know things. I know Jack over there tore open a portal to another reality. I know you almost let Michael in. I know Jack lost his powers. I know you got your mother and folks from the other reality back. And I know, for absolute certainty, things are total shit.” Your words feel heavy, but necessary as you let them out, “Throw salt and holy water on me, have me touch silver and iron, even try some holy oil on me, you won’t find anything. I’m not a monster, I’m a human. But I know things, Dean. I know important things.”
Your plan, initially, had been to leave these men. You had left your ties with the Men of Letters long ago. You had decided to live a life hunting as best you could and had thought the Winchesters had it covered. You knew about the portal from your own contacts, but Jack’s power being gone was something you had felt. Deep inside. This wasn’t good. Now that you knew who they were? Could you really leave?
Dean got closer and you felt your stomach clench. It was a new feeling and you weren’t sure why it was happening. But he was watching you, “Then help us. And Jesus Christ, just tell me your name already.” He looked mildly perturbed.
You couldn’t help but smirk, holding out your hand to shake Dean’s, “Y/N. Y/F/N.”
When he gripped your hand to shake it, you felt your body run hot. Your heart skipped. You were ten years old and your body was betraying you over a total stranger. But he was so familiar, wasn’t he? Dean Winchester. He’d be the death of you.