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They always said that your family was so loving. Anyone, especially anyone with as much money as your parents, would hand you off to a team of expert carers. They'd pay strangers to get you washed and dressed and into your chair. Instead, your father started his work day late, because every morning, he got you ready himself. Wasn't that so incredibly kind?
You couldn't complain. For someone like you, privacy is a myth. Unless you want to languish in a puddle of your own piss, you have to let others see you naked. Surely it was better to have your own father touch your arse than a stranger. No one believed you when you said otherwise.
You greatly preferred when your parents were occupied. Then you did have nursing care. Your carers were cold and impersonal, with a tendency to sigh and roll their eyes at every request, but there was a kind of comfort in that. You weren't their perpetual burden or their precious, beautiful daughter; you were more like a piece of schoolwork. They finished you, then moved on. Sometimes, when you had nothing else to do, you thought up ways that one day, you could become a person.
In hindsight, the demon was the first person to really, truly see you.
She didn't offer you a new body. She knew that wasn't truly the problem. Even if you could take care of yourself, you were only fourteen. You’d still be in your parents’ custody. They would find some other way to control you; you were sure of that.
What you needed, more than anything, was cold hard cash. That was real freedom. You could rent an accessible flat, one without an entire floor beyond your reach. You could buy a chair that you could steer yourself, instead of being pushed everywhere. You could hire the most professional staff, people you would fire if they ever touched you the wrong way.
If your parents died, you'd receive your inheritance. It wouldn't last forever, but it would be one hell of a start.
The demon didn't explain any of that. She didn't have to. You planned it all long before he ever crossed your path, on those terrible nights when you lay awake in bed, unable to fall asleep no matter how hard you tried.
All the demon had to do was make an offer. You didn't think twice.
She never even asked why you used the chair.
The inheritance didn't last forever—your chair alone was more expensive than you ever would have guessed—and there are some problems even money doesn't solve. It still amazes you how many buildings can't even get you through the door.
Still, despite your body’s limitations, you had your mind. You used that to multiply your wealth. If demons were real, you concluded that any number of other myths must also be true. The research wasn't hard. Your first few artifacts practically found themselves.
From there, everything fell into place. Now you had clients. They told you what to go after themselves. You did all the reading, seances, and phone calls required to locate them, then hired others to do the actual thievery. Two hundred pound wheelchairs weren't exactly stealthy.
Along the way, you picked up a few side gigs. Despite turning up their noses at your line of work, hunters constantly phone you. Mostly, they need you to garner sympathy. Victims are suspicious of strange men, but if they have a “wife” or “daughter” sitting next to them in a wheelchair, they open right up. You have to do it pro bono—every hunter you've ever met was flat broke—but the real payment isn't in cash. The next time you need a piece of intel or a pair of boots on the ground, someone owes you a favor. If a hunter's in your debt, they'll do it for free.
Your favorite customers are old ladies. They find you to be quite the kindred spirit. You understand their fear of the nursing home like no one else. At the same time, you remind them of themselves back when they were smart, confident, and beautiful. They see every trait that men despise—your boldness, your shrewdness, and your raw sex appeal—and compliment them enough to outweigh every insult. Most people treat you well out of pity or because you pay them. Older women are the only ones to show you genuine kindness.
If your friendship costs a tarot reading and a few phony talismans, these women are more than happy to pay. You don't feel bad. They've told you themselves that they'd rather you take their money than their good-for-nothing grandkids.
After nearly a decade, you finally found an accessible luxury penthouse. Your staff are trustworthy, capable, and willing to accompany you on business. You moved to America, because there, the architects are required to at least pretend to accommodate wheelchairs. You like to think that even the able-bodied would envy your lifestyle.
Hunters are your biggest annoyance now. You deal with them far too often. They can't navigate any problem that isn't solved by force. Salt rounds and wooden stakes will never teach your muscles and nerves to operate like theirs.
Most of the time, it works in your favor. Their inflated sense of chivalry prevents them from opposing the poor girl in the wheelchair. You continue with your work unbothered, and they keep ignoring the things they don't understand.
The Winchesters are something else.
They are so caught up with their sense of duty, in the conviction that they are saving the world, that they can't bear to leave you alone. No amount of pity dissuades them from the notion that trading supernatural items is morally wrong.
You actually enjoy it.
You're not used to hunters treating you as an equal. You never got to play Bugs Bunny to anyone’s Elmer Fudd. Outsmarting them is the most fun you've had in years.
The best part is the banter. You know that hunters have choice words for each other—you've heard it yourself —but they hold their tongues around you. Sure, they view your enterprise with plenty of derision, but only behind your back.
The Winchesters are different. They'll call you a “bitch” right to your face. After years of finding fitting retorts to that brand of machismo, it's delightful to finally use them.
There's just one problem. The Winchesters treat you as an equal, but it isn't out of respect. They truly don't see any difference between you and them. They actually think that if you gave up your work, you could play the hero, too.
“Let me guess,” Dean says. “It's all a con. None of it's real.”
“I suppose you expect me to get on my knees and dig up graves like you?” you answer.
“How do you sleep at night?” he replies.
What you want to say is, “in my own bed, in my own penthouse, with a fleet of staff that I selected myself.”
Instead, you tell him, “On silk sheets, surrounded by piles of money.” Nothing will ever make the Winchesters understand. You might as well hold onto your pride.
Your life of luxury won't last forever. Hell, it won't even last another year. But even with the hounds fast approaching, you wouldn't take anything back. Ten short years of freedom are better than one hundred spent under someone elses’ thumb.