A Supernatural x Reader Story

Chapter Twenty-One: Survival of the Fittest

Before we get to the good stuff, I need you help!

I live in Hawaii, which is in an entirely different time zone from the vast majority of my readers, so I have no idea when a good time would be to post new chapters. I want to make it convenient for you all to read as well as increase the number of views the story gets. So, if you guys don't mind too much, please comment your time zone or country and what time (your time) you are most likely to read. Be as specific or vague as you feel comfortable with.

And without further ado, the new chapter. Thanks for reading!

**********

"So, a young woman in a maid's uniform walks into your store and buys a machete, and you sell it to her, no questions asked?"

The hardware store worker looks over at you, ringing you up for the two spray bottles of all-purpose cleaner. He can't be older than twenty. Attached to his green apron is a Bob's Valley Hardware name tag reading Pete.

"Look, agent," he defends, "that late at night, a lot of strange people come in and buy strange things. It's not my job to ask questions."

"Right," you mumble. "Well, did he b– did she buy anything else?"

"Yeah," he says, pointing to the lower shelf of a newspaper rack, "a copy of the paper."

On the cover of the Montana Gazette with yesterday's date is an off-center picture of Roman with the headline Dick Roman Nominated for Man of Year printed next to it.

"Did she mention– ?" you start, but Pete is already looking over your shoulder.

"'Morning, Mr. Arnold," he calls to the middle-aged man in the doorway. "How's it going?"

"Not too good, Pete," the man responds, grumpily, as he makes his way over to the counter. "Somebody jacked my truck last night. Anyway, I just need a room key copied."

You raise your eyes to him again and pull out your badge. "Excuse me, sir. Agent Evans, FBI," you introduce yourself. "Could you tell me a little bit about your truck?"

He pauses a moment, looking you up and down. Yesterday, you picked up a suit to wear for occasions like these, and you couldn't lie – it makes you feel like you can kill anything that comes your way.

"It's a '98 Ford Ranger," he recalls, finally, "blue. What do the feds want with a stolen truck?"

"I'm working a case in the area, and this information could be helpful," you state. "Could you tell me where your vehicle stolen?"

"I run the hotel a couple doors down," he explains, digging a key out of his jeans pocket and handing it to Pete. "It was parked just outside."

"I see," you muse. "And you don't have any security cameras or anything that would have caught it?"

"'Fraid I don't, agent," he admits.

You let out a sigh, and pull a card with you phone number out of your jacket pocket. "Well, if anything turns up," you hand him the card, "please give me a call."

Behind the counter, Pete turns on the key-cutting machine.

"Thank you for your time," you shout to him over the whirring sound, grabbing the bottles of cleaner.

The hotel, as promised, is at the end of the short strip of shops. There is one car parked outside, but at the far end, you notice a flat, light-colored object on the brick walkway. Upon closer inspection, you see it is a mud-soaked newspaper, the same issue the shop worker said Bobby took.