* I do not own Supernatural created by Eric Kripke nor the book series written by uncannonical God Chuck Shirley. I do own the character Tatum and the creation of her story as well as half the plotline that follows the show * 

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Tatum lept over dismantled crates, unearthly noises littering the air of the abandoned warehouse. Gritting her teeth as she leaned back, she put the blade of her ring dagger between them.

She tore a strip of cloth from her shirt, fire in her eyes as she wrapped it around her bleeding bicep. Crimson flitted through the grey fabric as she took possession of her dagger.

The twenty five year old jumped up, twirling as she launched the Chinese ring dagger across the vast expanse of space.

A scream emitted, a thick sound telling her the blade connected.

A wicked grin came across her lips, seemingly dainty fingers pulling two more daggers from her belt. She spun them around her pointer fingers, moving out from behind her cover.

"Don't be like this, sweetheart," a voice cooed, no one in sight of Tatum. "We should be friends."

"Well, all my friends are dead, so come on out and we'll figure out what works best." Tatum's hazel eyes were unwavering, a sudden movement resulting in two bodies dropping.

The sparks of orange lit up her face in the dim building.

Flecks of blood on her temple did nothing to diminish her beauty.

Tatum let herself take in the sounds, making sure no others had been called. Opening her eyes, she ducked as she swung around. Her leg kicked up, her foot connecting with a woman's face.

Black eyes flared as she staggered back, blood arising on her lips. "Why can't you just go quietly, you bitch," she growled, swinging a roughly sharpened knife at Tatum.

"Because only cowards go down without a fight." Tatum caught the demon's wrist, twisting it until it snapped. Grabbing her head, she tugged it down, ramming her knee into her nose.

If it had been a human, the broken bone shards puncturing her brain would've killed her instantaneously. But as it was a black eyed creature, it staggered back, covered in the blood of its meatsuit.

Tatum had no hesitation, yanking a dagger out of the skull of a blonde demon. Walking to the demon broken by her fingers, she jammed the blade through her neck all the way to the hilt.

"And only idiots fight me," she darkly said, pulling the blade free and letting the body fall to the tainted ground.

The warehouse fell silent, eerie and dark. Ten dead bodies were strewn around, only acting as holsters for her prized Chinese ring daggers given to her when she was only ten years old.

Tatum pulled the knives one by one, stepping over the bloody corpses of those sent after someone impossible to catch. Wearing the belt specifically made for them, she put the daggers in their places around her waist.

She threw open the doors of the industrial building shut down in 2005 when the packaging company had to make severe cutbacks.

Tatum pulled out a phone from her back pocket, dialing for the local police. Feigning a voice close to Joan Rivers, she complained about a smell coming from the warehouse behind the restaurant on 50th.

"God, it's awful, Sir. Please come and do something about it," she raspily said, hanging up and removing the chip inside. Crushing it between bloody fingers, she left the remains behind a tire of her car that sat idly outside of the shadowed building.

Tatum went around to the trunk, pulling a clean cloth from her back pocket and wiping off her hands. She opened up the back of her car, undoing her belt and tossing it in among an artillery.

Plucking a bandana from a small case among holy water jugs, she removed the shirt strip on her bleeding bicep and tightly wrapped the red around it. She knew she'd have to stitch it up once she got to her motel, but right now she needed to leave.

Tatum got into her red 1965 Buick Riviera GS, grabbing the keys out of the overhead visor and starting up the engine. She backed up, smashing the phone chip remains before she wheeled around and drove away with one hand.

Not too far away sat the Glen Capri, the motel with a false name and credit card for Tatum. Although run down, she wasn't too bothered by it. It was among many dives she'd stayed in.

Tatum carried a duffle bag into her motel room after locking up her car. She tossed it onto her bed, rifling through it and removing a first aid kit and a bottle of whiskey. Before anything, she took two swigs and sat at the table, undoing the bandana.

Dark blood rippled out of her curvy bicep, Tatum flexing whilst sticking tweezers into her tanned skin and removing a gold bullet.

As tamed as she was in bullet wounds, it barely hurt anymore. Tatum had been shot enough to be an expert in stitching herself up.

Tatum dripped whiskey over the finished product, black thread against her skin in a criss cross pattern. On her way to the bathroom, she clicked on the tv set.

She furrowed her eyebrows, the news popping up.

"It's been over a week since the attack on a campaign office, connected to the strange occurrence at a church where a man claimed to be God. Yes, God, and no beard or sandals. If you know anything about this man, inform our studios so we can investigate if this is the real return of the Lord."

Tatum rolled her eyes, moving to the unnerving bathroom. "What's next? Trenchcoats on tortillas?"

Sure, a lot of things had happened, but God returning was the least likely to happen.

    God was gone and he wasn't coming back.

Tatum grabbed a washcloth from a metal bar above the toilet, cranking on the water. She let the most basic human need soak the white cloth, needing to clean up the dried blood on her body.

The water grew thick and black, weighing the towel down.

Tatum dropped it into the sink, her eyes growing wide. She turned off the faucet, smart enough to keep her fingers out of it. "What the hell is it this time?" She asked herself softly.

And in a way, she knew that all hell was about to break loose, again.

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