666 ♛ Crowley

eighteen

[06:32am]

THE BLACK CAR pulled in onto the pavement outside of the small house, it's purring engine dying down as the driver flicked off the ignition. Neither man spoke, but instead they both peered up the driveway at their destination; its windows were mostly obscured by the tall, neatly pruned hedges which surrounded the garden, but the two men could see no sign of disturbance.

The driver nodded to his shaggy-haired partner and they both eased open the doors of the old car. Casting a furtive look around the neighbourhood, they opened up the lid to their arsenal and selected two long silver knives. The shorter of the two also tucked a familiar gun into the waistband of his trousers, knowing he would never leave for a hunt without it.

Both men nodded silently to each other as they ran across the drive, careful not to bring any unwanted attention from nosy neighbours. As an angry shout echoed down the street, the brothers tensed like a dog sensing danger and flattened themselves onto the wall of the house, hoping the bushes and doorway would provide the cover they needed. A few silent seconds past and then a man dashed down the road, oblivious to the intruders, after his escaped dog.

The men exhaled, relieved they had been left unnoticed. One of them drew something small and silver from his pocket and turned to the locked door, a mere inconvenience for the skilled men, while the other continued to sweep his eyes up and down the street. For what they were about to do, they could not afford to be caught.

Tapping his partner on the shoulder, the longer-haired man beckoned him forward as he pushed open the door, hoping it would not creak and alert the occupants to their intrusion. All was quiet.

The other man slowly drew the door to once he was inside. So far so good. His eyes moved with expert precision around the house. The kitchen tap dripped rhythmically, the only source of noise in the early hours of the morning. What drew the man's attention however, was the broken glass scattered and abandoned across the floor. The sight, which might have suggested uncaring to most, cemented what both men knew to be true.

Jerking his head in the direction of the stairs, the older brother took the lead, his feet quickly and expertly moving silently up them to the landing. The other followed, lifting his silver knife from his belt in one fluid movement.

When he had joined his brother at the top of the stairs, he nodded to his right at the closest door to them. With a sharp intake of breath, the elder one lifted his own knife and pushed open the door.

The only things in the relatively bare room were a suitcase, clothes tossed uncaringly both into and around the open lid, and a laptop. The walls were bare and curtains barely more than a strip of simple fabric, doing nothing to prevent the early morning light softly penetrating the room.

On the double bed, unaware of her visitors, lay a woman, her short dark hair sprawled unceremoniously across her pillow. One of her arms was in a bandage.

The taller brother narrowed his eyes, the scene before him striking a warning against what they were about to do. The other held no such concern. He was over to the bedside within seconds, holding the silver knife to the woman's throat. The other man had no time to express his concerns as the woman's eyes suddenly snapped open and she let out a startled yell of surprise.

Knife still at her throat, the man shoved his hand quickly to her mouth. Her panicked eyes moving with lightning speed back and fourth between the two intruders. She struggled to move from her bed, but was held in place by the strong hunter above her. The arm in the bandage lay uselessly by her side as she writhed.

"Dean," the taller one hissed, "something's not right. Look at her." The woman gave a startled sound which was still muffled by his brother's hand.

"She's a demon, Sam," Dean hissed in return, pressing the knife further into her throat. "And she will tell us what we want to know."

Having listening to this argument, the woman's eyes grew large again and she shook her head violently, making indecipherable noises behind Dean's hand. Her wide eyes found Sam, begging him to at least listen (for he seemed the more reasonable of the two hunters).

Sam was by the bed in two long strides, wrestling his brother's hand from the woman's mouth. She took a deep breath, eyes moving between the two hunters in disbelief.

Dean gave his brother a disbelieving face. "Are you serious? Look at her, it's an act."

The taller man shook his head softly. "I don't think so. She's scared, Dean. You having an angel blade to her throat probably isn't helping."

Feeling the pressure on her throat lifting slightly, the woman found her voice. "You're the Winchesters," she whispered. It wasn't a question.

"Who are you?" Sam pressed, "how do you know us?"

"She's working for Crowley, that's how," Dean growled and rolled his eyes at his brother's naivety.

The woman spluttered indignantly, fear momentarily forgotten. "I don't work for Crowley. I'm human, I swear."

"Yeah, right," Dean sneered. "Try again you black-eyed son of a bitch." Sam snapped a disapproving glare to his oblivious brother.

The woman smacked her good hand against her forehead and groaned. "I'm such an idiot. What have I got myself into?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Come again?" Both brothers were puzzled now.

"It was all a stupid dare," she began, words tumbling from her mouth as though she could barely keep them in. "We were drunk and I messaged the number 666. Obviously I didn't expect someone to actually reply. But when he—Crowley—did, I thought it was a big joke so I played along. It was actually pretty fun, for a while.

"Then these black-eyes monsters came to my door and, well," she gestured at her arm. "Crowley showed up and killed them before they could finish me off. Obviously, I'm freaking out because I know all about this other world, full of monsters and demons and hunters. Then Moose and Squirrel show up and nearly cut my throat, so you could say I'm not having the best week!" She finished, her voice shrill, and drew a long breath.

Both brothers blinked. "So, you're telling us that this all started when you drunk texted Crowley?" The woman nodded. Dean snorted, "and she expects us to believe her? Hang on a minute, Squirrel?"

After shrugging apologetically, she reached past him to her bedside table, she picked up her phone and turned it on without looking at it. Wordlessly, she handed it to Sam. Not glancing at the most recent messages, he scrolled up, eyes scanning the words as they flicked passed. Dean snorted derisively several times as he read from the device in Sam's hand.

"So, Jennifer...?" He asked, looking down at one the earlier messages reading her name. She nodded again. "You seriously did drunk message the King of Hell?"

Dean gave one final snort of amusement. "And I thought we had bad luck."

"Hang on," Sam sounded puzzled. "This most recent message reads 'Run.'  Why the hell would he send—"

A loud crash drew all three of their attention to the door which had been flung wide open. Sam and Dean reached for their Angel blades with practised eased while Jennifer fumbled in the drawer for her knife.

Three figures stood stock still in the doorway, a jagged knife held in each of their right hands. The Winchesters and Jennifer didn't need to see their pitch black eyes, hidden in the shadow of the door, or their bloodthirsty smiles, to know they were looking at the monsters from Hell.