NOTE: As someone with admitted addictions to both
Supernatural
and writing in general, I suppose I should have expected them to collide at some point, though I haven't written fanfiction in years. It was this idea that finally drew me to post a story on literotica, though, and I couldn't resist taking some of the ideas in varying directions. But of course, some ideas just beg to be explored fully. I should state here that I have no affiliation with the show, but I've aimed to make my portrayals here as believable as possible. I hope you'll enjoy the result. Let me know what you think.
Calla slammed her phone down onto the counter, having cut off her mother mid-sentence.
She's gone crazy. All over again.
Calla paced away from her phone, and she ignored the buzzing which told her that her mother dearest was trying to call her back, already. For what? To try to convince her she was doing the right thing in murdering random strangers, that they were "all bad" as her mother had put it. Calla found herself practically shaking with heartache, knowing she couldn't do anything to stop her. How long had her mother's last rampage lasted? She'd been so young, she wasn't sure. Maybe a few months, maybe thirty deaths spread over five or six states?
But her coven stopped her then, and she's the strongest of them now.
The thought froze Calla, taking her back to the sentiment that it was up to her to find a way to talk her mother down from her latest journey into psycho-land. She'd have to figure it out herself. For now, she just needed a drink.
Practically tripping in her haste to get to the cabinet where she kept wine, she reached the cabinet and looked inside. That's too tame, she realized, and headed for her purse instead. She wanted a goddamned shot of whiskey.
* * * * *
Dean followed her in his Impala, trailing a few cars behind and hoping they'd finally catch a break. After a week with no leads, it seemed that this young witch was their best hope of tracking down her mom, who'd been disappearing faster than they could even get into the state of her latest kill, she was moving so fast. A new body every other day practically, and they'd been getting nowhere. But with Calla's apartment carefully warded, there was no way to get into her place and snoop without alerting her, or else being invited in. An invite was what he was hoping for, if he could find a way to run into her that didn't arouse suspicion.
When he saw her pull into the lot of a local tavern, he groaned out loud in relief. This was what he'd been waiting for. Since Sammy had struck out with her the day before at her university, there hadn't been any other opportunity; now it was his turn. Parking and taking a glance at himself in the mirror to make sure nothing of his lunch remained in his teeth, he wondered again why she hadn't gone for his little brother. Sure, he knew he was better than Sam when it came to picking up women, but for a bookworm grad student like this Calla character, his brother should have been just the right fit. He'd approached her at school, too, posing as a new grad student, and she'd apparently shot him down without a second thought. No reason, no explanation, no apparent interest... and then she'd gone straight home at the end of the day, leaving the brothers no way to maneuver another meeting. Today, she'd again gone to school and come straight home again, and Dean had been about ready to give up... until he'd seen her stomp out of her place this evening and head to her car.
Inside the tavern, Dean let himself look around and take stock of the setting before he headed toward the side bar where Calla had already taken a seat. The space was mostly empty—she hadn't come here for the nightlife, clearly—but it was clean, and less run-down than he might have expected from the state of the gravel parking lot. Calla couldn't have been seated for more than a few minutes, but she already had a book out in front of her, prompting Dean to wonder again why she hadn't gone for Sammy. He was up for the challenge, though.
He took a stool a few seats down from her, just as the overgrown bartender returned to her and placed a rocks glass of amber liquid by her hand, smoothly taking up the card that she'd laid at the edge of the bar and heading off, not a word exchanged between them.
"Jack on the rocks," Dean called to the bartender as he turned from his register and placed Calla's card on a nearby shelf. He glanced to Calla, but she hadn't bothered to look up at him, apparently engrossed in her reading... though Dean noticed she hadn't yet turned a page, and didn't seem to be getting ready to. He watched as she reached for her glass and lifted it to her lips, and then placed it down again. If he wasn't mistaken, her eyes had just gone back to the top of the page when she looked back to her book; her mind was elsewhere.
"Rough day?" he asked.
She didn't respond, but the bartender returned with Dean's drink and placed it in front of him. "Calla, fella here asked you a question," he commented in her direction, twisting his lip in what might have been frustration.
Dean nodded to him; the aid was unexpected, but he'd take it if it meant he didn't have to look the fool by repeating himself.
"I heard him, Mark," Calla replied, finally looking up from her book and letting her eyes come to Dean's own. She looked younger than she was, he thought, and incredibly tired—world-weary, like he sometimes felt. But Dean knew her to be 28, a third-year grad student in Psychology at the local university. She was also a witch, and the daughter of a serial killer. He nodded at her when she seemed content to assess him silently, and repeated, "Rough day?", with a nod to her drink.
"You could say that, yeah," she answered, and lifted her drink for another sip. "Look, guy, I don't mean any offense, but I just want to read and be left alone if it's all the same to you. Okay?"
"Goddamnit, Calla," the bartender intervened, again. "Have a fucking conversation for once, would ya?"
Dean glanced between them. "You guys know each other pretty well, I take it," he commented, gulping down the second third of his whiskey and leaning back after he spoke.
"Well as she knows anyone," Mark answered him, and then glared back at the petite witch before stalking away.
For her part, Calla shut her book and sighed. "You'll have to excuse him," she told Dean, eyeing her drink and apparently considering another sip. "He's afraid I'll attract a horde of grad students to his place and it'll lose its reputation, whatever that is."
Dean allowed himself to grin fully at her, acknowledging the joke. "Look, I'm not trying to pry; I'm just passing through town—thought a conversation with a pretty girl would be a nice way to pass the time is all."
Hearing the comment, Mark fished a menu from beneath the bar and slapped it down in front of Dean, who acknowledged it with a nod as Calla watched him. He shrugged at her harmlessly, reminding himself not to come on too strong with this one, and forced himself to look through the menu, which was much like any other tavern menu he'd ever encountered. A few seats away, though, he sensed more than felt Calla's guard ease up, and he glanced up when she let out a delicate cough.
