Faith Against Fate

Eight Years Later.

They were everywhere now. It was getting harder and harder to find towns without them, and even when I did they always seemed to show up within the next few months. There had been far too many close calls in the past two years, and I was just sick of fighting. Last week one had almost collected the massive bounty that was on my head, too. I still had the freakin’ marks, and a nasty knife wound in my right arm that was currently giving me hell. I’d exorcised them of course, but it did little to make me feel any better. I wondered vaguely if there was a way to actually kill them, but then, how do you kill something that has already died once before?
I shook my head and cleared my thoughts. I was far too tired to come up with any profound answers, so what was the point?
I focused on the road in front of me and turned up my music so it was blaring through the speakers of my black Dodge Ram. I’d stolen it years ago from some town in Indiana after narrowly escaping a massive group of demon’s who’d come to chop my pretty little head off. I’d felt bad about it at first, but when twenty-plus monsters from hell are quite literally trying to drag you back with them to Lucifer’s domain, little things like grand theft auto just don’t seem that important. The pickup grew on me, and after hitting up a friend for some quality fake plates, I officially dubbed it “Mine.”
It always got me where I wanted to go, and hadn’t failed once. I’d been across the country and back with it, and was currently headed for a little fishing village in Maine. I picked the spot literally at random, and after doing a background check to make sure no weird or paranormal stuff happens there I decided to make the trip. I figured I could settle there for at least a good six months before some demon finally sniffed me out, and I was so ready to kick back and let myself heal from the last encounter.
I was in desperate need of some cash though, and with job prospects at an all-time low my options were limited. I could either steal it, or dance on a corner in a little tutu and hope people tipped.
Guess which one I picked?
The town was small, quaint, and I doubted any of its inhabitants were wealthy. I wanted to kick myself for not stopping off in Portland or some bigger city to buy some credit cards or fake IDs off the black market. The old, cracked sidewalks along main street were mostly empty, so pick pocketing was out of the question too, and while my morals were loose when it can to thievery, I still hadn’t graduated to burglary or armed robbery.
“Damnit,” I cursed loudly, hitting the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. I maybe had enough for three nights if I went super cheap and lived off chips and water, but I needed medicine and bandages too. I’d been driving for nearly twenty-four hours straight, and my body ached at the prospect of delaying sleep any longer, so I gave up for the day. I found the smallest, cheapest motel the town had to offer, and decided to pay through two nights. I figured I needed some fresh bandages and painkillers a little more than I needed a bed. The knife wound was still bleeding some, and there was no way I was getting any sleep without some relief from the burning.
I dropped my bag off in the dingy room, and made a run to the drugstore. The cashier stared at the blood seeping through my jacket, but she thankfully didn’t say anything.
The room was tiny, barely fitting the queen bed that sat in the middle of it. A small wooden desk was stuffed into a corner, and a mini-fridge stood beside it. There was one window by the door, the only saving grace the room had to offer. The fact that both entry points were in the same place was a great tactical advantage, just as long as you weren’t trying to escape or anything. If something was coming after me though, the last thing I needed was it chasing me all over the damn country, so escape was never really an option for me. I killed the things that hunted me, or exorcised them. I carried enough arms with me to outfit a small militia, so I felt secure enough. I locked the door, dead-bolted it, and shoved the small desk in front of the door. Was it excessive? Hell no. If someone wanted in the room I sure as fuck wanted to know.
I took the bandage off my arm and sighed when I saw the angry red, inflamed, definitely infected skin around the laceration. Fuck my life.
I sucked in a breath and poured the alcohol over it, almost screaming from the corresponding burn. I scrunched up my eyes as I forced myself to rub the abrasive liquid in the wound, turning the white washcloth a dark red. My shirt was already ruined so I cared little when the pinkish-maroon streams stained it. I figured after a few minutes of torture it’d be good to go, and quite frankly I just couldn’t take it anymore. I rewrapped it tightly, and the lingering pain felt like someone was taking a cheese grater to my skin. It pulsated with each beat of my heart.
After a few pain pills from my own personal stash, however, it’d been reduced to a dull throb and I was able to sink into cool sheets and sweet oblivion.

“This seems like a quiet little town,” Dean remarked as the aged buildings flew past the Impala’s window, “You sure there’s gonna be something going down here? Everything looks nice and peaceful to me.”
“Yeah, because we all know everything is just what it looks like,” Sam rolled his eyes.
“I mean, Jesus this place is almost too…quaint. It’s creeping me out actually.” Dean shivered as a passerby waved at him from the crosswalk.
“Exactly. It’s weird, Dean.”
“Oh come on, not every town we stop in has to be an apocalyptic hell-hole. It’s just a little fishing town. What would a bunch of demons want here?”
“No idea, but we’re gonna find out. Every single town surrounding this one had shown demonic signs. Freak lightening storms, people going on murder sprees. This place is dead center in a three-hundred mile radius of hell on Earth, and yet it’s been untouched. You can’t tell me that’s a coincidence.”
“Sorry, but it just makes a little more sense to go out to those places where there have actually been demonic signs , not set up shop in the only place where people don’t need our help.”
“Would you just trust me on this Dean? It’s almost like they’re laying siege to the town. There must be something important here, or they wouldn’t waste the resources.”
“Hey, I’m here aren’t I?”
“Fine, just find a motel or something. We can start poking around in the morning.”
“What exactly are we supposed to ask these people anyway? Hi, excuse me ma’am, but can you tell me just what makes your town such a lovely place? And why are y’all so damn friendly? What’s the secret when it comes to warding off the apocalypse?” He faked a good ol’ boy’s country accent, his face set in a dopy smile to match.
“God, just drive, will you?” Sam rested his head on his hand and turned up the Metallica blasting through the speakers. And Sam hated Metallica.
“Fine, but we’ll need a game plan before we go out questioning all the townsfolk. I’m thinking an FBI cover should do the trick for getting in with the Sheriff, and we can figure it out from there hopefully. Maybe mention the murder sprees in the surrounding towns and blame it on a serial killer.”
“Sounds great,” Sam sighed, not really paying attention.
Dean looked over at him. “What’s into you today anyway? I mean, you’re moody but usually not this moody.”
“It’s nothing,” he lied effortlessly, his eyes fixated on the paint-chipped buildings rolling by.
“Whatever,” Dean replied, focusing on the road again. He was too tired to pick at Sam anymore, and figured he’d just get him to spill his guts later.
Purple neon lights outlining the word “Motel” glinted at him in the distance, and soon the Impala was bouncing over a potholed, nearly empty parking lot.
“Aw come on! These roads are killing you baby,” he patted the dashboard in what Sam deemed a soothing gesture. It was quite sad, really.
“It’s just a car Dean,” Sam rolled his eyes at his brother for the second time in ten minutes.
Dean looked at him like he’d just burned the Holy Bible.
“I don’t think you understand,” Dean pointed to the only other car in the parking lot, a black truck, “that, is just a car. This, this is a ’67 Chevy Impala that’s seen more shit go down then either of us, and lived to tell about it. Don’t disrespect the car!”
“Alright, jeez.”
“Okay,” Dean killed the motor, “now say you’re sorry.”
“What?”
“Do it. Apologize.”
“To what? The car?!”
“No, to the fly you killed earlier. Yes the damn car!”
“Dean, I’m not apologizing to the ca— ,”
“Do it!”
“God, alright! Sorry…car.” Sam patted the dashboard like Dean did before, afraid of what his brother would do otherwise. What he didn’t expect was the sound of Dean cracking up beside him.
“Dude,” he laughed, “You totally apologized to a car! Sincerely!”
Sam suddenly had the urge to punch him in the face.
“Oh, yeah. That’s really hilarious Dean. You made me talk to the car. Haha. Great stuff.”
“Seriously dude, what’s the matter with you? It’s just a car.” Dean laughed once more time, and got out chuckling to himself.
Sam sat fuming in the car for a second before getting out and following him to the tiny building hosting a sign that read “Office.”
“Not a very popular tourist attraction,” Dean mused as he scanned the area. “Other than the guy with the truck we’re the only ones here.”
“Can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not,” Sam said.
“We’ll see.” He dinged the bell on the counter and an elderly man shuffled his way to the desk from a back room.
“What do ya need?” he asked in a strong northern accent.
“Single room, two beds,” Dean answered and slid a hundred dollar bill across the counter. “For two nights.”
Sam started protesting beside him so Dean slammed his boot down on his foot. He felt Sam’s glare and knew he’d pay for it later.
The old man looked back and forth between the two for a second, like he was trying to decide something.
“You know,” he started, “Vermont passed that gay marriage law not too long ago and we’re pretty tolerant up here too. If you want a single bed I won’t judge you.”
“Hey! Woah now old timer, we’re not gay, we’re brothers,” Dean explained hastily. The old man looked dubious.
Sam, an evil, hilarious thought in mind, turned to Dean, “You know dear, it’s so nice to hear people supporting that law. But I think we’ll be fine with the two beds.” Sam leaned in towards the inn keeper, “he’s a very restless sleeper you know.”
“What the – we’re not gay!” Dean glared at Sam and promised a million different paybacks in that one stare, but Sam ignored it.
“I understand,” the old man smiled knowingly and handed an open-mouthed Dean a set of keys. “You two enjoy yourselves here!”
Once outside, Dean threw his fist into Sam’s arm.
“Ow!”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? This is a small town! That guy’s gonna go down to the bar and tell everyone here about the lovely gay couple that just checked into his motel! None of the girls will even look twice at me now!”
“Should have thought about that before you stomped on my foot…and made me talk to the car.”
“Oh, you’re so dead,” Dean shook his head and shot Sam one last glare.