Count the Headlights on the Highway
1
“So this is how the great Vivian Diane Kilbourne meets her demise.”
Even pinned to the wall by a high-ranking demon, Viv managed to roll her eyes. Demons always prattled on and on in a pretentious spiel that was worse than death. She had snuck into the abandoned truck stop under the misunderstanding that she was going after a shape shifter. All she had on her was a heavy glock loaded with silver bullets. Walking into a trap made by this dick, she might as well have come armed with a Nerf gun.
The demon paced, keeping her stuck to the bricks with his mojo, so his hands were free to gesticulate his ridiculous speech. She found his handsome features to be vaguely familiar, imprinted on a short-term memory.
“Jesus, did you seriously nab a man-dancer from the strip joint?”
The demon grinned. “Cute, isn’t he?”
She thought back two hours, to when she’d paid him for a lap-dance in the smoky, pink-lit bar. She twisted her face up in disgust. “That was you grinding on me?”
“You tip very well, Vivian. With all that money, you could actually stay in a nice hotel, eat a real dinner, instead of blowing two-hundred bucks every time you visit a Chippendales.”
She laughed, “You must not know me very well.”
A trickle of blood slid from her brow into a brown eye; the iron blurred and stung her vision. The demon clucked his tongue, pressing his hunky body against hers. Using a thumb that smelled of stale cigarettes, he rubbed her eyelid to clear the blood out.
“I need you to see me turning your insides out, love.”
Vivian sighed. Just as she thought the demon was going to draw blood, he started on a new rant about how the entirety of the human race was a bunch of bald baboons running around indulging primal urges. Vivian fervently prayed he would just hurry up and kill her already. She yawned dramatically. The demon’s cool composure faltered. She managed to get under his skin. He turned his back to her, popping his neck and grabbing a knife off the neglected, dusty register.
He turned around, the metal blade gleaming. “Don’t blink. I can’t have you missing a second of this.”
She made eye-contact, nostrils flaring, blood slamming through her veins. Adrenaline was causing sweat to slick her face, back and palms. She flexed all her muscles, preparing herself for the first slice.
“It’s really easier on both of us if you refrain from tensing up, dear.”
She felt the tip of the knife penetrate the thick tissue of her bare upper arm. Unable to control a yelp, she mentally kicked herself.
A shot sounded from the other end of the building, pegging the demon in the side of the head. The entire body was illuminated orange, becoming partially see-through. The skeleton inside jostled around while he gurgled through blood.
When the cadaver hit the floor, the mojo disappeared, allowing Vivian to slide from the wall. Clutching her shoulder, she spun to see the shooter.
Even with his face concealed in the shadow of a hanging advertisement, Vivian could recognize those blue-jean clad thick thighs, steel-toed boots, and solid green flak jacket, stretched tight over a broad chest.
He stepped forward, light falling over thick, short cropped sandy hair, a sharp nose, and pursed lips.
Vivian bit her lip, incapable of hiding the feeling of excitement about seeing the familiar face.
“Dean Winchester, my knight in denim armor.”
Even pinned to the wall by a high-ranking demon, Viv managed to roll her eyes. Demons always prattled on and on in a pretentious spiel that was worse than death. She had snuck into the abandoned truck stop under the misunderstanding that she was going after a shape shifter. All she had on her was a heavy glock loaded with silver bullets. Walking into a trap made by this dick, she might as well have come armed with a Nerf gun.
The demon paced, keeping her stuck to the bricks with his mojo, so his hands were free to gesticulate his ridiculous speech. She found his handsome features to be vaguely familiar, imprinted on a short-term memory.
“Jesus, did you seriously nab a man-dancer from the strip joint?”
The demon grinned. “Cute, isn’t he?”
She thought back two hours, to when she’d paid him for a lap-dance in the smoky, pink-lit bar. She twisted her face up in disgust. “That was you grinding on me?”
“You tip very well, Vivian. With all that money, you could actually stay in a nice hotel, eat a real dinner, instead of blowing two-hundred bucks every time you visit a Chippendales.”
She laughed, “You must not know me very well.”
A trickle of blood slid from her brow into a brown eye; the iron blurred and stung her vision. The demon clucked his tongue, pressing his hunky body against hers. Using a thumb that smelled of stale cigarettes, he rubbed her eyelid to clear the blood out.
“I need you to see me turning your insides out, love.”
Vivian sighed. Just as she thought the demon was going to draw blood, he started on a new rant about how the entirety of the human race was a bunch of bald baboons running around indulging primal urges. Vivian fervently prayed he would just hurry up and kill her already. She yawned dramatically. The demon’s cool composure faltered. She managed to get under his skin. He turned his back to her, popping his neck and grabbing a knife off the neglected, dusty register.
He turned around, the metal blade gleaming. “Don’t blink. I can’t have you missing a second of this.”
She made eye-contact, nostrils flaring, blood slamming through her veins. Adrenaline was causing sweat to slick her face, back and palms. She flexed all her muscles, preparing herself for the first slice.
“It’s really easier on both of us if you refrain from tensing up, dear.”
She felt the tip of the knife penetrate the thick tissue of her bare upper arm. Unable to control a yelp, she mentally kicked herself.
A shot sounded from the other end of the building, pegging the demon in the side of the head. The entire body was illuminated orange, becoming partially see-through. The skeleton inside jostled around while he gurgled through blood.
When the cadaver hit the floor, the mojo disappeared, allowing Vivian to slide from the wall. Clutching her shoulder, she spun to see the shooter.
Even with his face concealed in the shadow of a hanging advertisement, Vivian could recognize those blue-jean clad thick thighs, steel-toed boots, and solid green flak jacket, stretched tight over a broad chest.
He stepped forward, light falling over thick, short cropped sandy hair, a sharp nose, and pursed lips.
Vivian bit her lip, incapable of hiding the feeling of excitement about seeing the familiar face.
“Dean Winchester, my knight in denim armor.”