Without a Shadow of a Doubt
You had always known about monsters.
You had an anti-possession tattoo just above your breast, hidden by sweaters. You saved little salt packets from restaurants, and as small as they were, they would probably save your life one day. You had a silver jackknife on your keychain, and you always blessed the water in your water bottle.
You had also always known about hunters.
But those two came hand in hand.
As much as you acted like a hunter, you were not one. In fact, you had always been told to avoid hunters. Not because they were bad—the world certainly needed them—but because they were dangerous.
It was just as your parents had always warned you. Hunters drank, stank, and spat. They had blood stains on their jeans. They started fights at bars, and they generally didn’t have a care in the world. Those kind of people were dangerous, in that way. When one has nothing to lose, you generally lose your morals.
And the Winchesters, by God, if you ever see one, go in the other direction before they caught your scent. They were large, burly men who’d literally been to Hell and back, had seen the Devil himself, and started the apocalypse. It didn’t matter if they solved their messes; there was always another to follow.
So when you filled your gas up next to the 1967 Chevy Impala, you were admittedly nervous. The infamous Winchesters were literally a pump away.
Of course, Sam Winchester caught you staring. The Sam Winchester. Lucifer’s vessel himself. And you really really really really really felt like dodging out of there and running, but, frick, you couldn’t leave before you paid. And yes, you held integrity above your life. Your honesty was what little dignity you had left, so sue you.
Actually, please don’t. Your bank account wasn’t ready for that, being a college student with debt and all.
So, mustering up every ounce of courage you had in you, you marched past their pump and toward the station, one hand ready on your silver jackknife. If it came down to it, you could fight them. And if any luck was on your side today, you could escape with wounds that weren’t fatal.
A shudder ran down your spine, and you knew they were watching you. So you threw open the door, and sped in.
From the windows you saw a far away figure of Sam Winchester, six feet of scars and muscle, walking his way toward the storefront with a suspicious look in his eyes.
They had no reason to kill you, but you were freaking out anyway. What the hell am I doing, what the hell, what the hell, what the hell…
You managed to offer the employee a grimace. “Pump eight, please.” He was frustrating, and way too slow, but it wasn’t his fault. You ripped the receipt from his hands and swore under your breath in a panicked tone, eyeing the bathrooms.
As the door opened and Winchester stepped into the gas station, you dashed for the bathrooms, slamming the door behind you. There was no way to lock the actual bathroom door itself, but you chose a stall to hide in, lifting your feet.
There were several, long, awkward minutes of just you sitting uncomfortably, feeling like an idiot and a coward. You expelled ragged breaths, like you had run a mile. Muttering curses and prayers, you wondered what he was doing.
Usually you weren’t so shaken up about hunters. They made you uncomfortable and uneasy, but you could handle them. They were just people. Drunk, careless, violent people. But you had just attracted the attention of the Winchesters, who were known for their ruthlessness and unpredictable behaviors.
And frick if that didn’t terrify you. You’d heard the stories. You’d seen the news, the kidnappings. They were America’s most wanted, and regardless if it was all a misunderstanding, you did not want to be associated with them.
The restroom door creaked open and you froze. You held your breath, listening. Your eyes were wide.
You could see shoes. Shoes of a man. And from your guess, they were Sam Winchester’s.
You adjusted your crouch and slipped. The toilet seat was smooth and there wasn’t enough friction to hold you, so your feet slammed forward into the stall wall, your back sliding down, and you scrambled to catch yourself. You looked up in horror.
Sam Winchester opened the stall.
He wasn’t exactly what you expected. His eyes were soft, for one thing. And although he was undoubtedly strong and deadly, he seemed to hunch down for your sake. Make himself smaller. He still had a gun in his hand, but he didn’t seem trigger happy, so that was going for you.
Despite this, you had your knife pointed at him. Your knuckles were white around the blade, and your wrist shook. It wasn’t nearly as threatening as you had imagined it to be, like waving a stick at a grizzly bear.
Sam seemed very underwhelmed.
“You’re… not really like the stories,” you said.
Sam eyed your shaky hand that held the knife, and minded your personal space. “What kind of stories have you heard?”
You sized him up, squinting. “Let’s say I’ve heard a good variety. The news says a lot about you.”
He almost looked shy, offering a kind smile. “Not everything you hear is true, you know.” He watched your knife again, thoughtful. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
As much as you didn’t want to… you believed him. You tucked the jackknife back into itself, but didn’t put it away. “You do this often? Walk into the women’s restroom?”
His cheeks blushed and he stepped back a bit, still holding onto the stall door. He looked flustered. “Um, no. That’s more Dean’s thing. I just… you were staring at us.”
You fidgeted. “Yeah, so?”
“So… we got suspicious. It’s kinda in the job description for…” He trailed off, realizing you were a civilian.
“For being a hunter?” You raised your eyebrows. “Yeah, I know what you are.”
Relief came over his face. “Usually the one’s that stare are… well they’re the one’s afraid of being seen. And I mean, you were, but for a different reason than we thought,” he rambled. “Sorry, if I scared you."
There was a pause. You just looked at each other, Sam leaning against the stall, and you on the traitorous toilet.
He extended a hand, and you took it, standing.
He hesitated. "Uh… so do you want to cover my back as I walk out of this restroom or are you going to make me look like a pervert?”
You stared at him. “Probably too late for that.”
“Yeah, maybe. Are you comfortable covering as a friend? Honestly, if you’re not, that’s fine. I can take a few disgusted glances. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
You suddenly felt awful and guilty. Your judgement of the Winchesters was based upon rumors and ghost stories. Honestly, how could anyone see this dork as anything but a gentle giant? Well, okay, that was a stretch, but still.
This man did have scars, and he probably drank, too. He certainly had blood stains on his jeans. He had probably started bar fights. But he did have something to lose: his brother. And somehow, his morals seemed to be set straight.
So this was the least you could do. “Yeah, that's… yeah, I can do that.”
His eyebrows rose in surprise. “You’re sure? Seriously, I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring y—”
“Shut up, will you? You’re making me feel worse the more you say.”
His look of bafflement had you rolling your eyes. “You’re a nice guy, okay? I can tell that. I psyched myself out earlier and told myself you were evil or something. But now I can see that you’re just a freaking puppy in jeans and flannel, and I’m a stupid idiot.” You took a breath, giving him a halfhearted stink eye. “So you’re going to link your goddamn arms with me and I’m going to pretend I’m sick. You ready?”
And you were too. Without a shadow of a doubt.
