Supernatural 1. Chapter 1

_Supernatural_: Girl Intercepted (Part 1)

"You're sure? You've found her?"

Garth stood up from his motel desk, and reached for his car keys. His skinny frame belied the fact that he possessed a courage that had been tested many times.

"Where is she?" He scribbled something on his complimentary, and somewhat coffee-stained, motel note pad, ended the call and proceeded out the door.

The past few weeks had seen an apocalyptic sequence of events that had tested the courage of many. Angels had fallen and were now walking the earth disguised in their rather crudely termed 'meat suits', and the last that he'd heard from the Winchesters was more than 6 months before that. But that didn't mean that he wasn't keeping his ear to the ground to hear the rumours about what they'd been up to. Word was that Sam was possessed by an angel – and an apparently malevolent one at that – and that he'd now abandoned his brother, killed the prophet, Kevin, and was God-knows-where.

The Winchesters had a habit of attracting the worst kind of luck, and where Garth was going, he was hoping he'd find someone who would turn the tide of the battle in their favour. Despite her hunter heritage, she had lived a pretty ordinary life, and Garth knew that her father had wanted it that way. Evidence – birth certificate, early family photographs and hospital records – had been incinerated in a bid to protect her. But Garth had a way of sniffing out the truth, persistently etching away at the walls that had been built to keep secrets hidden, and he had found her.

It took him nearly a day's drive to get to Montana, and with no recent photographs to go on, he knew that finding her would require some more legwork once he was there. He did have a name though – Christine Metcalf.

As he drove into the town of Kalispell, despite the population board reading "20,127", a manageable size for his experience, he had a feeling that 'needle in a haystack' would apply. He had learned that she had found out her true identity, thanks to a drunken confession by her adoptive, and somewhat abusive, father. The Christine Metcalf that had once resided in a quiet Chicago suburb had disappeared years ago. Garth could only guess that she went in search for the truth. But her biological father knew how to cover his tracks with precision and she must have hit a dead end. With no high school education and no money, she eventually ended up as a stripper in a small Montana town.

This town was not without its hunter contacts though, and when Garth had found a small photo of, what he had guessed to be, a fourteen-year old girl flashing an awkward smile beneath a stern and familiar brow for her yearbook photo, Garth's curiosity was peaked. Turning over the photo, there was a photo studio's stamp and one other word written on the back – 'Christine'. It was a start. Almost a year-and-a-half down the line, and here he was… Kalispell.

Experience dictated that the best places to start his search were the bars. Beer, peanuts and pretzels were a good combination for getting people to talk, so he felt inside his pocket to make sure that the money clip clamping the $1,000 he was about to 'invest' was still secure.

Five bars and about a keg of beer later, Garth stumbled onto the sidewalk with the name of a club that a jovial bar patron had last seen a woman named Christal Dreams dancing at. He swore that the innocent girl, and the more seasoned and world-wise stripper were one and the same person. He also added that he'd once heard her talk about Chicago.

When Garth had visited the Metcalfs in Chicago, it was very obvious that the ordinary and uncomplicated life that her father had intended for her was eroded away by the reality of the childhood Christine had had. The house itself was adorned with tributes to an overachiever in all that she had attempted. The adoptive parents used stereotypical statements of praise for their little Christine – 'straight-A student'; 'our pride and joy'; 'couldn't be more proud than if we were her biological parents'. They were too nice. And no family was that perfect. Garth was immediately wary of this idyllic familial staging. He had been particularly drawn to one photograph. The picture was of a slim and athletic teenager with a smile stretching from ear to ear. She was posed hoisted above the shoulders of a male cheerleader, both wearing the school colours of red and white. Her dark hair was neatly tied back into a ponytail. She was the epitome of the typical American teenager. Why would she want to leave this seemingly amazing life? He had gotten his answer from one of her friends. Her adoptive father was not only a drunk, but, in his drunken stupor, would make sexual advances on her. When she, as Garth had gathered, defended herself, he had blurted out that she should go and find her whore of a mother and good-for-nothing daddy, 'cause she was no child of his. She was beautiful and he had noticed, but she was not going to play victim. A swift kick to his groin and her bags were packed and she was gone. Garth couldn't help but think, 'like father, like daughter'.

Her biological father was also a dab hand at keeping knowing how to handle himself around less desirable forces – although the forces he had usually dealt with were monsters, demons, and the occasional angels. Garth idolised her father, and felt it his responsibility to reunite her with who she really was. Walking onto the 'Shady Lady' club – a dubious name that aptly described the type of seedy establishment it was, it wouldn't take him long to find her in the crowd.

She wasn't the same all-American-girl cheerleader that he had seen in the photograph, but there was no mistaking her father's stern brow. He had found Christine Metcalf. He had found Bobby Singer's daughter. And if anyone would be able to help the Winchester's, it would be a Singer.

Christine gyrated and tantalised the male clientele, and money was slipped into her bra and underwear, or between her thighs. She had a dancer's figure, and all men, Garth included, worshipped her while she was on the stage.

Backstage, after her seductive performance, she sat down in front of her Hollywood-style dressing room mirror and quickly removed her makeup. Her thoughts focussed on the rent money which she had just earned, so that she could get her landlord off her back. This would settle her debts so that she could leave town with a clear conscience.

"Excuse me. Chrital Dreams?"

"Oh God. Dale?!" she called out for a rather heavy set man lurking in the corner of the backstage area. "Please can you get this asshole back to his table."

"I've been looking for…"

"Hey. Newsflash. You're looking in the wrong place," she said, looking at what she perceived to be the usual horny guy who wanted to try his luck.

A jumble of words were exchanged, as Garth struggled to free himself from Dale's vice-like grip, and, realising he was getting nowhere using the subtle approach, Garth exclaimed desperately, "Your name isn't Christine Metcalf. It's Christine Singer."

There was silence as she stared at this wimpish-looking man reflected in the mirror. Her eyes hadn't been diverted from her reflection, and from the task of removing the mask that she hid behind for each sordid performance. But now her focus was away from demasking her face, and intently focussed on this stranger who had brought her answers.

"What did you say?"

"Your biological father's name is Robert Singer."

She motioned for Dale to let him go so that he could have his say.

"I knew him as Bobby."

There was a pronounced silence as she wrestled with the validity of what he had just said.

"What's your name?"

"Garth."

"Well, Garth, what do you expect me to do with this information?" She put on a new mask – one that didn't require make-up or seductive lace underwear – bravado.

"Do with it what you want. It's what you've been searching for." Garth caught his breath after his David-and-Goliath encounter with a bouncer named Dale. "It's the truth."

Christine looked back at her reflection in the mirror.

"Well, whatever truth you're selling, Garth, I ain't buying."

"I'm not selling anything. I'm giving you the answers that you've been searching for." Garth's phone beeped. A message from Father Peterson – an ally in his quest. _Harry's dead. He knows where you are. He's on his way. Get her out of there._ "Shit," he mumbled under his breath.

"What?"

"Look, I wish I had time to sugar-coat this news, but I don't. We have to leave now."

"No way. I'm not leaving until you give me a reason to believe you."

Garth didn't have time to play lawyer. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, weathered photo of Bobby that he had saved from the wreckage of his house. "This is how I know that what I'm saying in the truth." Garth turned around looking for the quickest way to get out of the club. Christine reached out and picked up the small picture of a rather stern-looking man in his late 50s. She recognised the brow – it was the same as hers.

"Why do you say you knew him?"

Garth paused. "He died about a year ago… I know you have no reason to trust me, but if you come with me now I'll explain everything on the way."

Garth knew that he was not just going to tell her about her mother and father. He was also going to have to tell her the truth about her destiny. Like the Winchesters, she was a cog in the wheel that was the 'grand plan'.

A few days before he had been murdered by the angel that had possessed Sam – Gadriel – Kevin had phoned Garth. He had had a vision. And, as the prophet, his visions were to be taken very seriously. He had seen a child, conceived of human parents, but possessing a supernatural bloodline as well. Garth had initially assumed that he was referring to Sam. But Kevin was adamant that the child was a girl. Her father was human and her mother also human, but possessed by an angel at the time of her conception. The angel had remained dormant within the mother so that the child would flourish in her womb. It had remained in the mother long enough for her to survive the birth. However, the possession by the angel had left the mother vulnerable to possession by more sinister forces. Not long after the child's birth, the mother was possessed by a demon who, in a bid to secure the child and prevent her destiny, attempted to kill the father as he protected his daughter from what he perceived to be a wife gone rabid.

Kevin had recognised who the father was. He had not been killed, but had, instead, killed his wife expelling the demon from her lifeless corpse. It was Bobby Singer. He had no idea that the child possessed an angelic lineage at first, but once he had found out and understood the implications – she was a Nephilim – he had made the decision to bind the powers within her using an ancient binding spell, and sent her away in the hopes that she would be able to lead a normal life.

At this point, having heard the story that Kevin had told him, Garth's quest to honour his mentor had now become part of a much larger, and far more sinister, plot. Metatron was also privy to this information, and, knowing that such a being would threaten his plan, had set out to find her and kill her. The will of the angle-human alliance was so strong within her blood that she could literally undo his work. Children with similar lineages had been recorded. The Winchester's had even encountered a child with demon-human parentage – a boy named Jesse. His will was more powerful than human, angel or demon. Christine would be the same.

Garth looked at Christine, aware that, at any moment, Metaron would be there. He was also aware that, should they encounter him, with the binding spell in place, there was very little that either of them could do against an angelic force. His eyes pleaded with her to trust him.

A commotion arose beyond the backstage curtain. Christine stood up, startled by the sound of breaking glass and the frantic screams of patrons. Metatron had arrived. "Please, come with me." Garth gestured to the black curtain separating them from the front-of-house. "Whatever's beyond that curtain is after you. I need to get you out of here now."

She grabbed her bag and followed him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Supernatural_: Girl Intercepted (Part 2)

A mortal trying to evade an angel was next to impossible. But fortunately for Garth and Christine, not completely impossible. It required a bit of pain and some artistic skill… and, if Garth actually had one, an Angel-blade – something that he knew the Winchesters possessed. Garth thought that he could do with one of those right about now. And there was not enough time to transcribe the Enochian symbols and sigils needed to temporarily banish the particular angel that was pursuing them.

His foot was jammed against the accelerator which he had pressed firmly and completely down. He was tearing down the highway, with his precious and extremely frightened passenger clutching at her seatbelt with her right hand, and her knee with her left. Garth realised that it was a pointless exercise trying to get away from this particular angel. He needed back-up, and knew exactly who to call.

"What the hell just happened?!"

"Castiel!"

Christine was getting freaked out by Garth's apparent disregard for her need for an explanation. He had been yelling the word 'Castiel' since they'd left Kalispell.

"Castiel!"

"What is 'Castiel'?"

"I promise, I'll give you answers when we're safe. But until then will you just shut up. Casti…!"

Both occupants of the car were suddenly jerked forward, Christine's seatbelt locked into place and dug into her chest in an attempt to prevent her from catapulting through the windshield. Garth was not so fortunate. His body burst through the glass and landed a few feet away from the car. The body of his car tore away from the wheel axels by the force with which the car came to a stop. Christine was unconscious for a few moments, but when she came to she came face to face with the reason for them tearing down the highway at break-neck speed. Metatron.

Metatron didn't seem like an ominous being – he seemed… average. She looked beyond this average, nondescript being to the lifeless body of Garth, face down on the tarmac.

"It is pointless to run from me." Christine's eyes snapped back to Metatron. He now had another man standing next to him – tall and quite attractive, but no less dangerous, she perceived. It was this man who was now approaching the car. "You are a thorn in my side, you really are," Metatron said, pacing backwards and forwards in front of her, eventually turning to face her, resting his hands on the car bonnet. "And just to think, if Kevin hadn't had that vision, he would still be alive… And I wouldn't have to kill you."

The other man was now reaching into the car. He tore the seatbelt apart as though it was a single thread of cotton and pulled Christine out of the wreckage, wrapping his hand around her neck and preparing for the snap that would end her existence. Christine realised that this was the goal, and was trying to free herself by using both her hands to dislodge his grip. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pleaded with him to let her go, but he was determined in his resolve.

"Goodbye Christine," Metatron uttered under his breath as he turned away from the sight of Christine's execution – not because he was disgusted by the act, but because he didn't regard her as worthy of his attentions for longer than she deserved.

He should've kept vigil over the act. Christine and her executioner were startled by a bright light. A flash… wearing a trench coat. This being touched the forehead of the executioner. Light emanated from Metatron's sidekick, and his eyes burst into flames. Christine was free of his grip as he fell to the floor. As if by some miracle, this being of light, already had Garth's body slung over what appeared to its shoulder, and, taking Christine's hand, the highway seemed to evaporate into pure white light before her eyes.

The last thing she heard was Metatron's voice, not the calm, malevolent tone she had previously encountered, but a wrathful energy which emanated from his last word.

"Castiel!"


	3. Chapter 3

_Supernatural_: Girl Intercepted (Part 3)

_Castiel was an angel again. Interesting. _

Metatron mused over the threat this might pose to him. He knew that Castiel did not possess his own grace. How could he? Metatron's spell had completely obliterated his grace in order to summon up energy enough to cause the host of angels to fall to earth. This provided some reassurance in that his time as both angel and human would be very limited – eventually the alien grace would destroy what was left of Castiel's human-ness before imploding in on itself. Castiel was living on borrowed time.

However, Metatron did need to figure this new piece of information into his divine strategy. If Dean Winchester decided to take a menial stand against the gloriousness of Metatron's purpose, supported by a pathetic band of mortal hunter misfits and one graced angel, Metatron was confident that Gadreel would end their campaign. Ironic, really. Dean Winchester killed by the very angel he had willed to protect and heal his brother, Sam.

Metatron was walking down the main street of Kalispell as he contemplated the inevitability of his victory, but he was interrupted by a drunken brawl that had spilled out from one of the local bars and now blocked his path.

"You frickin' bastard! I swear to God I'll end you!" one of the inebriated patron shouted as he broke a beer bottle on an obliging lamp post, preparing to, as he had so eloquently declared, 'end' the dishevelled man he was threatening. He attempted to move forward in his bid to follow through on his promise, when Metatron's hand reached out, stopping him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, buddy." The man was clearly agitated by the interruption. But Metatron showed no sense of being threatened by this human.

"Hell has nothing to do with what I'm going to do to you," Metatron declared, raising one eyebrow as he scrutinised his victim.

"Yeah, and what do you think you're going to do to me?"

"Teach you a lesson." The man, drunk, but burly in stature, burst into laughter at the thought of this rather feeble-looking man teaching him a lesson. Several bar patrons joined him in laughing at the thought of this prospect.

"How do you think you, Mr Pussy Pants, are going to do that?"

The corner of Metatron's mouth curled up, as he placed his hands behind his back and stood erect, as though about to deliver a Pattonesque oration.

"With great devastation my boy." The burly man was visibly offended by the insult of having been called a boy, but Metatron continued, moving closer to the man so that they were virtually nose to nose. "I will rip out your heart." There was a long pause. Some patrons smirked at the thought of how this would ever be accomplished. "And as you see it beating in my hand, I will rip you in half you puny, weak mortal. You will be eviscerated, and all these people will bear witness."

The patron smiled, half-amused by such a declaration, and half-scared. "Why should I believe you?"

Metatron corrected himself from his intimidatingly close stance and proceeded to move circle around the patron.

"Well, it's quite simple… Paul… You used the name of God in vain. You swore an oath to avenge you own bruised ego in his name. Now, a lot worse has been done to those who have done just that. Entire villages have been obliterated."

"How do you know my…?"

Metatron stood directly behind Paul the drunken bar patron, readying himself for the act, interrupting Paul's final words in the process.

"But because I am in a generous mood…" And with that, he plunged his hand deep into Paul's back, punching through the chest cavity until his hand emerged, bloodied, and holding a heart. Paul looked down at his beating heart, just as his life was ended in one glorious movement – Metatron's hand pulling its way up through the body, splitting the brain in two as it cracked the skull open, and finally, using both hands, ripping the body completely in half lengthways. Metatron them discarded the left side of the Paul's carcas by flinging it into the main road's oncoming traffic, narrowly missing a metallic grey SUV. The right side he let drop to the sidewalk, his awesome demonstration of divine justice complete.

As he stepped over the right side of the bar patron formerly known as Paul, there were the expected screams of the onlookers, now too afraid to approach him for fear of the same horrific end. It was a scenario Metatron was familiar with, and he preferred not to dwell in such panicked company. It simply did not serve his purpose, and was a nuisance more than anything. His bloodied hands were a reminder of the act, which was quickly remedied through a bit of divine 'magic', and he was able to carry on without any evidence of any such annoying demonstration of his awesome power ever having happened.

And then he imagined doing the same thing to Dean Winchester, and his mouth curled up at the edges at the thought. Dean Winchester – the thorn in his side; weak and pathetic; not strong enough even to accept his destiny as Michael's vessel. What satisfaction will be gained from obliterating him from the face of the earth? Perhaps he won't give Gadreel the task of that kill. No, maybe he'll reserve that pleasure for himself.

Now that he had decided on the fate of Dean Winchester, his thoughts turned to another threat – Christine Singer. The remedy for such a threat seemed easy enough – a simple kill while the spell that bound her supernatural powers was still in effect. But perhaps such a course of action was not wise. She was gifted with angelic purpose, and so maybe the best way to harness that power would be to convince her to join Metatron's crusade. She would be a formidable opponent in the most apocalyptic sense, but she would also be a formidable ally if she could be persuaded to join him.


End file.
