When Dean Winchester finds himself at the mercy of Bella Talbot, desperate for information that might save his soul, he crosses paths with Nadia Turner-the strong-willed, fiercely independent daughter of hunter Rufus Turner. Though the connection be...
Sirens wailed in the distance, their mournful howls cutting through the night air as Dean walked down the dark alley, each step echoing in the empty space. The faint glow of a flickering streetlight cast long shadows against the cracked pavement. He reached Beaker St., glancing at the neon sign glowing faintly above a metal-barred door. 426. The kind of place that looked more like a forgotten corner of the city than anything remotely official.
Dean wasn't exactly expecting a five-star location, but he'd been to worse. Still, the place felt off—sketchy, even. He tried not to think too much about it. After all, he was only here to ask a few questions. No reason to let the grime of the place get under his skin.
A homeless man shuffled past, muttering something about bad luck, and Dean shot him a quick look before turning back to the door. He knocked once, loud enough to be heard over the sirens.
The door swung open with a creak, and a young guy with a scruffy beard eyed him skeptically. Dean didn't flinch. He met the guy's gaze head-on, trying to get a glimpse of what was inside, but the guy blocked his view.
"I'm, uh, here to see Chief," Dean said, voice steady.
The guy raised an eyebrow, giving him the once-over. He looked like he was deciding whether or not to slam the door in his face. But after a moment, he shrugged and stepped back, opening the door wide enough for Dean to slip through.
Inside wasn't much better than the alley. The basement smelled of mold and dampness, and graffiti covered the walls in chaotic bursts of color. Leaky pipes ran along the ceiling, dripping sporadically into puddles on the floor.
"Stay here. Don't touch anything," the guy said, voice low and rough, before disappearing up the stairs without another word.
Dean stood still, taking in his surroundings. The muffled beat of a bassline thudded in the distance, vibrating through the walls. A party, maybe. But the kind of party that made Dean feel like he didn't belong. He'd heard stranger sounds coming from places like this before, but it didn't make him any more comfortable now.
A creaking door snapped his attention back, and the low hum of music grew louder. Dean's eyes flickered toward the source of the sound, watching as a tall, heavy-set man stepped into the basement, his silhouette framed by the light streaming from behind him.
The guy was wearing all leather, the edges of his outfit reflecting the faint neon light, and carrying a flogger. He walked into the room like he owned the place, the weight of his boots thumping against the floor with each step. His eyes locked onto Dean's, and the smile that curled across his lips wasn't the kind that inspired confidence.
Dean narrowed his eyes, not at all amused. The man slapped the flogger into his palm three times, the sound sharp and unsettling.
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Dean blinked, stifling a chuckle as he realized he'd been played. "There's been a misunderstanding. I, uh, think I've been had."
"Oh, you ain't been had till you been had by the Chief."
