Supernatural (smut, preferences, imagines) *TAKING REQUESTS*

Stealing the imapala

It was an easy job, after you swiped the keys, you were in and out of the parking lot in less than four minutes. The model was much older than your usual jack, but it was nice riding in a classic, especially a 67 Chevy Impala as nice as this one.
You were the best at what you did, and that's why you could charge so much for your services and still have buyers lined up at the door. It was pricey, but you were a professional and you always got the job done.
Normally you didn't do face-to-face. You'd wait for the first payment to pop up in your bank account in the Caymans, drop off the car in a predetermined location, and then wait for the second payment. If it didn't come, you had a way of finding people.
That was the way you worked. It was efficient, it was professional, and most importantly, it was safe. This job was different though. They could have bought more than ten of these cars legally for the money they were paying you to jack it. Obviously, it was personal. It was also against your better judgement, but a paycheck this easy doesn't come very often and you could use a little vacation.
So this was how you ended up in an aquarium parking lot inside the aforementioned stolen 67 Chevy impala, along with a very tall and very angry (and very attractive) man knocking on the side window with a very fake FBI badge pressed against the glass.
You cracked the window just enough so that sound would pass through and gave him a flirty smile. "What seems to be the problem, agent?"
"Your feet," he growled, "on my dash."
You tossed your magazine to the side and put your feet back on the floor of the car. He obviously wasn't with the FBI, and neither was his partner who stood leaning against the side of a blue pick-up. Then who was he and why the hell would anyone pay this much for his car?
More importantly, how were they able to track you here? You disabled the GPS and swept the car for trackers. It was clean.
"Get out of the car. Now." You ignored his demand.
"How'd you find me here?"
"Get out of my car before I shoot you," he said slowly, face close to the glass.
You gave a mock pout and hummed. "Buy me dinner first, tiger. By the way, love the fake badges. Did you make them at the arts and crafts store?"
"You little-" but he was interrupted by the black Mazda that pulled up in front of the Impala. The buyer is here. Great.
He exited the car with a vaguely annoyed expression, but didn't exactly seem surprised at your company. "Hello boys."
"Crowley," the fake agent greeted. His voice was gruff, and he stared down your employer with hard eyes. Good to know your suspicion was right. This was personal, very personal.
Crowley's gaze flitted over to you. Even through the windshield you could feel the intensity of your eyes. "It seems your skills are not as refined as you advertised." There was venom in his voice, but you matched it in your own.
"I thought I made it clear that I work under full disclosure. You weren't telling me everything."
He ignored you, turning back to the fake agents, and made a gesture with his hand so brief you hardly noticed it. The danger of the situation didn't dawn on you until his driver exited the vehicle wielding curved blade. He was walking towards you.
This guy didn't take disappointment very well.
You quickly turned the keys, firing up the engine and throwing it into reverse. The agent's hands slapped the window before you floored it, spinning the car around and taking off out of the parking lot. Your motel room was the first place they'd look for you, but you couldn't leave town until you had your stuff.
The identity you were using obviously wasn't safe anymore, and you had a feeling your other fake names and IDs had been compromised as well. You'd need to get a whole new set just to be sure.
You threw your current cell phone out of the car window on the way to the motel, hopefully smashing it in the process. The key to your room got stuck in the lock and you jiggled it impatiently until you were inside.
It took about three minutes to throw everything into you bag (you packed light) and grab the cash you had stashed behind the impressionist painting on the far wall. You eyes scanned the parking lot before deciding on a car. It took another six minutes to break in and hot wire it. Normally this wasn't your style. You were clean cut, a professional, but these were desperate times.
You had severely underestimated these men, but that wouldn't happen again.

Little drops of red splatted into the sink and slid into the drain, leaving discolored trails on the porcelain.
Gas station bathrooms weren't ideal for dying hair, especially not in one as small as this, but you didn't have a lot of time and booking an appointment at the salon was out of the question. Besides, this wasn't the first time you'd done this, and you were even becoming good at it.
It wouldn't be long now before the dye was set, but you suspected it would take a while before your hair would be completely dry. You hoped it looked halfway decent when it was. Nothing like a bad hair-job to make you stand out from the crowd, and that's exactly what you were trying to avoid.
Three solid bangs rattled from the opposite side of the door. You flinched at the sudden noise.
"Give me a minute," you yelled, and then added, "Lady problems!"
You turned back to the mirror, red-stained fingers moving rapidly through your hair. There was one more bang as the door broke from it's hinges and burst open.
It was a clean cut man, freshly shaved and dressed in black. He was bulky, towering over you in height as well and wore a smile that met his eyes, eyes that were a pool of black. His fist was tight around the same curved blade he held earlier. It was Crowley's driver.
An invisible force sent you flying into the tile wall, you head throbbing on impact. Your fingers were clawing at your throat, painting the skin red with the dye on your hands. There was nothing you could do to stop whatever was constricting your windpipe. Your chest spasmed as it struggled for breath and your heart pounded rapidly in your ears.
The monster laughed, taking a few steps forward so that you could feel his breath on your face. He ran his fingers along a strand of damp hair, brushing against your cheek with the back of his hand.
"Mr. Crowley doesn't take kindly to those who fail him." His words were hot and vile as they fanned your face. Your heart was slowing and you vision grew dark at the edges.
He drew in a sharp breath, his face frozen in shock, eyes flickering between light and dark, until he slid off the blade that was shoved into his back and crumpled into a heap on the ground. His invisible hold on you released and your legs buckled. The tile floor felt cool against your cheek, like the air that you heaved in and out of your lungs.
The green-eyed fake FBI agent from before was kneeling in front of you, ignoring the dead body that lay next to him. His hands were running along your neck, searching for a wound that wasn't there.
"She's bleeding out," he said.
"Hair dye," you choked out. His shoulders sagged in relief but he didn't drop the hand that held your cheek.
"Dean, we don't have a lot of time," his partner reminded him.
This so-called Dean snaked an arm around you and pulled you upright. You picked up your bag from under the sink and let him lead you out to his car. You had your hood pulled up over your head as to not draw attention to yourself, and you could feel the cool water running down your neck and back.
He shed his jacket and threw it over the backseat so you wouldn't stain the upholstery and you climbed in, letting your weight sink into the seat. You were still struggling to catch your breath, but your heart had picked up speed and aside from your throbbing head, you didn't think that man-meets-monster thing had inflicted much damage.
"What the hell was that?" you panted.
The two men exchanged a quick glance as the car pulled out onto the main road.
"We'll explain later," the long-haired one said.
"Where are we going?"
"Someplace safe."
Not much of a talker, I guess.
"It's Dean, right?" you asked, still trying to calm your breathing. The driver glanced at you in the rearview mirror. "For what it's worth, you've got a nice ride."
He laughed. It was short and bitter, but it was a laugh, and it was the last thing you remember before passing out.