Saving Grace [Dean Winchester] (UPCOMING)

Prologue

Location: Port Huron, Michigan
Date: Oct. 1, 2010

Grey wisps of fog swirl above deep, black water as the waves roil and lap against each other and against the concrete support pillars of the Blue Water Bridge in Port Huron, Michigan.

The massive concrete bridge spans the St. Claire River and links the bustling city of Port Huron to the even busier city of Point Edward in Ontario, Canada.

The bridge is alight with glowing bulbs of electric blue light that accentuates the arching curves of the architecture in the deep night and is lit by the glow and hum of rumbling cars and their headlights as people head home to end their day, and some people heading to work whose day is just beginning.

Headlights sweep across the bridge, but in the corner, on the American side of the bridge, none of the headlights illuminate the quivering figure of a girl in a scarlet dress, clutching a wrinkled photograph in one hand and the chilled metal of a hand rail in the other.

Her eyes are dark smudges of running mascara and smeared eyeshadow, while her arms are pimpled with goosebumps from the way the cold October air is nipping at her exposed shoulders and biceps, bared by the absence of shoulder straps on her red cocktail dress.

Black heels are balanced precariously on the lower rung of the rail, wobbling as much as her lower lip is at the moment as she leans her hips and her upper torso against the rails to free her hand. She smooths out the photo on the top rail and sobs again.

The wind whips her fair blonde hair around her face but she doesn't care enough to spit out the strands that have gotten stuck to what's left of her lipstick.

Blue eyes shed tear after glimmering tear and several fall into the photo of a tall, slender man with coffee-colored hair and a charming smile, dressed sharply in a crisp grey suit and holding a girl to his side with an arm around her slim waist. In fact, it's the same girl that's currently standing on the bridge, but instead of sobbing and barley holding herself together, the girl in the photo is the picture of immaculate in a slim pantsuit, sleek ponytail, and a winning, white smile.

She gazes down at the glimmering diamond on her left hand, the symbol of a broken promise and a secret exotic-looking secretary on the side.

With a stifled growl, she rips the ring off and flings it into the lapping dark waves below, almost loosing her balance with the force of her throw.

She's never considered herself a religious person, having earned all she had through hard work and the money that her parents had managed to scrape up, but as she stares down at the roiling water below, cloaked in a thick fog, she finds herself praying. Praying to who, she's not sure. But there has to be some higher power, and she hopes they're listening as she prays. All she finds herself repeating is I'm sorry and please let it be quick.

She takes another step higher, wobbling with the dizzying height and the gentle but constant wind cutting through the thin fabric of her dress.

She climbs over and wobbles on the thin ledge on the other side of the protection rail, only about a foot wide. Her arms are behind her, gripping the rails for all they're worth,

"What?" Her raw voice can barely be heard over the sound of cars rushing past, easily oblivious of the girl about to take her own life. She's not sure she heard correctly, but she pauses and looks around for the source of the voice.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you... are you God?"

"Help me how?"

"Really? You could do that?"

"How long?"

"I don't want anything in return. There's nothing in this world that I could possibly want."

"Yes, I... understand."

"Ok. Yes, then. Yes."

Light suddenly pours down on her, wrapping her up in its uncomfortable warmth. She squeezes her eyes shut although the light still sears her retinas painfully. Her whole body rattles painfully and her skin prickles before feeling like it's being pulled away and pushed into different positions.

And then she explodes.

----------------

Several cars swerve as a golden glow illuminates the dim corner where a twenty-six year old tax attorney stands, and then the light flashes and pulses outward.

The split-second in between where the woman disappears into her own soul and the entity possessing her takes charge is long enough for her legs to give out and for the body to go plunging toward the waves that lap below, eagerly waiting to swallow it's latest victim.

A German man swears violently when a red-clad woman suddenly appears in the road on the bridge before him. He stomps on his breaks with a shiny loafer, causing a red Prius to slam into the back of his white Toyota, and a white Honda to hit the back of the red Prius with the now crumpled bumper and hood.

He opens the door and stomp out, yelling and waving his hands. "Crazy woman! You're going to get yourself killed! What in the hell is wrong with you?!" A vein ticks in his prominent forehead, made larger by the absence of hair due to his receding hairline.

Behind him, traffic is beginning to pile up and other drivers exit their vehicles to see what the commotion and holdup is about.

"Where did you even come from?!"

She flexes her fingers in a state of fascination, observing the way the tendons and joints flex and stretch under smooth skin.

Her true form, invisible to the prying human eyes, flexes and bends like luminous smoke, attempting to more easily settle into this mortal shell, though it's somewhat difficult. It's been so long since she's had a vessel.

She finally looks up and regards the shouting man impassively, cocking her head to the side just slightly, a bit offended at the gall he has to scream at her like this. She could obliterate him with a snap of her fingers, but she won't and he doesn't know her true power.

It will take a while to re-acclimate herself to the utter audacity of humans.

She regards the irate German with utter apathy before looking around. The world has changed so much since she's been free last.

These machines that zip past or blare angrily are mere annoying pests, and the bridge appearing to be made out of painted stone and twisting metal thrills her; she hasn't seen anything so remarkable since the beginning of the Roman Empire.

Of course, any change from three stone walls and one of slatted iron is a welcome change.

She begins walking, ignoring the cars that screech around her and swerve away and feeling the brisk wind on her face swallowed up and replaced by obnoxious warm fumes emitted from the squalling beasts.

Her journey takes her along sidewalks and leads her to remove the black heels from her feet, impractical for walking.

She walks because she doesn't know where her destination is located. The only clue that she is proceeding in the correct direction is the warmth in her very being that tells her she is indeed in on the right path. It's a slow, small fire, licking at the fringes of her essence, and her Grace coils around it, feeding the small flicker.

She pays no heed to curious looks, ignoring all others humans in the search of hers.

Dean Winchester, The Righteous Man.

She will find him. That much she is certain of.

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