Vampires in Brooklyn - Supernatural fanfiction No.1

Vampires in Brooklyn ~ Chapter One

Dean picked up his phone, dialling a number so infrequently called he wasn't sure if it still worked.
"Y'ello?" spoke the receiver, in a friendly way.
"Is this Opal?"
The girl on the other end of the line froze cautiously.
"Who is this?" she asked suspiciously.
"Winchester. Dean Winchester," Dean said, worried that the woman he needed had changed her phone number.
The girl sighed.
"Yeah, this is Opal Corleone. At your service."
"Where are you?"
Opal paused for a moment, as though checking a sign to find out the answer.
"Uh, Chicago, Illinois. Why?"
Dean hesitated. He didn't want to say what he was about to.
"Sammy and I... We need your help."
The girl stifled her giggles.
"I can physically feel how much you didn't want to say that."
"Shut the fuck up, Opal."
"First of all, no calling me Opal, you know that's dangerous. Second of all, where are you?"
Dean forgot how much he hated dealing with Opal's shit.
"Brooklyn."
"On my way."
There was a knock on the door of his motel room. Then two knocks. Then a foot kicked it down.
"Opal!" Sam scolded. "You're gonna have to fix that before anyone comes along!" She laughed.
"Oh, loosen up Sammy."
She picked up the door and wrenched off the hinges, pulling spare ones out her pocket and fitting them with the screwdriver she kept in the waistband of her jeans.
Sam gave her a look. "It's almost like you were preparing to break down our door."
She pouted.
"You're so accusatory."
She forced the door back into its frame and leant back with her hands on her hips, examining her handiwork.
"Yo, Castiel here?"
A deep voice resounded from behind her, seeming to come from the approximate area of where Dean's bed was.
"I'm here. You are the Opal, I presume. Dean talks about you a lot. He said he was scared of y-"
"SHUT UP CAS!"
Opal laughed again.
"Aw, is wittle bitty baby Dean afraid of the mean huntress? That's a shame."
Dean glared at her.
"Got a beer? Haven't drunk one for ages. Been driving everywhere."
Sam smiled and pulled open the minifridge, lobbing a chilled bottle at her. Without turning around, her right hand shot out from behind her and snatched the flying bottle out of the air effortlessly. She uncapped it instantly using the callous on the palm of her left hand.
Walking to a corner of the room, she sat down next to Dean and sipped her beer.
"What's going on in the world of Winchester?"
"Nothing, really, that you haven't heard about. Word gets around. Angels, demons, darkness," smiled Sam. "What I want to know is where Maya is."
Opal's usually kind face hardened considerably.
"Bad question Sammy."
The hunter's dark blue eyes turned glassy.
"Dead," she grunted, her posh English accent masked by the sudden ice in her voice.
Dean's jaw dropped open. Maya Clark. Dead. It almost didn't seem possible.
"New Orleans. Ghost. Three years ago. We were running from it, our guns still in the car. She tripped on a log. The screams still haunt me. Haven't hunted since. I don't do that anymore. I came solely to see you guys."
Now that Dean noticed it, she looked almost completely different.
Her hair, once short and unkept, was long and tied back and clearly looked after. Lipstick graced her when it never used to. Eye makeup was embroidered on her face like paint on a canvas.
She put on a brave smile, but the dimples that showed genuine happiness no longer resided there. The grief that lived behind her stony mask was finally showing through.
"That's enough about me. Let's get to the point. Long time no see! Oh, and that reminds me." She lathered on the thickest accent she could muster.
"'Ello boys."

***

"So get this - we nearly died, right, that time we fought sixty between us? Well, this time, there's six hundred. We're gonna need your help."
Opal hissed.
"You'll die. Sorry Sammy, but maybe this time you just shouldn't risk it."
Dean growled incredulously.
"Shouldn't risk it?! Vamps are your speciality!"
"No. They were my speciality. I told you, I don't do this anymore."
Dean stared at Castiel indignantly. Cas nodded. He turned to Opal and widened his eyes, so he looked like a sad puppy.
"Yeah, no, angel boy. I don't hunt and it's staying that way."
Cas stared apologetically at Dean, and their eyes met for some long seconds. After a while, Dean wrenched his eyes away from the angel and grunted, "Fine. But don't blame me if Sammy doesn't make it back."
Sam looked affronted.
The door clicked shut behind Castiel, Opal still sitting cross-legged on Dean's bed.
Opal held her nose in the air. Somehow part of her still loved the adrenaline rush of hunting, even after everything that had happened.
Dean's back pressed up against a bush, and he could feel the twigs spear his shoulders. He felt the stone cold steel of his machete sting his fingers and remembered how much he missed this life; the adrenaline, the archaic power that took control of his arms when he swung his blade; the complete lack of planning, and most of all, the satisfaction he got when another nest of bloodsuckers was wiped out and another village was free of the mighty Vampyr.
"Cas? Sam? Got your weapons?" Dean's gravelly voice struggled to whisper.
Cas raised his silver angel blade, and Sam his own sword. They were equipped.
Opal still sat on Dean's bed with her chin in the air. She wasn't going to break the reign of three bloodless years now.
Oh, but would Maya really want her to sit in a motel room for ages instead of going hunting?
She shook her head. It didn't matter if Maya wouldn't want that, she was dead. She didn't want anything anymore.
Opal snapped her phone open and fingered her boss's phone number.
She slammed the flip phone shut. She wasn't going to resign from the only honest way of getting money she'd ever had.
Her fingers subconsciously ran through her hair, something she'd only been able to do since it had grown out of its pixie cut. Oh, she missed not having her feet misshapen by heels...
The footfalls of the three men landed on harsh, dry grass. Dreading what he'd find inside, Dean looked up at the trashed warehouse in front of him. Some of the windows were smashed, a few cobwebbed, others so covered in grime that at first glance they appeared to be just another part of wall. The bricks were cracked and the moon reflected off of the continuous drips from the leaking waste pipe. Never had Dean seen  a place as haunted-house-ish as this, and he'd seen a lot of haunted houses. Perhaps attacking at night was not the greatest of ideas. It certainly did nothing for Sam's nerves. Oh, what the hell.
Making up her mind, Opal kicked off her designer stilettos and tore off her jeans, swapping them for jeggings and trainers, for she had a feeling she'd be doing a lot of running. She ripped off her blouse like a wild animal and replaced it with a loose fitting t-shirt. Gathering up her discarded clothes, she smashed open the bin and shoved them in, all the while wearing a triumphant, cocky smile. She hadn't worn that smirk in such a long time, and yet it gave her a warm fuzzy feeling, like a great nostalgia or a meet-up with an old friend she hadn't seen in years.
She seized her hunting duffel; she kept it with her for safety, and now she was immensely glad she had. Unzipping it, she grabbed a skinchanger-bone-handled knife (specially made for her - the bone was carved to fit her hand) and shoved it in a belt loop. She marched to the motel bathroom, but her feet made no sound - and they never would again. She was in her element, and she'd never again leave it.
She yanked the door open and stared into the mirror - and laughed.
"Make-up!" she cried, her voice laced with laughter. "What was I thinking?!" Opal captured a flannel and soaked it, scrubbing the colour off of her. When she was certain that all the powders and creams had parted with her face, she glanced back at the mirror. A final thing left to do to her looks.
She hesitated. To do this final thing would be to say goodbye to everything she'd known for the last three years. To certify her passing from a normal life to one that, while more dangerous, was infinitely more fun. Oh hell yes.
She reached for the knife in her belt loop.
"Wait, one more thing."
She slipped her phone out of her back pocket and into her hand. Opening it, she dialled her boss's number.
"Hi, yeah, is this the Ghost's Head Pub? Yeah, it's one of the barmaids, Mister Slaughter Sir, Cassie Blackwood. Uh, sorry sir, but I resign." She stared confidently back into the mirror and grasped her knife. She put it at her neck and sliced.
Dean examined the mildew-coated door. The wood seemed to be only a few millimetres thick and it looked about as sturdy as a glass straw.
Dean sighed. "Ready?"
Cas didn't say anything. His eyes were too fixed on the knife at Dean's throat.