The Angels' way - A Supernatural Story

37

Maeve's eyelids flutter open to the serene sight of the lake house bedroom's pristine ceiling. The clock on the bedside table reads one fifty-eight. Next to her, Sam sleeps soundly, his peaceful breathing a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within her. She quietly slips out of bed, her bare feet whispering against the cool floor. As she steps into the hallway, she closes her eyes, and in an instant, the familiar comfort of the lake house fades away.

Now, she finds herself standing outside a bar at an interstate exit; its name escapes her. With a deep breath, she pushes through the heavy door, instantly enveloped by the cacophony within. The jukebox serenades the room, laughter mingling with gossip, all of it a strange invitation into chaos. But Maeve feels no warmth here. Instead, she strides forward, her bare feet slapping against the sticky, cold floor.

"Good evening, miss," the bartender greets her, a smile illuminating his face as he polishes a glass with a faded yellow cloth. "What can I get you?"

She doesn't respond. Instead, with a swift motion, she raises her hand and slams the bartender against the shelf stacked with liquor bottles. The impact sends shards of glass piercing through his skin, silencing him forever. The bar patrons, caught off guard, erupt into panic, their attempts to flee thwarted by an invisible barrier.

One by one, they fall prey to her wrath. Screams echo through the air, blending with the music as bodies crumple to the floor. A man is pinned against the ceiling, knives jutting from his flesh, another bleeds from his eyes, the life draining away in a tragic tableau. Maeve revels in the chaos, her power surging as she impales a couple with a fire poker, their final moments entwined in horror.

A brave soul charges at her, wielding a knife, but he underestimates her strength. With ruthless efficiency, she shatters his bones, the sickening crack of his neck reverberating through the air. One, two, three. Bodies drop like leaves in autumn. Seven, eight, nine. The thrill of the hunt pulses through her veins, culminating in the last victim-a tattooed man who collapses to his knees, pleading for mercy. She feels a fleeting moment of hesitation before she snaps his neck, silence enveloping the aftermath.

And then, in the blink of an eye, Maeve finds herself kneeling in a pool of blood. It's only then that her true reality crashes down on her. Shock grips her heart as she stares at the lifeless forms strewn around her, disbelief clawing at her throat. She covers her mouth, the metallic taste of blood staining her lips. With a horrified scream, she scrubs her mouth, but the taste clings to her, a haunting reminder of the violence she unleashed.

***

Meanwhile, back at the lake house, Sam jolts awake, his phone vibrating urgently on the nightstand. Drowsiness gives way to panic as he notices Maeve's absence. "Maeve?! Is that you?" he exclaims into the phone, desperate to hear her voice amidst the rising tide of fear.

"Sam... Come quickly."

***

Maeve leans against the bar, the wreckage of her actions crashing down around her. "No... No..." she sobs, the words spilling from her like the blood pooling at her feet. She can't comprehend what just transpired-only the horror of the aftermath lingers in her mind.

Time slips away until she hears footsteps approaching. A hand reaches out, offering her a cloth handkerchief adorned with golden embroidery. As she glances up, her heart sinks. It's not Sam, but Fergus, his sorrowful expression mirroring her own despair.

Crowley sits beside her, both of them silent witnesses to the devastation. She takes the handkerchief, her hands trembling as she wipes the blood from her face, only to feel more stick to her skin. She is sickened by her own actions.

"I know what happened," Crowley speaks softly, breaking the oppressive silence. "You don't need to say a word. Oh, my angel."

"Fergus..." Her voice trembles, and she dissolves into tears once more. Crowley, usually annoyed by such displays, finds himself compelled to offer solace. Pity for the girl he sees before him morphs into something deeper-a genuine compassion he never expected to feel.

"It's not that terrible," he attempts, though the words feel hollow in the face of her grief.

Maeve lifts her head, disbelief etched across her features. "Of course it's terrible," he thinks, recognizing the nightmare that haunts her.

"If it helps, know that many of those in the bar deserved worse fates. That one sold me his soul; this one was an alcoholic who preyed on vulnerable women. They weren't good people, Maeve."

But not all of them fit that description, and Maeve knows it. A silent understanding passes between them, and for a moment, his words offer a flicker of comfort. She squeezes his arm, a small gesture that sends a shiver through him-an unexpected jolt of warmth in the midst of chaos.

As they sit in the empty room, the silence heavy around them, Crowley snaps his fingers. The bodies evaporate, the weight of their presence lifting, if only slightly. Maeve leans her head on his shoulder, eyes closed, finding solace in the brief reprieve.

"Thank you."

But he knows he can't linger. The sensations swirling within him-real and unbearable-urge him to leave. The distant roar of Baby's engine signals the arrival of reinforcements.

"I should go," he says softly, stealing one last glance at Maeve. He can't resist reaching out to caress her cheek, a silent farewell filled with unspoken words. With a bittersweet smile, he disappears into the shadows.

Moments later, Sam bursts into the bar, and the sight before him steals his breath. Maeve, bloodied and broken, is a haunting image of despair. Rushing to her side, he kneels, and upon meeting his gaze, Maeve crumbles, tears streaming down her face once more.