I Am Not An Abomination: A Supernatural!Universe X Reader Adventure

A Decade (and some number of years) Later

      "This is FBI Director Justine Colts, state your business or get off the line... Yeah, Agents Collins and Atkins were dispatched there. And you better let them do their jobs! I don't care if they're digging up your mother's grave. Let them do their jobs or I'll have you in jail before you can say 'just-hold-on-a-frickle-frack-second'. Good day sir."

      You hang up the FBI line just to hear the Homeland Security line start ringing. You pick it up and deliver a similar set of lines to the clueless person on the other end. And so it goes. One line after another. Another idjit after another.  Another hunter after another getting asked questions. You try to take a sip of your whiskey-gin mix, but you forgot that you'd already drunk the last drop. Your annoyed grimace didn't magically refill the bottle to your disappointment. Someday. Someday it would.

      "I'm home!" a familiar gravelly voice called out with the cacophony of a rattling door being shut.

      "Thank god!" you shout," I'm out of whiskey-gin!" Then mutter," Again."

      "Is that all I am to you?" Uncle Bobby asked as he stepped into the kitchen, setting the grocery bags down on the kitchen counter," A beer delivery boy?"

      "Mm... yeah," you say then reached for the bags to search out your prize.

      "Remind me to put you on a 'whiskey-gin' diet," Bobby grumbled.

      You twitch your eyebrow at him as you sit down at the phone wall and start mixing the whiskey with the gin. Just as you finished measuring out the whiskey, the Forest Service phone rang. You grumble some curses under your breath as you pick it up.

      "Forest Services, how can I help? Uh... Rangers Rea? Oh yeah, sent him up there to make sure everything's on the up and up. Good day sir."

      "Busy day?" Bobby asked as you hung up.

      "Hm? Oh, yeah," you draw out the sounds.

      "You don't like working the phones?" Bobby asked.

      "It's not that I don't LIKE working the phones," I said," I just don't LIKE talking to idjits. Constantly. Without fail."

      On cue, the Health Department phone rang. You groan loudly as you reach for it.

      "Finish that one, then I'll take over, alright?" Bobby said," You can have the rest of the day off. Go out or something."

      "FOR REAL?!" you squealed, clapping your hands together.

      When Bobby nodded, you picked up the phone, gave some lousy, lame-balled, cool-your-jets-or-I'll-sic-the-CDC-on-you line, then hung up. You give Bobby a quick hug before running upstairs to your room. You laugh gleefully as the phone rings and then you ignore it. You took much pleasure out of ignoring the ringing telephones.

      Your room was small. It was practically in the attic. Which you didn't mind. You had a great view of the car graveyard outside. Almost an acre of pure vehicular waste stretched out under your window. You actually liked this room. It had all your posters of wolves and hunter cases pinned up with newspaper clippings of strange and unusual deaths.

      You sat down on your mattress, no bed, just a mattress, and pull your thrift store satchel up onto your lap. You rummaged through it until you found your wallet. Uncle Bobby paid you a good allowance to do odd jobs and phone work here. About 20 bucks a week for phones, and $1-$10 for other things like fixing a car, cleaning the guns, checking for damage in the panic room, or burying a body Rufus was too lazy to bury himself. Actually, it was about 15 bucks for burying work. You got tired of doing Rufus's work for him and made him pay you. You enjoyed the annoyed (and yet, somehow proud) expression that crossed his face every time you held out your hand.

      You counted how much you have now. You squealed joyfully. $260! You put it back and packed up your satchel with a bottle of water, some off-brand goldfish that wasn't half bad, and of course, your assortment of low-key, monster fighting weaponry. You picked up your car keys and head out.

      You had a pretty cool car. It was a 1979 Dodge Charger. It was boxy and similar to an Impala. You prefer the look of an Impala, but it was hard to find one. So you had to settle. 'Sides, Bobby had an almost perfect Charger chassis and engine sitting in the graveyard. All you had to do was detail work. It was fun working on that car.

      You got into the driver's seat, shoved the key in, and turned on the engine. Albeit, the engine was a bit rough, but then again, everything you owned was rough around the edges. You smiled as you backed out of the yard and raced down the driveway to the gates.

      You decided to go to the mall. Not because you particularly like the mall, but because it was big, allowed you to blend, and had a few good gun and outfitting stores. Your particular favorite was Arc's Armory. It was a mix between army surplus and a gun/knife/assorted weaponry show. You head in that direction, ignoring the bright and pop-song-filled clothing shops filled with high school girls in high heels and extremely tight fitting clothes.

      You didn't know many people who would be at the mall, but... there were a couple you DID know. And you hoped you wouldn't see them.

      Arc's was semi-busy. You counted about 3 potential customers. A dad and son, and an old guy with a Vietnam veteran hat on. You started to browse. You looked at holsters for pistols and knives. You consider heavily on the knife assortment in the glass boxes. You liked the way knives fit in your hand, compared to a pistol or shotgun. There was something 'personal' in holding a knife. Like you had to make the choice to fight or walk away.

      After you deliberated, you picked out a fixed-knife with a clip point. You waited for an employee to take it out for you so you could examine it more closely before purchasing.

      "Can I help you?" a middle aged man asked, walking over with a customer-satisfaction smile plastered on his face.

      You smiled back and nodded," Yeah, can I see that knife right there?"

      "Sure," he said, unlocked the glass box and pulled out the knife.

      You examined it, held it, tested a few grips, carefully balanced it, then placed it on the glass.

      "I'll buy it," you said, pulling out your ID and money.

      The man examined the driver's license and then took the $60 from your hand. He handed you your change , bagged the knife, then you walked out with your purchase. You were about to text Bobby to tell him, but as you stepped out into the walking lane, someone ran into you.

      "Sorry! Sorry..." you started to apologize.

      "Why don't you watch where you're going, you grunt!" the other person snapped.

      You saw who ran into you and your stomach clenched.

      "Oh... it's you..."