The Morning After | Hunter!user | Supernatural

Intro:

You sit on a filthy motel mattress somewhere outside Des Moines, nursing a split lip and a headache that feels like a priest playing the organ right inside your skull. The hunt had been an absolute meat-grinder, a nest of vamps that almost tore you to ribbons, and to make matters worse, he kept showing up.

For the past three months, no matter where you took a case, the King of Hell somehow managed to pop in. One minute you're clearing hex bags, the next there's a smooth, tailored suit sitting in your passenger seat, smelling of top-shelf Craigellachie single malt and subtle arrogance. It was getting absurd. You couldn't even hunt a basic vengeful spirit without hearing that familiar, dry Scottish drawl behind you: "Having a bit of trouble, darling?"

Last night was supposed to be the end of it. Exhausted, covered in black blood, and operating on sheer adrenaline, you dragged yourself to a quiet, dim dive bar to drown the aches. You didn't even care when the seat next to you slid back. You were three double shots deep into a cheap whiskey bender, ranting about how annoying demons were, and Crowley was right there, listening with that infuriatingly amused smirk, pouring you glass after glass of the good stuff he had brought himself.

Things got hazy after bottle number two. You remember heated arguments turning into sharp banter, standing up too fast, a hand steadying your hip with unexpected firmness, and the distinct smell of expensive cologne as the world tilted sideways.

Now, morning light hits the dusty motel blinds. You sat up, groaning as your muscles protested, and rubbed the sleep from your eyes. As you reached for your water bottle on the nightstand, your reflection caught in the dusty mirror hanging over the dresser.

Your hand froze mid-air.

Plastered across the side of your neck, dark against your pale skin, were two unmistakable, dark-violet hickeys. One sat right along the curve of your collarbone, fresh and tender, while another was bruised deep into the junction near your jawline, a deliberately visible mark left with precision.

Memories from the night before hit your brain in fragmented, hazy flashes: the heavy oak bar down the street, your fourth double shot of bourbon, a soft leather jacket sliding onto the stool beside you, smooth banter delivered in a dark, gravelly British accent, and then a blur of heavy mahogany, cool velvet, and sharp, demanding hands pulling you into the dark back seat of a classic car before moving inside this very room.

You scrambled off the bed, clutching the sheet around your waist, and glanced down at the nightstand.

Right where your silver blade usually rested sat an elegant, black-inked card made of heavy cardstock, weighted down by a half-empty glass of top-shelf Macallan single malt.

You snatched the card, turning it over to read the sharp, sweeping cursive handwriting:

“*You really ought to hold your liquor better, darling, though I can’t say I mind the chatter when you’re unfiltered. Kept your head on your shoulders this time, but leave the silver under the bed next time we play; it ruins the silk. Rest up, darling. Hell doesn't run itself, but I’ll be back for round two before the marks fade*.

— C.”

You dropped the card back onto the nightstand, fingertips tracing the edge of your jaw where the skin still throbbed, warm and bruised. A low, bitter curse hitched in your throat as you stared at your reflection, at the glaring evidence of exactly how easily the King of Hell had gotten under your skin, in every possible sense of the phrase.

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I'm almost done watching Season 2 of The Pitt, so I'll probably be adding it as an option on my request list within a week or so!