This series of fics takes place before the events of Supernatural. It uses Harvelle's Roadhouse as a framing device for one-shots within the Supernatural world. Each new chapter will feature a different original character. If the timeline makes sense, I might throw in references to canon characters, but for the most part the only ones you'll recognize are Ellen and Jo.

This fic is rated for language and violence generally. This chapter also contains stalking, emotional abuse, and attempted murder.

"Do you know what a succubus is, Jo?"

The tone of George Wallberg's voice told Jo that whatever a succubus was, she wasn't supposed to know about it. With a glance over her shoulder to make sure her mother wasn't listening in, she shifted her chair closer to George and answered, "Uh-uh."

George grinned a mischievous grin. He was not a regular at the Roadhouse; he had been referred there by a friend, or so he said, and he seemed to like the place just fine. He had wandered in at noon, and by the time he began luring Jo with stories of succubi it was nearly nine at night. He hadn't stopped ordering drinks during all that time. He had paced himself, so he wasn't falling down and sloppy, but he was definitely slurring his words and he smelled strongly of Ellen's well vodka.

Something about the way he held himself and the way his eyes shifted every which way made Jo uncomfortable, but her curiosity had been piqued.

"Well now," he said in a satisfied tone, "That's something every young Hunter oughta know. Especially cute girls."

"Why girls especially?" Jo asked quickly, "You think I can't handle a succubus?" She still didn't know what a succubus was, but she felt obligated to defend her sex against any implication of weakness. She had heard from too many Hunters that she was too young, too cute, or too female to do the job they did. She was determined to prove them wrong.

George chuckled. "Don't get your panties in a bunch," he said, "I'm just saying that you gotta look out for yourself. Wouldn't want you getting knocked up with some little demon-spawn, right? I don't know what your plans are, but I'm pretty sure that'd throw a wrench in them."

Now Jo was really interested, and she was absolutely sure that her mother wouldn't want her talking to this man. She scooted closer, ignoring her repulsion and the niggling sense of danger. "A monster that gets people pregnant?" she prompted.

"That's right," said George, "Here's how it works. A succubus finds its first victim – a man – and comes to him at night. She can see right into his mind. She takes his deepest, dearest desire, and she becomes it. Maybe that's his neighbor, or the chick in the porno he watched last night, or maybe it's the woman he's created in his own imagination, who is so perfect that no real woman can ever compare. In any case, when she appears to him, he can't resist her. You know what I mean, right?"

Jo knew what he meant. One didn't reach the age of thirteen while living in a bar without getting one hell of a sex education. Some of it wasn't true, and the vast majority was inappropriate for a girl her age, but Jo heard it one way or another. "Of course I do," she said, trying to sound more mature than she looked.

"Then you know what I mean when I say that she takes his seed," said George, "She steals it away and she pulls the same trick again, this time with a woman. She becomes a he – that's what you'd call an incubus. You follow? And the incubus comes to the woman in whatever form he knows that she can't say 'no' to, and he has his way with her."

Something about that scenario didn't sit well with Jo. "Isn't that…" she ventured, "Um… rape?"

George snorted and took another swig of vodka. "It can't be rape if she enjoys it."

That didn't sound right to Jo at all. Years ago, when Ellen had realized what a thorough sexual education Jo was gaining from her patrons, she had tried to teach her daughter the essentials herself. Depending on the topic, she had had varying degrees of success. But there was one point on which she had been very clear. "If anyone ever has sex with you," Ellen had told Jo, "And you didn't give him permission, or he threatened or tricked you into giving him permission, that's rape. It doesn't matter what else happened. There's nothing you can possibly say, wear, or do to make it okay for someone to do that to you. So if, God forbid, that ever happens…"

Jo had interrupted her mother with a roll of her eyes, embarrassed by the subject and eager to end the talk, "Yeah, yeah. I go to the police."

"No," Ellen had snapped, "The police probably won't do shit. You come to me, and I'll sort things out." The glance Ellen had given to the underside of the bar, where she kept her shotgun, told Jo exactly what kind of sorting her mother had planned for anyone who dared to violate her.

Jo wanted to explain this to George, but he was already continuing the story. "So if a succubus – or an incubus if you're a girl – picks you, you get the best sex of your life. But there's a price to pay. A succubus will suck the life out of a man along with his seed. Some die. Others just go into a coma. And an incubus will use a man's cum to knock up a woman with a monster. She births the thing, and then finds out the hard way that it's not a normal kid."

"What about gay people?" Jo asked.

George had been on his way to his next point when the question threw him off. "Huh?" he said.

"What if a succubus picks a man," Jo elaborated, "But he only likes other men? Then does she turn into an incubus? Or does she leave him alone? And what about lesbians? An incubus can't get them pregnant, because they don't want men."

"I…" George looked a little dumbfounded, but he quickly found his way back to his original train of thought. "That doesn't matter. This story is about one of those kids. You wanna hear the story?"

Jo nodded.

"Then quit asking questions," George huffed, and he began.

When a succubus steals a man's seed, and an incubus uses it to get a human pregnant, the child that results is called a cambion (said George). Those little suckers are a bitch to track down, because they seem normal when they're born, and their mothers sure aren't going to admit that they were knocked up by a wet dream. So the moms make up stories about an ex-boyfriend or a one-night-stand, or they try to pass the kid off as their husband's. If the kid doesn't do something to get itself noticed, they can live their whole lives off a Hunter's radar. And most of them are sneaky enough to do just that.

A couple of years ago, I got real lucky. I stumbled across the mother of a cambion, and she wasn't bothering to hide a damn thing. In fact, she had the whole story up on this website for people who claim that they've spoken to God or some shit. Her name was Virginia Vasquez. She told anyone who'd listen that an angel had visited her in her sleep, fucked her, and left her pregnant. She was convinced that her daughter was a little half-angel miracle child.

Only I knew that she was a monster.

I lurked around that website for a few weeks, and soon Virginia had dropped enough hints about her life that I was able to figure out the town in California where she lived. One cross-country drive later, I was parked outside her daughter's middle school.

The cambion's name was Amya. I recognized her as soon as she came out of the school doors. Two days before, her mother had been online talking about the yellow dress with a lion on the front that she had gotten for the kid, and sure enough Amya was wearing it. I watched her mill around on the sidewalk with her friends. She was at that awkward stage that a lot of girls go through – tall, chubby, glasses, braces. Like a normal kid. You'd never guess that there was anything wrong with her.

I followed her home. She never even realized that there was a car tailing her the whole way.

Then came the hard part. You see, I was almost positive that Amya was a cambion at this point, but I didn't have any proof. I couldn't just off the kid without knowing for sure. So I had to find a way to get close to her and Virginia. I watched them for weeks, and I kept reading what Virginia wrote on that website. Soon I found my "in."

You see, what Virginia wanted more than anything was for the church to recognize Amya's conception as a genuine miracle. All I had to do then was shower, shave, and bust out the priest disguise. I told Virginia that I was there to investigate her claim. She ate it right up.

I asked her a lot of questions about her visit from the incubus. She still believed it had been an angel, of course, but everything she said convinced me that I was right. Especially when she said that he had looked exactly like Johnny Depp.

Then she introduced me to Amya, and I got to meet the thing face-to-face for the first time. There isn't very much literature on what exactly cambions are capable of. I was a little nervous that she'd sense what I was really after. But no, she was young enough that she hadn't learned to be suspicious. It made her an easy target.

I spent a lot of time with Amya over the next few months. I kept telling Virginia that it was all so I could verify that her daughter was a genuine miracle-kid, and she kept buying it. I think Amya knew the whole thing was kind of weird, but I worked hard to gain her trust. Pretty soon she got used to me coming over every day after school. She'd tell me about her classes, her friends, boys she had crushes on, that kind of thing. It was boring as hell, but I had to act like her best friend so I could keep seeing her. After a while I was starting to think that the whole thing was a bust, and that I had been wasting my time, when it all paid off all at once.

Virginia had gotten so used to me being around that she would ask me to come over when she had to work late at the grocery store, so Amya wouldn't be alone. I was hanging out with Amya on just such a night when she dropped a bomb on me.

"Mom thinks I'm an angel," she said while she was boiling water for macaroni and cheese, "That's why you're here, right? You guys don't talk about it, but I figure that's the only a reason a priest would suddenly show up and become my babysitter."

"That's right," I told her, "What do you think? Are you an angel?"

She rolled her eyes. "Mom likes to see the good side of everything," she said. Then her face got really serious, which is just precious when a thirteen-year-old does it. No offence. And she said, "I'm not an angel; I'm a witch."

I was jumping out of my skin by that time, but I managed to keep calm. "Why do you say that?" I asked her.

She said, "I can do stuff. When it started, I couldn't really control it, but now I've got it pretty much figured out. Watch." She stopped stirring the noodles, but the spoon kept going on its own. Then, while I was still trying to catch my breath, the pot of boiling water flew over to the sink and emptied itself into the colander. I watched while Amya finished making her macaroni, and she never moved or touched a thing the entire time. She didn't even break a sweat.

"That's not all I can do," she said. She was babbling now. She had probably kept this secret for so long that she was dying to tell it. "I can control peoples' minds. Ever since I can remember, every boy that I liked also ended up liking me. That's not normal. I mean, I'm not that pretty. So this last time I put it to the test. Remember I told you that Alvin asked me out? Well, last week I decided to try to make him break up with me. The next day, he told me that it wasn't working out. The day after that I tried to change his mind back, and he was apologizing by lunchtime." She sat by me and started eating her macaroni. "An angel wouldn't do that, right? Mess with peoples' minds? Angels are supposed to help people. My powers only help myself. What do you think, father?"

It was unbelievable. A demon was asking for my advice, as a member of the clergy. I couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, Amya," I said, "You're not an angel or a witch." She almost looked hopeful before I added, "You're a monster. A freak. I've seen dozens like you. Well, I suppose none were quite like you. You're special. My first cambion. Man, I can't believe I wasted all these months watching you, working my way into your life, waiting for you to trust me enough to tell me. What a bore. I should have just trusted my instincts and… well…"

There was a knife rack on the kitchen counter. I hadn't been able to find anything on how to kill a cambion, but I figured that beheading works for most things. Amya looked like she had finally figured out that confiding in me had been a mistake, but she didn't have anywhere to go.

I would have had her right then if Virginia hadn't chosen that moment to come home.

I hadn't even reached for a knife yet, but Virginia only needed to look at her daughter's face to know that something was wrong. She stood in the doorway for about a second and a half before her face, which had always been so trusting, shut down. Closed up like a wall. I knew in a second that I would never get her to trust me again.

"I think you should leave," she said, and, like an idiot, I left. I could have overpowered them both and finished the job, but I figured that I had plenty of time. I could snatch the girl at school, walking home, at a friend's house, anywhere. So I left without a fight.

I staked out Amya's school for the next week, but she didn't show. Whenever I went to their house, Virginia's brothers were there, and that was trouble I just didn't need. I thought that if I was patient, eventually they would let their guard down. But I was wrong. A couple of weeks later I drove by the house and they were gone. I guess Amya was sneakier than I gave her credit for, because she had convinced Virginia to move them to a new state and leave no forwarding address. The trail was cold.

There's a good tip for a young Hunter: never underestimate your prey.

Here's another one: never give up on a hunt. You never know when you might catch a break.

It was over a year later when I finally figured out where they had gone. I found them down in Texas, and this time I didn't bother pussyfooting around. I went in for the kill.

I'm surprised more people don't get killed in their beds. It's so easy to slide a window open in the dead of night, creep in with a knife, and be out and away before anyone even knows what's happening. There was just one problem that I didn't expect.

When I crawled through the window, the lights snapped on, and there was little Amya waiting for me. She wasn't so little anymore. The braces and glasses were gone, and she wore her body like she was comfortable in it in a way that she hadn't been at thirteen. She stared me down. She wasn't a baby monster anymore; I had let her grow into a full-fledged freak.

"I felt you coming," she said while I tried to think of what to do, "Days ago. Blind hatred is easy to trace." She paced around the room while she spoke. Sometimes she even turned her back to me, but I had the feeling that she could see me even when she wasn't looking at me. "It took me a long time to understand why you hate me so much. It was actually pretty recently that I figured out that it's because you're just a hateful person. I thought there was something wrong with me, when you were the real monster the whole time."

She looked me up and down. The knife in my hand rolled up on itself like it was made of rubber, and I heard the handgun that I had brought as backup disassembling itself in its holster. The pieces fell to the ground.

"Mom knows what I am now," said Amya, "What I really am. And she knows what you are. We'll be moving again, starting tomorrow, and you won't be following us anymore. You know why? Two reasons. One, because I'm powerful, and you're scared of me. Two, and not that I think you care, but leaving me alone is the right thing to do. I'm not hurting anyone. Since I left California I've only ever used my powers in self defense. I might be a freak, but I'm not evil. I just want to live my life."

"I've heard that before," I said, "From vampires, werewolves, shifters, even demons. Some of them meant it, and some of them were lying. But they all ended up killing people, and I aim to prevent that." I didn't have my weapons, so I went at her with my bare hands.

She almost looked bored with me when she said, "Go to sleep."

I woke up two days later in a motel room. Amya and Virginia were already gone.

It's been six months since then, but I finally tracked them down again. This time they're in Mapleton, Iowa. In fact, that's where I'm headed now. One more road trip, one more hunt. This time I'm prepared. This time the little bitch won't know what hit her.

Jo had listened to the story, becoming more and more uncomfortable by the minute but not knowing how to extricate herself. George was looking at her as if he expected her to say something. She was trying to think of how best to excuse herself when a voice came from behind her.

"Okay, Mr. Wallberg," it said, "It's time for you to quit leering at my daughter and fuck off."

Jo turned to see Ellen leaning against a nearby table, just close enough to have heard everything and just far enough away that she and George hadn't noticed her. Ellen was wearing an expression that Jo had come to associate with the kicking of serious ass. Jo stood and shuffled behind her mother, trying to get out of the blast zone of Ellen's rage as much as she was trying to get away from George Wallberg.

George clearly had no idea who he was messing with. He smiled as he said, "I was just talking to her. Don't be so uptight."

"Did you not hear me?" said Ellen, "I'm kicking you out." By this time, every face in the Roadhouse was turned toward Ellen and George.

"If you want me gone," said George, pausing to take a leisurely sip of his drink, "Then make me leave."

Ellen smiled almost sweetly as she called over her shoulder, toward the bar where Archibald Fauntleroy was sitting, "Archie, sweetie? Could you see about getting ahold of the local police in Mapleton, Iowa, and telling them that there's a man by the name of George Wallberg who's been heard making threats on the life of a teenage girl? He's also been stalking her through three states. And he probably has priors."

Archibald grinned as he replied, "Sure thing, Harvelle."

"You bitch," George growled, turning purple with anger. He leaped to his feet, and his hand went inside his coat as if he were reaching for a weapon.

There were eight Hunters in the Roadhouse, not counting George, Ellen, and Jo. Before George could pull whatever weapon he was reaching for, he had eight firearms leveled at his head.

"God knows that Hunters get up to a lot of ugly business," Ellen said with the confidence of a woman with eight allies at her back and a shotgun within reach, "Sometimes the lines get blurred. But you crossed the line big time, and you should have had the sense not to brag about it in a place like this."

Jo swelled with pride. Her home was "a place like this," a place where Hunters held each other to a higher standard. Her pride only grew as she watched George Wallberg leave, humiliation and impotent rage all over his face.

There were no standardized rules for Hunting, and no official punishments for Hunters who went off the deep end. The closest they had were places like the Roadhouse, where Ellen Harvelle upheld a certain code of conduct.