Psych You Out

Shawn Spencer was your average upstanding citizen who worked alongside the SBPD through a privately owned branch of alternative investigation. He led an average life; moving out at a young age, rebelling against everything his father stood for, and hanging with his best friend were all normalcy for him. Having a salt-crusted vintage revolver shoved down his throat, however, had never been on his agenda.

He had been walking alone at night, not an uncommon thing to do in a place like family-friendly Santa Barbara, and had been mugged by two men, who seemed very obviously together. He was blindfolded, shoved into a shiny, vintage car, not unlike the one his father drove, and driven to a dark, secluded, and abandoned house on the outskirts of the city. They shoved him in a chair and tied his hands together.

"I'll blow your brains outside your head if you can't prove it," the man with the deeper voice said in reply to the statements he had been making all night as he tightened Shawn's blindfold and the knot binding his wrists. (i.e. "I'm the wrong guy! You've got the wrong person!")

"Dean, he just doesn't sound like he's lying."

Shawn turned towards the direction of the other voice, but the blindfold effectively prevented him from seeing its owner. Which was very bad, since the only thing he knew he could rely on to escape was his power of observation.

"Oh, and you know what lying sounds like," the first man, Dean, replied sarcastically. "Demons lie all the time. You can't tell the difference."

"But look at him," the more effeminate voice said. "He looks so—"

"Just get the holy water."

Shawn heard footsteps fading away to the right of him and assumed that one of his captors had left.

"Can someone please just tell me what's going on?" he begged, his voice hoarse. "And can I get some water? I don't know about you, but I'm parched."

"Shut up," was the only thing he got in response from the one man left in the room. Suddenly, footsteps started back up and grew louder and he flinched, fearing that Dean was going to hit him.

"I ain't gonna smack you," Dean said and suddenly, the dark blindfold was ripped off Shawn's face. "…yet."

Shawn blinked in the dim glow of the room he was in as his eyes adjusted to the light and immediately began looking around for anything that could possible help him. He caught sight of several candles, all carefully around his chair and equally spaced apart on a large chalk circle drawn. He was sitting in the middle of what could only be a pentacle, something used by no one but psychos and people from the Middle Ages. He quickly scanned the rest of the room before turning to face his attacker.

Dean was a short, but very muscular man, who could very easily take Shawn down without a gun. He wore a leather jacket and dirty, ripped jeans. Putting it lightly, the man just didn't look like a people-person.

Shawn suddenly felt very scared for his life. Sure, he worked for the police department and he had been held hostage on multiple occasions, but he had never been kidnapped. He tried to recall anything his father could have taught him about being in a kidnapping situation, but he couldn't remember anything. His father must not have thought his son would ever be victimized by kidnappers.

"That's…good to know," Shawn said apprehensively as he stared down the stocky man. He broke the staring contest and looked around the room a second time. "It's a nice place you got here…very cozy. So what if it's missing indoor plumbing? Minor flaw. Just splurge a little on some electricity and it could be a really cute little—"

"I thought I told you to shut up," Dean said, his fingers twitching closer to the gun Shawn knew was hidden inside his jacket.

"Calm down," Shawn said, trying to scoot back in the chair he was tied to. "I was just making polite conversation. You know, I'll let you in on a little secret of mine. Violence is never the—" He immediately stopped talking when the second man suddenly appeared through the cracked doorway. Shawn zeroed in on the silver canteen the man secretively slid into his jacket pocket. "Hey," he began conversationally, as if he wasn't strapped onto a chair and talking to two kidnappers who both possessed guns. "I'm Shawn. I don't believe we've met. I like puppies and rainbows and maybe you'd like to get me out of this chair."

He was ignored and Dean turned to the taller, brunette man. "This guy's been talking my friggin' ass off. Can't we blow his head off now, and then find out whether or not he's a demon?"

"A what? Who are you people?" Shawn asked. He had thought that maybe this was something he could talk himself out of, but suddenly he wasn't so sure. These men were proving to be more senile than he had originally thought. After all, who believed in demons? "Look, guys, if you could just tell me what I've done wrong, I'll fix it and we can all be on our happy way. It doesn't have to be like this. We'll be like Breakfast Club. You know, the one where they all meet and then leave and never talk to each other again? Oh! I'll be the hot blonde. I think I qualify with my good looks and charming—"

"Jesus!" Dean cut him off with a frustrated cry. "Don't you ever shut up? That movie sucks ass, anyway."

The taller man was much more sympathetic. "You haven't done anything wrong," he assure Shawn. "We just need to see if…."

Without any explanation as to why, the man pulled out the silver canteen from his pocket and with a twist of the cap, threw it at Shawn. The water splashed in Shawn's face, soaking the front of his shirt as it dripped off his chin.

"What the hell?" he sputtered between gasps of air. "If I wanted a bath, I would've told you!"

Both the tall man and Dean gasped. "Oh, hell."

"Shit!" they both swore in unison.

"Oh, man," the taller one began after a slight pause. "We're so…sorry!"

Shawn threw his nose in the air. "You should be. This shirt is priceless. If that isn't water…."

Though it was clear that the both of them knew they had the wrong person, neither moved to untie him.

The taller one ran his hands through his long shiny hair that idly reminded Shawn of Byrd's. "But you told everyone you were psychic!"

Shawn blinked. Just what was this about? "Is that a crime? I'm pretty sure it's not. I checked with both Vick and Lassie. Are you stalking me?"

"Listen, kid," Dean said as he grabbed a fistful of Shawn's dampened shirt and pulled him forward so his chair stood on its two front legs. "There's a demon running around this town. Don't make this hard for us."

"Kid?" Shawn echoed, looking down at the hand that was twisting his clothes out of shape. "I'm sure I'm older than you. How old are you, anyways? Twenty…four, five? I beat you, then, because I'm twenty six and a half!"

Dean let Shawn's shirt go and he fell backwards with the chair as it slammed back onto all fours. "All this tracking and we found the wrong guy. This's never happened before, Sam!"

"I can't believe this," Sam said slowly. He turned to Shawn before saying, "You said you were psychic! Tell us something."

"It's not something that can be flipped on like a light, you know? Alright, alright!" he cried when Dean pointed his gun at the middle of Shawn's forehead threateningly. Shawn inconspicuously looked at both his captors before heaving a sigh. "You're brothers. Your names are Dean and Sam and you…believe in ghosts and pretend to hunt demons for a living. Though it can't be called a living, can it? Because you don't make any profit. You don't make any money at all. In fact, you steal money, which, by the way, is a criminal offence."

Dean looked at his brother, but didn't lower his weapon. Shawn gained confidence in seeing Dean's look of surprise, which practically confirmed that he had hit the nail directly on the head.

"For my freedom, I can do individuals," he went on hopefully. "Here, I'll even give you a taster." He closed his eyes, made quick assumptions from small clues he had picked up along the way, and did his act. "I'm getting… cars. Cars and leather. You like cars. You wish you could collect them, but you don't have the time—"

"All right, all right, that's enough," Dean said, lowering his weapon, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "I don't get it. Are you channeling someone?"

"Channeling? Yes…," Shawn drawled, rolling his eyes. "Your dead grandmother and her raison cookies. Listen, if you're going to keep me here, I'll need some stuff. If you stop at my pop's house, he's got some spare PJs and an extra tooth brush. Also, I want a pineapple smoothie and—"

"How'd you know our grandma made us raison cookies?"

"I told you," Shawn said like it was the clearest he could possible make it. "I'm channeling her. She says hello." He closed his eyes and brought up the pitch of his voice, faltering like an old lady would. "Hello, Deanie-poo—"

"You—!" Dean cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath as he tried to calm himself down. "Sam, I can't handle this."

Sam sighed and walked closer to Shawn as Dean backed away.

"Hey, Sammy," Shawn said, leaning as far back as he could in the chair without cutting off the circulation in his arms. "You know, I noticed this earlier, but I didn't say anything; your hair is the most stunning shade of—"

"Please don't go any further," Sam interrupted him. In a serious voice, he continued, "We need to know if you've…seen anything that's…not normal."

"I've seen many things that aren't normal," Shawn answered simply. He was getting bored with the whole hostage situation and rather wanted to go home. "This is just a little theory of mine, but it might just tie into the fact that I'm a psychic. Why do you ask?"

"See, here's the thing. You were joking when you guessed we hunted demons and ghosts," Sam said, looking into his eyes. "We're not joking."

"Oh. I see," the psychic detective said, very put off. "Then might I suggest checking yourself into a psych ward, see a therapist maybe once, twice a week?"

"Oh, that's flippin' original," Dean said from the corner of the room before he swore loudly.

Shawn flinched. "Hey, please no foul language, my ears are very sensitive."

Sam lowered himself to Shawn's level before talking to him as calmly as he could. "I know it doesn't look like it, but we really are very sorry. We were hunting and we naturally assumed that the…. You have to understand, I mean, it's obvious that a psychic would be the first person out of the whole town to check."

"As obvious as where in the world Carmen Sandiego is," Shawn said confidently. He wasn't about to tell them he wasn't a real psychic, but the thought had crossed his mind. If it meant his life….

"I don't know what to tell you," Sam said, standing up straight, feeling like he would never get through to the man in front of him. "I tried, but you're just not listening."

"I get that on occasion. Mostly from my dad, but sometimes it comes from strange, tall men I don't know."

Dean pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning on and approached his brother.

"So what are we gonna do with him?" he asked, fingering his pistol.

"Dean, put your gun away. You're not going to shoot him."

"That's right, you listen your brother, Dean!"

"Shut the hell up!" both brothers exclaimed at the same time.

Dean rubbed his temples. "I need some damn coffee."

Angrily, he walked out of the room with his brother in tow, leaving Shawn alone in the dark with nothing but the faint flicker of dying candles to see.

"Guys, you can't just leave me here!" Shawn yelped when the door slammed shut. His hands instantly went for the back pocket of his jeans, where he kept his cell phone, but they didn't reach. "At least help me blow out these candles—they're a fire hazard! And if you're going to Jamba Juice, don't forget my pinneapple smoothie! Guys? Guys!"

A/N: I probably won't be updating. Sorry. If anyone wants to continue this, you have my permission. Just leave a review. Thanks.