Author's note:
Hello reader.
I used to write fanfiction a long time ago and am pretty rusty at it. Supernatural, however, has sparked the part of my brain Metatron would want to dissect most especially and you're about to embark on the results.
I've been a lurker on here for a few weeks now, fan-girling my little heart out and taking mental notes.
Your opinion is always welcome.
Enjoy.
Chapter One: Demon House Calls are so 1950s
Saint Magdalena Psychiatric Hospital
Holly, Michigan
"Hello Krystal," the tall man said, producing a fold-out badge from his shirt pocket. "I'm Sam, with the CDC. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the incident at the hospital." A slight temptation to inspect the inspector arose within her. She remained silent.
CDC, my ass.
His hand awkwardly hung in the air for a handshake she would not engage with.
When Krystal didn't move, Sam walked the two feet over to her standard issue industrial desk and gracefully moved the metal chair to face her near the bed and sat down, crossing his legs. Sam looked like a teenager stuck at the kid's table for Thanksgiving, miniature chairs being all that's available for the in-betweeners.
"Can you tell me about that day?" He asked. Her crossed arms bit the slightest tad tighter into her torso, bringing a delicious pain. The wall behind felt constrictive.
"What do you want to know?" She hedged.
"Well, the report states that you were found in an alleyway." Sam's large hands produced a manila folder from the magic suit jacket that held God knows what else. He looked it over thoughtfully. Paused. Look at her. "With enough Vicodin in your system to put down an elephant." She looked away.
"But I don't care about that. I'm here to get your side of the story." At that, a cynical laugh escaped her, bubbling up from deep within. Then, she cringed at the sudden onslaught of sharpness that accompanied any breath too deep or productive lately. "Are you okay?" His concern unnerved her.
"You can't help me," Krystal spoke into a half cough she was desperate to suppress. "Really, Mr. CDC, you should leave. The good doctors here are helping me just fine." Her attempt at a sharp statement fell flat.
"Look," the sudden intensity of his words charged the air "something strange happened in that hospital bed. The official report says you did it to yourself, but we both know that's a lie. What happened?"
Their eyes locked in a stalemate.
"Sometimes life is hard," the sarcasm dripped from her lips "like when you're a junkie. That's where suicide comes in. Any more questions?" She was guessing, putting the broken pieces of information from the doctors and Sam together in a fashion that mimicked collage work.
Please work. Leave me alone.
Sam tucked the folder into his coat and clasped his hands together, almost ready to give up the interview in lieu of other angles he could be perusing for the case since its center was being difficult. The thought of leaving her in the sterile locked box bothered him a bit; she was a sitting duck. I wish Dean were here, he thought absently and not for the first or twentieth time that day. It had less to do with a divided workload than the rubber-band ball tangle of their lives.
Almost two weeks ago, the Winchester brothers had spit up for the umpteenth time. It was always temporary, but Sam wasn't so sure this time. Their trust issues ran deep when poor judgement coalesced in a stew of emotion and duty over and again. Their brotherhood was often painful and Sam's devotion waned when his brother's decisions complicated matters beyond reason.
Crowley should be a charred pile of nothing. I had him. Dammit.
Sam resolved that the space would do them well.
He looked up at the woman before him. Twenty-three, red-haired, scared. The blank pale blue patient uniform looked uncomfortable. Just beyond her crossed arms, a small bloodstain had begun to form over her heart as the wound became agitated mid-heal.
If he could just focus on the case at hand than the rest could wait.
"Krystal Romero." Sam stated the name and watched as the deep blues they allegedly belonged to dart side to side. "What's your real name?"
"Excuse me?" Her halfhearted outrage only added to his case.
"The police have no record of anyone by that name. Who are you hiding from?"
"You don't know anything." Her anger sizzled beneath the dry membrane of reality. "What's the CDC doing investigating a suicide attempt anyway?" Krystal's dry lips countered. She licked them half unconsciously, desperate for chapstick. His lips pursed and a small, triumphant smile took form in hers.
Sam's intuitive and empathetic nature rarely failed him.
"Alright. You want my truth?" She caved.
"Yes."
"On one condition."
"Sure, what?"
"I want yours."