If Inner Frailty Were A Suite

SuperHungerWhoLock


Fandoms: Supernatural, Sherlock, Doctor Who, The Hunger Games

Rated: T+

WARNINGS: Language, Descriptive Images, Violence, Major Character Deaths

POV's: Dean Winchester, Amelia Pond, John Watson [the names in brackets below is who's speaking]

Summary: After a devastation that destroyed the planet and left only a small fraction of the population alive, the remaining human beings are forced to reside in a nation of Panem, or what was once known as North America. With no one allowed to leave the country, as it is under high security, everything else about normal life is familiar. The cities, colleges, everything remains untouched. But technology has developed and only the government knows that Panem is divided into 12 'districts'. But when supernatural beings begin to invade the country, it's up to a select bunch of remarkable people to rewrite history and bring peace back to Earth. From the views of a hunter brother, a genius detective's partner in crime, and a girl with an imaginary friend who's actually real, they share their sides of the tale of an emerging war that can affect not only their futures, but the world's as well.

~I do not own these fandoms. They belong to their proper owners. This story was written for entertainment purposes only. This work will be part of a trilogy, and each story is divided into three parts and chapters. Please take time to leave a short review. Feedback helps significantly. Thank you and please enjoy!~


"Some are born great,

some achieve greatness,

and some have greatness thrust upon them."

- William Shakespeare


Part 1: "Where It All Starts"

Chapter 1: In The Beginning [Dean]

For what it's worth, the life that's drained from you when the weight of the world comes crashing upon your bones leaves no hint to what your future will sketch out to be. I suppose the 'glowing bright light' people see for later on down the road is a false assumption, because I'm the number one person who understands that it all boils down to free will. You don't just cruise on that easily. The choices we make for better or for worse define the foundation on which lay the principles we'll follow, most of which are ignored or altered. That's strong vocabulary for me, but the truth can only be explained in depth. I should know from where I am now; what I've let go, the things I've gained, the suffering and the relief, it was all because of one decision that led me to be raised as a committed individual. And it wasn't even my pick. It was my mother's. She was born into that selection, unfortunate that no matter what time period of her age, there really was no escape; it would return to haunt her till she gave in.

And now she's gone.

November 2nd, 1983. I remember it so vividly, just like a major plot twist in a movie, and as a result the scars will be etched in my skin permanently for as long as I'm alive. It's hard to spit out a memory without a visual guidance or the actual physical existence of standing there. Stories are much different to take in when you interact with the events; it's the sights, sounds, especially emotions that meddle with your insides, cranking the knot in your stomach. But to share the news in my own words now will not be the same as it was from the perspective of a four-year-old kid. In my standards, it all flew by in the blink of an eye, but if you could rewind and continue in slow motion, this is how it happened. It's where my purpose emerged; where I worked out with my clever skills before I learned who I was as a person.

We were a family of four in total. My mom Mary and my dad John had been in love for over five years. Steady isn't the right word for their relationship. It was uneasy at times, mainly after my father discovered the shocking truth behind mom's secret. But I was not mature enough to handle that information. I was more focused on the center point that they were my family.

Then there was my newborn sibling, six months in age to the day and who I'll admit, I adored. Sprouting a head full of hair, he had the same curved nose as dad, but the blue color of his eyes resembled mom's. Whereas I had hazel ones, I was like a walking younger version of John. Nothing is more exciting to hear in a child's ears than the knowledge of becoming an older brother. Family was all that mattered to me; to be united and happy with the ones I love most in the world.

Our hometown wasn't the most common of locations to settle in, but growing up in the country sure sharpened the bond between our family members. Lawrence, Kansas was the one place I could respect the quality of a so called 'normal' day. But sadly, that wasn't supposed to be the case for me.

Dad taught me to read, which I enjoyed best when we sat side by side on the porch swing on summer afternoons. He even took me out for drives in his car to the local park, where depending on my mood I'd blow bubbles and get all sticky or explore the playground. His occupation was a mechanic after serving in the Vietnam War as a marine.

And my mom. She was so beautiful. Blonde hair that just fell in perfect curls below her shoulders, bright eyes that lit up the night sky as they reflected the stars in their complexion. Her skin was a gentle pale and soft, her nails trimmed precisely to the edges of her fingers. To say it was a shame that I lost her so young is an understatement. It was devastating. But it was always better to examine the sentimental qualities about her, the ones that made her my special parent.

Even the little acts she did made her unique to the universe. She had a habit of stroking my hair while we watched a movie together as I rested my cheek on her thighs, my sock-covered feet curled under my huddled figure. Her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were always tasty as a midday meal. I recall Mary cutting off the bread crusts because I was picky when it came to chewing food, and mainly since I only proposed the soft parts were yummy. But the most memorable part of my mother was her voice. When she spoke it was like the rush of ocean waves over grained sand, welcoming to the ears. She had a talent of singing the melodies her guardians shared with her to me, sending me off to sleep with the ringing notes of Hey Jude by The Beatles stalled in my hearing instead of a common lullaby. That was her most beloved tune.

I entertained my little brother Sam by pretending his stuffed animals came to life, also showed him how to draw pictures with my best crayons even when he couldn't yet talk, and sometimes maybe dressed up as my favorite superhero Batman and zoomed around the house, sprinting to make him giggle while I heaved in tired breaths. Sammy's toothless smile always filled me with an inner twinge of joy, and I thought for a split second that those moments in my early years were perfect. I looked up to my parents as idols to live by; my heroes, my everything.

And I, big brother Dean, was proud to be a Winchester.

October of '83 had passed with not so much as a jolt of unusualness. Mom took me out trick or treating on Halloween, early enough that we watched the sunset that was blocked by a set of pink and purple fluffy clouds. I munched on candy and smudged chocolate on the white sheet I used for my ghost costume. Mary laughed and went up to houses with me to knock on the doors. I was never shy but eager and proud, someone who wanted to be noticed with my fresh energy.

John raised me up in his warm arms when my weak legs couldn't carry on any longer and I skipped up the steps to greet him after the event on the 31st. The sky overhead had shades of navy blue blended in the black, and silver stars sparkled to provide a dim light over our street. I listened to Sam's babbled outbursts beyond where my head was nestled in the crook of my dad's neck. And that evening the rustling wind brushed against the windows in my bedroom while my mom encouraged me never to eat more than a handful of sweets at a time. A lesson filled with words of the wise from my female guardian.

But two days later, during the launch of a new month, I didn't figure anything would change. Turns out that was the worst misconception I'd ever mistaken, but I didn't know at the time. I wouldn't learn the twisted truth, the whole back story, until my father was 100% sure I could handle the inevitable.

Sammy had already been taken up to his crib, perched in my mom's arms carefully as she ascended the staircase to the nursery at the end of the hall. I still had the opportunity to bid him sweet dreams when I went upstairs; I never missed out on an open chance to talk to him. I sat back on my heels, knees bent while I fiddled with building blocks. I constructed a small tower that mimicked the Empire State Building. Of course, I didn't know what that was at the time, since I just thought it was a work of art that was fun to knock down in the end.

The tiptoe of my mom's bare feet triggered the interruption as she came to collect me for bed. I shifted as the rustling around the living room disturbed my short play time, and Mary's white nightgown swayed as she walked. She grabbed a clump of my pajama fabric near my shoulder blade, indicating I needed to wrap up the day. The pattern of my clothes was a misty brown with a grey checkered design, a matching top with bottoms as I rose to willingly accept the delightful idea of sleep.

I lost the grip on her palm as I bounced up the steps and she elected not to follow my lead, instead taking things slowly. I could see the exhausted expression in her lean face as she lingered in my footsteps. But I stopped as she beckoned me to the nursery beyond my room, and I ran towards her to get embraced in a lift.

"Come on. Let's say goodnight to your brother." She set me down in the doorway after flicking on the switch to illuminate my little brother's chamber. A mobile for decoration hung within reaching distance of Sam's stubby arms, toys were stacked on the dresser, and my little sibling had his baby blanket wrapped around him for padding. Shelves in the corner of the room were littered with stuffed animals, and my brother was making small gurgling noises, child talk no one could comprehend. Rushing over to quickly talk to him and head off to sleep myself, I leaned forwards to reach my baby sibling. "Night Sam," I spoke, kissing him on the edge of his hairline.

My mother repeated my actions and brushed the flat tufts on his skull, her wedding ring shining in the spotlight on her son's crib. "Night love," she chimed.

"Hey Dean." A deep and steady voice entered near the exit, and I turned on the spot to find none other than my muscular male parent waiting for me.

"Daddy!" I exclaimed, running to hug his knees. But he was too fast and scooped me up first, expressing a hauling exhale as he situated me in a reasonable position.

"Hey buddy!" When I was level with his face, he lifted me up from under my armpit, his other elbow acting as a board I could sit on. "So what do you think?" he asked. "Do you think Sammy's ready to throw around a football yet?"

"No!" I fired back immediately, shaking my head violently, which made my shriek a vibration with cuts scattered through it escaping from my lips, thinking he was outright insane at the time.

"No," he agreed, chuckling a tad as if the original remark was sarcastic.

Mary passed by swiftly and placed a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Got him?" she questioned.

"Yeah, I got him." Her blonde head curled around the corner and I wrapped my arms around John's neck. He ran a hand vertically on my back, the strap of his watch making wrinkles in my pajama fabric.

"Sweet dreams, Sam," he announced to the room. I peeked back at the far end of the chamber just in time to see the little six-month-old tilt his head in our direction, as if trying to respond back with drool covering his chin, big eyes wide in curiosity.

I collapsed onto my mattress and Mary joined John to tuck me in, advising to stay warm because of the biting weather that was nippy after seven o'clock. And then I asked in a persuasive voice, "Mommy, will you sing for me?"

Mary smiled and rubbed her smooth knuckles over my chubby cheeks, dad towering beyond her hair as I witnessed. "Not tonight honey. Mama's tired and needs to rest, just like you."

"Okay." I got the message and understood, even at my age. "I love you, Mommy."

Her grin expanded at my heartwarming manners, the words sinking in as a gesture of affection. "I love you too sweetheart. Always." My mother bent her spine over and planted a kiss on my forehead, brushing the messy hair from my field of vision.

"Night daddy. See you tomorrow."

He expanded the corners of his mouth and adjusted his short-sleeved shirt, his plaid pants almost completely hidden by a bathrobe draped over his forearms. "Goodnight," he whispered. The female's last job was to double check that the nightlight in my room had been switched on. Then John guided his wife out the door as the clock dinged the half hour. The door slowly clicked shut as I rolled over and shut my eyelids, burying my nose into the duvet and hugging my teddy bear tightly to my chest. The curtain of light from outside was replaced with a shadow of darkness that crept over my carpet. My head sunk into the pillow and I let out a dramatic sigh.

She never had the freedom to be the role of my mother ever again. That was the last glimpse I got of her beautiful silhouette in person.

Another two hours was all it took. I woke to a sudden muffled scream from none other than a woman, my mother. I thought maybe I had been imagining it, but as a follow up a cry from my father echoed through the walls of our home, his volume an alarmingly loud panic that I'm sure rattled the picture frames lining the way up to the second floor. The television's static effect was able to be heard in my bedroom, which was the first visible at the top of the stairs.

"Mary!" The twitch in his tone was shaky, and then I listened again for the duplicate shout out.

"MARY!" Thumps banged off the polished ground as John ran, a reaction to his wife's yell. And then the hinges on the nursery door squeaked while the knob slammed into a piece of furniture, a collision that happened after my father had busted it open.

Anyone could have misjudged it for a false alarm. The house reeked of silence for more than a minute. I debated between sneaking out to ask questions and falling back asleep. I guess the battle was answered for me when a manly gasp reverberated farther in our home and I grimaced when my father's words filled my brother's chamber.

"NO!" A faint thud told me my dad fell in shock. "Mary!"

Sammy's upset whimpers were what possessed me to get up. Some unfamiliar screeching noise had blasted loud enough over my sibling's terrified wails, and I yanked away my bedroom entry just as my father came hobbling with his hunched back down the hall.

"Daddy!"

Sam was attempting to hide his face from a raging orange fire they'd dodged, and John looked me straight in the eyes sternly exclaimed with fright, "Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back. Now Dean, go!" His sentence ended in a cracked note, and as an order I followed his command strictly. Carrying the baby, I raced downstairs and unlocked the front gateway of our two-floored residency, my toes being tickled by grass blades as I traveled along in the front lawn. Not fifteen feet to the side of our porch, I halted and stared upwards at the sizzling window, hoping dad had managed to pull free from the roaring flames.

"It's okay, Sammy," I encouraged, but the presence of the frown smeared below my ears gave away that I was grief-stricken. The balls of my feet left the ground to meet the arms of John, strong enough to hold both of us securely. "Gotcha." We bolted just as I glanced afar to see the glass on the upper floor explode.

Dad set us down in the middle of the road, the distressed feeling overpowering for his body. Sam blankly watched the moon in the sky, his covers bent and folded to fit snugly around his figure.

And there was not much more to share. The pounding weight was thrown on us instantly, my insides being ripped to shreds at the loss of my mother. The seconds turned to moments and then swapped to minutes before the blaring sound of sirens faded through the streets. People had emerged from their homes to see what the commotion was, to get a better glimpse of the Winchester's steaming nursery, the golden color a blazing torch illuminating the neighborhood.

Fire trucks lined the curb while cops set to work on patrol, pushing others out of the way while an ambulance crew scurried to provide us with equipment. Red and blue emergency flashers flickered in repetitions, grazing my skin as I turned cold and my mind ceased to function. In the briefest instant I thought my beating heart stopped, and all of actuality blurred as I fought back natural tears.

"Let's get a stream on the right side!" someone shouted. Bodies intertwined everywhere you looked, and the mystery of the fire with no spark to ignite it spread like bacteria.

That's the thing: my mother was roasted alive, pinned on the ceiling of Sam's nursery. Her stomach slit open with blood dripping into the baby's crib, there was no exact description that fit how she was murdered.

Dad had us remain calm and stand away, compacted in a group while sitting on the hood of his 1967 black Chevy Impala. There wasn't much to bring up on the subject. John simply rocked Sammy in his grasp and watched me, nudged into the side of his ribs. But in spite of the tragic 'accident', there was one trait I'd gathered that day and would brush up on as I scanned through the years. I had been burdened with a responsibility. The small obligation of saving my baby brother made me realize that was my ultimate duty. From then on, it was my right to protect Sammy. I was a primary target in the confusion of clarity, the top of the list of those who would be removed from the world by the thing that finished off my mom.

In the chaos surrounding us three boys, the most unusual feature in reality was my only remaining parent. The sight I saw when I raised my gaze has never left me to this day.

I could see the fierceness in my father's eyes; the pure, wrenching, instant hatred that flashed in the depths of their complexity. He knew in that instant that he was not just going to become mom from then on, no. He was going to seek out who, or more so what, killed his wife.

And it's such an unknown source how all of that madness could generate the intuition of revenge.

That day's details would forever be stored in my brain. I remember the agony of my mother's yell, the heat from the intense fire, the smell of the smoke pouring from the second level window, the sound of cracking wooden floorboards, but most of all the piece of my soul that died as I accepted I'd never set eyes on my mother ever again.

And when I say my father planned to become Mary, I clarify that by stating he later went to take on her job. That was the regretful decision I mentioned my mother had resolved in her teenage generation. And it evidently ran in the family. Even us Winchester brothers were connected to it, regardless if we wanted it or not.

My living, the job I elected to take on, was to be thrusted into the sacrifices of becoming a hunter. The typical definition of 'hunter'involves deer, bears, and turkey, whatever floats your boat. I was addressing a different example of a hunter. Nothing in my terms is straightforward.

The monsters and demons children learn about from their bedtime stories are a much lesser representation than I know them. What are nightmares to them, I know better of what to expect.

They exist. It may be odd, tracking them down and ending their physical existence as a desired job, but it sure as hell reduces the possibility of them striking again. They lurk in unexpected places; they're the truth behind any unexplainable disaster.

So in the isolated nation of Panem, of which we once knew in the past as North America, you could thank me for destroying the terrors that ruined our world. As everyday chores, education, and development expanded around me, I was stuck in a secluded era of pursuit.

And when we'd moved on from the absence of Mary, I was never the same.

Because there was a much bigger role for me to play. And in no way, shape, or form was the tragedy of my mother a bluff. If it were claimed to be pointless, I'd call it the exact opposite. Being introduced to the world of hunting was one fraction, a single atom in the overwhelming mass of history that was destined specifically for me. While the hardest part sometimes is pushing through the dreaded, the feared, it may just determine the fate of the human future.

And as for me? If I mentioned where I was, spoilers would be at hand. Skipping ahead to now would compare to erasing what occurred during World War II. So, I feel it would be wise to give a good lead of my version of how government evolved in Panem and screwed with a distinct prophecy that was not to be messed with.

I may have been the queen on the chessboard in this fine edition of the supernatural shift of a rebellious war. But to share it in the viewpoint of present tense would be out of question to digest, and thus in retrospect I shall reveal the memories as they happened. The tale to be told will be a long and gruesome process my friend; however, not all works of fiction stride along with a pleasant concept right up their sleeve.

What slipped away, what new people I met with unimaginable personalities, the faults and corrections I, Dean Winchester saw, it's all part of this packed and endless tale. This is the story of my hunt to set things right.

And in fairness, this is the way I examined the showdown went.


* I apologize for the long paragraph of notes at the beginning.

* Please be sure to leave a review. I'll try to update regularly around my schedule.

* Most importantly, I hope you enjoy this as it gets further along. I hope I'm showing a personal side to these characters and giving you and entertaining plot at the same time. It will switch POV's a lot, so be sure to keep track of everyone.