Greetings to you all and merry meet! I am ReonaTheReaper, and welcome to my first story on this wonderful website. This going to be a bit of a weird story at times and my grammar may not be the best, but try to bear with me. Ok?
It IS going to be a Supernatural fan-fiction, and if you don't like those sort of stories then I don't recommend this one. If you feel like flaming go ahead, I'm freezing over here anyways so all the heat I can get would be a plus!
Also, I welcome reviews and constructive criticism. Actually any thoughts or comments would be great...
And now, the disclaimer, "I, ReonaTheReaper, hold no ownership over any of the characters from the show, Supernatural, that I will be using for this story. The characters that I do own are: Lucy Parker, my main O.C, and the dragonkin characters mentioned later in the story. I also did not create the language the dragonkin use. That belongs to Christopher Paolini, author of the Inheritance Cycle series."
So basically if you see anything you recognize it probably isn't mine...
Now you may all start the story.
At first all I can see or hear is white. A searing, overwhelming white that makes my eyes tear and my ears ring. I close my eyes to try and stop the white from hurting me any more. My head pounds a war beat as the ringing symphony in my ears crescendos into unbearable levels. And then suddenly everything stops as I feel a prick in my arm and I'm swallowed in a soft black.
A warm darkness that calms me as I float farther and farther away. After drifting a ways, I come across a little light. I reach out and touch the warm source of light but as soon as I touch it, it goes into my arm. It sends a strange sensation up my arm and I see two men driving in a beautiful old fashioned Chevy.
The Impala, my memory reminds me. The scene fades and more lights float up to me. They fill me with scenes of my past, of the two men driving the Impala. Sam and Dean, my mind whispers. They're from the show.
The other lights gather around me, cuddling and nuzzling me as they continuously send more memories back to me.
My mother as she reads a book to me before bed. Her soft black hair cascading down on my white sheets in raven curtains.
My father when he comes home from the war with a sad smile on his face that brightens when he sees my mother.
My first day of school, and how the other children and the teacher ignored me.
My mother getting sick a week before my tenth birthday and my father crying when the doctor told us that she wouldn't be getting better.
Mother's funeral six months later and everyone gathered around the coffin as it was lowered in the large hole in the ground. I remember looking around and seeing everyone was wearing black. The women were wearing veils and crying into either a tissue or the shoulder of the man they came with.
I remember my father after we got back home from Mother's funeral. How sad he was. For a month and a half he sat in his room only to come out to use the bathroom or when I got him to eat. How the few times I checked on him I saw him crying as he held mother's favorite dress.
I remember it was shortly after this that father started to drink. And at first he only drank a little, just enough to make him happy again. But he started drinking more, and Father became mad and violent.
The first strike was the worst. I was eleven and the other students had quickly gone from simply ignoring me to teasing to pushing and heavy shoves. I had gone home early crying, one day after a mean little boy in my class had cut off one of my braids with scissors while we were supposed to be doing an art project. And when I had come inside, Father was sitting in his recliner watching television. There was beer cans strewn throughout the floor and Father wasn't looking healthy.
"You're not supposed to be home yet," he had said coldly. I think it was the way he looked at me as he got up that scared me the most. And the next thing I know my cheek stings and I'm crying even more as I look up at my father. My father, my hero, had backhanded me across the face. He glared at me and walked back to his recliner, grumbling to himself the whole time. Quickly, I ran up to my room. And for a while I hid under my covers and cried until my eyes were dry.
Over the next four years everything just seemed to get worse. At school the other kids were ruthless in their hitting and shoving. I had learned early on to keep my hair short and wear dark, faded sweaters to hide myself. That in order to not get caught, you had to be fast. And I learn quickly. But even with all my efforts, I was lucky to go home each week with only a single marking littering my skin somewhere.
But home was where the real danger laid. My father. Ever since that first strike across the face, Father became increasingly violent. I learned to stay away for most of the day after school. Either at the library or the park reading, writing, or watching downloaded episodes of Supernatural on my mp3 player. But if I made it home too early or too late.
Well, let's just say I was sore the following morning.
Then I got to my last memory. I was walking home from the park; it was right after sun down and I had my poor headphones in while my even more battered mp3 player was blasting "Blood" by In This Moment. It had gotten to the second verse when a weird crack whipped through the air in front of me along with a bright line of red. Then I felt something grab me and pull me through. After that, nothing.
The lights were now gone and the black surrounding me continuously fading into grey and then to white. And that's when I come to. I find myself strapped down to what feels like a padded table. I take in my surroundings as I try not to panic.
I'm in what appears to be a dark room with rusty steel tables and mould covered walls. There is an IV drip next to the table I'm strapped to, with a tube leading into my arm. The liquid is strange it's bright blue with layers of purple flittering through it.
Huh. Weird.
I suddenly hear footsteps echoing from outside the room. Looking towards the rusty metal door I see a man enter the room.
Or I think he might have a been a man at some point. His hair was white, brittle, and slicked back with age. His face was a patchwork of different pieces of skin crudely stitched together. As he came closer to me, I notice that one of his eyes is white and obviously blind.
"You are awake," he murmured. His voice is soft with an accent I can't place. "I believe you are wondering why you are here?"
"Yes," my voice cracks and my throat is dry. I swallow trying to relieve the soreness speaking had caused to it.
"You are here to become better, my dear. Which you are already in the process of." At my confused look, he gestures to the IV drip. "In this bag is a mixture I concocted myself. With it, you will be able to do and be so much more."
I listen to his little speech and breathe as I try to think. Why am I not panicking? Any normal person would be struggling against the bonds and screaming bloody murder for help. Instead, I feel a steady calm that spreads throughout my body with each heartbeat.
"Like what?" I ask as I watch my captor circle around me.
"No idea! It all depends on you," he replies with a wicked smirk that brought a cold sense of familiarity.
"I know you. You're Doctor Benton! The doctor who created the immortality elixir! But, how is that possible? You're a character in television show!"
"That might be true in your world, but I paid to have you brought here, in my dimension. So that now I may continue my work on the perfect creature. You."
"I take that there wasn't anyone here that would work for you sick needs," I state emotionlessly as the doctor brought some equipment out of a briefcase.
"There was a version of you here. But she never made it through the procedure, and she was no use to me as a corpse," he replies as he readies a vaccination vial with a fire red liquid. "So, a kind gentleman made a deal with me to have the least missed version of you brought to me to work on."
"How long were you given?" I ask quietly.
My question clearly was startling, as he almost dropped the vial, "Pardon?"
"How long did the demon give you, Doctor Benton?" I repeat, this time more loudly.
At first the man didn't answer as he lost himself in thought.
"Doctor?"
"Why are you not afraid? Why is it that you are not screaming? Not panicking? Why are you just idly chatting as you are about to be injected with an unknown chemichal mixture?"
Honestly, I don't know. But I don't let him know that. "Why did you choose me for your damned project?" I retort hotly.
Doctor Benton sighs and turns towards me, "I chose you due to your perfect genetics. Your mother was a white witch and your father a possessed man during the time your parents conceived you. You, my dear, are the perfect mixture of good and evil for my elixir to work. My goal in mind was to make a true, perfect immortal.
"Not the poor imitation that I am. You would never have to replace parts of your body. Never have to butcher your face when your skin can no longer hold itself together. You could be able to help so many people."
He quickly snaps out of his reverie and started to prepare my arm for the injection.
"What will this do?" I ask eyeing the needle.
"The IV fluid that is being constantly injected into your system is enabling your body to become more… moldable, if you will. And this is the shaper of the clay," he explains calmly.
I am confused. Where was the psychopathic doctor from Supernatural? The man that dissects people while they're still alive.
"Will it hurt?" I ask cautiously in a small voice.
"Most likely. But I tried to nullify as many painful causes as I could without damaging the effects of the serum."
He quickly presses the needle in my arm and injects his elixir into my bloodstream. It's cold. Very cold. And I can feel it travel through my arm and towards my chest.
I sigh as I close my eyes and lay my head back.
"May I ask you a question, Doctor?" I mumble.
"You just did. But I suppose you meant something else; so ask away."
"What happened?"
The strange doctor sighed, and sat down on a cracking leather desk chair. "I recently had a while to think about my past actions, and I came to realize that nothing can truly last forever. So I set my goal to create something that will. You."
"I can see why you would wish that," I hummed. "But has anyone ever told you that forever is the longest kind of hell." The cold was now centering around my heart.
We sit in silence together. Doctor Benton and I, as the cold of the elixir continues to grow colder and the skin above my heart starts to grow hot and itchy.
It suddenly spreads and multiplies in strength and area. My eyes snap open from the pain and see that the doctor had tilted the face of the table so that I was standing up. The pain grows ever more as I scream out in pain. My skin feels like its boiling and cracking as my blood freezes in my veins.
My eyes burn as if acid was being poured on them. I can feel tears leaking out and evaporating off of my skin.
My teeth lengthen and sharpen as my throat constricts. I arch my back and thrash trying to get away from the icy hot pain now centering under the skin of my shoulder blades. Then I feel something in between my shoulder blades move and grow, threatening to break through my skin. Until they do.
Two new limbs sprout painfully from my mid back as my spine lengthens and another, longer limb grows from the lowest reaches of my back.
My hands and feet were next as I felt something grow behind each nail.
It was then the cold of my blood lost the battle with the heat of my skin. In triumph, the heat decides to spread to the rest of my body. It swallows me up and brings me to a land filled with crystal trees and bushes aflame with fires of different colors.