Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any people, places, or things mentioned in this fan fiction.
This is my first published Supernatural fic, so any feedback would be very much apreachiated.
Sam reentered the conscious world tied to a chair; the loose train of his befuddled thoughts classified it as a new experience. Various sounds and smells filtered through his jarred mind, but the first things that really registered were the pounding in his head and the blood trickling down the back of his neck.
He shifted in his bonds with a sigh. Sam Winchester, all of eleven years old, had just experienced being knocked out and secured to an inanimate object for the first time. His first knock-out had happened on his 14th poltergeist hunt, when the ghost had knocked him against a wooden mantle and he'd woken up in the fireplace covered in soot; he'd been nine.
But back the current problem. He tried to remember what hunt they were on, as he flexed his muscles experimentally and looked around.
Dean, Dad, and me are looking for a... a shapeshifter. Right, the boy remembered, nodding to himself. The creature was only Sam's second experience with shifters. In what Dean had dubbed "Bessie" Michigan, 14 year old girl (Oh, Dean's going to love this. I go off by myself and get knocked out by a teenage girl. He'll never shut up about it) had apparently decided to start shifting and killing for no apparent reason.
Cindy, um, Cindy Blayke, Sam mentally reviewed his research, while fidgeting and struggling against the ropes tied around his wrists, Age fourteen. Attends the local high school. Winner of county spelling bee three years running. No criminal record. Adopted near birth. Had a mother, a father, two sisters, and a brother. Was dating a boy from her class…Shawn something. Recently believed to have discovered that she was a monster.
Weird things had started happening in her town a month ago, according to the newspaper; random arguments through town about people appearing in two places at once. It wasn't ever anything dangerous or even interesting, until a very bored reporter published a playful article about there being body-snatching aliens in the little town. Nothing had connected them with Cindy until a week ago, when her entire family ended up dead one night, everyone stabbed with what was speculated to be a letter-opener. That night, Cindy went missing. Strangely, the local sheriff was reportedly seen leaving the Blayke house and simultaneously giving a speech to a county law enforcement committee at the same time, miles away.
Sam was the one who suggested the case; he had heard about the body-snatcher article from his friends at school. He remembered it, when John had mentioned the murders during the break from training they called dinner. Though their father had been skeptical, Dean had backed his brother (though Sam wasn't sure if it was because Dean really believed him or if Dean just really wanted out of their current town). So the Winchesters rolled into town that weekend and deduced the cause. Just as they'd figured out what was going on, Cindy's boyfriend, Shawn, went missing.
The better part of the Winchesters' Saturday was spent searching the entire town, until, running out of options, they'd decided to search an abandoned mill about two miles away. Because it was so unlikely that Cindy and Shawn would be there, with so much ground to cover, John deemed it safe to split up; Sam got the cat-walk, Dean got the main floor, and John took the basement.
Sam had just walked into what looked to be an office, careful, quiet and armed, when something hard clanged against his skull.
Focusing entirely on the present, hazel eyes scanned the room for any idea of his location, but stopped short. A few feet to the boy's right lay the body of Shawn Williamson. He looked peaceful and relaxed, but his blank eyes and the blood pooled around him gave his death away. Cindy had slit his throat.
"He's so pretty like that, don't you think?" The question came from his left, and Sam almost wrenched his neck to see who said it.
Cindy Blayke gazed at her boyfriend's body, her eyes caressing the red lines and shapes; her hair, rippling around her body, was that same terrible red. She flicked her eyes, which weren't the right color anymore, in Sam's direction. Originally, the girl had blond hair, fair skin and kind brown eyes. Right now, her skin looked almost grey, as if she was the dead one; her manic eyes were mismatched, one shocking emerald and the other dull violet.
"They can't make themselves pretty, like I can," she told Sam, while her hair flickered to midnight blue, her eyes greyed and her skin peeled away to reveal another smooth, dark brown layer.
"They can't change themselves, not like me, so I did it for them." A disturbing smile slithered onto her now full lips, and she shifted again, becoming her father. Sam heard the bones in her body cracking with growth, while her skin fell to the floor with a disgusting plop. He watched the pale peach skin crawl back into place and her nose swell then hitch to the side as though broken. Her hair was short, auburn with hints of grey; her eyes were sky blue now.
"He was right," the form of Milton Blayke pondered aloud, "the one who came, the one like me. He told me that they loved me and I love them." Her voice turned sad, but the all-teeth-and-gums smile was still in place. Sam tilted his head to the side, but didn't interrupt. Who knew when she'd tire of talking to him and decide to make him "pretty," too. I just have to stall her long enough, and Dean will find me.
"Told me that if I loved them, I'd have to kill them. They wouldn't like that I could be pretty however I want now. Or if they did, nobody else would, and it'd put them in danger. So I did, for them," she insisted, closing her eyes and letting her father's face slip off, leaving one entirely new in its place. One that was old, an ancient grandmother's face with sweet, round cheeks and white, billowing hair. Her new wrinkles clustered around her shut eyes and thin, moving pale pink lips.
"I killed them- changed them, so they would be pretty and safe. Just like he said. He wanted me to come with him, but I couldn't. Can't leave them, and can't forget Shawn."
She looked across Sam, quirking her lips at Shawn's body. "If you love someone enough, you have to kill them, change them," she focused back on Sam, "before they see how you've changed. Before they kill you first."
Her wrinkled skin sagged away, as she changed for a final time, back into herself or, approximately herself. The fourteen-year-old looked ten years older; her golden hair dulled slightly and brown eyes empty rather than kind.
"Didn't know, you know. I was adopted, just like my brother and sisters. We didn't know I was this," she gestured to the pile of goop around her. "Just thought I was normal, always happy to be me, 'til one day being me sucked and I wanted to be someone else. So I was. Then I knew and no one else did and then he found me. Then he told me; the heart's what kills you."
Sam finally had to ask, noticing for the first time the bloody letter opener in her hand, as she toyed with it and traced a circle around her heart.
"Who, Cindy? Who told you?" Cindy tilted her head.
"What's your name?" Sam blinked, reminding himself he was dealing with a crazy shapeshifter and it'd be best to answer her.
"Sam."
"Sam..." Cindy rolled the name around on her tongue, and suddenly those ten years seemed to melt away. "Sam. Sammy. Sam the Sweetie." She seemed to like that one; it put the maniacal spark back in her eyes.
"Thanks, Sweetie, for listening. Nobody's really listened in so long..." Cindy blinked. "I've got to go now. Shawn's going to walk me home." She lifted the red tinted silver blade to her heart, hands still and sure. She ignored Sam's protest, his pleas for her not to kill herself, even though he knew his dad or brother would be here soon to do it for her.
"Don't forget, if you love someone enough, you have to kill them first, keep them safe." And then it was done. Sam had to watch the life pump itself out of the troubled... creature's body. He shook in his chair, wishing desperately that Dean would come and find him. Where was Dean?
The eleven-year-old sat there and thrashed against his prison for a full twenty minutes before he finally heard Dean calling him.
"Sam," the older boy hissed through his teeth at the bottom of the stairs; it was the quiet that allowed Sam to hear him, as hyper-aware as he was in the panic he'd worked himself into. The bound Winchester thrashed harder against the chair and opened his mouth to answer his brother, but nothing except gasps came out.
"Sammy," Dean said louder, climbing the stairs, "Where are you, geek-boy? I'm ready for dinner, and I'm not gonna wait much longer for you to get your-." The teenager cut off suddenly, seeing the half-closed office door and hearing the frantic gasping coming from inside.
"Dean," Sam managed to breathe out, intensely relieved. Dean's here; Dean's gonna come cut me loose. Dean's gonna take care of me, and he'll know. He'll know if Cindy was right. Sam didn't think she was right, but she sounded so sure… But she was crazy, and Dean would tell him so; Dean would tell him that Cindy was wrong, because Sam's big brother knew what was right.
Dean barged into the room with his gun raised, but lowered it as soon as he saw the bodies on the floor and his baby brother tied to a chair.
"Sam! Are you okay, Sammy? What happened? Did she hurt you? Who killed who? Who tied you up? Aw man, you're bleeding; they hit ya over the head? What'd you do to your wrists, moron? They're raw. Stupid little brothers…" Dean's muttered, as he knelt next to Sam, cut the electric cord tying Sam's hands together, and began checking his little brother for injuries. When he paused to allow Sam enough time to answer, he noticed his brother's stuttering breathes and sickly pallor.
"D-d-De-," Sam tried to speak, but his mind and body were too shaky. No, he snarled at himself, I'm not a baby. I'm not gonna cry because a monster killed herself. Yet here he was, franticly trying to take in air. The elder brother softened, realizing that something must have really disturbed his brother. Dean smoothed his hand over Sam's head, then gripped his shoulder comfortingly.
"It's okay, Sammy, just breathe. You don't havta talk 'til you want, okay? Just breathe."
Sam shook his head, determined to soldier on and report his experience. He was eleven years old; he wasn't going to break down over this crazy case. He knew he had to stop letting hunts affect him like this; Dean and Dad were never going to trust him on his own, if he never learned to control his emotions like they did.
"Sh-she killed Shawn. After I woke up, she- she took the opener, and-." A violent shudder ripped through his scrawny body, and he turned his wide, bright eyes to Dean's. "She said- you don't kill people you love, right, Dean? Not even to protect them; that's not how it works, right? You don't-."
Dean cut him off the boy's building hysterics, shaking his shoulder gently but firmly.
"Sam- hey, Sammy, listen, huh?" Sam bobbed his head in confirmation. "Whatever she said to you, it's wrong, okay? Family looks out for each other; they don't murder everybody they love. She was Glenn-Close-crazy, right? She was a shifter, Sammy; you know they're all whacked out. You told me that they all have Mussolini disorder or something."
Sam gave him a weak scowl, just like Dean meant him to, "Multiple personality disorder."
Dean grinned and ruffled Sam's shaggy hair, careful of the bump on his head.
"Whatever you say, Nerdicus."
Unbeknownst to the siblings, objects around the room moved subtly. There were no windows, no breeze, yet abandoned papers fluttered very slightly behind the chair. The overhead fan pulsed twice for no apparent reason, and a pen rolled itself hastily off the desk.
The Winchester youngsters failed to notice; Dean was so involved in calming his brother, while Sam focused on his caretaker's comforting. Their father, however, stood in the door way and saw everything. He silently watched the movements slow, as Sam began to calm down. Speculative thoughts raced through John's mind, as he realized that it was probably his son causing the activity.
He remembered the words of a demon he'd exorcized a few months ago, telling him he had no idea what demon spawn he had under his own nose. When asked what it meant, it had wheezed a laugh at him.
"You have no idea what your baby boy's destined for," it had sneered, "Not a clue." John had shaken himself, sure that it had been trying to antagonize him, and continued the exorcism.
For a moment, standing in the threshold of that abandoned office, he wondered what destiny the demon meant.
Then Sam's eyes met his, and a litany of emotions lit them in only a few seconds: recognition, relief, confusion, and finally raw, instinctual fear. Not fear of what had just happened; his youngest was stronger than that, even then.
Definitely not fear of Dean, who was intently checking his kid's wrists and murmuring softly of how proud he was of Sam for keeping his cool. He always knew Sammy was brave and wasn't going to scream or pass out like some other whiny, overdramatic hunters he'd seen over the years. The older brother kept up his story of one of them as he tended Sam's wrists, oblivious to John and Sam's moment going on literally over his head.
In that moment, so quick and almost non-existent, Sam was afraid Cindy was right; afraid that John was about to lift the gun in his hand and end Sam before he ever found out what Sam was capable of. In that moment, which Sam would dismiss the next second and would haunt John for the rest of his life, John considered doing it. What if Sam's destiny belonged to the demon, to fight alongside the thing that killed Mary? What if Sam's inherent goodness was tainted already?
Horrified at himself, the eldest Winchester re-holstered his gun and guiltily looked away from his children. Sam relaxed back into his chair, allowing Dean's soft words and strong presence to soothe him. He was safe with his family. Of course you don't kill people you love.