A dying woman lay in a small worn bed, face pale and tired. Her breaths came in quick, short spurts of air and with each passing second she could feel herself slipping away from the world she knew. Her grasp on reality was fading fast, and her mind was clouding, obscuring her thoughts. The woman's life was slipping from her fingertips, and a dark cloud of fear and pain descended upon the woman. She wanted so badly to die, for her pain to end, but she couldn't go. She had someone to take care of, and if she were to leave now… The weight on her chest lifted as her gaze shifted to her daughter.
The young girl sat in a chair that was on its last leg, gripping the hem of her tattered shirt and winding it around her finger, staring at a burning candle. Her tangled dark hair fell around her face like a sheet masking an ancient secret. Her face was emotionless as though completely oblivious to the woman in the bed beside her, but the pain was apparent in her eyes.
The flame shuddered, reflected in the girl's large green eyes as though the candle was mourning with her.
The girl was silent, knowing that her mother was dying. She wanted to say something comforting, to let her mother know that she was going to be fine when she was gone. The truth was that she wasn't, but she had to be strong. She was always the supporting beam and she always would be, even after her mother was gone.
Soft rain pattering on the tin roof of the shack was the only thing that broke the stagnant silence that pressed against the daughter's ears. With each passing second the already dank room grew gloomier, seeming to suck all hope from the daughter's heart. A dam of various powerful emotions swirled inside her chest, threatening to break and destroy the feeble town below. She hid her emotions so as not to worry her mother as she had always done, but the wall holding them back was always that much closer to breaking, giving way to life's pressure.
"There's a picture in the top drawer," the mother's voice was hoarse and rattly, as though she had something caught in her throat.
The daughter glanced up at her mother's words, startled at her voice. She didn't recognize it.
"I never told you that your father was still living, out of fear that you would go and find him-" the woman was overcome by dry coughs that shook her whole body. The girl bit her lip and closed her eyes, fighting back tears.
"Mom-"
"He travels the country. If you find him he can help you, but once I'm gone," the girl shook her head and silent tears poured down her face, "I want you to find someone and alert them of what happened. Go to an orphanage and stay there for a few months, and then you can go and find him." She paused, "I know that I can say nothing to stop you forever. You've always been a free spirit."
The mother reached up shakily and touched her daughter's face lovingly, smiling, wiping away her tears. Her daughter's breath caught in her throat, and she let loose a soft sob.
The candlelight flickered, almost being extinguished by an unknown source.
The girl directed her gaze to the picture which was tearing at the edges, covered with dust. In it, her mother sat at what looked like a bar. Her mother looked so young, smiling, carefree. The crow's feet at the corners of her eyes were nonexistent, her dirty blonde hair tied away from her face in a messy bun, her eyes shining softly. She had only been a kid. The man beside her had a tanned complexion with short, slightly spiked brown hair. A bright white, calm smile was spread nonchalantly across his face. His emerald eyes, held secrets and danger, but that was as far as she could read. His eyes were exactly like hers. In fact, most of her features were her father's.
She sucked in her breath and looked back up at her mother, wiping away tears and clearing her vision to see her mother lying motionless, eyes closed peacefully.
The dam in the girl's chest broke as she let out a tortured moan. The small town was crushed, and it felt as though the small, safe world the daughter had built up all of her life crumbled, leaving her vulnerable and weak. Tears poured from her eyes, grime washed away from her cheeks, leaving trails of soft skin on her face. Her sobs filled the small shack and the candle flickered sadly, the light thrown around the room.
She suddenly fell silent, sensing something in the room with her, lurking in the flickering shadows.
She was right.
Howling wind ripped through the shack and threw the girl's dark tangled hair around her face. The wind seemed to want to rip the photo of her father and mother out of her h+and, but she fiercely kept it gripped tightly in her hand, as it was the only thing she had left. A ghostly grey face swirled in the everlasting wind, the wrinkled dry skin cracking as it opened its mouth and shrieked in unison with the girl.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Why are we here, Sam?" Dean's words were laced with annoyance and slight boredom.
Sam slammed shut the passenger door of the Impala, its familiar groan drowned out by children's energetic squeals of joy. Sam climbed out, his tall physique unfolding as he walked side by side with his older brother.
Both of the Winchesters were dressed in fancy black suits and ties, Dean tugging uncomfortably at the cuff of his black jacket. Sam had a black briefcase clutched in his hand, containing a gun, two knives and several other tools of the Winchester's trade as well as a pen and clipboard with blank pages for "note taking".
Giant maple trees lined the concrete beige steps, the afternoon's dappled sunlight falling through the full, bright green leaves. The orphanage was buzzing with life, young children chasing each other around on freshly cut grass, shrieking with joy, while older kids sat on picnic tables, noses buried in books or talking casually amongst themselves. Cars passed by regularly, typical of the suburbs.
"Two months ago, a woman mysteriously died. A single gash to her chest. They found no evidence of anything that cut her in the wound."
"That could be anything." Dean responded.
"Not if the organs had been hundreds of years old when she had died in her mid- twenties."
Dean shot a look of understanding at his brother. "So a Shwu."
Sam quickly replied, "Read the report on the victim. All injuries led to a Shwu's attack."
"Explain to me why we're at an orphanage."
Sam looked up at the old building and then to his brother, sighing as though annoyed with his lack of intelligence. "The witness is here, the woman's daughter. She saw the whole thing, but remained unscathed."
Dean didn't ask Sam how he knew. The pattern of all Shwu attacks was to kill all and any that saw its presence. It wouldn't rest until it'd gotten the girl. If it was indeed a Shwu attack, the girl was in danger.
Dean's eyes flicked up to the huge old brick apartment building, and on the fifth floor in a large window amongst many sat a small figure of a girl. It was too far away to make out her features, and her dark sheet of hair swung down to cover her face. She seemed to be staring at him intently, sending shivers down his spine. There was something about that girl that gave Dean an uneasy feeling. He brushed it off hastily.
"What's her name?" asked Dean, dragging his eyes from the girl.
There had been a slightly suspicious drop in possible cases, and the Winchesters had been checking up on anything they could find, as Dean seemed to be physically incapable of staying in one place for too long.
"Her name's Gwen," Sam said, walking up the concrete beige steps and ringing the doorbell. "Gwen Brantley."
"Brantley," Dean muttered to himself, "Sounds familiar."
The old wooden door opened and a woman appeared, her face lined with stress and anxiety.
She smiled, looking slightly relieved, "Oh, hello. If you're here for an adoption you'll have to make an appointment and come back later."
Dean put on his best smile, while Sam went about looking innocently adorable. "No miss, we're here to see Gwen Brantley," said Dean, smile never wavering.
"Oh, then you must be the physiologists," she smiled wearily, the dark circles under her eyes wrinkling.
The boys nodded. She opened the door wider, so Sam and Dean could enter.
"Thank you so much for coming, Doctors...?"
Dean zoned out as he looked up at the window the girl had been in, only to find it eerily empty. The girl had disappeared. He snapped back to attention at his brother's words.
"Um, Nelson and Abradale," Sam said while Dean looked around at the intricately carved staircase.
"The first floor is six and under, the second eight, nine, and ten and the third and fourth twelve through fifteen. Fifteen and up are on the fifth," the woman said, directing them up the stairs as she babbled. "The girls' rooms are on the right and boys on the left, so Brantley..." she paused, thinking, "Third or fourth level, take your first left and head on to the stairs at the back, and the rooms should be labeled with their occupants." She rambled, trying to fill the quiet air. She probably wasn't used to the company of an adult. An older boy came out of the kitchen. He looked about sixteen. He pointed behind him with a slightly panicked look on his scarred face, what looked like a cigarette burn on his left cheek.
"I can't get Matthew to stop crying." The baby's cries were muffled by the door it came behind.
The woman sighed, "I'll take care of him. Can you show these two to Gwen Brantley's dorm?" She bustled off, and the boy had a look of surprise on his face.
"Gwen Brantley?" He muttered after the woman in confusion, but by then she was gone. The boy turned back around, staring up at the Winchesters with a look of intimidation.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, saying without making eye contact, "Follow me." Leading the brothers up the stairs, he glanced over his shoulder to look at the men uneasily. Sunlight flooded the long hallway through the huge glass windows, illuminating every nook and cranny in golden light.
At the end of the hallway when the boy began to turn, he let out a startled yelp and jumped back. Dean reached for his gun instinctively; quick to try to pull the boy to safety, but a female voice stopped him.
"Sorry I startled you." Out of the shadows stepped a young girl, extending a hand to help the boy up. She straightened, turning to the two Winchesters as the boy hurried back down the hall.
"I'm Gwen. You said you wanted a word?" Her words seemed carefully chosen with deadly precision and echoed with a sound that was bored and resilient. Her voice was light and somewhat bittersweet and carried a tone that Dean knew too well. Dean remembered it in his mother's voice when she spoke. It was one of a disguised past that she was determined to forget. Gwen's voice was full of hidden emotions that she'd rather bottle up than let everyone know about.
Gwen put all her weight on one foot and leaned against the wall, her arms and legs crossed, appearing uninterested in the men. Straight, dark brown hair cascaded down her back with an air of grace. The sun hit her face and illuminated her eyes. They were two pools the color of freshly cut grass on a hot summer's day and they shone calculatingly behind her dark eyelashes, as though reading the boys.
Light freckles were dusted on the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Her lightly tanned skin blended well with the maroon shirt she wore with "Wellborne Orphanage" embellished on the front in large, yellow, looping letters.
Her face and the way she held herself seemed incredibly familiar. The pouty, pink lips, the nose, and the way she kept a thousand secrets behind her eyes. She seemed like a younger female version of Dean.
Sam glanced over at his brother speechlessly and then back to the girl.
"Mute, I see?" Gwen raised her thin eyebrows, her eyes gleaming in the soft sunlight.
Dean cleared his throat. "I'm Dr. Nelson and this is Abradale. We're here to talk to you."
Gwen smirked. "C'mon," she said, turning away and gesturing for them to follow her.
Sam elbowed Dean in the ribs and nodded at the girl.
"What was that for?"
"Did you not see her?"
Dean glanced over his shoulder at where Gwen had disappeared. "Yes. And?"
"Dean," Sam said, disconcerted, "She looks just like you."
Dean turned as though to look, but she had disappeared.
"You coming?" Her voice echoed through the empty halls.
Bright light spilled from the edges of two giant white pullover shades, and Gwen crossed over to one of them swiftly. Dean had noticed now how he and the girl looked much alike, and was shifting uncomfortably in the doorway next to his brother. Thoughts blurred together in his mind, searching his memories for any creature that fit the description of the girl's. Shapeshifter? Possibly. It could just be a normal, human girl, but until he knew for sure, he was ready to jump for his gun at any time.
Shadows fled from the daylight, illuminating the large room. Everything was pure white or pale blue in the room, reminiscent of a hospital. Three twin beds were on the far side of the wall, the two on the rightmost side neatly folded and tucked without a wrinkle in sight. The one closest to the window was a mess, the blankets and sheets ripped apart. It looked as though whoever slept there didn't get much rest and didn't care for neatness.
Gwen turned, looking at the two boys with a trace of a smirk on her face. "You two've got arms. The chairs are in the closet," she nodded towards a brown door with rusty hinges in the right corner of the room.
Sam glanced over at his brother, not expecting him to take this. Dean, tight-lipped and clearly irritated, walked over to the closet and pulled out two chairs for himself and Sam. Gwen was already sitting in a wide, cushioned chair by the open window.
Taking their seats, Dean fixed his eyes curiously on the girl. She was broad shouldered and sturdily boned. He noticed a thin, nearly invisible scar on her collarbone that looked like it had been caused by a blade at least a few years ago. Sam pulled out his clipboard and poised his pen over the page as though ready to write something.
Her emerald eyes were trained on Dean, taking in his features carefully. Dean stared right back at her evenly, not blinking.
Sam cleared his throat, "So, Gwen," Gwen's eyes flicked to Sam He faltered uncertainly, finding her gaze unnerving.
The girl relaxed slightly in her chair as she finished inspecting them, her gaze turning casual and looking up at Sam expectantly. She had regained her tough nature and seemed to pull herself up to appear larger. The similarity of her and Dean was almost frightening as she gazed up at them in an expression full of attitude and fearlessness.
Sam cleared his throat once more, finishing, "Tell us what you saw that night."
"May I see your identification cards, please?"
Sam, surprised, fumbled with his tag as he pulled his out. Dean held out his fake ID to her without missing a beat. She studied them carefully, and, her brow furrowed she looked up at the boys again. It was her turn to look unnerved.
Soundlessly, she stood and strode over to the unmade bed, kneeling to pull an old, tattered suitcase out from underneath the rusty springs. She fumbled with the latch. The Winchesters kept an attentive eye on her, watching her every move. Dean already had his hand on the hilt of his gun, ready to unsheathe his weapon.
She unclasped her suitcase and rummaged through the far and few in between contents. She pulled out a thick envelope and latched the suitcase shut again, pushing it back under the bed roughly.
She mutely unfolded the envelope, pulling out a worn photo, and held it in her hand, staring down at it. Her hands shook slightly, but her face was pulled in a calm look of complete bewilderment as she shifted her gaze to Dean.
"You're not psychologists. Stupid play, by the way, having two. You'd only need one."
"Excuse me?" Sam said, unsure of what to do.
"Don't play stupid with me," Gwen said threateningly in a low vicious growl. She sounded as though she was a cornered wild animal, lashing out to defend herself. "My mother hates physiologists," she added quietly, uncertainly.
Slowly, Dean reached for the picture and lifted it gently from the girl's clasp. His eyes widened as he looked at the photograph. Drunken memories came rushing at him mercilessly.
"I'm sorry we had to meet like this," Gwen said in a low, hushed tone. She dared not look into Dean's face as she feared his reaction. All she wanted to do was to get out of this place. This man was her only ticket out.
Curiosity taking over, Sam reached for the picture, taking it from his brother's hands. He had a look of confusion and panic on his face, and he kept his widened eyes fixed on the picture.
Sam looked down at it and a dreading feeling started in his stomach, spreading steadily throughout his body. Dean sat with a woman at a bar, a fairly attractive woman too. He was smiling up at the camera. If Sam knew his brother, he could guess what came next.
"Dean?" Sam said, looking at his older brother, searching for answers.
The tense atmosphere seemed so thick it muffled the taller man's words, making them a distant mumble of a question. This couldn't possibly be... But it was. How had this happened? Gwen's pulse quickened, bewildered and relieved. She could sense something about the two boys that was just off somehow. They had something very sensitive going on in their lives. She knew this from their body language. Dean's eyes held a somber mind, even though his exterior was undeniably tough.
"Dean?" Gwen snapped back to reality, and she looked, wide eyed, at the man named Dean.
Dean was having an internal struggle, and his brother's incessant nagging was ignored, his words bouncing off a barrier in Dean's mind. Scenes of a night almost fourteen years ago flicked past his memory like speeding cars on a highway. No. This wasn't possible. It couldn't be...
Dean looked at the girl, panicked. No. She couldn't be. She couldn't be.