Voices drifted above her, tugging her towards consciousness insistently, and she cracked open her eyes, squinting as a harsh light dazzled her.
"She's awake," someone said. A man, towards her right. "Molly, this don't look like no reporter."
"She was carrying knives." That was Molly—Chandre could recognize her voice. "The man I came in with said her name was Scarlet."
"You took her form." Another man, this one to her left.
"She's a slut anyways," Molly whined, and a boot connected with Chandre's side. She grunted, and her eyes came all the way open. She was bound at her wrists and ankles, her wrists tied to a tractor and her feet to something just as immobile, stretched to an almost painful position. "I mean—"
"There's not explaining, Molly," the second man said. "You took her form. That's against the rules."
"Besides, didn't you want to fuck that Darryl boy?"
"The other was better," Molly replied, and her voice was petulant, childish. Chandre caught on really fast, and her face paled. Molly was a shapeshifter, which was probably why she had had such strong emotions, and had done something to . . . Dean? Oh fuck. Chandre almost winced.
The man to her right leaned down and grabbed her chin, rotating her head a painful hundred degrees to face him. His stale breath washed her face, and she blinked, trying to see straight. These people were all going to die, pretty fucking soon.
"Who the hell are you, girl?" he asked, and his breath was of bad beer and sauerkraut.
Chandre spat in his face, smelling the reek of blood magic on him. He roared in outrage and kicked her, sending her body jerking against the ropes, her arms and legs pulled. They had removed her boots, the bastards, and her ankles were chafed.
The second man grabbed her by the hair and yanked back. She let out a yowl and struggled furiously against her bonds, knowing that there probably wasn't a good way to break them, and it wasn't all that great of an idea until she had a sense of where Dean and Sam were.
A girl moved into view and she froze, staring dumbstruck at—herself. She hadn't realized she had gotten that thin over the past month or so, or that her hair was that . . . red. Her breasts were too big, and the eyes—those were wrong. The eyes were normal.
"Bitch," Chandre hissed, straining against her bonds towards Molly. "When I get out of here—"
Molly smirked—and having her own face smirking at her was unnerving. "Jealous that I fucked your boyfriend?" she leered. "He was pretty good. I think I might just keep him—after we sacrifice you, of course."
"Molly, I told you about your blabbin' mouth," the second man warned. He leaned into view, and his face was ugly, just as Chandre expected after hearing his voice. "You're gonna die, girl," he said. "You know too damn much and the river must be appeased."
"Don't tell her anything," the first man snapped. He swung his boot at her, and she grunted when it hit her in her unprotected stomach, gagging at the pain. "Let's go," he said, and they left, Molly glancing back at her with a satisfied leer. Their footsteps crunched as they walked away.
When the stars dancing in front of her subsided, Chandre glanced around and began to work at the bonds on her wrists. The limbs were chafed, raw and bleeding, but she continued to tug at the bonds, wondering just what the hell was going on. Closing her mind to the pain, she dislocated her thumbs and worked her hands free of the ropes, then popped the joints back into place and removed the bonds at her feet.
Standing shakily, her vision blackening at random points, she stepped forwards, but lurched backwards as her feet alit on fire, pierced by glass shards, which had been scattered about the floor of the barn. Chandre sat down abruptly, biting her lip to keep from screaming. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and she looked around, trying for anything to get rid of the pain as she removed the shards from her feet.
Footsteps neared, and she glanced up and around sharply as the first man swung around the corner and spotted her. His lips twisted into a snarl and he raised the shotgun at her. Chandre moved into a crouch, her breath steady. This she could fight.
"Move and I shoot," the man warned, and, raising his voice, called, "Gus, Danny, get your asses over here! The girl escaped."
More footsteps crunched over and she glanced from side to side, despairing. She had to escape, but she didn't want Dean and Sam to get hurt even more. Then again, they could take care of themselves.
Gus and Danny swung around the corner and closed in on her. As soon as the first man's shot of her was obstructed she erupted into motion, smashing into the younger man (possibly Danny?) and slamming her elbow into his gut. The second man wrapped his arms around her waist but she raked her foot down along his shin and attempted to crush his instep.
He was wearing boots, and she was barefoot, so it didn't work too well, but she was able to escape by faking him out, going for the crotch and then nailing his solar plexus with another elbow. He jerked away, and she ducked the first blow of the shotgun swing, but Danny punched her in the face and she reeled back, her head already spinning from the tender egg on the back of her head.
The first man took the opportunity to drive the rifle butt against her chest and she tumbled backwards, smacking her head against the ground, arms and back and legs sliding against the glass. Luckily she couldn't feel the pain, as she had already blacked out.
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It was dark where Sam sat, and he was tied up, his arms twisted harshly behind his back, the ropes biting into his skin. Looking around, he was able to discern various features, most importantly Dean on the other side of the shed, handcuffed to a wall. His brother was dressed only in a pair of boxers, and looked pretty damn cold in the damp air, but hadn't regained consciousness.
Sam wondered where they were, and memories of last night flooded over him. Scarlet entering the barn, the man standing over him—his head pounded, and he had a killer headache. He didn't know, but this didn't seem anything more than very weird and highly dangerous.
The door opened and someone came in. Sam recognized Scarlet almost instantly, but she moved differently, and something seemed . . . off.
"Hello Sam," she smirked, and flicked on the light. A harsh fluorescent light burned his eyes, and he squinted, keeping his eyes on her.
"Scarlet, help us—get us out of here!" he gasped, and saw Dean stir awake.
"Oh, I don't know about that," she replied, putting a hand on her hip. Dean woke fully at the sound of her voice, and snarled.
"You're back, bitch?" he snapped. "Get your ass over here and I'll show you fighting back. No one freaking pulls a move like that on me—"
"Dean," Sam said, but his brother continued on that strain. "Dean!" Dean finally stopped and looked at him. Scarlet just looked amused, and superior. The latter was an expression he had never seen on her before, and it didn't seem . . . right. "Dean, what the hell is going on?"
"That bitch isn't Scarlet, Sammy," Dean said. His eyes narrowed, and he stared at her. "What the hell did you do to her?"
"Oh, she'll be joining you—for a short time," the shapeshifter—demon?—smirked. "In fact, here she is right now." Two men entered the room, a still form between them. Sam cried out at the sight of the real Scarlet, her back and arms bleeding from various cuts, hair spilled over her face like blood. They dumped her a distance away from the brothers, and one of the men snapped a pair of handcuffs on her wrists, locking her to a pretty sturdy pipe. Her legs were tied up with a thick piece of rope, and she was left there, looking half dead.
The fake Scarlet just watched with amusement, and sauntered over to the real one, touching her battered face. "I did a good job, huh?" she asked, casting a glance at Dean.
"Fuck you!" he snarled, but seemed embarrassed.
"Of course, her tits are a little small." The false Scarlet ran a hand down her breasts. "I think I improved on the earlier model. What do you think?"
"Who the hell are you?" Sam demanded while Dean tugged fruitlessly at his bonds. The real Scarlet's eyes flickered, but her imitation's focus was on him.
"Me? Why, Scarlet, of course," the shapeshifter said, and behind her Scarlet's eyes snapped open. She swung her bound legs and kicked the faker in the back of the knees. Her look-alike crumpled with a yell, and Scarlet kicked her again, aiming for the kill, but unfortunately the other was able to regain her feet, kicking the real Scarlet viciously in the face.
Scarlet's head snapped back as the kick connected, and went still for a moment, blinking as if to clear her head, hanging limp against her bonds.
"What I want to know, is who the hell you three are," the false Scarlet said. "And why you lied about being construction safety experts, or whatever. And why this Striker called."
The real Scarlet's head picked up slightly at the name of her boyfriend, but she said nothing. She just looked dazed.
"You're in trouble, if he called," Dean grinned, putting on more bravado than he possibly could have felt. "He's one mean son of a bitch."
Sam glanced worriedly at Scarlet, eyeing the trickle of blood that was sliding its way down her nose. One eye was rapidly swelling closed, the skin a bluish purple bruise.
The shapeshifter just sneered, and came close to Dean. "Didn't you like last night?" Dean got real still, and Sam wondered just what had happened. Had she? Had he? Oh fuck.
"What do you want?" Sam demanded as Dean's neck began to cord up and he got really mad.
"I wanted Darryl," the shapeshifter snapped. "And I got . . . Dean. Better, I guess, but after all that I went through—"
"What is she talking about?" Sam asked Dean.
"Blood rites," Scarlet croaked, her voice raspy. "They do blood sacrifices. The river has something to do with it—it's thirsty for more blood."
Sam stared at the shapeshifter, who was eyeing Scarlet evilly, looking like she wanted to do something atrocious. "Shut up," she hissed, stalking towards Scarlet, who just met her advance with a level eye. "Just who the fuck are you?"
"Who are you, Molly?" Scarlet asked. "Is that even who you really are?"
Sam was completely lost. First he'd been knocked unconscious, and now two Scarlets, and the real Scarlet knew more about what was going on than he did. Blood sacrifices . . . there were various forms of that, whether as tribute or to bring about some sort of change or call some spirit, so he had no idea what that entailed. If the sacrifice was big enough it could have done a lot of things. He didn't know too much about blood sacrifices, though.
"Don't get pissy just because I slept with your boy," the shapeshifter leered, and Sam spared a glance to Dean, who was looking really embarrassed. "He's really good."
"Whore," Scarlet snapped.
"Watch what you're calling your own face," the shapeshifter snarled, and kicked Scarlet in the ribs. The assassin curled up on herself, a low moan escaping her lips, and the shapeshifter laughed. It wasn't at all like Scarlet's lilting giggle or her amused snicker, but something evil that cracked in Sam's ears. What made it all the more disturbing was that it came from Scarlet's face, and in her voice.
"You're not me."
"Dean would beg to differ, right honey?" the shapeshifter turned towards Sam's brother, and kissed him on the cheek. He just closed his eyes and looked pissed and cold. "We had fun, huh?"
Dean erupted, struggling wildly towards her. "You bitch!" he yelled.
She just smirked. "You know you liked it." She jerked her head, as if hearing something, and her smirk broadened. "Well, that's the last thing you'll like in a long time." She regarded Scarlet for a long moment, her face thoughtful. "I hope they take a long time cutting you up," she said, her voice spiteful. "And when I drink your blood—"
"Go ahead, suck it down," Scarlet snarled. She looked almost triumphant. "You might last a day, maybe even a month, but you'll die a nastier death than me."
The shapeshifter paused, and her eyes narrowed. Sam had never realized how menacing Scarlet could look. "Excuse me?" she asked. "Your boys are dying right after you."
Two men entered the room, and Sam turned his head, eyes widening slightly as a third came in. He carried a shotgun, and had it leveled at them, as if to say that if they made one false move, he'd blow their brains out. Sam was betting that the shotgun wasn't filled with rock salt.
"Grab her," the third said, and the first two moved towards the real Scarlet, cautiously. Her lips rose in a snarl, and she pressed her back against the wall, practically spitting with rage, but her eyes had a wide, trapped look. With those slit pupils she truly looked inhuman—a feral creature.
They beat her down shovels until she lay limp and unconscious, Dean yelling in anger and straining at his bonds. Sam yelled too, not realizing it until he stopped and found that his throat was hoarse, and the shapeshifter stood over them once more, smirking happily. Scarlet had already been dragged away, her head lolling, blood trickling from her nose.
"Say good-bye to your bitch," she leered, and the third man glared at her.
"I told you to stay away from them, Molly," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Bad enough you took her form, but those boys . . . they're trouble."
"I can handle myself, Uncle," Molly snapped, annoyed. She tossed her head in a manner entirely like Scarlet's, and stalked out ahead of the third man. He glanced back at them, and shut the door, taking with him the light.
"You slept with her?" Sam asked, letting his incredulity creep into his voice.
Dean grunted as he struggled with his bonds. In the dark shadows, his face was lined and creased, the hard outline of his jaw sticking out sharply, making him look gaunt and aged. And pissed. "Do not talk to me about it, Sammy," he growled.
Sam shifted his hands, but the ropes were too tight. "Dude, you knew she wasn't . . . I can't believe you would. I mean, you two—"
"Shut up, Sammy," Dean snarled.
"But—"
"Cut it out!"
"Okay, okay," Sam sighed. Sometimes it was easier dealing with a mule. Although he hadn't thought his brother was all that attracted to Scarlet—but maybe he should have seen the signs, or maybe the shapeshifter caught him in a particularly horny moment. It wasn't like Dean ever passed up an opportunity. "I can't break out."
Dean cursed, and smacked his head back against the wall, then cursed again as he hit the bump on his head. "We can't let her get drained by them," he groaned, and resumed his efforts, futile though they were. These rednecks knew how to tie knots.
"She's an assassin—she can handle it," Sam said, but even he couldn't pretend. Scarlet had seemed . . . defeated.
Dean grunted, and then laughed softly. "Aha-ha, I got a hand out," he whispered triumphantly.
Sam waited impatiently, watching the door and listening for anyone coming closer as Dean untied himself and moved over to him.
He was fumbling with the knots tying his legs when a scream pierced the air.