Title: Switch
author: Roony
rating: T
disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
summary: A convicted killer John put away uses dark magic to switch bodies with Sam.
A/N: hey guys! awesome to see a good response to this story. I really am getting into it. again, reviews appreciated!
Chapter Two: Ritual
The article had given the address of the cat's owners, Mr. and Mrs. Reeder. The address was in the near by town of Coolidge, so it was easy to locate. So, the brothers were currently driving down a simple suburban lane, searching for the Reeder house. Dean had popped in an AC/DC tape, and therefore Sam was getting increasingly irritated. He was trying to pick out 'the white house with black shutters', as the article had named the house, in a sea of white houses with black shutters while trying to figure out what his creepy dream had meant and what it had to do with cats birthing rattlesnakes.
Finally, Sam could take no more screeching guitar and screaming vocals. "Would you turn that off?" he snapped.
"What? Afraid it'll scar the innocent school-kids or something?" Dean retorted irritably. He hated it when Sam complained about his tunes.
"No, it's giving me a headache," Sam snapped sharply, "Turn it off!"
Dean moved his hand to the 'eject button, but he stopped short of hitting it, giving Sam a pointed look. "Can I get a 'please'?" he asked sarcastically, ignoring the fierce glare he was getting.
In response, Sam reached over and turned the tape off himself. Then he tried returned to his side of the car, arms folded crossly over his chest.
But Dean just shrugged it off. He was used to Sammy having bouts of grumpiness every now and then. "You know, we really need to work on your people skills."
Sam didn't respond. He didn't mean to be bitchy with Dean, he really didn't. But there was too much going on in his head for him to be Mr. Sunshine today. And he was still trying to shake the feelings the dream had left him with. It wasn't a good sign that the dream was still affecting him after a couple hours of being awake. Sam was aware of this, and it only made him more worried and on edge, thus making it easier for him to be pissed off. And, since Dean was the only other person around, Sam couldn't help but take it out on him.
"Hey, I think this is it," Dean announced with feigned optimism, snapping Sam out of his broody thoughts.
The guys got out of the Impala to stand before a nice suburban home. Two floors, chain-link fence, wide front porch, and semi-green grass. All very normal, very inconspicuous.
"Huh," Dean said, observing his surroundings, "Never guess a four-legged freak of nature lived right behind that screen door, would ya?"
"You never did like cats," Sam remarked sagely as he opened the fence.
"Hey, cats I don't mind," Dean replied as he followed, "It's ones that pop out snakes I have issues with."
The brothers were halfway across the gravel path to the house when a stout man with graying black hair appeared behind the screen door.
"Can I help you boys?" he asked politely. He didn't seem to think it at all odd that the two young men had just rolled up to his home and walked right up to it.
Dean switched into his con mode immediately. "Yes sir, I'm John Raines, this is Mark Howell," he said, quickly coming up with random aliases, "We're with the ASPCA. Are you Mr. Reeder?"
The man cocked his head at Dean's introduction. He looked from Dean to Sam, sizing them up. Then with shrugged and opened the screen door, waving them over. "Guess you'll want to see Bitsy then, right?" In response to the blank look he received from the brothers, Mr. Reeder explained, "Our cat, that's her name."
"Um, if you wouldn't mind," Sam replied politely as the brothers started up the wooden steps to the porch.
Tucker stood next to the doorway of a small room in the chapel. Two guards were stationed on either side of him. They glared at him every now and then, but Tucker didn't seem to notice or care. He just stared off into space with blank eyes.
The doorway was curtained off from view. The room had once been a small storage closet, but that had all changed once Victor Gavin had moved into the Florence State Prison of Arizona. Victor Gavin was known for being one of the most self-incriminating defendants in the history of criminal courts. However, he was also known for one of the best advocates for the first amendment, specifically the right to freedom of worship. Victor had made a huge break in national prison policy regarding a prisoner's rights to worship. Victor had even managed to get a separate room for his religious practices, even getting the curtain to give him some privacy. He was under video camera surveillance inside, but Victor didn't worry about that. He knew that whoever looked at the tapes of his practices would be too ignorant of his chosen practice to get him in any sort of trouble.
The only problem wit this was that Victor's chosen religion was the dark arts. Victor Gavin was in fact very skilled in black magic.
So there, in the small room he'd managed to obtain, all by himself, Victor sat before an inverted pentagram he'd painted on the floor. It wasn't in blood, the preferred fluid for the ritual, because the guards searched the room before and after his sessions. He'd had to make due with sweat instead, which was the next best thing. To his left was a stack of ancient books.
Victor picked up one and lifted the dusty green cover of 'Crime and Punishment' to find the book hollowed out Inside were now six black candles, a book of matches, and a sprig of belladonna. Gavin nodded, pleased. Tucker had done well.
The Winchesters were led into a rather quaint home, obviously the house of a couple of retirees. There were out of date chairs in the living room, framed pictures of the kids and grandkids dotting the walls like stars in the sky.
"Hey, Gina!" Mr. Reeder called into the kitchen, "There're some boys here from PETA or something' like that here to see Bitsy!"
A woman, almost as stout as her husband, came into the living room with a rather puzzled look on her face. In her arms was a plump white cat, Bitsy. Mrs. Reeder looked from Dean to Sam rather concernedly. "What do you want with Bitsy?" she asked cautiously.
"Ma'am, we understand that something rather odd occurred to you cat three days ago?" Dean asked politely, apparently set on not actually saying the name 'Bitsy'.
Mrs. Reeder became a little more relaxed, now that she knew what her visitors were here about. "Oh, yes. I should've known something like this would happen after they ran that story in the paper." She suddenly turned to her husband with a hand on her hip, the other one holding her cat. "What's the matter with you, Roy? Ask our guests to sit awhile!"
Mr. Reeder lowered his head in meek apology. "I…didn't know how long they'd be staying…" he tried pitifully.
Dean had to smirk at the exchange. Roy Reeder seemed was a pretty big guy, like an ex-linebacker size, yet he was obviously no match for whatever his wife had to hit him with.
Gina Reeder shook her head at her spouse, but held back her wrath while there were guests around. She smiled at the boys pleasantly. "Please, have a seat. Would you like some lemonade?"
"Yes, please," Sam answered with a polite smile.
"Uh, yeah, sure," Dean replied, plopping down onto the nearest chair.
Mrs. Reeder nodded and turned to the kitchen, gesturing rather threateningly that Mr. Reeder accompany her.
As soon as he was sure that the Reeders were out of earshot, Dean leaned over to Sam and remarked, "If I am ever that whipped, shoot me."
Sam smirked. "I don't know… It'd be pretty fun to watch."
"I'm serious, Sam. If some chick gets me in an apron fixing lemonade, just put a .45 at the back of my head and pull the trigger. Put me out of my misery."
"So…if that happened, does that mean that I'd get your car?" Sam asked thoughtfully.
Dean stared at him for a minute. Then he sat back, looking like he'd been scared into seriousness. "Okay, never mind. Let me be whipped. And when I die, that car is getting buried with me just so you can't have it."
Sam raised an eyebrow at his brother. "You're obsessive."
"I am not," Dean defended huffily, "I'm just protective. No way in hell am I letting my car get driven through a house again."
The candles were lit and stationed at each point of the pentagram, the belladonna as placed in the center of it. Gavin sat on his knees now before the setting, arms clasped together in prayer.
He spoke slowly and clearly as his eyes glinted with anticipation and the natural high one gets when praying. "Live morf sureviled noitatpmet otni ton su deal dna su tsniaga ssapssert ohw esoht evigrof ew sa sessapssert ruo su evigrof dna daerb yliad ruo yad siht su evig nevaeh ni si ti sa htrae no enod eb lliw yht emoc modgnik yht eman yht eb dewollah nevaeh ni tra ohw rehtaf rou."
He took a deep breath, having finished the prayer. He unclasped his hands and rolled up the blue sleeves of his prison uniform. On each of his wrists was a black tattoo of a circle. He paused, glaring at them with accusation and anger. Then he clasped his hands together again, this time speaking in English.
He spoke with a reverence and formality that didn't suit him. "Ancient Darkness, hear your servant. Deliver me from the hands of my captors. They commit blasphemy against your power, claiming authority over when I live and when I die. My life and its end lies in your hands and yours alone." He paused and looked to the pentagram and waited for a response, but didn't get one.
Gavin was suddenly nervous. Suppose he was abandoned? Perhaps he would be fully punished for his failings. He pushed those doubtful feelings aside. No. He wouldn't be left behind. He was needed.
"The time of the equinox approaches," he went on, "I, your servant, will serve you as passionately as I did in days passed. I will unlock the gates and release you upon this world. Yet I am a mere mortal, cursed thrice. Unbind the gift of power that you generously bestowed upon me, and I will rise into your service once more."
He glanced at the pentagram again, more nervously than last time. The belladonna in the center of the pentagram suddenly burst into flames. Gavin's eyes flickered with relief and wicked pleasure as the smoke from the spontaneous flames expanded to a physically impossible amount, twisting into half-formed shapes.
"So, what exactly happened?" Sam asked as he set his glass of lemonade on the nearby wooden table.
Mrs. Reeder sat on a large comfortable chair across from the Winchesters with Bitsy purring contentedly on her lap. "Well, on Tuesday I went into the kitchen and found Bitsy here on the kitchen floor with a bunch of little newborn rattlers down there with her," she said. She sounded only a little uncomfortable telling the story, probably because she'd told the story to the reporter earlier.
"They were just there on the floor?" Dean asked, a bit of skepticism in his voice. Rattlesnakes were native to the area; there was a chance that this wasn't a supernatural occurrence. It could've been a bad prank or just a weird coincidence.
Mrs. Reeder shifted in her chair slightly, looking down at her pet with a concern brought by the memory. "No…they were…suckling Bitsy. Just like a litter of kittens."
Okay, that just might do it, Dean thought as he looked over at the content feline. The cat probably had little significance now; it had served its purpose as an omen, and would most likely have no other strange occurrences surrounding it.
"Well, I just about panicked then," Mrs. Reeder went on, "Rattlers are fanged and poisonous even when they're born. So I called for Roy and he knocked them around with a broom. I picked up Bitsy. She'd gotten a couple of nips, but we keep an anti-venom around just in case and I took care of her. Roy killed all of the snakes." She sighed and patted Bitsy affectionately. Then she looked up at the boys kindly. "Is that all you have to know?"
"Yes, I think that should just about do it, Mrs. Reeder," Dean said as he stood to leave.
"Thank you for your time," Sam added as they headed for the door.
"Not at all," Mrs. Reeder said, waving them good-bye.
Victor Gavin watched with delight as the tattoos on his wrists flickered in and out of existence. Yes…he could feel the power returning to him… The flames on the candles and in the center of the pentagram blazed brighter and brighter. The black smoke twisted around Gavin like it had a mind of its own, every now and then flickering with channels of white surges of power.
"That's it," Gavin said, breathing in the smoke and heat like the scent of a good wine, "Give it to me, come on…"
All of a sudden, the curtain behind him was thrown open and three guards burst in. The lights had burned too bright, attracting all the wrong attention. Gavin whirled around, his eyes filled with rage and fear.
"No!" he cried out as one guard grabbed him and shoved him onto the concrete floor. One guard stamped out the flames in the center while the other put out the candles. All of the power that once filled the room vanished instantaneously. "NO!" Victor struggled, which turned out to be a mistake. Prison guards weren't allowed to carry weapons, but they didn't need them to control the prisoners. Gavin was kicked hard in the side and slammed against the hard floor. He flinched at the hit, and soon felt warm blood trickling down his face.
Though they were being held out of his eyesight, Gavin knew that the tattoos on his wrists had reformed.
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