Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, unfortunately. However, I do own Alyxandria, Oliver, Kylie, Lily and any other character you don't recognize, so please don't steal them!
Summary: Dean's teenage daughter, Alyxandria, falls for the mysterious but cute new guy at her high school, and manages to catch his eye, too. However, there's more to him than she could ever imagine…
An old, two-story house stood at the end of a crumbling blacktop driveway, beyond a rusty, cast iron fence. The house was surrounded by tall, pine trees and set back from the road in a field with dying, yellow grass. It seemed as if it hadn't been occupied in over a decade; the grass on its lawn was overgrown, weeds and moss infested the cracks in the blacktop, and ivy had begun to cover the right side of the house. The slate gray paint was chipping, and the wood was beginning to decay, either from termites, weather, or age. Some of the grimy windows had been boarded up or broken, and the charcoal black door was covered in spray paint from different vandals and troublemakers who wanted to leave their mark.
The house's decrepit basement was dark, and dirty. The rickety, wooden steps led downward, to the large room, which had a cold, cement floor. Underneath the single, broken window, there was a table with a red candle on it, and a gun, with a pentagram and a Latin inscription etched into its wood. There was other black and red candles scattered all over, throwing off some light and giving the room an eerie glow. An older man with graying hair, dressed in a black business suit stood by the table, running his fingers over the gun, his eyes flashing with a fiery yellow, while a teenage boy stood over a teenage girl. The boy had shaggy, jet black hair and cobalt blue eyes. The young girl lying before him was tied up, her hands bound together tightly with a rope and a bandana covering her eyes. She was wearing a pentagram pendant around her neck. She had cuts and bruises all over her tired body; tears rolling down her frightened face…
I awoke abruptly, sitting upright in bed as an almost deafening clap of thunder shook the entire house. I was trembling; beads of sweat dripping down my face. My clothing was damp and sticking to my moist skin. Another flash of lightning tore across the night sky as I scanned the dark room and I ripped the sheets off me. I hopped out of bed, shivering slightly when my bare feet made contact with the cold hardwood floor. I walked over to the bay window diagonal from the bed, and sat down on the soft cushions of the window seat, knees drawn up to my chest and my head resting lightly on the cold glass. Outside, the rain was pouring down in buckets, the fierce wind blowing it in every possible direction, and whipping the multicolored fall leaves off the trees.
When I was a little girl, I absolutely hated thunderstorms. The roaring, crackling thunder and bright flashes of light were enough to scare me half to death. I remembered waiting under the covers, whimpering, and trying to gather up my courage to run down the hall to my father's bedroom. I would stand in his doorway, hesitant to disturb him, knowing he hated being woken up at odd hours of the night, especially after coming home from a "business trip" (as he called them when I was little) tired and sore. But no matter how bruised, battered and exhausted my father was, I knew he would always make time for me.
An especially bright bolt of lightning or loud clap of thunder would prompt me to go scurrying to the side of his bed.
"Dad!" I'd yell urgently, half-whispering so I wouldn't wake up Sammy in the next room. "Daddy!" He'd stir a bit, groan and mutter under his breath, then open his eyes and look over at my tiny form, practically shaking with fear, clutching my favorite teddy bear.
"What is it?" he'd whisper back, gently. For such a strong and macho man, my dad had a softer side that only my uncle and I was able to see.
"I'm scared, Daddy." I'd tell him. He would pull me onto the bed and I would situate myself comfortably between the blankets, and cuddle close to him, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne. He would wrap his arms around me and pull me to him, planting a kiss into the top of my head.
"There's nothing to be afraid of, Alyx," he would say, as I played with the amulet that he never took off, "Nothing will happen to you as long as I'm here. I promise."
Only after those reassuring words were uttered, I would fall asleep, feeling safe in my father's arms. He was my protector; my role model. He was the sharpest, bravest hunter I knew, and I admired him greatly. Dean Winchester was my hero. He always managed to come to my rescue, and kept a close eye on me. It was his job, he told me once—it was his duty to keep Sam and me safe. After all, I was the only girl in his life now, since my mother, Jo (Harvelle) Winchester, had been killed when I was a baby. Dad doesn't like to talk about her death, obviously. The only thing he's told me was that they never found my mother's body, and searched for awhile until they assumed she had been killed, and buried an empty casket.
However, it hadn't been the thunder that had woken me up this time. I had gotten over that childish fear years ago. I had been waking up at 3:00 every morning without fail for the past two months from terrifying nightmares. These nightmares usually involved people close to me getting hurt, or dying, which wasn't pleasant to witness, because my greatest fear nowadays was losing someone I cared about. I wanted to talk to Sam about them, but I didn't want to bother him. He was plagued by his own dreams and visions.
The newest dream, which had been going on for a week, did not make any sense to me whatsoever. I didn't even recognize the guy in my dream, but he looked to be my age. (He was hot; I had to admit that.) It was really beginning to bother me, considering I was the teenage girl who'd been tied up in the basement of that old house, beaten and bloodied, with this guy. What would lead someone my age to cause me harm like that? Especially someone that good-looking.
I didn't really want to bring it up to Dad or Sam, because it would probably create some sort of panic in my household, knowing how overprotective my father and uncle was. If I said anything about having strange dreams, I'd be interrogated. I chose not to think about it any further and instead crept back into bed and closed my eyes to try to get some sleep before the alarm clock sounded.
As predicted, time flew by incredibly fast (unfortunately) and my radio went off at precisely 6:30, blaring rock music at an unearthly level of volume. I groaned, turned the radio off, and lay in bed, with the blankets as far up as they would go. The debate on when to actually get out of bed occurred on a daily basis. Stay in the nice warm bed, go to the freezing school? Which one would you choose? Exactly. I'm not exactly a morning person. School is something I don't enjoy most of the time. I'm not cut out for it. If it weren't for Sammy being a Latin teacher at my high school, and his constant nagging about getting good grades and a decent education, I'd be a full-time hunter with my dad. And when I say 'hunter', I don't mean the hunting wild animals kind.
Let me elaborate for you. We Winchesters aren't your typical apple-pie-happy family. Our job is to hunt down supernatural creatures—anything from ghosts to demons. Insane? Maybe to you, but to us, it's the family business. Before you whip out that straitjacket, I'll explain why my family is involved in this unusual occupation. You see, my grandpa, John, started to learn about the paranormal after my grandma, Mary, was killed by this demon. My Dad and uncle went with him all over the country as he hunted, hoping to find and destroy the Demon, and helping other people along the way. Grandpa taught Dad and Sam the ropes as well, and they became hunters. However, the Demon took Grandpa John's life and Sam's girlfriend, Jess, too. It killed my mother, Jo, when I was a baby, also. When I was old enough, Dad and Sam showed me the tricks of the trade, and I've become a pretty damn good hunter myself.
I sighed and closed my eyes, wishing for at least five minutes of precious extra sleep. That never happened, as much as I'd like it to. I shouldn't have thought today was going to be any different.
"Alyx! You up?" Dad yelled, knocking vigorously on the door. I let out a frustrated groan and turned on my side to face the door. Stubbornly, I didn't answer. I thought it would be fun to see how long it took him to bust down the door and forcibly drag me out of bed, because I knew he was capable of that, from past experiences. "Alyx!" he shouted again. "Alyx, come on, get up!" I stifled a laugh, and buried myself under the blankets. "Alyxandria Mary Winchester, get your lazy ass out of bed now! Don't make me come in there…"
A second later, the door flew open, hitting the wall with a thud, probably creating a large dent. I could hear him shuffle over to the side of the bed, and I knew he could hear me giggling. Suddenly, I felt something soft hitting me repeatedly, all over. My father, hunter extraordinaire, was smacking me with a pillow. A perfect example of his immaturity; I swear he's still got the mindset of a teenager. It just made him much cooler than the rest of the dads, though. Besides, he wasn't like any of the other fathers at school to begin with. He wasn't a doctor, or a lawyer, or someone who was stuck in a claustrophobia-inducing cubicle everyday wearing a stuffy, sophisticated business suit. He was a mechanic by day, supernatural ass-kicker by night. He was rebellious—breaking laws, running credit card scams, and impersonating authority figures. He wore faded, ripped jeans, band tees, and biker boots, and he has one sweet car. How many other forty-year-old Dads do you know of that fit that description?
"Oww! Ouch! Stop! Ah, stop…okay, okay, I'll get up! Have mercy! Ouch…" I yelled, half-laughing. He ripped the covers off me, and I glared up at him. He was holding the pillow over me, threatening to strike again. I pushed it away and stood up, grabbing a pillow of my own. "It's on, bitch!" I told him with a smirk. I have a colorful vocabulary like my dad, too. It's all his fault, for saying those words around me when I was little. I started whacking him with my pillow, and he hit me back. During the struggle, Dad cheated, picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder. "No fair! Jerk, you can't do that! Put me down!"
Sammy suddenly cleared his throat to acknowledge that he was standing in the doorway. He had a smug look plastered on his face. Dad and I simply gawked at him. We were caught in the act: a semi-chick-flick moment. It was totally against Winchester policy.
"How long have you been standing there?" Dad asked, dumping me very unceremoniously onto the bed.
"Long enough," Sam chuckled. "What a Kodak moment."
"Shut up, Sammy." Dad scoffed. Sam rolled his eyes and did a very exaggerated impression of my dad scolding him behind my father's back. I knew he hated when my dad called him Sammy. I'm the only one officially allowed to call him that, and he made that very clear. I let out a giggle and Dad turned around sharply to shoot Sam a dirty look.
"What?" My uncle asked with a shrug, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. Dad shook his head and exited the room without a word. Sam and I shared another laugh before he left to let me get ready for the day.
I made my way over to the closet, dodging clothes (both dirty and clean) in random heaps, CD cases, magazines, books, and other various items scattered all over the floor. My room was a disaster zone, like any other teenager's. However, unlike the other kids, I don't get nagged to tidy it up. Dad didn't give a crap, and while Sammy hated the gigantic mess (he had a bit of OCD, even though he constantly denied it), he chose to not say a word about it. I usually cleaned when I felt like it, which was once in a great while.
Searching through the dark, supernatural depths of my closet—which is sometimes creepier than the things that go bump in the night—I managed to uncover a pair of black jeans and a semi-wrinkled Metallica T-shirt. Music was yet another thing my dad and I had in common, much to my uncle's displeasure. Dad used to play "mullet rock" for me when I was a baby because I cried constantly at night and I think that annoyed the hell out my father. (This goes back to his hatred of getting up at early hours.) Surprisingly, the heavy rock music was the only thing that shut me up. Dad blamed me for practically wearing his tapes out; that's when he finally upgraded to the wonderful invention called the CD.
I got dressed and slipped into my favorite pair of black Converse sneakers, and added a black studded belt to my outfit. I applied black eyeliner around my vibrant, green eyes and brushed out my pin straight, light brown hair. Once I was sure I was ready, I grabbed my black messenger back and ran downstairs to the kitchen. I found my best friend, Kylie Baker, sitting at the table eating a package of strawberry Pop Tarts and talking to my uncle. This wasn't anything unusual. Kylie lived about a mile away, and because we had been inseparable since the start of high school. Kylie even knew about our family business. Dad reluctantly let me tell her, but only because she was a believer of the paranormal. Her Aunt Genevieve down South is a self-proclaimed medium, and the owner of a voo-doo shop. Kylie and I went to visit her for a weekend last summer, and she told us all about voo-doo (even though I knew a lot about it already) and we were kind of forced into participating in a ritual-celebration thing. It was an experience, to say the least.
"Morning, sunshine!" My perky friend exclaimed, standing up and wrapping me in a bone-crushing hug. Kylie was tall, had platinum blonde hair streaked randomly with black, and icy blue eyes.
"Hey, Ky," I greeted. "I see you're eating my Pop Tarts again. I'm gonna have to start charging you for them, ya know." I joked.
"Well, maybe if you'd get your ass down here faster in the morning, then you'd get them before me," Kylie pointed out, stuffing the rest of the second Pop Tart in her mouth. She shoved the box into my arms, and I looked down to discover that it was empty. "It's really quite sad how I live about a mile away from you and I get to your kitchen faster than you do."
"Excuse me for not being a morning person," I muttered. "And I was held up by a certain someone this morning." I shot a cold glance at my father.
"Alyx, you stopping by my work after school?" Dad asked, pretending like he hadn't heard me. Typical.
"Not today," I replied. "Kylie and I have a dance to go to, remember? The Halloween Dance we've gone to every year since we were freshman? The one that's the day before my birthday?"
"Your birthday is tomorrow?" Dad teased. I rolled my eyes.
"Ha, ha, ha…very funny. I love how you conveniently try to forget."
"Yeah, yeah…don't you have school? Get lost." He smirked, shooing me away. I motioned for Kylie to follow, and said goodbye to Sam.
"Ya know, I would get to school faster if I had a car!" I hinted, before slamming the front door shut.
"I like how you snuck that in there. Very subtle." Kylie commented sarcastically, grabbing her bike from the driveway. I got my skateboard out of the garage, and we started down the street. The high school was a pretty short distance from my house, yet it was a pain to skate there when I wasn't fully awake. Too much energy involved. Kylie and I didn't drive to school with Sammy to avoid the humiliation of arriving with a teacher. However, I did give him credit; he was probably the coolest teacher there. Not to mention half the female student population of the school had a crush on him, as well as some single teachers, and single moms. I swear there's some sort of secret Sam Winchester Fan Club. He is a handsome guy, though. He may be in his late thirties, but he still has his boyish looks. The divorced or single mothers, and—disgustingly enough—unwed teachers and female students also drooled over my dad, which I found quite disturbing. That's why I begged him constantly to keep his appearances at Lawrence High School to a minimum. If he comes within a five-foot radius of the campus, he's instantly mobbed by rabid teenage girls. It's sick. Really.
"Who said I was trying to be subtle? He knows I want a car."
"Do you think he'd give you the Impala?"
"The Impala? Hell no! He doesn't trust anyone but himself with that car. It's like his other kid." I answered. It was the truth. Everyone knew how obsessed my dad was with his car. That stupid vehicle almost made me jealous with all the attention it got. Almost. Although, secretly I was praying to get the Impala, but I had a good feeling that that would never happen. Not in a million years.
"I don't know, Alyx. He did let you drive it once."
"Yeah, keyword being once. And even then he was yelling at me the entire time. I got grounded for two days just for putting a microscopic dent in his baby." Kylie laughed.
"I can picture that."
"Oh, I bet. It's not hard," I said. "My dad definitely takes his obsession to the next level. He's paranoid about that thing."
We arrived at the high school five minutes later. Pushing our way through the crowded halls, we made it up the stairs to the junior corridor and to our lockers, which were directly next to each other since we were in the same homeroom. I undid the combination lock and pulled open the door with a hard tug, jumping out of the way quickly to avoid any flying objects. My locker was as messy as my room. Let's just say I have an organization problem. Kylie and I gathered our books and binders for our respective classes and went into homeroom. We took a seat in the back, dropping our bags onto the floor.
"I'm super excited for tonight. It's going to be awesome, as always." Kylie stated matter-of-factly, referring to the school's Halloween Dance that was held every year on October 30, the day before the actual holiday.
"I know." I replied. The Halloween Dance was my favorite of the entire year, and it was always the most popular with the rest of the students.
We continued to talk for the majority of homeroom, ignoring the announcements (Who really listened to those anyway?) and focusing on the upcoming weekend. Kylie was going to sleepover after the dance, and on Halloween we were going to have a little party for my birthday. I was getting excited about turning sixteen. It meant that I was legally able to drive—which my dad was thankful for, because he was getting a little wary of me using a fake driver's license all the time for hunts. (Which I probably would continue to use anyway until I got the real thing.) And maybe I'd get my own car…
Toward the end of homeroom, the door opened and a boy walked in. No one really seemed to care or notice, except me. It was like some freaky magnetic pull—like I had to look. The mystery guy took a seat in the empty desk diagonal from the one I was currently occupying, slightly slouching with the classic 'I'd-rather-be-somewhere-else' attitude, which I could totally understand. I gawked at him, jaw practically dropping to the floor as a startling realization hit me in the face, hard. (It was partly because he was absolutely gorgeous, I'm not gonna lie.)
This guy was the boy from my dreams. Literally and figuratively. I was one hundred percent positive. There was no mistaking those shaggy, black locks and beautiful, Caribbean Sea blue eyes. He was wearing jeans that were ripped and frayed at the bottom, an AC/DC shirt, black Vans sneakers and a jean jacket. A silver pentagram dangling from a silver chain around his neck completed the outfit. It was the same pendant I saw myself wearing in my dream. He looked every bit of the "bad boy" stereotype. I needed to meet the kid, because I wanted to find out why he was in my dreams.
I completely forgot that I had been carrying on a conversation with Kylie, who continued to ramble until she figured out that I was no longer listening. She snapped her fingers impatiently in front of my face, making me jolt back into reality.
"Earth to Alyx! Anyone home?"
"Uh…" I answered, still dumbstruck.
"Did you even hear a word of what I was saying?"
"Umm…no." I said, stealing another glance at Dream Guy. Kylie must've followed my line of vision because when looked back at her she was rolling her eyes at me.
"Of course," she sighed, keeping her voice low. "A guy. The only thing that could possibly distract you."
"Mmm-hmm." I mumbled dreamily, not paying attention again.
"Okay, I get it. You like him. But please, save the daydreaming for later. You don't even know the kid's name."
"Oh, I will. Trust me." I stated.
"Wanna bet?" Kylie taunted, with a mischievous smirk.
"Sure, I got nothing to lose." I replied confidently. Winchesters never lose a bet. Never. Period.
"Ten bucks—if you get his name by the end of the school day."
"Deal." I said, as we shook on it. The bell rang for first period moments later, and Kylie and I parted ways. I was a girl on a mission, and I wasn't about to put my family's name to shame.
I had American History first period, which consisted of listening to the teacher ramble for forty minutes and taking notes until my hand was severely cramped. Not fun. Second period was Latin, my most favorite class of the entire day, for obvious reasons. I was the only junior in my level four Latin class, which kinda sucked. I walked in, gave a small wave to my uncle, and scanned the room for a place to sit. It was always awkward since I didn't know anyone, so I tried to sit by myself most of the time. However, today was different. Lo and behold, Dream Guy himself was seated in the back, with an empty desk conveniently next to his. It was my lucky day, apparently.
I plopped myself down into the desk without so much as a glance to Dream Guy. I pulled out my binder, book, and homework, and waited for the late bell to ring. There was some awkward silence; I was contemplating something to say to start up an intelligent conversation while picking at my already chipped, black nail polish.
"You're in my homeroom, aren't you?" Dream Guy asked. I looked at him, surprised that he had spoken first. I made a quick mental note not to make a fool out of myself by stuttering or something stupid like that before I replied.
"Yeah. And you're the new student, right?" I asked. Of course, I knew that already, but whatever.
"Yep. Just transferred here."
"That's cool," I said, offering a smile. "I'm Alyxandria, by the way. Most people call me Alyx."
"Oliver," he answered, flashing an award-winning grin, revealing very cute dimples in his cheeks. "Oliver Devereaux." Score! That ten bucks was so mine! Told ya Winchesters never lose a bet. "So, how long have you been learning Latin?" he asked. I thought for a moment.
"About…ten years." He gave me a look of pure shock, like he thought I wasn't serious. Which I was. Sammy started tutoring me in Latin at age six.
"I've only been learning for six years." He replied. Now it was my turn to act surprised. Who in their right mind would study Latin for that long if they didn't actually need it? Of course, I needed it, but Oliver on the other hand—I don't know. My first suspicion immediately was that he was a hunter, but obviously, I couldn't ask him at that point in time. However, if he was a fellow hunter, why would he hurt me, like in my dream? Besides, if he wasn't, that would make me look like a complete idiot, and that was the last thing I needed to do in front of him. And, there was that important Winchester rule to never tell anyone about our job unless it was absolutely necessary.
Sammy went around and checked to see if everyone did last night's homework, and then we went over it. Afterward, he let us have the rest of the period to do whatever we wanted. In Latin class, we never really did anything on Fridays, which was one of the reasons why my uncle was the coolest teacher ever. The free time gave Oliver and I a chance to talk.
"You should come to the Halloween Dance tonight," I suggested to him. "It's a lot of fun, and it would be a good way to make some new friends."
"I'm not exactly a dance person, but I'll consider it," he said as the bell rang. "See ya, Alyx." He called, leaving the room. I stood there grinning like a fool.
I picked up my stuff and dropped it onto the floor next to a desk in the front. I had a study hall third period, but I always spent it in the Latin room since Sammy didn't have a class.
"I saw that, you know." He said, getting up from his desk and taking a seat on top of one of the student desks near mine.
"That boy you were talking to…" he replied. "The new kid."
"Whatever. So, I like him. Big deal. Don't get all overprotective on me, Sammy." He laughed at this.
"That's your dad's job when it comes to guys," he answered. "However, I will kick the guy's ass if he tries anything."
"I don't think you have to worry about Oliver," I reassured my uncle. "He seems nice." For now, at least…
"Just be careful." He advised. Did he know something about Oliver that I didn't?
At the end of the day, I practically sprinted to my locker. I couldn't wait to collect my winnings, even if it was only ten dollars. I wanted to shove it in Kylie's face and have the bragging rights I deserved. Kylie was already waiting by her locker.
"And?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest skeptically.
"His name is Oliver Devereaux," I said smugly. "All right, Baker, pay up." I held out my hand to receive the money. Rolling her eyes, she pulled a ten from her wallet and handed it over reluctantly. She wouldn't bet against me again, that was for sure.