Just re-updating some stories, don't mind me.
I own nothing.
Atlanta, Georgia-three weeks ago…
Matt hated being late for work, it was the worst thing in the world to hear his boss scream for ten minutes about how others would love his job, that he's lucky he has it in the first place, that their mother had to beg him to hire him. It literally embarrassed him to know that he had to have his mother, beg his brother, to give him a job. He was twenty-four, a grown man; he should be able to find his own job.
That's, at least, what he tried to tell himself. Truth was he was pathetic. The only wish he ever had was-that if he could start over-he'd do things differently. He'd try harder in school, not waste all his time flirting with girls. He'd be better than his brother Mitch, he'd tell Mitch to shove it.
Knowing that would never happen, that time travel was just in films, he rounded the corner to Harrisburg Corp. There he was tech-support. Didn't know shit about computers, probably would get laughed out of MIT, but he was tech-support. Sometimes he believed Mitch hated him.
Before he could reach the building a young woman stopped him. She had waist length wavy, blond hair. Her eyes were a light blue, matching the blue dress she had on. Her skin was pale, which made Matt raise an eyebrow. He was expecting some type of tan from the long past Georgia summer. She's probably out of town, you dolt, he thought. Even he thought he was stupid sometimes.
"I couldn't help but notice you seem sort of unhappy," she commented in a quiet voice that held some sort of charismatic quality. He was instantly curious to what she had to say.
"Unhappy is an understatement," Matt replied without thinking. He had no idea why he even responded to her comment.
"I can help," she whispered smiling slightly.
"Just relax." She moved toward him, resting her cold hand on his forehead. It felt like something zapped him and then everything went black.
When he came to he was laying in a hospital bed. The room was decorated with clown pictures, the entire wall wallpapered in them. Then he heard someone talking outside the room, about someone named Ricky. Who the hell's Ricky, he thought sitting up.
The door was ajar, so when he sat up the conversing couple cut off and walked into the room. It was a doctor and a woman. Matt didn't know either one of them. The doctor was gray haired, wore a lab coat, and carried a clipboard. The woman was red headed, had tears in her green eyes, and was looking at Matt in worry.
"Ricky, are you okay?" She asked cautiously.
"Ricky? Who's Ricky?" Matt responded suddenly confused.
"Y…you are sweetie," the woman replied raising an eyebrow.
"What? What do you mean I'm Ricky?" he was panicking, figuring whatever that girl did to him was screwing with his head. He caught a glimpse of the window, the night sky casting reflections and Georgia lights back at him. Staring at him, in the bed, wasn't his reflection, but a small, red headed boy's reflection. He looked about seven, a lot younger than Matt's twenty-four years. What the hell's going on, he thought in a blind panic. What did that chick do to me?
Sam was conked out on his bed when Dean opened the door. He was holding coffee in his good hand; his other hand still messed up. He had broken his wrist, or a vampire had broken it, during a job in New York. One of the weirdest jobs he worked. Especially when they ran into people that not only their dad knew, but also fought with him; if that wasn't strange enough he met an ME turned CSI who knew about the supernatural and also another CSI who was like his more annoying, and less handsome, equal; plus, that CSI's girlfriend whom Dean still planned to steal from Danny any day now.
Shaking his head, trying to forget about his trip to New York (he couldn't stand the state anyway) he set the coffee down on the table and kicked his brother's bed. Sam jerked awake mumbling, "Dude, what the hell?"
"Rise and shine, Sammy," Dean replied holding out a cup of coffee. Sam sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He took the coffee from his brother, taking a sip. He made a face when he realized it was black.
"That's yours," he muttered handing it back to Dean.
"Is it?" Dean took the cup, opening the lid to get a better look. Shrugging slightly he popped the lid back on and took a drink. "How you can't like black coffee," he said savoring the flavor.
"I just don't. What time is it, anyway?" Sam asked getting to his feet. He walked over to the remaining coffee and popped the lid off. When he was satisfied that it wasn't black, he picked it up and took a drink.
"Seven-thirty," Dean replied setting his own cup down. "I was going to wake you up at nine, but I didn't want to hear you bitch about getting up too late."
Ignoring his brother's comment, Sam took another drink of coffee and said, "We've got to interview those kids today. I still don't like the sound of this case."
"What, five kids claiming to be twenty-something adults? What's so weird about that?" Sam caught the sarcasm in Dean's tone and glared at him. "Look, Hawks said it was possession, you think it's possession…"
"That's just it Dean, I don't think it's possession anymore. I'm beginning to think its witchcraft…"
"I hate witches," Dean muttered shuddering. "Now, let's be sure it ain't demons before we go making that assumption. Asses are made out of those who assume."
"It's 'you make an ass…' Never mind; look why would a demon possess a kid and then say he was twenty-something? It just doesn't make sense, but if a witch is switching bodies. Making kids into adults and vice versa…"
"Let's just interview the kids, see what they have to say. Then we'll talk to the adults…"
"That'll be kind of hard Dean; all five adults have been put in a local psychiatric hospital. Their families all believed they were clinically insane; it's easier for parents to believe their seven or eight year old is imagining being an adult than an adult believing they are a seven or eight years old."
"Fine, we'll interview the kids. So, you got any idea how we're going to do this?" Dean asked curiously picking up his coffee and drinking it again.
"One," Sam replied looking his brother in the eye.
Megan Andrews answered her door to see two of the cutest guys she had ever seen. The taller one had dark brown hair and hazel eyes. The shorter one had lighter brown hair and green eyes. Cute or not they were standing on her doorstep and they could be anybody. Her smartest action was to be wary.
"Can I help you?" she asked her eyes darting back and forth between the two guys.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Sam Thomas," the taller one said holding out his hand. She shook it, noting the calluses on his palm. When they broke apart, Sam looked at the shorter guy and said, "This is my associate Dean Douglas, we are child psychiatrists here to talk to your son Ricky."
"Ricky has talked to three psychiatrists, why would they send more…"
"We were reading up on this case, and were curious about Ricky's dilemma," Dean cut in.
"Well, what can two more hurt? Come on in." she allowed both guys to enter her house, closing the door behind them.
The first thing Dean noticed about the house was it was cleaner than most houses, almost like the lady bleached it every night. Then he noticed that it was because the walls were painted a very bright, very disturbing yellow. Dean hated the color yellow, no matter the shade. It brought back memories he'd rather keep hidden.
"Ricky's in the living room," Megan said softly and showed them to the room. Even that room was painted yellow, the furniture matching the color. Megan disappeared into the kitchen before the brothers could thank her. They both turned in unison and spotted a depressed looking seven-year-old. He looked like he hadn't moved in a while, almost like he didn't have the strength or energy to move (Dean had met some little kids, they weren't normally that depressed or deprived of energy).
"Kid looks half dead," he muttered to Sam.
"C'mon," Sam replied, ignoring his comment, and walked toward the kid. "Hey, Ricky, how are you?"
"Seeing as I'm not Ricky, I'm fan-freaking-tastic," the kid replied not looking at the brothers. "You more doctors here to tell me to stop pretending?"
"We're here to ask you if anything strange happened to you, you know before you found yourself seven again." Dean had his hand in his jacket pocket, wrapped around a flask of holy water. One wrong move from the kid and he would splash him.
"Look, buddy, I'll tell you what I told those fucking doctors." Dean and Sam both flinched at the harshness from the high, squeaky child's voice. "I was walking to work; you know I worked for my dick brother. I was at the door when this girl stopped me. She told me I looked unhappy, I mentioned that I really wasn't, and she touched my forehead. I blacked out, woke up a couple hours later as this freaking kid. I tried to find my own body but that lady, that Mrs. Andrews is so frigging protective it isn't funny."
"Wait, so this girl just touched your forehead and poof, you're Ricky Andrews?" Dean asked before Sam could say anything.
"That's what I said, but like all the other doctors, you won't believe me."
"Unlike the other doctors, we do believe you," Sam muttered sitting down on the coffee table, directly across from the kid.
"Yeah, we do. Look, what did this girl look like?"
"She was about five-five, with waist length sandy blond hair. Her eyes were light blue and she was wearing a light blue dress. Her skin was pale and she seemed to have the power to knock people out."
"Okay, thanks Ricky…"
"Matt, my name's Matt Harrisburg."
"Well Matt, I'm Sam and this is Dean," Sam said quickly pulling out a pen and a crinkled piece of paper. He scribbled something on it and handed it to the kid. "If you remember anything else please don't hesitate to call."
"I won't," Matt said looking a little less depressed since the Winchesters walked in. Sam and Dean exited the house moments later, heading toward the Impala.
"So, do you still think its demons, Dean?" Sam asked eyeing his brother inquisitively.
"Still think its demons, Dean," Dean mocked quietly. He started his Impala and pulled back into the street. "We still can't rule out demons. Maybe 'Yellow Eyes' has another plan…"
"He hasn't been seen or heard from in how long and he decides to plot something in Georgia out of the blue? No, what he's done already has been carefully planned, this doesn't seem his style."
"Fine, but I am not agreeing to witches until I get some proof."
"Proof how? Unless you plan to check every scene for sulfur you have no way of getting proof."
"Look Sammy, if I have to check every scene for proof of demonic activity I will. I will not, I repeat 'not', say its witches unless I absolutely, positively have run out of options."
"Fine, Dean, we'll check every possible scene, then," Sam muttered and turned to look out the window. Dean nodded and flipped on his favorite Metallica tape. 'Turn the Page' started blaring through the speakers and no other chance at a conversation could be attempted.
Alex hated his teacher. He couldn't stand the pure fact that she treated him like he was four. He was fricking eight and a half, for God's sake. She just needed to learn to see that not all kids acted like Tate Jones. Tate was an idiot, Tate wanted attention, Tate should have his teeth kicked in, Alex thought bitterly. He was sitting directly behind Tate, he was a good four or five inches taller than him, he could do it. The recess bell rang before he could really convince himself to do it. All the kids headed out the door, even the teacher was gone (Alex knew she used recess for her cigarette breaks). Why'd she frigging decide to teach if we make her that nervous, he thought getting to his feet.
Sometimes Alex wished he was an adult, just so he didn't have to deal with Ms. Belmont and her misinterpretation of children and the pure fact that she had yellow teeth and bad smelling breath. Sighing-knowing it wasn't ever going to happen-Alex pushed himself to his feet.
He headed out of the classroom, his locker in sights, and nearly crashed into a tall blond. She was taller than him, at any rate. Her hair was long, longer than Jenny Miller's before her brother spit gum in it and she had to get it cut off. It was also blond, Jenny had brown hair (Alex would never admit it to any of his friends, but he sorta liked Jenny). The woman was eyeing Alex curiously, seemingly taking in his features.
"Can I help you?" he asked suspiciously. He knew better than to talk to strangers, but there was something about the woman that made him think he knew her.
"It seems you are unhappy," she muttered softly.
"Nothing a little video games and television can't fix," Alex muttered not sure why he said anything. He could almost hear his mother saying, "Alexander Lawrence we do not talk to strangers."
"I can help," she said simply.
"Relax," she replied and touched his head. He felt something jolt him, almost like an electrical charge, and everything went black.
He woke up to someone saying, "Dean, wake up." it was an unfamiliar voice, a male's voice. His mother definitely told him to stay away from male strangers. Then the name caught up with him. Dean, who's Dean?
"Dean, please wake up." the voice begged and Alex opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed in a motel room. The place had dark green wallpaper and smelt like his Grandpa Max's office (gun cleaner was one thing Max always used; he never quite let his Marine spirit die). Also it smelt of stale beer (Alex had grew up on the smell, his mother and him living with his grandparents, the smell was etched into his brain), dirty socks (his older brother, who was the product of a one night stand three years before Alex's dad married Alex's mom and ten years after that divorced her, had a habit of leaving his smelly socks on Alex's pillow before he came over to stay the weekend; his brother Parker was a huge asshole, anyway), and coffee (Alex's mother had an addiction to coffee, their house smelt like it and it was also etched into his brain).
Alex sat up to see a tall, brunette guy looking at him. The guy had concern in his eyes and he looked directly at Alex. He moved forward, sitting at the foot of the bed. Alex moved away from him, pulling long legs (Long legs, how am I taller) away from him. In fact, a lot of things had changed since the morning. He was no longer in his kakis, he was wearing jeans. His scuffed, white sneakers were gone and he was wearing a pair of boots. He had a ring on his right hand, a brace on his right wrist, and an amulet around his neck.
"What the heck is going on?" he asked in a voice that didn't sound like his own. It was deeper, more forceful, almost like his new voice held a lot of authority, or just yelled a lot, Alex thought thinking of his Grandpa Max, after fifty years of yelling at marines his voice had a permanent gruffness to it.
"Dean, are you okay?" the brunette asked cautiously.
"Who is Dean?" Alex asked his eyes flicking to the taller guys blue-green ones and then back around the room.
"You're Dean… Or are you? Did you switch bodies, too?" Alex had no idea what the tall man was talking about. All the wanted to do was go home. He got to his feet, nearly knocking the other guy off the bed, and headed toward the door. He caught a glimpse of himself in a cracked mirror, next to the entrance and nearly passed out.
He had changed; his hair was blond when he woke up that morning, his eyes gray. Now he had light brown hair, pale green eyes. He had stubble on his face, which made him run a hand over it. Parker was just getting stubble and he was fifteen years old. Alex may not have known a lot of things, but he was sure eight was a tad too soon for facial hair. All that wouldn't have bothered him as much as his face. It wasn't his face anymore, but a stranger's. That's when he knew who Dean was, the guy staring back at him.
"What the heck is happening?" he repeated backing away from the mirror and running straight into the tall, brunette. The brunette caught him and steadied him before he fell over. Alex was freaking out and didn't even attempt to stop the tall guy from guiding him to a chair. All he wanted to do was cry and see his mother.
"Are you crying?" the tall man asked sitting opposite of him.
"W…why," Alex retorted wiping angrily at his slowly falling tears.
"Look, my name is Sam Winchester, what's yours?"
"M…my mom says not t…to ta…talk to strangers," Alex said tears falling faster down his face. He just wanted to go home, this game wasn't fun anymore. Whatever that lady did, it wasn't funny and he wasn't happy.
"That's good advice, kid, but if you don't tell me who you are you can't get back into your body," Sam muttered sympathetically.
"A…Alex Lawrence," Alex replied wiping his eyes.
"And how old are you, Alex?"
"Oh boy," Sam whispered leaning his head against the back of the chair.
"Because, you're in the body of a twenty-seven year old," Sam replied simply looking Alex directly in the shocked face. I can't be twenty-seven, I just can't. My ninth birthday is a month away. But somehow he was.