Shadow Of My Former Self.

Summary. . . . . . . . . . .It was supposed to be a stop to recharge batteries, but when have the Winchester's ever caught a break? An overheard conversation, and a series of unusual deaths, and the boys soon find themselves straight back in the middle of a hunt.

Disclaimer. . . . . . . . . . . Not mine, just messing with Kripke's boy's.

A.N. . . . . . . . . . . . My head is a mass of plot bunnies at the moment, but this one bit harder, so I'm running with it. This came about from a challenge from my great friend, and sista from another mista, Darksupernatural. Thanks Kiddo. As always thanks for stopping by, catch you soon. Peanut x


She knew she shouldn't have come down here, had been told over and over again to take the longer route back home, no matter how much longer it took; but a double shift at the end of an already long week, and the roller coaster condition of one of her patients, had shrouded her body in a tiredness no amounts of coffee could break. Eager to get home, undressed, and clamber into clean sheets and rest her head upon cool pillows that were becoming more and more welcoming by the minute, she had ignored her peers advice, and her own usual misgivings about this place, and taken the short cut home.

Her mind drifted as she walked, and she found herself thinking about the patient who had taken up most of her time this week; about how he had arrived in her care battered and broken, how her treatments had brought him back from the brink, how his body had rejected the help, how she had tried again and failed again and tried again and failed again, until finally last night he had taken a turn for the better, and her treatments seemed to be holding; but the whole experience had drained her, and she wondered, not for the first time, if she should have just slept on the couch in the residents lounge. As she turned down yet another streets whose lights had been shattered, and whose buildings were run down or boarded up, that couch seemed even more comfortable, and the longer route home, a lot more safer.

She was being followed. She was absolutely sure of it.

She fought down the panic that instantly did what all those coffees hadn't achieved and broke through the tiredness that consumed her. She should have stayed at the hospital, or taken the longer way home. She resisted the urge to run, maybe she was wrong, maybe in her exhaustive state she had heard things that weren't there; but as a shadow flickered across her peripheral vision, and a glass bottle skittered across the pavement from behind her, it's chinking echoing loudly about her before it smashed against an uneven paving stone in front of her, told her she wasn't.

Without turning she ran, pumping her legs past exhaustion and into sheer desperation, praying her efforts would be enough, that she would reach her street and the safety it offered; yet deep down she knew it wouldn't be, that the safety she craved would be that one step too far.

She screamed as hands grabbed at her, clutching at her coat, her bag, her hair, but knowing it would be a futile effort. What was it that film's tag line said, "in space no one can hear you scream," the same could be said for this part of town; well they heard you okay, but they all pretended they didn't.

She began to cry as she was tripped, her body crashing harshly to the ground, the air knocked from her lungs, her screams dwindling. Hands roughly clawed at her clothes, forcefully removing the garments before tattered and torn nails raked over her skin, tearing the flesh. She found her voice, her begging going unheard until they must have grown tired of her whining, the blow coming hard and fast out of nowhere to slam into her face, smashing her nose, the crack of cartilage loud, and instantly bringing a vivid redness and swelling to her eye.

The pleading stops as quick as it started, and instead she just wishes for it to be over, for it to be quick, and maybe, just maybe if she's lucky they'll be nice, and she won't have to live afterwards. She's picked up and thrown roughly against a wall, the sharp edges of the brickwork renting across her cheek and bare arms, and splitting her lip, the smashed glass of the bottle slicing through the tender flesh of her feet. "This is it," she thinks as the hands find the clasp of her bra and the lace of her panties, "time to say my goodbyes." She switches her mind off and waits for pain she knows will come; waits for the end when the pain will go away; waits for the darkness to take her, but it doesn't come.

Instead hands grab her, hands that are warm and gentle. They guide her tenderly away from the wall, and urge her onwards towards her home and safety. Instinctively she can't help but look back, bile rising to her throat and spilling from her mouth as she does so, the scene behind her horrifying, and she wonders how she could not have heard the massacre that has taken place. Three corpses lay strewn across the pavement, their eyes and mouths open, caught forever in silent horror and unimaginable agony, two with their stomachs ripped open, their entrails spilling out, the third with its head twisted at an angle not humanly possible.

It's too much and she looks down, the moon choosing that moment to peek around the low hanging clouds, and she dimly wonders why there's only one shadow, even though she can feel the person holding her. Feeling the hands that had been helping her leave, she turns back around to see her would be rescuer, only to find she is all alone, the distantly retreating footsteps the only sign that anybody had even been there. Hurriedly she picks up her dropped purse, and wraps the remnants of her tattered clothing around her, before she stumbles away.

Back at the hospital, a shadowed figure moves gracefully through the silent and still hallways. It passes unnoticed by nurses watching TV, grabbing a quick five minutes while all is quiet, and reaches its destination. Entering through the open door it steps inside and makes its way to the bed and the patient recovering upon it. It ignores the crashing of doors, running footsteps, and angry shouts that echo down the hallway; ignores the hand that reaches out behind him. Reaching out itself, it presses against a body that has battled so hard, that has relapsed and fought back time and time again, and with one touch takes its life.


A.N. . . . . . . . . Well what do you think? Worth carrying on with? Let me know. Will be back soon with chapter 2, Peanut x