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wwwafflewrites · 4 years

Text

A Rewrite of History

Chapter 8—Skin

So… shapeshifters.

As if you didn’t have enough trust issues.

Now, not only did you have to worry about every angel or demon sent to spy on you…

...but now you had to worry about a slimy, homicidal, lying monster that could pretend to be literally anyone.

Great.

You sighed, dragging your fingers along your scalp as you brainstormed. How could you do this and get out in one piece?

Becky calls Sam because she’s worried about her brother Zach, who’s been accused of a murder he didn’t commit. And, well, the only way to stop that would be to tail the shapeshifter before it even gets to the couples.

An impossible task.

To make matters worse, you were going to have to intervene. Right when the shapeshifter comes to torture Emily with her boyfriend’s face. And if you were caught, it would just be another thing to add to the piling concrete evidence that you were a monster in the Winchester’s eyes.

You rubbed at your temple. Your anxiety really was through the roof lately. Always on edge and lightheaded.Though, there’s only so many nutrients one can get from a peanut butter sandwich.

You underlined their names on your notepad, Zach and Emily, tracing over the line. Then you gained the will to start up your car and drive off to stalk the poor couple.

///

Time ticked by slowly as you sat and waited outside the victim's home.

To be completely honest, you weren’t sure what to expect. All the monsters you’ve hunted so far had a valid reason to be what they were. Ghosts? They were hardwired to act in violent patterns. Wendigos? They were just feral animals. Demons? They were twisted, broken souls who lash out and wreak havoc. But only after decades upon centuries of endless torture.

But a shapeshifter? A shapeshifter has its own conscience. Even if it was horribly skewed from a life of resentment and shame.

You shook your head. Sentiment. The sentiment always gets to you. This isn’t a human. This is a monster. Do the job.

After staring blankly at the house for what felt like hours, a shadow moved. Your heart picked up, and you tried to look for any other movement. Nothing.

You sighed. How did your life even come to this? You popped open your car door, slinking out of your seat as quietly as you could. It would be much easier if the shapeshifter didn't know you were coming.

You tread lightly up to the house, up their driveway, and peeked in windows. Just as you were about to admit it was your paranoia talking, something in the house shuddered.

Welp. Guess you hadn’t imagined it.

The front door was open. You let yourself in.

The house was dangerously quiet. The lights were deceivingly warm. Then you heard whimpering. Silver knife in hand, you tiptoed in their hallway, watching the source's door like a hawk.

This is the dumbest thing you've ever done.

Throwing out your invasive thoughts, you prepared to cave the door in and stab the monster in the heart. If it had been your choice, you'd shoot it, but you didn’t have any silver bullets on hand.

You kicked the door in, sweeping your weapon through the room, but there was only the victim. Her breathing was labored, and you weren't dumb enough to try and help her before you ganked the shapeshifter.

You tried to signal that you were on her side, but she just sobbed into her gag.

"No, 'honey, I'm home'?" a male voice called.

You froze. Shapeshifter.

The shadow in the hallway crept up until his figure was visible, and his eyes were glowing. "Oh… but you're not him. You're a hunter, aren't you?" he said. "Here to slay me, little girl?"

"I'm here to make sure you don't hurt any more families."

"I'm sure you are." He smiled. "Are you going to come and stab me, then?"

"Considering it."

"You're afraid," he sneered. "You're a poor excuse for a hunter. You're inexperienced." He grinned and started walking forward. "Stab me, little hunter. Do your worst."

You charged, swinging at him with your knife, but he dodged the move. He kneed you in the stomach, stealing your breath. When you fell on all fours, he stepped down on your hand with the knife. "That was a stupid move."

The last thing you saw was the toe of his shoe.

///

You woke up, sick to your stomach.

Waking up feeling gross wasn't that abnormal, but it wasn’t usually this intense. You could tolerate a little hunger or thirst, or some smarting, but this was something else entirely.

Some kind of tarp was draped over you, but you didn’t have the energy to throw it off.

Your shoulders ached, arms pulled taut above you with no give.

You just tried to breathe through the pain.

A sawing noise came from your left. Through the ringing in your ears, someone was talking. Two someones. It clicked: you were in the sewers, and that sawing noise was Dean breaking from his ropes. Distantly, you wondered for how long. Guess that didn't matter now, though.

"...didn't just look like you. He was you," Sam said. "Or he was becoming you."

You were completely still. If they found you, you were dead… but if they left you, they'd kill the shapeshifter and you'd be left to rot. Both options sucked.

"What'd'ya mean?"

"I don't know, it was like he was downloading your thoughts and memories."

You had to get out. But there was nothing to saw your hands against like Dean had. Just smooth metal and rope burns on your wrists.

"You mean like the Vulcan Mind Meld?"

"Yeah, something like that." Sam paused. "Maybe that's why he didn't just kill us."

Dean must have stumbled out of his ropes, because now his voice was traveling. "Maybe he needs to keep us live… for the psychic connection."

"Hands." Sam was being untied. "Yeah. Come on, we gotta go. He's probably at Rebecca's already."

"Wait," Dean said with a long pause. "The shapeshifter turned into that girl, right? So wouldn't that mean she's still down here?"

Your stomach dropped.

"I guess. Or he just removed her when he took us. For all we know she could be in a ditch," Sam said. "And honestly? Good riddance."

You weren’t sure if you were rooting for them to leave you or stay. Both options were bad.

"Or…" Dean said slowly. "She's just being quiet because she's afraid of us finding her."

Yeah, that about summed it up.

You listened to footsteps, deadly still and holding your breath. The footsteps stilled in front of you and you steeled yourself for the reveal.

The tarp was tossed away, and you stared fearfully into the bright green eyes of Dean freaking Winchester. Your mind was churning, working in fight or flight mode, but you could do neither. You were screwed.

The only thing that could save you now was the angels, and they didn't seem to be concerned enough to step in anytime soon.

"Well, hi," Dean said with a smile. It was smug and absolutely intended to be intimidating.

You stared, and that sick feeling in your stomach only deepened. Something told you that it probably wasn't just the anxiety making you sick, but you pushed it away. That could wait. Right now, you had other things to worry about.

Like, say, the Winchesters.

And torture.

Dean raised an eyebrow to his brother, who walked around to get a look at you. "You know, if we had left you, the shapeshifter would have come back. Or worse—wouldn't have come back."

"I'm aware," you said, finding it difficult to hold eye contact with them. The look in their eyes was overwhelming.

They smiled at each other, clearly amused at your situation.

You gained the courage to snap, "You going to kill me or what?" There was no trying to get it through their thick skulls that you weren’t the enemy here. Plus, maybe if the angels really believed you were in danger, they'd rescue you.

Dean shrugged. "That's up to you. I kind of want to hear your end of the story."

You frowned. "Really?" Maybe there's hope here. Maybe you really can form an alliance—

"Nah, I'm just kidding. I don't want to hear what you have to say." Dean admitted.

You scowled. "I didn't kill Jessica." They were giving you time to explain yourself, so of course you were going to use it.

"You were the only one there, and Sam saw you."

"I was there to save her. Figures you'd think I can just put someone on the ceiling and set them on fire."

"I wouldn't be too sure. Looks like you made a handy dandy flame thrower out there. Who's to say you aren't the thing our Dad has been hunting?"

"I wasn't even alive when your mother died. I'm telling you: I. Am. Human." You thrust your hand out, showing them the burns. "See? Scar tissue. I'm a human being—"

"How do you know that? How did you know about our mother?" Dean demanded. Of course he'd focus on that comment. It was like talking to a brick wall.

"It's not like it's a secret. It was written all over your father's journal," you lied.

Sam squinted. "Who are you?"

You let your head fall back onto the pole. Just kill me already. "Someone who just wants to go home."

"Boohoo for you," Dean spat.

"At least you're able to look for your family."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

You yanked at your ropes, and the Winchester's tensed. But you were still held tight. "We don't have time for this. Either you kill me right now, or you take me with you. Does the name Rebecca ring any bells?"

They scowled, but it got them moving. Dean nodded to Sam. "We'll come back for her."

You twisted to look at them as they walked away. "What?! No! Wait! But I can help! Just untie me and I can help!"

"Not a chance," Dean said. "See, I don't trust stalkers." And he walked away.

"Please," you said. "Please... I... please I don't… I don't feel right." Your voice echoed. Pipes dripped in reply.

They had already left you.

Your mind ran. Your breaths were shallow, biting back the nausea that threatened to overtake you. You blinked, slow and long, feeling off. You had to get out. Whatever acid trip you were on, you needed out of the ropes and out of the sewer.

If you had a little slack… you might be able to gnaw at the rope and loosen it. But that would mean dislocating your shoulder.

You braced yourself, getting ready to pull your arm out of your socket, but you chickened out. The anticipation was making your heartbeat like a drum against your chest. You can’t do that. You can't, your anxiety told you. It'll hurt. You don't know what you're doing. You've never done this. It's going to hurt.

But your logical side argued back. All it takes is one motion. One swift second and you could break yourself free, with the downside of shoulder problems. You don't want to be down here, tied up and defenseless. A dislocated shoulder won't hurt you—but the Winchesters and a shapeshifter definitely will. Do it.

You were pretty sure you were going to have a panic attack if you kept thinking about this. You took a breath, and swiftly yanked.

The pain was blinding. Your vision went white and you screamed. You panted heavily, riding through the wave of agony before it became a constant excruciating burn.

You reached your mouth for the rope on your good arm—since you could reach it now—and tugged at it with your teeth. It was old rope, and it tasted like dust. You pulled just enough for the loop around your hand to loosen, and it was free. You then worked the rope away from your neck and abdomen and, lastly, untied the rope around your dislocated arm.

You stood up too fast and saw a sea of grey. The jostling of your arm had you stumbling onto your knees and vomiting what little bile was in your stomach. Gross.

The shapeshifter would be back soon with… Emily, was it? Or was it Becky? Rebecca. You were losing your focus.

You also didn't know how to reset a dislocated shoulder. Just looking at it was making you queasy. The bone was pointed upward, your shoulder flattened. It was bruising and swelling, and god it hurt. It looked so unnatural you thought you might puke again.

You didn't though. You steadied yourself, knowing what was ahead of you: you were going to have to relocate it yourself.

You had no choice. Nobody to run to. Everyone that you knew was your enemy.

You braced your back against a metal pole, grabbing your arm with your good one. You pulled it straight forward, not yanking, but attempting to guide it back in. You cried as it popped back into place.

You wiped away a few stray tears with your good hand.

You then worked on a temporary sling with the rope that had been used to tie you up. It turned out kind of sucky and awkward, as you only had one hand available, but it was enough to keep the arm steady against your chest.

Your arm still freaking hurt.

You peered around, squinting at the shiny pile in the corner of the room. It had a tarp over it, but it must have shifted and revealed it's contents. You walked over, marveling at the mass of silver weapons just lying around.

"You keep it here? Just lying around? For anyone to take?" You grabbed a gun loaded with silver bullets (which was probably the Winchester’s, now that you thought about it), and your silver knife as a token of your survival.

Now to get the hell out of here, you thought.

"That could be my catchphrase," you muttered. Your chest was still heaving, in pain and in adrenaline. What a nightmare.

You ran, biting your tongue as the motion shook your arm. But there was no time to care, and definitely no time to pity yourself.

Somewhere behind you, there were echoing footsteps.

"Cas," you said softly. Shakily. "Cas, if you're out there, please come and get me. I know we're not on the best terms… but my arm, I got a bum arm and I'm in trouble—please—"

There was no reply.

You huffed. Typical. You took one more turn through the sewers, and you saw light.

The footsteps grew louder and as did your heart. You reached for the grating, working at the screws to try and pry the thing open. It took effort though. It hurt your fingers to strain like this, twisting each screw until they clattered noisily onto the tile. You grimaced each time, taking little glances to see if the footsteps matched a shadow.

As you worked on the last screw, you watched you—not actually you, shapeshifter-you—march your way. It was like looking into a fun house mirror. Except not so fun.

You pushed the grating away, shoving your frame through the entry. You rolled, struggling to get on your feet so you could run off.

A hand grabbed for your feet but you managed to stumble back, knife raised in front of you with your bad arm.

The shapeshifter crawled into the light like it was normal to walk on all fours. He mimicked your terrified look, then smirked at you. "Are we back here again? You know you'll never win." You watched as he drew closer, tensing.

When he was just five feet in front of you, you said, "No." And he paused. You whipped out the gun with your good arm, shooting him right in the chest. He floundered at first, but then crumbled into a motionless heap.

"I don't make the same mistakes twice."

The shapeshifter was dead. You stared at your face—its face—as you swayed and the world dipped with it, your mind snuffed out like a candle.

You were caught by two sturdy arms.

///

Tags: @rosaren2498 , @pillowjj , @busy-bee-angel-misska , @elle-r , @dagnylokisdottir , @omg-we-really-doo , @millieccino , @rycbar-221b

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