#spn fanfics

Six Feet Under

You woke up to a deep ache in your shoulders. It was sore all the way down your back. Probably bruised to hell.

You grunted, and your breath fanned back onto your face. You attempted to move, despite your smarting back, and your hands brushed against loose dirt and flaky wood. You tried to adjust your eyes, but there was nothing to see. Just… black. Wherever you were, it was a narrow space. A dirty narrow space.

Was it time to mention you were also slightly claustrophobic?

You were sweating. The air was stuffy. But there was something cold right next to you. Something cold and yielding. You reached for it, blindly patting with your hand flat out, until your fingers curled around something with contour.

You mapped out the dimensions of the object before recoiling in horror. That was no object—that… that was a body. 

Which, with your odds, meant you were in a coffin. An oddly large, though still cramped, coffin. Underground. With no way out but through the suffocating dirt.

Freaking ghouls.

Your first instinct was to scream. To pound up against the wood and holler until your throat was raw. It wasn’t that you wouldn’t, either; it was that you couldn’t. 

You couldn’t breathe.

There was something in your chest right now. There had to be. A void where your lungs had been, like a vacuum that swallowed up all the usable air. Your heart was in your throat.

Were you running out of oxygen? Was it already too late? Your shallow breaths were burning a hole in your chest. You couldn’t breathe.

You reached over to the corpse, this time with urgency. Cold but still flaccid. The body had been fresh for about an hour, then. Rigor mortis hadn’t even begun.

Does it matter? a part of your mind reasoned. It sounded a little like Dean. There’s a cold, dead body next to you, you’re on your last round of air, and you still can’t stop being a nerd?

“It matters,” you muttered to yourself. “Matters ‘cause that means I’ve been stuck down here for about an hour. Takes about five hours total to run short on oxygen. Means at the very least, I’m not dying… yet.”

As hard as a transition was going to be, you needed to breathe deep and slow. But there was still a tightness in your chest.

Relax your shoulders, you could almost hear Sam chiding.

“A little… difficult to do… suffocating in a pine box,” you said, but you relaxed them anyway. You then took in your first, full breath since you woke up. That was progress.

You couldn’t count on the Winchesters finding you in time, or at all. You were going to have to take matters into your own hands and try to climb out of the grave. Dean had done it before, so you could too.

Dean’s also, like, 200 pounds of muscle, Sam cautioned.

If you were going to climb out of your grave, you needed a mask to protect your face from the dirt. Which meant you were going to need to work your shirt off of your head. You brushed your hand over your stomach. Well, you must have put up a fight. Your shirt was shredded, so… that was a no go.

The dead guy had a shirt, Dean said.

Fantastic.

You looked over to your left, to the corpse you couldn’t see. You reached over, awkwardly pulling the shirt up. Its cool skin grazed yours as you worked the fabric over its head. 

The neck didn’t jerk about; it was rigid, but the arms weren’t. Rigor mortis was kicking into gear. Which meant you had been down here for roughly two hours. Working as a hunter, you needed to have some level of knowledge on the dead.

Such a nerd, you could see Dean rolling his eyes.

You tied the bottom of the shirt which took a little while with your arms pinned down and the pitch darkness to guide you. Finally, though, you made a tight knot.

You pulled the shirt over your head like a bag and sat there for a moment. You wished the Winchesters could talk you through this.

That’s when you broke at the pine box. The dirt was cold, dry, and thankfully loose. It fell in clumps around your shoulders, and you shoved it down at your feet.

Climbing your way past the dirt was no joke. It was grimy and freaking difficult. It was like those foam pits that gymnasts use that are nearly impossible to work your way out of, except in complete darkness with limited space. In other words, a freaking nightmare.

But you kept working. Kept pushing up while pushing the dirt down. Six feet, Sam reminded you. Just six feet. Once you’re standing, just work upward. Should be about as tall as I am, yeah?

You made a risky move upward, throwing your hand up as far as it could go, and touched air. A light breeze fell over your skin.

To say it was encouragement was an exaggeration. You worked twice as hard, shoving your way to the top. When your hand felt hard dirt, you crunched your abs and pulled until your chest hit the surface. You frantically dug your legs out before collapsing on the ground.

You went into a fit of hysterical laughter, a result of your adrenaline high and the last throes of your panic.You threw the filthy t-shirt off of your head, inhaling the air that you had once taken for granted.

In your brief delirium, you recalled Dean Winchester retelling his old raising-from-perdition story. He had hardly mentioned climbing out of his grave, as if it hadn’t been important. His focus had mainly been on the mystery of the angels and how they turned out to be douches. He had made this part sound like a. Slice. Of. Pie.

And, well, you got a freaking reality check today. Because it was an entire body workout, and it was exactly as terrifying as it sounded—no, worse. Waking up in pitch darkness, in a small space, with a corpse, six feet under the ground? Hell naw. You were lucky you’d had enough trauma to know how to push back your panic. Because two years ago, you probably would have rotted down there, helpless.

It left you to wonder, though. Why the ghouls left you alive, and not the dead guy. All the other grave desecrations had been long dead—but you were the first to live.

First, you were going to have to get back to the motel. You already knew the boys were gonna freak.

///

When you opened up the hotel door, the Winchesters sprang out of their chairs, barking your name in surprise. “You're—you're…” Sam stammered as he took in your state. You couldn’t blame him; the grave had covered you in dirt from neck to toe.

“Alive. I know,” you said. “I’m also really dirty. You mind if I use your guys’ shower?”

Sam blinked. “No, not at all, but uh, seriously—what happened?”

You let out a halfhearted, breathy laugh. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” You tried to shrug past Dean, but he caught your arm.

“You were gone for three hours,” he said.

“Look, we’re just worried about you. Could you humor us?” Sam added. His eyes were pleading and damn hard to say no to.

You scowled. “You two gotta tell me what happened on your end first. Deal?”

“Deal,” Dean said. “You know most of it. Several grave desecrations of old gravestones, but fresh bodies where bones should be. People in town go missing a few days before that. We split: you went to check on the newest body, while we checked the cemetery. We ganked the ghoul, figured you were coming back from the morgue, but you never showed. After about three hours of looking, we came back here to see if you had maybe come back at all. Actually, we were just about to leave again.” Dean clapped his hands. “Did you ever find anything at the morgue?”

“Yeah, the guy had died from…” …asphyxiation. You trailed off. “Oh crap…”

“What? What is it?”

“Asphyxiation. The guy… he, uh, he had died from asphyxiation. Originally, I mean. The ghoul had been burying his food to eat later. Like… like a squirrel. Must have taken the guy out to snack on, but he was already dead.” It was all coming together. “The ghoul was either stupid or confident because he got sloppy. Probably because he was too hungry to care. That’s why… why I… why I…” Damn it, you let that slip. You peered around them, looking for escape. “Guys, hey, can I just shower? I really just wanna—”

This time, Sam caught your arm. He was gentle, but he had a firm grip. “That’s why you what?”

You clammed up, peeling your eyes away from them. “Why I… uh…” you couldn’t think of an excuse, and the silence was becoming too long to make a convincing one on the spot. You should have walked into this room with a workable lie in mind, but all you had wanted was to shower, scrub all the dirt off your skin, and to lather soap where you had touched that god-awful corpse. You just wanted to be clean and to sleep.

And you seriously were trying to tell them things. Lying sucked, but this? You weren’t sure if you could tell them this and come out of it in one piece.

Sam softly said your name again, trying to bring your eyes back to his. It was too easy. He knew your tells. Your eyes always gave you away if you lied.

We’re never going to let this die, your inner Dean voice sang. And you internally swatted it away. 

I know, you thought sourly. Behind your eyes, a pressure built. Just let me go so I can cry alone. I can’t cry in front of you. I can’t. “He—it… might have…  buried me alive.” It took everything you had in you for your voice to stay steady.

Both of them rocked back a little. Dean looked a little dazed, and Sam looked pale. Sam tilted his head, “Excuse me, buried—?”

“It explains the dirt,” Dean sighed. “No offense, sweetheart, but you smell like a toilet.”

Oh, shove it, Winchester.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I just want to shower—”

“Hold on,” Sam said. He had his hands combing his hair. “Hold on, hold on, just— am I the only one bothered by this?! She— you could have died!”

“But I didn’t,” “But she didn’t,” you and Dean said in unison. He winked at you and you rolled your eyes back.

“Sam. I have been through a lot. You know it, I know it. I’m not that girl from two years ago. You said it yourself once before: I’m a Winchester now. And I’m not a Winchester without a few near death experiences.”

Sam scowled. “You two are so frustrating. Fine, go. Go take your shower. This conversation isn’t over, though.”

Thank God. You could handle this later. The conversation alone had keyed you up. You were burning with tension, anxiety, and trauma. You waved a hand at him. “Fine. But can we do it in the morning? I am so frickin’ exhausted.” It wasn’t a lie; you had bruises lining your entire back, and your face muscles hurt from all the fake expressions you were sending Sam.

They can’t know that I’m weak. How hard could it be, anyway?

Dean did it once, like a freaking champ. Why couldn’t you just suck it up and be a big girl?

He looked on at you with that sad, thoughtful look of his. Complete with the infamous Winchester puppy eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

You were happy to get out of the conversation—and this hunt—relatively unscathed. Hopefully, you would never have to go through that crap ever again, or you really didn’t think you’d be able to keep yourself together like you just had.

When you shut the bathroom door behind you, you let the silent tears run down your face. You bit your hand, heaving, wishing you had the freedom to scream. But you couldn’t, so you didn’t. All you did was turn on the shower right as you let out a quiet sob into a towel to muffle it out. 

Why did your life suck so bad?

///

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Stars in Your Eyes

“Sam, I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

Sam waved his flashlight around the porch of the house. “Neither do I. But this is our only chance to gank this shapeshifter before it moves to the next town.”

“I just have a gut feeling.” You met eyes. In the shadows, they were a deep, compassionate brown. 

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

Well, that wasn’t happening. “Forget it,” you huffed, nervously stepping into the front yard. 

“I mean it. If you aren’t comfortable, then I can do this myself. I’ll understand.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m coming with.”

Sam’s eyes lingered on you before nodding slowly and turning away, keeping the flashlight pointed at the door as he approached it. When the door handle didn’t turn, he fished his pockets for his lock pick.

Meanwhile, you stayed on guard, anxiously looking into the dark street like you expected a jump scare. You hugged yourself as the icy breeze bit through your jacket, saying, “I hate this.”

“My offer still stands.”

“Your offer still sucks.”

He shut up, leaving you some time to ponder about the case.

One who was oblivious to the supernatural might believe the MacDonalds—and, yes, Dean had a blast poking fun at their surname—were just an unfortunate family. It was a small home—or were small homes now, you supposed—containing two divorced parents and their only child.

Knowing that the shapeshifter would strike tonight, you had to split between the two households. Dean took to the father, meanwhile, you and Sam took the mother, knowing that the entire family went for a therapy session.

Dean’s little parody, ‘Old McDonald had a therapist’ played into your head. At most annoying, if a little pitchy.

The break-in, you suspected, was exactly where the shapeshifter was getting all his DNA to shift.

Most people didn’t realize the trauma that came with a theft, and you had the misfortune of experiencing it. You once lost trust in the lock of door—lost trust that it would hold or that you could sleep in peace knowing that you were alone. All because a werewolf-witch hybrid decided he wanted your heart, and not in a sexy way. But that was another story. 

Thankfully, now, you felt more at ease with the Winchesters—though that didn’t mean you couldn’t relate with the poor family. Break-ins were terrifying.

And not only had there been one break-in, but two. The shifter had been in both homes, which put an even larger strain on the family’s relationship. They quickly turned against each other, throwing accusations and lawsuits to feel more powerful. When really, they were both victims.

It was really an unfortunate situation for everyone involved.

You shook your head. “I can’t even imagine what that kid went through. I wouldn’t doubt they were trying to get him to take sides. Just imagine your parents doing that to you. I could never.”

Sam gave you a funny look. “Can’t really imagine. Both of my parents are dead.”

Oh, damn. You should have known. “I’m so sorry—”

Sam shrugged. “It’s fine—you didn’t know. Anyway, it was… years ago.” He looked uncomfortable. “Can we focus?”

“Yeah.”

Sam jiggled the thing in the lock, and when it clicked, he straightened, slowly pushing the door open, slightly wincing as it creaked. He crept forward, entering the home and shining his flashlight on possible hiding spots in the shadows, wary of anyone that could be inside. 

You followed close behind, unwilling to split up like people do in horror movies. Thankfully, Sam didn’t mention it. Perhaps he felt the same.

“This is so creepy.” The house was giving you the heebie-jeebies. There was a narrow staircase which slowly disappeared into the darkness of the upstairs, and none of the lights would turn on with the flipped switch.

“Huh,” Sam said, bouncing the flashlight in his hand. “Guess this will have to do.”

“You got a second one? Not a big fan of the dark.”

You could nearly see the gears turning in his head. It was no secret you were afraid of the dark. Ever since, well, multiple unpleasant experiences. 

You probably needed a therapist more than the MacDonalds—but Dean had rubbed off on you, always talking negatively about those 'shrinks’. 

Anyway, what was the point of a therapist when you always had to lie to them? It wasn’t like you could ever tell them the whole truth—you’d be sent to an insane asylum.

Even PTSD wasn’t worth that.

Sam hummed, patting his pockets. “Nah, Dean took it. We’ll have to share.” Then, to your surprise, he handed you the flashlight.

You blinked. “Thanks.”

He took a lighter from his breast pocket and shrugged. “No problem.”

You stepped further into the house, feeling bolder with the flashlight in your hands. The light fell over a cabinet, and with it, two framed photos alongside a small lamp.

Sam was your shadow, peering over your shoulder at the cabinet. He reached a hand, tracing over the dust of the family photo. The eyes of the child were flashing gold.

You stared. And stared some more. “Well, that’s…” you trailed off.

“…yeah,” Sam agreed.

“His eyes are…”

“…yeah.”

You both briefly took in that information. “So the kid was…”

Sam’s mind was on the same track. “I’ll call Dean,” he said, walking to the kitchen and using his lighter to see the buttons on his flip phone.

You scanned the room, waving the flashlight until it illuminated a thin gooey membrane on the bathroom floor, which trailed out into the hallway. “Oh, god, no,” you said. You inched closer, shining the light down on the mound of slimy shapeshifter skin on the tile.

“Sam!” you called, running back to the main of the house where you nearly crashed into him.

“We need to go,” you both said simultaneously.

Sam pointed to the foggy window where red and blue lights had replaced the black abyss of the night. “Save your I-told-you-so’s. We need to get out of here. Now,” Sam said.

As you made it for the backdoor, he grabbed your arm. “No,” he pointed to the kitchen. “Window." 

The kitchen window was a decent sized opening. He climbed through easily, and you tumbled out after him, terrified to your core.

The lights were almost blinding.

An officer shouted, his silhouette darting out from the shadows. You hauled yourself over the tall wooden fence, just a hair behind Sam, right as the officer caught up.

A gloved hand grabbed your arm. 

Like a deer in a bear trap, you fought as they tried to secure your wrist. "Help me, help, help, help,” was all you could cry as Sam ran back. You struggled to wrench your hand out of the tight grip; punching at it, but it was like iron. You could see more officers were nearing.

Sam set fire to the officer’s hand with his lighter, but it still didn’t let go. Smoke rose and you finally stabbed the hand with your silver knife. 

The officer shouted and released you.

You and Sam sprinted down the grass to the sidewalk, feet rapid, aiming for the line of trees on the horizon. The forest would provide enough cover for the police to lose sight of you. 

It had turned into a footrace.

You tried to match your steps with Sam, but his legs were longer and stronger than yours. You weren’t a poor runner by any means, but he surpassed your endurance by a long shot.

So did the officers, apparently, as they were gaining ground on you.

You were just a step behind Sam (who was hardly breaking a sweat), struggling to keep your distance between you and the advancing officers.

Your breath was hot, your lungs already burned, and you lost your pace. Sam noticed and grunted, glancing at you from his peripheral. It was just a little noise, but it brought the strength and energy back into your step. 

The trees were a few blocks away. Just a little further, and you could catch your breath in the shadows.

You let out a strangled yell as your nervous system completely frizzed, seizing and crumpling to the ground in a breathless heap.

Sam shouted your name.

You blinked up, dazed and confused. What… what was… was I shot? What…

The officer was ordering you to put your hands behind your back, waving a yellow device at your chest. 

A taser. One prong dug into your chest, while the other was deep in your leg. 

And the officer was at liberty to light it up again.

You complied, slowly bringing your stiff arms back, so they could cuff them. And from the scuffling to your right, Sam was doing the same.

You could take on monsters any day, but three officers with loaded guns and tasers? It wasn’t a fair fight.

This officer was seemingly much more pleased with himself in comparison to his partners. He lugged you up beside a planted tree, not to be confused with the woods, which was standing ten feet away. How irritating. 

His eyes flashed golden, and you tensed under his hold. 

“You’re the shapeshifter,” you breathed.

“Must you spoil the surprise?” All at once, he raised his gun and killed the other officers with two resounding bangs.

You screamed.

Sam stumbled in his handcuffs, which had him secured to the chain link fence to your left. His eyes were like saucers as the officer arresting him dropped dead at his feet. “What… why… why did you…” he asked, stunned. “You’re the…”

You bit back another scream as the monster put a knife to your throat. The blade’s edge was cold, just enough to be painful against your skin.

Sam’s hazel eyes were dark. “What do you want?" 

His cuffs were far too low for him to stand, so he had to awkwardly hunker down. It looked uncomfortable.

The maniac had the blade right against your jugular. All it would take is pissing this guy off, and it would be over—you’d be dead. 

"You’re going to give me the demon knife,” the monster demanded. His hand was dripping blood from where you’d stabbed him.

“How entitled,“ you said.

The knife pressed harder. “I don’t care what you have to say, girl. Sam Winchester has the demon knife, and I want it.”

"Well, good luck, chuckles.” You spat, “Because Sam sure ain’t going to listen to you.”

Sam’s brooding, however, didn’t waver.

The shifter trailed the knife along the veins of your neck. “It wouldn’t be hard for me to kill her.”

"He’s bluffing,” you said, and you fell on the wet dirt, choking back a scream as he lit up the taser.

He leaned in, his breath warm on your ear. “Not bluffing,” the shifter said. "I just have better things to do than pick fights with noble Winchesters.” His eyes flashed. “My only exception is the knife. It’s the demon knife, or it’s her. You choose.”

“Sam…” you warned. “ Sam don’t—” The shifter pulled the taser’s trigger, and you keeled over into the dirt, trying not to cry. “Sam—” you tried in vain. You were met with another interval of several long, excruciating seconds.

Getting tased felt like a full-body charley horse. Pitchforks instead of prongs. Portable Hell.

Little tremors still ran through your arms. You wanted to tell Sam that you couldn’t let the knife get into the hands of this psycho, but from the look on his face, you could tell he was thinking the same.

It wasn’t that the knife mattered to you (because it didn’t, you had angel blades that worked just fine against demons) but it was that the knife would matter in the shifter’s hands. This guy was clearly unhinged.

You were all for killing demons, but giving any kind of knife to this guy just put a bad feeling in your gut. If there was anything you’d learned today, it was that your gut had a pretty good intuition.

“This can go on…” he sighed. “Though, I’m not sure how long a human heart can take this." 

“Enough.” Sam finally said, glaring. "We’ll give you the knife.”

“Oh, you’re not giving me anything. You’re going to tell me where it is, and I’m taking it.”

You couldn’t let Sam tell him where it was. “What do you want it for, anyway?” you snarled. “It can’t be of any use to you. You kill people, not demons.”

“Sure, it’s of use to me. Demons are scum on the earth. They kidnapped and tortured my family, and the knife is just what I need to avenge them.”

“So that gives you the right to hurt the MacDonalds? What would you want with them anyway?”

The shifter laughed. “Oh, all that? That was just a case to reel you guys in. I knew you’d follow the little ‘omens’. And then you’d see the skin I left so clumsily by the dumpster, and you’d talk with the parents and find out that… oh, wow, their stories aren’t matching up about each other—how could I have been so messy? Silly, stupid shifter.”

He smiled, resting a hand on your shoulder and squeezing. “You know, it was funny watching you do the whole 'monster test’ on the parents. It was cute. You’d never assume it was the child, would you?”

The photo on the cabinet had been from before the parents had divorced, so this guy must have planted himself for at least four months, doing whatever he pleased until the Winchesters got wind of his ‘mistakes’.

“Honestly,” he said. “I couldn’t care less about the MacDonalds; I was just biding my time until the infamous Winchesters showed.”

Sam’s lips were curled in disgust. “All this for a knife?”

You noticed a shadow twitch from behind Sam and in the line of trees. So small a movement that if you blinked, you would have missed it.

The shifter sneered. “Rather hypocritical, coming from someone who would do anything for their family. Would do anything to get the Colt to kill the devil.”

“That’s a lot different—” Sam argued. 

Again, you saw something move in the woods.

The monster cried, “No! No, it’s not! These demons—they’re slaying my kin. They’ve ruined everything, and so have you! All you’ve ever—”

You intervened before it got out of hand. “You know what? Fine. I’ll tell you where it is,” you said. “After all, just a knife, right Sam?”

Sam’s expression became one of absolute  bewilderment. “What? What are you…”

“Where is it?” The blade dragged down and dug a little harder at your collarbone.

You couldn’t help but smile. “You’ll find it in Hell.”

Dean Winchester took the shot. 

The silver bullet hit its target on point. Right through the shifter’s heart, and the monster crumpled, its skin already peeling.

Dean ran over, shotgun slung over his shoulder. "You guys okay?!”

“Yeah. The crazy shifter wanted the demon knife.” Sam nodded. “Lockpick in my left pocket.”

“Got one already,” Dean said, waving his. “Why didn’t you just give the knife to him? You guys look like he beat the shit out of you.” He worked on picking Sam’s cuffs.

“I had a bad gut feeling,” you grunted. “He would have killed us afterward.” You were in a daze. Your muscles were rigid and they smarted like a bitch. Your skin was tingling. 

Dean glanced your way, and when he saw your condition, left Sam the lockpick to do the rest himself. “Jesus—hey. Kid? Hey, hey, you gotta stay awake.”

“M'fine,” you groaned. “Just really sore.”

“What happened?” His eyes flitted over you.

“Zzch zzch zzch,” you mumbled, imitating the noise. “Taser. Not fun.”

“How many times he get ya?”

“Too many.”

Dean angrily worked the cuffs off your wrists. “That could have killed you.”

You knew he was referring to your time with the werewitch, which left you with a few heart complications. You shrugged. “Didn’t.”

Sighing, Dean hauled you up. “All this for a gut feeling?”

“He would have actually killed us if we let him get his way,” you said, leaning into him. “Could see it in his eyes.”

Dean threw your arm over his shoulder. “You gonna recover?”

“Damn right, I will.”

“That'a girl.”