#STSS 1x01

[katehuntington]

Title: In Bad Waters - part seven Word count: ±5570 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part seven summary: Zoë goes undercover to find out more about the murder she saw in her dream. Little does she know, that Sam and Dean do the same. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​​​ and @deanwanddamons​​​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

     Confident, Zoë bends down in order to fit under the yellow ‘crime scene - do not cross’ ribbon. She takes out her federal agent ID and flips it open before the officer guarding the perimeter can ask her about it. He steps away respectfully and lets her through. 

     It’s about 10 AM and the sun is already out on this relatively warm November day. Marching up the driveway with her heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete, Zoë unbuttons her black suit jacket to let in some air. The Stars and Stripes hasn’t been taken down yet and still flutters from the top of the mast, located in the center of a perfectly landscaped garden. The fallen leaves drape parts of the neatly mowed lawn in different tones of orange and brown. Not only does this particular estate look amazing, the entire street is brochure perfect. It is obvious that the families living in these homes on Reynolds Park Road, are wealthy ones. However, the ambulances and police cars blocking the street and the officers scanning the area, indicate that something is terribly wrong. What would seem like the last place on earth for a murder, is indeed a gruesome crime scene.

     Two officers are having a conversation by the front entry. They pause the discussion once they notice the unfamiliar face approaching them. She captivates them instantly. Determined strides, head held high, clearly a woman who stands her ground in the men’s words that is law enforcement. There’s not a single trace of doubt noticeable when she flashes her ID once more.      “Agent Evans, FBI,” she states.

     “Detective Lee. This is officer Sanchez,” a tall man, with a serious case of a receding hairline, introduces his colleague a little reluctantly, clearly not happy about the presence of a fed. He holds out his hand anyway and Zoë makes eye contact, giving him a powerful handshake.      “I didn’t know the Bureau was involved,” he comments with an Upper South accent, common for the region.

     “Well, if you had paid attention while investigating the crimes in your own county, detective,” the specialist returns without missing a beat, facing the two man with enough arrogance to shut them down immediately, “- you might had noticed that there has been a murder similar to this one, making this a serial killing.”      “Still don’t make this a federal case,” Lee returns, standing his ground.      “What does, is the fact that there’s a whole string of deaths leading from Alabama up to your lovely little town.”

     Of course she just made that up on the spot, just to back up her reason to be here, but no one would be able to tell without doing some solid digging first. She is so convincing that the two men fail to counter her.      “Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. If you could be so kind to show me the way, that would be neat,” she requires, throwing them a fake smile while narrowing her eyes.

     The two officers glance at each other, it being clear as day that the detective is not amused by the way he’s spoken to. Nonetheless, he gestures to the FBI agent to get into the house. She seems like a person not to be messed with.

      They enter the villa with Zoë in tow, who nods approving while taking a look around. She glances up to the high ceilings, which are decorated with beautiful alto-reveilo, carved into the white plaster. Roman pillars support the level above, and in the back two staircases circle up to the second floor. Every square inch of the floor underneath their feet is made from marble. Renaissance paintings, portraying country sides in the 19th century and battles from the Civil War hang from the walls, a gold plated chandelier floats overhead. Flower pieces, amongst them an expensive bouquet placed on the mahogany round table in the center of the main room, gives the house a finishing touch. Zoë knows the lifestyle of the rich and famous, but this place looks more like a palace than a principal’s home in a town called Paragould.

     “As you can see, Mr. Van Dyke lived the good life. His father owned a Dutch shipping company and made millions,” Officer Sanchez explains, having noticed the federal agent’s impressed expression. “We believe the fortune he passed on to his son might have something to do with Van Dyke’s death.”

     As they climb the stairs, Zoë chuckles, but doesn’t say a word. These oblivious bastards... they have absolutely no clue, do they?      “You think something else is going on?” Lee questions, noticing the sarcasm in her little laugh.      “Money is not the motive,”  she returns, curt.

     An awkward silence follows and Zoë can feel the hostility between her and the two police officers. She has experienced it before, especially in smaller communities. Most cops despise the feds, simply because the cases they work quite literally hit close to home. The FBI is no stranger to barging in and taking over entire investigations, without sending a ‘thank you’ card. A lot of hard work for the local coppers, without any credit. Zoë can’t say she blames the police for being reluctant.

     “This way.” Sanchez beckons them after climbing the stairs to the second floor, where he turns left on the vestibule.      The closer they get to the crime scene, the more crowded it gets. The Crime Scene Unit has already arrived and forensics dust for prints, take pictures and search for evidence. When Zoë enters the room and finds Mr. Van Dyke, she frowns. 

      In the corner lies a man, probably in his mid fifties, half into a shattered exhibition case, his eyes open, death evident. It’s not the first time Zoë has seen a dead guy, but she wasn’t expecting such a violent killing committed by a ten year old. Apparently his head got smashed into the showcase; glass is scattered all over his body. He has bruises and cuts on his arms and face, but most peculiar is his probable cause of death. His neck is broken; the head at a 90° angle. 

     Zoë scans the room, which shows several signs of a struggle. One thing is certain; Van Dyke really got his ass kicked before he died. As she takes a look around, a woman wearing white latex gloves updates Lee and his partner. Zoë glances over, notices the CSU logo on her jacket, and walks over to tune in.      “- time of death was between 6:30 and 7 AM. No prints found so far,” the forensic states.      “Look at this place. There must be something,” Detective Lee ponders, his gaze panning over the crime scene.      “Not even a fiber,” she sighs. “I have to admit; I’ve never seen anything like this.”

     “Seems like the suspect has left no trace,” Zoë intervenes, mixing into the conversation.      “Someone just did a good job covering up,” Sanchez scoffs, not finding her remark relevant. “We’ll find something.”      Dude, you have no idea, Zoë thinks to herself, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. She doesn’t cut in on him, although she has about a dozen smart curve balls ready. Never get too smart around cops, who knows what she might need them for later on.

     “There’s one thing, though, but it adds more confusion than it clears up.”      The forensic walks over to the body of Mr. Van Dyke and points out the way his sweater is pulled down. It uncovers his left shoulder, the sleeve seems too long at the end by the force that was used.      “Looks like someone pulled him down. As if the killer wanted to level his victim with him or her,” she clarifies.      “The murderer was shorter than the victim,” Lee concludes.      “Not just a little shorter, I’m talking about round 4 ft. 5 here, looking at the angle and location of the bruising,” the forensic adds up.      “About the height of a ten year old, right?” Zoë fills in, as the clues sum up.      “Yeah, that would be correct, but that’s impossible. Even if a ten year old could be capable of doing such a thing, they wouldn’t have the strength,” she rules out.

     Impossible isn’t in Zoë’s dictionary, but she has seen enough. The forensics might be on a dead end, Zoë is a hundred percent sure of who Van Dyke’s killer is. She is dealing with one furious ghost child here, but two questions remain unanswered: why isn't Laura at rest and how is she able to relocate?      A cursed object is the first thing that comes to mind. Being on the clock, Zoë decides to leave and have a talk with the family.      “Thanks very much, I’ve got everything I need.” She gives both the forensic and the members of the PPD a nod, before she exits the room.

     While Zoë walks down the corridor towards the staircase, the undercover huntress goes through the things she just learned. It almost seems like Laura is trying to put her victims through the same horror she experienced before she died. She simply shows them who’s boss, just like her father used to teach her. It’s violent, not suited for viewers under the age of eighteen, and yet a girl of only ten years of age, is behind these murders. 

     Back on the first floor, Zoë can hear soft wailing coming from the dining room. For the third time this morning she shows her ID, this time to the officer guarding the shielded off private space. The door is slightly ajar, when she pushes it open further in order to enter, the investigator finds the Van Dyke family, gathered together. A woman in her early fifties with blonde pixie hair has her arms around a teenage girl, who Zoë presumes to be the principal’s daughter. The son, a few years younger than his sister, stares outside, his empty eyes gazing out over the lake, quietly grieving in his own way. Instantly, Zoë feels sorry for the family. She wouldn’t wish this upon anyone.      “Mrs. Van Dyke?”

     The woman looks up with tears in her eyes and lets go of her daughter, but not before sweetly stroking her hair. Zoë shows Mr. Van Dyke’s wife her identification.      “I’m Special Agent Evans, you can call me Sharon. I would like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.”      The mother of two nods her head as she wipes away her tears. “Of course.”      “Your husband’s passing took place between 6:30 and 7 O'clock this morning. Where were you at this time?” Zoë questions calmly.      “I was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast,” Mrs. Van Dyke replies, having crossed one arm over her chest, her hand covering her mouth as she breathes out with a shudder.      “And you heard nothing?” the huntress wonders, her voice gentle, not wanting to upset the poor woman even more.      “Not a sound,” she shakes her head. “Heather was in her room next to Bill’s office, she didn’t hear a thing until the dog started barking, that’s when she found him.”

     Zoë nods at that, aware that dogs have a better sense of the supernatural than humans have. She glances past the woman before her, noticing the kind Australian shepherd, who has laid his head in Heather’s lap, watching up at her with worried eyes while trying to comfort his owner. The dog seems calm now, a good indication that Laura isn’t anywhere near.      What the huntress does find strange, though, is that their daughter didn’t hear a thing. The article in the newspaper yesterday about Robert Shire’s murder comes to mind. His family was home during the incident as well.

     “That will be it for now, thank you for your time,” Zoë notifies, smiling sympathetically. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”      Mrs. Van Dyke turns back to her family with half a nod, still in complete shock after this morning’s events which turned her world upside down. Zoë would like to take more time to talk to the children, but she simply doesn’t have a minute to spare. Hastened, the huntress exits the house, stepping out into the warm sun as she takes out her shades and puts them on. 

      It all makes sense now. Laura isn’t just getting even with the people who are directly or indirectly connected to her death. She’s recreating how she died. What Zoë remembers from her flashback, the poor girl was a punching bag for her father’s fist on a daily basis, but it’s not just that. No one around heard a thing, not even a single sound, like the victims were isolated from the outside world. The vision of Laura’s mother stoically continuing her dinner while her older brother watched TV. As if they couldn’t bear the abuse and therefore shut out the sounds that came along with it. 

     Pondering, Zoë strides down Reynolds Park Road, back to her bike, which she parked near the water. Unlike the police, the huntress is everything but stuck, she knows exactly where she needs to go. Next stop; The Shire residence.

     “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

     Dean has been complaining ever since they pulled away from the In-N-Out, when Sam came up with his newest masterplan. Their usual jeans and several layers of plaid have been replaced with black suits, the sharp dressed men now approaching Arkansas Methodist Medical Center, leaving the Impala in the parking lot.

     “We are doing this, so get used to it,” Sam returns, getting tired of his brother’s whining. “You have the ID’s?”      Dean takes out two leather wallets and flips them open, showing him the fake identification. Sam stares at the ID’s, his jaw falling open.      “FBI? Are you nuts, Dean?”      “Dad and I do it all the time. No sweat,” Dean shrugs, not that worried about getting caught.

     “What if they look up our badge numbers? This is suicide!” Sam hisses, keeping his voice down when they pass people at the entrance of the hospital.      “You wanna know what’s suicide? Meddling with Zoë’s case,” Dean counters.      Sam huffs. “Oh, come on. How bad can it be?”      “You should have seen her in Rochester when she found out we rang Cliffer and blew her cover. That wasn’t even intentional, and now you actually choose to get involved?” Dean argues.

     He gives his brother his new identification, which Sam studies carefully as he mumbles his fake name. Dean watches his brother closely, curious if he will detect the little gimmick in their aliases, them being Angus and Young. But Sam doesn’t know enough about rock music to notice that the two names combined is the full name of AC/DC’s lead guitarist. Nonetheless, Dean is proud of the inside joke.

     “She might get a little annoyed, but she won’t get mad. We’re helping her,” Sam assures, hoping his brother will stop being dramatic.      “Exactly! I’m dressed like a fucking penguin while I know she won’t ever thank us, even if we have a major breakthrough.” Dean loosens his tie a bit, smothered by the tightness of his collar.      “Look man, we can sit on our ass and waste this day or--”      “- I prefer that actually,” the oldest intervenes.      “Or--” Sam continues, sternly, “- we can do something useful.”

     With that being said, he walks through the revolving doors of the governmental facility, followed by Dean, who mutters something unintelligible; stubborn fucker. Dean might be the older sibling here, but when Sammy has got his mind set on something, he can’t be reasoned with.      Heading straight for the main desk, the Winchester brothers get into character. Sam especially looks somewhat young to be a federal agent, thankfully his height makes up for that. They both need to sell this in order to gather new information on the case.      Confidently, Dean flashes his FBI identification to the woman behind the counter. “Agent Young, this is my partner Agent Angus. We’re here to see a dead body.”      “You came to the right place,” she comments, apparently not impressed by their badges.      She calls for an older physician in a long white coat who just passed by.      “Dr. Hughes? Could you escort these two agents to the morgue?” she asks him.      “Of course, I’m heading over there anyway,” he agrees, beckoning Dean and Sam to walk with him.

     The hunters follow the doctor through the long hospital hallways. White ceilings, mint green vinyl floors and random photos and Picasso rip offs on the walls every now and then; the typical hospital decor the Winchester brothers are more familiar with than they would want to be. They’ve been inside medical centers plenty. To investigate a case, but also as a visitor whenever someone in their close circle got hurt on the job, but also as a patient. Hunting isn’t just a profession prone to injury, it’s worse than that. It’s a profession prone to death.

     Dr. Hughes eventually breaks the silence when they reach an elevator. “Who are you here for?”      “Ronald Shire,” Sam informs.      Unpleasantly surprised, Hughes looks up at the tall agent. He halts by the elevator, calling it down to the first floor. It takes a second to arrive, the doctor uncomfortably shifts from one foot to the other. Dean and Sam have noticed it, however, exchanging a look.

     “I’m sorry,” the physician apologizes when he realizes how his behavior might come across. “Ronald was a colleague of mine, but he was also a close friend.”      “Our condolences,” Dean says, knowing all about Shire’s death after Sam filled him in earlier.      Hughes pushes the button to call the elevator down, accepting the sympathy offered by the agent. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? We see death every day and yet when it hits close to home, you never see it coming.”

     Wise words, applicable to everyone. He has been there on many occasions when the final hour struck; of hunters, of people they were trying to save. One would expect all this experience to give him thick skin, since he’s used to the violence and killings. But when Jess was murdered, it hit him harder than a wrecking ball.

     The younger Winchesters train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the bell, announcing that the elevator has reached their level. He clears his throat and directs his attention to the doctor again. “Do you have an idea what happened to Mr. Shire?”      “I did the autopsy myself; it left me stunned,” Dr. Hughes tells them as they enter the elevator.

     Again the doctor presses a key and the doors close. As they slowly move down to the basement, Dean tries to find out if Hughes knows more about the case then he’s willing to let go at this point.      “We think his death might have something to do with the murder that took place in the Van Dyke residence,” he fills in.      “I heard about that on the news. CSU is still on that, though”, the physician says.      “We have one of our agents at the scene,” Sam returns, with the short statement explaining their suspicion.

     The doors open and the three enter the morgue of the hospital. It’s cool in this section and an unpleasant scent fills the area, chemicals almost masking the lingering smell of the dead. The doctor walks over to the furthest wall of metal drawers. He pulls out one of the many trays and puts on a pair of latex gloves before he zips open the body bag.      “What’s so stunning about this case?” Sam wonders.      “See for yourself.” Hughes unfolds the bag and both boys raise their eyebrows.      “Ouch,” Dean comments.

     The body of Laura’s father is badly bruised and battered, as if he got beaten up by a street gang in a bad neighborhood. His jaw is demolished, his neck broken; this is some serious abuse. The ‘Y’ shaped incisions on his torso indicated that a full autopsy has been performed on Ronald Shire, but the large stitches barely stand out between the black and broken skin.

     “That’s not all,” the doctor adds as he takes out the file. “I searched every inch of his body on the in and outside, but there is not a print, not one single fiber on him that  could point you fellas towards a suspect.”      Dean gives Sam a look without the physician seeing it. Dr. Hughes might have never seen this before, the hunters certainly have. Ghosts never leave any trace on their victims, unless they want to.

     “This caught my attention, though.” The doctor points out the bruises. “See how they run out upwards? That indicates that these injuries were caused from a lower angle. Or the killer was on its knees - which would be most unlikely - or the injuries were inflicted by someone shorter than 4 ft. 7. Someone with a growth defect, dwarf syndrome. That’s the only way I can clarify this.”      “Have you considered a child?” Sam questions, carefully.      “I have for a brief moment, but it’s theoretically impossible for a child to throw punches like this, even when it would use an object to create some kind of leverage, which I found no indication of,” the doctor explains. “Honestly, I’ve never seen damage done like this, not even by trained fighters. The evidence doesn’t add up in the slightest. This shouldn’t be possible.”

     The boys exchange another glance; the evidence adds up just fine for them. Sam tilts his head and nods to the door, giving Dean the signal that they are leaving.      “Thank you for your time, doctor.” he rounds up their visit. “If there is anything else, let us know.”      “You’re welcome, I hope you’ll get this one,” Hughes mentions while he cleans up.      “We’ll do our best,” Sam ensures.

     The two hunters leave the morgue and step back into the elevator. As soon as the doors close, the oldest of the two turns to the other.      “Laura, definitely,” the youngest brother states, determined.      “Unless this town is haunted by two frustrated mini spirits, yeah, it’s Laura.” Dean agrees, watching Sam take his phone out of his pocket as they arrive at the first floor again. “Who’re you gonna call?”      “The other Ghostbuster,” Sam replies, as he looks up Zoë’s number and presses the green button as soon as they step outside the hospital.      “Shouldn’t we get to the bomb shelter first?” the oldest suggests, snarky.      “This information could be useful”, Sam replies, but before Dean can respond to that, Zoë answers her phone.

     “Sullivan.”      “Hey Zoë, it’s Sam. Listen, I’ve got some info on Ronald Shire for you,” Sam cuts to the chase.      “Why would you have info on Laura’s dad?”      Sam cringes slightly, detecting the suspecting tone in her voice. Oh well, here goes nothing.      “We went to the Medical Center to see Shire’s body.”

      Complete silence, but Sam can almost hear Zoë’s blood boil on the other side of the line. Dean pulls his sleeve and gestures at him, frustrated.      “What are you including me for?” he hisses, making sure Zoë can’t hear him.      Sam waves him away, without making a sound he hushes his brother to be quiet, turning away from him in order not to get distracted. He takes a breath, gathering his courage. 

      “Zoë?”       “I’m sorry, I think I misunderstood you. Did you just tell me that you deliberately messed with my case, even though I told you VERY clearly not to get involved?”      The huntress’s voice trembles with anger, Sam can hear she tries to keep calm.      “We figured we could spare you some time by going ourselves--”      “- You FIGURED?!”

     Sam cowers, her voice so sharp and loud that he doesn’t have to put her on speaker for Dean to pick up on the conversation. He did move closer to his brother, invading his personal space in order to tune in.      “Better take cover,” Dean advises his brother.      Annoyed, Sam pushes his brother away and focuses on Zoë again.

     “We didn’t mess anything up if that’s what you’re worried about”, he states defensively.      “I wouldn't give a flying fuck if you solved the fucking case! You didn’t listen!”      “You’re not my boss!” Sam makes clear, not having her raging attitude, no matter how intimidated he feels by the fiery woman.      “I am the boss when it comes to MY cases, damn it! This is not a fucking candy store I’m running, Sam! You can’t go do my job without telling me, you almost got me killed last time!”      “It was an innocent morgue visit!” Sam exclaims while making a wild gesture, even though Zoë isn’t there to see it. “And honestly, would you have said ‘yes’ if I asked you first?”

     “No of course not, you fucking asshat! That’s the fucking point!” she returns, clearly furious. “I swear to God, Sam, if you and your brother cross my path again…”      “What? You’ll kill us?” Sam huffs. “Listen, Zoë. Ronald Shire was attacked by Laura, without doubt. He was a mess, his jaw was wrecked and his neck was broken, all injuries inflicted from a lower angle. That’s all the info I’ve got for you, you do with it whatever the hell you want.”

     Before Zoë can return an answer, Sam ends the call. It’s only now that he notices Dean opposite of him, his arms crossed in front of him. He nods, appreciating.      “No more Mr. Nice Guy. I like it,” he comments, then continues his way to the Impala.      Without responding to his notification, Sam follows and catches up with him, still angry with the ungrateful attitude of the huntress. He cannot believe he saved her at least an hour and a half and this is what he gets in return; so much for gratitude. 

     Together they walk over to the classic Chevrolet without speaking about it further. Yet Dean can’t help but  smile as he opens his door. Sam notices the grin and rolls his eyes.      “Just say it,” he mutters.      “Say what?”      “You know what.”      Dean looks at him over the top of the black Chevrolet and ponders, still deciding if he should say the words which he longs to say. He can’t help himself, he has to enjoy the moment and rub it in.      His smirk grows even wider. “Hate to say I told you so.”      “No, you don’t,” Sam sighs, sits down and closes the door.

     Dean does the same and turns the key, starting up the Impala’s V8 engine, which lets out an enthusiastic roar. People Are Strange by The Doors is playing on the radio while Sam stares through the windshield, still bummed about the call.      “Why doesn’t she just drop the act?” Sam wonders.      “I’m not sure if it’s an act, Sammy.” Dean checks in both directions before steering his precious car onto the road. “I sincerely think her soul is pitch black.”

     But Sam shakes his head, not buying it. “This can’t be her persona. You said it yourself; she was different when you first met her.”      “So? People change,” Dean simply declares, shrugging his shoulders.      “Maybe, but this is just stupid. We’re in town, bored out of our skull while she is working her ass off to finish up on time. It can’t be that hard to accept our help.”      “Apparently she’s socially disturbed, Sam. Let it go already. If she can’t appreciate a helping hand, she’s not worth the effort,” the older brother suggests, not wanting Sam to be bothered by the matter. “Let’s go to Texas and hunt some wolf, huh?”

     He considers the advice for a moment as they drive by Linwood Cemetery. As soon as he spots the place, he glances across the road at the Hampton Inn, but there is no sign of Zoë; she must be at the crime scene.      As they pass through, he decides he wants to stay. “No. We agreed to stay in town till tonight. Zoë will leave, case closed or not. It’s almost midday, so what difference will it make if we leave now or tonight?”      “Half a day,” Dean answers smartly.      “Denise? Or did you completely forget about the fact that you are meeting up with her later?”

     The driver of the black car raises his eyebrow at that, contemplating, because Sam is right; he did forget about his ‘date’ later today for just a second. Dean doesn’t like to admit it, but Denise is a very big plus to stay in town just a little while longer. A silence follows after Sam’s mention while his brother thinks through his options.

     “Point taken,” he gives in. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Zoë is not gonna come around.”      “She will, believe me. She’s not as bad to the bone as she pretends to be,” Sam states, sure of his words. After all, last night she was friendly for letting him crash in her room and transferring all that lore to his computer.      “I know her better than you do,” Dean weighs up.      “I don’t believe that's true,” Sam counters, shaking his head.      “Wanna bet?” Dean looks aside as the argument is starting to turn into a ‘do not, do too’ fight. “Burgers for a week.”      “I rarely eat burgers. How’s that gonna benefit me?” the younger sibling brings to mind.

     “Okay, well… If I win, you buy me burgers for a week. If you win, I won’t give you shit for ordering a salad in every fast food joint we eat at.” The green eyed hunter wiggles his eyebrows, his arrogant grin confident, spread wide on his lips.      “I’m not settling for that.” Sam huffs and shakes his head. “You can buy me whatever I order for the next seven days if I’m right.”      “Deal.”

     Before Dean can assure him that this is a bet he will win, his brother’s Blackberry rings. Surprised, he checks the screen for the number, his long chestnut hair falling in front of his eyes when he looks down, then he raises his eyebrows and smiles. Victoriously he shows the screen to Dean; it’s Zoë. Sam picks up his phone and puts her on speaker.      “What?” he snaps, still mad at her.      “What are you up to?”      The youngest of the Winchesters isn’t sure if she’s asking him if he’s still intending to mess with her case or that she’s asking if he has some spare time.      “Depends,” he answers, curt.      “You said Shire broke his neck, so did Van Dyke.”      “So?”      “Might be something.”

     Sam keeps his mouth shut, warning Dean to do the same with only a look and a slight shake of the head. An unpleasant silence follows. Obviously, it irritates Zoë.      “C'mon, Sam. Knock it off!”      “No, Zoë! We’re helping you out and this is what we get?” Sam returns.      “You two nosey dickwads went behind my back! How can you expect me to be--”

     They can hear her sigh and swallow down the rest of the sentence as she collects herself, trying to keep her temper in check.      “I don’t like working with others and I certainly don’t want to abandon this case. I’ve never passed up a job, it’s not my style. But if I don't finish up by tonight, I don't have another option.”

     “I get that, but wouldn’t it be better if we just work together now and make sure that you’ll make your deadline?” Sam suggests, calmer than a moment ago, now that the woman on the other end of the line has done the same.      “Look, Zo,” Dean interrupts, adding his two cents. “I know you’re not particularly happy about teaming up - and hey, neither am I - but you’ll be able to cover more ground that way. You can’t expect us to leave town knowing you might have to face a dilemma. The sooner you close this case, the sooner we can go our separate ways.”      “I don’t know...”      Again a sigh while Zoë considers her next move. Sam allows the silence, granting her the time to think it through. The way he sees it, she doesn't have much of a choice. The Winchesters are the best option she’s got.      “Okay, fine,” she eventually gives in. “But this is still my case. I call the shots and might we stumble on trouble, we stick to the plan. I can’t settle for anything less.”      Dean has already opened his mouth to object, but Sam elbows him hard, shooting him a warning glare.      “Agreed,” the youngest quickly answers, ignoring the quiet muttering from his left.      “Dean?”

     The older Winchester brother grinds his teeth. Shit, he does not want to bow down to her, because he knows the second he does, she will without a doubt step up to become Evil Queen Bitch. He’s never going to live it down. One case, he tells himself. One fucking case and he will never have to deal with her again.      “Fine,” he utters, barely audible.      “One other thing. I need to leave town tonight, case finished or not. We have to try or take care of this today, okay?”      “We will,” Sam assures. “And if we run into trouble and can’t manage to wrap up, you don’t have to worry about this case. We’ll make sure to have it covered and that Laura will be put to rest.”      “So, do we meet up or what?”      “Yeah, sure.”      “Where are you at?”

     Before Sam answers he checks the name of the road they are on.      “W. Kings Highway, going west. We’re staying at the Ramada Inn,” Sam tells her.      “Shit motel.”      He scoffs a chuckle, glad the tension has lifted. “Tell me ‘bout it.”      “I'll see you at In-N-Out,” the huntress decides. “I want an Animal Burger.”      “Have you had that 4x4 burger?” Dean says, his mouth watering. “The amount of meat, hmm.”      “Are you kidding me? I grew up in California; In-N-Out is my jam!”      “Their food is fuckin’ amazing, ain’t it?” Dean agrees.      “Oh my God, yes! How they grill their cheese—”

     Stunned, Sam stares from the phone to Dean and back. Did the unthinkable just happen? Did Zoë and Dean actually agree on something? Remarkable, but truly, here is the one subject they can’t fight about; food.      “Zo?” he interrupts.      “Yeah?”      “See you at In-N-Out.” He chuckles and hangs up.

     The Ramada Inn shows up in front of them and Dean pulls up into the parking lot, turning off the ignition once he has found a spot close to the entrance. Before he gets out of the car, he registers Sam, who’s wearing a boyish grin on his face. His eyes sparkle through the curtain of his bangs, his pearl white teeth on display; it’s clear he’s very much amused.      “Hate to say I told you so,” Sam nags victoriously, and pushes the passenger door open.

     With a confused expression upon his face, Dean gets out of his car himself. He then glares at younger Winchester over the top of the Impala, the words sinking in. Fuck, he lost a bet; Zoë came around.      “No, you don’t,” he mutters, following his sibling inside. Looks like he’s going to have to live through the embarrassment of ordering and paying for salads the coming week. Oh well, at least he doesn’t have to eat them.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).   

Read part eight here

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[katehuntington]

New chapter of Supernatural: the Sullivan Series in 30 minutes!

And guess who are gonna make their big entrance?

Yep...

These dorks...

Who’s ready?!

Catch up on STSS here!

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[katehuntington]

New SUPERNATURAL: THE SULLIVAN SERIES coming right up!

Episode 1 chapter 4 is being beta’d as we speak. Give me another hour and you’ll have something fun to read. Curious!Sam, Hurt!Dean and Sassmaster!Zoë; what else can you wish for?

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[katehuntington]

Title: Changes - part two Word count: ±3000 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work as a team. Summary part two: Four years after the demon attack, a young woman is playing a cat and mouse game with another supernatural creature. Only this time around, she’s the hunter. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks.  Music: About A Girl - Nirvana Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. @coffee-obsessed-writer​, @soupornatural​ & @mrswhozeewhatsis​, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​ & @winchest09​ who are deciphering the recent version; thank you for helping me with this story and for taking it to a higher level. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

     Rochester, Minnesota      November 24th, 2005

     Rain falls during a chilly night in November. Thunder rumbles in the distance, as heavy showers dim flashes of lightning that jump from one cloud to the other. Several miles outside of the city in the wide-open spaces, the world seems deserted. The atmosphere is threatening as nature shows her power. Straight roads cross the farmlands, not a living soul using them. No one is on their way home or driving away from it. Then again, in this weather, who would want to be out on the road? 

     In the distance, a light appears and steadily approaches. A bright shimmer reflects in the water on the asphalt, the sound of an engine building as the vehicle gets closer. It’s not an ordinary engine, not even close to the sound that modern cars produce these days. Actually, it’s not even a car.      A black Harley Davidson cuts through the night, roaring like a lion. The classic motorbike leaves a spray in its wake, the water catapulted from the back tire. The polished paint job shines proudly, catching even the smallest glint of light. Raindrops try to cling to waxed metal, failing miserably. It’s obvious the owner of this beauty takes good care of her. It’s the type of bike you would expect an old rocker to ride. The kind that listens to Metallica and is a member of a biker gang. A tough guy with a beard and big sideburns, who rides from roadhouse to roadhouse, consuming nothing but steak and beer. Nevertheless, this lucky Harley is ridden by a young woman. 

     The rider seems to be in a hurry; despite the slippery roads; she’s speeding down 75th street NW at ninety miles an hour. This woman and her Harley have reason to haste. The biker tries to focus on the road ahead, yet glances in her side mirror frequently, checking if she’s being followed. The sharp pain in her abdomen keeps her awake. She mutters to herself, biting down the pain. How could you be so fucking stupid? It’s your job to know what you’re dealing with, and yet you were caught off guard!

     The suburb of Rochester appears in the south; she’s almost there. The rider bends over her bike, clamping one arm around her waist and applying pressure.       “Fucking hell,” she curses.      She refuses to look down at her injury and keeps herself together. Hopefully, it’s not too bad, she doesn’t have time to get stuck in the ER. It’s during moments like these she regrets falling in love with her ‘94 Harley Davidson Road King, because a faster bike like a modern Kawasaki sports bike would be much more convenient right now. 

     She follows the road, which is shadowed by trees on both sides, until she passes through a small town, called Douglas. Again, she checks her mirrors, but there’s nothing on her tail. In front of her, several cars and trucks are driving up route 52. A sigh of relief escapes her mouth; back in the civilized world.       After turning right just before the highway, she speeds up again on the road running parallel to it. Finally, the motel appears in the distance, a building with a large neon number ‘6’ on the roof. The female biker parks her Harley in front of the motel and turns the ignition. Not nearly as graceful as usual, she gets off her bike and heads toward the entrance of the motel. With her right hand on her bleeding wound, she stumbles across the parking lot as she takes off her helmet. 

     A flash of lightning cracks the sky and reflects on the cars parked in front. For a split second, she thinks she sees a shadow standing in the rain. Quickly, she turns towards it, but it’s gone, yet her hand goes for the gun tucked behind her waistband, instinctively. On high alert, she scans her surroundings, her intuition telling her she’s not alone. Is she getting paranoid? He wouldn’t come out here and follow her by car, would he? That would be insane, he’d be too exposed.      Her hand slips from the grip of the weapon and she makes a run for it. After hastily entering the motel, she closes the door behind her. It’s warm in the lobby, country music playing in the background, a huge contrast to the chilling weather outside. Standing in the bleak light instead of mysterious shadows makes her feel a bit more at ease. 

     The old man behind the counter looks up from his paper, peaking over his reading glasses. An empty soda bottle decorates his desk along with some paper wrappers which once held a Wendy’s cheeseburger. She stares at the wrappers for a moment. Fuck, she would kill for a burger right now.      “You’re behind on your payment, Mrs. Johnson,” the old man remarks.      She throws a Mastercard on the desk while closing her coat around her body, hiding her injury and keeping the hand she used to staunch the bleeding firmly against her side. The motel manager thankfully doesn’t seem to pick up on anything out of the ordinary and takes the card without thanking her.      “I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you the extra night, too. It’s way past check out.”      “No worries, book two more. I’ll be sticking around for a few more days,” she returns.      “Business taking longer than expected, huh?” he assumes, while working the computer.      “Something like that, yeah,” she answers shortly, not willing to elaborate.      “Those two nights were the last slots. It’s busy this weekend.” The man behind the desk hits the enter button. “You’re in luck.”      She frowns at the comment. Right, luck. Looks like luck got me fucking shot. Thankfully he doesn’t have any further questions, she’s not in the mood for a chit-chat with the fossil. 

     The restless woman scans the parking lot outside for the third time, slightly out of breath, her face tense. Every once in awhile the motel manager glances over his screen, observing his client. Her black leather biker jacket is soaked through, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Brown hair falls down her shoulders, the tips escaped her helmet drenched from the rain. Her dark eyes seem worried, makeup slightly faded. A young woman, who - according to the information he got from her when she checked in - married early, apparently. How old could she be? Twenty four, twenty-five, maybe? She doesn’t really seem like the marrying type, and he has seen many folks come and go. The poor girl looks pale, too, as if she’s ill or carrying a heavy weight upon her shoulders. A lot of shady business has happened in his motel, so he knows the signs. Maybe it’s drug related, maybe she’s fleeing from an abusive relationship. Who knows? He doesn’t bother to ask anymore. It would put him out of business if he would. Besides, she doesn’t seem like the person anyone would want to mess with. He does make a mental note to keep an eye on her and make sure his motel doesn’t turn into a crime scene.      “Here ya go.” He hands her back her credit card. “You know the way.”

     The mystery woman nods, picks up her helmet from the desk, and turns down the hallway. While entering room number 82, she takes off her jacket together with her tartan wind scarf and strides to the bathroom. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, her gaze drops to her abdomen, where a bloodstain has darkened her grey shirt. She lifts it up, the fabric sticking to the punctured skin. Fuck, that feels anything but pleasant. She reveals the bullet wound underneath, several inches to the left of her belly button.      “Shit, shit, shit.”       Carefully she takes off her shirt, her breasts only covered with a bra. Still staring at her reflection, she ponders on her next move. Maybe paying a visit to the hospital isn’t such a bad idea after all. That bullet could have ripped through a number of organs. The small intestine, descending colon, she remembers clearly from the books and lectures. The inferior mesenteric artery branches out there too.       “Would’ve been more blood if it was an artery,” she mutters to no one but her own lonesome mind.

     The fact that the bullet bounced off the wall before it hit her, could mean that it didn’t sink too deep into her skin. She decides to give it a try and fish it out herself; if she can’t solve the problem, a doctor’s visit is always an option.      The young woman grabs a clean towel and wipes away the crimson around the wound as she moves back to the bedroom. She takes a small briefcase from under the bed, putting it down on the table in the corner of the room. A sigh falls from her lips when she sits down on the chair, then opens the lid, revealing a wide range of surgical instruments and medical supplies. Gauze, suture thread, sterilizers, tape, syringes, catheters, and several small bottles with different substances ranging from morphine to epinephrine; enough gear to do minor surgery.      She swallows apprehensively; this is going to get nasty.      “Hell, I’m not doing this alone.”      Next to her bed, a bottle of whiskey beckons her. With a moan, the injured woman gets up, grabs the Johnny Walker and the glass next to it. She turns on the radio on the cabinet, twisting the volume button all the way, and walks back to the table, halting to face the mirror inside the briefcase. Filling up the glass with alcohol, she grabs gloves, forceps, and other supplies she is going to need. In the background, the first tones of About A Girl by Nirvana comes through the small speaker. With the bottle of Johnny’s Black Label on standby, she clears her throat while putting on the blue latex gloves. Here goes nothing. 

     There is a sharp increase in pain as the forceps slowly enter her body. With her eyes focused on the reflection in the mirror, her jaws clamp together as she tries to reach the bullet. She groans, fighting the intense agony that almost seizes her attempt, struggling to contain herself and steady her breathing. Not wanting to draw any attention is the only thing preventing her from screaming at the top of her lungs. Finally, the forceps touch something solid. With tears burning in her eyes, she succeeds in getting a hold of it, then carefully pulls back and drops the bullet into the glass. Quickly, she grabs the whiskey and takes large swigs, wincing at the afterburn.      “Fuck, that hurts,” she hisses, placing the bottle back on the table with a loud bang.

     The worst part is done, but it’s not quite finished yet. Shaky hands reach for the disinfectant, but unfortunately, the bottle of chlorhexidine is empty. Stupid, she should have stocked up immediately after she used it all last time. Oh well, whiskey will have to do then. And so she takes the Jack and pours the last bit of whiskey over the wound. The alcohol needs only a second before taking effect. But when the stinging pain does come, she’s unable to tone down the growl leaving her throat. But you know what really pisses her off? Now she’s out of whiskey, too. 

     Frustrated, the young woman clenches her fist, waiting for the pain to fade until it’s bearable. After several minutes, she has finally calmed down enough to proceed. She takes the thread and stitch scissors and finishes the job. The pain from the stitching needle piercing her skin isn’t too bad; it almost feels like a tickle compared to the forceps. After ripping a sterile wound pad out of its package with her teeth and soaking it in betadine, she places it over the wound and tapes it to her skin. All done. Unfortunately, she will live to see another day.

     With a sigh, she strolls over to the bathroom while pulling her latex gloves off her hands. Again, the woman - who basically just performed surgery on herself - looks in the mirror.      “Well hello, gorgeous,” she mutters sarcastically, registering the bags under her eyes, the run-down mascara and messy hair.       She looks like a train wreck and that’s an understatement. But considering recent events, she's lucky to still be standing. After opening the faucet, she bends over the sink. The water feels refreshing on her skin as she washes her face. With her hands on the edge of the sink, she closes her eyes. Time for a moment to stop, debrief, and take a breath.

     The fucking night she had. 

     What the hell happened out there? Where did this go wrong? She found a pattern, located the next victim. At least, she thought she did.       Burdened, the brunette turns around and slowly walks back to the main room. The interior of the motel is rather boring, but the bed is comfortable enough and there’s a television. Normally she insists on more luxurious hotels, but with two big events happening in the city, this was all she could find. 

     By the bed, she halts. A puzzle of newspaper articles, pictures, books, and blueprints lay spread out over the mattress as some sort of mind map. An outsider would think this so-called Mrs. Johnson might be a special agent. That, or a psychotic killer, but neither is true. In fact, her name isn’t even Mrs. Johnson. 

     Biting her lip, she narrows her brown eyes and tries to find some sort of link, an explanation for what happened tonight. Terry Cliffer, the guy she expected to be the next target, turned out to be the bad guy. The bastard who shot her certainly looked an awful lot like Cliffer. Somehow the suspect was on to her and made a change of plans, but what was the trigger?      She picks up two articles, both from the local paper, the Post-Bulletin. One is about a murderer with an ironclad alibi, the other a tiny report of a strange robbery. Both incidents took place during the same night, both suspects were caught on surveillance cameras, both claimed to be elsewhere at the time of the crime, and neither fit the profile of a killer or a thief. Two separate mysteries for the local police, one crystal clear case for a hunter. Until now, that is.

      She mutters unintelligibly, annoyed with the fact that she’s one step behind. There’s another question poking at her subconscious, maybe one of even bigger importance: how the hell did it shift so fast? She picks up a book from her bed and rereads the passage she labeled ‘Shapeshifting’.      ‘Shapeshifting is a common theme in mythology and folklore. In its broadest sense, it is a metamorphosis (change in the physical form or shape) of a person. Shapeshifting involves physical changes such as alterations of age, gender, race,  general appearance, or changes between human and animal form.’      Still standing up, she leafs through the book, trying to find what she’s looking for.      “Forms of shapeshifting, powers, punitive changes, needed items, yadda yadda yadda. Damn it, where is it!?” 

     Throwing the book back on the bed, she sits down, wincing, and pulls her MacBook closer on the table. Focused, she fires up the hard drive and opens her archives. After a bit of searching, the screen finally shows the information she’s been looking for.      “Shifting process: The shifting process takes several hours, but can be hastened by the shapeshifter itself, by tearing off its own flesh - Oh, that’s just gross.” She shivers, disgusted, staring and rereading the passage just to be sure.      It might be gross, but this is what’s happening. Something disturbed the monster she’s hunting, but did she mess up this job or did someone else blow her cover? 

     She has to go back to the roots of this case for everything to make sense. At least three people are connected to each other. Three people who don’t work together, who don’t live close by, but there’s one thing they have in common: they’ve all been seen at 110th Ave NW just outside Rochester this month. Traffic cams confirmed this, so the shifter must be hiding somewhere along that road. But where?      She opens a satellite picture of the area on her Apple computer and observes the houses alongside the road. The estates are spread out and have long driveways. It would take months to figure out where the shifter’s den is, and the creature will be long gone by then. Yesterday, she thought she had a lead. She discovered the thing uses the sewer system to travel. More than fifty percent of the houses out there aren’t connected to the sewer system, but have their own septic tanks, so she could scratch those off the list. Only nine of the remaining houses are empty. The problem is, she already checked those homes and ended up with nothing.

     “C’mon, what does your gut tell you?” she mumbles to herself.      One house, deep in the forest, captures her eye. It’s not connected to the sewer system, but on the last drive by, she saw a ‘for sale’ sign by the side of the road. Good chance it’s empty. It wouldn’t make any sense for the shapeshifter to hide out in the woods, miles from the sewer, but she has a feeling something’s going on in that place. Her intuition is the only thing she’s going on, since there are no leads left to investigate. Why is a voice in the back of her mind telling her to go there when it makes absolutely no sense?      “This is fucking insane,” she states out loud as she gets up to put on a new top.      Insane, maybe. But she is not going to sit on her ass and watch this monster get away with more abductions. What concerns her, is the people of which it stole their identities, are now missing. They could be dead for all she knows, but they could also be held some place, and in that case, every second counts. This stops tonight; she has been hunting this fucker for way too long. Determined, she gathers her stuff and leaves the room, heading back to the hunting fields.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read chapter three here!

#Supernatural: the Sullivan Series #Supernatural series #Dean Winchester x OFC #Sam Winchester x OFC #Supernatural OFC #SPN OFC #Supernatural #SPN #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Dean Winchester fanfiction #Sam Winchester fanfiction #Kate Huntington #The Sullivan Series #STSS #1x01 Changes