Sam was out of the family business. Sam had been out for years, ever since he went away to Stanford, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t remember the basics. Missing hearts and the full moon? Probably a werewolf. Strange man bleeding and telling lies while carrying an arsenal? Most likely a hunter. Strange man wearing his face? Definitely a shapeshifter.
Still, Sam was out. Sure, he still had his favorite hunting knife, but it wasn’t silver. And even though he knew better, he knew, he couldn’t just kill the thing in the middle of broad daylight. No matter how dirty or how much it resembled a drunken homeless man. He checked it for weapons and found none, much to his surprise, and then he took it back to his dorm room, gave Jessica a call and spun a story about how he couldn’t make it to study group because he was suddenly feeling sick.
While he was talking, the thing wearing his face croaked, “Jess?” Like it had a right to call her that.
“Don’t say her name,” Sam told it, once he’d hung up his phone.
It laughed, a weak and hoarse laugh that sounded like it hurt. “Of all of the dreams,” it said, and its voice was slurred, sluggish, “this is the most creative.” It grabbed Sam by the leg, pulled him down to the ground with a strength and speed that startled him. Sam landed on the floor, tried to roll and kick but he was out of practice.
He didn’t think he’d need to keep up with it.
“Is that you?” it hissed. It pulled him so close Sam could smell it, the faint sour tang of blood and piss and vomit. Up close, Sam could see that the resemblance wasn’t exact. There were lines on its face, and it was bigger than he was, more muscled. Sam managed to punch it in the gut, and it went limp again.
Once he started looking, there were more differences. The hair was too long, the sideburns overgrown. Sam wasn’t up-to-date on his shapeshifter lore, but he was pretty sure that the copy was supposed to be exact.
He needed silver.
Whatever it was, it didn’t stay down long. It groaned, clutched at its belly in obvious pain, more pain than Sam could have inflicted, and looked up at him with wide, hazel eyes. They were clear, focused for the moment. “You can’t be him,” it said. “He’s an evil bastard, but I can’t see him going this far.”
“Who?” Sam asked.
The thing – the man? – wearing his face shook his head. “It’s not important.” He looked around, huffed out a short breath. “I don’t remember this happening, but we’re in my old dorm room, aren’t we?” He turned back to Sam, held up his hands in a weak gesture of surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you, you know. That would be very stupid of me. I’ve been though enough as it is.”
Sam inhaled sharply. “You’re me,” he guessed, the pieces of the puzzle falling into some weird kind of shape. “You’re from the future.”
His doppelganger reached out with one dirty hand. “Sam Winchester, age 26.”
Sam bit his lip, stared at the strange apparition for a while before taking the risk and taking his hand. It was hot, sweaty. He shook it anyway. “Sam Winchester,” he replied, “age 20.”
Then his doppelganger’s eyes rolled up into his head as he passed out.
***
What the Sam from the future really needed was a shower, but Sam washed him up as best he could. It had obviously been awhile since the last time he’d seen some soap, and once Sam started to get the other Sam’s filthy clothes off, he could see bruises and cuts and scars all over him. There was a gash across his belly, swollen and red and oozing. It looked like it had been torn apart by claws, or fingernails. His body was fever-hot, much hotter than Sam expected, even with the nasty wound.
There was also a tattoo. Sam didn’t recognize the sigil, not exactly, but he knew what it was. A ward of protection.
Sam should had known, really. There wasn’t much else that could fling a person through time but some supernatural force, but it was still a shock. “You’re a hunter,” he said, and the other Sam’s head jerked up to look at him, regaining consciousness with confusion in his eyes. “Why? Why do we go back?”
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carisma_sensei
FILLED: Wayward Son, 1/2
Date: 2010-03-10 04:06 pm (UTC)Still, Sam was out. Sure, he still had his favorite hunting knife, but it wasn’t silver. And even though he knew better, he knew, he couldn’t just kill the thing in the middle of broad daylight. No matter how dirty or how much it resembled a drunken homeless man. He checked it for weapons and found none, much to his surprise, and then he took it back to his dorm room, gave Jessica a call and spun a story about how he couldn’t make it to study group because he was suddenly feeling sick.
While he was talking, the thing wearing his face croaked, “Jess?” Like it had a right to call her that.
“Don’t say her name,” Sam told it, once he’d hung up his phone.
It laughed, a weak and hoarse laugh that sounded like it hurt. “Of all of the dreams,” it said, and its voice was slurred, sluggish, “this is the most creative.” It grabbed Sam by the leg, pulled him down to the ground with a strength and speed that startled him. Sam landed on the floor, tried to roll and kick but he was out of practice.
He didn’t think he’d need to keep up with it.
“Is that you?” it hissed. It pulled him so close Sam could smell it, the faint sour tang of blood and piss and vomit. Up close, Sam could see that the resemblance wasn’t exact. There were lines on its face, and it was bigger than he was, more muscled. Sam managed to punch it in the gut, and it went limp again.
Once he started looking, there were more differences. The hair was too long, the sideburns overgrown. Sam wasn’t up-to-date on his shapeshifter lore, but he was pretty sure that the copy was supposed to be exact.
He needed silver.
Whatever it was, it didn’t stay down long. It groaned, clutched at its belly in obvious pain, more pain than Sam could have inflicted, and looked up at him with wide, hazel eyes. They were clear, focused for the moment. “You can’t be him,” it said. “He’s an evil bastard, but I can’t see him going this far.”
“Who?” Sam asked.
The thing – the man? – wearing his face shook his head. “It’s not important.” He looked around, huffed out a short breath. “I don’t remember this happening, but we’re in my old dorm room, aren’t we?” He turned back to Sam, held up his hands in a weak gesture of surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you, you know. That would be very stupid of me. I’ve been though enough as it is.”
Sam inhaled sharply. “You’re me,” he guessed, the pieces of the puzzle falling into some weird kind of shape. “You’re from the future.”
His doppelganger reached out with one dirty hand. “Sam Winchester, age 26.”
Sam bit his lip, stared at the strange apparition for a while before taking the risk and taking his hand. It was hot, sweaty. He shook it anyway. “Sam Winchester,” he replied, “age 20.”
Then his doppelganger’s eyes rolled up into his head as he passed out.
***
What the Sam from the future really needed was a shower, but Sam washed him up as best he could. It had obviously been awhile since the last time he’d seen some soap, and once Sam started to get the other Sam’s filthy clothes off, he could see bruises and cuts and scars all over him. There was a gash across his belly, swollen and red and oozing. It looked like it had been torn apart by claws, or fingernails. His body was fever-hot, much hotter than Sam expected, even with the nasty wound.
There was also a tattoo. Sam didn’t recognize the sigil, not exactly, but he knew what it was. A ward of protection.
Sam should had known, really. There wasn’t much else that could fling a person through time but some supernatural force, but it was still a shock. “You’re a hunter,” he said, and the other Sam’s head jerked up to look at him, regaining consciousness with confusion in his eyes. “Why? Why do we go back?”