Brand New Day 1/7
Title: Brand New Day, 1/7
Rating: R
Characters: John, Mary, Dean, Sam, Bobby
Word Count: 980
Disclaimer: The Winchesters and other Supernatural characters belong to Kripke and UPN. I own nothing but my imagination.
Warnings: Some violence, minor character death & general creepiness (I hope).
Summary: When two people show up claiming to be John and Mary Winchester, Dean's convinced it's someone's evil trick but Sam thinks it just might be real. But before they can figure out how to deal with their suddenly resurrected 'parents', something starts killing pregnant women in Nevada.
Master Post
Prologue
Amber wasn’t sure about this. It was one thing when they were just a group of misfits bonding over how much they hated school and their parents and eating enough five dollar pepperoni pizza to keep Clearasil in business for the next four or five years. Then they started with the witchcraft. At first, Amber thought it was just something novel and anti-establishment. Harmless rebellion that was just creepy enough to make the adults nervous and give them an aura of coolness they’d never had before. It also had the added bonus of bolstering her fledgling feminist cred. But once Shayne started in on the animals… things just went downhill from there.
The next thing she knew they were desecrating people’s graves and then Kara became the vessel of a spirit that called itself The Other. Kara had always been a bit of a drama queen and a hypochondriac and Amber would have thought The Other was just a figment of the girl’s way over active imagination if it hadn’t been for the dark violet eyes that were almost black and the throwing people and objects with her mind. That pretty much convinced her there was some pretty bad shit happening.
The Other was obsessed with raising what it called ‘a great power.’ It sounded like the worst idea that anyone had come up with so far, and the goddess knew there had been some doozies. Amber wanted to object, but Shayne scared her almost as much as The Other. Things had gone too far to walk away without any consequences. No humans had been seriously hurt yet, but she was sure that it was only a matter of time and she didn’t want to be the first. She was good at keeping her head down. She had to be living with someone like her stepmother.
One day, The Other showed up with an old worn leather bound book.
“What is it?” Amber asked, feeling repulsed and attracted to it at the same time.
“It’s a grimoire,” The Other said, running a hand lovingly over the pentagram branded into the rough leather of the cover. “It is a book of great power. It will help us summon just the right thing.”
A shiver ran up her spine and a feeling of dread so strong it felt like a living thing filled her. She wondered if that was what people meant when they said someone stepped on their grave. The boys cleaned out the basement and The Other produced a bucket filled with thick dark red liquid. The sickly sweet metallic scent of blood filled the air as they carefully painted the symbols on the floor. Amber tried not to think of where it might have come from.
As they painted the symbols on the floor there was a slow, subtle shift in the atmosphere. Amber had once been the most skeptical among them, but now she knew the supernatural existed and she was terrified of it. The feeling of static electricity gathering in the air made her want to run screaming from the house. But they needed thirteen for the ritual, and she didn’t think The Other would allow her to ruin its fun without punishment.
Once the symbols were finished, they began chanting. It was a language that she didn’t recognize and it bothered her that she had no idea what she was saying as she parroted The Other. But she didn’t dare stop. Later, she would wish she had the courage to do the right thing even if it would have cost her life to do it.
The first thing the woman became aware of was a persistent dripping noise and a damp cold that she could feel right down to her bones. Where was she? Why was she so cold? She shivered and closed her eyes tighter, trying to remember what had happened, why she was here. All she could remember, though, was the cold and the dark. Like she’d never even opened her eyes before. Like she’d never been anywhere but here. She knew what her eyes did, knew what seeing was. It was just that she couldn’t remember actually having seen anything before. Suddenly, the memory of seeing the demon standing over her baby’s crib ripped through the darkness and her eyes flew open. She sat up with a gasp as her heart jackhammered in her chest, fueled by sheer panic. Her eyes darted around in search of her son and the thing threatening him.
She was in the basement, lying on the cold concrete floor. How the hell had she ended up in the basement? Her son needed her. Her husband was asleep, and totally oblivious of what he’d be facing even if he weren’t. Their oldest was safely tucked into his own bed. She almost snorted at that, thinking that there was no such thing as safe. What a fool she’d been to ever believe in it. She’d used symbols to keep them ‘safe’, actually painting them under carpets and carving them into the walls where John wouldn’t notice them, but obviously they didn’t work on the yellow-eyed bastard otherwise he never would have made it to the crib in the first damn place. Her boys were sitting ducks, all three of them. Suddenly, keeping John in the dark about everything seemed like a very stupid idea.
She stood up too quickly, the idea that she had to get to her baby filling her with urgency, and nearly blacked out. She felt light headed and disoriented. Whatever had landed her down here had really taken it out of her. A strong hand gripped her arm, steadying her. But she was in too deep in panic mode to distinguish between helping and hindering. There was only one way Mary Campbell Winchester knew how to deal with panic. Lead with a right cross.
Chapter One