FIC: To Walk This World
TITLE: To Walk This World
AUTHOR: Demona
FANDOM: Angel the Series / Supernatural
PAIRING: Sam/Fred/Illyria sorta
CHARACTERS: Sam, Fred/Illyria, Dean, mentions of others
RATING: FR15
WORD COUNT: 3,130
WARNINGS: Spoilers for Supernatural All Hell Breaks Loose Parts 1 & 2
SUMMARY: Illyria once lived seven lives at once and walked between worlds at will, but now she’s stuck with one body in one world, and must learn to adapt following the death of Wesley.
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke, the CW, etc. The characters of Buffy belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, the WB, Fox, etc. The ideas and concepts in this story are mine entirely. Please do not copy or take this story without my permission.
NOTES: Written for the Holiday Fic-A-Thon at Twisting the Hellmouth for eenaangel. I hope this fits what you were looking for!
Thanks to kaylashay81 for the beta and for the title to Dean’s story. *hugs*
Dean’s Guide on How Not to Catch a God-King
The first time Dean met Illyria, he got his ass handed to him by a ninety-pound Goth girl with cold, blue eyes and matching hair. Sam wasn’t around to witness the fight, thankfully, but just as soon as Dean’s blood had been spilled, the girl quit fighting him. She cocked her head to the side, studying him with a stillness that no human could ever possess. “You smell like him - how can that be?” she asked, voice devoid of any emotion. Dean didn’t get an opportunity to answer or even consider the question. He lunged, sensing a moment of weakness in his female opponent, only to have her knock him down like she was swatting at a mere fly. He woke up alone, with absolutely no idea where the Blue Bitch had gone.
The first time Dean met Fred, she served him up a hot meal and a cold beer at the Roadhouse. Ellen said the Roadhouse was a safe haven for hunters, and occasionally a few strays. She was cute, reminded him of Andrea, but with an edge that Andrea had never possessed. She was sweet and Texas-southern, easy to talk to and a great listener. She was actually kinda perfect, which is why Dean immediately suspected she was a demon. The chunky blue streaks could be passed off as rebellious, but the flash of ice blue eyes confirmed it. Little did he know she was a thing the demons feared - a thing that existed long before God and Lucifer and the eternal war was created from belief.
When she returned with another beer, Dean snagged her wrist, fingers wrapping tightly, completely, around the delicate bones. Sam raised an eyebrow at his actions but remained silent.
“Christo,” Dean breathed out, deliberate and just loud enough for the three of them to hear.
“Oh come on Dean!” Sam bitched, shocked at Dean’s behavior.
But Fred didn’t flinch, though her eyes did lift up a little in confusion. “Bless you,” she offered with a hint of uncertainty. Dean immediately released her wrist and let her go.
It made sense to Dean, in a rare moment of rational thinking, to test his demon theory with Fred before he declared her evil in the middle of a bar full of single-minded hunters. So he put his plan to work much later that night, after the bar had closed, and everyone was passed out for the evening.
He snuck downstairs into the Roadhouse bar room and carefully painted a Devil’s Trap on the ceiling above the main dining area. Fred had worked through that area constantly the night before and this evening would be no different. When she got stuck it would be all the proof he needed. Satisfied with his handiwork he packed up his supplies and trudged back upstairs to the room he was sharing with Sam.
That night he arrived to the bar early, slowly nursing one beer - much to Jo’s dismay - as he kept his eye out for Fred. She arrived a few hours later, smiling and greeting the hunters as she made her way in through the front door. Dean’s hand tightened on his beer bottle, fingers sliding against the condensation, as Fred stepped into the Devil’s Trap.
She stopped walking and looked up at the intricately painted markings on the ceiling. A smile appeared on her face as she turned her head to meet Dean’s gaze head on. He was automatically reaching for his gun as he rose from the table. Her eyes bled from brown to ice blue as her face became a little harder, a little less human, and more of whatever she was when she had kicked his ass.
Deliberately holding his gaze, Fred moved forward and walked out of the lines of the Trap. His mouth dropped in shock, not quite understanding what had just happened. She broke eye contact to glance back up at the Trap. Dean followed her gaze and his beer bottle slid from his fingers, crashing down onto the table, as the painting disappeared right before his eyes.
He wasn’t all that offended when Sam refused to believe him later. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he believed it himself.
That night Dean lost every penny he’d earned from hustling a couple college boys a few nights prior. Hustling hunters didn’t work, but they were always up for a game of pool, even willing to wage their scarce money, when their pride and skill was insulted. And Dean was good, good enough to fool the others into thinking he wasn’t, and good enough to beat those who’d been at the game longer than him. But that night he missed every big shot, tripped over his own feet as he circled the table, and managed to knock out one hunter when his cue ball jumped the table with alarming speed.
He’d felt eyes on him all night. And when he finally gave up, broke and frustrated, he threw his cue stick on the table and headed to the bar.
“Looks like you’re having a rough night,” Fred said, all concern and southern charm. Dean glared back at her in return. “This one’s on the house,” she added and placed a cold beer down in front of him before sliding out with a tray full of drinks.
Dean grabbed the bottle and took a long pull from it. The taste hit him after he’d swallowed it down. And he couldn’t help but gag - she’d salted the hell out of his beer. When he finally spotted her, she gave him an amused smile, eyes flashing ice blue for a second before returning to the warm brown that fit Fred Burkle.
It was then that Dean decided to up the ante and show this bitch exactly who she was dealing with. Though, looking back on it, Dean realized it probably didn’t require a whole bucket of holy water to determine possession. And he would have done things differently, given the chance. But as it was he threw an entire bucket of blessed water on Fred, soaking her white tank top making it see-through, and angering the table of hunters that also got sprayed. And she didn’t sizzle, more like just stood there shocked and dropping wet.
Sam’s punch caught him off-guard and dropped him to the floor. The last thing he saw before the lights went out was the bucket spinning on the wet wood floor and Sam’s boots entering his field of vision. He was beginning to think he may be the one with the problem after all.
When he came to, he stumbled off the cot in the kitchen, and out into the bar. It was empty except for the five people sitting at the bar. Sam looked up first, eyes silently apologizing for hitting his brother. And Dean acknowledged it with a slight dip of his head that sent pain shooting around his face.
Ellen handed him an ice pack and a cold beer as he slid onto the barstool. He offered her a smile of gratitude as he drank half the bottle before applying the ice pack to his face.
“I’m not a demon,” Fred’s southern voice broke through the silence. He turned to look where she sat on her stool next to Sam. “At least not like the ones you are used to dealing with,” she added with a small frown. She took a look around at the people surrounding her, carefully reading their faces. Finally, she spoke again, “Demons, your demons, rose from the muck long before humans did. But I was there before it all, before the world became as it is,” her voice changed, flat and emotion-less and so very reminiscent of the Blue Bitch that had kicked his ass.
“I was once Illyria, God-King of the Primordium. This shell was once a human called Winifred Burkle. But neither of us exists entirely anymore, so I have chosen to accept, assimilate myself with the scum that once oozed at my feet. I have chosen to fight, to help save your pathetic way of life rather than see the demons rule.”
Dean just stared at her for a moment before he snorted and shook his head. “Well, ok then.”
To Live is to Adapt
The first time Sam Winchester met Ms. Winifred “Fred” Burkle, he had been trying to impress a girl. He ultimately succeeded, though it wasn’t his date as he’d planned. He had gone to the first talk Ms. Burkle had given since her disappearance from the world of academia six years prior. And personally, he wasn’t expecting much, if anything, from her talk. She was brilliant, yes, and everyone knew that, but the claims she was making, well they just didn’t quite seem sane. And given his last name was Winchester that was saying a lot.
But he’d gone, accompanied the beautiful girl he was interested in, and when everyone, including his date, had run screaming, crying and terrified, he held his ground and joined in the fight. Sam Winchester had never seen a portal before; hell, he’d seen some crazy shit in his life, but he’d never seen the air shift and an actual swirling portal appear from thin air. It was true that you learned something new every day. Portals existed and Fred Burkle had spent a little over five years on a planet called Pylea, where she was treated as nothing more than a cow, property to be mistreated.
The second time Sam saw Fred was after the riots in L.A.; the riots that were a carefully disguised demon war. And Fred had appeared shortly afterward at Stanford very different than he remembered her to be. Letters of correspondence only went so far, and he sometimes wondered if by keeping open the lines of communication he was now cheating on Jess. Ultimately, he knew it was harmless, he never thought he would see Fred again and it would be fine.
It was once and only once that he cheated on Jess. He’d been dreaming of ice blue eyes, once brown, and matching blue hair for months. The name, not Fred, was always on the tip of his tongue but never spoken. For weeks after Fred moved on, he dreamt of carnage and destruction in a world before his time.
The last place Sam was ever expecting to see Fred was tending bar at the Roadhouse. He froze, caught in the middle of the floor, and just stared as she poured out drinks and collected money. She laughed and smiled, big and beautiful at something Jo said, and he could vividly remember that smile when she graced him with it. He could remember the way she looked, eyes wide with wonder as he slid into her. But the best had been the smile she’d graced him with afterwards when they were lying in his bed.
As if she could read his thoughts Fred turned to look at him. Shock was present for a moment before recognition and happiness overtook her. She graced him with a tentative smile as she scooted out from behind the bar. He remained where he was as she came to him, and as Jo and Ellen stopped to watch their interaction.
“Sam,” she greeted him, southern accent flowed thick like honey from her, and he immediately felt as ease.
“Hello Fred,” he greeted her in return. A happy, positively gleeful smile bloomed on her face as she initiated a hug, sinking into his strong embrace.
The first time Sam met Illyria he had just put his brother’s knocked out form on a cot in the kitchen of the Roadhouse. Fred had followed him back to make sure his brother was comfortable. And as he rose from his crouch, at his brother’s side, he watched, fascinated and in slight horror, as Fred's beautiful features gave way to the cold, hard lines of something else. Her eyes lost their warmth and were replaced with cold, ice blue eyes that held his gaze. Her skin hardened, a reddish body armor taking the place of pale human arms dotted with freckles.
When Sam finally found his voice, it took him a few moments to decide what to say. He was certain that this person, creature, thing, was not Fred Burkle when he first met her. But he couldn’t be certain that was true when she arrived at Stanford. He had dreamed of this woman, this image, and a million others when she had left.
“Illyria,” he finally whispered, knowing the name for the first time in years of not.
She cocked her head to the side, studying him, the motion not that of a human and more of an animal, a creature. “How is it that you know my name?” she questioned, with a voice devoid of any accent, devoid of Fred Burkle from Texas. Sam wasn’t sure if she even existed any more.
“I dreamt of you after you left me at Stanford. I dreamt of death and destruction and of worlds I’ve never known to exist.”
“Do you know what I am?” she asked, curious as she studied him.
Sam shook his head and offered her a small frown. “What happened to Winifred Burkle?” he finally asked.
“You too cared for the shell,” she stated.
The Shell she had said. Illyria, whatever she may be, had inhabited Fred’s body. “Yes,” Sam agreed.
“That is why I sought you out Sam Winchester. Wesley died and the half-breeds were reduced to ash, and I was left alone in this world. I should not have felt alone, lost, afraid, but I did. Fred had liked you, felt safe when you joined in the fight to save her life, and I knew you would not turn her away,” Illyria carefully explained.
“Did you kill her?”
“Yes,” Illyria immediately replied her voice defiant and challenging, but her form rippled, reverting back to Fred for a brief moment before becoming Illyria once more. “No,” Illyria added with a frown. “The shell should have been destroyed completely, but parts of her remained. It appears we are both one and stuck in this form.”
“And you can’t leave?” Sam softly questioned.
“No.”
“What do you seek in this world, Illyria?”
Her form melted back to that of Fred and she spoke, “To live in it.” And Sam believed her.
The second time Sam saw Illyria he found her standing in the ruins of the Roadhouse. Dean had mentioned the destruction, only Ash’s watch to identify him, but it didn’t prepare him for the sight. And Illyria stood still - too still - among the ashes. Her hair snapped around in the wind, blue locks tangling with themselves. She made no attempt to move the hair as it covered her face, obstructing her view of the ashes.
Sam didn’t announce his arrival as he approached the ruins, and Illyria.
“They created a diversion, lured me onto a hunt, and I left the Roadhouse unprotected,” Illyria spoke, her voice hard, but brimming with anger.
“This isn’t your fault, Illyria,” Sam carefully told her.
She whipped around, anger marring her features. “Of course it is not!” she yelled at him and then shoved him. He lost his footing and crashed to the ground, landing hard on his butt, and warily looking up at her. It was the first time she’d ever used her strength on him, but he wasn’t afraid yet. “I was not the one to deal this death!” she continued as she turned to look back at the ashes. It was only because the wind was blowing toward him that he was able to catch her next words. “But I feel responsible, guilt is a human emotion. It turns my stomach to realize how weak I have allowed myself to become. If my old enemies saw me they would crush me without thought for I reek of humanity. I would be unrecognizable to them.”
Sam pushed himself back to his feet, dusting himself off as he returned to her side, to stare at the ashes. “Is adapting such a bad thing? You are stronger than anything in this world. You could rule us all if you chose, but instead you’ve chosen to help fight. You have to accept that there will be causalities on both sides. It's the choice we make.”
“Unacceptable. Ash did not deserve such a fate. He was a valued part of the team. And I…” Illyria trailed off. “The shell liked his hair,” she added in a choked whisper.
Sam took a step closer until he was practically on top of her. Carefully, slowly, he reached out and pulled her into his arms. He expected violence, he expected her to fight and shove him away. And she did resist at first, a token fight against the inevitable, but eventually she folded into his arms. Her tears were silent at first, but then he heard and felt her sobbing against him. He held her tightly, murmuring nonsense into her blue hair as Illyria succumbed to human grief.
The last time Sam saw Illyria she appeared at his side with a wicked, gleaming sword, standing between him and Ruby. He collapsed to the ground, his body broken and bleeding. It had all been a lie; Ruby had never been able to save Dean, but he’d been desperate, so desperate, to save his brother’s life. And Ruby had wanted him broke, distraught, easily manipulated, and she had gotten him just where she wanted him. He watched as Ruby took a step back as Illyria twirled the sword easily in one hand.
“If you want him, come and claim him,” Illyria challenged Ruby.
Sam couldn’t believe she’d chosen to quote “The Fellowship” at the end of the world, and hello, he was much taller than little Frodo. There was a flurry of movement, too fast for him to register, but he heard the clash of swords around him.
The flash of blue light was so bright he had to close his eyes, and duck behind his arm to shield himself. The shockwave knocked him backwards, sent him tumbling head over heels until his body passed out.
**
“Sam,” Fred’s warm southern tawny whispered in his ear. “Sam, you’ve got to wake up now,” she urged.
And he struggled to pry open his eyes, squinting against the harsh sun until a face appeared in his vision, blocking the sun. Dean’s worried face was replaced with a smile as Sam blinked, coming back to consciousness.
“Dean?” Sam asked, confused.
“Yeah, Sammy, I’m back,” Dean reassured him as he ran a hand through Sam’s bloody hair to cup his head. “She made sure I came back,” he whispered as he pulled Sam up against his chest. “She took care of everything.”
AUTHOR: Demona
FANDOM: Angel the Series / Supernatural
PAIRING: Sam/Fred/Illyria sorta
CHARACTERS: Sam, Fred/Illyria, Dean, mentions of others
RATING: FR15
WORD COUNT: 3,130
WARNINGS: Spoilers for Supernatural All Hell Breaks Loose Parts 1 & 2
SUMMARY: Illyria once lived seven lives at once and walked between worlds at will, but now she’s stuck with one body in one world, and must learn to adapt following the death of Wesley.
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke, the CW, etc. The characters of Buffy belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, the WB, Fox, etc. The ideas and concepts in this story are mine entirely. Please do not copy or take this story without my permission.
NOTES: Written for the Holiday Fic-A-Thon at Twisting the Hellmouth for eenaangel. I hope this fits what you were looking for!
Thanks to kaylashay81 for the beta and for the title to Dean’s story. *hugs*
Dean’s Guide on How Not to Catch a God-King
The first time Dean met Illyria, he got his ass handed to him by a ninety-pound Goth girl with cold, blue eyes and matching hair. Sam wasn’t around to witness the fight, thankfully, but just as soon as Dean’s blood had been spilled, the girl quit fighting him. She cocked her head to the side, studying him with a stillness that no human could ever possess. “You smell like him - how can that be?” she asked, voice devoid of any emotion. Dean didn’t get an opportunity to answer or even consider the question. He lunged, sensing a moment of weakness in his female opponent, only to have her knock him down like she was swatting at a mere fly. He woke up alone, with absolutely no idea where the Blue Bitch had gone.
The first time Dean met Fred, she served him up a hot meal and a cold beer at the Roadhouse. Ellen said the Roadhouse was a safe haven for hunters, and occasionally a few strays. She was cute, reminded him of Andrea, but with an edge that Andrea had never possessed. She was sweet and Texas-southern, easy to talk to and a great listener. She was actually kinda perfect, which is why Dean immediately suspected she was a demon. The chunky blue streaks could be passed off as rebellious, but the flash of ice blue eyes confirmed it. Little did he know she was a thing the demons feared - a thing that existed long before God and Lucifer and the eternal war was created from belief.
When she returned with another beer, Dean snagged her wrist, fingers wrapping tightly, completely, around the delicate bones. Sam raised an eyebrow at his actions but remained silent.
“Christo,” Dean breathed out, deliberate and just loud enough for the three of them to hear.
“Oh come on Dean!” Sam bitched, shocked at Dean’s behavior.
But Fred didn’t flinch, though her eyes did lift up a little in confusion. “Bless you,” she offered with a hint of uncertainty. Dean immediately released her wrist and let her go.
It made sense to Dean, in a rare moment of rational thinking, to test his demon theory with Fred before he declared her evil in the middle of a bar full of single-minded hunters. So he put his plan to work much later that night, after the bar had closed, and everyone was passed out for the evening.
He snuck downstairs into the Roadhouse bar room and carefully painted a Devil’s Trap on the ceiling above the main dining area. Fred had worked through that area constantly the night before and this evening would be no different. When she got stuck it would be all the proof he needed. Satisfied with his handiwork he packed up his supplies and trudged back upstairs to the room he was sharing with Sam.
That night he arrived to the bar early, slowly nursing one beer - much to Jo’s dismay - as he kept his eye out for Fred. She arrived a few hours later, smiling and greeting the hunters as she made her way in through the front door. Dean’s hand tightened on his beer bottle, fingers sliding against the condensation, as Fred stepped into the Devil’s Trap.
She stopped walking and looked up at the intricately painted markings on the ceiling. A smile appeared on her face as she turned her head to meet Dean’s gaze head on. He was automatically reaching for his gun as he rose from the table. Her eyes bled from brown to ice blue as her face became a little harder, a little less human, and more of whatever she was when she had kicked his ass.
Deliberately holding his gaze, Fred moved forward and walked out of the lines of the Trap. His mouth dropped in shock, not quite understanding what had just happened. She broke eye contact to glance back up at the Trap. Dean followed her gaze and his beer bottle slid from his fingers, crashing down onto the table, as the painting disappeared right before his eyes.
He wasn’t all that offended when Sam refused to believe him later. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he believed it himself.
That night Dean lost every penny he’d earned from hustling a couple college boys a few nights prior. Hustling hunters didn’t work, but they were always up for a game of pool, even willing to wage their scarce money, when their pride and skill was insulted. And Dean was good, good enough to fool the others into thinking he wasn’t, and good enough to beat those who’d been at the game longer than him. But that night he missed every big shot, tripped over his own feet as he circled the table, and managed to knock out one hunter when his cue ball jumped the table with alarming speed.
He’d felt eyes on him all night. And when he finally gave up, broke and frustrated, he threw his cue stick on the table and headed to the bar.
“Looks like you’re having a rough night,” Fred said, all concern and southern charm. Dean glared back at her in return. “This one’s on the house,” she added and placed a cold beer down in front of him before sliding out with a tray full of drinks.
Dean grabbed the bottle and took a long pull from it. The taste hit him after he’d swallowed it down. And he couldn’t help but gag - she’d salted the hell out of his beer. When he finally spotted her, she gave him an amused smile, eyes flashing ice blue for a second before returning to the warm brown that fit Fred Burkle.
It was then that Dean decided to up the ante and show this bitch exactly who she was dealing with. Though, looking back on it, Dean realized it probably didn’t require a whole bucket of holy water to determine possession. And he would have done things differently, given the chance. But as it was he threw an entire bucket of blessed water on Fred, soaking her white tank top making it see-through, and angering the table of hunters that also got sprayed. And she didn’t sizzle, more like just stood there shocked and dropping wet.
Sam’s punch caught him off-guard and dropped him to the floor. The last thing he saw before the lights went out was the bucket spinning on the wet wood floor and Sam’s boots entering his field of vision. He was beginning to think he may be the one with the problem after all.
When he came to, he stumbled off the cot in the kitchen, and out into the bar. It was empty except for the five people sitting at the bar. Sam looked up first, eyes silently apologizing for hitting his brother. And Dean acknowledged it with a slight dip of his head that sent pain shooting around his face.
Ellen handed him an ice pack and a cold beer as he slid onto the barstool. He offered her a smile of gratitude as he drank half the bottle before applying the ice pack to his face.
“I’m not a demon,” Fred’s southern voice broke through the silence. He turned to look where she sat on her stool next to Sam. “At least not like the ones you are used to dealing with,” she added with a small frown. She took a look around at the people surrounding her, carefully reading their faces. Finally, she spoke again, “Demons, your demons, rose from the muck long before humans did. But I was there before it all, before the world became as it is,” her voice changed, flat and emotion-less and so very reminiscent of the Blue Bitch that had kicked his ass.
“I was once Illyria, God-King of the Primordium. This shell was once a human called Winifred Burkle. But neither of us exists entirely anymore, so I have chosen to accept, assimilate myself with the scum that once oozed at my feet. I have chosen to fight, to help save your pathetic way of life rather than see the demons rule.”
Dean just stared at her for a moment before he snorted and shook his head. “Well, ok then.”
To Live is to Adapt
The first time Sam Winchester met Ms. Winifred “Fred” Burkle, he had been trying to impress a girl. He ultimately succeeded, though it wasn’t his date as he’d planned. He had gone to the first talk Ms. Burkle had given since her disappearance from the world of academia six years prior. And personally, he wasn’t expecting much, if anything, from her talk. She was brilliant, yes, and everyone knew that, but the claims she was making, well they just didn’t quite seem sane. And given his last name was Winchester that was saying a lot.
But he’d gone, accompanied the beautiful girl he was interested in, and when everyone, including his date, had run screaming, crying and terrified, he held his ground and joined in the fight. Sam Winchester had never seen a portal before; hell, he’d seen some crazy shit in his life, but he’d never seen the air shift and an actual swirling portal appear from thin air. It was true that you learned something new every day. Portals existed and Fred Burkle had spent a little over five years on a planet called Pylea, where she was treated as nothing more than a cow, property to be mistreated.
The second time Sam saw Fred was after the riots in L.A.; the riots that were a carefully disguised demon war. And Fred had appeared shortly afterward at Stanford very different than he remembered her to be. Letters of correspondence only went so far, and he sometimes wondered if by keeping open the lines of communication he was now cheating on Jess. Ultimately, he knew it was harmless, he never thought he would see Fred again and it would be fine.
It was once and only once that he cheated on Jess. He’d been dreaming of ice blue eyes, once brown, and matching blue hair for months. The name, not Fred, was always on the tip of his tongue but never spoken. For weeks after Fred moved on, he dreamt of carnage and destruction in a world before his time.
The last place Sam was ever expecting to see Fred was tending bar at the Roadhouse. He froze, caught in the middle of the floor, and just stared as she poured out drinks and collected money. She laughed and smiled, big and beautiful at something Jo said, and he could vividly remember that smile when she graced him with it. He could remember the way she looked, eyes wide with wonder as he slid into her. But the best had been the smile she’d graced him with afterwards when they were lying in his bed.
As if she could read his thoughts Fred turned to look at him. Shock was present for a moment before recognition and happiness overtook her. She graced him with a tentative smile as she scooted out from behind the bar. He remained where he was as she came to him, and as Jo and Ellen stopped to watch their interaction.
“Sam,” she greeted him, southern accent flowed thick like honey from her, and he immediately felt as ease.
“Hello Fred,” he greeted her in return. A happy, positively gleeful smile bloomed on her face as she initiated a hug, sinking into his strong embrace.
The first time Sam met Illyria he had just put his brother’s knocked out form on a cot in the kitchen of the Roadhouse. Fred had followed him back to make sure his brother was comfortable. And as he rose from his crouch, at his brother’s side, he watched, fascinated and in slight horror, as Fred's beautiful features gave way to the cold, hard lines of something else. Her eyes lost their warmth and were replaced with cold, ice blue eyes that held his gaze. Her skin hardened, a reddish body armor taking the place of pale human arms dotted with freckles.
When Sam finally found his voice, it took him a few moments to decide what to say. He was certain that this person, creature, thing, was not Fred Burkle when he first met her. But he couldn’t be certain that was true when she arrived at Stanford. He had dreamed of this woman, this image, and a million others when she had left.
“Illyria,” he finally whispered, knowing the name for the first time in years of not.
She cocked her head to the side, studying him, the motion not that of a human and more of an animal, a creature. “How is it that you know my name?” she questioned, with a voice devoid of any accent, devoid of Fred Burkle from Texas. Sam wasn’t sure if she even existed any more.
“I dreamt of you after you left me at Stanford. I dreamt of death and destruction and of worlds I’ve never known to exist.”
“Do you know what I am?” she asked, curious as she studied him.
Sam shook his head and offered her a small frown. “What happened to Winifred Burkle?” he finally asked.
“You too cared for the shell,” she stated.
The Shell she had said. Illyria, whatever she may be, had inhabited Fred’s body. “Yes,” Sam agreed.
“That is why I sought you out Sam Winchester. Wesley died and the half-breeds were reduced to ash, and I was left alone in this world. I should not have felt alone, lost, afraid, but I did. Fred had liked you, felt safe when you joined in the fight to save her life, and I knew you would not turn her away,” Illyria carefully explained.
“Did you kill her?”
“Yes,” Illyria immediately replied her voice defiant and challenging, but her form rippled, reverting back to Fred for a brief moment before becoming Illyria once more. “No,” Illyria added with a frown. “The shell should have been destroyed completely, but parts of her remained. It appears we are both one and stuck in this form.”
“And you can’t leave?” Sam softly questioned.
“No.”
“What do you seek in this world, Illyria?”
Her form melted back to that of Fred and she spoke, “To live in it.” And Sam believed her.
The second time Sam saw Illyria he found her standing in the ruins of the Roadhouse. Dean had mentioned the destruction, only Ash’s watch to identify him, but it didn’t prepare him for the sight. And Illyria stood still - too still - among the ashes. Her hair snapped around in the wind, blue locks tangling with themselves. She made no attempt to move the hair as it covered her face, obstructing her view of the ashes.
Sam didn’t announce his arrival as he approached the ruins, and Illyria.
“They created a diversion, lured me onto a hunt, and I left the Roadhouse unprotected,” Illyria spoke, her voice hard, but brimming with anger.
“This isn’t your fault, Illyria,” Sam carefully told her.
She whipped around, anger marring her features. “Of course it is not!” she yelled at him and then shoved him. He lost his footing and crashed to the ground, landing hard on his butt, and warily looking up at her. It was the first time she’d ever used her strength on him, but he wasn’t afraid yet. “I was not the one to deal this death!” she continued as she turned to look back at the ashes. It was only because the wind was blowing toward him that he was able to catch her next words. “But I feel responsible, guilt is a human emotion. It turns my stomach to realize how weak I have allowed myself to become. If my old enemies saw me they would crush me without thought for I reek of humanity. I would be unrecognizable to them.”
Sam pushed himself back to his feet, dusting himself off as he returned to her side, to stare at the ashes. “Is adapting such a bad thing? You are stronger than anything in this world. You could rule us all if you chose, but instead you’ve chosen to help fight. You have to accept that there will be causalities on both sides. It's the choice we make.”
“Unacceptable. Ash did not deserve such a fate. He was a valued part of the team. And I…” Illyria trailed off. “The shell liked his hair,” she added in a choked whisper.
Sam took a step closer until he was practically on top of her. Carefully, slowly, he reached out and pulled her into his arms. He expected violence, he expected her to fight and shove him away. And she did resist at first, a token fight against the inevitable, but eventually she folded into his arms. Her tears were silent at first, but then he heard and felt her sobbing against him. He held her tightly, murmuring nonsense into her blue hair as Illyria succumbed to human grief.
The last time Sam saw Illyria she appeared at his side with a wicked, gleaming sword, standing between him and Ruby. He collapsed to the ground, his body broken and bleeding. It had all been a lie; Ruby had never been able to save Dean, but he’d been desperate, so desperate, to save his brother’s life. And Ruby had wanted him broke, distraught, easily manipulated, and she had gotten him just where she wanted him. He watched as Ruby took a step back as Illyria twirled the sword easily in one hand.
“If you want him, come and claim him,” Illyria challenged Ruby.
Sam couldn’t believe she’d chosen to quote “The Fellowship” at the end of the world, and hello, he was much taller than little Frodo. There was a flurry of movement, too fast for him to register, but he heard the clash of swords around him.
The flash of blue light was so bright he had to close his eyes, and duck behind his arm to shield himself. The shockwave knocked him backwards, sent him tumbling head over heels until his body passed out.
**
“Sam,” Fred’s warm southern tawny whispered in his ear. “Sam, you’ve got to wake up now,” she urged.
And he struggled to pry open his eyes, squinting against the harsh sun until a face appeared in his vision, blocking the sun. Dean’s worried face was replaced with a smile as Sam blinked, coming back to consciousness.
“Dean?” Sam asked, confused.
“Yeah, Sammy, I’m back,” Dean reassured him as he ran a hand through Sam’s bloody hair to cup his head. “She made sure I came back,” he whispered as he pulled Sam up against his chest. “She took care of everything.”