Sam's worst nightmare was coming true.

Mrs. Preston asked him to read out loud from the textbook, to the sounds of groans and a chorus of 'not him' from his classmates.

The tenth-grader stared at the small typing on the glossy paper and swallowed.

"Sam," Mrs. Preston called his name from the front of the room where she stood leaning back against her desk, her own copy of the textbook open in her hands, "We're waiting."

"The w-war of eight- eight- eight…" Sam stammered and he heard the kids around him sighing with exasperation, "-Eighteen twelve in-in-involved th-the-"

The harsh jangle of the bell cut Sam off and he closed his book with relief.

"All right class," Mrs. Preston called out as the students shoved their textbooks into their backpacks, eager to leave school.

"I want you to read the section on the War of 1812 over the weekend because on Monday we're going to discuss the outcome and what could have happened if we had won," she announced over the cheery youthful voices, wondering if anyone was actually listening.

Sam slung his backpack over one shoulder and followed his classmates into the hall, making a beeline for the front doors of the high school.

Walking quickly with his head down, the sophomore could hear his fellow ten-graders talking about their plans for the weekend: parties and movies and whatever else normal teenagers did when they were not in school.

Passing through the high school's double doors, Sam now lifted his head as he walked down the steps, scanning the line of cars parked in front of the building for a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala.

After a moment, he caught sight of the familiar vehicle and smiled. His older brother leaned casually against the passenger side door, arms folded over his chest, legs crossed at the ankles.

"Hey Squirt," Dean greeted once Sam was within earshot, "How was school?"

"F-Fine," Sam replied, opening the rear passenger side door and tossing his backpack onto the seat.

"Just fine?" His brother asked, eyebrows knit together in confusion, "What happened?"

"Nuh-Nothing," Sam told him, waiting for his brother to move so he could climb into the vehicle.

Dean remained where he was.

"Sam," he said slowly, "What happened? Did someone make fun of you? You know I'll kill them."

Sam shook his head, "N-Nuh-Nuh-"

"Who was it? I'll rip their lungs out!" Dean insisted, slamming the fist of his right hand into his open left palm.

"NO ONE!" Sam shouted, "Nuh-No one m-made fun of m-me."

Dean's green eyes stared into his younger brother's hazel ones for a long moment before he nodded.

"Okay," he said, "But you know, if anyone does bully you, you'll tell me, right?"

Sam nodded, "You k-know I wi-wi-will."

The older brother moved out of his sibling's way, walking around the front of the car to open the driver's side door. Sam opened the passenger's door and sat down in the seat.

Once the Chevy had pulled out of the parking spot and the brothers were heading back to the motel room, Dean spoke again.

"Dad's gonna need our help tonight."

Sam glanced at his sibling.

"D-Dad knows wh-what it is?"

Dean nodded, "He's pretty sure it's a shapeshifter."

Sam didn't reply. He had never hunted a shapeshifter before.

"He's s-s-sure?" Sam asked and Dean rolled his eyes, "Yeah, Sammy. Don't worry, we'll all be hunting the thing together."

Sam bit his tongue, not replying. Even though he'd never encountered a shapeshifter before, he knew they weren't the kind of monster a rookie could take on, especially a rookie on his own.

John had been interested in this case when he'd heard that two children- two disabled children- were accused of murdering their parents. The first suspect, a ten-year old boy with Down's syndrome had been found hiding in his closet, clutching the bloody knife he'd apparently stabbed his mother and father with. The second child was a seventeen-year old girl who suffered from severe Cerebral Palsy. Her mother, father, and younger sister had all been shot to death. The girl had been found in her bed while the wheelchair she used for mobility was left in her parents' bedroom.

The eldest Winchester had immediately been suspicious of the crimes and dropped everything to investigate the case. Posing as an FBI agent, John had spoken with the town's police officers and found out that although they did not fully believe that the two children could have committed such crimes, they were unable to suggest an alternative. Both children had been found in the houses with their dead family members- the boy had been holding the murder weapon- where there were no signs of forced entry, fingerprints or signs that a stranger had been inside the homes. Even the children were unable to answer the questions the police posed, only to claim that did not kill their parents.

John had attempted to interview the two victims. He had been unable to gain any information from the boy, who had been traumatized by his experience and refused to speak. The teen girl on the other hand, had told John that even though she didn't know who had killed her parents, confided in the hunter that she was sure some of her clothes had gone missing a week before the murder and that the night of attack, she had woken up and thought she had seen someone who looked very much like herself taking her wheelchair but, believing she was dreaming, went back to sleep until the sound of gunshots woke her.

John Winchester, researching on his own had discovered that there was an abandoned school for children with mental and physical disabilities just beyond the town limits that had closed in the early nineteen-eighties after reports of neglect and abuse. Shapeshifters preferred dark, lonely places to hide and possibly take their victims and it seemed the old school was the perfect place for one to hang out.

W

Arriving at the motel, Dean pulled the Impala into the parking space in front of their room and cut the engine.

Sam unbuckled his seat belt and turned around to grab his backpack before exiting the vehicle.

Following Dean up onto the sidewalk, the younger brother waited until his sibling had opened the door and announced their presence to their father before stepping inside.

John Winchester was sitting at the desk in the corner, cleaning and oiling a pistol.

"Dean tell you what we're up against?"

Sam nodded and sat his backpack onto the end of the bed he and his brother were sharing.

"Good," John said, "Saves me time repeating myself."

"A-Are we g-g-going t-t-t-" Sam began but his father interrupted.

"We'll head out to the school once it's dark."

Sam closed his mouth and nodded.

"We should have something to eat before we go," Dean, always thinking about his stomach, advised.

"Sure," John muttered, "There's a place down the street that has burgers; why don't you walk down?"

"Wanna come with me Sammy?" Dean asked but Sam shook his head.

"I s-should s-st-start my home…homework."

The older boy shrugged, "Okay, suit yourself."

Sam watched as Dean walked out the door and held back the urge to sigh. Instead, he turned to his backpack and unzipped it, pulling out a notebook and his math textbook. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the boy dug a pencil from his bag and began answering the questions assigned.

W

Twenty minutes passed before Dean returned, holding a brown paper bag and a cardboard drink tray high as though in triumph.

"I come bearing gifts!" he announced happily.

Sam stuffed his school supplies into his backpack and waited for his brother to hand out the food.

Dean pulled the burgers and cups of French fries out of the paper bag, handing one each to his sibling before setting two more in front of their father.

"Got you Sprite, Sammy, hope that's okay," Dean said, handing him a cup.

The boy nodded and took a sip from the straw.

"Plain hamburger for you," Dean said, reading the scrawl the girl behind the counter had written on the sandwich's foil wrapper, and handed it to his brother.

"And cheeseburgers for us normal folks," Dean joked, passing one to their father and keeping the other for himself.

The small family ate and drank in silence, each thinking about the monster they would hunt that night.

SPN

Darkness fell quickly and as it did the Winchesters left the warm orange glow of the motel room for the moldering wreck that had once held the children no one wanted to remember.

The Impala pulled slowly up to the large redbrick building, its three occupants staring at the massive structure with its boarded-up windows and crumbling mortar.

Although there were lampposts situated around the front of the old school, none worked and the hunters could just make out the glint of broken glass in the Impala's headlights.

"Let's see if there's a way in around the back," John muttered, mostly to himself and carefully drove the car over the uncared-for lawn towards the rear of the building.

The Cleaver School for Retarded and Invalid Children had a long and sordid history. Constructed in the mid 1800s as a sanatorium for those suffering from tuberculosis, the school had housed hundreds of patients from the town and neighbouring areas until 1914, when two more buildings were added at the start of the First World War to house those dying from Spanish Influenza.

After the end of the Great War, the school functioned as an orphanage for children who had lost their fathers and mothers in battle and remained as such, slowly adding two more buildings to a grand total of five, until the end of the Second World War where it lay dormant for twenty-two years.

In the spring of 1967, a man named Howard Cleaver, who had no idea how to run a school but had a small fortune and a young daughter with a severe intellectual disability, bought the buildings from the current owners, hired a staff and created the Cleaver School for Retarded and Invalid Children.

At first the school had seemed like a godsend for the parents of children who were not considered 'normal'. Mothers and fathers at the end of their rope, with nowhere else to turn brought their sons and daughters to the school with the hopes of bringing their children somewhere they would be well taken care of out of the prying and prejudiced eyes of the public.

As the years went on though, loyal staff members quit and Cleaver was forced to scrounge for replacements, often hiring people less than qualified to look after the severely disabled.

Then, the rumors started, first whispered in the town and then spreading to the surrounding villages until it seemed the entire State knew of the stories. Tales of atrocious neglect, abuse of all kinds, even deaths of children in the care of those at the Cleaver School.

In the winter of 1989, a camera crew stormed the buildings and brought the realities of life in the school to the public in living colour. As soon as the story was aired all over the country, the school was closed, its doors locked with the promise of never opening again. Many of the current staff members and Howard Cleaver himself saw court dates for their gross mistreatment of the children they were meant to take care of. Now the school sits forgotten, the town's dirty little secret, the ideal hideout for a monster that doesn't want to be found.

John parked the Impala underneath a broken lamppost and opened his door. Peering out at the lawn, he spied the forest creeping up on the school building, trees only feet away from the cracked and crumbling asphalt of what had once been staff parking. A rusted basketball net peeked out from the embracing branches of a maple tree.

"I wonder if anyone's buried in those woods," Dean muttered.

"Let's go," John said and the boys climbed out of the car, following their father to the rear of the vehicle and waiting patiently as he rummaged in the trunk.

"We'll start with the main building," John told the boys as he passed each one a flashlight and a gun loaded with silver bullets.

"Wha-What if th-th-th-" Sam began only for his question to be taken up by his brother.

"What if this bastard's in one of the other buildings?"

"We'll be as quiet as possible," John told them, "Try not to let our presence be known and hopefully be able to surprise this thing wherever it's hiding."

Sam frowned. It didn't seem like a very sound idea but he wasn't about to argue with his father.

"If you see anyone who isn't us, shoot it," John warned his sons, "Ask questions later."

Dean nodded, a determined expression on his face. Sam swallowed thickly, tightening his grip on his gun. He didn't know if he could do this.

They followed their father towards the rear of the school, walking silently from years of practice. John pressed himself against the crumbling brick of the building and paused, listening. After a moment, the elder Winchester moved again, gripping the handle of a door with plywood covering its window and pulled. Nothing happened at first, then, with a tortured shriek, the rusty door started to move.

Pulling the door open only far enough to ease through, John ushered his boys inside first. Dean, always wanting to please his father, moved first, followed quickly by his brother, with John bringing up the rear.

Turning on his flashlight, the eldest Winchester pointed the beam at the floor, illuminating yellowed, peeling linoleum coated in grime.

Lifting the light slightly higher, the hunters saw a row of hooks along the wall directly opposite them with a bench running beneath, moth-eaten jackets and caps still waiting patiently for their owners to return and claim them.

"Coat room," Dean whispered, earning himself a warning glare from his father.

John motioned with his hand and the boys followed him to a wooden door in the center of the row of coat hooks with a pebbled glass window vandalized with a poorly drawn pentagram in red spray paint. Gripping the door's scuffed brass handle, John pushed the door open and this one gave less resistance than the first.

Stepping out into a hallway, John spoke to his sons in barely a whisper.

"Dean, you go down to the right, Sam, the left."

His sons nodded, one a bit more confidently than the other.

"If you don't find anything in an hour, come back here and we'll regroup," John told them.

"And if you find someone who isn't supposed to be here, shoot them."

Sam frowned, "Wha-what if-"

As though he knew what his son was going to ask, John responded, hissing his response sharply, "No one else should be in here, no kids playing around, no homeless people looking for shelter. If you see someone who isn't me or your brother, you shoot them."

The fifteen-year old swallowed and nodded.

"Let's get going," John said and watched as his sons walked away from him, one to the left, and one to the right.

Peering at the dark corridor straight ahead, where the hallways intersected and made a T, John slipped his hand into his pocket to feel the comforting cool of his gun and started into the bowels of the school.

SPN

Sam walked lightly down the hallway, flashlight illuminating the dirty, peeling floor and closed doors that led to rooms unknown.

Nervous, the boy could feel his heart pounding in his chest, heard the blood rushing through the veins in his ears.

That was why he didn't hear the shapeshifter coming up behind him until it was too late.

SPN

This place couldn't get any creepier, Dean thought as he walked past rows and rows of doors. Curious, he had opened a couple of doors to find what looked like classrooms, with desks, books, and toys scattered across the floor, dusty walls painted in shades of blue or pink, even a chalkboard with faded writing still barely legible in the gloom.

He didn't really relish the idea of wandering around the old building for an hour, especially on his own. He'd rather have his brother with him so he could keep an eye on the younger boy. This was Sammy's first shapeshifter hunt after all and those things weren't easy to kill, even for veteran hunters like their dad.

Dean just hoped he or John would find the monster before his brother did.

SPN

Sam stared wide-eyed at the shapeshifter standing in front of him, now wearing his likeness and dressing in his clothes.

"Wh-why a-are y-y-you doing th-this?" Sam asked, shivering as he struggled to loosen the ropes that bound his hands behind his back.

The shapeshifter looked up at the boy as he buttoned up his plaid shirt. For a moment a look of surprise crossed its face and then it began to speak.

SPN

John brought his arm to his mouth and held back the urge to cough as he inhaled dust.

The building was larger than he had first thought, with narrow passageways and rooms within rooms.

Any normal person would have given up looking for the shapeshifter within the first ten minutes of exploring the building. But not John Winchester, not when innocent lives were at stake.

Shaking his head, the hunter shoved open another door and peered into what looked like an old dormitory. A dozen metal-framed beds with rotting mattresses strewn about occupied the room.

SPN

The shapeshifter smiled at Sam.

"Don't worry, I won't let them hurt you," it said and pushed the boy down onto his back, "I'll let you out when its all over."

Sam struggled to roll off the cold metal tray but the monster was too quick for him and pushed the tray into its rectangular recess, closing the door to the refrigerated compartment where the bodies were kept cool until they could be buried. The fifteen-year old, trapped in the dark, cramped space where the corpses of children had lain before him, tried to scream through the gag tied around his head, his cries muffled even to his own ears. His legs bound at the ankles in the same fashion as his wrists were, Sam struggled to bring his knees up and kick at the door to the metal cabinet, unable to gather much force for the blows.

"D'D!" Sam yelled through the gag that was steadily growing wet, "D'N!"

He had to get out, he had to get free and warn his family the shapeshifter was going to kill them.

SPN

Dean was starting to wonder if the monster was even here or if it had decided to hide out in one of the other buildings.

Checking his watch, he saw that he had been searching for forty-five minutes with nothing to show for his efforts.

Deciding that he might as well start heading back to the coatroom, the nineteen-year old sighed heavily and followed the tracks his boots had made in the dirty floor back the way he had come.

SPN

"Damn," John muttered to himself.

He had been certain the shifter would have chosen the main building as its base but maybe he had been mistaken. Maybe there was too great a chance someone would come snooping around: kids looking for cheap thrills or a vagrant looking for a place to stay the night.

Peering at his watch, John supposed he should start heading back to the coatroom and let his sons know what the new plan was going to be.

SPN

Dean froze as the sound of footsteps hurrying towards him began clear. Taking a deep breath, the teen held his flashlight in one hand, gun in the other.

"Sammy?" he hissed, "Is that you?"

No response.

"Sammy, say something or I'll shoot."

Again no response.

Dean pulled the hammer back on his gun with his thumb, his heartbeat picking up speed.

The young hunter could now see a small shape, silhouetted against the light, making its way rapidly towards him.

"Sammy?" Dean called again, one last time and the figure stepped into the light, one arm lifted to protect its eyes from the glare.

"It's m-me, D-D-Dean," Sam told him, just in time.

"Why didn't you answer me?" Dean growled, "I could have shot you!"

"S-Sorry," his brother replied, a sheepish look on his face.

"Did you find anything?" Dean asked curiously, "Any sign of a shifter?"

His brother shook his head.

"Me neither," Dean replied, and checked his watch again.

"Let's go back to the coatroom and see what Dad wants to do next," he told his brother.

Sam nodded and started after him.

"This place is creepy, eh?" Dean asked, "Like something out of a horror movie."

"Yeah," Sam muttered.

"Doesn't look much like a school either," Dean continued, "I wonder what it was like here, you know, for the kids."

Sam didn't reply. Dean glanced over his shoulder at his brother.

"What?" Dean asked.

"You shouldn't make fun of them," Sam growled, "You have no idea what it was like for those children."

Dean's heart skipped a beat and he stopped. Careful to keep his expression neutral, he tightened his grip on his gun.

"Oh yeah?" he asked, "That so, Sammy?"

"Don't talk about what you don't know!" the shapeshifter snapped angrily and Dean lifted his gun and without hesitating squeezed off a single shot.

The monster wearing Sam's face looked down at its chest; a dark red stain began spreading across his shirt, and crumpled to the floor.

"Dean? Dean!" shouting from down the hallway caught the teen's attention and he turned to see his father dashing down the corridor towards him.

John skidded to a halt beside his son and looked down at his younger child, blood dripping from a bullet hole in his chest.

"Dean, what-" the father began but Dean raised a hand.

"It's the shifter, Dad, relax."

John looked at his son, his dark eyes uncertain.

"How do you know?"

Dean smiled, "It forgot to stutter."

The elder Winchester nodded but said nothing else.

"Let's go get the real Sammy," Dean commented, put the safety on his gun and shoved it into his pocket.

SPN

"D-Dean," Sam stammered, cold and frightened, "D-D-Dad, it's r-really you?"

"It's really us, Sammy," Dean replied as he untied the ropes around his brother's wrists.

The fifteen-year old, wearing only his boxer shorts, shivered from cold. Dean slipped his leather jacket off and put it around his sibling's shoulders.

"Th-thanks," Sam murmured.

Once his ankles were freed, Dean helped his brother down from the metal tray.

"You good?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. He peered into the narrow compartment the shifter had trapped him in and shuddered.

"Y-Yeah, now."

"Let's get out of here," Dean said and looked to John who was standing in the doorway to the morgue.

It had taken them another half-hour to find their younger family member, only being alerted to his location when they heard a dull thudding coming up from the lower levels of the building.

John turned and led the way out of the morgue and into the long tunnel system that ran beneath the building and possibly even the four other buildings as well. Now they could tell that this was where the shifter had made its nest, as their flashlights illuminated flesh-coloured globs of sludge dotted the cement floors of the tunnels every few feet. It only they had thought to move underground while looking for the monster.

Sam, barefoot, stepped quickly, his feet padding in the inch of stagnant water that gathered in puddles on the floor.

"There's something I don't understand," Dean mused as the walked, keeping a comforting arm around his sibling's shoulders.

"What's that?" John asked, turning his head slightly to look at his eldest son.

"Why didn't the shifter kill you, Sammy? Surely it knew you were a hunter?" Dean asked, peering down at his sibling.

"I th-think it w-w-was going t-to," Sam began, "B-But then it h-heard me st-st-stutter."

Dean raised an eyebrow in interest.

"It to-told me it k-knew me," Sam continued, "That it kn-knew I got m-made fun of and that…. th-that you g-got an-annoyed with m-me Dad."

John looked back at his son sharply but said nothing.

"It s-said that it w-was going to m-m-make sure I w-wouldn't end up l-like the kids th-they used to br-bring h-here."

"Th-they were un-un-unwanted by their families," Sam went on, "Em-embarrassments…"

"It w-was go-going to kill you s-so I wouldn't b-be sent a-away."

"We'd never do that, Sam," Dean insisted.

"I kn-know tha-that."

"Why was it so adamant that we were going to send you away? You just stutter," he asked, glancing up at John for a moment.

"Tha-That's what hap-happened to i-it," Sam told them, "It t-told me that its m-mother died giving b-birth and its f-father thought it w-was a fr-freak. Sent it h-h-here with all the o-other kids."

"It t-told me a-about the ab-abuse… and n-neglect," Sam whispered, "And h-how it m-made a promise to it-itself never to l-let that happen to kid e-ever again."

"That's why it killed those kids' families," Dean muttered, "It thought they would send them to someplace like this, right?"

Sam nodded.

He didn't say it, but he kind of felt sorry for the shapeshifter. Hated and feared by its father, left in a place without love or warmth, no wonder it felt it had to do something to protect others who were different.

"How messed up is that?" Dean muttered, "People aren't like that anymore. Too bad no one told it that."

John grunted, "You can't reason with monsters."

The family grew quiet after that, concentrating only on getting out of the building.

Relief washed over Sam as John shoved open the door that led to the parking lot, Dean ushering him through first.

"Ready to get out of here?" Dean asked and Sam nodded, "I'll b-be ha-happy if I n-never see this pl-place again."

The nineteen-year old chuckled and sat in the backseat with his sibling as they rode back to the motel to gather their belongings and put the town in their rearview mirror.

Author's Note:

First off, I use the word 'retard' in this fic to refer to children with mental/intellectual disabilities. It is not my intention to offend anyone but I am using the word as a symbol of the time in which the school was in operation. It was not taboo to call children with certain challenges 'retarded' and was more or less acceptable.

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