a shapeshifter that turns into dead serial killers just to fuck with people. there’s the attention aspect, sure, where richard ramirez buys $20 worth of energy drinks at the gas station and the clerk does a double take.
but it’s also just…funny. the moment when someone decides that they are going to say something, but are a bit too restrained by social delicacy to accuse them outright.
wow…you look just like…has anyone told you…never mind. no, i'm sorry, do you know who ted bundy is?
and the shapeshifter will demure and scratch at bundy’s thick eyebrows and say wow no i’ve never heard that. who is he?
and watch them sputter through an explanation.
it comes with the unfortunate side effect of unwanted eyes—eyes from the wrong sort—a man in a wrinkled suit and a badge on his hip doing a double take, eyes narrowing in keen suspicion. but nothing ever comes of it. how could it? most of these bodies are ashes, baked into the concrete of a new cell block.
it never causes a problem, really, until a soccer match for the local nine year olds. over-invested parents cheer loudly and hassle referees, and the shapeshifter is just passing through the crowd, honest--it’s a public park after all--and where else are they going to have such a captive audience of unguarded cars?
a clatter, a few parental gasps, and a man has turned around to look at him, a cup of coffee crushed in his fist. it’s clearly scorched him, steam still rising in the cool air and his fist a bright, shiny red.
but the man doesn’t look away, face slack, eyes wide.
today, the shapeshifter has picked the body of dean winchester, a spree killer from a decade ago that died like most spree killers do. violent. bloody. the shifter found his picture a few full-body videos in an archived police report. it was a coin flip between him and brother, but the shifter likes options, pockets sam for later.
and it takes a second, underneath the man’s shirt advertising an elementary’s school family fundraiser from a few years ago and a ball cap, for the shapeshifter to realize they're staring at the not-as-dead-as-previously-reported real, in-the-flesh brother of the dead dean winchester.
sam winchester, serial killer, PTA father, eating up the ground between them.
muscular arms, hollowed eyes, necklace bouncing on his chest, reaching in his jacket pocket for something.
“dean,” sam says, breathless, face slack in horror, tears silently pouring down his face, and the shifter gives a small, hesitant grin, hand reaching in their pocket for their switch blade.
