In Supernatural TV/Vampire Diaries with The Force as the Chosen One

Dean paced the worn carpet between the beds, his boots wearing a path that matched the one John had created on the opposite side of the room.

Between them, Lucien lay motionless on the bed, his face unnaturally pale except for the dried blood beneath his nose.

"He's been out for three hours," Dean said, checking his watch again. "Shouldn't he be waking up by now?"

John pressed two fingers against Lucien's wrist, counting silently. "Pulse is steady. Breathing's normal." His voice remained calm, but the tightness around his eyes betrayed his concern.

Sam knelt beside Lucien's duffel bag, sorting through its contents. "He must have brought something about the Force with him. He always takes notes."

"Check the side pocket," Dean suggested. "Kid's obsessive about organization."

Sam unzipped the compartment and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook. The pages were filled with Lucien's neat handwriting, diagrams of energy flows, and carefully transcribed quotes from Star Wars materials.

"Found it," Sam said, flipping through until he reached a section titled 'Force Overexertion - Dangers and Recovery.' He cleared his throat and began to read aloud:

"When pushing beyond your current Force capability and limits, expect the following consequences: Physical collapse is practically guaranteed. The body while control is limited can only channel so much Force energy before it gives out. Don't be stupid about this."

Dean snorted. "Kid's lecturing himself in his own notes."

Sam continued: "Nosebleeds, headaches, and muscle tremors are warning signs you're approaching your limit. STOP when these appear. I haven't yet, and it's bitten me in the ass every time."

John's eyebrow raised slightly at the language, but he said nothing.

"Unconsciousness follows severe overexertion. Duration varies based on how badly you've pushed yourself. Recovery requires complete rest - no exceptions. Mental effects include confusion, disorientation, and difficulty focusing. Your brain basically gets Force-fried."

"Force-fried," Dean repeated with a weak smile. "Sounds about right."

"Temporary Force blindness may occur - like static on a radio. Connection to the Force becomes weak or completely blocked until recovery if pushed too far." Sam looked up from the notebook. "At least we know what to expect."

"What about recovery?" John asked, his voice gruff with exhaustion.

Sam nodded and continued reading: "Recovery protocol: Complete rest for at least 24 hours. No Force usage whatsoever during recovery. Hydration and food are essential (Force usage burns calories like crazy). Meditation helps restore connection faster."

He turned the page and his expression softened. "Note to self: Just because you CAN push harder doesn't mean you SHOULD. The Force may be unlimited, but so long your control isn't, your body is."

Dean stopped pacing to look over Sam's shoulder. "What's that at the bottom?"

Sam's voice quieted as he read the final lines: "P.S. If anyone's reading this because I've knocked myself out being an idiot, tell Dean I said to stop worrying - I'll be fine. And tell Dad I'm sorry for not following orders."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Dean turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. John's jaw tightened as he looked down at his unconscious son.

"Kid knew exactly what would happen," Dean said finally. "He knew, and he did it anyway."

"He saved your life," Sam pointed out quietly. "Both of you."

John nodded once, acknowledgment without comment. He moved to the window, pulling back the curtain slightly to check the parking lot. The movement caused his hand to tremble noticeably.

"Dad?" Sam asked, noticing the shake. "You okay?"

"Fine," John replied automatically. "Just the adrenaline wearing off."

Dean frowned, looking down at his own hands. They were trembling too, just slightly. "I don't think it's just adrenaline."

Sam joined his father at the window, peering out at the street beyond. What he saw made his blood run cold.

The world outside was... wrong. The colors seemed muted, as if someone had turned down the saturation.

People moved sluggishly along the sidewalk, their movements jerky and disjointed like malfunctioning automatons.

As they watched, a middle-aged woman simply collapsed mid-step, crumpling to the ground like a marionette with cut strings.

No one stopped to help her. The few pedestrians nearby simply shuffled around her fallen form, their faces blank and gray.

"What the hell?" Dean muttered, joining them at the window.

"Is it just me," Sam asked slowly, "or is everything getting... grayer?"

Dean squinted at the scene outside. "Like someone's draining the color out of everything."

John's expression darkened with realization. "It's the wraith. It's not just attacking individuals anymore. It's feeding on the entire town."

Sam turned back to look at Lucien. In the increasingly desaturated room, the unconscious boy was the only thing that maintained full color. In fact, if Sam looked closely, he could almost see a faint luminescence surrounding his brother's still form.

"Lucien released an enormous amount of Force energy in the cemetery," Sam said, pieces clicking together in his mind. "The wraith must have absorbed some of it when he broke that connection. Now it's powerful enough to feed on everyone at once."

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. "Force-Jesus here gave it a power boost."

"We need to end this," John said decisively. "Now, before it drains the entire town."

"How?" Sam asked. "We know the heart is somewhere in the mansion, but we don't know exactly where."

"We'll tear the place apart if we have to," John replied, already checking his shotgun. "But first, we need a plan. Normally, anchors need to be destroyed simultaneously. Lucien somehow managed to break one connection, but the other two are still active."

"And getting stronger by the minute," Dean added grimly.

John laid out his shotgun on the table, alongside extra salt rounds. "Sam and I will go to the mansion, find the heart. Dean, you stay here with Lucien."

Dean's head snapped up. "What? No, I should go with you. Sam can stay with Lucien."

"That's not happening," John said firmly. "Sam's knowledge of occult rituals might help us identify what we're dealing with. And you're still recovering from the wraith's attack."

"I'm fine," Dean protested, though the pallor of his skin suggested otherwise.

"That's an order, Dean," John's tone left no room for argument. "We need someone we trust to protect Lucien. That's you."

Dean wanted to argue further, but the logic was sound. And someone needed to stay with Lucien – he was completely vulnerable in his current state.

"Fine," he conceded reluctantly. "But you two better be careful."

"We'll ward this room with everything we've got," John continued, pulling supplies from their duffel bags. "More Salt lines at every entrance, devil's traps by the doors, iron across the windows."

Sam grabbed the container of salt, beginning to lay down thick lines at the doorway and windowsills. "Even if the wraith can somehow get past salt- who knows with how weird it is, these should slow it down at least."

John drew protective symbols from Bobby's books on the walls while Dean positioned iron fireplace pokers across the windowsills. Within minutes, the motel room resembled a supernatural fortress.

"Keep that shotgun loaded," John instructed Dean. "And don't take your eyes off him for a second."

Dean nodded, checking the weapon's chamber before positioning himself between the door and Lucien's bed. "We'll be fine. Just get that heart and end this thing."

John placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, "We'll be back soon."

As John and Sam prepared to leave, Dean called after them: "Hey. Don't do anything stupid, alright?"

Sam offered a tight smile. "That's your department, remember?"

The door closed behind them, leaving Dean alone with his unconscious brother in the increasingly gray world.

---------------------------

The Impala's engine sounded wrong – labored, as if the car itself was affected by the wraith's drain.

John drove, grim, but determined, his knuckles white against the steering wheel as they navigated streets that looked increasingly like an old black and white photograph.

"People are just... collapsing," Sam observed, watching a man slump against a mailbox as they passed. "It's like their energy is being siphoned away."

"That's exactly what's happening," John replied, his voice tight. "The wraith is feeding on their life force – the Force now, according Lucien." John remembering Lucien's theory about how life draining spells would be ones that could drain the Force from someone.

Though that it should be far more difficult than it was previously, because the Force is a volatile energy source. One can not simply drain it from others and leave unscathed.

This Wraith though- it probably had the ability before the Force was created, and its ability was translated into being able to drain the Force.

John could only hope that not too many things out there are able to do to the same. It is possible- but none should be able to do it like a Wraith, since it, itself being a spiritual being at least gives it an edge in how much it can stomach compared to other beings.

Sam checked his shotgun, loading extra salt rounds into his pocket. "Lucien was right about this case being off."

John's jaw tightened. "He was. Should have been more prepared."

"Are you angry? About him disobeying orders?"

John was silent for a moment, considering. "He saved Dean's life. Hard to be angry about that." He glanced at Sam. "Doesn't mean I'm happy about it. He put himself at risk."

"He's a Winchester," Sam said quietly. "It's what we do."

As they approached the Blackwood Estate, the temperature dropped dramatically. Their breath fogged in the air, the car's heater struggling against the supernatural cold.

The mansion loomed before them, now seeming to form unnatural shadows that slithered across its façade like living things.

"This is worse than before," Sam muttered.

John checked his watch. "We've got maybe half a day before the whole town is drained dry. We get in, find the heart, get out. No hesitation."

The mansion's front door swung open at John's touch, as if inviting them inside.

The foyer beyond was transformed from their earlier visit – shadows now moved independently of objects, and the walls themselves seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting.

John pulled out the EMF meter, but the device immediately maxed out, lights flaring before the battery died completely.

"Useless," he muttered, pocketing the device. "Stay close. We head straight for that hidden room."

They moved through darkened hallways, shotguns ready. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet.

Whispers echoed through the house – a woman's voice alternating between heart-wrenching sobs and chilling laughter. The sound seemed to come from everywhere.

"She knows we're here," Sam whispered, his back pressed against John's as they navigated a particularly dark corridor.

They reached the music room and found it transformed. The piano now looked melted, its keys elongated like teeth in a grimacing mouth.

The wallpaper rippled, patterns shifting to form faces that appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

The hidden door to the secret room stood open.

John motioned Sam forward while he covered their backs. Inside, the small room had changed dramatically.

The occult symbols carved into the wooden box now glowed with faint green light, casting eerie shadows across the walls.

The books on the shelves seemed to whisper among themselves, pages rustling without wind.

"I'll stand guard," John said, positioning himself at the doorway. "Find that heart."

Sam nodded, examining the walls carefully. "If Edmund was performing binding rituals, the heart would need to be close to the ritual components we found."

He ran his fingers along the shelving, feeling for hidden catches or compartments. The temperature continued to drop, frost forming on the metal fixtures.

"Martha Blackwood," Sam called out, hoping to distract the spirit while he searched. "We know what your husband did to you. We're trying to help."

A whisper answered, so close it seemed to come from inside his own head: "Help... me..."

The voice shifted, hardening: "FEED me..."

John's shotgun swung toward a darkened corner. "Sam, hurry up."

"Working on it," Sam muttered, fingers probing the back panel of the bookshelf. Something clicked beneath his touch, and a small section of the wall slid open, revealing another hidden compartment.

Before he could reach inside, the wraith manifested.

She appeared directly behind John, her form more solid than before. No longer the translucent ghost they'd encountered in the cemetery, she now had substance – a twisted mockery of a Victorian lady, her black dress rippling like liquid shadow.

Her face flickered between beautiful and horrific, skin peeling back in patches to reveal a skull beneath.

John sensed her too late. He turned, firing his shotgun, but she was already moving – impossibly fast, flowing around the salt spray like water around a stone.

Her hand shot out, elongated fingers wrapping around John's throat. The shotgun clattered to the floor as she lifted him off his feet.

"Dad!" Sam shouted, raising his own weapon.

John's face began to gray as the wraith fed, color and vitality draining from him like water down a drain. His struggles weakened, boots kicking uselessly a foot above the floor.

Sam fired, the salt round passing through the wraith's torso. She flickered momentarily but didn't release John. Her form simply restructured around the disruption, like smoke reforming after being disturbed.

Desperate, Sam turned back to the hidden compartment. Inside sat a glass container, ornately decorated with silver filigree. Within, suspended in yellowish fluid, was a preserved human heart.

He grabbed it, turning to see John's face now ashen gray, eyes rolling back as the wraith continued to feed.

Sam had a split-second to decide. They needed both anchors – the heart and the ring still in the iron box at the motel, they couldn't bring it with them, it would've possibly strengthened her, being so close to it.

Destroying just one wouldn't work. But if he didn't act now, John would die.

He fired another salt round directly at the wraith's face. This time, she released John, dispersing momentarily into wisps of shadow. John collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath.

"Go!" John managed to choke out, his voice barely audible. "Get it back... to the motel..."

"Dad-"

"NOW, Sam!" John reached weakly for his fallen shotgun. "I'll... hold her off."

Sam hesitated only briefly before clutching the container to his chest and running. The wraith's scream of rage followed him down the corridor, a sound like metal scraping against bone.

He sprinted through the mansion's twisting hallways, the layout seeming to change with each turn.

Doors that should have led to exits now opened onto brick walls. Staircases extended endlessly upward. The house itself was fighting him.

The temperature plummeted further, frost forming on the walls – the wraith was reforming, hunting him.

Sam glanced back to see darkness flowing along the corridor like a living flood, gaining on him with every second.

No time to reach the front door. Sam veered toward a window at the end of the hall, tucking the container securely against his chest.

He didn't slow down. Glass shattered around him as he threw himself through, arms raised to protect his face. For a moment, he was airborne, three stories above the ground.

Then gravity reclaimed him. Sam tucked into a roll as he fell, years of hunting training taking over. He crashed onto the Impala's hood with bone-jarring force, the metal denting beneath his weight.

Sam spit out a bit of blood as he landed.

"Dean's gonna kill me," he muttered through gritted teeth, rolling off the car onto his legs- unsteady. The glass container had survived the impact, the heart inside still intact.

The wraith materialized at the broken window, her form now a twisted silhouette against the darkness of the mansion.

She didn't bother with the stairs – her body simply poured out through the opening like living oil, flowing down the exterior wall fast.

Sam scrambled for the car door, finding it locked. No time for finesse – he smashed the driver's side window with the butt of his shotgun, glass showering the seat as he reached through to unlock the door.

He threw himself inside, fumbling for the extra keys John had left in the ignition- just in case. The engine roared to life just as the wraith reached the car, her hand passing through the metal like it was water, grasping for Sam's ankle.

Sam floored the accelerator, tires spinning on gravel before finally going. The car lurched forward, the wraith's arm stretching impossibly as she maintained her grip.

Sam swerved hard, the sudden movement finally breaking her hold as the Impala fishtailed onto the main road.

In the rearview mirror, the wraith's form dissolved into mist, flowing along the road surface in pursuit.

The streets of Riverdale had become a monochrome nightmare – abandoned vehicles littered the road where drivers had succumbed to the wraith's feeding.

Bodies lay where they had fallen, color and life force drained to near-death.

Sam swerved around a delivery truck stopped in the middle of the street, tires screeching as he took a corner too fast.

The container with the heart slid across the seat; he grabbed it one-handed, never taking his eyes off the road.

The wraith flowed over obstacles like living fog, always reforming closer, gaining with every second. She moved faster than the car could drive through the obstacle-strewn streets.

Sam's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he pushed the Impala to its limits, the engine screaming in protest. He couldn't outrun her – he needed to reach the motel before she caught him.

The Impala's tires left smoking rubber on the asphalt as Sam took another corner, the back end fishtailing wildly before he regained control.

The motel appeared ahead, its neon sign one of the few spots of color in the increasingly gray world.

He skidded into the parking lot, the car barely stopped before he was throwing himself out the door, container clutched to his chest.

The wraith materialized directly in his path, face contorted with hunger and rage.

Sam fired his last salt round point-blank into her chest. She dispersed like smoke in a high wind, giving him just enough time to sprint past.

He reached their room, boot connecting with the door in a desperate kick that splintered the frame. Dean was already positioned behind the salt line, shotgun raised.

"Sam!" Dean's eyes widened at his brother's bloody, glass-cut appearance. "Where's Dad?"

Sam leapt across the salt line just as the wraith reformed in the doorway, her body rippling with fury as she encountered the barrier. "Mansion," he gasped, breathless. "No time. Keep her busy!"

Dean didn't hesitate, firing a salt round that temporarily dispersed the wraith's form. "What's the plan?"

Sam pulled the ring from his pocket, placing both anchors in the iron box they'd prepared. "The wraith's gotten too powerful for a normal salt and burn," he explained between ragged breaths. "We need to destroy both anchors simultaneously with something stronger than fire."

"Like what?"

"The Force."

Dean stared at him. "What? But Lucien's unconscious, he can't do that again."

"I know. I have a plan." Sam said, moving toward Lucien's still form. "Remember what Missouri said? When she touched Lucien during that vision of Death, she tapped into the Light Side of the Force."

Dean fired another round as the wraith began pushing against the invisible barrier of the salt line, the white crystals smoking where her essence touched them. "So what, you're gonna try the same thing?"

"Something like that." Sam placed his hands on Lucien's forehead, closing his eyes in concentration.

Nothing happened.

The world outside the window had become almost completely monochrome, the color drained from everything except Lucien, whose skin still maintained a healthy hue, glowing with a white cold light.

"Whatever you're doing," Dean called, firing again as the wraith began breaking through the salt line, "now would be good!"

Sam pressed harder, concentrating with everything he had. "Come on," he whispered. "Please."

The wraith's form solidified further as she pushed through the weakening barrier. Dean fired his last round, the shotgun clicking empty afterward.

"Sam!" Dean backed up, placing himself between the wraith and his brothers. "We're out of time!"

Sam closed his eyes, remembering Lucien's words about connecting to the Force. The Light Side came from protection, peace, defense – but the Dark Side...

The Dark Side came from passion, fear, anger. It was easier to access but harder to control.

Sam embraced the fear coursing through him – fear for Dean, for his father, for Lucien. He channeled the anger at being helpless, at watching people die around him. He focused on his desperate need to protect his family at any cost.

Something dark and powerful stirred at the edges of his consciousness, like ice forming in his veins.

"Please," Sam begged, no longer sure if he was speaking to the Force, to Lucien, or to God himself. "I need this to work."

The wraith let out an inhuman shriek as she fully breached the salt line, her clawed hands reaching for Dean, who stood his ground with the empty shotgun held like a club.

"SAM!" Dean shouted, swinging the weapon uselessly through the wraith's semi-solid form.

Something inside Sam broke open – a dam releasing a flood of cold, dark power. His eyes snapped open, momentarily glowing with red light, like his mirror - his fallen angel half, before returning to normal.

Power surged through him, into the iron box and the container where the ring and lay.

The containers glowed with yellow, then crumbled to ash in his hands. The heart and ring within them disintegrated simultaneously.

The wraith's scream shifted from rage to agony. Her form ignited from within, flames consuming her from the inside out. She writhed in the doorway, her body twisting impossibly as the fire devoured her essence.

A brilliant flash of light filled the room, sending a pulse everywhere, forcing Sam and Dean to shield their eyes.

When they looked again, the wraith was gone – and color flooded back into the world like a wave, saturating everything with renewed life.

Sam collapsed beside Lucien's bed, his legs giving out beneath him. Dean stared at him in shock, the empty shotgun still clutched in his hands.

"What the hell was that?" Dean finally managed, his voice hoarse.

Sam looked down at his trembling hands, still feeling the cold echo of the power that had flowed through him. "I did it... I used the Force."

"And not the good side of it."

Both brothers turned toward the doorway, where John Winchester stood leaning heavily against the broken frame.

His face was still ashen, but color was slowly returning to his features. Blood trickled from a gash on his forehead, and he clutched his ribs as if they pained him.

"Dad," Dean moved to help him inside. "You look like crap."

"Wraith nearly drained me dry," John admitted, allowing Dean to guide him to a chair. "Would have, if Sam hadn't drawn her away." His eyes fixed on his middle son with an unreadable expression. "What exactly did you do?"

Sam swallowed hard, the memory of that cold power still fresh in his mind, the stolen life force from the wraith, flowing a big portion into him- healing him as he destroyed its anchors. "I couldn't access the Light Side like Missouri did. She did it by touching Lucien - I think it's the only way to do that with how volatile the Force is, him being its nexus point, so I tried the same."

"It was too... difficult to draw from. So I tried the Dark Side instead."

"The Dark Side," John repeated flatly.

"It worked," Sam pointed out defensively,. "The wraith's gone. The town's returning to normal."

John didn't argue, but his expression remained troubled. "We'll talk about this when we get back to Bobby's." He looked at Lucien's still form. "How is he?"

"Unchanged," Dean reported. "But his color's good."

Outside, they could hear sirens – emergency services responding to the dozens of people who had collapsed throughout town.

The world was returning to normal, though the citizens of Riverdale would never understand what had really happened.

"We need to move," John decided, pushing himself to his feet with a grimace. "Pack up. We leave in ten."

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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you liked the chapter.

So the first hunt is over.

What? You didn't expect for Lucien to go full badass mode and handle everything while only being 11 years old did you? 

He already played a big part by saving Dean, and even being there, as the nexus point, allowed Sam while in physical contact with him, to draw from the Dark Side of the Force for a brief moment.

Sam's lucky that since he could only tap into it while in physical contact with Lucien, that by letting go, he also let go of the Dark Side.

Well, I hope to see you all later,

Bye!)