Author's Note: Okay, even though Skin has never been my favourite episode, it still fascinates me...or rather, the relationship between the Shapeshifter and Dean fascinated me. I feel like there was a lot there under the surface but it was never really explored. Then I had a conversation with a friend about it and she said something really interesting about the ending, about how it's almost like the thing is becoming Dean, wants to be Dean, because they're so much alike. And then, me being me, I just couldn't let the plot bunny go...
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue
A Tragedy in Five Parts
Agon
These are the rules of the road.
One, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.
Two, don't mess with the upholstery, or I will kill you
Three, the only person you can trust in good faith is yourself
Four, it's you against the world
……..
There's traffic on the highway, today. The thing in the driver's seat drums its fingers irritably on the steering wheel. You lay your head against the glass, staring at the black Mazda ahead of you. The license plates read California.
"Is every fucking person in the damned country taking a fucking vacation in Florida?" It asks, glancing at you.
You shrug.
"I mean, what is there in Florida anyway? If you ask me, the whole state's overrated."
You were in Florida once, doing a job with your dad while Sam was away at university. You'd gone to pick up some supplies at a local Publix. The whole parking lot had been full of white or beige cars. The Impala stood out like a sore thumb, and the looks you and Dad got on your way in were less than friendly. Back at your motel room, Dad had made some sort of crack about no wonder there was so much supernatural shit in Florida.
It turned out to be a crocodile eating people, and not some sort of monster. You blew out the thing's brains with your shotgun when you inadvertently came across it. John made you leave quickly because of the attention of the authorities, even though you had wanted to stay, just a bit.
"I know." It nods in the driver's seat, "We didn't even get to hit the beaches."
You feel bile rise up in the back of your throat and you're tempted, not for the first time, to attack it, try and get it to drive off the road. It wouldn't be hard. Your hands are only handcuffed, now. It's not like before, when it hogtied you in the backseat and you spent your days hidden under a blanket until it dragged you into a motel room for the night.
But the moment passes when you hear a small thump from the back. The first time it brought some woman back to the motel room, was the fourth or fifth time you'd tried to escape. You don't know what her name was, but you remember her face. You remember because under your terror was the secret thought, yeah I'd do her. You'd wanted so badly to throw up.
It didn't let her scream, and it didn't make you watch, but you heard everything just the same and there'd been a lot to hear. You stopped trying to escape after that, but it knew, and every so often there'd be a new one thrown in the trunk of the Impala, just to make sure.
Pathos
It doesn't like it when you think of Sammy. You used to do it just to piss the damn thing off, but later you wait until it's asleep, when it can't read your mind.
In your head, there are a series of snapshots. There's Sammy, after his first steps, or in his first Halloween costume, or Sam, all grown up and laughing, his head thrown back. You can't remember when the last one actually happened, or if you're just making it up to make yourself feel better.
You dream about Sam, although you can't remember. It tells you, sitting on the side of the bed when you wake up, staring down at you with this expression that you can't read even though it's your own damn face. You think, I wonder if that's what Sammy saw, but then it slaps you. Hard.
"Sammy couldn't tell his ass from his face." It says with disgust.
You've learned it doesn't do you any good to deny it. It thinks it knows everything about you. It thinks it is you. But you know better. Or at least, you think you do, because, sometimes, you're not too sure.
You're getting used to watching the scenery pass by. You're not sure where you're headed but you can smell salt in the air, taste it on your tongue. You have a crazy urge to say something clichéd like, I've never seen the ocean before, and you smile, but you're not going to say anything. You're not gonna give it the satisfaction.
"What?" It asks, casting one eye towards you. There's a little smirk on its face. It's the one you used give Sam when he was laughing about something and you wanted to be let in on the joke. "What is it?"
You remain silent.
"I asked you a question."
You've learned that it can read minds, but not all the time, and not surface thoughts. Anything it picks up on is deeply connected to you somehow, memories, or emotions connected to memories…to identities.
"Nothing." You say, suddenly not in the mood to fight. "It was nothing." You turn to look at it, offering a conciliatory smile.
It smiles back, wide and happy. "Hey, how about we grab some food? There's an exit coming up. I don't know about you, but I'm starved. A burger and fries sounds really good…" It glances back at the road, still grinning. "And maybe some milkshakes."
You don't want to admit it, but that does sound really good.
Sparagmos
It uses the knife your dad gave you for your sixteenth birthday.
You're on the bed, lying back, looking at the ceiling. It lies next to you, propped up on one elbow tracing the knife back and forth over your shirt. Its eyes are distant, unfocused. When this was still new to you, you used to wonder where it went. You know that it must have had something before; a life, an identity. Maybe, at some point, you had pity for it.
Not anymore.
"I could teach you," it whispers. "I could teach you how to change, to shed, and we could do anything. Just you and I. We could leave them behind. We'd never have to give up anything ever again."
It's not really talking to you, you know. But you still have the fear of the first time, when it threatened to cut you up so bad you wouldn't recognize yourself in a mirror. Sam used to make fun of your vanity. You'd given it everything it'd wanted, that night.
Now you just stay quiet, lying as still as the dead girl tied to the chair at the other side of the room. You keep your mind blank while it talks about family, and loyalty. Sometimes it talks about Dad, sometimes it's Sammy, and sometimes it's other people you don't know.
When it's done, it will hold you close, waiting until you fall asleep, the way you used to hold Sammy when he was a baby; the way your mother used to hold you before she died. When Dad was drowning in the hunt and everything else, and Sammy was asleep in bed, you used to wish that someone would hold you that way.
It's true what they say, careful what you wish for.
……….
You see the newspaper resting on the diner's countertop and can't help but stare. It's been over a month since St. Louis, since you last saw Sam. You've lost a lot of time.
A hand claps you on the back, painfully, and you wince. "Gonna stand there gaping all day, bro?"
It leads you to a booth by the window. A waitress comes by, does a double take as she gives you both menus. "Wow, sorry, don't see many identical twins around here."
It offers a charming grin. "Identical? Nah, I got all the looks."
She laughs warmly, and you've lost your appetite. You stare at the table not wanting to see this.
"Don't mind him," it whispers conspiratorially. "He's the shy one."
You used to say that about Sammy when somebody asked if you were brothers. This is the routine.
Or it was the routine.
Past and present are slowly coming apart. There's Sam and then there's this, but it disturbs you that you think you remember this better than Sam.
"Oh, man, look, French toast. We haven't had French toast in ages."
Not since you were on your way to Palo Alto to pick up Sam. The morning of the day you arrived, at a little diner where the waiter discussed the upcoming Hockey season with you because service was slow. Since then you hadn't found anyplace that served it the way you like, with fresh fruit and syrup.
It orders for both of you. And you're ridiculously fine with that because you don't feel like talking right now. It gives you a light, amicable kick under the table and starts talking baseball. The French toast, when it arrives, has fresh fruit and syrup.
Anagnorisis
You have a scar above your hairline from where Sammy brained you with a baseball bat when he was ten. You always forget about it until your looking into a mirror at some random instant in the day and you catch it out of the corner of your eye. It's like a slap to the face whenever you see it. Sammy did this, you think.
It catches you staring as it finishes bandaging your wrists. It turns its face up to you, reaching out one hand to gently trace your own scar. The callused fingers are warm. It offers a small smile as it whispers:
"He never apologized for it, either."
…………
You're heading south, to Mexico this time. You keep your windows down while AC/DC blasts out of the speakers. The skin of your wrists is smooth and healed.
When you go to the Coke machine at the far end of the motel and Sammy steps out of the shadows, your first thought is that you've finally snapped. Your second is that it's gotten tired of being you and now it's decided to be Sam for a bit.
You're still trying to decide which it might be when Sammy punches you. Hard. You go down, still trying to work things out. That must be all the information Sam needs, because suddenly he's kneeling next to you, hands out, touching you, muttering.
"Oh God, Dean, I didn't know. I thought you were…but why are you…"
You push his hands away, climbing slowly to your feet. It's like the time Sammy brained you with a baseball bat when he was ten. He was all excuses and worries but no apology. And it had hurt. You had the scar to prove it.
"Are you okay, Dean? God, what…where is it?"
"Right here." Your voice says from behind him. Sam whips around, but too late. It shoots out a fist, catching him in the face.
You watch him fall, while you reach up and rub the blood from your face. Your nose is throbbing. Maybe it's broken. Your skin feels tight and uncomfortable, and not really your own.
"You okay?" It asks.
You nod.
"Give me a hand getting him into the room?"
Sam looks better than the last time you saw him, lying on the floor, trying to breathe, before the thing wearing your face tackled you to the ground and you woke up to a whole (not really) new set of rules of the road. He recovers quickly, before it's finished tying him to the chair. His eyes focus on you immediately.
"Dean?" He asks, confused.
It's got the knife your father gave you for your sixteenth birthday. The same one you used to sleep with under your pillow.
"Hey, little brother." It says, running the knife lightly down Sammy's cheek. "Miss me?"
"Dean, what the hell?" He's staring at you.
Protecting him as been drilled into you since you were a kid, Take your brother outside. Now, Dean. Go. You spent most of your life doing that, not looking back, and look where it's gotten you; a couple of miles from the Mexican border, and nothing that you can really call your own anymore.
"You don't seriously think you're gonna get help, now, do you?"
Except that maybe you can call it your own. Maybe it's more so yours now, than it's ever been in a world where everything was about Sammy or Dad or Mom. All you've got is yourself, but isn't that all you ever had?
"Come on, Sammy." It says (you say). "Let's have a little chat between family, huh?"
Cartharsis
These are the rules of the road.
One, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.
Two, don't mess with the upholstery, or I will kill you
Three, the only person you can trust in good faith is yourself
Four, it's you against the world
…….
The Mexican border is easy to cross, the right smile, the right id. One year here and there, hunting, exploring. There are things to do, people to see. You have the Impala thrumming under you, rock and roll on the radio, and a trunk full of illegal weapons.
You still think about it sometimes, in the back of your mind, and he does too. One year, and you're driving back, this time you're in the driver's seat and he's in the passenger seat. Out there, somewhere, your Dad's still missing. You've got no phone, no way to contact anyone. But beside you is someone who understands exactly what's going through your head.
You'll find Dad, eventually, and when you do you're not quite sure what you want to do with him. You'll think of something. For now, it's you against the world, but you're not alone this time, and maybe that's all you could ever ask for.
End
The words in bold are considered aspects that make up tragedy. The four parts do not necessarily go in order. Cartharsis was introduced by Aristotle as the feeling the audience gets at the end of the tragedy...a sense of fulfillment almost, but, as is the case, we do not always feel better at the end of a tragedy, if anything, we normally feel worse.