Constance Drive was shoe-horned into the top right hand corner of Danhoe, a pretty area of suburbia steeped in white washed porches and the backs of pastel cardigan wearing housewives peering over their neighbour's fences. The air was butter soft in the creamy mid-morning light and smelt of roses, apples and cut grass, with the scent of fragranced cleaning supplies wafting through open windows from rooms that had been spritzed with a fine spray of it, and the smells mixed in the street until a pot purée of sweet smelling cleanliness. The gardens were kept in check, the kids attended the local high school every weekday, and things were kept strictly superficial. Husbands and wives lived different daily lives and marriages, when based on such a timetable, were pretty happy.

The rush of the highway was a cool breeze in the background but Constance Driver was relatively quiet at this time of day. Lily March trotted down her driveway, slinking between the second car and the glistening bare back of her gardened as he managed her lawn, and came to a quick halt by her mailbox. Her hair was manically coiffured and the house behind was just so for the visitor. Noses twitched down Constance Drive and necks and heads appeared over the top of low garden fences to watch Lily March in her solitary stance at the end of her drive, perched neatly on top of her quaint-but-slightly-preppy-high heels. Her nails sparkled like her neighbours', her hair was glinting and her smile rosy…she wasn't one for breaking of routine either, so what was she doing at the end of her drive in the middle of the day?

Daniel March's BMW turned the corner to the loop of Constance Drive and rolled into park, bracing the creamy pavement and parallel to the house. That rosy smile blossomed on Lily's face and her husband slid from his car with a matching one. With the gimmick of a handsome chauffeur in his mind, he swept open the passenger side door as he rounded the car. The figure inside – with just a touch of trepidation – put a foot out onto the warm pavement. He moved like a fish through water as he righted himself out of the BMV and steadied himself.

"Rowan…" Lily said, her white teeth framed by pear lips as a proud new foster mother, "Welcome to Constance Drive,"
The newcomer, tall, with dark hair – that had gone raggedy from tired - and clothes that rested on a slender frame, took the strap of his bag and sloped it over an angular shoulder. He narrowed dark eyes against the sun and took in all that Constance Drive had to give.

'I'm in hell,' he thought, miserably.

Dean was singing. Sam had a headache. Dean had a death wish if he continued any longer. Sam lashed out his hand and smacked off the tape player, imprinting his fingers and with the 'Play' button from the force.

"What?!"
"I've got a headache,"

Then why don't you just tell me to turn the music of instead?"
"Forget it," Sam grumbled, tucking himself back into the sleeping position he'd been in before. Dean chuckled darkly and shook his head, "Don't start with me Sammy. What's got up your skirt this evening?"
"Nothing. I'm sorry. I'm just…tired,"
"Well we'll find a motel and bed down for the night then. Thought I saw one on that map we picked up. Check it out for me,"
Sam spent a minute wrestling the map – which had been lying spread out on the backseat for most of the journey – into the front with little effect, before spreading it out on his knee and allocating the motel.

"There. Right in the centre of this next town called Danhoe. Got to take the next turning off the highway and then follow the road into Danhoe,"
Fifteen minutes later they were stood in front of the wooden front reception desk, sanded down finer than necessary and daubed in white paint with peaches painted faintly as a pattern. Dean handed over his credit card (printed with the name Alex Manning) with a tired grin. The girl at the desk couldn't resist his charm, mostly caused by the dishevelled look Dean was alluring donning, although unknown to the receptionist it was from driving for eight straight hours and nothing fanciful. She peered over his shoulder and caught sight of Sam taking in – with slight alarm – the lobby's huge framed painting of the woman who owned the motel. She looked to be impersonating the Queen of England, and the colours of her dress were brought out so startlingly Sam started to become slightly hypnotised. He leant in closer, widening his eyes again and again trying to get a hold on what he was seeing…

"Sam," Dean chided, "What the hell are you doing dude, come on,"

He jangled the keys to emphasise the point.

"Thank you," Sam said with a smile to the receptionist, and quickly followed Dean, blinking rapidly to get clear focus and vision back.

"That picture gave me a migraine,"
"Well you were looking at it so close I think maybe you need glasses or something, "

Sam pulled a face at his brother and threw his bag down on the closest bed, "Right, I'm turning straight in,"

They locked eyes for a second, a dare flicking between them.

"Is this a lump coming up on my head?"

Dean frowned and squinted through the light that had suddenly switched on. He'd had his face buried into the pillow mashed under his head, his duvet wrapped comfortably around him, and he'd been fast asleep. Now Sam had gone and turned the light on.

"What?"
"Have I got a lump on my head?" Sam said, pointing in the direction he thought a swelling was arising.

"I have no idea. Dude, what's your problem, it's four in the morning,"
Sam scowled and shuffled around in the bed for a moment, "I can't sleep,"
"What, so you sit up to prod your head for a couple of hours? Get some sleep man, you're making me nervous,"
"I can't sleep, Dean,"
"You said you were exhausted,"
"I am, but every time I get the point I'm about to drop off I just seem to wake up again,"

Dean blinked through the intrusive light to regard his brother for a long minute. After finally coming to some sort of conclusion he reached a hand out of the warm cocoon of his duvet and switched off the bedside light.
"Goodnight Sam, you little weirdo," he grumbled – with affection it has to be said – rolling onto his other side and easing back into sleep.

Sam grabbed his pillow and turned it the opposite way around to give himself a good propped-up position against his headboard. He lay like that for a while, watching his right foot, bare and cold from the lack of heating in the room, poking out from the duvet. He moved his foot from side to side, as it were swaying to some kind of rhythm.

"I'm making a foot puppet," he said to himself, quiet with disbelief. He forced his foot back into the duvet and shuffled down a little, so that his head was folded up in the pillow in an oddly comforting way. Across the room – broken to dimness by the vague lightning of the sky – he could see his brother's shoulders above the top line of the duvet and his ruffled hair on the pillow. His back moved rhythmically with his heavy breaths of sleep. Overall, Dean was a total picture of peace.

Sam shuffled a little more violently this time and took to lying on his back. He used to enjoy sleeping like this until one day, when he was about five, Dean said he looked like he was getting ready for a coffin and it had scared him too much to sleep like that. Now though, he peered up at the ceiling and had to force all connotations with ceilings from his mind.

"I'm tired," he said to himself, "Go to sleep…Go to sleep,"

…

"Go to sleep,"

…

"Go. To. Sleep,"

"They're here sisters. They're here, in this town. Our plans can finally come into action,"

Whispers, halos of light cast on hair as heads bobbled with excitement. 'Yes, isn't it amazing' 'hush, we mustn't jinx it,' 'we have yet to reel them in'

"This is the time Sisters. This is the time we can finally breach our limitations, become like them. Hurt them. Hurt them to love them and become them. Do it my sisters, now,"

The tiny dolls were whipped eagerly from pockets, all identical – this specific doll chosen earlier on in the day – and the group with macabre glee pressed their fingers into the necks of their dolls.

"Go…to…sleep. Go... To….Sleep – ah!"
Sam tried to draw in breath but kicked out in panic when he couldn't. He bolted up in his bed, hands clawing at his throat. Something hurt, there was pressure there and it wouldn't lift. Sam dragged in a breath but it was rasped and wheezed and did nothing. He was choking, choking on thin air.

"Dean," he whispered, struggling to keep the darkness that dotted his vision back, "Dean,"

"Sam?" Dean grumbled, lifting his head from sleep.

"Dean,"

"Sam!"

Sam felt still and quiet for a moment before he softly leant back against the pillows. The last thing he saw was Dean's face swamped in a pitch dark blot of colour and then everything was filled, including his throat and chest, with a heavy stillness.

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