Act 1: The One With The Inappropriate Soundtrack

Dean knew something was wrong when he got up, but was unable to pinpoint what until he was in the shower.

He started hearing these noises, which he attributed to motel plumbing - it could be a weird beast in even the better places - but it was a more human noises. It sounded like people laughing. Then, after washing the shampoo out of his hair, he realized there was a floating black box over his groin.

What the hell ..? He tried to touch it, but his hand went right through it, like it was a ghost. Except it wasn't, because ghosts weren't black and box shaped, and usually when you made contact with a ghost, it was like an instant ice water bath. "What the f-" Dean said, only to hear the word fuck replaced by a beep. And then there was more laughter, louder this time.

Dean stuck his head out of the shower and looked around, but he was definitely alone in the bathroom. "Hello?" he said, on the off chance of a response. "Who the f-beep is bleeping me in real life?" This was met by laughter from what sounded like a large group of unseen people.

Okay, this was bananas. After slapping himself to make sure he was awake - he was, and this elicited more laughter from the invisible chorus - Dean got out of the shower and hastily got dressed, noticing the black box disappearing as soon as he got his jeans on. In his own mind, he was trying to come up with a plausible reason this could be happening, and couldn't. "Goddamn it, Gabriel, if this is you I'm killing your ass," Dean snapped, shrugging on his shirt. More laughter.

He stepped out into the bleak parking lot of the Sunset Motel, where they had arrived last night. Sam had found a case of strange suicides and murders in this area, with little rhyme or reason, and had finally convinced Dean they should check it out. Last night, they'd investigated the latest victim, a middle aged man named Jared Parker, but hadn't come up with much of anything. Sam figured they could pick up with the first victim, Amy Wildebrand, in the morning.

Dean was wracking his brain, trying to figure out if maybe he got roofied or something at that sad bar they were at last night, but he was usually pretty vigilant about that. But this seemed a little like a bad acid trip, didn't it? The sky was pinkish-purple, and while that may have been early dawn crossed with air pollution, it might also be a powerful hallucinogen. But Dean was pretty sure he'd know if he was on a trip. Acid usually made him feel like he was warm in the face, flushed, while mushroom left him with warm hands and tingly fingers. Not that he'd ever tell Sam any of this. He knew how fucked up it was that he could tell these things, but in cases like these, that knowledge was useful.

He knocked on Sam's motel room door, and suddenly wondered if only he was experiencing this. What if he was? Was that good or bad? Dean didn't have to think about that too long, as Sam opened the door, and looked at him wild eyed, as Dean suddenly heard applause. "Tell me you're hearing that," Sam asked.

"The invisible peanut gallery? Yeah, I am," he said, to sporadic laughter.

"Holy s-beep, I thought I was having a breakdown," Sam said, also to sporadic laughter.

Dean went into Sam's room and closed the door, hoping he'd leave the audience behind and knowing he damn well wouldn't. Sam's laptop had been abandoned on his bed, and it looked like he had a page about Amy Wildebrand up on the screen. Normal, sure, but there was a huge clue this had gotten to Sam early.

Although dressed in his usual clothes - not fake F.B.I. drag - his hair was kind of a mess, suggesting he hadn't showered this morning. Sam would never admit to being kind of obsessed with his hair, but he totally was, and the fact that it was mussed, and a little frizzy from the humidity suggested he had done no primping at all this morning. That was a fucking red flag. "When did you first notice this?" Dean asked.

Sam ran a hand though his hair, messing it up even more, before he sat on the edge of the bed and retrieved his laptop. "I didn't sleep well last night, so I figured I'd review the cases, see if I missed anything. I blindly reached for my phone, and knocked a cup off the nightstand ... and I heard people laughing. That must have been ... thirty minutes ago? "

"Well, I was in the shower when I noticed a black box over my junk." Titters from the audience.

Sam's eyes widened in surprise. "What?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought. I guess my d-beep too hot for TV. I suppose this means we're not on HBO." More laughter from the crowd. "And who the f-beep is censoring us? If this is Gabriel again we seriously need to kill him."

"Gabriel? If he isn't dead - a big if - he hasn't bothered us in years. Why would he do it now?"

"'Cause he's a d-beep?" More laughter from the invisible crowd. Dean wished he knew where they were so he could give all of them the finger.

Sam considered that a moment, and it was bizarre how haunted he looked. How tired was he? Or, perhaps more tellingly, how much was he convinced he was having some sort of nervous breakdown? To be honest, the fact that they weren't both in rubber rooms was amazing, and a testament to how well you could function if you just embraced the crazy and went with it. Sometimes there was no other choice. "This feels different from that time, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, it does." Dean couldn't exactly articulate how, but it did. Also, the censoring and black box were new. What did it mean? "Maybe an actual trickster?"

Sam shrugged. "And your'e sure we weren't roofied or something?" More laughter.

"Even if we were, we wouldn't be sharing a hallucination."

"Unless you're just a Dean my brain made up," Sam said. The crowd laughed, and Sam looked stricken.

Dean punched Sam in the arm. Not as hard as he could, but much harder than he usually would. More laughter as Sam recoiled. "Ow! Dude, what the f-beep was that for?"

"Did that feel like a hallucination to you?" he asked, doing his best to ignore the laughing crowd. It was close to impossible.

Sam rubbed his arm, and scowled at him, looking a bit more together. "No. But you didn't need to be such a d-beep about it."

"Sure I did. You wouldn't have known it was really me otherwise." For some reason, this got a smattering of applause. Why?

Despite giving him what would probably be a nasty bruise, Sam looked a tiny bit more together, which was good. He didn't need him wigging out on him now. "Okay, so, could this somehow be related to the case?" Dean asked. He knew if he could get Sam case focused, this little wobble would quickly be put behind him.

"How?" Sam replied.

"No clue. You're the brains of this operation." More laughter from the peanut gallery.

Sam frowned, and stared down at his laptop. A good sign. "I mean, it has to be related, but I'm not sure how just yet. I did find something I'd missed before, reading an alternate article on Amy's untimely death. This one mentions that "occult symbols" were found at the scene." The audience ooo-ed now. The urge to tell them to go fuck themselves was almost maddening, but Dean felt giving in to that would let them win. Whoever they were.

"Occult how?"

"It doesn't say. I was thinking maybe we should pay a visit to the reporter, one Autumn Cho, see what she knows."

Dean nodded. "Sounds like a plan. Maybe we'll stop and get some coffee on the way?"

Sam stared at him. "I look that bad, huh?"

Dean gave him a friendly and not at all injurious slap on the shoulder. "Just a little stressed. Caffeine covers a multitude of sins. Well, caffeine, booze, and painkillers." The crowd laughed.

Sam dry washed his face. "You got any on you?"

Dean pulled out his flask, and held it out to Sam, who glanced at it. The crowd laughed. "I was joking."

"More for me then," Dean said, unscrewing the cap and taking a hearty swig. The crowd continued laughing, and Dean hoped he had enough of this to keep his homicidal urges at bay. Because he totally wanted to find this crowd and kick all their asses.