ONE

He careened through the blackness, his feet connecting harshly with the sodden ground. His hands grabbed at the trunks closest to him for purchase, hauling him through the forest. He risked a look back over his shoulder.

He collided with a tree, bouncing back and almost losing his footing. He turned and scrabbled through the spare branches, pushing and shoving, urging his feet not to slip against the leaf mould.

"Stop!"

He ignored the shout, forging on. The forest floor was not helping him but he picked up the pace, furiously wrenching through the trees, grabbing at low branches for help, not even feeling the drag and potential sting of leaves in his face. His desperate panting was deafening, the sweat and fear on his face competing for importance.

His brain climbed down from its panicked decision to flee and started to work.

He's never gonna stop. I am screwed. Unless…

He stopped abruptly, looking up and around. He found the tree with the largest trunk and threw himself at it, kicking his trainers into the bark and hauling himself up.

Don't have to evade him for long. Just a little while longer…

He hurled himself up the tree.

Something large and covered in leaves swept into his body suddenly. He cried out in surprise. He realised his hands had let go. There was the fleeting sensation of floating.

He landed in the mulch with a dull thud, crushing all the wind from him effortlessly. As he fought to breathe he stared up at the black sky, hoping against hope.

There was a noise of breaking twigs and he forced his head up off the ground.

Dean dropped the substantial branch from his hands, wiping them together professionally. He sniffed, looked over at Sam on his back, and walked over.

Sam sucked in air as best he could, coughing out the painful rasping lodged in his throat. Dean stopped, standing over him and shaking his head disapprovingly.

"Dude, you climb like a girl," he said scathingly. He put his hand to the back of his jeans, pulling out a nickel-plated Colt. He hefted it in his palm before looking at it and jamming the breech block back, pumping a round up into the chamber.

"Wait," Sam managed, swallowing and getting his breath back in one shot, "don't you do this!"

"Me?" he asked, surprised. The two of them stared at each other, their breath misting in the cold, damp wooded air. Just for a second, Dean appeared less than sure. Then he straightened his back, standing taller. "It's not me," he said simply, his confidence restored. "It's all you."

He lifted the handgun to point it at Sam's head.

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

Two days earlier…

"Hey wow, this looks kinda cool," Sam said unexpectedly. Dean looked up from his oily rags and assorted gun parts, littered around him on the bed.

"What?" he asked, putting down the remnants of his nickel-plated Colt and walking over slowly.

"This. Random craziness out in Michigan," he offered, turning the laptop round for Dean to read.

"Random craziness," he pondered, as his eyes flicked over the information. "People just… going nuts?" he scoffed.

"Yup. Seems people in the small sleepy town are suddenly running around claiming they're not really them – until they lose it and kill someone," Sam shrugged. "Sound good to you?"

"Whatever," he shrugged diffidently, turning back to the bed. He paused. "You know, sometimes I'd just like a life where planning to go off and stop random crazies from killing people did not sound good to me," he muttered, sitting back on the bed and picking up half a gun.

"I know what you mean," Sam sighed, opening his notebook and taking down some details. It was silent as they scribbled and re-assembled, oblivious of the other.

After a while Dean stood and began packing his duffle.

"You ready?" he asked his younger brother. Sam closed the laptop and got himself ready to go.

"When you are," he said.

"Ladies first," Dean smiled, waving Sam to the door.

Sam sighed wearily and walked out of the small wooden room, crossing the parking lot to the Impala. He watched Dean close the door before walking the few doors to the reception, talking and smiling with the girl there. Phones came out of pockets and numbers were exchanged slowly, with the maximum of charm and smiles. It was a few minutes before Dean came out again and walked over to the car, noticing Sam's slightly disapproving look.

"What?" he asked suddenly.

"So that's where you were the first night?" Sam accused.

"What first night?" he asked, lost.

"We've been here four nights, Dean. You said you were at the bar all night the first night we were here. That's why I got a good night's sleep, cos you weren't in the room to snore," he pointed out.

"Like Hell I snore," he said indignantly, opening the door and climbing in. Sam followed suit, sliding into the seat and pushing his duffle through to the back seat. "Anyway, I was in the bar all night," he added defensively, pushing the keys in the ignition barrel and turning the engine over slowly, letting the aggressive purr of the Impala cast a little ray of sunshine on his morning.

"Yeah, sure," Sam said sarcastically.

Dean huffed and put his hand out to the back of Sam's seat, turning to look back through the rear window and reverse the car out and round.

"Whatever, man," he muttered. "You have some stick up your ass."

"Meaning?"

Dean paused the car and turned back round in his seat, sliding it into gear and heading out of the parking lot.

"Meaning it wouldn't hurt you to find a little fun, spread a little joy now and again," he said, shrugging helplessly as they joined the main road. "For your information, we spent three hours playing pool."

"And then?"

"And then we decided it was too tough trying to play pool and remember to get shots in at the same time."

"That's cos you're a little blonde," Sam said snidely.

"You're just jealous," he said smugly, "cos I won two games of poker, and only lost one."

"You were playing poker with girls?" Sam asked, shaking his head. "You have no shame."

"Hey come on, they asked me," he said defensively. There was a silence.

"Oh no!" Sam moaned suddenly. "Dude, tell me you were not playing strip poker?"

"Dude, I cannot tell a lie," he said gravely. "We were playing strip poker," he nodded, and then he kept nodding, his face breaking into a mammoth, satisfied grin. "This one girl, Cindy? Man, she had the longest–"

"Really Dean!" Sam interrupted.

"–streak of luck," he continued, oblivious of Sam's discomfort, "and the most spectacular pair of–"

"Woah! Dude! TMI!"

"–Aces," Dean finished. He stopped and cast a sly glance at his brother before deciding enough was enough and simply looked back at the road, radiating an infuriating kind of smugness that Sam picked up on all too easily.

Sam just sighed, letting his head fall back into the corner of the headrest, watching the roadside whiz past. It was silent for a long time. Presently he began to smile slyly. Then he straightened his face and looked at Dean.

"Hey… um…" He cleared his throat. "Can you hear that?" he asked seriously. Dean's eyes flicked from side to side as he listened.

"What?"

"That… kind of… Is that a rattling noise?" he asked, confused.

"What rattling noise?" Dean asked, unsure.

"No, no, it must just be me. No, forget it," he said easily.

Dean spared him a glance, then put his eyes back to the road.

"Nice try Sam," he said slowly. "I'm not going for it."

Sam didn't reply, and it was two miles of silence before Dean darted a few shifty glances his way.

"Seriously, you heard a rattling noise?"

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

Dean pulled the car up at the kerb, killing the engine and climbing out.

"So this is Grand Rapids, Michigan," he said to himself, looking round as Sam's door squeaked open. "Looks normal enough," he offered, taking in the pavements full of busy people, the hustle of a typical Tuesday afternoon, the spindly sun through tall trees. "Remind me, what's actually supposed to be going on around here?"

"Ah…" Sam pulled out his notebook and began flipping through the pages. "Seven people so far… They… ah… told everyone they weren't them, then got into some kind of argument or fight and they were dead by the end of it." He shrugged, looking up at his brother. "What are you thinking?"

"Possession? Would explain why they think they're not who they look like," he hazarded.

"Are we talking demons?"

"Since when do demons take the time to send people nuts before they finish the job?" Dean reasoned. "Naw… Maybe something… something working by itself, targeting certain people. They have to be connected somehow. Where do we start?"

"Well the most recent one might be a fresher trail," Sam said optimistically. "George Fudly, twenty-eight, lived on somewhere called… Division Avenue," he said, looking up and around. He ducked his head and shoulders back in through the car window and pulled out a map. "Is this the 131?"

"Yeah," Dean said, looking up and down the busy road.

"Then… Oh, look at this," Sam grinned, looking up at his brother across the car.

"What?"

"Division Avenue is right next to Winchester Place," he grinned.

"Great," Dean said sarcastically. "If we're really lucky, we'll find Salma Hayek's Alley."

"Or Jessica Simpson's Patch," Sam chuckled.

"As long as it's not Dawson's Creek," Dean shivered, a disgusted look on his face.

"Come on, man. What's wrong with Dawson's Creek? Jessica used to love watching that show."

"Ugh! It's like… Ugh!" Dean shuddered again. "It's like that little fabric softener teddy bear. Oooh, just gives me nightmares," he said, a look of complete distaste on his face. He shook himself abruptly. "Come on, let's find this stiff's apartment."

They left the car and started walking, taking in the easy, sunny afternoon.

"Hard to believe these people are turning into nut-jobs," Sam observed.

"Yeah well. Everyone's capable," Dean shrugged. Sam looked at him but decided not to dwell on it.

They stopped at an intersection and found Division Avenue ran both ways. Sam looked to his left.

"I'll take this way. You go that way," he said. "You got the address?"

"I got it. Call me if you find it first," Dean said, nodding to him and turning away.

Sam walked on, looking out for any helpful hints as to street numbers before looking up and around at the houses.

He walked slowly, finding it turn into blocks of residential apartments quite quickly, realising he might have to blag his way into a private building. Still, it was nothing he hadn't done before, he reasoned.

It was a good ten minutes before he stopped, noticing a residential postal box out near the pavement. He read the number, then pulled out the notebook and checked the address. He nodded to himself before walking to the lobby and pushing the door open easily.

He walked in, surprised to find it open and unmanned. He shrugged, walking to the lifts. He pressed the button and waited. Two minutes of silent appraisal of the lobby later, Sam was inside the lift and shooting up to the sixth floor. He walked out, looking up and down the corridor, finding it oddly quiet. There were no sounds of movement from behind the apartment doors he passed, no loud conversation, no children being children. It was just deathly quiet.

He stopped at apartment twelve and looked at the doorknob. He took a quick look round lest someone had silently appeared somewhere in the hallway, then put his hand out and tried it.

It was open. He swung the door in slowly, walking in and closing it behind him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, speed-dialling Dean's phone.

He walked over to the table in front of him, a small, rectangular affair littered with keys, coins and Post-It notes. He began rifling through them as Dean's line clicked.

"Sam?"

"Dean. Found his place, turn round and come back."

"You there now?"

"I am, the place is real quiet. It's almost spooky," he admitted, looking up toward the bedroom beyond.

"Well keep a sharp eye out," Dean said darkly. There was a ruffling noise over the phone and Sam waited for it to clear. "Is that a three or an eight?" he heard Dean say, mostly muffled, and frowned.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, hang on," he said, and then material was swept over the phone again. "With a 'y', not an 'i-e'… Got it. Mmm-hmm. I might just do that, thanks," he heard Dean said suavely, and then material moved again. "Sam? I'm coming. And I bring coffee."

"Dude, we're supposed to be looking for–"

"Hey, I've just been driving for nearly three hours, Sam. I need caffeine if you expect me to think."

"Alright," he sighed, "whatever. Just get up here." He cut the line and looked around, walking to the bedroom. Ten minutes spent looking through stacks of magazines, empty pizza boxes and assorted post did nothing to suggest George Fudly was anything but an unfortunate victim of unlucky surnames.

Sam got up from the bed and headed toward the kitchen.

Suddenly an arm appeared round the frame, grabbing for his neck. It squeezed hard and he felt fingernails breaking the skin.

"Get out of my apartment!" came a female shriek.

Sam's hands scrabbled at the grip, shocked at its strength if this was a woman.

He was pushed and stumbled over, falling to his back. The thing still clutched onto his neck, making him gasp for air. He stared up into the seething, contorted face of what looked like an older woman.

"Get out! Get out!" she wailed at him. He struggled and grunted at her, desperate to get her fingers out of his windpipe.

But he was losing air. Dark blotches appeared before his eyes.