Author's Note:
Set during season 4. Possible spoilers for 4x22. Contains use of the F word.
Final words: bear with me.
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ONE
Knock Knock
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Dean filled the mug and lifted it, turning off the bathroom tap as he poured the ice cold water into his mouth. He swished it round, making sure he sloshed it as hard as possible against every one of his teeth before bending slightly and firing it into the sink with deadly accuracy.
"You done yet?" came his younger brother's voice.
Dean sighed inwardly but refused to show his annoyance. Instead he pasted on a polite smile and straightened, looking in the mirror. He caught sight of his taller sibling behind him, leaning on the door frame.
"I'd be done a lot faster if you quit checking on me," he offered innocently.
"Well just hurry up, will you? That stuff you found on your laptop has me worried. I want to get there sometime today."
"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Sam," he sighed, putting down the mug and shaking his head slightly. He shifted his gaze to his reflection in the large mirror, putting a hand up and stroking the gingery blond goatee with satisfaction. "We'll be out of here soon enough."
"Jeez, sometimes you're so laid back you're practically horizontal," Sam accused, turning and disappearing from the doorway.
"That's what the chicks in my class at MIT said," Dean smiled to himself.
He picked up the small hand towel and pressed it to his face, making sure he was all dry before collecting his various bathroom accoutrements and pushing them back into his bag. He walked out to find Sam already at the door, his duffle over his shoulder.
"Woah - you're really ansy about this, huh?" Dean realised, dropping his toiletries into his large duffle and zipping it closed.
"Yeah. Possible possessions with people getting ganked? We gotta get there like yesterday," Sam grumped.
"You're going to get an ulcer before we arrive," Dean shrugged, swinging the duffle onto his shoulder.
Sam let his eyes roll and huffed before turning for the door. "Ready, Princess?"
"Jerk," Dean accused, opening the door and letting himself out.
Sam smiled slightly as he followed him, closing the motel door behind them. "Don't scratch my car, bitch," he taunted, following his older brother to the Impala.
"You know, you spend entirely too much time worrying about this thing, and not enough time eating," Dean muttered.
"You need a haircut," Sam observed in turn, unlocking the classic and getting in.
He pretended he did not see his elder brother run a hand through his generous mop of hair self-consciously. Dean pulled his floppy fringe out of his eyes before getting in the passenger side. Once inside he threw his duffle over the rear seat.
"Whatever. I just hope this town we're going to has a better wi-fi reception than this place," Dean grumped.
Sam slid the keys into the ignition, turning the old girl over and listening to the steady purr of her engine. "You college kids," he accused Dean. "Always going emo without your precious internet connection."
"Hey, you're always pretty friggin' happy when I get you research with my precious internet connection," he pointed out harshly.
Sam nodded as he reversed the Impala out of the parking lot. "You got me there. Yeah, I am," he said. "Although I still don't understand how someone who did four years at MIT doing 'logic and problem solving' still doesn't understand how Magic Fingers machines work."
"Don't start on me," Dean groused. "You know I need food to think."
"Yeah, right," Sam allowed with a small smile. He turned the car in the right direction and pointed her out onto the open road. He checked his rear view mirror, noticing his reflection. His eyes looked the same weary, determined shade of hazel green, but his hair was starting to touch his ears. Must remember to get a haircut next chance I get, he thought firmly. Hate it touching my ears.
The Impala rumbled down the quiet morning highway and Dean leaned forward, turning on the radio.
Sam's hand shot out and slapped at it.
"Dude?" Dean protested, drawing his hand back.
"Get your mits off my stereo. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. You get me?"
"Alright," Dean shrugged, looking out of the window.
It was silent for a few miles.
"What have you got in there, anyway?" Dean asked quietly.
"Death Cab For Cutie," Sam admitted slowly.
"Aw, man!" Dean protested. "Always with the Death Cab For Cutie! You know, a little rock would make a nice change to--"
"Dean. Shut up," he sighed.
Dean folded his arms. "I can't believe you got the car, man. Why would Dad give it to you anyway?" he pouted.
"For the millionth time, maybe it was cos you upped and left for MIT without consulting him first!" Sam exploded.
"He would have said no!"
"Exactly!"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means perhaps you should have listened to Dad," Sam snapped.
Dean slid round in the seat slightly, looking out of his side window. He mumbled something and Sam spared him a suspicious glance.
"What was that?" he barked.
"I said, maybe if you hadn't been such a prick about helping him track down Mom's killer, perhaps it wouldn't be just us two right now," Dean said slowly, his voice clear and level.
It was silent for a long moment, Sam's hands squeezing on the steering wheel.
"Ok," he allowed. "And maybe if you hadn't got him all fired up about finding the demon, and then fucked off to MIT cos you had your golden chance to be someone, perhaps it wouldn't be just us two right now either."
The Impala rumbled along unhappily, disturbed by the turn of the conversation. She gave a few small rattles, trying to break the uneasy silence.
"Do we have to have this argument again?" Dean said quietly. But his voice sounded tired, deflated.
Sam took a deep breath, then sighed it all out. "No." He glanced around his mirrors, then over at his big brother. "No. Forget it."
"For now?"
"Look, just… What did you find out in this place in Wyoming? What's it called again?"
"Jackson Hole."
"Dean," Sam tutted. "You're making that up."
"Harrison Ford has a holiday home there! Folks go right through it to get to Yellowstone Park," he insisted.
"Whatever. Just… what's going on over there?"
The elder Winchester turned and reached over the back seat, rummaging around in his duffle. He pulled out his iPhone and sat back round. A slide and a quick tap at Notes and he was reading avidly.
"Right, right… Get this. Three people - their lives get turned around by what seems like brilliant luck, and then they up and die," he read.
"And?"
"And then the police reports mention working with these two FBI agents - they hang around, the local PD is putting it down to accidental death, but no-one can find them for a statement," he read. He looked over at Sam. "Sound suspicious enough for you?"
"Plenty," he nodded. "Ideas?"
"Well, I'm thinking it has to be demons - and maybe it's these two, like demons in disguise."
"Right," Sam snorted scathingly. "How about we get there, find them, and work out what to do with them when we have more evidence?"
"Ok Sammy, but I'm telling you," Dean warned, smiling ruefully, "something is definitely rotten in Denmark here."
"So you say," Sam allowed. "I'll wait and see."
"Bet you fifty bucks," Dean grinned.
"Dean."
"Aw come on - you have to fun with this job sometimes."
"Freak," Sam tutted.
"Says you, too scared to make a bet," he teased.
"What if they're real FBI agents - did you think about that?" he cried, exasperated.
"Fifty bucks says they're demons," Dean asserted.
"Fifty bucks says they're Mulder and Scully."
"Deal."
"Deal."
"So where are we headed?" Dean asked. Sam looked at him and his shaggy hair for a long moment.
"Suggestions?"
"Latest crime scene?" He fished in his pocket for his iPhone, sliding his fingers over it deftly, reading with a slight frown. "The freshest death was just this morning, it's probably still being CSI'd right now," he shrugged. He looked at his brother. "What do you think?"
"I think," Sam said slowly, "we should choose some IDs, get in the police station and take their files so far."
"Why wait around when people are dying left, right and centre?" Dean tutted. "We should go find the newest ganking, get a jump on the pertinents of the case - Mulder and Scully stroke demons could be hanging around there too," he pointed out.
"Sounds…" Sam began. His voice trailed away as he gave it serious thought, and Dean watched him mull it over, expecting his idea to get stomped on for being 'too risky' for the hundredth time. But Sam surprised him: "Sounds good." He sniffed and looked at Dean. "So where is the most recent crime scene?"
"Uh - at the local garage," Dean said quickly, determined not to appear surprised.
"So let's go there then," Sam allowed.
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Sam climbed out of the car, locking it up behind him. Dean was already walking around the other side to meet him.
"Right - the main dude here was like three years in debt. Then suddenly, a few weeks ago, his bills are all paid off and his garage is the main place in town to spend your savings getting your cars fixed up," Dean explained.
"You're thinking crossroads deal?"
"Maybe," Dean shrugged. "Wouldn't explain why it went south so quick though."
"Hmm. So what happened to the owner?" he asked, already walking towards the main door. It had been lovingly decorated with strips of yellow Do Not Cross tape by someone who had obviously never heard of the phrase 'waste not want not'.
"He comes to work yesterday, sends all his employees home, and when they open up this morning, there he is, lying face down in his own blood," Dean nodded cheerfully.
"Nice," Sam observed. He reached the door and poked his head in.
Several police officers were standing around, notebooks or tape in hand. The hangar was a hive of activity, the sound of cameras going off, people talking, louder voices ordering others around.
"Hey you!" said a crisp voice. The Winchesters looked up as a man in a sharp suit began to walk over to the door. "You can't be in here!"
"Oh no, it's ok," Dean said quickly, pushing in front of Sam and putting his hand into the inside pocket of his black jacket. "We're--"
"Oh! Sorry gentlemen, didn't recognise you," the man said quickly. "You look different in civvies."
The boys exchanged a glance. Sam recovered first.
"Thanks. So, ah, what have you got for us?" he asked lightly.
The man, tall and lean with a swarthy look about him, beckoned the two of them to follow him.
"Well, based on your idea of chemical abuse, we decided to check for that sulphur powder you mentioned," he said eagerly. "And we found it." He led them across the hangar. "Oh, Agent Young, you got a haircut," he observed suddenly.
Dean nudged Sam, who then realised he was being spoken to.
"Me? Uh - oh, yeah," Sam said quickly. "Damn regulations, huh?"
"Yeah," the officer nodded. "Suits you. Looked a bit straggly yesterday."
"Thanks," Sam answered, puzzled. He looked at his older brother, who appeared similarly intrigued.
"Anyway - here's the sulphur and how we found it," the police officer continued. He stopped and pointed down at the small pyramid of fine, off-white powder.
Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, then crouched down together as if synchronised. Dean dipped his finger in the powder and smelt it cautiously. He nodded at Sam, shaking his hand clean of it all.
"So what does this do for your theory it was substance abuse?" the man asked enthusiastically.
The boys got to their feet hastily.
"Looks… like we were right," Dean nodded seriously. The man nodded back, apparently pleased.
"You'll want the files straight away, right?" he asked.
"Absolutely, right away," Sam nodded.
"I'll have them sent over. You are still at the Holiday Inn? Room 379?"
"Uh - yeah, exactly," Dean said quickly. "Good memory," he winked cheerfully.
"Is it my imagination, Agent Scott, or did you have shorter hair yesterday?" he asked mildly. "And… when did you find time to grow a beard?"
Dean looked confused. "Nah - I always had this. You must have been busy yesterday, just didn't remember," he bluffed.
"Right," the officer said faintly. "Well anyway - I'll leave you two agents to do what you do. Far be it for me to get in the way of the FBI," he smiled.
"You're a credit to the force," Sam beamed.
"Why, thank you," he grinned back. "You need anything else - or you want to give me any more tips - you just call me." He pushed his hand in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, pulling out his name card. "There we are. I'm always ready for more tips," he smiled.
Dean took the card slowly. "Well, if we think of anything else, we'll call you, Detective Hyver."
"Appreciate it." He nodded to them both and turned, walking away across the hangar.
Sam and Dean watched him go, biding their time. As soon as he was a safe distance away, Dean grabbed his brother's arm and pushed him round. They made rapid tracks to the hangar doors.
Once out in the midday sun they stopped and looked at each other.
"What the hell, man?" Dean demanded in a hoarse whisper. "He thinks he saw us yesterday!"
"That's not the weird thing," Sam said slowly, walking back toward the Impala. "He thinks we look different - but we must be close enough for him to think we're whoever was here yesterday."
"No shit, Sherlock," Dean observed. "I'm supposed to have short hair and no goatee, and you're supposed to have longer hair! Since when have you ever had long hair? What gives?"
"I don't know," Sam hissed. "Let's just set up a base of operations somewhere and figure this thing out."
"How about the Holiday Inn, room 379?" Dean put in. "That's where he thinks we're already staying!"
"Good thinking, Batman," Sam nodded readily. "Maybe a quick look in room 379 will shed some light on all this."
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Sam hovered near the door, watching his brother jog up the corridor toward him, a large grin on his face.
"What?" he whispered as Dean stopped next to him.
He lifted his hand to produce a hotel keycard. "Look what the maid was only too happy to give me," he grinned proudly.
Sam took it from him, eyeing him with disdain. "Is that all she was willing to give you?"
"Well, there was more on offer, but I was kind of in a rush," Dean shrugged.
Sam sighed resignedly and slid his right hand into his jacket, pulling the Taurus handgun slowly. He looked at his brother, who pulled his own nickel-plated Colt 1911 from the back of his jeans and nodded.
Sam pushed the card into the door slot. The green light blipped on and he put his hand on the door handle.
He began to push it open.
"Minute!" came a shout from inside.
But the Winchesters burst into the room, gun hands up and ready. They spread out to each side, finding their two targets and training their guns on them.
Before they froze.
Sam and Dean stared, feeling their eyes start to bulge.
"What the hell, man?" Dean whispered hoarsely from the side of his mouth. His younger brother appeared completely speechless. Dean looked back at the two men.
Frozen in the act of rolling up jeans and t-shirts, the two men just stared at them dumbly.
"They look exactly like us!" Dean managed, making sure his gun hand did not waver.
"No - not exactly," Sam swallowed, his Taurus starting to wobble slightly.
For the man staring back at Sam, his mouth open, did indeed look almost identical. Same surprised expression, same Oscar winning eyebrows, same barrel chest and long legs. But his hair was longer, shaggier - messier.
"Whoa," the other target said quietly, and the Winchesters looked over at him.
Exactly like Dean. Except his hair was much, much shorter. And while he was not quite clean shaven, he had nowhere near the amount of facial hair Dean was sporting not six feet from Sam's shoulder.
A chill went down the Winchesters' spines as they realised they were gawking at replicas of themselves.
Replicas that were, in turn, gawking back at them.
"Holy crap!" the shorter-haired Dean-alike managed hoarsely: "Shapeshifters!"
Shaggy-haired, bearded Dean gasped. "Shape--. Damn! That's what I was gonna say!"
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Tee-hee! Yeah, I'm back. Told you I'd think of something to write about! All comments and suggestions welcomed. :)