Same beginning, two stories. Companion fic to "A Bird in the Head."
Time Takes Its Troll
K Hanna Korossy
It was about three in the afternoon, or at least it had been in the time zone Sam had last reset his watch in. Dean was in the gas station office paying for the fill-up. Sam idly stretched cricks out of his neck, turned away from the side window to look straight ahead, and froze.
The blood-red bird that sat on the Impala was like no natural creature he'd ever seen, and pretty much a dead giveaway something was wrong.
And that was before it opened its beak to reveal the nice rows of sharp teeth.
Sam pushed back into the seat in startlement and fumbled for the glove compartment. Dean's Desert Eagle was tucked in one side, just out of sight of any curious cop. Sam yanked it out.
Dean's door opened, and he slid inside the car. His eyes immediately fell to the gun, his face tightening. He glanced at Sam, then the area around them. "What?"
"That," Sam said equally tensely, unarmed hand rising to point to the…bare hood of the Impala. A quick stretch of the neck revealed no flash of crimson in sight.
"O-kay," Dean said slowly. "I know you don't like my car, but…"
Sam glared at him and shoved his door open, stalking a tight circle in the dust beside the car. "It was…dude, it was here."
"Sam," his brother hissed from inside, "we can talk about whatever you saw later, but would you mind not waving the piece around? I'd rather not get arrested in Podunk, Arkansas."
Sam gave a frustrated huff and took a last look around, then more meekly climbed back into the car. He didn't protest as Dean carefully extracted the gun from his hand and tucked it back into the glove compartment. It had been amateurish to flaunt it in plain sight like that, even if there was only the gas station attendant around for miles. But…
"So, what was it? Spirit? Possessed coyote? Jackalope?"
"It was…" and Sam's face suddenly flamed at how this would sound, "…a bird."
Dean blinked.
"It was a red bird, all right, with teeth, Dean. Like some sort of freakish…demon bird."
His brother nodded slowly. "Right. A demon bird with teeth. You been drinking enough water there, Sam? I think your brain's starting to melt."
He crossed his arms, eyes narrowed at the dash. "Whatever. Just, let's get out here."
"Okay." A beat, and then, because Dean never let anything go, "You sure it wasn't yellow? It might've been Big Bird."
"Shut up."
They pulled back out into the road, Dean grinning, Sam pouting. "Or, I know, maybe it was Woody Woodpecker. I mean, he's mostly red."
Sam turned away and didn't say another word. There were a few brightly colored splotches in the scenery they passed, but he didn't look too hard.
He was stiff by the time they rolled into the parking lot of a motel, sore from sitting ramrod straight for hours, and knew he had no one to blame but himself. It didn't stop Sam from shooting his brother a glare when Dean told him to stay in the car, and deliberately getting out to trudge after him.
The motel front office could have been a thousand others, shabby and out of date by about thirty years, small TV blaring in one corner.
That wasn't what caught Sam's eye.
The proprietor came out from the back, and Sam couldn't have vouched for age or sex or race, because its skin was melting off its bones, hands a bloody mess of exposed muscle and sinew. Sam felt the bile rise in his throat, especially when Dean held out a credit card and that mangled hand reached toward him.
"Dean," Sam gasped, and yanked his brother back by one shoulder. Dean didn't resist him, but he shot Sam a look that was a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment, concern replacing anger when he caught sight of Sam's face. He held up a finger to the…thing behind the counter, then backtracked with Sam to the door, where Sam took deep breaths and tried to quell his lurching stomach.
"Sam? What's wrong?" Dean was holding him up now, fingers digging into Sam's biceps. He shook him gently. "Talk to me."
"The, it's…how can you not see it!"
"See what? Dude, you're not making any sense."
"The clerk!" Sam burst out, pointing at the counter. And the middle-aged man with thinning blond hair and a cardigan who was staring at them with puzzlement.
Sam's finger faltered, fell.
Dean turned to follow his point and shrugged. "The comb-over's a little scary, but…" He turned narrowed eyes back to Sam. "Sam, what's going on? Birds, motel guys—is this some kind of vision thing?" His voice fell on the last two words.
Sam had sagged in his grip. "I don't know," he admitted. "I just…just get the room."
Dean gave him another long look before finally letting him go and returning to the counter to complete the transaction. Sam suspected Dean would have to use all his charms to get the guy to rent to them after the little display Sam had put on. But he'd been so sure…
He trekked back to the car and got in, sinking into the seat and rubbing his forehead.
Dean returned and eyed him before turning the engine over. "Headache?"
"No. Just going crazy."
"Oh, well, if that's all." A light punch to his shoulder. "We've been on the road all day, we're both tired—you're probably just having little episodes of, uh, micro-sleep? Where you fall asleep for a second without realizing it? It's all just dreams, man."
The corner of Sam's mouth pulled up. "Micro-sleep? Don't tell me you've been reading Scientific American."
Dean grinned back. "Hey, it was next to the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue."
Sam groaned, but it felt good.
Dean relocated the car to a room at the end of the row, then got out to unload their bags. Sam's was tossed over the seat into his lap, and he curled his fingers around the familiar canvas. This was real. This was known. This he could rely on. This, and the guy trying not to give him worried glances while he rummaged slowly in the back seat to give Sam time.
He made it doable. Sam took a breath and climbed out of the car, and followed his brother inside.
00000
His dreams had been unusually strange and intense, full of teeth and reaching arms and blood. It was a relief when Sam rose out of sleep to the familiar sounds of Dean's morning preparations. Push-ups, crunches, sit-ups, followed by shuffling through his bag, trying to find clean clothes. A shower would be next. He deserved breakfast after Sam's behavior the day before. Sam rolled over, prying his eyes open as he began, "You want me to go get—"
He broke off, recoiling at the sight that met them.
Dean stood in the midst of melting chaos: the walls, the ceiling, even the furniture sagged like warmed wax, starting to drip around them. As Sam watched, the floor softened under Dean's feet and lapped at his shoes, while a dollop of ceiling fell on his shoulder. He didn't even flinch.
"Dean!" Sam barked in panic, trying to get out of his liquefying bed without getting himself stuck. The floor had oozed over his sneakers, and Dean's bed was starting to sink.
"Sam? What the…?"
There wasn't time for this. Steeling himself, Sam leaped from the bed to as near Dean as he could manage, grimacing at the give of the floor under his feet, and grabbed Dean by both shoulders. Two more sucking steps and Sam yanked the door open and dragged his brother outside, slamming them both against the wall next to the entrance.
It was a normal morning outside, comfortably cool, normal birdsong in the air. No melting in sight.
"Okay, dude, you're starting to scare me here. What the…what was that about?"
Sam's eyes flicked back to him, widening. "You didn't see it."
"See what? You freaking out? Yeah, I got a front-row seat for that one."
"The room, it was…" Sam glanced back, equally fearful of the normalcy he expected to find and the insanity he did. The room behind them was soup, the beds different colored spots in the swimming surface. Sam felt himself pale a little more. "Dean, look." He propelled his brother around to stare inside the doorway.
Dean glared at him but obeyed. "Fine, I'm looking."
Sam's heart hammered in his throat. "You don't see anything weird?"
Dean shook his head slowly once. "Like…?"
"Like…everything's melting. It's all…" Oh, God, Dean didn't see it. Hadn't felt it, either. Which meant… Sam gave the room a despairing look, then ground the heel of his hand into his eyes.
"Hey." Hands on his shoulders, doubtless more gentle than he'd been, hustling Dean out of there. "It's okay. We'll figure it out, okay? Maybe it's a vision—you know, something that'll happen."
"The room's going to melt?" Sam asked skeptically.
"Yeah, well, I didn't say it made sense…" His muscles were lightly kneaded. "We'll figure it out, Sam. I'll go collect our stuff and we'll get out of here, okay?"
Sam nodded at the ground, disconsolate but reassured.
He was given a gentle shove. "Get in the car—I'll be right there."
Sam went, curling up in the reassuring normalcy of the Impala. He had to look away when Dean headed back into their room, unable to erase the image of the melting floors and walls.
He almost gasped when the door opened and Dean slid inside.
"Easy, Sam. Just me." A hand touched his knee. "We're leaving, okay?"
Sam nodded jerkily and leaned his head against the window, closing his eyes.
He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until Dean's voice woke him. "Sammy? You hungry?"
Sam rubbed his eyes, yawning. Crazy dreams. Melting motel rooms? He must have been more tired than he thought. Sam shook his head, turned to his brother.
Yellow eyes stared back at him.
Sam wrenched back against the door, fumbled with the latch.
"Sam?" Dean was slowing the car, reaching for him. Those inhuman eyes never blinked.
"Stay away from me!" Sam shrank away, gagging. The door opened and, as Dean screeched to a halt, Sam spilled out of the car onto the grass. He could handle the world going mad but, oh, please, not Dean. "Just…In nomine Dei…" He started the only exorcism he could remember, the Latin tangling on his tongue. Not Dean, he couldn't lose Dean.
"Sam!" Dean had gotten out and circled around to reach him. Those determined hands reached for him, shook him hard. "Snap out of it. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real."
Those brassy eyes were grinning at him.
Sam's voice fell to a whisper, the Latin still unscrolling under his breath while he squeezed his eyes shut. Felt Dean's grip, the solidity of the ground beneath him, the breeze on his face. It felt real. It all felt real, including the frantic care of Dean's hold. That felt like Dean, not the alien face that had leered at him.
Sam forced his eyes open.
The skin was shredding off Dean's face, crumbling away like a decomposing corpse. His eyes were a brilliant emerald amidst the destruction, and they crinkled pleasantly at Sam. "See?" the grotesque mouth moved, teeth rotten and falling out behind emaciated lips.
Sam wrenched his gaze away, looking desperately for a touchstone of normalcy in the madness. And froze at the sight of the Impala. At the gaping maw the hood had become, razor-teeth dripping saliva as it strained toward him. Beyond it, the sky flamed purple and orange, the trees writhing against their backdrop. Oh, God, he was going insane. Like a speeding train, the nightmare was bearing down on him, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't move.
Sam moaned, turning away.
"Sammy…"
And then the sick parody of his brother pulled him to his feet and held him close, wrapping desiccated arms around him, pressing Sam's face against the peeling neck. Sam choked on bile and went rigid, trying to pull away, but his movements were clumsy with terror and he was just held tighter.
"Shh, it's okay. It's not real, none of it. Just something inside your freaky head. Listen to me, Sam, listen to my voice. That's real, just hang on to that. Just hang on."
His resistance faltered. Sam opened his eyes to sparkly pieces of the illusion flickering in and out like a bad light bulb, sometimes Dean's jacket and shirt and skin pressed against Sam's face, sometimes something dark and writhing and evil. He turned his head away with a wince, to see the Impala past Dean. It was snapping at him, predatory and voracious. Sam made a distressed sound, pressed his face back against Dean's jacket, and this time didn't fight his hold at all.
A hand stroked up into his hair and held him there. "Don't look, just listen to me. It's still me, right?" Sam nodded tightly. "Okay, focus on that, Sam. The rest, it's just messing with you. It wants to see if you pass."
He stilled, confused.
"Remember? The troll? It's just a test, Sammy. Focus on me—don't believe the rest of it."
Troll? He had no clue what Dean was talking about, but when Sam involuntarily pulled away to give his brother a puzzled stare, the cool white-blue eyes of the shapeshifter snapped into place in front of him. Sam flinched, let himself be reeled back by insistent hands.
"Just listen, Sam, don't look, don't feel. Pay attention to what you know, not what you think. You know what's real."
A breeze ruffled his hair…or maybe it was Dean. His brother's voice was warm, scared but strong for him. Sam knew it better than his own, trusted it more than anything. He tried to obey it now, listening instead of accepting what every other sense screamed was a lie.
It felt like Dean. Not the touch, because Sam still sometimes felt the whisper of scales or slick blood or flaking skin against his face and hands. But something deeper, something the shapeshifter didn't have, something possession would not eclipse, something illusion couldn't fake. This was Dean. This was real.
This was what mattered.
The conflicting sensations of not-Dean faded, replaced by callused fingers and stubbled jaw. Sam squeezed his eyes tighter shut, then reluctantly pried one open. He stared at the plaid pattern an inch from his eye until it blurred. Then back at the car, which sat in patient, uncarnivorous normalcy.
Sam dragged in a breath, pulled back just enough to look at Dean.
His brother stared back at him, brow creased and eyes deep green with concern, the same face Sam saw every day.
He closed his eyes again, sagging in relief and wary mistrust this would last.
Dean maneuvered him back two steps until his thighs bumped against the grill of the car, and Sam sank down on the warm metal. Dean perched next to him, arm around Sam's shoulders, whether to hold him up or just anchor him. He needed both.
It took a minute before Sam shored himself up enough to drag his eyes open and look around. The car sat on the edge of a back road, a small covered bridge behind them, unspooling ribbons of asphalt ahead. Everything looked completely normal. Sam blinked, suddenly uncertain again.
"You don't remember the troll?"
Dean sounded almost conversational, and it took Sam a moment to parse out his words. "What? Troll? No."
His brother nodded back toward the bridge. "It wanted a price for passing. Usually they just chow down on people or ask them riddles or want a sacrifice or something but, I don't know, I guess they've modernized. This one wanted a test."
"And you agreed?" Sam asked, stiffening.
"I didn't think it was gonna be you," Dean said softly, apology and remorse.
The anger flowed out of Sam. "Why didn't you just kill it?" he asked just as quietly.
"Dude, I did. Turns out that doesn't stop the contract or whatever."
"How long?"
"That you've been tripping here? 'Bout an hour."
Sam winced. "Felt like almost a day."
Dean's fingers curled a little more firmly around him. "Sorry."
He shook his head, suddenly bone-weary. "It's all right. You were still real."
In the pause that followed, he could tell Dean didn't understand, but he just nudged up against Sam. "You gonna tell me what you saw?"
Sam tiredly propped the side of his head against his brother's and exhaled. "Would you think I was a total freak if I said a crimson bird with teeth?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Oh well." His voice was a murmur, his brain shutting down against the recent overload. Hanging on only to the knowledge, the rock-solid feel of Dean as his brother coaxed him up and around the car, bundling him inside.
He was more asleep than awake by the time Dean slid in on the other side and paused to indignantly whisper something that sounded a lot like, "I'm always real."
Sam smiled, and fell asleep.
The End