Dean sparked the engine of the Impala, disembarking from the ferry once it reached the dock. For a small town, Bright Falls didn't seem half bad. But, regardless of how he felt, it didn't matter. He and Sam were on a case, not a vacation. Until the Hell's gates were closed, they would never gain a sense of peace and freedom. Their lives as hunters had robbed them of it. They'd gradually lost almost everyone they loved over the years. All they had left was each other. Sure, they considered Castiel as family, as a brother, but it wasn't the same. The possibility of losing Sam to the trials terrified Dean, but he knew that they would never have a chance for a normal, apple-pie life unless and until the tests were completed. They'd shared a taste of this life—Sam with Amelia when Dean was in Purgatory, and Dean with Lisa and her son Ben after Sam had jumped into Lucifer's Cage—and while Dean was entirely convinced that there was no light at the end of their tunnel, Sam was determined to survive so he and his brother could live their lives. Whether or not they would go their separate ways, neither was certain.

He mentally kicked himself. Despite his misgivings about their circumstances, he had to get his head in the game. The third trial would come later. Not now. "You want something to eat, Sam?" he asked his brother, trying to distract himself.

"I'm not hungry, thanks," Sam replied, "but it might be a good idea to ask around about what's going on, you said it yourself. Small town, it shouldn't be that hard to get around." He met his brother's eyes, receiving the slightest nod in agreement. For a few minutes, they simply coasted about the town, taking in their surroundings, before Dean parallel-parked in front of the Oh Deer Diner. The brothers climbed out of the Impala, going off in separate directions. Sam headed inside the diner, and was instantly greeted with a bright and cheerful, "Welcome to the Oh Deer Diner!" He turned his gaze towards the speaker. She was a young woman in her early 20s with shoulder-length blonde hair and green eyes. Her nametag read Rose Marigold.

"Hi," Sam began, and flashed his fake FBI badge for a moment before putting it back into his pocket. "Agent Jon Young. I wanted to ask you a few questions." Rose was startled.

"About what?" she said, almost spitting the words.

"About what's been going on in this town, Ms. Marigold. People have been going missing in the middle of the night and others beaten to death directly afterwards," he replied coolly and informally. "Have you noticed anything…strange within the past week?"

"No," she said, "but sometimes, I feel like something is out there." Sam's intuition flickered at these words.

"Like what is out there?"

"Something that we can't fight," she said. A chill went up Sam's spine, a sense of foreboding sweeping over him.

Dean headed inside the bookstore. Perhaps he could do a little more research on the trials, despite his misgivings about how to find out what the final one was. He was about to make his way to the nonfiction selection when he saw a cut-out standing beside an entire table filled with novels of the same author. Alan Wake, the prop read, #1 bestselling author of Alex Casey and Departure. Dean's brow furrowed. He'd never heard of Alan Wake, nor any of his works. Curiously, he picked up a copy of Departure and opened it up, skimming through the pages. He stopped suddenly, a paragraph catching his eye.

For decades, the darkness that wore Barbara Jagger's skin slept fitfully in the dark place that was its home and prison. It was hungry and in pain. It dreamed of its nights of glory when the poet's writing had called it from the depths and given it a brief, terrible taste of power and freedom. The rock stars had stirred it from the deep sleep the poet had sunk it back to in the end.

When it sensed the writer on the ferry, it opened its eyes.

"This guy is almost like another Stephen King," he muttered under his breath. He flicked through the book some more, his intrigue growing.

For it to be free, the Dark Presence needed the writer to finish the story. Again and again the story let it get frustratingly close to the writer without letting it capture him. It was bound by the events depicted in the manuscript. But it could pursue the writer indirectly, put others on the task, and stop those who would help him.

It took over everything in its path, made them its puppets, and sent them after Alan Wake.

Dean's blood ran cold at those last words. Alan Wake—he was the author of the novel. Why would be make himself a character in his own story? Dean was no expert when it came to writing novels, but he was certain that inserting yourself into your own story wasn't a popular technique amongst professional authors. However, he found Departure to be a very interesting piece of work. For whatever reason, it had unnerved him for a brief moment that the author was a character in his own narrative. He was about to put the book down when he found himself nearing the end of the book. What he saw almost made his heart stop in his chest.

I'd first heard the poem in a dream, recited by a strange UFO-like light. I'd read it again in the cabin, in a book by Thomas Zane:

For he did not know

That beyond the lake

He called home

Lies a deeper, darker

Ocean green

Where waves are

Both wilder

And more serene

To its ports I've been

To its ports I've been.

Dean slammed the book closed, putting it back down onto the table, startled. It'd been the same. The exact same poem the light in his and Sam's dream had delivered. There was no way in hell this was a mere coincidence. He wasn't a believer in coincidences, nor fate, but this was unsettling. First the vivid dreams, and now this? He unconsciously pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed Sam's number. His brother picked up on the first ring.

"Dean? What've you got?" asked Sam.

"It's crazy even for us, Sam," he responded. "I'm at the local bookstore. Meet me here, and I'll tell you more."

"Okay, I think I have something too," his younger brother said. "I'll see you in a few."

"See you, Sammy." He cut the connection, putting his phone back into his pocket. His mind wandered towards Chuck Shurley and his novels. His books had been scarily accurate in telling the story of the Winchesters. They'd been known as The Winchester Gospel. Was this Alan Wake character a prophet, like he'd been? Dean didn't know what to believe, but seeing the poem in his book had shaken him to the core. He didn't know what to make of it. It didn't make sense if Wake was a prophet. There could only be one prophet at a time—the only way this could be possible was if Kevin was dead. No, that couldn't be it. Departure, by the looks of it, had been published last year. Last year, he and Sam had been fighting the leviathans. Kevin had been revealed as a prophet at that time. That alone completely ruled out Alan Wake as a prophet. Dean shook his head. None of this shit made sense anymore. The trials were killing Sam, Castiel and Kevin were gone, and he and Sam were out on a case when they should have been trying to unearth the final trial so they could end this once and for all. Hell, now that he thought of it, Sam shouldn't be out in the field on this case. His health was rapidly deteriorating. Dean was beginning to see more of the symptoms and his brother's attempts to feign his weakness. Sam was sleeping more than he should, he was hardly eating, and he was coughing up more blood. Not small amounts like a nosebleed, but it appeared that his body was rejecting its blood and slowly shutting itself down, and it scared the hell out of him. Castiel was unable to heal him of this affliction, which only intensified his concern for his brother's health. Their father, John Winchester, had often told Dean to take care of Sam, but Dean had never needed to be told twice. He would always protect his baby brother, but he was terrified by the fact that he could not save Sam from the trials and how they were slowly killing him. He refused to believe that he could not protect his brother from this.

"Dean!" Dean jumped, startled out of his thoughts. Sam was giving him a pointed look. "Dean, what've you got?"

"Oh, sorry," he said quickly. He grabbed a copy of Departure, flipping to the page with the poem. "You should see this, Sam. Read it." Dean could see the skepticism in his brother's eyes, but his expression quickly changed as he read the page.

"What the hell?" Sam asked, giving the book back to him. "That poem is the exact same one in the dream."

"Exactly," Dean responded. "I thought that this Alan Wake guy was a prophet, but this book was published last year. I think that there's a chance that this may tie in to our case, but I'm not entirely sure."

"What? How could this have a connection to whatever it is we're hunting, Dean?"

"First the dream, and now the poem popping up in a book? I think it's all part of some bigger picture, but I don't know what," he said. "What about you? What've you got?"

"The waitress at the Oh Deer Diner is definitely a bit fishy," his brother explained. "She claimed not to have noticed anything strange, although she was jumpy when I asked her about the disappearances."

"Did she say anything else?"

"No, except that something is out there. She said—and I quote, 'Something that we can't fight.' Unquote. I don't know about you, but I think she may know a bit about the supernatural. She didn't strike me as a hunter, though," Sam went on, "but more as a victim of what's out there. She still seemed a bit…off to me."

This is a lot more complicated than I thought. It seemed that everything they'd found so far were puzzle pieces and they just couldn't seem to fit the pieces together, unless they were trying to fit together the wrong puzzle. It made no sense, but there was a connection. The case had started out as a simple case, but now, the puzzle pieces were scattered and Dean and Sam were at a loss on piecing it all together. They made their way out of the bookstore, and Dean could have sworn he saw an FBI agent, staring at them coldly. When he looked up, the agent was gone.