THREE

"Bobby, hey," Dean said cheerfully, hearing the familiar gruff greeting.

"Sam?" he asked, surprised.

"No, Dean," he smiled.

"Dean? Damn, it's good to hear from you," he replied, and the grin in his voice was unmistakeable. "How're you boys doing?"

"Not bad," Dean admitted with a smile. "Hey listen, sorry to dump on you like this – again – but we're in… ah… Michigan," he said, wondering if his sudden headache had been caused by the woman's head colliding with his earlier. "We've run into something interesting."

"Zombies?" Bobby chuckled.

"Boring."

"Vampires?"

"That's old news, man," he grinned, rubbing his temple slowly in a vain attempt to ease the ache.

"Then what?"

"People swapping bodies."

"No shit?"

"No shit," Dean confirmed. "Eight people have gone whacko and seven have died. The relatives of five of them have said the same thing: they've gone nuts and either killed or nearly killed someone trying to convince them that they're not who they look like. We reckon they've been swapped over."

"And you're sure about this?" Bobby asked sceptically. "Don't want to piss on your fireworks, but I've never actually seen anyone swapped."

"I know, it's weird," Dean allowed, then shook his head. "But what isn't these days? We've been interviewing these relatives and friends, man, and I've got to say it's starting to look like full-on Tom Hanks-style situations," he added.

"So what about the others? You said that was five," Bobby said, oddly eager.

"Sam talked to this kid, his dad and uncle both went nuts. His uncle was same as the others, saying he was the dad, but his father said he was someone called Carl Smeddall," he said.

"And this Carl isn't someone else who's about to go nuts?" Bobby hazarded.

"We don't know. But one of the girls I spoke to said her sister reckoned she was someone called Cars. We thought it might be the same name, just misheard. What do you think?"

"Hmm… Let me do some digging," Bobby said. "So that's… seven. Where's the last one?"

"The most recent one: mother Fran and son George. George went nuts and died last week, but his mother's still very much alive. She believes she's actually George and almost beat a tattoo out of Sammy trying to convince him."

"Where is she now?"

"In the local police station while they figure out the nearest loony bin that can take her," he shrugged. "We just wondered if you had any idea where we could start looking for a cause."

"Well… Could be a few," Bobby replied slowly. "So… Facts. Are they all related by blood?"

"Only half of them."

"Right, so that's not it. All living together?"

"No."

"All living near each other?"

"No – two just worked together, two were brothers, two roomed together and two lived pretty much next door to each other."

"Oh," Bobby said, sounding disappointed.

"I'm thinking this Carl is pulling some strings, man," Dean interrupted.

"Yeah, if we only knew who he is," Bobby mused. "Or what he is."

"He could be something jumping from body to body," Dean offered. "I mean, these people didn't always live very closely, but they sure visited or had contact with each other every day. Maybe they're connected by sharing the same water at home or eating the same Cheesy Puffs at work. Maybe this Carl is getting a body, staking everyone out around him and jumping into a new one when he feels like it."

"Good point. This mother that attacked Sam, any signs of spirits there?"

"None. We did a full sweep before the Doughnut Department arrived. No signs of possession, no traces of spirits, zippo," he replied. "That's why I'm calling you."

"I see," Bobby said slowly. "Well I'll take a look for you, give you a call back if I can dig anything up. Just be careful, you two," he said firmly.

"Hey, this is me," Dean grinned. "Thanks, Bobby."

"No sweat. Next time though, you two just get down here and crack open a few beers with this old man, you hear me? It's about time the three of us just shared some rotgut alcohol and didn't have to worry about demons, ghosts or tricksters. Ok?"

"Gotcha," Dean replied. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet," Bobby smiled, and the line was cut.

Dean sighed, put the phone in his pocket, and looked up and around. He leaned off the car and walked around the front, grabbing his duffle from the bonnet and walking to the motel entrance.

He walked in and looked around, finding the front desk and wandering over.

"Hi," he said politely, the girl looking up immediately. She simply looked down again, unmoved, and Dean suddenly felt affronted at her reaction. Then he chided himself for being vain and cleared his throat. "I'd like a room please, if it's not too much trouble," he tried again.

She looked up and thought for a second.

"Ok, Mister…?"

"Joe. Joe Elliott," he supplied.

"Just you?" she asked.

"Me and my brother," he said. She just looked at him.

"Your brother?" she prompted.

"Yeah," he said innocently, "my brother."

"Mr Elliott, we don't rent rooms by the hour," she said firmly. "And we certainly don't rent same-sex rooms unless… there's… some…" Her voice tailed off as her confidence left her.

He realised his face must have looked astounded, as suddenly she was putting her hands up in surrender, waving quickly.

"Oh! I'm sorry! What a mistake – sorry," she said hurriedly. "It's just that… No, no, forget it," she added hastily.

He was trying to twist his face into some semblance of something he had previously used to win at poker, but for some reason he was conscious of his face looking far more pouty and distressed than he would have liked.

"Look, Mr Elliott – Joe. Can I call you Joe?" she asked soothingly, putting out a hand and stroking his arm suddenly. He watched her hand move down his arm, surprised, then blinked at her.

"Ah… yeah," he said, lost.

"Joe, let me get you a nice room for you and your brother, and the first night will be on the management. How does that sound to you?" she said comfortingly.

"Um… great," he managed, confused. "I'll call my brother so he knows which room," he added.

"Good. Let's just get these forms filled out, shall we?" she said, dazzling him with her smile. He blinked.

"Ok."

"Tell you what, let me help you with those," she said, giving his arm a final stroke before picking up the pen.

Dean just watched, completely lost but willing to let it go. It was simply less work that way.

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

Sam's phone rang and he transferred the pizza box in his hands to his left one, whipping it out as he walked. "Dean?"

"Got us a room. Kinda weird, but we got a night for free," Dean's voice told him. Except it wasn't as gravelly as he remembered.

"Cool," he said curtly. "I'm on the way now – what's the address?"

"65 28th Street," Dean said, "The Travelodge, room 379."

"Got it. See you in ten," he said, putting the phone away. As he looked up he realised the girl walking toward him down the street was giving him a shy smile. He smiled back, surprised but secretly quite impressed: she was a stunner.

As they passed on the street she caught his eye again. "Hi," she said brightly, continuing on.

Sam stopped, caught completely off-guard, and then collected himself and carried on walking, shaking his head. Ten minutes later and he was walking into the lobby of the Travelodge, looking around.

"Hello," the receptionist said with a broad smile. "Anything I can do foryou, sir?"

Sam looked behind him first, unsure why she was suddenly so cheerful – and pleased to see him. He looked back round at her to find her eyes sliding over his jacket slowly.

"Uh… yeah, I'm looking for room 379? My brother's in there," he said.

"Ah,you're the brother," she said, looking him up and down appreciatively. "Hmm."

Sam just looked back at her, wondering why she appeared to enjoy watching him.

"This way," she said. "I'll take you there myself."

"Oh no, that's fine," he said quickly, feeling his skin prickle in sudden fright. "Despite what my brother may have told you, I'm not completely useless." He fought down the feeling, surprised at himself, considering what monsters and horrors he had faced with less physical fear before.

"I'm sure you're not," she said warmly, arching an eyebrow at him.

That did it.

"Ok, fine, er, thanks," he said hastily. He backed away swiftly and resisted the urge to run for the lifts behind him.

He pressed the button a few hundred times in his anxiety, forcing himself to calm down. He had managed to control his sudden unexplained panic for the second time in as many minutes before the lift opened and he stepped in. He pressed three and watched the doors close.

He shook his head, wondering why he was so spooked. He squeezed his eyes shut, blowing out a sigh before the lift stopped.

He opened his eyes and walked out, following the signs to 379 and shifting the pizza box to his left hand again before knocking on the door.

After a long minute the door opened swiftly and Sam looked up into his own eyes.

"Yeah, very funny Dean," he accused, looking at his reflection in some giant mirror.

But his reflection looked horrified, something he clearly was not feeling. Creeping fear gripped Sam as he noted that the reflection was not holding onto a large brown pizza box, either. He felt his fingers tighten on the cardboard as his reflection reached out a hand and grasped his arm firmly, as if feeling to see if it were real.

Sam watched the other Sam stare back at him. It was silent for a long moment.

And then the other Sam opened his mouth.

"Sonuvabitch!" he blurted, dragging him into the hotel room.