A/N : For those of you who have reviewed - a dozen calorie-free cookies!
For those of you who added it to story alert without reviewing - no cookies yet. If you're reading, please let me know! It helps to know why people are reading and while I have some of this planned out already, let me know what you want to see. At any rate, reviews are the spice of life, and they fuel updates more quickly than caffeine!
Puts on the puppy eyes.
Now, without further delay... chapter four!
--
Half a dozen exorcisms - none of which got any response - and one panicked phone call to Bobby later, Sam sat with his back against the wall, totally lost. The Dean-thing was still shifting restlessly on the bed, quietly moaning every so often. He'd been watching it for the better part of an hour.
He'd snapped his phone shut on a promise to dispatch the bastard, whatever it was, as soon as he hung up. He knew Bobby was right, that it didn't matter what it was, what face it wore, or how much he wanted it to be true. It wasn't Dean, and that in itself was reason to shoot first, ask questions later.
But even as he promised Bobby he'd take care of it, that no, he didn't need him to drive up there and do it for him, he knew he was lying.
It might be a setup, but it was pure dumb luck he'd stumbled onto that fight in the alley. He'd been at the local hot spot, digging information out of half drunk idiots who had no idea the 'haunted house' that got them a little recognition from the newspaper was also turning up dead bodies. He'd been disappointed, because the way things sounded, it was going to be a simple job. As it was told, the bones of the former owner had been discovered and removed years ago. The murder had been solved, but the bones had been sitting at the disposal of the local college, a benefit to archaeology students ever since the case closed.
He'd get in, get the bones, get out. A quick salt and burn and he'd be on his way. That was the plan, but when he'd heard a strangled scream, he'd gone to check it out. It seemed like what he expected, a couple of drunks arguing behind the bar. It wasn't exactly a fair fight, and he really didn't want to get involved, but when the one went down, the other guy didn't look like he was going to leave it alone. He'd sighed, and called out, bracing himself for a fight, but the guy just took off running.
Already involved, Sam figured he might as well make sure the other guy wasn't dead, and was met with the point of a knife. He'd wanted to roll his eyes at the show of appreciation, but something made him stop.
His eyes widened, then narrowed. Recognition and barely suppressed hope were quickly buried by anger. But cristo had failed to get a response, and the thing passed out before he could decide what to do next. He'd stood there for a full five minutes before carrying it back to the Impala.
He'd planned on getting answers, whatever it took, but the longer he sat there, the easier it became to just entertain the idea that maybe, somehow, Dean had gotten out of the deal.
So, either way he needed to do something. He stood up, tired body protesting the movement, and glanced at the clock.
From the bathroom, he retrieved a washcloth, then filled the empty ice bucket with water. It might not be Dean, but...
He set the ice bucket on the bedside table and dipped the washcloth in the water. After a moment of hesitation, he dabbed it against the corner of it's mouth, the towel coming away dirty, tinged with rust. The thing stirred, but didn't move, so he quickly moved on to the forehead, gently patting the scrapes free of blood. As he cleaned, he was amazed at the amount of dirt that came off, too, revealing pale skin, and creating an almost comical contrast against the patches that remained filthy.
He swallowed hard as he revealed more clean skin, diminishing a visible barrier. More and more he wanted answers.
He dunked the dirty towel into the ice bucket, and made a face at the brown water. He was just debating whether or not to change the water and keep wiping away grime when he noticed a stain on it's jeans. It wasn't remarkable considering the state of the clothing, but this one was fresh.
"Shit," he muttered, lifting the worn t-shirt gently to take a better look.
Idiot must have been carrying the knife without a sheath, he realized. Probably nicked himself pulling it on the guy in the alley.
With a sigh, he frowned at the belt, and decided he wasn't feeling that generous. He'd settle for nudging the jeans lower on its hips and pulling the shirt up a little higher.
As soon as his fingers touched denim, though, the Dean-thing's eyes snapped open, and it jerked away. In response, Sam jumped back.
"Easy!" he said, angry at being caught off guard. "Jesus."
For the first time, the Dean-thing seemed coherent, staring at Sam through wary eyes. Those eyes flickered down to his waist, then back up, almost accusingly.
"I was trying to help you," Sam spat, dropping the washcloth into the dingy water.
Wordlessly, those eyes went to the ropes.
"What are you?" Sam asked, feeling the anger. "Skinwalker? Crazed fan? What?"
Eyebrows furrowed.
Sam took a step forward, and immediately it shrank backward.
"Don't!"
The voice was Dean's, no doubt about it.
"I'm not going to do anything," Sam said, then thought to ad, "yet."
He wiped his hands on his jeans, uncomfortable with the way the thing was watching him. Most things he hunted didn't deal well with being tied up, threatened. But the reaction was always anger, and this one had him uneasy.
"What are you?" he asked again.
There was hesitation, and then the Dean-thing looked away.
"Tell me, or I'll figure out where to start," Sam growled, not having to feign the threat in his voice.
It made a small noise, not quite a whimper, but close enough.
He plucked the knife it had been carrying from the table next to him.
"You need to start talking," he said, keeping his voice low to maximize the threat.
Sam couldn't deny the dirty feeling that settled in his stomach when he saw the reaction to that threat. Something he couldn't read blossomed in those eyes. It shook it's head, eyes never leaving the knife.
"Cristo gets nothing," Sam said slowly. "Holy water doesn't burn. So what else could you be, hiding in that skin?"
It was a good actor, Sam decided when it managed to look confused. It kept its eyes on the knife, watching as Sam continued to turn it.
"What I want to know," he said, pointing with the knife, "is why this face? You had your pick of a million, and you pick this one?"
He moved to the side of the bed, and let the sharp blade rest on its chest. "Where did you get it?"
The Dean-thing exhaled sharply, and turned his face to the ceiling, staring at the dirty tiles with expressionless eyes. "Just do it."
Sam swallowed, the knife jerking a bit as his hand shook; he fought to steady it. Wasn't it going to fight back? It had Dean's face, but none of his fire. If it was a skinwalker, it would know how to play along, would surely play on the hope it should know Sam tried to bury. So why did it just lay there, accepting it?
His mind tried to remember what creatures could mimic a human form, but the one thing that kept coming back to him was the one thing he couldn't let himself believe.
It's Dean...
He pulled the knife back, suddenly exhausted. It was nearly three in the morning, and he was just tired. Of everything.
"Just tell me what you are," he said, stepping back and letting the knife drop to the table with a dull thunk. "Please."
It just kept staring at the ceiling, all the earlier fight gone. If he hadn't seen the chest rise and fall, he would have thought he was interrogating a corpse.
Sam only shook his head, so incredibly overwhelmed. Maybe he should take Bobby up on his offer. He thought he could deal with this, but... God, it was like losing him all over again. Hope dangled in front of him, some cruel hand offering water to a man dying of thirst in the desert in July, then pulling it away as soon as his fingers came close.
"Fine," Sam spat. "Have it your way."
--
If it looks like a Sam, walks, talks like a Sam... it's a demon, and don't you forget it.
The despair was overwhelming.
Oh, he'd hoped before. Woke up on the ground in a forest once, took off running thinking he'd made it somehow. Sat there for a minute trying to catch his breath, and the minute he stood up, a hand clamped around his ankle. The next time he didn't hesitate. Just ran and ran and finally reached the highway, fingers stretched out as if he could catch the bumper of the car shooting past. As if he could outrun a demon. Each time they let him get a little further, but the end result was always the same.
You knew better than to run.
This one was new, though. They never let him go that long before. Never let him go at all, really. No, it was just another trick, and his body was back in the wherever/whatever-hell-was void.
Felt so real... he really thought he'd made it. Played right into their hands, but he wouldn't play along anymore. Now all he could do was wait for the punishment; damned if he was going to let them enjoy it any more.
The not-Sam was asking him questions. A few he might have answered, he couldn't be sure. All he could do was watch the knife turn in those hands, the carbon copy of Sam hands holding the threat that could mean his freedom.
Did the knife really exist? Had he killed Ruby, or did she still have it?
But it didn't matter, because if they were using this, they knew about the possibility, and he'd never get close enough to Ruby to say hello, let alone steal the knife. He'd never been materialistic but if he could just have that knife, just that one thing...
The tip of the knife connected with his chest, feather light, and he froze.
Sam's voice floated through his thoughts. He turned away, facing the ceiling.
"Just do it."
He focused on the ceiling, eyes boring holes in the tiles, wondering how many of the tiny dots he could count before the pain hit.
Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten...
He heard speaking, refused to listen. Focused on the ceiling, wondering when it would disappear and what they'd use next and God he felt like falling apart. Maybe he had... maybe he was in a million tiny pieces, particles of Dean Winchester that could barely claim to exist anymore. And every part had been shot into space, frozen and left to float on their own, never living, never dying, just cursed to be as empty as the dead around him.
That was how it felt to hope.