A/N: Chapter title taken from the song of the same name by Meatloaf.

Summary: It's Dean and his clones vs. Sam. Round one. Also: Kujan meets with Crowley.


Chapter 7 – objects in the rear view mirror are closer than they appear

The Black Spur
North Dakota

After all this time nothing had changed. Same stupid karaoke stage. The slack jawed patrons still reeked of b.o. and broken dreams.

Crowley nursed his half-empty glass of Glen Craig as he sat at the bar. Even a below-average Crossroads Demon having a really bad day would score big with these clods. He wasn't here to make deals, though, not even for practice or just to keep his hand in. He felt nervous. Excited even. It was good to get out of the throne room and do something different, something clandestine.

The barkeep slapped down a coaster in front of Crowley, then placed a highball glass on top of that. The glass was filled with pale pink liquid and topped off with a long red straw, a lime slice on a skewer, an orange paper umbrella and a red plastic pitchfork.

Crowley stared at the glass. He hadn't ordered this.

The bartender winked at him. "Compliments of the lady. Over there." He nodded behind Crowley.

"Oh?" Crowley turned. The woman sat alone at the table furthest away from the karaoke stage. She was tall and slender, with a shaggy cap of shoulder length auburn hair. The denim jeans, jacket and top she wore was so tight it looked painted on. When she saw she had Crowley's attention she raised her own glass in a salute. She looked like any other bimbo in the place, except that the King of Hell could see Fae glamour all around her, black wings fluttering in the wind.

Crowley turned back to the new drink, picked it up and sipped some through the straw. He nodded. It was a Greyhound made with strawberry infused vodka. Not bad at all.

He picked the glass up, turned and walked over to the table. "Hello, Kujan."

She blinked those wide grey eyes of hers at him. "Figured you'd like that. You strike me as the kind of demon who loves hounds."

"I do indeed." Crowley took his seat. "Speaking of which...what's to stop me from calling my girl Juliet to rip you apart limb from limb?"

Kujan sat back in her chair, totally relaxed and at ease. "You could've done that already. And you wouldn't have come if you hadn't checked me out first."

Crowley nodded. Despite the fact that she was Fae he found himself liking her.

"You came alone, so that tells me you're definitely interested. You want your Knight back. Your Hound of Hell with the Mark of Cain. You don't want the other factions to know he's out here footloose and fancy free. They'd want to use him against you." She smirked. "And they certainly would. There is a recent development you should be aware of. "

"What kind of game are you playing at, sweetheart?"

"No game."

"Really? No hard feelings, then? About that unfortunate murder attempt on your mothers? That wasn't personal. It was just business."

She shrugged. "You took your shot. And it failed miserably. No hard feelings."

"You've seen Dean recently then?"

Kujan wrinkled her pert nose in an expression of distaste. "Two nights ago I saw more of him than I ever wanted to see. He was naked."

That certainly sounded like Dean. Crowley chuckled. "Ah. Then you're a woman scorned."

Kujan scowled. "Oh no. I have a type. And he's not it."

"So what's in it for you?"

"Nothing. I simply want to turn you in the right direction."

"Interesting. Well then, what about that recent development you talked about?"

Her smile was sharp enough to cut. "I can show you better than I can tell you."

She moved her glass to the side and she motioned to Crowley to do the same. Kujan took the point of one perfectly manicured finger and drew a circle a foot wide in the center of the tabletop. Her plum colored fingernail burned into the fake wood.

Crowley quirked an eyebrow at her. "Here?"

"Don't worry. These dullards will never notice."

Kujan then picked up her glass and stuck her index finger inside. The liquid in the glass hissed and darkened as she stirred it around.

She poured her drink into the circle. It was the strangest thing. No one noticed. The liquid didn't splash outside the circle. Instead it flattened out to a neat mirrored surface. Kujan made a mystic pass with her hand over the spill.

The surface flickered.

Images began to form.


Dew Drop Inn Diesel Mart
U.S. Highway 36

Hitchhikers were as common as flies out here. Unless they were young and fuckable, whether they were male or female, Mickey Lambert exercised his right to choose who would get a ride. Those long stretches of highway made having wheels a distinct advantage. He could take whatever he whatever that way.

Ummm...no takers this morning. Damn shame. Mickey jiggled his keys in his left hand as he sauntered out of the Dew Drop Inn. He made his way over to his truck. With any luck he'd be in Lawrence Kansas by nightfall. Hauling a load to the Wal-Mart superstore there was always a pain in the ass. He climbed up into the cab and shut the door.

"Hey," someone called out. Mickey looked down and stared at the newcomer.

"I need a ride."

Well now. This kid was gorgeous. Wide green eyes, long eyelashes. He wore a maroon shirt, jeans and work boots. And my goodness, were those bowlegs and freckles?

Mickey loved bowlegs and freckles. "Welcome aboard, kiddo."

The young man walked around the front of the rig and climbed up into the cab. Mickey leaned towards him and leered, "Did it hurt when you fell from heaven, sweetheart?"

"Not one damn bit."

Mickey's left hand found its way onto the kid's knee as soon as he settled in. He squeezed it. "I expect something in return, y'know. Maybe a few bucks for gas?"

The young man picked up Mickey's hand by the wrist and very pointedly plucked the offending hand away. "I don't have any cash. You get me down the road and you'll what you want."

"Good deal. By the way, what's your name, son?"

Something dark flickered in those wide green eyes. "John."


Sam didn't bother to turn on the radio. Wasn't any point, really. He didn't listen to music much nowadays anyway. He casually gripped the steering wheel and he barely noticed the scenery flashing by. The feeling of strangeness he'd had since he left the witch's house had diminished. His skin no longer felt like it wanted to crawl off his bones.

Guess I'm getting used to this.

Over time he'd become used to feeling crappy. Frustration that settled around him so deep and so heavy it choked him. Rage that filled him up and made him smash everything in sight. This time he felt different, for the first time in months. It took Sam a moment to realize what that light tingly sensation inside him was.

Excitement.

He was excited.

In less than ten hours he'd cast the spell. He'd bring Dean home. Home where he belonged. And after that he'd cure Dean, turn him human again. He had the cure all along. The tricky part always had been finding Dean and restraining him in the first place. Big brother was dangerous enough when he was just a mere human. Nobody knew that better than Sam.

Now Sam had the means to do just that.

Leland Owens. Zatkesis. They were just a means to an end. The memory of taking Owens' hand was buried deep inside Sam now, along with the image of Owens lying in a hospital bed somewhere, eyes wide with fear, rotting from the inside out because of the witchy mark Sam carved into him.

You can stop, Sam. You can.

Sam rolled his eyes. Not again. Whoever said let your conscience be your guide had it all wrong.

There has to be a way to help Owens. That little spark of humanity was back and as boring as ever. You can make amends...

He's not an innocent.

He didn't deserve what you did to him.

Yes, he did. What's done is done.

But you don't have to go through with this.

Sam laughed out loud. He had the spell. The spell to bring Dean back. That was the whole damn point, wasn't it?

*Mic drop* Boom. Case closed. That simple fact was more than enough to make that stupid Voice of Reason shut the hell up.

He'd been skeptical at first, but the more Zatkesis showed him, the more Sam was certain that the spell would work. There was nothing in the Men of Letters Bunker that even approached that level of blood magic. The Men of Letters had scruples, all right. There were certain spells they absolutely would not touch.

Which was probably the reason they were all dead now. Served them right. Losers.

Sam glanced down at the burlap sack on the seat next to him. He idly ran his fingers over the rough surface. He could feel the object within: it was a foot long, solid brass. Tube-like. One end of the tube flared out in a bell-like shape, and even though the burlap Sam could feel the loop and swirl of the engravings carved into the metal.

It was one of the more useful items he'd found in the Men of Letters bunker, something he'd found after Dean went missing. It might come in handy.

Sam felt light now. Light in body and in spirit, for the first time in months. He hummed tunelessly to himself and tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel.


A mile away from the Dew Drop Inn Dean Winchester stood in a small grove of trees. He was not alone. The three original clones stood quietly with him. Dean's eyes flickered to black as he cast his senses out in an ever widening circle.

He was listening for something.

The rumble of heavy trucks, the softer murmur of passenger car engines, snatches of conversation ("I told him off...man, I hate my job...so when are you coming over?") and music: I can't feel my face when I'm with...I still miss you baby...but my aim is getting better...

Dean widened his range.

There it was. Finally.

It was a sound that at one time had been familiar to him, a sound he cherished, one that used to make him feel safe and comforted.

He had absolutely no need for any of that human crap now.

He isolated that noise from all the others, focused on it to the exclusion of all else as he tracked the speed and the direction.

Baby's engine rumbled on.

Dean turned his attention towards Mickey Lambert's truck.


Target in sight, Dean whispered inside Four's head. Sammy's half a mile behind you. It's showtime, dude.

"About damn time," Four growled out loud. His patience was worn thin by riding with Mr. Grabby Hands.

Naturally Mickey misunderstood. He stretched out his hand with the flask, wrongly supposing that a little liquor would loosen this kid right up. "Didn't mean to hog the booze. Here ya go."

Four frowned. He leaned right into the man's personal space. "You shouldn't drink and drive. Somebody could get hurt."

Four blinked black.

Mikey opened up his mouth to scream. What came out was a peculiar strangled sound. Four thrust his left hand inside Mickey's chest and closed his fingers around Lambert's heart. Even though it was slippery with blood, and fluid the organ jerked and stuttered in his grip.

Four squeezed. Hard. Mickey's eyes bulged out as he took his last breath in this world.

At the same time Four grabbed the steering wheel with his right hand and jerked it hard to the right.

The tires of the tractor trailer skidded on the pavement. The cab began a sickeningly slow sideways slide to the right. The weight of the trailer kept the vehicle upright for another few seconds, but then it gave up the fight against momentum and gravity and flipped into the air.


Red brake lights up ahead. Screams. Sam heard the screech of tortured metal then several loud hollow booms, one after another as cars piled into each other.

Minutes before a gap in the traffic up ahead had opened up. That was the only thing that prevented him from joining the pile-up.

Sam hit the brakes. The Impala responded immediately by slowing down.

Movement in his rear view mirror caused Sam to look up. The vehicles behind him weren't stopping. One of them was a heavy dump truck.

No time to think. Sam yanked the wheel hard over to the right. The Impala's tires screeched as she protested at such rough treatment. Her rear end fishtailed as she skidded sideways onto the gravel in the shoulder of the road. For a moment everything went white as Sam was thrown against the door. The Impala hit the guard rail. Glass broke inside the window well. Having the window rolled down the whole way was the only thing that saved him from getting a face full of glass.

The dump truck flew by. It bounced once, landed on top of a grey sedan and then plowed ahead into the other cars. From behind came several other loud booms. The noise stretched on as more cars crashed into each other. Some of the cars behind Sam couldn't stop in time. It was a chain reaction that stretched down the highway. The traffic further back came to a halt.

Gasoline puddled onto the pavement. Smoke and flame bloomed from the flattened sedan and the cars the dump truck hit. Several people in other cars struggled to haul themselves out through smashed drivers' side windows. The rest were trapped.

The shock of hitting the guardrail like that made Sam light-headed. His head ached and so did his left shoulder. Something warm and wet trickled down the left side of his face. Sam sat back against the bench. Through the smoke and flames he could see someone standing over the wreckage.

He blinked dazedly. That...that couldn't be right.

Then his vision cleared. That that was when he realized this was more than bad luck.

A man stood on top of the jack-knifed tractor trailer. He cocked his head slightly to one side and his lips curved upwards in a thin, cruel smile when he realized Sam was staring at him. His green eyes flickered to pitch black. He took a swig from the bottle in his hand.

"Hey, Sammy!" he called out. "You wanna spend some quality time with your big brother?"

TBC