A/N Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha for the occasional gentle prod and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own.

DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter Seven

A wraith-like form moved fleetingly toward the cabin. Its face, a stark white orb, appeared to float disembodied against the deep shadow of its surroundings and the darkness of its clothing. It stopped every few paces to look back in the direction it had just come from, as though it expected to be followed.

The brothers had watched as Bob left the cabin thirty minutes earlier. His bulging rucksack thrown jauntily over his shoulder, he had cheerfully whistled the X-Files theme tune as he'd melted into the forest on his hunt for E.T.

Spencer Kane approached the rear of the cabin from that very same direction.

Crouching as they ran, the brothers approached silently, hugging the edges of the cabin as they followed Kane into the property. The cabin was in semi-darkness as they entered the kitchen. Their guns were drawn and ready to use, because, as Dean had succinctly pointed out, they knew who Spencer Kane was, not necessarily what the hell he was.

Kane was illuminated by the cold light from the refrigerator as he ransacked it for food, making no distinction between cooked and raw as he used his skeletal fingers to shove it avariciously into his mouth.

"Hey!" Dean called.

Kane spun around so rapidly that half chewed food flew out of his mouth. His eyes glowed eerily in the faint light. Surprise made his dark, sunken eyes unnaturally large in his wizened face. His filthy matted hair and straggly beard appeared to be supporting a miniature wildlife colony of their own, and his clothing hung in tatters off his thin frame. The first thing that the brothers noticed, however, was the ripe, unwashed smell which oozed from his direction. The second thing was the blood that covered his clothing and streamed from his nose.

Spencer threw the handful of food that hadn't made it to his mouth at the two dark silhouettes blocking his exit, and ran into the hallway.

"Spencer, stop," Sam commanded.

The slight man stopped dead in his tracks. Then, with a petrified look at the men pursuing him, he bolted through the nearest door, into the bathroom. Sam arrived at the door first, in time to hear the lock click into place.

"Spencer, open up. C'mon, man, we just want to help you," he called through the door as he hit it with his palm.

Dean arrived a beat later. Not being known for his diplomacy, he hammered on the door with his curled-up fist.

"What did you do to those men, you freaky son of a bitch?" He shouted.

"Tactful, Dean! Did you see the state he's in? He doesn't look like he could pull the skin off a custard, let alone rip someone's head off!"

A barrage of unintelligible shouts and incomprehensible mumbling and moaning issued from behind the locked door.

"Hey, stinky little dude, shut the hell up and open the frickin' door!" Dean shouted.

Kane's blood-curdling scream rent the air.

"Spencer, please." Sam listened at the door and heard Kane ranting. "Do you think he's all right?" He asked Dean, as Spencer fell ominously silent.

"No, I don't think he's all right. He's either possessed or he just caught himself in his zipper!"

"God will judge you." Kane's voice carried clearly through the door. "It was God's judgment. He smote them, and he will prevail."

"Smote!" Dean said incredulously. "Great. Looks like we've got ourselves a goddamned fundamentalist psycho killer."

"I am his right hand. He took them. He took away the imperfect," Spencer screamed.

"Break it down, Sam," Dean said, managing to look almost apologetic as he pointed to his side.

Sam backed up until he bumped the wall behind him. He had barely enough room to raise his knee and break the door from its hinges.

Kane looked up curiously at the two men who had just forced their way into the bathroom. Intent on his task, he turned the faucet off, halting the flow of cold water into the overflowing sink.

"Look," he said to his spectators; cupping his hands, he plunged them into the water. Raising his hands up, he let the water trickle between his fingers. "Wine," he said in an awed whisper.

He turned to look into the mirror and smiled at his unkempt reflection. Blood continued to trickle from his nose, and he wiped the back of his hand across his face.

"See me," Kane shouted into the mirror, and hammered his thin chest with his fists as though he were trying to attract his reflection's attention.

Deliberately, he punched himself in the jaw, rattling his teeth together. Reaching inside his mouth with his fingers, he twisted and turned his wrist as he fought to find a grip. His cry of pain rapidly became a wet-sounding gurgle as his fingers emerged, dripping with blood. His anguished groan changed into one of pleasure as he turned and opened his hand to show his reluctant audience the tooth he had just ripped from his own mouth. The silver filling glinted dimly in the low watt lighting as he dropped the tooth into the toilet bowl with a clink.

"See me," Kane repeated, and smiled to reveal his bloodied gums. "Now I'm perfect." He laughed uncontrollably until he retched.

"Spencer, please let us help you," Sam said, lowering his gun as he approached the hysterical man.

"God will help me," Spencer replied, still addressing his reflection. "I'm on a mission from God."

He fell silent, his head canted at an angle as though he were listening to someone. He nodded, then gripped the side of the sink and, using all his remaining strength, head-butted the mirror.

The glass shattered, scattering tiny sparkling pieces onto the floor and into the water-filled sink, which took on a red hue. Kane touched his forehead and pulled out a small sliver of glass. He stared at it, twisting and turning it as if he were examining a rare jewel, before letting it drop from his fingers. He wobbled unsteadily as he turned to face the strangers.

"It's inside me. Get it out, for the love of God, get it out!" he pleaded as fresh blood from his forehead poured onto his already blood-soaked shirt. For an instant, Spencer Kane regained control of his own body.

Clutching his head and screaming in pain, Kane dropped to the floor like the proverbial sack of potatoes.

SNSNSNSNSN

"He's catatonic," Sam said. A string of bloody saliva traced its way down Spencer Kane's chin to land on his scrawny chest, and his glazed eyes stared at a point just above Sam's head.

"Hey, you don't stink that bad," Dean said guiltily, but sprinkled the fallen man with holy water nonetheless. Satisfied when no smoke appeared, Dean bent over. With his right arm tucked against his side, protecting his ribs, he gently prodded Kane on the arm.

Kane's eyes shot open. "YOU!" He screamed. Eyes bulging, he launched himself at Dean.

Dean fell backward, and Kane followed him to the floor, raining blows on Dean's head and shoulders. The blows were kitten-weak and Dean fended them off easily. Sam grabbed Kane's shirt collar and, almost lifting him into the air, pulled him off Dean. Kane threw his head back, catching Sam on the bridge of his nose. Sam's eyes watered as Kane slipped from his grip and started out the bathroom door.

Barely able to see through the tears, Sam reached for the thin man, who easily avoided his grasp. Sam ran after Spencer, through the bathroom door and straight into something solid enough to send him falling to the floor, stunned.

Spencer Kane ran out of the cabin as though he were being chased by the devil himself.

SNSNSNSNSN

Sam sat on the rough floorboards, his back resting against the side of the staircase, his head cradled in his hands.

"Sam." Dean hunkered down on the floor by his brother's side. Sam's eyes were open, but he appeared to be looking at something to Dean's left. "Sam," Dean repeated, touching his brother's shoulder.

"Jesus," Sam slurred. His head, which had been rolling loosely on his shoulders, jerked up, and he tried to focus on the Dean who had just spoken to him. He would ignore the five other Deans for now.

"Hey, lay off the blaspheming," Dean said, grinning, as Sam's eyes focused on him properly. "Okay?"

"Yeah, no."

"Make up your mind," Dean said as he gripped Sam's arm, pulling him back onto his feet.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Sam grunted. "I meant Spencer Kane. I think he thinks he's Jesus." Steadying himself, Sam closed the cupboard door responsible for his downfall and gingerly followed Dean toward the kitchen.

"You mean turning the water into wine, and the smoting?" Was that actually a word?

Sam gave a cockeyed smile as they emerged from the cabin. "He did say he was on a mission from God," he said, gently massaging his forehead; he could already feel the slight swelling of a lump.

"Back to the Bluesmobile," Dean said with a grin. Latching onto The Blues Brother reference, he massacred the theme to Rawhide as they walked toward the welcoming sight of the Impala.

SNSNSNSNSN

Cherry Tree Motel

"Hey Sam," Dean shouted from the small table where he sat shuffling through a folder containing Spencer Kane's personal details.

"What?" Sam's muffled voice came from the bathroom.

"How old would you say Stinky Kane is?"

"I don't know." Sam appeared in the doorway, drying his hands. The hair around his face was still damp, and strands of it stuck to his forehead, where a shiny lump had appeared following his close encounter with a solid object. Sticking out his bottom lip, he continued, "About fifty, I guess." He threw the used hand towel into the sink and closed the door behind him.

"Not even close," Dean said, shaking his head. "He's your age!"

Sam's eyebrows flicked up in surprise. "Maybe he's had a hard life?"

"Hard life? Dude, he's not married!" Dean rolled his head. His neck was stiffening again, and he was becoming uncomfortably warm.

Sam pulled up a chair, joined Dean at the table, and began to flick through the folders of the other missing men. "What do you think we should do about Kane?" He asked a few minutes later.

"I think we should call the cops." Dean said sharply. "It's their job to look after the evil living; I'm only interested in the evil dead." Why the hell did Sam always expect him to have the answers?

"We can't just leave him Dean."

"No, I don't guess we can." Dean put the file down. His hands were shaking, and he covertly slid them under the table, away from Sam's prying eyes. "Did you turn the heating up?" He asked, staring at the top of his brother's head, as he felt beads of sweat running down his back, making him shudder.

Sam seemed not to hear his question. "This is interesting," he said as he pulled a document from each file and spun them around so that Dean could see. "Look, these are their medical reports. Both of the dead guys had undergone major invasive surgery, metal plates, pins in breaks, even a pacemaker. I guess ours isn't the only dangerous job in the world." Sam reached over and slid Spencer Kane's file toward him. "Read them Dean." Sam encouraged, noticing his brother had only given the documents a perfunctory glance.

Dean tried to concentrate on the words on the paper, but they took on a life of their own, floating around the page as they deliberately dodged his focus. The irritating but barely audible background buzz had returned to nettle him. Who the hell did Sam think he was! His drill sergeant? Giving him orders, after all the crap he'd put up with so Sam could escape his particular fate.

"If there is something out there, preying on the 'imperfect', it could explain why the bodies were mutilated like that. Maybe it just ripped away what didn't belong." Sam said distractedly as he leafed through Kane's file.

Sam's voice faded into the background, and the little white dots returned to dance annoyingly in Dean's peripheral vision.

Light tapping on the door interrupted Sam's musings. He rose to answer it.

Dean watched as Sam moved to the door. It was just like him to turn the heat up without considering anybody else. He'd always been like that, a selfish controlling bastard. Dean dropped his head into his hands as Sam let Missouri into the room, as the sound of their greetings rushed over him in a suffocating wave.

A perfect crimson circle dripped onto the white paper in front of Dean. He stared at it, wondering where it had come from. A second drop landed beside it.

Dean raised a hand to his face and looked over at his brother to see if he had noticed. Sam was deep in conversation with Missouri. He knew they were talking about him again. He returned his stare to the crimson circles. They were plotting against him; they were up to something. Perfect, perfect, perfect, that was what Spencer Kane had been chanting. They gave him that sly look again; did they really think he wouldn't notice? The red drops, normally on the inside, looked right on the outside too, perfect round circles on the virgin white paper.

Sam, realizing that his brother had become quiet, looked over and saw the blood running down Dean's arm. "You're bleeding," he said, alarmed.

"Freaks." Dean mumbled as he peered at the bloody trail running across the back of his hand..

"What did you say?" Sam refused to believe what he had just heard.

"You heard me." Dean snapped, slapping his hands down onto the tabletop, as he turned his green glare on them.

Sam and Missouri both stared at him as though he had grown two heads.

"Why don't you two get a room," Dean said spitefully when he saw them glance at each other.

"You're not going to begrudge me having a conversation with Missouri, surely?" Sam's eyes widened in astonishment.

"I begrudge you everything," Dean said bitterly. "Everything! Your relationships, your friends, your life!" Dean leapt to his feet, knocking the chair over, and stood there, breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists.

"Sam," Missouri said, laying a steadying hand on his tense shoulder. "I don't think Dean's feeling well. Let's give him some space."

Sam turned his back on Dean and sat down in the hard-backed chair he had vacated earlier. He looked stunned.

"Bathroom," Dean muttered as he swayed unsteadily toward it.

Sam rose and began to follow.

"Just leave me alone," Dean snarled.

"I'll be out here if you need me," Sam said. He stood outside the bathroom, staring at the door, unsure what to do when his brother slammed it in his face.

SNSNSNSNSN

Dean turned the cold water on all the way, and wetting a handful of tissue, used it to clean his bloody face and hands. This was the second time in less than twelve hours that he'd stood in front of the mirror, bleeding.

Wiping the last traces of blood from his face, he threw the wedge of tissue into the toilet and flushed it away.

"You look like crap," he said to his reflection.

He stared into the mirror, and raised his hand to the glass. His reflection mimicked his movements. His own perplexed expression greeted him as his fingertips tentatively brushed the cold surface. Was it his imagination, or was his reflection out of sync with his own movements?

His reflection nodded and bared its teeth in a mockery of a smile. Dean's eyes widened in horror as he backed away. He hadn't made that expression.

"You know they'll leave you," his reflection whispered matter-of-factly. "You let him down, like you let everyone down. He got hurt and he blames you. They all blame you. They all pity you."

Dean's knees threatened to give way, and he sat heavily on the rolled edge of the bathtub. He was sick, like Missouri said, sick in the head because he could still see and hear his reflection talking to him.

"Listen, they're talking about you now," his reflection insisted. "Plotting against you. They both hate you. Get rid of them, before they hurt you."

"You're not real," Dean hissed.

"Perfect," his reflection whispered, and Dean all but ran out of the bathroom.

SNSNSNSNSN

"I'm not prepared to sit here and do nothing while Dean's being attacked by some kind of emotional vampire," Sam said as he paced the motel room. "You saw the way he just acted. One minute he's fine, the next..." Sam threw his hands up in frustration. "It's been a repeat of this morning."

Missouri sat at the table watching Sam as he walked back and forth.

"I'm not saying that you should," she said. "Have you been in touch with Bobby? Told him what's been happening?"

"Not yet, but I will."

"Remember, Sam, Dean's not himself."

"Maybe he's not, but I get the feeling that somewhere deep inside, he's really thinking those things!"

"We all have dark thoughts, Sam. If anybody should know, you should!" Missouri's words weren't lost on Sam. He only had to reflect on his relationship with his father to confirm them.

Dean re-entered the room and walked jerkily to the side of his bed. Missouri did a double-take and gasped out loud. Dean looked terrible; his face was ghostly white, and he was shivering as though he were running a high fever, anxiety emanating from him in sickening waves.

"Oh my god, Dean!" Sam exclaimed, seeing the state his brother was in.

"Why are you still here?" Dean snapped at Missouri. "Don't you get it? Are you really that stupid? I don't want you here, we don't want you here."

"Missouri's staying, Dean. She's helping." Sam eased himself between his brother and Missouri, worried what Dean might do.

"Get rid of her Sam." Dean threatened, and looked accusingly at his brother. "You better keep that goddamn witch away from me, or so help me." He raised a trembling finger at Missouri.

"Dean, I only want to help," Missouri said gently.

Dean remained silent for a few beats, then said pointedly, "You're nothing to me. You're nothing to this family, you never were." Dean hissed. "You're just some frustrated, dried up, interfering old bitch."

"Dean. That's enough!" Sam had been biting his tongue during Dean's vitriolic attack, but he'd gone too far now.

"What's next, huh? Is Bobby gonna show up with some lame-ass excuse to come and check on me? You must think I'm a moron, both of you, whispering together like a pair of old crones. Did you think I wouldn't hear you?"

"Dean, calm down." Sam reached toward his brother.

"I'm not telling you again, keep your damn freak hands away from me." Dean placed a steadying hand on the wall as he swayed.

"Dean, you're not well."

Dean's thoughts turned to the knife which lay only inches away from his right hand. He imagined curling his fingers around its ivory handle and using it...

Sudden, explosive pain filled Dean's head, as if an iron spike had been driven into his brain. He didn't have time to try to sit; his legs folded under him and he collapsed onto the floor and lay unmoving.

"Help me," Sam said, rushing toward Dean.

Missouri grabbed Dean's arm. Crying out in pain, she snatched her hand back as a pulse of raw energy ran up her arm and into her chest. Her breath caught in her throat as every nerve in her body screamed as though it were on fire. She pitched forward like she was going to pass out.

"I—I need to go back to my room," Missouri said, pulling herself upright, panic-stricken as she backed away from the brothers.

"Missouri, please, I need your help," Sam pleaded as he struggled to lift Dean from the floor.

"I can't...I have to go." Tears running down her cheeks, Missouri shook her head. "I'm sorry." She turned and fled the room.

Sam glared at Missouri's retreating form. He couldn't believe she'd actually bailed on him, not when he needed her, not when Dean really needed her. Lowering Dean gently back to the floor, he sat down next to his prostrate brother.

"Dean." He tried to rouse his brother with a gentle shake.

"Don't shake me Sammy," Dean said thickly, his eyes still closed. "I think I might throw up."

Sam gave a nervous laugh. Dean was back, at least for now.

Dean forced open one eyelid. The light was far too bright. He wondered whether opening both eyes would half or double the light burning out his retina. Hell, he was a hunter; he wasn't about to be beaten by a 60-watt bulb. He opened both eyes.

"Wow," said Dean as soon as he was sure he wasn't going to puke. He even managed a sickly smile. "That was marginally worse than being the ass in an ass kicking contest."

"How you feeling?" Concern pinched Sam's face, and he suddenly looked very serious.

"Great."

"Liar." Sam stood. "C'mon, let's get you onto the bed." He reached down to help his brother.

"Sorry to break it to you, Sam, but you're really not my type." Dean's laugh stopped in a gasp of pain as Sam pulled him upright. He wasn't sure what hurt more, his ribs or his head; both vied for top billing.

"Yeah, I know." Sam grunted with effort as he tried to support most of Dean's weight.

"Sorry."

"Yeah, I know that too." It didn't matter to Sam what exactly the apology was for.

Sam sat Dean down on the bed. Dean's head was hanging low; he looked like he was contemplating his shoelaces; which although functional, were not that interesting.

"That happened a lot faster than last time," Dean said without raising his head.

Sam sat opposite Dean in weary consideration. He watched as his brother regained some color, and then saw a look of torment fill Dean's face as he looked up and directly at him.

"You think I'm gonna end up like him, don't you?" Dean canted his head at his brother. "A crazy freak, like Spencer Kane."

Sam remained silent. He didn't have to reply; the look on his face confirmed Dean's fears.

"I'm screwed," Dean said.

TBC