Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain. No harm or infringement intended.
When Dean starts losing time and hallucinating, he's sure he's being abducted by aliens while Sam's convinced his brother's going mad. Sometimes in life, you don't get all the answers.
Written for the 2018 SPN-SummerGen challenge on LiveJournal. Tifaching's prompt was: "Dean is taken by aliens. Can be light and funny aliens or dark and nasty aliens, but either way he's returned to Sam a changed man." Warnings: psychological horror, fear, torture.
~#~
The Invaders
"The Invaders: alien beings from a dying planet. Their destination: the Earth. Their purpose: to make it their world" – opening narration, The Invaders (1967)
Dean was up and pawing through the shopping bags before his brother was barely through the door back from his grocery trip. Sam helped with the unpacking while talking ten-to-the-dozen about some new deli that had opened on the outskirts of town, on the site of the old diner.
"Oh man, I loved that place," Dean muttered, otherwise tuning out most of his brother's words. "Sammy, you forgot the pie again," he complained, interrupting Sam's monologue and pushing the bags aside in irritation.
Sam shrugged, unconcerned by the near-apocalyptic impact of his failed task. "I got a quiche," he offered, shoving the packet in question into Dean's arms while continuing to unpack the rest of the items.
Dean inspected the flan with a pained expression. "It's not even the kind that's got bacon in," he whined.
"Well, maybe next time, why don't you go grocery shopping," growled Sam through gritted teeth.
Dean snatched up the car keys from the kitchen table. "I just might; jeez, one thing," he grumbled. He might love food, but he hated food shopping and the way he could feel everyone's eyes on him in the larger stores.
Sam flushed. "You could always have come with me."
"Do I have to hold your hand? Jeez. I thought the days of wiping your ass were behind me." The words were out of his mouth before he even had a chance to process them. Harsh. Still, family meant never apologizing. Okay, he knew that was crap, but he decided to soldier on as was the Winchester way.
"Yeah, well, don't let the door slam you on your ass on the way out," Sam spat, taking his frustration out on the innocent broccoli he was trying to shove into the salad crisper.
~#~
When Dean wandered back into the bunker, it was with a confused frown on his face, rather than the furious one he'd left with.
"Did you get it?" asked Sam, trying his best to modulate his voice into something like polite disinterest rather than the scathing sarcasm masquerading as terror that bubbled in the back of his mind. He's here. He's fine. He's not dead in a ditch somewhere.
Dean shook his head as if to clear it. "What?"
"Pie," Sam prompted, still reigning in his irritation. "Did you get it?" he repeated, moving closer for a proper inspection. His brother seemed foggy-headed but didn't smell or look like he'd been drinking.
"Nah, I... I forgot my... my wallet."
Sam blinked. "You've been gone for, like, three hours." It took all his strength not to scream the words.
"Don't be ridiculous," snorted Dean and, like that, the spell was broken and everything was back to normal.
Sam laughed too-hard, all relief rather than humor, and pointed at the clock. "Lose track of time much?"
"Can't be, I got... I got halfway into town before... before I... turned back," replied Dean, not seeming any more convinced with his story than Sam was.
"What's that?" asked Sam, distracted by three perfectly parallel cuts running up the inside of Dean's forearm. From their angry red color, Sam judged they were fresh. We've not been hunting for days and those don't look like any creature's claw marks I've ever seen.
"Nothing," Dean muttered, rolling his shirtsleeves down. "I better get this," he sighed as his cell phone's strident ringtone announced the receipt of all Sam's delayed texts and missed calls.
Sam frowned. Dean can be so weird, sometimes.
~#~
As he slept, Dean's mind gave up its secrets. He remembered being in the Impala; his Baby. His mind replayed his concern as the electronics went haywire. The dream seemed so real it was like he was living through it for the first time.
The radio changed stations as the volume jumped up and down, while the inside light and headlights flickered on and off.
It was exactly like what had happened to make him drive back to Sam all those years ago in Palo Alto. Too late, he'd arrived to discover Jess already dead at the hands of the yellow-eyed demon, Azazel.
Setting those thoughts aside, albeit with a shiver, he concentrated on staying safe and pulling over to the side of the road. He popped the hood and checked under it for any sign of an electrical short. He leaned over, the late afternoon sun still warm on his back, as he focused on the joys of the internal combustion engine. His eyes closed as he blinked...
...and opened to reveal a cold, night sky glittering with bright stars. He was standing in the middle of a field surrounded by corn. Where am I? He thought, trying not to freak out. Where's Baby? His anxiety eased on spotting her headlights on a road a short distance away.
He trotted his way back to her, circling three times to check for damage. There was nothing. He checked the backseat was empty, twice, before sliding back into the driving seat.
After a while he relaxed; the low, purring growl of the engine a balm for his soul. It was only as he pulled up outside the bunker that he realized he had no memory of anything since leaving.
With a shuddering gasp, he sat up in bed, the dream already fading until all that remained was a vague sense of unease. Rubbing his face he glanced at his phone. 3:33 am. He decided he might as well get up.
~#~
Dean tossed and turned in his bed, twisting the sweat-soaked sheets into knots. The exhaustion from days of little or no sleep was all that kept him from waking. He dreamed but, while he might have realized he was asleep, it didn't stop a dread feeling of ill-ease from consuming him. His stomach roiled with it.
"I need to let them in," he muttered. He wasn't sure who, but he was certain to his very core that it was something he needed to do.
A loud, metallic-scraping noise woke him. He found himself standing and holding the bunker door half-open. He looked around but, other than the sound of cicadas chirping and a sprinkling of stars in the cold darkness of the night air above, there was nothing of any note. He paused to admire a shooting star whizzing past overhead before closing the door behind him. He double-checked the lock, even going back to confirm a third time, before going back to bed.
There's something I've forgotten to do, he fretted.
~#~
Sam wasn't a light sleeper, unlike his brother who seemed to be having a hard time both getting and staying asleep in recent weeks. He was of the opinion that, in the main, it was better for a hunter to grab the Zs when they could. Given everything he knew about warding and protection spells, if he was worried about something creeping up on him in his sleep then he was already doing it wrong.
He didn't have to strain to hear what had woken him. Someone somewhere was hammering something. He rolled over to retrieve his phone from the bedside table and groaned as it revealed the time to be 3 am. Unlike Dean, he actually appreciated a night's sleep of more than just a handful of hours.
There was no way Dean wouldn't have been woken by this, which, from the lack of any other disturbance, meant it was either being done by Dean or done to Dean. Neither seemed appealing, so he took a prudent moment to pull on some clothes and set off to investigate.
He found Dean in just boxers and T-shirt, muttering to himself while striking the ground with a large sledgehammer. The focus of his frenzy was one of the many metal sigils inlaid in the floor at strategic points throughout the bunker.
"Let them in, gotta let them in," mumbled Dean as he chipped away at the floor.
Keeping well out of range of the wild flailing of the hammer, Sam flicked on the lights. "Dean?!"
It took several repeated attempts before his brother's eyes unglazed and Dean stopped what he was doing. The hammer slid from his grasp to make a painfully-loud clanging sound as it struck the ground.
"Sammy?" Dean looked lost and vulnerable. It was strange for Sam to see him out of his normal clothes.
"Bad dreams again, huh?" Sam asked as he ran his hand across the metal runes inlaid in the floor. They were of a pattern and purpose he didn't recognize and couldn't fathom; unusual given his long years of experience. It just went to prove there was no end to the secrets held by the Men of Letters.
He noted with a belated sense of dread that the metal was cracked through at several points. Whatever unknown protection the sigil had provided was now broken.
~#~
Barely able to stifle the third yawn in as many minutes, Dean decided enough was enough and bid his brother good night.
"You're off to bed early, are you feeling okay?" asked Sam, putting his book to one side.
Dean shrugged. He felt terrible. "It's nothing," he lied, swaying on his feet. "I'm just... tired." That was an understatement, he couldn't remember the last time he'd managed to get a full night's rest. When he did manage to sleep it didn't seem to leave him any better rested.
Stumbling back to his room, he sat down on his bed with a heavy sigh. He leaned forward to unlace his shoes, only to pause, overwhelmed with a bad feeling. More like a sense of doom, he corrected himself.
With absolute certainty, he knew that something was coming.
Coming to get me.
His body shook with a primal fear that was beyond any ability to control. He scanned the room, certain he was being watched. Studied.
Nothing.
He started at the gentle tap on the door as his brother stuck his head into the room. "Oh, so you're up at last," Sam said.
Dean flushed, all feelings of dread now departed. "I've not even been to bed yet," he replied. He went on to explain what had happened or, rather, what had not happened. Although, for reasons he couldn't explain, he decided not to mention the intense feelings of dread he'd experienced.
Sam shrugged. "You must've fallen asleep without realizing," he said, seeming unimpressed with the story. "You did say you were tired."
Dean wasn't sure why that sounded so accusatory, but he bit back the instinctive, defensive response. Didn't he deserve the benefit of the doubt? "Yeah, you're probably right," he replied instead, staring down at his hands and blinking until his vision cleared.
"Come on," urged Sam. "We can stop off at a diner on the way and I'll even buy you breakfast."
Dean gave a silent nod, although, given the churning of his stomach and the overpowering metallic taste in his mouth, food was the last thing he wanted. He got to his feet and obediently followed his brother to the car.
He forgot to mention the three new, parallel scars he'd acquired on his wrists.
~#~
He was awake. He wasn't aware of how or when it was more like someone had flicked a switch and he was just there. It took him a moment to realize he was lying down. In my own bed. It took another moment to realize he couldn't move a muscle; just his eyes.
An overwhelming sense of dread had the hair prickling at the back of his neck. He fought for calm, he knew the drill. He wasn't stupid, no matter what he knew others joked about him. He recognized this for what it really was, as well as what he was pretending was happening. Make-believe you're Sammy and geek out over experiencing a sleep disorder.
Sleep paralysis is characterized by sensing a presence in the room, he told himself. Often it's interpreted as a threatening one. It's just one part of the brain becoming aware of another part of itself that's not normally awake at the same time.
It would be just like me to see myself as a threat.
The cupboard in the corner, barely in his peripheral vision, took on a peculiar significance as if it had become more real than everything else in the room. Is the door open? His eyes flicked from side to side as he struggled to take in the vista of the room.
There. There was a noise, like a soft rustle.
The cupboard door was ajar.
He could see it staring at him.
The eyes. They were horrifying and mesmerizing in equal amounts. Such big eyes.
All the better to see you with, my dear, screeched his subconscious.
What is it? An owl?
The creature stared at him and he'd never been so terrified in his entire life.
Come on, man, he urged himself. You've stood up against God and Lucifer themselves. And even Death!
But it was no good. It was as if his backbone was made of Jell-O. His face burned with dismay and humiliation as his body betrayed him.
The eyes continue their unblinking stare as his mind fell into them.
~#~
Dean was up and doing the laundry before the day had even begun. He didn't really remember the night before, other than a vague recollection that he'd had bad dreams. Again.
The doors of the washer and dryer, like blank, round eyes, stared at him balefully. He shivered involuntarily, his skin goosepimpling.
When a large hand landed on his shoulder, he could barely restrain the terrified shriek that still now echoed inside his mind.
"If you're doing the laundry again, could you put in some of my things?" asked Sam.
Dean shrugged his brother's hand away. He couldn't stop staring at it in horrid fascination the way a rabbit will stare transfixed at a snake.
Those big hands, the long probing fingers...
Half-formed memories danced tantalizingly at the back of his mind, just out of reach of his ability to remember. He shuddered, a cold bead of sweat running down his back and he fought an overwhelming urge to vomit.
"Are you okay?"
Dean ran from the room only just getting to the bathroom in time.
~#~
They were sitting together in the library, Sam elbow-deep in some dusty, old storage box he'd dug out of the Men of Letters' archives. He was chattering away, pleased by whatever it was that he'd found. Dean struggled to pay attention, he really did, but every time his mind came close to getting a grip on the words, their meaning slipped away from him.
In the doorway, he could see a small figure waiting for him. It's been there for a long time, he realized. No. The whole time.
"Sammy?" he called, his voice a small lost thing as he failed to attract his brother's attention.
The figure was in front of him now but out of focus, no matter how much he tried to concentrate on it. It's like a local community radio station on a hot night, he thought dizzily, the room swimming around him. The more you try to tune it in the fuzzier the reception gets. He could make out it was short, maybe three feet tall, with huge black eyes in an oversized head, and small, thin arms and legs.
He called again, louder, for his brother, but Sam continued his running monologue of the contents of the packing case, unaware of the unwelcome visitor.
Against his will, Dean's body stood and followed the creature out of the room.
"Okay, bye then. Rude," he heard his brother say before Dean was led out of earshot along the cold, dark bunker corridors.
His heart pounded in Pavlovian response to the whirling, buzzing sounds of the implements and surgical procedures waiting for him up ahead.
An idea, rather than crude voice or words, formed in his mind. We can take away your knowledge of what's about to happen to you?
Dean knew it was for calculated expediency rather than any sense of kindness, but he still nodded and smiled in relieved gratitude. His mind fogged over even as his legs continued their relentless march towards the torture that awaited him.
~#~
Head resting on the back of the couch, legs stretched out, Dean dozed only half awake. The film had finished, he wasn't sure when, but the screen had dimmed from its auto-power settings, still flickering from the looped adverts of other shows.
This is nice, he thought. He'd not been sleeping well recently.
He turned to his left, his gaze traveling down his arm that was stretched out along the back of the couch, his hand in its usual position, lightly resting on Sam's shoulder. His brother was sitting upright, but motionless, his eyes open and staring blankly at the television.
Dean frowned, making to move forward when he noticed Sam blink. His chest released a tension he hadn't realized he was carrying. "Sorry, I guess I must have dozed off," he smiled. The tightness returned when long silence made it apparent no answer was forthcoming.
"Sam?" he prompted, his voice gentle but strained. "Sammy?"
The TV flickered brighter, diverting his attention away from his still immobile brother. The picture dissolved into a screen full of whirling static and the harsh roar of white noise filled the room. In that moment, with absolute conviction, Dean knew there was someone else in the room with them. His skin crawled under the force of their unseen gaze.
"Cas?" he called, mortified by the tremor in his voice. He called the name again even though deep down he already knew it wasn't his angelic friend.
A pressure built up in his face followed by wetness on his upper lip. His arm felt slow and heavy, like moving through treacle as he brought his hand up to wipe at his nose. He stared down at the crimson smear of blood across his fingers. Considering the injuries he'd both seen and endured in the past, he wondered at how much this simple sight turned his stomach.
He collapsed back into the couch, slumping next to his still motionless brother. He felt boneless, his body no longer under his control.
There were figures now, moving in the room yet he knew they'd been there waiting, watching for some time. His eyes struggled to focus on them, his mind rejecting what he saw. They were thin-limbed with large heads and huge eyes the solid-black color of demons. While short, they yet loomed over him and only his immobility prevented him from recoiling in terror.
It was Sam that seemed to hold their attention. They clustered around him probing and poking at him with what looked like long, thin, knitting needles. Another creature, similar in appearance but taller than the others, stood in the center of the room. Their exchanging conversation consisted solely of clicks but nonetheless conveyed their state of agitation.
Whatever they want, it's not Sam, he thought with relief.
As one they turned and regarded him.
"Dean?"
At a firm touch on his shoulder, Dean jolted with a yelp, half-rising from the couch. Sam stared back at him with an amused smile. The room was empty apart from the two of them, the TV now off and the lights back to their usual dim level.
"Did... did something happen?" asked Dean.
"Yeah, you snoring your way through the final act! Come on, sleepyhead, let's get you to bed," ordered Sam, pulling Dean to his feet.
Was I dreaming? He struggled to recall any details from the evening - he couldn't even remember what movie they'd been watching - but he couldn't shake the sense of imminent danger. Dazed, Dean allowed himself to be maneuvered back to his room. Anxiety pooling in his stomach, he paused at the threshold and instead turned to his brother.
Snorting, Sam pushed open the door and gave Dean a playful shove into the room. "Sweet dreams."
The door slammed shut behind Dean before he could answer.
~#~
Sam paused midway through tying his shoes while mentally cataloging the topics for the day's research, surprised by the unexpected visitor who had slipped into his room.
"Morning," he called to his brother. "You okay?" he asked. He didn't hold out much hope for a truthful answer, Dean hadn't seemed quite himself for a couple of weeks, but it was important to ask nonetheless. His brother was a complicated knot of emotions wrapped in a thick, protective shell that took time and effort to get through. He just had to keep probing until he eventually got an answer.
Dean grunted. "Couldn't sleep" he added, his voice rough. As he shuffled his way past a mirror he shrieked and leaped away from his reflection. Sam chuckled at his brother's embarrassment. The laughter faded as Dean stepped up to the mirror and examined his reflection closely.
"For a moment I thought it was someone else," Dean muttered, poking at his face as if it was the first time he'd seen it.
Dean turned away from the mirror, trying to bury the shiver of dread his reflection had provoked. It was like the face of an enemy, it made no sense. He was about to speak to Sam when the words died on his lips.
His brother was leaning forward, tying his shoes, revealing the back of his neck normally hidden by his too-long hair.
Three dots.
He reached out, his fingers hovering over the three sore spots, arranged in a triangle, on the back of his brother's neck. They could've been insect bites... or injection marks.
He's bearing their mark; he must be in league with them.
Dean shoved Sam, hard enough to send him tumbling to the floor. "It's you that's doing this to me," he railed. "They always said you were wrong, an abomination. You've finally gone dark side."
Sam reared back, wide-eyed in shock with his arms raised to protect himself from any further blows. "After all we've been through? How can you say that? For all your talk of family, it's still always your way or the highway, isn't it?"
"You're right! I'm sorry," Dean begged, pacing to and fro while rubbing his hands through his untidy hair. "I'm sorry. I just... I don't know what... what to do... to think... anymore."
Sam strode from the room and Dean scurried along after, barely able to keep up. "Wait, please... please don't leave me," Dean whined. "Where... where are you going?"
"To get the help we both need," Sam shouted over one shoulder, not stopping.
~#~
Rowena collapsed into giggles as Dean had put his head around the door only to retreat like a scalded cat at what he'd seen.
"You could've kept your voice down," grumbled Sam.
"Well, you should've locked the door," replied Rowena, not the least concerned.
"I was distracted."
"I should bloody hope so," snorted Rowena.
"He's... not been well," Sam explained.
"He's certainly traumatized now after seeing your hairy great arse." She rolled her eyes at his unimpressed expression. "Don't blame me... the ritual works best when the casters are naked. You're the one that wanted to keep it a secret, what's he supposed to think we're doing?" She raised an eyebrow and cleared her throat. "What we could be doing..."
She was met with crossed arms and stony silence.
"Okay, okay. Let me see if I can sense his aura now, then."
She recited some unintelligible words and waved her arms around in a spell that culminated in a small ball of light that underwhelmingly hovered in place before slowly fading away. "That was not your brother," she breathed in an exaggerated, theatrical manner.
Sam paled and his eyes widened. Rowena could almost see his hair stand on end as he jumped to his feet. She laughed with delight at Sam's obvious physical reaction. "Och, I'm just messing with you. He's not under any curse or dark influence. And there's no such thing as aliens, you big silly."
Sam, still flushed red and breathing heavily, nodded his understanding.
Rowena felt an unusual stab of pity. "With all we've seen, don't you think we'd have known by now if there was?" she added kindly, bopping Sam on the nose.
She pulled on her dress, wrinkling her nose but deciding she'd shower later. "A pleasure as always Samuel," she said with a wink, collecting the rest of her things while admiring the view. "Thanks for the loan of the books; I'll return them next time."
Sam shrugged. It was clear he was lost in more important thoughts.
Rowena sighed. When did I become so soft-hearted? "Your brother needs help, but it's not against wee, little green men."
~#~
They're in the room again. Dean couldn't see them but he still knew they were there. It was as if a great weight had been placed on his chest, constricting his breathing. As before, all he could move was his eyes. Instinctively, he glanced over to the closet which stood with one door slightly ajar.
He could see the huge, opaque black eyes staring back at him.
Without warning he was floating up from the bed, the covers slipping to the floor. He knew without being told, without questioning the knowledge, that the watcher was controlling him.
Another figure, taller than the first, stood in the doorway and guided him out. Never had those long, cold, tiled corridors seemed more like a hospital albeit he was traveling without the benefit of a gurney.
The lights above passed by faster and faster until they merged into one single, bright light encompassing his gaze. The light level dropped and he knew he was somewhere, elsewhere.
He cringed with embarrassment on noticing his nakedness. A brief glance down his body revealed he'd been stripped of not only his clothes but also his anti-possession tattoo, which only compounded his sense of vulnerability. He was laid out on a cold, hard, metal surface under a single spotlight, the rest of his surroundings shrouded in shadow. Straps came out of the table and wrapped around his wrists, ankles, neck, and forehead. He could feel their bite as they pulled tight, but he still couldn't move.
He could just make out the waiting figures in the periphery of his vision. Waiting... watching...
There was something wrong with the air, his chest heaved and his lungs burned as he gasped for breath.
As if that was the signal they were waiting for, the figures moved closer, one dragging a long flexible pipe behind it, until they were crowded around him. They didn't seem real, their three-fingered hands looked... artificial. Long, thin fingers gripped his jaw, pulled back his lips, and forced their way into his mouth. And then suddenly it seemed all too real.
He tried to bite at them, but he was too weak and they pried his jaw further open. Pushing harder, they forced the hose passed his teeth and into his mouth. There it seemed to come alive and under its own volition wormed its bruising way down into his throat unheeding of his uncontrollable gagging.
The tube brought fresh oxygen to his lungs and, now able to breathe, he regained some slight control back over his body and threw himself against his restraints. Through tear-streamed eyes, he watched in shocked, terrified, anticipation as another, taller, figure approached brandishing a long, thin, dark grey, metal rod. It pointed it at him and leveled the needle-like device at his face, positioning it just under his left nostril. With no prior warning, the needle was thrust hard and fast into his nose, he could feel it grating against bone as it slid all the way into his head. The pain was intense and fierce, exploding white hot behind his eyes and he screamed in excruciating agony, certain he was dying or brain-damaged beyond any chance of recovery.
Then, like the flick of a switch, the world and pain receded to a distant concern. Relaxed and docile, he sank back, unconcerned and waiting for whatever might happen next.
A second tall creature joined the first. A fierce light emitted from the needle it held and it passed the device over Dean's body from his sternum all the way down to his crotch. The skin separated in a smooth cut like a hot knife through butter with only the faintest whiff of burning flesh. Even in his mellow state, Dean swallowed convulsively and tried not to think of his time in Hell. Those memories had been well buried and bringing those screaming to the fore wasn't going to help.
He was amazed at his own surface calm - and whatever it was they had done to pacify him - but he could still sense a part of him trapped and screaming like another presence in his own mind. His eyes caught the gaze of the nearest creature and it stared back at him, cold and alien in every sense of the word. Unlike Hell, there was no malice here, just the dispassionate disregard of a vivisectionist disassembling an insect. The creature turned back to the gaping wound, Dean, or more accurately the mind behind the body, otherwise now dismissed from its attention.
The creatures reached into his body, rummaging around within his chest cavity, pausing every once in a while to make further incisions. Dean was sure that he could feel their hands on his internal organs.
Still robbed of his emotions, he reacted with intellectual horror and disbelief as they lifted out what looked like a lung. After careful inspection, they casually tossed it to one side where it lay red and glistening in the dim light. The trapped part of Dean's mind gibbered and couldn't help but quip, "I never should've bothered to quit smoking."
The relief from the joke was short-lived as other organs followed. He couldn't understand how they were keeping him alive. At first they seemed pleased with his heart, but in the end, that too was cast aside where it pulsed for several seconds before falling still. It was only as they drew out the never-ending rope of his intestines, like some macabre parody of a magical act, that it finally got too much and he succumbed to the merciful embrace of unconsciousness.
~#~
Sam leaned back against the counter and watched with increasing concern as his brother shuffled in.
Running a hand through greasy, disheveled hair, Dean grabbed a bottle from the depths of one of the cupboards before slumping down at the kitchen table. Pulling the loose robe tighter around himself with one hand he poured himself a generous measure of whiskey with the other.
"Booze for breakfast?" asked Sam, his voice soft as he tried not to show the depth of his disappointment. "You were doing so well."
Dean raised the glass in mock salute, before knocking it back. "I've not been well for a while," he rasped.
Sam nodded as he took in Dean's pale, sunken visage and eyes so dark-rimmed that they could've been mistaken for bruises. He crossed the room and sat beside his brother, laying his hands on Dean's thin, bony shoulders. "Whatever this is, we'll get through it," he urged. "We've faced worse odds before."
Dean closed his eyes, a tear escaping to track down his face. For one brief moment, he let his head drop forward to rest on Sam's hand. He shrugged Sam away, and stood, pushing back his chair wincing at the loud grating noise it made against the floor. He shook his head. "How can we win against whatever this is? Can't you see they've already won?"
"You have to fight this," Sam urged.
"They're in my body, they're in my head. They can do whatever they want to me and I can't stop them," said Dean in a voice that wavered from hysterical laughter to sobbing and back again.
"You're just tired," said Sam, guiding his brother back to the chair. In some ways the uncharacteristic, docile way Dean allowed himself to be seated was almost worse, but then Sam was no longer sure what to say, or think, or do. He was horrified by Dean's rapid descent into madness. "This isn't you," he urged.
Dean stared at him in shocked, wide-eyed silence. " Maybe it isn't me," he said in a bare whisper at long last.
He gazed down at his hands, his eyes caught by the gentle play of light through the half-empty bottle he still held. In that instant, he was overwhelmed by visions - no, memories -of being surrounded by dozens upon dozens of man-sized, glass tanks all filled with water and illuminated with a shimmering, greenish-blue light.
He was in a tank too. It was full of liquid, too viscous to be water, but whatever it was he could still breathe. Through the distortion of the glass, he could see the other tanks each contained a floating, growing body at different stages of maturity. Some seemed aware and stared back at him.
They all look like me.
Heart hammering, he turned away from their terrifying gazes, spinning around within the confines of the tank. On the other side of the room, he could see there's a table. Someone, something is crouched over it doing things, horrifying things, and he couldn't bring himself to look. I won't look.
On the table it's him, Dean, cut open... writhing.
The figure looked up at him...
"You're right, it isn't," Dean said with a horrified expression, back to reality once more. "I'm not sure I even remember who I am anymore. They've replaced the old me and I'd not even noticed. Would you? And who else is there who would know or care?" he narrowed his eyes at Sam, getting up and backing away until he was pressed against the doorframe and the furthest distance away across the room from his brother. "They could've replaced you too and how would I know?"
Sam frowned, struggling to follow his brother's increasingly agitated rambling.
"Listen, you're overwrought," said Sam, holding out his hands, palm out, in a placating gesture. "I get you've not been sleeping and that's... that's never good. Listen, things always seem worse when you're tired. I've asked Jody and the girls to cover hunting for us, so we've got no place to be. Why don't you go try and get some sleep?"
Dean darted forward and grabbed the whiskey bottle. He raised it to his lips and took a long pull.
"They're in my dreams too," he snorted, before turning and shuffling from the room, bottle in hand.
~#~
Sam leaned forward with his elbows resting on the table and held his head in his hands. He was at his wit's end. And, falling ever further into his fantastical insanity, apparently so too was his brother.
He rubbed at the tension in the back of his neck, his thoughts interrupted on feeling a small, but unexpected pain. There were three of what felt like insect bites on his neck. Odd, I've not been out.
Rubbing a little harder he felt a small, hard lump, like a grain of rice, beneath his skin.
His skin prickled. During his ill-fated settling down phase with Amelia, she'd insisted they chip Riot so if he ever ran off or, God forbid, got hit by a car again, there would be a way to identify who he belonged to. That had felt much the same in the scruff of the dog's neck.
Sam wondered who he now belonged to.
~#~
Sam hammered on Dean's door. "I'm not going away until you open up," he shouted, pounding harder. After a moment there was the sound of the lock turning, the door opened and his brother peered out gazing at him with open suspicion.
"How drunk are you?" demanded Sam.
"Not drunk enough," snorted Dean turning his back. Sam grabbed him by the arm and yanked him hard enough to make him stumble back to the door.
He thrust a first-aid kit into Dean's hands which was probably all that stopped him from getting a punch in the face for his trouble. "I need you to cut something out of my neck," Sam demanded. He knew how crazy he sounded, but he had to know.
Dean's anger faded to open-mouthed shock and he nodded.
It was almost too easy, with a sharp scalpel and the pellet so near to the surface of the skin. A few painful moments later Dean placed a blood-soaked, silver fragment in his palm.
Sam stared at the odd piece of metal in wonder, then back at his brother. "I guess it wouldn't be much of a surprise to say I now believe there's something strange going on," he said, his voice shaking.
Dean let out a large breath of relief but shook his head. "Thanks, but it doesn't change what I said before."
"You can do this. They can't break you," urged Sam.
Dean looked pained. "They don't have to, I'm already broken. Thirty years on the rack in Hell was enough."
"You managed to get over it."
Dean looked bleak. "No, the cracks were always there. All I did was paper over them."
Sam's eyes narrowed and the muscles in his jaw tightened. "Yeah, but this time we're in it together."
~#~
When they first arrived it was to all the usual organized chaos of trying to secure a public crime scene.
"Explain to me why we're here," complained Dean, with an uncomfortable look around. "I'm sure someone's going to recognize us; we're practically on our own doorstep," he hissed.
"Exactly," said Sam. "I've been scanning police broadcasts for the past couple of nights and there have been several of reports of strange lights across the state. This time they're also reporting a fatality. It seemed too close to be a coincidence."
"Okay, let's do this," agreed Dean, flexing his shoulders back and easing into the usual fake persona. I shoulda been an actor.
They'd barely introduced themselves to the state troopers when the harried officer notionally in charge visibly blanched on seeing Dean. He escorted them to the body personally before leaving with a murmured condolence.
Confused, Sam and Dean picked their way nearer to the body that lay bent and twisted, surrounded by a dark pattern burned into the road surface. With the victim face down, the white shirt stained red with deep claw marks down its back was on show for all to see. The claw size and shape was reminiscent of those of a hellhound. Sam forced himself to look closer, noticing minor discrepancies in the tear pattern.
"Angel?" asked Dean. Sam thought he seemed a bit out of sorts, but assumed he was trying to stay stoic in the face of a too-personal demise by fixating on the unusual burn marks around the body.
"No, those aren't like any wings I've ever seen. It looks more like an outline," noted Sam, trying to comfort himself by focusing on just the facts of the case. It was a technique doomed to failure as he turned the body over, revealing a torn-out chest cavity.
"Dean," he cried as he caught a glimpse of the corpse's face.
It looked just like his brother.
Memories from years ago overwhelming him, Sam reached out and grabbed Dean by the arm as much to stop the world from spinning as to reassure himself his brother was still in one piece. He'd have gone for a hug - And, boy, when did I become this touch-starved? - but he was intimidated by Dean's impassive, nonchalant expression. It's as if he doesn't care. No. It's like he somehow already knew.
Dean nudged him in the ribs. "Uh-oh, looks like the Feds are here," he said under his breath, discreetly tilting his head towards the black-suited figures.
As if on cue and walking in step with an odd, stiff-legged gait, the pair of agents approached. They were a man and woman, attractive in a plastic-like, catalog model sort of way and immaculately, if somberly, dressed. Sam was struck by the similar look about them; they could have passed as siblings.
Four sets of federal badges were flashed.
"I'm Agent Fisher," said the woman, her tone cold and unwelcoming. "And this is Agent Hamill," she added, indicating her partner.
"Agents Mulder and Scully," replied Dean with a faint smirk.
Sam, as always, scowled at the moniker even though it was no surprise as he already carried the ID in his pocket. He cleared his throat. "So what have we got?"
"Agents, we're already assigned to this case, there's no need to concern yourselves," said Fisher.
"And yet, here we are," said Dean, his wide smile not making it to his eyes.
Sam braced himself for the inevitable questions about the local field office, but none was forthcoming. He couldn't put his finger on a specific reason but there was something off about them.
A noise to one side had everyone distracted and they all turned to the cause. What appeared to be a third agent made a hasty retreat from the angry barking of one of the canine unit's tracker dogs.
He approached the group and again Sam pondered on a vague family resemblance; he could've been a younger brother to the other agents. However, he seemed somehow... looser... more animated than the others but there was still something a little off about him too.
Case in point, the agent gave an embarrassed grin and rubbed the back of his neck, before holding out a badge. "Sam, Dean," he nodded in turn, somehow already knowing who they were. "I'm Agent Ford," he added, introducing himself with a wide smile, his eyes crinkling as if to some private joke.
With an odd chill, Sam was struck by how much they all looked like Dean.
"You need to back off," growled Fisher. "This is our investigation, agents." Sam had the strong sense she was addressing this to Agent Ford as much to him and Dean.
"Hey, we're all on the same side," said Sam, holding his hands out, palms up. There was an awkward silence as everyone acknowledged that this wasn't the case. Sam dropped his hands with a sigh. "Well, don't we at least all want to find out what happened?"
"Sometimes in life, you don't get all the answers," said Hamill. His disdain for the brothers was as clear as Fisher's and no less cold. "Sometimes things just go away on their own," he added with a significant glare at the Winchesters.
As words go they weren't much, but Sam had never felt so intimidated by someone purporting to be an official. There was something innately intimidating about the pair.
"But, sometimes things just take care of themselves," said Ford, with a more conciliatory tone, "as someone flies in to save the day." With a hand on the small of each of their backs, he started to guide the brothers in the direction of their car.
To his surprise, Sam found himself following along without complaint.
"You can't just..." said Dean.
"Oh, we can," Ford interrupted in a voice like steel. "Besides, our badges are not fake," he smiled, all Mr. Nice Guy again in an instant. "Plus, there's a certain level of scrutiny that we'd all prefer to avoid. I'm sure you agree?"
"So, you know what you're dealing with?" asked Dean, his voice harsh.
"I'm certain we'll come to a suitable conclusion... in time," said Ford. "Unless you wanted to fill us in? You know, save some lives?"
Dean sighed. "Werewolf." He exchanged a quick, questioning glance with Sam who nodded his agreement. "A big one, too."
"Excuse me?" asked Hamill.
"Turns hairy and howls at the moon?" Dean quipped before turning serious. "You can tell by the claw pattern, not to mention the clincher that it ate the victim's heart."
"It is unfortunate he was not able to adequately defend himself," said Hamill.
"Disappointing," concurred Fisher.
Sam raised an eyebrow at the harsh assessment. "Well, they are only really vulnerable to silver." At the blank look that earned him, he clarified. "In this case, the legends are true; a silver bullet through the heart to kill them."
The three agents nodded in agreement as if to some silent communication.
"Not dissimilar to what we've got at home," said Fisher, her voice pitched low.
"Hardly in the same league," scoffed Hamill.
"But it gives an insight, yes?" said Ford, ever the mediator, with a quick aside wink to Sam and Dean.
"We should take them in for further interrogation," stated Fisher. The threat was palpable.
"I don't think that's necessary," smoothed Ford. "At our core, our goals are not dissimilar. Perhaps one day we might even work together?"
Hamill snorted while Fisher looked offended.
"You have to forgive Ford, he's... new," sneered Hamill. Without another word he turned and followed Fisher back to the body.
Ford waited, watching them leave before continuing the guided walk back to the car. He stumbled into Sam as they negotiated the police tape cordoning off the scene. "Sorry," he apologized. "Growth spurt - I've recently gained some height," he explained with a disingenuous smile. He came to a stop beside the Impala and reached out a hesitant, reverential hand that glided across the paintwork. He looked up at Sam and added, "Although, I don't think I could've coped being as tall as you."
"You're hunters?" interrupted Dean.
They exchange a complex look, so brief Sam would have missed it if he hadn't trained himself to spot micro expressions, even though he couldn't decipher it.
"Of a sort," said Ford, his expression dropping to something more guarded. "You've already been more help than you can imagine, but it's time we parted ways."
"What aren't you telling us?" asked Sam,
"Isn't it enough for you to already have one world to protect?" asked Ford cryptically. Again his tone hardened, "Now go before my associates change their mind about letting you."
~#~
Having welded the last piece of metal sigil back into place, Sam pulled off his eye goggles and wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Well, that's fixed," he declared with a wry smile. "For whatever it's worth since we still don't know what it's supposed to protect us from."
Dean hovered looking on unhappily, although, given he'd been sleeping the last couple of nights, he looked much healthier. "Still wish we knew what they were, or what they wanted," he complained. "Or even where they're from."
Sam paused with a constipated expression. "Uranus?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. He was overjoyed to hear his brother's burst of laughter.
"Let's celebrate," said Dean, "I'll go get us something to eat. Maybe that new deli you mentioned?"
"I'll come with. There's safety in numbers, right?" Sam said, recognizing it for the olive branch it was.
Given it was early afternoon, the roads were clear of traffic so the drive was brief. But when Dean pulled up outside a boarded-up diner it was clear it had been closed for several months.
"There's no new deli," said Sam with a sinking feeling of dread. He could never have come here after his last grocery run, despite what his memory claimed.
He rubbed absently at his palm, wincing at the pain from a cut long-since healed.
Dean, seated beside him and barely visible against the night sky, was as motionless as a statue.
Sam glanced down at his hand, illuminated by the too-bright headlights passing overhead, but there was no wound.
In the distant, dark woods an owl hooted.
THE END
"Could you be the devil? Could you be an angel? ... It's supernatural. Extraterrestrial" - 'E.T.', Katy Perry