THE STAGES OF GRIEF
Summary: Sam had someone to help him through the loss of Dean, someone who too had just lost a brother - Dean Winchester.
Notes: This story is in five parts, and takes place in the SPN world during season 3.
Stage IV – Depression
(a.k.a. Being Left Alone with Your Thoughts)
It was pure luck that Sam happened to stumble upon the marionette the way he did. Though to be accurate, it was less of a 'stumble upon' and more of a 'run over'.
After Dean had departed for what was presumably his own reality, Sam was left with nothing but his thoughts. And while they originally sifted through the 'crazy for some, normal for us' absurdity of running into his brother's doppelganger, it quickly dissolved back into the melancholic state that he was in before Dean had shown up in the first place. Dean was gone, and he was 'moping', as Bobby had called it.
Though the man had claimed – on more than one occasion – to have loved Dean like a son, Sam just couldn't believe that his brother's loss would have affected Bobby as much as it had him. They were brothers; they'd spent most of their lives together. They'd saved each others' asses more than once (and if Sam had to think on it, he'd realise that it was usually Dean doing the saving), and they could argue with a glance. Sam used to think there were two constants in his life; his brother and his father. Since his father's death nearly two years ago, Sam was left with Dean. And now that they were both gone, Sam felt like he was a ship without an anchor, floating along in life. His brother helped ground him, he was the post by which he measured life – whether it was as someone he wanted to be, or admittedly in some cases, what he didn't want to be. He was his yardstick, his best friend. His brother. Bobby, for all his avuncular affections, didn't have that. So in Sam's mind, he couldn't possibly fathom how hard his brother's death had affected him.
It was during these ruminations that Sam had driven down the road on autopilot, and consequently missed the small figure that had skittered across the road at that moment. When he felt something go under the tires he slammed on the brakes.
Fearing he'd run over an animal or worse, a small child, he'd leapt from the car without his gun, which was still on the passenger seat. In hindsight he'd realise that was actually a good thing considering how ineffective it was the last time, and running around a suburban street toting a gun wouldn't go down well.
After taking two rapid steps from the car he'd slowed to a halt. There was nothing there. The road was empty except for... was that a shoe? Some poor kid had lost a shoe? Sam felt a quick pang of sympathy; he knew what that was like.
As he got closer, he noticed that it was made of wood, and not only was it a shoe, but a foot as well. He spun around, his eyes skimming the houses and yards for any sign of movement. Minutes went by before Sam realised that the marionette wouldn't have to move at all. It didn't have muscles that would get stiff, and it didn't need to breathe. It could wait in its hiding place until Sam gave up and left. Which meant that Sam had to go looking for it.
Not wanting to give away his plan too soon, Sam stayed where he was and calculated possibly hiding spots. The house on the left was out; it was too far from the kerb and had an empty lawn. The marionette couldn't have made it there with only one foot in the time it took Sam to get out of the car. The house next to it had a tall picket fence that Pinocchio couldn't climb mono-limbed, and the gate was shut. Sam casually turned to the other side of the street.
The lot opposite the picket fence was empty, and a 'for sale' sign was plunked in the middle of wild grass. It was possible that it was hiding in there somewhere. Sam checked the last house just in case. It was a mirror of its opposing building; house far back, wide lawn. But it also had a row of trees down the side, and a bush next to the brick letterbox.
Sam turned his head back to the empty lot and pretended to search it whilst his mind considered the bush. It was close, possibly the closest point of cover from the street, and could easily fit a small child, even a wooden one. He took two steps towards both the lot and house when he stopped. There was one other hiding place that was the closest to the street, because it was on the street.
Grateful no one was around to witness his stupidity, he spun around and lowered himself to the ground under the car in one fluid movement. He hadn't taken into account that just because he couldn't see the marionette, it didn't necessarily mean it couldn't see him, and consequently be ready for Sam's sneak-attack, which it was.
When Sams' head appeared under the car, the marionette lashed out with its other foot; catching Sam in the eye. It then ducked out along the side and ran over to his injured leg, stomping on it with its shoeless one. Using the moment of pain as a distraction, the marionette limped for cover.
A short cry escaped Sam at the flare of pain in his leg, but he overcame it quickly (years of practice). He swept out his other freakishly long limb and caught the marionette. As it stumbled, Sam leaned over and snatched it up by its remaining foot.
Dangling upside down, the marionette's mouth opened and closed in soundless cries before it reached up and clamped its maw around Sam's wrist. Reflexively, Sam swung his arm into the trunk of the car in an effort to detach it without letting go of its leg. However being wooden it didn't feel any pain, and only served to leave a noticeable dint in the Impala.
As the marionette's grip tightened, Sam felt more than heard the breaking of the bones in his wrist. He grit his teeth to stem the cry of pain and grudgingly let go.
The marionette made it all the way to the ground before Sam kicked it over face-first and then stood on its back. Unfortunately not being human, its arms had the ability to work just as well backwards as forwards, and Sam had to stumble back to the car – grinding the marionette along the road with his foot – and grab the bag in the passenger seat before it could properly latch onto his ankle.
He picked Pinocchio up by the neck this time and quickly stuffed him into the bag. With a little pain in closing the zip (both hands were needed), he finally tossed it into the trunk along with its missing foot.
He hopped back into the car and rang Bobby. 'I got it, any ideas on how to get rid of it?'
'One. Meet me at Chicago, and bring the box.'
Sam clicked the phone shut and started the engine. The low rumbling from the front did nothing to quell the ceaseless thumps coming from the back, and Sam decided to turn on the stereo. Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven started halfway through and Sam immediately turned it off. This was Dean's music. Truth be told, it was actually his Dad's music, but Sam long ago stopped associating it with him. It seemed the only time it was his father's music was when Sam was criticising Dean's lack of individuality. Why did he do that? Sam grew increasingly despondent as he started to recall all the negative things he'd said to or about his brother, especially since he'd rejoined him. It was only when a particularly loud thump came from the trunk that he snapped out of his musings long enough to register the world around him.
Not wanting to pursue his previous train of thought he decided to listen to some music. His hand made it halfway to the dial when he stopped, recalling the vicious cycle he had just fallen into. He needed to do something about the car tunes.
The thumping – as annoying as it was – ultimately helped as it was erratic enough that it prevented Sam from wandering back down Depression Lane.
When he pulled up at the locker, the back was suspiciously quiet. He went around and made sure the lock hadn't opened whilst he was driving and then went inside, confident that it was still in the trunk.
The first thing he noticed was that the door was still open and made a note to close it on his way out. The second thing he noticed was the mirror, standing in the middle of the room like a beacon. Sam made his way over to it, a slither of hope shining through.
Unfortunately when he was close enough, all he saw was his own reflection staring back at him. He walked around to the back for some sort of switch but found nothing. It was most likely controlled by the remote Stanson had. He looked around for it before the thought came to him; they probably took it with them.
A few moments of intense staring proved that the mirror wouldn't turn on by sheer willpower, and Sam turned away to look for the marionette's case. When he got back to the car he checked again to make sure that it hadn't escaped, before tossing the case in the backseat and driving away.
Most of his thoughts kept straying back to the other Dean, and what he might be up to. For all they had talked, Sam didn't actually find out much about his brother. He heard a story of an upbringing he'd never had, but no hint of his brother's current exploits. More specifically, the exploits that would result in him arriving in an alternate reality and not being phased by both that and the idea of a living marionette. Sure, he'd seemed a little hesitant at first, but his Dean had the same reaction to vampires, and he'd been hunting for years. Whatever he was doing, it obviously had something to do with the supernatural. Sam wondered if they military had a division allocated to deal with such things, which led to him wondering if they had one in this universe as well. If so, they could have signed up and saved themselves a lot of trouble with the police.
The rest of Sam's journey was spent ignoring the stray thoughts about his brother by contemplating the concept of hunting, not only legally, but being paid to as well. After all they'd been through, he could definitely use the dental.
.-.-.
When he got to Chicago some hours later, Bobby gave him directions to a crematorium. He parked outside and was greeted in the usual way, 'Nice shiner ye go there.'
Sam glared. Well, as much as he could considering his eye had started to swell. He tossed Bobby the keys and fetched the case. 'So what's the plan?'
Bobby noticed that Dean was absent but didn't say anything. 'From what I've read, there shouldn't be any reason it wouldn't be vulnerable to fire. We just have to make sure it stays there long enough to burn. Last thing we want is a pissed-off, flaming, cursed puppet on our hands.'
Sam dropped the box next to Bobby and tenderly prodded his wrist. 'You had to fly back to South Dakota to figure that out?'
Bobby levelled him a look. 'No. I had to fly back to find this.' He held up a book. 'This has the binding spells used on the case. We set them again and it won't be able to get out until it's too late.'
Sam nodded. 'Okay, then let's do it.'
'You mean 'me',' Bobby sarcastically replied as he opened the book to the marked page and retrieved a sharpie from his pocket. While he was going over the lines in the order required, he sent Sam off to unlock the doors to the crematorium.
When he finished, he straightened up and adjusted his cap. It didn't escape his notice that Sam had yet to return. He followed Sams' footsteps to the crematorium and called out for him. When no reply was forthcoming, he swore and pulled out his gun.
A quick sweep of the place revealed no evidence out of the ordinary, and no sign of Sam either. Bobby flipped open his phone.
'I'm sorry, but this number is unavailable at the moment...'
With no leads and no idea where to start looking, Bobby returned to the Impala and shoved a struggling marionette back into its case before sending it to its fiery end, all the while wondering what had happened to the younger Winchester.
When the job was done, he swept the building one final time before finding a clue that was more of a hindrance than a help: sulphur.
And then his phone rang.
Stage IV/A – Crash
The timing was too perfect to be a coincidence, so when Bobby heard his phone ring he scanned the area, straightened his shoulders and fixed his gruffest, 'I'm not taking any of your shit' voice into the mouthpiece. 'Yeah?'
...Then thanked every deity that may/may not exist that no one was around to see he'd answered the wrong phone.
Growling, he flipped his shut and fumbled through his pocket to locate John's old cell. He placed it to his ear with no small amount of frustration. 'What?'
'Hello, uh, Bobby, is it?...'
'Dean?' The name tumbled out, and Bobby was thankful that the reply gave his mind enough time to catch up to the present.
'Yeah. Look, I was wondering if we could talk...'
'We are talking, boy.'
'Right, right. I meant in a face-to-face sense.'
Bobby sighed. Even though he sounded the same, this was not the Dean Bobby knew. For all his ease with the paranormal, Bobby would bet he had little to no knowledge on the subject of demons. Which meant little to no help in finding Sam. And the last thing Bobby needed was a hole in the head or blade in the gut because he was looking out for a reminder of the past. 'Look, now's not really a good time.'
'Yeah, about the puppet thing – we want to help.'
'The marionette's been taken care of.'
There was a slight pause as muffled conversation took place on the other end of the line. 'He said the puppet's dust.'
'That was an easy mission. Let's pack it up then – I can make it home in time for some quality programming.'
'Did Daniel Jackson not wish to inspect the contents of the locker?'
'Right, right. Of course he did. Dean, you reckon you could tee that up with Robby?'
'Bobby.'
'Same difference.'
'Right.' The muffling ended. 'Hey, Bobby...'
Bobby wished he could cut him short, say he didn't have time for this and hang up. That Sam could be in perilous danger and that Dean was holding him up. But the truth was, Bobby didn't have any leads – no how, no why (well they were demons, Bobby supposed they didn't need one), and more importantly, no where. And if Bobby were to admit to himself, he didn't want to hang up on him. So he sat through the background conversation and answered when it finally came back to him.
'Listen, we've got a bit of a problem here. I need you to haul ass to Chicago as fast as you can, I'll explain the details when you get here.' No need to tell him about Sam just yet, Bobby decided. Premature worrying wouldn't help anyone.
There was a pause. 'We can be there in nine hours.'
'Good.' Bobby hung up a shifted his cap. He wasn't the Dean he knew, but he was a Dean. And that sure as hell was better than nothing.
Now, Bobby needed to find some more information so he wasn't umming and uhhing like some gawky schoolboy when Dean showed up.
.-.-.
The first thing he noticed when he woke up was that the surroundings weren't familiar. The second thing he noticed was that his head wasn't hurting from the usual blow that signified how he had been caught. The third contradicted both the first and the second in the form of thick, tight ropes that bound him to chair.
'Well look who's finally awake.'
Sam sighed. Demons then.
He looked across the empty warehouse to the figure that stepped under the dimmed overhanging light. She was in her early twenties; brunette and adorable would be the only way to describe her. But the hellspawn that was currently riding her body made her demeanour something just so other that it was hard to buy into her innocent act.
She stopped in front of Sam, and turned her head to the side ever so slightly. 'It's been a while, Sam.'
Sam wasn't really in the mood to go through the motion with some demon, he had a lot on his mind as it was. He decided to get it over with as soon as possible. 'Am I supposed to know you?' He drawled.
She pouted. 'You don't remember me? I'm so cut Sam. And I went to all this trouble to arrange this meeting in one of our most memorable places.'
'A warehouse?' Sam mocked.
She just smiled and encouraged him to, 'Think bigger.'
Earth was probably a little too big to think, but aside from that, he had no idea where he was outside of the warehouse. They could have taken him anywhere.
Which would make this game moot. So where was he last? 'Chicago.' And it clicked. 'Meg.'
'Aww now see, you do remember.' Yeah, that smile was starting to get creepy.
'How did you find me?' It was a stupid question to ask, but Sam was curious and it slipped out before he could stop himself.
'Oh, I've been tracking you for a while now, Sammy boy. Waiting. And then when the opportunity presented itself, I just... couldn't resist.'
'Good for you.' Seriously, what was it about demons and monologuing?
'It was good for me.' Meg swallowed every word of Sam's sarcasm with that cocky grin. She had a card up her sleeve and Sam was getting the impression she was about to play it. 'Poor, grieving Sam – a hopeless wreck. Needing his brother so badly he'll latch onto the first scrap of resemblance he sees.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.' Dean had only been in this reality for a few hours, how the hell did she know about him?
'You sure about that?' She held out a hand, as if gesturing for someone to step forward.
Familiar boots strolled across the floor. They stopped in front of Sam, hidden underneath a pair of khaki military-issue pants.
'Hey Sam,' Dean said.
Sam stared in disbelief, looking for some sort of clue as to what the hell was going on. Dean seemed to notice and gave him his patented you're an idiot look. The his eyes flashed. Happy now?
No, Sam wasn't happy at all. If the Dean before him was a shapeshifter, it raised a lot more questions in Sam's mind, worrisome ones.
Meg smiled at the look on Sam's face. 'He's good, isn't he? Only needed to touch Dean once and ta-da!' She put a hand in his hair, rather like a master with a pet dog.
The shifter rolled his eyes, which just didn't look right to Sam. If anything, it looked like Dean – the shifter – was trying not to flinch.
Sam filed the observation away for later and faced Meg. 'So, what's the plan? You send him back to the other reality, raise a little hell there?'
Meg laughed, loud and hollow. 'You mean you actually bought that whole 'he's really Dean, just from another reality' schtick?' She shook her head. 'Sammy Sam Sam – I thought you were smarter than that.'
Sam smirked. 'Wish I could say the same. Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus-'
A hard punch to the jaw stopped Sam before he could go any further. There was something in the shifters' eyes, but when Sam tried to focus on it, it disappeared under Dean's bored expression.
'Now now, none of that.' Meg waggled her finger at him. 'I'm not going to have to rip your tongue out, now am I?' Her smirk suggested she wasn't adverse to the idea.
'If it was all a trick, then what's the grand plan?' Sam hoped her need to gloat would override her intelligence. If the condescending look she gave him was any indication, he was right.
'There is no grand plan,' she scoffed, 'there is just fun. And right now my fun involves that look on your face when you realise that this was all a lie, and every second you bought into it you left the real Dean dancing the Hell Block Tango; completely forgetting him in favour of the first substitute you could find.
'So tell me Sam, how does it feel?'
'Fine.' Sam bit out. 'Never better.'
Meg's smile widened, distorting her face into a truly terrifying sight. 'Come now Sam, how does it really feel? Tell you what,' she clapped her hands, 'I'll give you some time to think it over. Just you and your thoughts.' She waved the shifter away. After he left, she started to follow him out the door.
'Take all the time you need.'
The second the door shut, Sam tried to find a way out of his ropes. Unfortunately, not being Superman, he was stuck. He looked around for some source of inspiration, anything that would free him, or even distract him from Megs' words bouncing around in his head.
As the seconds drove on, Sam found himself slowly growing desperate in his head to ignore the growing urge to think. There had to be something to – concentrate! – help him (distract him) out of this mess.
Dean would find something.
Sam sighed. Dean wouldn't be finding much of anything, because he was currently in Hell being tortured. And all it took was a likeness to completely divert Sam from his brother's plight.
So tell me Sam, how does it feel?
But it was longer than that. Since Dean had died, Sam had spent two weeks holed up at Bobby's doing nothing to help him. Dean was dead, and Sam let him stay that way.
Come now Sam, how does it really feel?
It felt terrible. Actually it felt worse than terrible. As he tried to discern how he felt he had an epiphany; each and every thought on Dean's life, death, and Sam's role before, after and during the event flew through Sam's mind in an instant. Their speed and force ripping right through Sam's soul with a combined clarity that left a puncture so big that all his emotions tumbled out after it. He was empty. He felt nothing.
As his mind reached that conclusion it shut down, every sense and thought process turned off, his body reflecting his mental state.
He didn't even think to cry.
.-.-.
'Now there's our money shot!' Meg returned to the warehouse sometime later with that ever-present smile.
Sam was oblivious to it. The colour had long drained from his face, and he was barely managing to blink and breathe. His catatonic state had started a good hour before the shifter had returned some time ago.
Said shifter was currently leaning against the far wall, staring at Sam with an unreadable expression. At Meg's entrance, he came to stand next to her in front of Sam.
Meg cocked a head at her victim. 'Bring him back to Earth.'
The shifter crouched down in front of Sam and gave his shoulder a gentle shove. Then gave his face a slap. Then a punch. The shifter then glanced at Meg who offered no instruction. He sighed and looked back at Sam.
'Hey, Sam.'
Sam's head slowly tilted up. 'Dean?' His blurry eyes took in the shifter and then Meg. His brow furrowed as he tried to figure it out. When he did, he resumed staring off into nothing. It was like he didn't care.
Meg did though, and she snaked a hand out to clutch his chin. 'Not so fast, Sammy.'
'What do you want?' The words were dull, rote. Sam wasn't really here, but Meg didn't seem to mind.
'What do I want? That's a good question.' She thought it over. 'I suppose I want you dead. You're already broken, so I can't really see a use for you anymore. Buuuut, I want you to ask for it.' She amended, a spark in her eyes. 'I want you to beg for it. What do you say, Sam? Had enough yet?'
A steady breathing was her only reply.
'That's okay I got time.' She stroked his cheek before leaving this time.
The shifter watched Sam; the concern on his face so very Dean that, if Sam were to have noticed it, he could have been fooled into thinking it was his brother all over again.
.-.-.
'What would a goa'uld want with Sam?'
'Demons, Jack.'
'Same difference.'
'From what Bobby has described, I believe there are several noticeable differences, Colonel O'Neill. The lack of a symbiote, for one.'
'And that is worth mentioning, why?'
'Without a physical entity possessing Sam Winchester, it may be difficult to terminate the creature with a physical weapon.'
'So you're saying we can't shoot him?' Jack looked down at his P90. 'That sucks.'
Dean held up a hand. 'Nobody's shooting anybody.'
'He could shoot us.'
Dean glared at Jack.
'I'm just saying he could... if he had a gun...'
Bobby scrubbed a hand across his face. 'Sam isn't the one possessed, ya idjits.'
Winchester blinked. 'Oh, then I take back the 'no shooting' policy.'
'And I take back... whatever.' Jack added. 'So, how are we supposed to kill this demon?'
'You can't, you can only send it back to Hell.'
'Hell?' Jack echoed.
'Yeah, apparently not just a planet in the Milky Way.'
'Hunh.' Jack and Dean both turned to Bobby. 'So, how does one... exorcise a demon? And is there pea soup involved?'
From the look on Bobby's face, it appeared he appreciated Jack's humour about as much as Dean's. 'Latin.'
'I don't know Latin,' Dean said.
'You don't have to know it, you just have to say it.'
'Okay, how do you say it?'
'Exorcizamus te...'
'Hold on, let me get a pen.' Jack fumbled around in his pockets until he found a small notepad and pen. 'Okay, exorcizamus te – what next?'
Dean thought it just made Bobby all the more awesome that he didn't even blink. 'Omnis immundus spiritus...'
Jack scratched down the words. 'Unclean spirits, check.'
Winchester frowned and leaned over to peer at O'Neill's notepad. He didn't know much about Latin, but if he had to guess he'd say Jack's spelling was eerily accurate. At least for Jack anyway.
'When did you learn Latin?'
'Daniel taught me one day.'
Deans' eyebrows rose. ' "One day"?'
'It was a long day.'
'You girls finished yammerin'?'
They both stopped short at Bobbys' words. Dean looked chastised and Jack inclined his head. 'I am sorry. Please continue.'
Choosing to ignore the comment, Bobby spelled out the rest of the exorcism.
When he finished, Jack flipped the notepad shut and placed it back in its pocket. 'Okay, exorcism done. What else?'
Bobby reached into the Imapala's trunk and handed the men a shotgun each.
'I thought you said we couldn't shoot them?' Dean flipped the barrel open to look inside.
'It's filled with salt – it deters spirits and weakens demons.'
Dean shrugged. 'Yeah, I remember Sam saying something about that.'
Bobby then passed them a flask of holy water.
Jack beat Dean to it this time, 'You serious?'
Bobby just looked at him.
'So what, are we just supposed to throw this on them?'
'You got a better idea?' Bobby challenged.
Jack's mouth hung open as he tried to think of an alternative.
'We don't have time to go buy water pistols,' Dean reminded him.
'I wasn't going to say that.' He looked at Teal'c, 'I wasn't.'
'Okay,' Dean summised, 'holy water, salt, exorcism. Now if that's everything – Where's Sam?'
Bobby was kind of dreading getting to this point.
Stage IV/B – Rock Bottom
A wise person once said that, 'I am my thoughts. If they exist in her, Buffy contains everything that is me and she becomes me. I cease to exist.' Now, while the shapeshifter that was currently calling itself Dean did remember being a nine-year old girl who saw that particular episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the underlying meaning of the sentiment was forgotten in favour of the four flavours of ice cream that were served up for dessert at that particular slumber party, and the way a bubbly brunette named Janet had screamed when her supposed best friend had pushed her off the second story balcony.
Now, if he had given the line some thought, he might interpret it to apply to himself, implying that by taking on the memories of another entity, then those memories would not only define the person with whom they were created, but also the creature that can recall each of them with startling clarity. They would seep into the mind of the being that borrowed them, subtly altering their own persona from the inside out. The memory of how the person walked would unconsciously result in a mimicked gait, for example.
The shapeshifter knew this, and had in fact experienced it on many occasions. What it was currently trying to come to terms with were other memories; memories that were so strong they couldn't be quelled as easily as ones he was accustomed to. He remembered running, running so hard that his legs were past the point of burning and he was uncertain whether or not his next step would be the last he would be able to take – all of it done to prove to his C.O. that he was willing to go that extra mile on a mission. He remembered remaining silent in front of a board of unimpressed members of the IOA, asking why he put a one-point-two million dollar piece of equipment in jeopardy so he could go off on a foolhardy mission to rescue someone when he was strictly ordered not to. He remembered taking a month's leave on P2X-381 to be with Tila, a woman whose name made his heart skip a beat. He remembered taking a bullet for Stanson on more than one occasion, and the resolute willingness to do it again. He remembered all that and more–things that never actually happened to him. Things that he wished had.
Since assuming his form after meeting the owner at a phone shop, the shifter had quickly learned that Dean Winchester was not a man who did things by half. His feelings were often carefully hidden under a mask of indifference, but the raw emotion that lay underneath still raged fiercely. Honour, determination, endurance, love, faith, loyalty – qualities that the shifter knew of but never actually put much stock in – they were all turned up to eleven with Winchester. For the first time in longer than it could remember, the shifter wanted to actually be Dean Winchester, if only to experience these memories firsthand. To understand any and all sensation to its fullest extent and be able to call it living.
Which is why, when it came to the battle of wills currently taking place in the shape-shifter's head, the memories of Dean Winchester were currently winning.
While such an epic clash transpired in one mind, less than twenty metres away the opposite took place. Sam's mind juxtaposed the shifter's puzzled, strained and almost frantic activity in much the same way a barren desert contrasted the bustle of a city. There were no half-constructed thought patterns or flurries of deliberation; just a constant vacuum sucking in despair. It didn't ebb and it didn't flow, it didn't do much of anything except just be, and that was something that Sam found he couldn't take anymore.
'Stop.' His voice was barely a whisper, as though he had shouted himself hoarse and there was nothing left.
Whether she had impeccable timing or the ability to sense when the last of Sam's resolve crumbled was unknown, but Meg chose that moment to stroll back into the warehouse, a cheerful tune whistling through her lips. 'Something tells me today's my lucky day, what do you say Sam, hmm?'
She leaned down in front of him, her neck twisting this way and that as her eyes tried to make contact with his. In a rare moment of lucidity, they connected and Sam spoke.
'Make it... Stop.'
Her eyes lit up and she smiled with a childlike joy. 'Make what stop, Sam?'
'All... All of it.'
'All of what, Sam?'
Unfortunately he was past playing her games, and reverted to repeating 'stop' in slow, haggard breaths.
Meg straightened. 'Well, now you're just no fun.' She turned to the shifter. 'You can kill him now.'
He could, but for some reason, he didn't want to. Instead he asked, 'Don't you want to?'
'Nah, it's not worth it. But you... There's an element of irony in it: being killed by something he hunts, that looks like his brother – it's in there, I'm sure.'
Actually, there wasn't as far as the shifter could tell, but it wasn't about to tell Meg that. The demon possessed a kind of detached insanity that unsettled the shifter. And if he wasn't going to stand up to her on that, he definitely didn't want to tell her that he didn't want to kill Sam. That kind of left him in an awkward position.
'Today, skippy!' She flicked her fingers in a 'come here' gesture, and the shifter felt himself being shoved across the floor towards them.
'Look, I...'
'Dean?'
Standing this close to Sam, his voice had managed to penetrate some layer of Sam's sub-subconscious.
Meg thought this was great, and pulled out a knife. 'Quick, before he realises who you really are.' She tossed it to him.
Who you really are. Who was he really, anymore? He thought he kn-
'Oh, Jesus!' Meg rolled her eyes. 'You want something done right...'
The next thing he saw was black billowing out of the young girl and into him. Normally a shapeshifter had the strength of will to fight off a demon, but considering this one was currently preoccupied with its own internal battle he didn't stand much of a chance.
.-.-.
'Hey, Sammy.'
'Dean?'
'Yeah, it's me.'
'What... What's...'
'It's a long story, I'll explain later. Right now I need you to stand.'
'I... Can't.'
'Oh. Well, that's too bad.'
Enough of the fog had cleared from Sam's mind that he could focus on what was in front of him. His eyes widened in fear.
'No.'
'Don't worry about it Sammy, a few centuries down in the pit and you'll have a bitchin' pair just like me.' Black eyes smiled at him, but the mirth had transformed into something cruel and dark.
Sam didn't register it though. Face to face with his greatest fear, all he could see was those black eyes and what they implied. 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Dean.'
Dean sighed. 'I know. You let me down, Sam. You just left me there.'
'I'm so sorry.' Sam's eyes teared up.
Dean rolled his eyes. 'Dude, you sound like a broken record. At least tell me you tried, geez.'
'I...' Sam fumbled.
'Now that is worth it.' Dean smiled at the look on Sam's face. He raised his blade.
It was only instinct that made Sam lean back when Dean slashed down with the knife. The weapon missed his throat but managed to catch his legs, slicing clean through the jeans and into the flesh.
The pain was a siren in Sam's head. His body jolted back into action, not so much that he felt he could take on ten men (or even five), but enough that he could muster the energy to free himself from the ropes binding him.
'Tsk-tsk, Sam, you're going to bleed all over the floor now.' Dean reared back and kicked the chair, splintering the frame and allowing Sam the wiggle room to escape. 'Not that you wouldn't before.'
Sam looked up at his brother. They way his eyebrow twitched was very unlike Dean. In fact, if he had to put a name to it, he'd say it looked like... Meg.
Sam threw off the last rope and scrambled back. 'You're not Dean.'
''Course I am,' Dean scoffed.
And then it all came back. John's locker/the mirror/the other Dean/shooting Talley/the marionette/Dean leaving/Bobby and the Crematorium in Chicago/waking up in the warehouse/Meg/the shapeshifter. Sam didn't remember much during his comatose state, but he managed to piece it all together.
'What, you have to do everything yourself?' he sneered at her current host.
Meg shrugged. 'Good help is so hard to find these days.'
They circled each other. Meg smirked. 'Gotta say I'm impressed. Not many people come back from that Sammy-o.' She stopped walking. 'Of course, you did crack in the end, so I'm kinda past interest in you now.' She reached a hand out and beckoning him forward. An unseen force started to push Sam towards Meg, and right into the path of the knife she held.
'Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus...'
Suddenly Sam dropped out of the air as Meg stumbled. In one fluid movement, Sam reached out and twisted the blade around, burying it in Meg's stomach.
Her eyes bugged, and Sam had to remind himself yet again that this was not his brother. When she saw he was not fooled, she threw a punch that sent him flying across the warehouse.
He landed on the same side all his injuries had been occurring on lately, and supposed he should be thankful that he only had to limp with one leg instead of two. Still, it didn't help that the crash had re-opened his bullet wound.
And he wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing that Meg was gone by the time he looked up.
Stage IV/C – A Swirl of Confusion
'So we're going to wave a crystal around and hope that it magically points us to Sam?' Dean seemed hesitant. 'Is this before or after we put Yani on and bless Mother Earth?'
'Unfortunately the demons who took Sam didn't leave behind a forwarding address, so this is the best we got.'
Dean raised his hands in surrender as Bobby rolled a map of America onto the bonnet of the Impala.
Jack raised his eyebrows. 'What, you don't think they hopped a plane to the Caribbean?'
'The demons have had sufficient time to cross a large distance. We have been absent for three days, O'Neill.' Teal'c reminded him.
Dean noticed Bobby had halted in his actions. 'What? Is that it?'
Bobby frowned at the crystal attached to the lock of Sam's hair. 'It didn't work.'
While it was easy to insert another remark, Dean instead opted for something productive. As Teal'c had said, three days had passed and the unease in Dean's stomach had grown threefold on the drive to Chicago. 'Is there something else we can do then? Some other magic flim-flam or should we consider giving this a practical approach?'
Bobby's glare told him exactly what he thought of Dean's backhanded comment, and replied. 'The hair was not a strong enough link.'
'Well, it's got his DNA in it, what more do you want?'
Bobby considered. 'Blood.'
'Blood?' Jack shared a look with Dean. 'Uhh, why exactly?'
'Blood is power.'
'Right, right. Blood is power. That explains why vampires are always after it. Perhaps we give them a pamphlet on the benefits of going Solar, it's a lot more eco-friendly.'
When Dean snickered at Jack's remark, Bobby couldn't help but feel like a kindergarten teacher. He was beginning to think it was a mistake in bringing DoppelDean and his friends here.
Thankfully Teal'c's presence helped to bring the conversation back to the matter at hand. 'Would it not be difficult to obtain a sample of Sam Winchester's blood, given his absence?'
Though Teal'c had been the one to voice it, the thought had already occurred to Dean, as did the memory of Sam getting shot during their first encounter. Dean had dressed that wound and some of the blood had ended up on his clothes, mixed in with that of Captain Gate...
It suddenly occurred to Dean that he hadn't spared Bert a thought since his death, which seemed oh-so long ago now. They'd been friends for years, and aside from Stanson he was the person with whom he had actively served with the longest. And then he died, and all Dean could think about was the mission – which was completely understandable. You push those thoughts to the back of your head so you can focus on the task at hand and get out alive. Except that he hadn't been doing that. Since arriving in this reality, Dean had been easily distracted by the presence of his brother and the unresolved tensions that both his life and death had pertained. In fact, Dean could safely say that since meeting this world's Sam, it was all he'd been thinking about. Yet he couldn't even manage to spare a moment for a friend who meant a great deal more than a brother he barely knew? And that's not even mentioning Sergeant Wills. What was he doing? He was messed up. He needed to get this shit sorted in his head before it snowballed. Later though, right now he had work to do.
Dean cleared his throat. 'I might have some of his blood on my clothes from when he was shot.'
The silence that met his statement was disconcerting. Jack's 'awkward' face was not helping matters.
'Winchester, can I talk with you a second?' Turning to Bobby he unnecessarily repeated, 'We're just gonna talk for a second.' He even pointed to where he expected Dean and himself to be standing, before heading over there.
Dean followed Jack over to the side. 'What?'
'You sure you're alright?' Jack shifted so he was blocking Bobby and Teal'c from the conversation, as though seeing them might distract Dean from the importance of what he was saying. 'If you're emotionally compromised, we can send you back. I'll make sure we follow this up though. Find your brother.'
Dean was a little taken aback by Jack's observation, and truth be told his mental preoccupation wasn't helping him pull off a convincing reply. Or any reply, really, because Jack went on to explain,
'Robby just said that you might have gotten Sam's blood on your clothes when he was shot, but considering you changed when you got back to the SGC it doesn't really help us much, unless you want to spend another day going back there to get them.'
Dean looked down at his uniform. He had changed when he got back to the SGC, how could he have forgotten about that? And more importantly, how did he not hear Bobby say any of that?
'So if you feel like...'
'I'm fine, Jack.'
He seemed unconvinced. 'I've been hearing that a lot from you.'
'Truth is, I was rethinking over everything that happened here, trying to see if I missed something. Just zoned a little, I guess.'
Jack still seemed hesitant, but he let it go for now. 'Irony aside, you might want to pay a little more attention.' It was as subtle an order as Dean had ever heard from O'Neill. Usually something like that would be accompanied with a joke.
'Yeah, I will. Thanks, Jack.'
'No problem.' Jack clapped his hands together. 'Anyway, while you were off with the fairies, Robby said that since his crystal thing didn't work, the next option is to,' Jack opened his hands in offering, ' 'commune with nature' in hopes of some Earth deity answering the call, or something.'
Dean frowned. 'And how is he going to do that?'
'Naked, apparently.'
'That is not something I want to see.' Too late, the image appeared in his head. 'Oh God, I'm seeing it. Oh God.'
'Well, I wouldn't worry about that, you won't be seeing much.'
That seemed like a loaded comment. 'Why not?'
'Robby says that for it to work, it has to be someone with a tie to the person they're trying to find...'
Dean figured out where this was going. 'No. Hell no. You gotta be shittin me.'
Jacks' eyes twinkled. 'You really didn't hear anything he said, did you?'
'You are shittin' me.'
Jack clapped him on the shoulder and started back to Teal'c. 'Come on, hopefully they'll have figured something out by now.'
'Two hundred lectures, now.'
'It's not my fault you fell for it.'
'Considering all that this mission has entailed thus far, can you blame me?'
Jack considered. 'No, I guess not.'
'Two hundred lectures.'
Jack silently congratulated himself on being able to distract Dean enough from whatever was preoccupying his mind. What he didn't know was that it wasn't going to last for long.
'Hey T, where's Robby?'
'Bobby is currently packing his belongings in the car after receiving a call from Sam Winchester.' Teal'c informed them.
'Sam?' Dean jumped in. 'Is he okay?'
'It is uncertain at this time, though Bobby did seem rather concerned.'
The squeal of tyres brought their attention to the battered car that was currently peeling out of the parking lot.
'Son of a bitch!' Dean swore, and ran to the Impala to follow.
'Winchester – Hey, Dean!' Jack called after him. But it was too late. Dean had taken off as fast as Bobby had, leaving Jack and Teal'c standing in the parking lot of a funeral home in Chicago.
After a few seconds silence, Teal'c opened his mouth to speak. Jack cut him off with a raised finger and pulled his radio out of his pocket and turned it on. 'Winchester, please tell me you left the keys to the rental behind.'
It rattled off static for a few seconds before Dean replied, 'In the ignition.'
'Thank God for that.' Back into the radio, he said. 'Don't do anything stupid.'
'Well, I was going to, but now that you mention it-'
'I'm serious.'
A beat. 'Copy that.'
'Check in, one hour.'
'Copy.'
Jack turned off his radio and checked his watch. 'Speaking of checking in...' He pulled out his new phone and dialled one of the four numbers saved.
'Sir?' Carter answered.
'Report.'
'We appeared to have found several pieces of alien technology, including a ZPM.'
Jack was surprised. 'Got any juice left?'
A pause. 'We don't know, sir. You told us not to open them.'
'Well if it's a ZPM obviously you can.'
He could hear the smile in her voice. 'The boys are running diagnostics on it now. We should know soon. How is everything going there?'
Teal'c started to head for the last car in the lot and Jack followed him. 'It's shaping up to be quite the long story, full of insanity and woe.'
'I look forward to reading your report, sir.'
'Oh, you will. I expect a Pulitzer for it. Or at least the science-fiction equivalent.'
'Or perhaps the classified government file equivalent?'
'Well, some kind of reward at any rate, and possibly a trophy.' Jack slid into the driver seat, happy to find the keys in the ignition. 'Two hours, and try to keep Daniel from opening the other cases.'
'Will do, sir.'
He hung up the phone and looked over to Teal'c. 'How do you feel about ice cream?'
.-.-.
It didn't take Dean long to catch up to Bobby, despite how fast the man was navigating the streets. When he finally pulled to a stop it was outside an abandoned warehouse, and Dean didn't have to ask why. Lying on the ground not far from the entrance was Sam, and he wasn't moving.
Dean was out of the car in a blink, and tearing across the pavement. 'Sam!'
He skidded to a halt by his side, and took in his appearance. His shoes were missing and his shirt had been ripped apart to serve as a bandage to the mortal wound on his side, held in place by his belt. His thigh had been slashed and the bullet wound in his leg had re-opened. Dean reached over for a pulse just as Bobby appeared. He took in the scene and waited for Dean to announce the verdict.
A pulse. Barely registering and widely spread, but a sign of life none the less. Dean immediately checked his airway and started CPR. 'Call an ambulance,' He instructed Bobby as he counted compressions. While Bobby was immersed in the phone call, Dean focused on the task of saving his brothers' life.
...Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Breathe. Breathe. One, two, three, four...
It just wasn't fair. And not in a petty, 'I want my candy back' way, but in a larger, universal sense. He'd spent most of his life ignoring his –breathe- brother unless he wanted something, and now that he was dead, he was finally starting to realise all the things they had in common, or could have had. He was beginning to form the kind of bond he should have had with the brother in his reality, and just when it –breathe- seemed enough to totally mess with his fucking mind, the bastard had to go and die on him again. How was that fair? It was like a cruel twist on A Christmas Carol, making him realise that he never appreciated his brother while he –breathe- was alive, and thus giving him the chance to do so, only to realise that it's all moot because in the end he's still dead.
It was a grasp of the situation he had somewhere in his mind, but was buried beneath layers of erratic thoughts ranging from breathe, damnit! to how did this happen? to how this all didn't make any sense. All the things that had been happening lately had seeded doubt to the certainties of life by which he lived by, and they were adding up. A normal person, when confronted with such doubts, would take a minute and either a) reaffirm their belief on the matter, or b) if the evidence was unrelenting they would alter their perception of the world to accommodate it. There was a third option in this scenario, and that was c) ignore it until a later date. Unfortunately, that's all Dean had been doing, and all it did was serve as fuel to an even bigger crisis of faith. If those things didn't make sense, how did anything make sense? How did life make sense? When doubt culminates to such an enormity it can overwhelm the mind, leaving it open for anything to slip in, such as depression in Sam's case. Or in Dean's, a demon that was currently hiding in the body of the shape shifter he was unknowingly trying to save.
End Part IV.