My first foray into season 3 (I don't know why it took me so long to write a season 3 fanfic, given the potential for angst in that season). As usual, chapters will be posted once a week every Sunday, unless I specify otherwise. More notes at the end.

Warning at the beginning for a creepy character, but he gets what's coming to him early on.

Chapter 1

Adam was exhausted. The Annual Fantasy Festival always brought the worst kind of freaks to their small town, all of them crawling out of the woodwork – or their mother's basements, Adam thought unkindly – to wreak all sorts of havoc with their escapist dreams. It was not fun being a security guard then. He crossed the field to the convention center, surprised to see a light was still on inside.

"Hello?" he asked nervously.

The door marked staff room opened. Adam raised his eyes when he caught sight of the young girl who was currently busy detaching her elf ears.

"Matilda," he greeted. "I didn't know you were still here."

Matilda Maverick was the organizer's daughter. She actually enjoyed this sort of thing and went all out – which explained the elf ears, that Adam thought were a bit too much, although he had to admit that the dress she had worn that day was nothing to complain about. If Tristan Maverick, the organizer, was to hear Adam think that way about his fifteen-year-old daughter, Adam would probably lose his job, but, luckily, Tristan was not in his head.

"Hi, Adam," Matilda said nervously.

Adam smirked. Matilda usually got shy and flustered whenever she was no longer playing her role of mistress of ceremonies.

"Busy day?" he drawled.

Matilda shrugged.

"I had to supervise my creative writing group. We put in a play, you know."

Adam grunted. He had seen some of that – all fancy creatures and unrealistic dialogue and way too hopeful message. There was a reason why he thought fantasy was for maladapted losers. Still, Matilda in an elvish dress made up for bad plot.

"Of course," Matilda went on, "Tomorrow's even busier. Miroslav Dietrich is coming. That's the main attraction, you know."

"Who?" Adam could not help asking.

Matilda chuckled.

"Sorry, Adam I forget you're not one of us. Miroslav Dietrich the writer. He's written like ten novels. They're adapting the first book into a movie or, at least, they want to. Miroslav keeps refusing."

Adam realized who that was. He and the organizer had held a phone conference with the eccentric writer, since the guy apparently was more paranoid than needs warranted. He had wanted to know where every exit of the venue was located, who had access to the place and if they all had passes and had been vetted by security. He wanted everyone attending his wretched book reading to be checked for weapons. Adam was firmly convinced a person did not get that paranoid unless he himself had something to hide.

"I'm sure you'll like him more than I did. Hey, listen, why don't you ditch the fairy costume and come have a drink with me?"

Matilda smiled self-consciously.

"Oh, I…I'd love to. But I had plans."

Right, Adam thought sourly. Some Dungeons and Dragons campaign or one of her UFO things she used to post on her damn blog. Matilda was too passionate about nonsense for her own good. She needed to grow up – and Adam would have been more than glad to help her in that direction.

"Well, if you change your mind…" he said pointedly. "Maybe I could drive you home?"

Matilda shook her head.

"My dad's picking me up."

Adam knew he wasn't and was ready to call her out on her lie. Matilda, however, wished him good night and drew back into the staff room. Adam heard the distinct sound of a key in the lock. He shook his head and moved on with his patrol. He knew when he wasn't wanted. He wondered, though, if he should let Matilda know that he had a key to the staffroom and could come in whether she wanted him to or not. He was the security guard after all. He smirked. Maybe later. He'd wait for her to leave then offer again to drive her home, like the gentleman she did not want to acknowledge he was.

He made his rounds and was about to head to the staffroom again, when he heard a clatter in the conference hall.

"Matilda?" he asked.

There was no answer. It could not be her, though. She had no reason to be up here now.

"Damn rats," he muttered. "I swear if it's one of those things again, I'm setting the entire building on fire."

He took several steps inside the room. The door closed behind him and he twisted round.

"What the hell?"

He turned round again when he heard the scrapping of metal in the room. His eyes widened at what he saw.

"Look, I don't know who you are or what your problem is, but…"

Adam had his gun at the ready, but it suddenly flew from his hands. He backed away towards the door that he knew he was close. He was fully aware that he was going to die.

xxxXXXxxxx

Dean was standing in front of the car. He was on a dirt road, miles from nowhere. The words of the crossroads demon were spinning themselves in their head. One year. He had one year. One year before hellhounds came after him and his soul was dragged down into the Pit. But Sammy was alive. His brother was alive because of the deal. That had to count for something, didn't it? Dean had done the right thing, bringing Sam back. No one could tell him otherwise. Not even Sam himself.

He heard footsteps around him and turned round. He smiled at Sam, but his smile quickly turned to worry.

"Sammy?" he asked uncertainly.

Sam's face was blank, not with the kind of blankness that he used when he tried to hide what he was feeling. It was like Sam wasn't feeling anything at all. Dean reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. Sam's eyes widened suddenly, and he vanished in a cloud of flames.

Dean sat up panting. He was shaking so hard, his teeth were rattling. The afterimage of the nightmare flashed in front of his eyes.

"Holy crap. Not again."

It was the third time he was having that particular nightmare since Cold Oak. He did not know what it was about anyway. Sam had been stabbed, not burned to death. The reality was horrible enough without Dean's messed up brain trying to make it worse.

He ran a head over his face, not surprised to find it clammy.

"Man, I need therapy. Or a stiff drink."

He glanced at Sam's bed and froze when he found it empty. The bathroom door was ajar, but the light was off, so Sam could not have been there.

"Where the hell are you?" he muttered.

He got up, swaying slightly, his head pounding. Probably too many beers before bedtime, he thought ruefully. Not that they had helped much.

Dean opened the door and noticed Sam standing unmoving in the parking lot. He seemed to be alone, but with Sam these days one never knew. Dean walked towards him.

"Bit late for you to be communing with nature, don't you think?" he asked.

Sam flinched at the sound of his voice.

"Dean," he said breathlessly. "I thought you were asleep."

Of course he did.

"And what exactly were you planning on doing, Sam?" he drawled. "A little bit of solo demon hunting?"

Sam turned to gape at him.

"What? Why would you think that?"

Dean stared at him pointedly. Sam turned away, his shoulders slumping.

"No," he said tiredly. "I just…I needed to get away."

Dean scoffed.

"Sam, may I remind you that you'll be getting away from me permanently in less than a year?"

Abruptly, Sam rounded on him, grabbing his arms in a bruising grip.

"Don't say that, Dean. Don't you ever say that!"

Dean was already regretting his words. The vehemence of Sam's reaction, the desperation that he felt in the trembling grip took him aback. He breathed deeply, trying to stay calm for Sam.

"Alright," he said, reaching out and patting Sam's hands, not surprised when Sam refused to release him. "Look, I'm sorry, that was a dick thing to say. I shouldn't have said it."

Sam let him go and turned his back on him.

"If you're even thinking that…"

"I'm not," Dean assured him quickly. "Look, this is awkward."

Sam huffed.

"I just wanted some air. The room felt stuffy. I felt…like I didn't belong."

Dean frowned, trying to make sense of the words.

"What do you mean? Is this some kind of existential crisis you're having, Sam? Because dude, your timing could use some work."

"I died, Dean," Sam said flatly. "I think my timing's fine."

Dean was nearly tempted to shake Sam with the same vehemence Sam had shaken him, and demand that he never mention his death again. It would not solve anything, though. It would not change things.

"Come on," he said instead.

Sam looked back at the motel slightly uneasy.

"I don't think I want to get back there just yet. I don't think I can sleep anymore tonight."

Tell me about it, Dean thought darkly.

"I was thinking more let's go pack and hit the road. Get an early start."

They did not have anywhere to be just yet, but maybe, Dean thought, they would feel better on the road.

"Fine," Sam said. "Let's go. Maybe we'll find a case."

Dean watched him worriedly. Sam still had not told Dean what he had been doing out there – and the deliberate avoidance worried Dean more than he cared to think.

xxXXXxxx

The Impala had pulled into a gas station. Dean finished with the pump and was now only waiting for Sam to come out of the store. He had thoroughly objected allowing Sam to go inside alone – after all, he had left Sam alone that time when the Yellow-eyed demon had snatched him and look where that had gotten them – until Sam had firmly told him that unless Dean wanted Sam to tell the entire gas station that his brother was insisting on going with him to the bathroom, it would be better to back off. Dean knew when Sam meant business.

Sam was taking his sweet time – much more than was necessary, in Dean's opinion, to go to the bathroom and then get munchies. He was ready to storm in, gun in hand (so he overreacted sometimes, who could blame him after the last year?), when Sam walked out of the gas station, a new spring in his step.

"Bladder problems?" Dean asked pointedly. "It felt like you were in there forever."

Sam glared at him.

"Not that I need my time in the bathroom monitored, especially not by you, but I'm fine, thanks."

He shoved the bag of fresh bagels he managed to get in Dean's arms, and Dean supposed they were enough for a peace offering.

"We should take the next exit," Sam said. "That's why it took so long, I heard some people talking."

"About the next exit," Dean repeated.

Sam got in the car and Dean followed.

"About the next town," Sam said. "There's this sci-fi fantasy festival."

Dean snorted.

"Sam, if I didn't know any better I'd be sure you're still a virgin."

The glare Sam was giving him told Dean that he was one tasteless joke away from getting whacked over the head.

"Last night, the security guard at the venue was found in the nearby field," Sam went on without missing a beat. "Parts of him were found there. Others were found at his home and, here's my favorite, in front of the staff room where one of the hosts was still locking things up. She tripped over his hand."

Dean whistled.

"If that's a case it seems pretty intense even for us. Unless it's some wild animal?"

Sam shrugged.

"That is the police's theory, not surprising. However, some people are already circulating the rumor that they saw the Dark Swordsman lurking around the premises."

Dean frowned.

"Who?"

"The Dark Swordsman," he repeated. "You know, from End-all Town series. It's urban fantasy. It's very good."

Dean gaped at him.

"It is," Sam said defensively. "You'd like it if you tried it."

Dean snorted.

"Sam, to hear you talk, I'm surprised you had a girlfriend in college."

"It was Jess' favorite book series," Sam said smugly. "She's the one who introduced me to it."

Now Dean understood how a knockout like Jess could have gone for a clumsy freak of nature like his brother.

"Alright, so this…uhh…swordsman guy…"

"His real name's Spiro," Sam said. "He's from this alternate universe that has been overtaken by dragons and has come to End-all Town, that's the main setting of the series in search of his kidnapped daughter. He has a black sword that can cut through anything, and he protects the town."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Alright, this dorkiness overload is making me more and more uncomfortable by the minute. Are you sure it's not a fan enjoying cosplay a little bit too much?"

"How would he have killed the security guard without him putting up a struggle?" Sam pointed out, the corner of his mouth tilting upwards. "Cosplay, Dean? So you do know about such things?"

Dean leered.

"I know the naughty version of such things."

Sam looked horrified, and Dean chortled.

"You're too easy, you know that?"

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Oh, bite me."

"Nah, not me. So, are we thinking Tulpa? Someone wished this Swordsman so much that he actually materialized and started hacking up security guards?"

Sam made a non-committal movement with his head.

"But why? Spiro didn't kill unless he had to, he attacked really nasty characters and all his kills were clean, he was famous for that. Except for one or two instances, I suppose. If the thing those guys saw is the same thing that hacked the security guard to pieces, then it wasn't acting like Spiro."

"Pissed off Tulpa," Dean said. "Very pissed off."

"There's something else," Sam told him. "Miroslav Dietrich, the author of the series, he's lead guest at the convention."

Dean frowned.

"Now that's not suspicious at all. Do you think he's got some mojo and conjured up a sick twisted version of his character to draw attention to him and gain more popularity?"

Sam shrugged.

"Could be. Would be a shame, though. Jess really liked this guy. I think she met him once. At least, she owned an autographed copy of one of his books."

Dean glanced at Sam. References to Jess had been getting fewer and further between, even though Dean knew enough to realize the grief was not gone. Sam had just learned to make it a part of him. Dean doubted, though, that Sam would ever love a woman as much as he had loved Jess, and the thought angered him and broke his heart at the same time.

"So tell me more about this guy," he said more to distract himself than anything. "Miroslav, that's a Russian name, right?"

"Kinda," Sam said. "He's Serbian. Emigrated from the former Yugoslavia during the war. His sister was killed in the war and his niece vanished. He insists she's still alive."

Dean shook his head.

"Didn't you tell me that character of his came from a different place and was searching for his daughter?"

Sam nodded quickly.

"Yeah, there were always references like that in his books. Even more to the war and stuff like that. In fact, his first book, that was a standalone, but still fantasy, was banned in Yugoslavia before the war and he was declared persona non grata. After he moved to America, he tried publishing translated versions of his series, but initially without luck. Then the right publisher discovered him and he became famous overnight."

Dean was watching the road thoughtfully.

"You don't think he made some kind of deal, do you?" he asked. "And now he's sowing the seeds so to speak."

Sam's face was stony.

"Wouldn't he make that deal for his niece instead? Since he's looking for her and all. Anyway, not everyone sells their souls, Dean," he added pointedly.

Dean's hands clenched around the steering wheel.

"Passive aggressiveness doesn't suit you, Sam."

Sam ignored him, clenching and unclenching his fists. Dean switched on the music, indicating that any conversation that was not related to the case was not welcome. They drove the rest of the way in tense silence.

xxXXxxx

Carol Anne said good bye to Matilda at the bus stop. She had offered to go home with Matilda – after all, she had quite a shock, but Matilda had refused.

"Really," she had said, "I'm fine. I wasn't the one in pieces."

It was obvious to Carol Anne that Matilda was in shock and maybe carrying a bit of guilt, too. She had not hesitated to tell Carol Anne how she had blown Adam off and maybe if she hadn't, he might still have been alive. Not that Carol Anne agreed. As far as Carol Anne was concerned, Adam had been a lecherous pig who had gotten what he deserved. Not that she could tell that to his wife, not when she had cried all morning on Carol Anne's shoulder, and Carol Anne was almost tempted to point out one of the last things her dear departed husband had done in this world was creep on a teenager.

When Carol Anne got home, she was surprised to find the living room window wide open.

"That's weird," she said.

She always left the window closed on account of the neighbor's cat who liked to stroll in and help herself to whatever was around, whether it was edible or not.

"If she's learned to open windows we're all in trouble," Carol Anne muttered.

Nothing seemed untoward in the house, though, so she eventually decided she must have forgotten to close the window after all.

One hour later, after a warm bath, Carol Anne sat on the couch with a glass of red wine. She picked up her phone and looked at the text she had received from Miroslav. She shook her head. Sorry, she texted back. No can do. She thought of adding It's for the best, but she was sure that sounded too high and mighty for her.

A crash in the kitchen nearly made her drop the phone. She could have sworn she had heard the sound of glass shattering.

"Hello?" she asked. "Miss Marple, if that's you I swear I'll cut off your tail and lock you in a dog kennel."

If it was really the cat that the neighbor had so imaginatively named Miss Marple, the threat would not mean anything. She had already lost a tail in a fight with an older cat and every dog in the neighborhood was scared of her. Still, Carol Anne could dream.

Another crash resounded in the kitchen. Carol Anne was beginning to doubt that it was the cat.

"Who's there?" she asked. "I'm warning you, I'm armed."

She wasn't, and was so scared she did not think she would be able to keep her head and use a weapon in the first place. Still, intimidation was also a form of defense.

The lights went out. Carol Anne gasped and sprung from the couch. A hand grabbed her from behind. She turned around in time to see the sharp blade descend towards her.

So, what do you think? Have I captured the season 3 vibe? Some extra notes:

-Dean's dream comes from another fanfic series of mine. While I was writing my Rings of Power Return to Númenor series, there was this character who believed his son was dead, and had this recurring dream of him disappearing in a burst of flames. My twisted mind thought it would be a perfect dream to give to one of the Supernatural guys, too, and since for the three years I've been writing my fanfics I've given Sam plenty of nightmares, I thought I would give the nightmare to Dean. Then I decided to place it in season 3, since the end of S2 was the very first time one of them had actually died, and there's bound to be some messy side-effects from that. For Dean, who nearly lost Sam for good, and for Sam as well who had actually died (in fact, I was a bit annoyed that in the show Dean and Bobby were talking about how Sam had changed and maybe he had come back wrong and not once did it seem to cross their minds that maybe the poor guy was simply traumatized. Well, I'm fixing this now).

-Miss Marple is modeled after my best friend's cat, who's the terror of her neighborhood and who once started a literal cat fight at the vet while she was recovering from being spayed. No dog has ever stood a chance with her either. I thought I'd honor her here a bit, and yes, that really is her name.