Chapter 1: There's a Bad Moon on the Rise

[This was actually something I wanted to write years ago, but at the time I had stopped writing and I didn't know how to start back up, so I never started this. Recently while laying in bed, this popped into my head again and I decided I should at least try. I have high hopes that I'll work more on this, but just in case I don't... thanks for reading. I hadn't written much in a very long time, so it might be terrible. Sorry 'bout that.]

It was the siren again.

Low and distant, like it was underwater, or playing from some broken radio. Dean stood in the middle of a fog-drenched street, boots silent against cracked pavement. Buildings loomed in the mist, shapes half-formed and shifting. The air was thick and heavy, like it was trying to crawl down his throat and settle in his chest.

He couldn't move.

Somewhere ahead he thought he saw someone. A silhouette, tall and familiar. Sam?

Then came the screaming.

Not loud - worse than that - it was quiet and barely there, like something being hurt too far away to save. Hoarse, like they'd been screaming for decades. Words being shouted from the void, it felt vague and relentless.

Dean spun around, gun drawn, but there was nothing.

"Sammy?!" he screamed. No, it wasn't a scream, because barely anything came out. His voice was hoarse too, as if he had been screaming for Sam since the dawn of time. It wasn't Sam. It couldn't be. It looked like him, but the form was slightly off. What was wrong with it? Why was it standing like that? All hunched over and clutching its chest? Maybe it was Sam and maybe he was hurt. Dean took a step forward, squinting as if that'd help him see through the fog.

He took another step. Then another. The fog seemed to cling to his legs like wet fabric, dragging at him, slowing him down. The figure didn't move. Just stood there, twitching, still clutching its chest like something inside was trying to claw its way out.

"Sammy, c'mon, man, answer me." Dean's voice cracked. He started running, boots hitting the pavement like gunshots, but the street kept stretching in front of him, like he was sprinting in place. The silhouette twitched again.

Then it lifted its head.

And that wasn't Sam's face.

The eyes were hollow and black, weeping something thick and tar-like. The mouth hung open, and the scream that poured out wasn't human. It was something ancient, broken, and angry.

Dean stumbled back, gun shaking in his grip, and suddenly the fog swallowed the figure whole. The screaming didn't stop. It was everywhere now, all at once, bleeding through the fog, pouring into his ears and pressing against the inside of his skull like it was going to split him open from the inside out.

He fell to his knees, his hands over his ears, his heart pounding so hard it hurt.

And then everything stopped.

The rough asphalt of the motel parking lot scraped cold against his bare feet. Somewhere nearby, a vending machine hummed softly, its light casting a pale glow across the lot. Dean blinked, breath ragged, heart still racing.

He was outside, barefoot, dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers. One hand clenched tight around the grip of his pistol, raised and aimed at… nothing.

Behind him, the door to their motel room was wide open. Sam stood there, eyes wide, and jaw clenched.

"Dean… what the hell are you doing out here?" he said slowly, like he was afraid to spook a wild animal.

Dean lowered the gun, blinking hard, squinting at Sam like he had to double-check he was real. "They wouldn't stop screaming," he muttered, breath fogging in the night air. "and I'm so tired."

Sam crossed the lot in a few quick steps, giving a long glance to where Dean had been pointing. Nothing there. Just empty dark. "Dude, I don't hear anything. You were..." he hesitated, "...you were asleep and then just gone."

Dean rubbed his face, gun hand trembling a little as he lowered it. He let out a slow breath, trying to shake the cold still clinging to him.

Then, finally, he looked up at Sam, his face pale and serious and said, "Okay, maybe I shouldn't eat chilli cheese fries before bed anymore."

Sam blinked.

Dean offered a weak smirk. "Pies still okay though."

The next morning was too quiet.

Sunlight filtered through the motel curtains, casting long stripes across the cheap carpet and peeling wallpaper. Sam stood by the kitchenette, pouring coffee into two mismatched mugs. One had a chip in the rim. The other said "#1 Grandma."

Dean was still sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it had personally offended him.

Sam cleared his throat, gently slid a mug across the table toward him. "So… you wanna talk about last night?"

Dean grunted.

Sam gave him the look. The patented "someone kicked my puppy" stare, which had a 98% success rate unless Dean was actively bleeding.

Dean didn't answer right away. Just stared into his cup like he was trying to read the grounds. Then, without looking up, he said, "I've been having dreams. About some place."

Sam blinked. "What place?"

"I don't know. I don't think I've ever actually been there. It's foggy, and I'm usually standing in the middle of a road." Dean finally looked at him. "Six months now. Same place. Sure, sometimes it's a little different. Different streets, different… things. But it always feels the same. Wrong. Heavy. Like I'm not supposed to be there, but I can't leave."

Sam's brows furrowed. "Why the hell didn't you say anything?"

Dean shrugged, because of course he did. "Thought it was just stress. Too much diner food and terrible coffee. I dunno."

"Dean, you sleptwalked out of the room with your gun," Sam said, voice low and tight. "You pointed it at nothing. That's not just stress. That's-"

"Fine," Dean snapped, then sighed, softer this time. "Okay. Not fine. But I didn't wanna make a big deal out of it. Figured it'd stop eventually."

Sam stared at him for a second. "And it hasn't."

"Nope."

Dean took another sip of coffee. "Also, I'm pretty sure that whatever I saw was trying to trick me into thinking it was you. It wasn't, and I'm not really sure what I'm gonna do if it ever actually gets close to me in the dream. They aren't normal dreams, they're-"

Sam furrowed his brow and leaned closer. "Vivid?"

Dean's eyes flicked from his coffee up to Sam. "Real."

"What do you mean, real? Like premonition real or-" Sam looked even more worried now.

"No, like if you die, you die." Dean said, making a gesture with his hand to drive home the point of finality. "That's it. Toast."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "Okay… okay, we need to look into this. If it's something messing with your head - or if it's a place - we'll figure it out."

He walked over to his duffel and started rummaging through it, shuffling around lore books, loose papers, and a crumpled receipt for a gas station burrito. "I grabbed a few things from Bobby's last stash before we left. There was this old hunter's journal I didn't recognize. Figured I'd sort through it later, but now-"

He pulled out a battered, leather-bound journal. The edges were frayed and the cover looked like it had been gnawed on by time itself. "Looks like his name was Jed Rowe."

Dean leaned over and looked at the inside cover of the journal. "Okay, Jed, whatcha got for us?"

Sam started flipping through the yellowed pages and stopped halfway through. "This one talks about a town where 'people go and they don't come back'. I think it might be the same place. See? It mentions the fog too."

Dean sighed and leaned away from Sam. "Yeah, but fog isn't specific to one place, that could be anywhere."

Sam shook his head, slightly annoyed, and leaned back against the headboard. "I'm gonna read this whole journal, there's gotta be something you recognize, and maybe we can find out where it is."

Dean set his coffee down, giving Sam a long look. "So let me get this straight. You wanna take a nice scenic road trip to Creepsville, USA? Visit the lovely fog-covered streets, maybe grab a souvenir at the local trauma gift shop? Sammy, even we don't vacation in murder fog towns."

Sam didn't even blink. "Dean."

"What? I'm just saying, if we're gonna stroll into a haunted fog dimension, I at least wanna know what kind of monsters we're dealing with. Are we talking ghosts? Demons? Spiteful fog? I gotta pack accordingly."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You're already packing. You sleepwalked with a gun."

He flipped a few more pages, then squinted at a section toward the back. "Okay… This part's weirder. Jed wrote: 'Crowe said it snows in July there. Not like real snow, he said. It don't melt. Just hangs in the air like ash. Makes no sound when it falls. Said it sticks to your skin, but it ain't wet.'"

Dean's eyebrows slowly rose. "That's… exactly what it was like."

Sam looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

Dean rubbed his hands over his face. "In the dream. I didn't say anything, but yeah. It was snowing. Only it wasn't cold. Felt more like... dust."

Sam flipped the page, brows knitting. "There are… drawings."

He turned the journal toward Dean. The page was full of rough pencil sketches, some smeared like they'd been drawn in a hurry or with shaking hands.
Strange symbols filled the margins, spiraling in erratic patterns. A bulky figure with its chest carved open. A row of teeth where eyes should be. One looked like a person hunched over, mouth stretched too wide, black liquid dripping from hollow sockets.

Dean's face went still.

Sam watched him. "What?"

"That one." Dean pointed to the hunched figure, his voice low. "I saw that thing. In my dream. Thought it was you at first, but… it looked up at me, and those eyes."

He shook his head, swallowed. "There's no way I'd know what that thing looked like unless…" He trailed off.

Sam shut the journal slowly, eyes meeting his brother's. "Unless it's not just a dream."

The silence settled heavy between them.

Dean stood and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. "Well. Guess we're takin' a vacation to Creepsville, then."

Sam stared after him before standing up. "You really wanna go there? Are you sure? The journal says people don't come back from there."

Dean shrugged at him. "Dude, if that's true then who would be here to tell the stories in the first place? And anyway, maybe I'll gank some sons of bitches there and the dreams stop."

Sam sighed and grabbed his bag before following Dean out door.