Colonel Caldwell, with all his years of experience in the field, was used to dealing with unexpected things, but the presence of these two civilians on his ship had thrown him for a loop.  

He thought he had an opening line but lost it quickly and resorted to looking over his ‘prisoners’ for the tenth time. He sat opposite them at a metal table inside what was essentially an interrogation room, though it had never had to live up to its name before today.

What the hell are these two kids doing on my ship? Colonel Caldwell asked himself, turning the locator remote found on their persons once they had been searched.

“Ok... let’s start from the beginning... where did you find this?” He held up the remote and waited as the two men glanced at each other trying to persuade the other to talk first. The glances became murmurs which became hisses and cussing. Eventually the taller one jabbed the older one in the ribs – an impressive feat whilst ones hands were handcuffed to a table – and glared at him. His coercion worked as the older one sighed and looked warily at the Colonel before answering.

“We found it in our dads’ storage locker,” he admitted quietly.

“And how did your father come to find it?”

“We don’t know,” replied the younger one, “We were looking for something else... saw that, thought it looked a bit out of place.”

“Do you have a phone number or an address where your father can be reached so that we ask him where he found it?”

“Dad could be in a million different places by now,” replied the older one, the tone of his voice tinged with annoyance.

“And what do you mean by that exactly?”

“His ashes were scattered on the wind,” came the terse reply.

“Sorry to hear that...”

“Whatever.”

Col. Caldwell ignored the young man’s hostility and pressed forward with his ‘interrogation’.

“What happened after that?”

“We... ah...” the younger one took over as the older one seemed reluctant to participate in the conversation any further, “We were trying to figure out what it was. We ended up... grappling over it. We both had a hand on it when we heard the button click... Next thing we know...” his handcuffed hands gestured at his current surroundings.

“So...” Col. Caldwell tried to come to terms with the simplicity of the incident, “You found the remote – not knowing what it was or what it did – and before you knew it...”

“Pretty much.”

“Do you have any idea where you are right now?”

“In space.”

“On a yellow submarine.”

Col. Caldwell shot the elder man a look before turning his focus back to the taller man, the only capable of a civil conversation.

“You’ve found yourselves aboard the USS Daedalus, a deep space carrier. Anything more than that is highly classified. Hell, even that was highly classified, but I figured you needed to be told something before your heads exploded with too many questions.”

“So we’re really in outer space?”

“Yes you are. I can’t tell you exactly where...”

“Highly classified...” the elder one retorted unimpressed, “I suppose it’d be too much to ask if you can just... turn this hunk of metal around and drop us off back at Earth?”

“I’m afraid we’re not in a position to turn back. Although your materialisation aboard my ship needs to be treated as suspicious and as a potential threat to my ship and my crew... I’m afraid there are bigger and badder things out there that I need to worry about.”

“You mean like aliens?”

Now he had the older ones attention.

“I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of extraterrestrial life forms – be they friendly or hostile.”

The elder one was no doubt about to make another snide remark when the door opened and one of his security personnel entered the room carrying the intruders belongings and placed them in front of the Colonel. As he flicked through the pile of clothes both men audible cringed and Colonel Caldwell soon discovered why.

“So... I suppose it’d be too much to ask for you boys to show me a licence to carry these handguns?”

Both men avoided eye contact. Col. Caldwell placed the guns to the side and handed the clothes back to the nearest security officer.

“Until I figure out how to deal with the unique problem you have presented to me you will be detained in the holding cells. Your clothes will be returned to you, your weapons will not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a ship to run.”

Col. Caldwell exited the interrogation room and made his way back to the bridge, utilising every second of his walk back to contemplate the current situation. He slumped into his seat and stared out at the shining sea of darkness spread out before him.

“Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As soon as we’re in range contact the Midway Station. Tell them that they’re going to have two extra mouths to feed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean and Sam wandered aimlessly through the identical corridors of the spaceship and, after backtracking for the ninth time, Sam had had enough.

“This is ridiculous, Dean!” Sam hissed, “We can’t keep walking around in circles like this.”

“We’re not walking around in circles!” Dean spat back, averse to having his masterful sense of direction challenged.

Sam pointed to a group of numbers painted in typical military issue spray-painted stencilling.

“This is the third time we’ve been passed this door.”

“They all look the same…” came Dean’s retort but it lacked its usual cocky edge because he knew perfectly well that wandering around like this wasn’t getting them anywhere – metaphorically or literally. “What else are we supposed to do, Sam?”

“I don’t know Dean. We’re on a space ship… in space. It’s not like if we find an exit sign we’re actually going to be able to walk out of here.”

“Hey, do you think we’ll get to wear space suits?”

“Dean. Focus.” Sam cut his brother off before he got started, “We have no idea where we are, whether this thing is even heading towards Earth… We could be going anywhere in the galaxy… we could be in space for months – years even…”

Sam went quiet as the metaphorical gravity of the situation hit him. Their father’s training had provided them with contingency plans and emergency extraction procedures for every possible scenario… except this one and Sam just felt lost. Dean could see ‘imminent freak out’ written all over his little brother’s face and it unnerved him. He was the older brother; he was supposed to know what to do, but above all else he was supposed to look after Sammy. He quickly came to the only conclusion that offered them a way home.

“Well, I guess there’s only one thing we can do…”

Before Sam could stop him, Dean was off and running after the echo of military issue boots.

“Hey!” he called out to whoever was just around the corner.

“Dean! What the hell are you doing?” Sam whispered fiercely, trailing close behind.

“Hey! Wait up!” 

Dean and Sam turned the corner and froze, slowly raising their hands. Dean had wanted to find someone and ask them to contact their security detail, tell them that the ‘fugitives’ were ready to turn themselves in. Instead he found himself staring down the barrels of two heavy duty military guns, the likes of which he’d never seen before, held by two heavy duty military types.

Sam pursed his lips and swore he was going to punch Dean for getting him into this at the next available opportunity. Dean just offered the stern and serious men a weak smile.

“Take us to your leader?”

***

[NEXT CHAPTER]

Yeah... I'm pretty sure my aim is to end each chapter with a smart assed remark from Dean.

***

Sam couldn’t pry his hands off the metal wall.

“We’re in space...” he murmured for the twentieth time while Dean jumped around like a kid on Red Bull behind him. “It’s not possible...”

A hand reached out and spun him around.

“Sammy... We. Are. In. Outer. Space.”

“Yeah... I got the memo...” Sam murmured trying to regain his composure as the ‘how’s, ‘why’s, and the ‘how-the-hell’s chased each other around in his head. A thought emerged from the confusion and he turned to face his overexcited older brother.

“Why aren’t you freaking out?” 

Dean stood still, but with so much adrenaline coursing through his system it was difficult.

“What are you talking about?”

“You can’t stand to fly in an airplane... so how the hell can you be so... happy... about being stuck... on a spaceship?!”

“I don’t know,” Dean replied unable to stop smiling, “I just always wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up.”

That was a lie, but if now wasn’t the perfect time to pretend he didn’t know what was.

“I thought you always wanted to be a fireman?”

“Shuddup.”

Sam laughed to himself and straightened his too-small jumpsuit as he slowly accepted the fact that he was on a spaceship – in space. Now what?

“Okay...” he started and stopped. He had no idea where to go from there.

“So...”

“What are you two doing down here?”

Sam and Dean spun around and faced a man that even Sam had to admit looked like a nerd. An angry nerd at that, what with the permanent scowl plastered on his face and his Weird Al hair tied back in a ponytail just a little too tightly.

“Uhh...” was Sam’s reply.

“This area has been restricted to everyone but the... heads of the tech and engineering teams. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Umm...” was Dean’s contribution, but when he spied the obnoxious tech’s name on his jumpsuit he decided to take a flying leap, “We were told to check out a possible airlock malfunction in the... 302 bays. But we’re new so... we got a little lost.” Dean added, attempting a look he hoped was perceived as embarrassment.

Kavanagh pinched his face up a little bit more and glared at the ‘newbies’ before him.

“The 302 bays are five levels down and about 100 meters that way...” he retorted, pointing behind them, “And if there had been any sort of malfunction with them I would have been notified. And they sure as hell wouldn’t have sent crew members new to the Daedalus to investigate...”

Kavanagh trailed off as he regarded Sam in his ill-fitting jumpsuit, his eyes then fell to the name badge.

“...I thought I heard that Watson was still in the infirmary after breaking his ankle?” Kavanagh stood in front of Sam and glared at him accusingly, “Who the hell are you?”

“Uhh... Hey! He’s getting away!” Sam pointed behind Kavanagh. Kavanagh had fallen for the ‘behind you!’ ruse too many times before and just scowled at Sam but when he heard the hurried footsteps trailing off before him he reluctantly turned around to find that Dean was no longer there. He turned back to Sam only to find himself alone in the corridor.

“Caldwell’s going to blame me for this, I just know it...”

*** 

It took Sam a little longer than he had hoped to meet back up with Dean, but he turned the last corner and there was Dean leaning against a wall completely casual whilst Sam attempted to catch his breath. Dean’s hand signals – performed behind the obnoxious head of Kavanagh - had been rushed and it was only once Sam had taken all the turns he thought Dean had told him to when it occurred to Sam that Dean would be following his own instructions and was no doubt waiting for him in the next corridor over.

“That was close.” Dean commented.

“Close? That wasn’t ‘close’, Dean, that was ‘made’. It’s only a matter of time before he gets word back to security about us.”

“I knew I shoulda taken that left turn at Albuquerque...” Dean muttered under his breath.

Sam shook his head in despair at his brothers’ total lack of concern for their current situation.

“You’ve just got a smart assed comment for every occasion, don’t you?”

Dean opened his mouth to retort but was drowned out by the wail of alarms and a voice of authority warning the crew of the Daedalus of two intruders that had somehow made it aboard. They were to be considered hostile and not to be approached by anyone other than security detail, which no doubt were being sent out in numbers and heavily armed as the Winchester brothers stood there listening to the announcement.

Sam sighed and looked over at Dean expectantly. He raised an eyebrow which was interpreted by a abashed Dean as ‘well..?’.

“meep-meep?"

***

[NEXT CHAPTER]

In a typical suburban house on the well kept streets of Franklin, Ohio, something very untypical is going on. The local neighbourhood watch has gathered in the dining room of Mr and Mrs Kwan, their ten year old daughter sits at the head of the table whilst her parents bodies grow cold in the living room.

“Those mean Winchester boys are ruining everything!” shouted the little girl, her eyes as cold and pale as white marble.

“What are you talking about?” queried an elderly man tweed jacket, his black eyes glistening, “They haven’t managed to stop the breaking of the seals, and there’s nothing to suggest that they are going to be able to...”

The girl held up a hand to interrupt the old man. He clutched his throat and gasped for air as his dark essence was ripped from his and sent flying out the nearest window as a cloud of black smoke.

“I didn’t ask for anyone’s opinion,” the child said with a pout, “Every time those stupid angels get those two hunters involved... every time they try to stop me they get a little closer to pulling it off. I want them stopped!” she yelled, glaring at the adults gathered at the table, “The next seal is ready to be broken, and I don’t want to see those boys within a million miles of it. And since I can’t rely on any of you to stop them...” she continued flashing an eerie smile that made the adults shift uncomfortably in their seats, “I’m bringing in some out of town talent.”

***

A man turns his head to the window of an aeroplane and stares at his reflection; not quite Aboriginal, not quite Hispanic. He adjusts his brown and black dreadlocks and leans back in his chair, groaning to himself as a baby wails for attention five rows in front of him. All around him people are wanting something; something to eat, something to drink, someone to love, someone to fuck... He turns up the music on his mp3 player to drown them out.

...I was born long ago. I am the chosen, I'm the one...

Far below him a shining streak of black and silver speeds down a highway, its driver smiling to himself as his brother sits beside him snoring softly. A song comes on the radio that he recognises; he turns the volume up as loud as can without waking his passenger.

...I have come to save the day, and I won’t leave until I’m done...

The seatbelt sign turns off and the man stands up as much as the cramped space allows, his eyes seeking out the others in his party. He waits for them to make their way to him before exits the plane; the other passengers get out of his way. A woman is the first behind him. At a first glance people will say ‘she’s not Native American’, quickly followed by, ‘but she’s not Mexican either.’ She ignores the lustful stares of every man over twelve as she walks down the aisle of the plane, twiddling with the thin straps of leather used to braid her brown and copper hair.

...So that’s why we’ve got to try, we’ve got to breathe and have some fun...

As the hunter speeds down the highway an angel materialises in his backseat. A few months ago he would have been so shocked he would have driven his car off the road, but not anymore, he’s become accustomed to it. Minimal pleasantries are exchange before the hunter is given a new assignment of great importance. The angel disappears and the hunter wakes his brother and informs him of the change in plans.

...Though I'm not paid I play this game, and I won't stop until I'm done...

The leader walks through customs without so much as an upward glance, people walked away from him to go to the nearest vending machine, a couple on the verge of divorce reunited in a passionate embrace and quickly find an out of the way place to copulate. The woman walks out next and is given a few downward glances; men think about how much they want her and how far they would go to have her and others like her. A third member of their party, a man of African descent (but where specifically he descended from no one could say) walks through customs and people can’t help but stare, the stark contrast of his long silver hair, some strands knotted others in dreadlocks, holding their gaze. As he walks through the airport people sneer and gripe about lax airport security, bitch about flight delays, and argue with uniformed people behind counters.

...I don't know why we always cry. This we must leave and get undone...

The taller brother hates the idea, fights it. The other can’t help but agree with him, but what are they supposed to do, he asks. Silently, both brothers contemplate their current situation; how they got to where they are today, taking orders from angels, and how they are suppose to survive the impending war. The taller, younger brother begrudgingly agrees to do the angels bidding once more and reaches for his computer to begin his research. The older brother bites his tongue, he doesn’t like it any better but the overwhelming need to reimburse the world for his past failings drives him. He turns up the radio to cover the awkward silence that lingers on their every conversation, so many things left unsaid...

...so tell me why we got to die, and kill each other one by one...

The leader stands on the outskirts of the crowd milling around the baggage claim area. The woman and the greying African man wait for the conveyer belt to start as they are joined by their fourth and final member. The man is Asian in appearance, just so long as Asia includes India, numerous Arab nations, not to mention the Inuit communities of Alaska. His close cropped black hair reveals numerous tattoos adorning his skull, his numerous facial piercings caused him to be delayed at the metal detectors, a fight that broke out behind him attracted the security guards attentions leaving him free to catch up to his fellow pack members. He sidles up to them, smirking as he watches couples give each other suspicious glances, just as their first of their belongings arrives. He, the African, and the woman carry between themselves three large thin cases adorned with masses of stickers and four bags – one with a set of drumsticks sticking out of the top which Asian-ish man pockets. It is not much but whatever they find themselves needing people will give them. They always do. They leave the baggage claim area and follow their leader out into the crisp autumn air. He keeps watch as they load their belongings into a taxi. He spies an Asian girl, no more than ten years old, clutching the hand of her grandmother, staring at him. He walks over to her and bends his imposing frame until they are eye level. She throws words like debt, loyalty, and allegiance at him, he just smirks at her. She can’t kill him, and despite how much she would like to she needs him and tells him as much. She tells him of two cockroaches, two hunters that won’t stay dead. She doesn’t believe the man and his team can kill them and she doesn’t care if they don’t, she doesn’t care if he and his team die in the process, ‘just distract them’, she says. The man laughs and takes his leave of the girl, who glares at him as he gets into the cab and drives off.

...but what I really wanna know is... are you gonna go my way?

A note to all, that "choose your own adventure" idea has been scrapped. Now back to our regularly scheduled program...

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER]
 

It was a good idea, but not perfect, Dean thought as he stowed his excess clothing and his handgun in a well hidden corner of the laundry room. These ridiculous navy jumpsuits just weren’t made for concealing weapons, he thought as he did his best to pull the jumpsuit legs over his boots (and the knife strapped to his ankle).

“Alright, this’ll just have to do.” Dean said as he turned to find Sam wearing the most pathetic look imaginable – and a jumpsuit that was two sizes too small for him, even after trading in his sneakers in for an old pair of black boots. “I take that back,” Dean continued, holding back the loudest laughter known to mankind, “this is awesome.”

“It’s not funny, Dean.” Sam retorted, his face turning a wonderful shade of red.

“Oh, I gotta disagree there Sasquatch – this is extremely funny.”

Sam was too embarrassed to argue the point further, “I couldn’t find anything with longer legs.” He replied lamely.

“And here I was thinking you put it on simply for my amusement,” Dean replied, unable to wipe the smirk from his face.

“Dean. Shut it. Alright?” Sam begged.

“Mhmm...” was all Dean managed as he choked on his laughter.

“Come on...” Sam spat as he trudged past his brother and exited the laundry.

Dean chuckled to himself as he caught up with Sam but it slowly faded (the smirk did not) as the seriousness of their current situation returned to the forefront of his mind.

“Ok. Well, I had the last idea. Now it’s your turn geek boy. What do we do now?”

“Well,” Sam said with a slight sigh as he looked down the seemingly endless corridor, “I guess we just try to stay off their radar until we can figure out where we are... how long it’s going to be until we get back on land...”

Sam’s rambling was interrupted by the slightest... well, it could be best described as a “whoomp”, and it was accompanied by a strange feeling, similar to be hit by a small wave at the beach... but not quite.

“What was that?!” Dean demanded, his hands immediately finding the nearest wall and bracing himself for the worst.

“I have no idea.”

“Was it a sea mine? Did something explode?” Dean asked, his voice becoming laced with panic.

“I don’t know Dean. Come on, let’s keep moving.”

“Sam.”

“Dean, come on...”

Sam turned back to his brother who was waving him over. Dean’s hand had happened upon a porthole, through which he was looking intently, unable to tear himself away.

“I know Dean, it’s the ocean, it’s best not to think about it, come on...”

“No dude. Look.” Dean murmured, directing his brother to the next available porthole. “Look.”

Sam sighed and reluctantly peered out of the window to placate his brother. Several seconds later he remembered to breath.

“That’s not the ocean.”

“Dude. Dude. Duuude...” Dean reached out his spare hand for his brothers’ shoulder in an effort to ground himself in some sort of reality.

“That’s not the ocean...” Sam repeated, the colour draining from his face.

“Dude...” Dean whispered, his smile widening, “We’re in space.”


[NEXT CHAPTER]

dellavie

* * *

“Shuddup and follow me.” Dean said turning left, gun still firmly grasped in his hands, and walked along the passageway doing his best to stay close to the walls. He turned and saw a reluctant Sam still hovering in the doorway.

“Dude! Would you hurry up!” he hissed before returning to his search for a better hiding place.

Dean followed the corridor as far as it would take him before taking a right, then a left, and then the second left. There was no real organisation to it, it was simply Dean Logic: whatever direction the sound of people was coming from, he went the opposite way. Eventually he came to a submarine equivalent of a crossroad and the sound of bustling, industrious, be-all-you-can be types began to surround them. Dean looked around and considered his options, he could see that Sam was thinking about it too but he was the big brother and, although he would never admit it, this whole thing was kind of his fault and he was gonna get Sam out of this weirdness, come hell or high water, he thought with a sad chuckle.

The sound of boots was coming closer on all sides so Dean made the only decision he could. 

“Down.”

“What?” 

“Go down the ladder Sam! Now!” Sam went to argue but the look on Dean’s face didn’t allow for rebuttals, “I’ll be right behind you, now move it.”

Dean watched as his brother disappeared down the ladder, hoping that it was the right decision and that there weren’t a dozen Navy Seals waiting for him at the bottom of it. Dean started getting anxious, the boots were getting real damn close and Sam still wasn’t at the end of the ladder – why did there have to be so much of that damn kid?

“Move your ass Sasquatch!” Dean called (softly) down the ladder. As Sam finally reached the bottom and moved out of the way Dean tucked his gun in the back of his jeans, straddled the ladder and, not bothering with the rungs, slid all the way down in one smooth movement. He got to the bottom as Sam was staring at him with a mix of awe and ‘huh?’. “Take a memo Sam. That’s what a guy in a hurry looks like.”

“Shuddup.” Sam replied with a shake of his head, “So now what? Any bright ideas?”

Dean retrieved his gun and picked a direction at random, “I’ll let you know,” he answered with a smirk.

After several minutes and several variations of ‘where the hell are we going’ the brothers reached a set of stairs and at the end of it Dean spied... an idea.

“Hey Sammy, you know how you’re always the one that says we need to look the part when we’re impersonating people of authority...”

Sam gave Dean his ‘what’s your point look”.

Dean pointed at his idea, “What’s say I take a page out of your book?”

Sam finally spied what had Dean grinning like Cheshire cat and rolled his eyes. It was a good idea.

“I’m never going to hear the end of this...” Sam muttered under his breath as he followed his brother down the hallway.


[NEXT CHAPTER]

Sam stared up at the departures board, trying to decide whether to base his destination on which flight left sooner, or which destination was further away. He'd dismissed the idea of stealing a car because, although that would have been convenient for him in the short term, it would have ended up being more trouble than it was worth. And he hadn't even bothered with buses, as it would have been way too easy for Dean track him down, and once Dean had a direction to drive in no Greyhound was ever going to out run the Impala.

Sam felt a twinge of guilt for leaving Dean so suddenly but felt in his heart that it had to be done. All this worry, all this anger and frustration... Sam knew if he took himself out of the picture, forced himself to ignore the looming threat... Maybe Dean would be able to get back to basics, simplify. “If it's evil, kill it”, and not have to worry about what side of the war his forsaken little brother would end up on.

Yep, he was making the right decision. By taking himself away from this mess, no "boy king" crap to deal with... everything would be simpler. He nodded his head subconsciously, agreeing with his own arguments as he selected his flight out of Chicago; it left within the hour and went damn near half way across the country. It’d be a week, at best, before Dean even reached Miami, but it didn’t matter, Sam wouldn’t be there when he arrived anyway.

* * *

Somewhere in the darkness of his mind a door slammed shut and Dean woke with a start.

“Sam!”

He was sitting bolt upright in bed, a shocked but genuinely concerned Morgan beside him, one hand resting on the tattoo on his chest, the other running its fingers through his hair in an attempt to soothe him.

“Hey, hey... shhhh... it’s okay. You’re awake now, it’s all okay.”

Dean stared into her pale green eyes and felt his unease start to melt away, along with the memories of his dream.

“Sorry...” he managed in between gulping air, “Sorry if I scared you... I didn’t mean to.”

“Jesus Christ, Dean...” she muttered, hand pressed on his chest, “You heart’s about to leap out of your chest, are you okay?”

“Yeah...” Dean replied weakly, “Just a nightmare. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” she asked, hand still stroking his hair.

“Yeah...” Dean said straightening up, adjusting the sheet to create a bit of modesty, “Listen, I gotta go.” He said simply, bending over to get his boxer briefs off the floor. He put them on and started walking around Morgan’s bedroom collecting the rest of his clothes, quickly putting them on.

The dream had already faded away but the feeling in the pit of his stomach remained. He needed to see Sam as soon as possible, talk it out, or not, just get in the car and drive and soon the awkward silence would become a comfortable one and they’d save their impending argument for another day.

“You sure you’re okay? You know you don’t have to leave right this second. You could have a shower, have some breakfast? Coffee at least,” Morgan implored, kneeling on the bed, pulling a bed sheet up to her chest. It barely covered her breasts and Dean found his eyes wandering from there down to her tiny waist and the curve of her hips. “I’m sorry,” Morgan said, shaking her head and brushing the stray chocolate strands from her eyes, “I don’t mean to sound needy, it’s just that you seem kinda freaked out – are you sure you’re ok?”

Dean paused as he adjusted the collar on his leather jacket and glanced over at Morgan for a moment. She looked unbelievably sexy; her dark curls tumbling over her bare shoulders, and her emerald orbs were wide with concerned. Dean considered shedding the jacket immediately and walking over to comfort her and then some. He would quite happily spend the day in Morgan’s bed, and the next day, and the next... but he couldn’t.

“No, I’m not ok,” he replied truthfully, “I had a fight with my brother before I ended up in that bar last night. I just had a really bad dream. Something...” Dean mumbled, trying to cling to the remnants, “Something bad happened, I think. I don’t know,” he said, hating himself for sounding so weird, “I just know I gotta go talk to my brother, make sure he’s ok.”

He glanced at Morgan solemnly as he backed out of her bedroom. Without another word he left, the front door slamming behind him. Morgan knelt on her bed for a few moments, shocked that any man could simply walk away from her naked body. Eventually she started breathing again and removed herself from the bed, covering herself with a crimson kimono. She opened a drawer in her bedside table and pulled out a small ornament, a silver heart, and walked to her bathroom and stood before the bathroom mirror. Morgan held the small silver trinket before her, almost like an offering, and flicked the top half revealing it to be a cigarette lighter. She ran her thumb over it and with a click a small green flame appeared. Morgan held it out to the mirror and a cigarette materialised to accept the offer of a light.

“You failed,” stated a creamy voice from the other side of the mirror.

“I know. I’m sorry Mistress.” Morgan replied to the now smoke filled room.

“You should have handcuffed him to the bed,” the voice continued, a twinge of venom now audible in its melodic words.

“But...” Morgan stammered, torn between being honest and enraging her invisible employer, “But that wouldn’t be of his own free will. You said... you told me I was just supposed to make contact and his lust would take care of the rest.”

“I also said...” the disembodied voice replied, cutting Morgan like a knife, “That I wanted to win - at any cost. And you, my pathetic temptress, were supposed to ensure my victory. But since I can’t even trust you with keeping a man in your bed for more than 10 hours I have no further use for you...”

“No Mistress please!” Morgan begged, clutching at her heart as the pain of the dismissal became unbearable.

“Morgan, you remember my sister...”

“No please...” Morgan pleaded, tears began streaming down her face as a dark voice whispered to her of all her failures, of how useless she was, how undesirable, how everything would be better if her presence was erased from the face of the earth.

Morgan blinked away her tears and stared at her reflection in the mirror, a new resolve on her face. She returned to her bed, holding the lighter in her hands, staring at the neon flame. Without a seconds hesitation she dropped the lighter onto her bed sheets, staring at it with a calm eerie smile and waited for the flames to ease her pain.

On the other side of the mirror, in a realm of mirrors, Desire stood beside her twin and watched as green flames devoured her minion, an eerie smile playing on her face.

“Hello, anyone here?” a cheery voice called out. Its black boots crunched on the blackening floorboards, its skin did not flinch at the heat of the fire. It walked around the edges of the bedroom its eyes on the charred body of Morgana Nesky as it lay lifeless on what remained of the mattress.

“She killed me,” Morgan’s soul whispered, “I did everything she ever asked of me... and she killed me.”

“I know Morgan,” Death replied, smiling sadly, “Desire can be very cruel.” Death turned and glared at the now vacant mirror. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

* * *

Okay, so here's the next segment of my story, hope it's ok...

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER]

***

“…does.”

Dean relinquished his grip on the device as the white light faded away, his brain struggling to process what he was now seeing. The dark and dusty storage locker had been replaced with what Dean likened to a sardine can.

“Dude…” Dean finally managed, “What the hell did you do?”

Sam blinked. “What did I do?” he hissed back, “You’re the one who had to press the button!”

“How the hell was I supposed to know this would happen…” Whatever this is, his thoughts added.

“This thing was in dad’s supernatural toxic waste dump; of course something bad was going to happen!”

“How…”

The brothers froze; the sound of heavy boots on metal reached their ears and was moving towards their position. They did their best to press themselves against the wall of the strange metal room and waited.

“I’m beginning to hate these trips,” a voice said with a sigh.

“Yeah… three weeks stuck on the Daedalus with Kavanagh…” a second voice chuckled.

“I swear… if he bitches about being here one more time he’s gonna have an accident whilst checking out an airlock malfunction in the 302 bays...”

The two voices laughed together as they passed by the brothers, seemingly unaware of their presence and continued on down the metal hallway. Dean, being closest to the doorway, poked his head out as much as he dared.

“Coast is clear,” he confirmed, relaxing somewhat, “Okay… so…” he continued, staring at Sam, waiting for him to fill in the blanks, “What the hell do you think is going on here?”

“Uhh… I have no idea.”

“Yeah, well that stupid look on your voice suggests that you’re thinking something.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam replied, mimicking his brothers’ voice, “what I’m thinking is crazy.”

“Sam, crazy is our natural state of being,” Dean replied, fidgeting with his gun, “So tell me what you’re thinkin’ before I start freakin’ out.”

“Start?”

“Shuddup.”

“Alright, well…” Sam said slowly, getting his thoughts in order, “I think… that when you pressed the button… and we were both holding the… thing, that we were teleported somewhere.”

“Teleportation? That’s your idea?”

“…yeah.”

Dean took a minute to digest Sam’s answer, his eyes darting between the metal walls and the small plastic stick thing that Sam still had clutched in his hand.

“Okay,” he replied finally, “Where to?”

“Judging from the conversation we overheard, the fact that every surface is made of metal… add to it the uniforms those two guys were wearing… my best guess…”

“Yeah…?”

“I think we’re on a submarine.”

“A submarine?”

“Yeah… maybe.”

“Underwater?”

“Well that is the purpose of submarines, Dean.”

“Holy crap…” Dean muttered, fending off a panic attack, “so that thing is like some freaky top secret military experiment?”

“Maybe, Dean… I don’t know. It’s just an idea, but unless you wanna go ask somebody where we are, it’s the best I can do. So just stop panicking, hum Metallica or something, and let me think.”

Sam started to pace back and forth as Dean crouched down and took several deeps breaths in order to calm himself, the sound of more footsteps approaching their position forced them back into their hiding spots and as the footsteps faded Sam breathed a sigh of relief and stepped back into the middle of the room.

“Alright, first things first… we need to find a better place to hide, a room with a locking door would be an improvement.”

Sam peered down the hallways, his mind ticking over with possibilities, and punishments.

“There’s an open door about five metres down, on my left. I think that’d be a good place to start.”

“Ok…” Dean said, standing up and doing his best to hide his anxiety. He stepped in front of a Sam, gun drawn, and double checked that the coast was clear before stepping out and making his way down the corridor, Mission Impossible style, whilst a bewildered Sam followed close behind.

Sam stood at the entrance and checked his six before a sharp yank on his collar pulled him into the room.

“Dude,” his brother hissed, “it’s not a room. It’s a friggin’ adjoining hallway... there’s another corridor over here...”

Sam clipped his brother over the head for trying to decapitate him with his own shirt before following him over to the other entrance. The brothers Winchester peered up and down the length of the passageway in search of another open door.

“No more doors...” Sam muttered.

“Alright.” Dean said, with a certain amount of confidence back in his voice, “Let’s go left.”

“No, I think we should go right.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s the way those two guys came from.”

“Exactly why we should go left, or haven’t you heard the phrase ‘there’s more where they came from’?”

“Idiot.” Sam muttered with a shake of his head.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Shuddup and follow me.”

[NEXT CHAPTER]

ART BY davincis_girl

  * * *
  

**edit**

dellavie

The blood stains on the concrete were still there. Dean struggled to remember the name of the guy the blood belonged to, some poor dumb bastard that had almost gotten his leg blown off trying to break into his dad’s storage locker a few years back. Was he the one that died, or was it his buddy? Dean ran a hand over his forehead as he strained his brain trying to remember the details, but truth be told, after a while it was difficult to differentiate one case from another. He could remember the important details: a friggin cursed rabbits foot and Bela trying to sell it off to the highest bidder. All the other details were a bit fuzzy…

He could have asked Sam, he’d know, but why bother? Besides, Dean was still peeved that it was his brothers’ photographic memory that had forced him to drive across three states when they were in the middle of a case all in the hopes of finding some super-duper spell book Sam was sure he had seen when they were last here. Dean had tried to point out that nobody could possibly be certain of where they had seen one book in particular, especially after Sam had admitted (once they had crossed state line number two) that he had only seen the book title in passing. Dean was so pissed he almost drove his baby off the road but Sam had promised him that he was pretty sure (really pretty sure) that it was in their dad’s storage locker, and if it wasn’t Dean got a one free punch, to be delivered – without warning - at a time of his own choosing. Dean smirked at the thought as he wandered aimlessly through his dad’s demonic junkyard.

“How’s it comin’ Sammy?”

“Same as it was five minutes ago.”

“Hurry it up, we got a time limit on this hunt. We need to get back to Greenwood by tomorrow night and kill this thing or we gotta wait another five years before it shows up again.” Dean paused for a second as he tried to ignore the voice that made him think about whether or not he and Sammy would still be around in five years time, “So you either hurry up and, find this phantom book or we go back and do this thing my way.”

“We’re not burning the house down Dean!”

“Why not?”

“Because people live in it!”

“Details, details…” he mused as he inspected a dusty shelf of amulets.

“Besides, it’s not a guaranteed fix, ok? We need this book because it has the exorcism rite we need to banish it forever, alright? No fire, no more dead bodies.”

“Alright, alright…” Dean muttered, embittered as logic and reason defeated simple and effective pyromania yet again, “Just hurry it up. I don’t like walking out on a job, leaving that family in that house. We need to get back there.”

“I know but we tried to get them to leave but they wouldn’t believe us…”

“What a shocker…”

“And we need this book. I told you, I could have taken the car and you could have stayed there and kept and eye on them.”

“Like hell I was letting you drive three states away and back in my car!”

“Then stop complaining and help me look!”

Dean sighed and turned in a full circle trying as he thought to himself, ‘if I was a dusty old spell book, where would I hide?’.

His eyes fell upon an old locker, kind of like the ones they had in the numerous high schools he had attended, and decided that was a good place to start - not that he had ever kept books in one, but rumours persisted that other people did. Out of habit he drew his weapon from the back of his jeans and pointed it at the locker as he prepared to open the door. Sam would have had a field day if he had seen it but Dean didn’t care too much, the day you stopped thinking things were going to jump out from behind closed doors was the day you stopped wanting to sleep above ground. Dean quickly flicked open the door, his gun darting over each dark corner before he quickly put it away before Sam decided to make fun of him. No surprises behind door number one, just a bunch of ornaments and talisman’s, the tame versions of which cluttered new age stores across the country. In the bottom section, leaning against the back wall were a few tools, shovels and things, three swords, a creepy eyed puppet and a broomstick. Dean blinked; I don’t know which is weirder…

“Hey! I think I found it!” came Sam’s voice from the shadows at the back of the locker.

“Great, let’s go already…” Dean said as he took a second look inside the metal closet. Something was wrong with this picture – and it wasn’t the puppet. Dean reached in and wrapped his fingers around a small rectangular object that was collecting dust on the top shelf. He pulled it out and opened his hand. In a locker full of ancient metal and wood the small plastic rectangle stood out. Dean wiped it against his jeans and picked up his torch from its resting place and examined it. “What the hell…” he whispered as he stared at the weird little… thing. “Hey Sam, check this out.”

“What is it?” Sam asked, squeezing his way waste a crate, the musty old spell book clutched in his hands.

“I found this in there,” he replied distractedly, pointing in a random direction, “It doesn’t really look like it belongs, does it?”

He handed it over to Sam who firstly made sure the book was securely pinned under his arm before he accepted it.

“It looks like a lighter to me. What?” Dean asked off the look Sam gave him.

“Dude, a box of cereal would look like a cigarette lighter to you.”

“Shuddup. If you’re so smart what do you think it is?”

“It kind of looks like a memory stick…”

“Then plug it in to your computer, see what’s on it.”

“Dean, I said ‘it looks like’, not ‘it is’. I don’t think it comes apart so you can plug it in.”

“What about that thing?” Dean asked, pointing to red tip on the plastic piece of weirdness, “If it’s not a lid, maybe it’s a button.”

“No, Dean!” Sam scolded as he tried to fend off his brother and his insatiable need to press buttons, “Don’t press it! We don’t know what it…”

A blinding flash of white light enveloped the room before fading into nothingness, taking Dean and Sam with it.

***

“Engage hyper drive.”

“Hyper drive engaged.”

“…does.”

***

[PREVIOUS]

Sam sat on the edge of a motel bed, staring at the door until his eyes glazed over as he tried desperately to clear his mind of all his current, painful thoughts.

After Dean had left, slamming the motel door behind him, Sam had resigned himself to disposing of all the shards of mirror. He’d discovered a small broom and dustpan in the cupboard along with an ironing board whose cover had been burnt so many times it now threatened to crumble into dust with its next use. Sam pulled out the small metal waste paper bin out from under the table and placed it beside the glittering mess, then picked up the largest pieces and placed them in the trash. When all the pieces large enough to be picked up without slicing his fingers open were disposed of, Sam set to work with the broom and dustpan. He emptied the pan and repeated the process several times, knowing he was never going to get all of it, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

He threw the dustpan and broom back into the cupboard and slammed the door shut after them, unsure why he should feel the need to take his frustrations out on an inanimate object. Because an inanimate object can’t bleed, can’t feel pain, can’t die... Sam wanted to take his anger out on something that would feel it, wanted to go out into the night and stalk the stalkers, exorcise some demons, make them scream... That’s wrong, he told himself. Inflicting pain on anything, without a kill or be killed scenario, was wrong, immoral. Evil. And Sam was not evil, was he? No, he answered himself, I’m not. I refuse to be.

It was this line of thought that led Sam to sit on the edge of a motel bed, staring at the door until his eyes glazed over as he tried desperately to clear his mind. Sam blinked eventually; wiping away a few reflexive tears, and was about to attempt another world record stare-off when something caught his attention. It was his eye, reflected off the largest piece of mirror, staring back at him. Sam reached over and pulled it out of the bin, wincing slightly as it screeched in agony at being separated from its siblings. Sam held the piece in front of him gazing at cold eyes that stared right back, merciless and unflinching, eyes that had seen so much… Eyes that had watched loved ones die, lives destroyed, families broken… Eyes that had seen the light in another’s fade – the darkness wrought with his own hands. He had caused so much damage in his short life, so much guilt and pain. Some days Sam wished it would all…

“Ow! Shit!” Sam looked down at the small bloodied indent in his thumb. Raising it to his mouth, he sucked gently to prevent any further blood loss. He glanced down at the piece of mirror, watching a droplet of blood succumb to gravity and run down the length of glass, splitting his reflection in half.

Sam couldn’t help but see the metaphor before him: a man divided, broken. He had so many people – angels, demons – telling him who he was, what he was… A brother, a son, a hunter, a psychic, an abomination, a monster, a killer. The goddamn Anti-Christ?!

Sam was pretty sure he didn’t want to be most of those things. He didn’t know if he could stand the responsibility of even his most treasured of roles anymore. He felt a weight on his chest, bearing down with increasing tenacity as all the doubts lurking in his mind finally found their voices.

“SHUTUP!” Sam roared at the empty room, throwing the mirror at the nearest wall, splintering it. This time he didn’t bother to clean it up. Instead he busied himself around the motel room, collecting his clothes and other personal effects, shoving them into his duffle bag, removing the larger weapons when he ran out of space.

Sam slung his duffel over his shoulder and stood at the motel door, hesitating. He looked around the room at all his brothers’ possessions and wondered how long it would take Dean to stop looking for him. Sighing, shoulders slumped and head bowed in defeat, Sam walked out of the motel room and into the unknown.

***

Dean lay awake, sheets pulled this way and that, twisted around his naked body, a sleeping goddess to his left. He was exhausted and well and truly sated but his mind found it impossible to switch off. He was worried about Sam, worried about how he had left things. He wanted to go back to the motel and talk it out with Sam but knew he was never going to be able to be calm and rational about such weird, scary ass topic: Don’t use your demonic powers or an angel will kill you. Dean snorted softly to himself; it was just too bizarre to even get his mind around it.

He tried desperately to push the thoughts to the back of his mind and rolled onto his side and focused all his thoughts on... uh... M. It started with an M. Moira? What?! No... Mmm... More. Morgan! Morgan wants more, he thought with a smirk. He couldn’t stop smiling as he thought back to a few hours earlier when she asked him if he wanted to play a game.

They were lying together after round one, catching their breath, when she suggested it: Find the tattoos. She told him she had seven. Tattoos One through Five were pretty easy, he thought as his fingertips grazed tattoo number four – an elaborate pentagram at the crossroads of her spine and shoulders. Six was slightly harder to find, a Chinese symbol for “lost” tucked away behind her left ear. But seven, he never found seven, but he didn’t mind as he was rewarded for his other successful finds nonetheless.

He moved closer to her, a hand resting on her hip, and nuzzled her neck, breathing in her essence. That goddamn perfume still lingered, that irresistibly sweet smell of jasmine that took him back to summer vacations – the few that his father allowed him to enjoy – and all the time he spent chasing tail down at the local watering holes. Young, carefree – happy. Dean chuckled, all those memories from a frigging flower...

He kissed her neck, here, and there, when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He pulled back and looked again, trying not to wake her. He broke out his 100 watt smile when he realised his victory; Lucky Number 7. It was right there, literally under his nose, hidden under her hair at the nape of her neck. He couldn’t make out what it was without turning on a light, but it was definitely a tattoo.

“I found it...” he whispered to her, unable to wipe the smile from his face. Morgan, hearing him from somewhere deep in her subconscious, murmured a reply, rolling over in bed. She snuggled up to him, for warmth or for comfort, Dean didn’t really mind which, making herself comfortable; a leg draped over his waist, an arm across his torso, and her head against his chest. Dean wondered if she could hear his heartbeat, and what it would sound like.

He took Morgan’s hand in his and placed it on his chest and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him. And there, on a beautiful stranger’s bed, Dean Winchester dreams.

***

At first there was nothing but darkness, but as he stepped back he realised it is just the colour of the walls. Deep blue marble highlighted with grey swirls, as though God had be smoking the day he made this particular rock.

He took another step back and turned to his right. He found himself in an impossibly long hallway of infinite doors. Some wood, some metal, some stone. Some looked like the slightest breeze would knock them down, others made you fearful of what could possibly be behind a door with so many locks.

Dean picked a direction and walked. He walked for what seemed like an eternity and was eventually rewarded with a corner. The hallway was much the same as the last one except only one side was lined with doors. The other half was consumed by enormous stained glass windows, each depicted – in more colours than Dean could name – a different sombre character.

Dean walked, awestruck by the sheer magnificence of the coloured glass mosaics. He paused in front of one. There are very few colours used in it; mostly varying shades of black and grey. Dean stared at the window, at the stained glass portrait of a pale woman dressed in black. The image triggered a memory that never existed, Dean couldn’t explain why but he knew he had seen her before.

“Can I help you, sir?” a voice asked.

Dean’s thoughts dissipated as he turned from the window to face a large stone archway. Beneath it stood a tall, fussy looking man. He seemed even taller than Sam, if such a thing was possible, but this being a dream Dean was of the opinion that anything was possible. The man stared accusingly at Dean over his antique spectacles.

“What?” Dean asked, unable to get over the weirdness surrounding him.

The man sighed and muttered something about “youths” and “manners”.

“What are you doing here?” he asked pointedly.

“I don’t... I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” Dean asked, hoping for answers.

“Of course you are. You’re in the Dreaming. You can’t be in the Dreaming if you aren’t.”

“Right...” How about answers that make sense...

“You really shouldn’t be in here though. I doubt the Master would approve. What is your name?”

“Ah... Dean. Dean Winchester.”

“Ah!” replies the man, brightening somewhat, “I’ve read some of your work. A little heavy on the pornography for my tastes, but still...”

“What the hell are you talking about? Who the hell are you?” Dean asked, his patience wearing thin.

“I do apologise... I am Lucien, the Librarian.” He said dramatically, gesturing behind him at a room of impossible proportions that housed a forest of bookshelves.

“Whoa,” Dean muttered as he stepped into the room, straining his neck in an attempt to see the top of the first book shelf, “...Sam would love this.”

“That would be one Samuel Winchester, yes?” Lucien asked, although Dean felt that he already knew the answer. Dean took a few steps further into the giant library, fully aware that Lucien was following him around, in true custodian style, to ensure that he didn’t touch anything. “I must say I loved his piece, “My brother, My hero”. Very moving. I’m sure he would have received an “A” for it, had he only been able to hand it in...”

“What are you talking about?” Dean asked again, hoping for a sane reply.

“This is the Library of the Dreaming. Here, every book that was never written is stored. I was referring to your brother’s 3^rd grade creative writing assignment. He thought up a wonderful story, but as your father relocated you both soon after the assignment was given Sam never bothered to write it down... so it’s kept here.”

Dean looks at the librarian with disbelief, snorting, “Sam wrote a book?”

“No.” Lucien replied testily, “You’re not the smartest dreamer, are you?” Ignoring Dean’s death stare Lucien repeated himself, “This is the Library of the Dreaming. All the stories that were ever thought of, ever dreamt of, all those fleeting ideas get stored here before they are lost forever. Sometimes I lend them out to other residents of the Dreaming as most of them are quite enjoyable. Yours aren’t to everyone’s taste... although Merv’s a big fan of yours... I’m not sure whether you should take that as compliment or not.” He mused.

“Dude, you must have me confused with someone else...” Dean replied, trying to find a thread of sanity, “I’ve never written a story in my life – not even for an English assignment.”

Lucien smiled smugly and wandered off through the shelving, Dean followed. Eventually Lucien paused in front of a shelf, no different to any other and waited. Dean stared at him, wondering what he could possibly be waiting for when a ladder came skimming along the shelving, stopping directly in front of the librarian. Lucien climbed the ladder, oblivious to Dean’s uneasiness, before carefully removing what appeared to be a comic book from the suffocating embrace of its leather-bound companions. Lucien stepped down from the ladder, straightened his pinstriped jacket before he reverently passed the comic book to Dean.

Dean stared at Lucien for a moment, trying to read the strange man’s face to determine whether he believed all the crazy things he said. Dean glanced down at the book in his hands and turned it over; staring slack jawed at its glossy cover.

“Dean Winchester and the Vampiric Bisexual Playboy Bunnies,” Lucien said, reciting the title for him, “He loves them. He leaves them. In pieces. Not the catchiest title in the world, but still...”

“Bu-bu-but...” Dean stammered, flicking through the pages, gawking at the illustrations, “But I never wrote this... I mean, yeah, I thought about it... but...”

“Just because you didn’t write it down,” revealed Lucien, carefully prying the comic from Dean’s numb fingers, “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

Dean wanted to ask more questions but the sound of birds’ wings interrupted his thoughts. He glanced upwards and spied a raven flying straight towards him. He resisted the urge to flinch, finding solace in the knowledge that this was a dream and nothing bad could happen to him. The bird pulled up at the last moment, perching itself on the ladder next to Lucien.

“Hello Matthew.” Lucien said, apparently addressing the bird as put the comic book back on the shelf.

“Hiya Luce. How’s it hanging?” the bird replied.

 “Whoa... talking bird.” Dean muttered. 

"Just fine thankyou Matthew." Lucien noticed Dean's shock and tried to put him at ease, "Dean, this is Matthew, the Master’s raven. Matthew, this is Dean Winchester, a dreamer who got lost."

"I know who he is." Matthew retorted, "Boss has me keepin' an eye on him and his brother.”

"What?" Dean asked, his confusion overwhelming him.

"Oh really?" replies Lucien, "This is the one he was talking about?" he asked rhetorically. He gives Dean a sad look, "You poor man. I wouldn't want to trade lives with you for all the world."

"What the hell is going on? What are you talking about? And why is a talking bird stalking me and Sam?!" Dean shouted.

"Not stalking," Matthew replied, trying to defend himself, "Just watching. Boss asked me to. But your brother went off the radar, and you came here, so no point in staying out in the real world. Thought I'd come back here and wait for the boss to return."

"What are you talking about? Where's Sam?" Dean shouted at the bird.

"Dunno."  Matthew shrugged, or at least the ornithological equivalent of shrugging, "One minute he was there, same as you... the next he wasn't. Either he's got friends in weird places, or he really doesn't wanna be found."

Dean started to back away from Lucien and Matthew, heading for the exit.

"How do I get out of here? Where's the fucking exit?" Dean shouted, panic gripping him tight.

"Calm down buddy. You'll get out when you wake up." Matthew replied, as if it was the simplest concept on earth.

"I gotta find Sam. SAMMY!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the cavernous darkness.

"Oi! fuckwit!" Matthew cawed over the echo, "He’s not here! Stop freaking out about it!"

"Shut up you stupid bird!" Dean spat back, "I gotta find Sam. SAM!!!"

Dean ran from the library, its creepy custodian, and the foulmouthed raven, and back down the marble hallway. He turned the corner and began running back the way he thought he came. Up ahead a door, previously thought to be locked, opened of its own accord. Dean didn’t stop to think about what was on the other side of the door, blinding running over the threshold and into darkness.

 The door slammed shut.


[NEXT]
 

 

Dean practically kicked the motel door in, his hands too full and his mind to preoccupied to bother with opening it properly. He threw his duffel bag in the corner harder than necessary; anger oozing out of his pores. He held a shotgun in his right hand and eventually managed to relinquish his grip on it, placing it down on the bed lest he point it at Sam and do something he would never forgive himself for.

“What the hell was that, Sam?!” he asked his little brother, doing his best to keep his voice calm and level.

Sam came trudging in behind Dean, slowly making his way over the threshold, knowing what was coming next, and wanting to delay it as much as possible.

“What was what?” he sighed, knowing full well what “what” was.

“The thing back at the cemetery with that demon, Sam! I’m talking about you going all ‘psychic boy’ on his ass, when you promised me you would never do that again!” Dean shouted, unable to contain his frustration any longer.

“It was going to kill me, Dean!” Sam spat back, “I didn’t know what else to do, alright?! I couldn’t fight it with a goddamn knife!”

“Did you even try, Sam? Huh? Did you? Hell... you probably just threw that knife away just so you had an excuse to do it again.”

“Dean – I tried! Okay? I tried fighting it with the knife, but he was too strong for me... I did what I had to do!”

“Oh yeah?” Dean asked, “What happens the next time, huh, Sam? When you’re doing what you have to do? How long do you think Castiel’s gonna wait before he does what he’s gotta do - what God asked him to do?”

Sam sneered at the mention of his brother’s guardian angel, the angel that brought his brother back from the fiery pits of hell, the angel that had threatened to “take care” of Sam. And not in a Roma Downey nurturing, supportive kind of way.

“Don’t do that Sam.” Dean said, waving a condemning finger in this brother’s direction. “Don’t just shrug this off as some kind of parking fine, like this is a first warning... This is the word of God. You don’t stop using these evil, freaky powers of yours, God is gonna put a hit out on you... and I won’t be able to save you.” Dean trailed off towards the end, tears threatening to well up in his eyes.

Sam understood his brother’s pain, knew from personal experience what it was like to watch your brother die before your eyes – Dean knew it too, and Sam knew that Dean would do anything not to go through that again, not to lose him again...

“Dean... I’m sorry. But my ‘evil, freaky powers’ saved my life. They exorcised a demon and sent it back to hell, they stopped Samhain from calling forth god knows what. And because of my abilities, because I sent Samhain back to hell, the angels didn’t vaporise this town. I save thousands of lives Dean! I did a good thing – I’m not apologising for it.”

“They’re gonna kill you Sam!”

“I don’t care Dean!! I don’t care! I’m can do good things with this. I’ve stopped talking to Ruby, so can’t blame her for influencing me anymore... And it’s not like I’m about to go all vigilante and chase down every demon in a five mile radius, alright... But if it comes down to risking our lives or using my abilities to get us out of trouble – I’ve made my choice.”

“You don’t get it, do you Sammy?” Dean asked, his eyes pleading with his little brother to see what he saw, “These powers, these abilities of yours... it’s not beer on tap. You can’t just take a glass whenever you’re thirsty... It’s power. You either quit cold turkey, or you’ll become addicted... you won’t be able to stop.”

“Like you’d know!” snapped Sam. He couldn’t fathom how his brother, the person he knew him better than anyone else on the face of the earth couldn’t understand what he was going through, “You have no idea what it’s like! To have this power! To have this god forsaken prophecy hanging over your head! You have no fucking idea!!”

CRACK!

Dean and Sam stopped yelling at each other and stared at the mirror hanging on the wall. As the final hate filled syllable shot out of Sam’s mouth the mirror cracked. It was just a small star crack in the middle of the mirror, but as the brothers stepped closer to inspect it, the cracks fanned out like bolts of lightning, racing each other to the wooden frame.

The brothers stared, mouths open, as the shattered mirror fell to the ground, piece by tiny piece.

“Yeah... you’re right.” Dean said, staring at the damage his brother had unwittingly caused, “I don’t know Sammy, and I don’t wanna know...”

Dean stepped around his brother and walked out of the motel room, got in his car and drove. Leaving Sam alone in the motel room, staring at the million fractured reflections of his tortured face.

***

Dean sat at a bar nursing his whiskey, staring at the bottom of the glass. Every now and then he would tilt the glass to one side and watch the ice cubes as they swam through the whiskey, eventually melting and merging with the alcohol.

Dean was perfectly miserable in his own company, not wanting for anything else when a strange smell announced itself, fighting with the overpowering stenches of tobacco smoke, piss, and stale beer. Dean tried to recover the memory of that smell from the fog of his drunken state, eventually settling for peach cobbler... but knowing that wasn’t quite right.

The sound of heels clicking on sticky floorboards caught Dean’s attention. He glanced up from his drink and in the filmy mirror behind the bar saw a woman walk past him. As she walked past his right shoulder she glanced upwards, the two stared at each other via their reflections for but an instant. Dean was hypnotised by her eyes - her pale yellow eyes. For a moment he feared the return of Azazel but he knew that these are not the same noxious yellow eyes that destroyed his family, but it deserved investigation none-the-less. He slid off his barstool and made his way down the bar, a hand reaching out to touch the woman on the shoulder.

“Excuse me...”                      

He trailed off as she met his gaze. Her eyes weren’t yellow at all, they were green – light green maybe, but definitely not yellow. Light green eyes and wine soaked lips framed by dark chocolate curls.

“Can I help you?” the woman eventually replied, not sure what to make of Dean’s strange advance.

Dean struggled to find the words to apologise, but they were lost in the darkness of his mind; tumbling over other words, words he would never have imagined himself saying... he wanted to tell her how much he wanted her, how he longed to taste her lips, to explore her body, inside and out. He wanted her to know all the ways he would pleasure her, how he could fulfil her every want, every need, every fantasy, should she give him a sign that she wanted him too.

“I’m sorry,” however, was all that managed to escape his lips, “I’m sorry,” he repeated, trying to focus, not on the smell of her perfume – jasmine, not peaches. Why had he thought peaches? – he reminded himself, but on the words he felt were required of him, “It’s just... I saw your reflection in the mirror... thought you were someone I knew...” he said, scolding himself for being so pathetic, wishing the poet that resided in the deepest recesses of mind would make himself known and save him from his own ineptitude..

The woman smiled, her eyes dancing mischievously,

“No... You don’t know me. Well, not yet, anyway,” she said with a smirk.

Only then did Dean realise that his hand was still on her shoulder, her hand now placed gently over his, moving slowly down to his wrist as she stepped towards him. Dean returned her smirk in kind.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, as his pick up routine demanded.

“Actually,” the woman replied, moving closer still, “I’m kind of tired of drinking...”

The woman went up on the tips of her toes and kissed Dean, slowly at first, breathing in his essence, a hand reaching out and caressing his jaw line. As the kiss intensified Dean pulled the woman closer to him, until their bodies were pressed against each other. The woman moaned softly and eventually pried herself from Dean’s embrace, giggling to herself as she caught her breath. She stepped back out of Dean’s personal space, picked up her clutch purse from the bar top and took several steps backwards. Smiling, her eyes let Dean know in no uncertain terms what she wanted from him. She spun on her heel and walked through the bar door and into the cold night air. Dean stared after her, as though he could still see her through the walls of the dingy establishment. A dreamy smile appeared on his face, he couldn’t believe what a lucky sonofabitch he was... couldn’t remember the last time he picked up with so little effort... couldn’t remember the last time he wanted someone – a specific someone – so badly.

Dean pulled his wallet from his back pocket, and absentmindedly threw a creased ten dollar bill in the barman’s direction before following the woman out, leaving his half empty glass of whiskey on the counter, as the last of the ice cubes faded unassumingly into their amber background.

[NEXT]