Living by the Book (color by number remix), Supernatural, R

[phantisma]

Title: living by the book (color by number remix)
Author: amara_m (aka phantisma
Pairing: Gen: Sam, Dean, Bobby, Jessica (implied Sam/Jessica)
Rating: R (language and some violence)
Warnings: Some bad language, liberal license taken with canon
Spoilers: Pre-Series, AU-ish
Remix of raising the dead by numbers by estei
Summary: Sam left his family for Stanford, trying to put his old life behind him, but when first his father calls him looking for Dean, then Bobby shows up looking for John, Sam's stab at normal falls short. With both his father and brother missing and terrible nightmares filling his head, Sam sets out to find something to hold on to.


A/Ns & Warnings: First. Big thank you to my betas, poisontaster & ulysses3_de. Without the two of them the story would have sucked. Warnings for bad language and some violence. Written for kamikazeremix




It was a Wednesday when his father called the first time, Sam remembered that. Just like he remembered turning the machine off at the first sound of his father’s voice. He didn’t have time for the same old family drama. He had a test the next morning that he needed to study for. >"

It was nearly two days later before Sam looked at the phone and wondered why the old man was calling then, after so long, after telling him not to come back. Acid rolled in his stomach, memory bubbling from the dark corners of his mind where he'd hidden it away, the terrifying dreams, the fighting, the bitter words and denial that Sam could ever want something more…something real.

He had picked up the phone to call, but with his father's final words in his head, Sam put the phone back in the cradle. It wasn’t like they had anything left to say to one another.

Two weeks later there was another message on the machine when he got back from class. His father cleared his throat and stumbled over words before anything Sam could follow came out. “I was just wondering if you’d heard from your brother. Haven’t seen him in a while. Hoping maybe you had. I’m coming your way. I’ll call when I’m closer.”

Sam frowned and played the message again. His father hadn’t spoken to him in more than two years. Those two years had been filled with things his father could never understand, school, Jessica, friends. He had really never expected to hear his father's voice again, but here he was, calling him. On a number Sam had never given him.

Sam didn't like the way he sounded, or the idea that he didn't know where Dean was. Not that Sam would know either. He hadn't heard from Dean in almost as long. Sam held the phone and started to dial, then sighed and looked up as Jessica emerged from the bathroom.

“Someone call?”

Sam shook his head. “It’s nothing.” He put the phone down and crossed to her, inhaling the fresh floral scent of her shampoo. “You smell good.” His hands found their way to her hips, his thumbs sliding up under her shirt to brush against bare skin.

He pushed away the thoughts of his father and his brother and the life he left behind. They were fine. They always were. This was his family now. She was light and warm in his arms, melting against him as he kissed her. He could feel her heart beating in her chest and her breath moist against his face. Real. Normal. He smiled, his hand sliding on her skin, up under her shirt to cup her breast.

Jessica giggled and squirmed before pushing him away. “I can’t be late. Not today.”

He fell back onto the bed to watch as she finished getting ready, brushing her wavy blond hair, then leaving it to lay over her shoulders. She rolled her eyes at him in the mirror. "What?"

"Nothing." He'd trade all the nightmares and rock salt and boogeymen in the world for this right here. A beautiful woman, a small apartment and a scholarship he'd killed himself to earn. Even if that also meant a life without his brother. Or his father. He let it all fade away, forgotten along with long nights on the road and crappy motels and training for whatever was out there in the dark.

“Did you finish your assignment for Callahan’s class?” Jessica asked as she pulled her sweater out of the closet they shared.

He wrinkled his nose. “No, I’m meeting Pete at the library in a little while. We’re going to finish it then.”

“How you ended up with Atwood, I'll never understand." Jessica tossed a notebook onto the bed. "That might help."

Sam picked up the book. "What's this?"

"My notes from when I had Callahan last term. I actually chose Atwood."

"You took a whole notebook of notes on Margaret Atwood?"

Jess grinned and crawled across the bed to kiss the end of his nose. "That's just on the one book."

"What would I do without you?" Sam whispered, his hands closing around her waist.

"Crash and burn." Jessica whispered back, letting her tongue slide over his lips and rub along his.

Sam knew it would take much to get her to give in and roll over and forget her sociology class all together. He pulled his hands away from her. "Don't want to be late."

She nodded and stood. "I’m meeting some of the girls for study group after class.” She grabbed a notebook and some papers from the desk and shoved them into her backpack.

Sam nodded and pushed himself up on the bed. “I’m sure I won't crash and burn that fast.”

She leaned down to kiss him, blue eyes seeking his out and narrowing slightly. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

She took his hand, kissed his fingertips. “Not sure, you seem…spooked.”

“Do I?” He licked his lips and pulled her to him. He was spooked. He just couldn't tell her why. She'd never understand. He didn't talk about his family. Ever. “Just a little tired.” He kissed her deeply and let her go. “Don’t be too late, I'll order pizza.”

She threw her backpack over her shoulder and headed out the door. Sam sat up and replayed his father’s message one more time. He couldn’t understand his father not knowing where Dean was. Dean didn't go missing, their father did. Dean was always wherever Dad left him or sent him. Always.

He picked up the phone and stared at it. He didn’t even have Dean’s number anymore. The last time Sam had tried to call some other guy answered. He sighed and put the phone down. If his father needed him, he obviously knew how to find him.

Sam didn’t have time to be worried about them. He had a paper on Margaret Atwood to finish.



His father didn’t call again, and Sam figured that was just as well. It probably meant he'd found Dean after whatever bender his brother had been on; booze, women, gambling…maybe all three.

He pushed away the thoughts about the nightmares. About Dean and the gun. About his father's voice calling his name in the dark. About the man with yellow eyes. They were dreams. Just dreams. He was sure of it.

They were fine. They were always fine. And Sam was safe, away from all of that nightmare bullshit.

At least he thought so until one day in October when he came out of his four o’clock class to find a beat up pickup truck and familiar face. A bearded man leaned against the truck waiting for him, in a sweat-stained baseball hat and torn up jeans, and an expression somewhere between glad to see him and worried sick. Sam stopped on the sidewalk. Stopped and stared and waited.

Bobby pulled the hat off, scratching at the back of his head before he put it back on and stood upright. “Sam.”

Sam was frowning hard enough his face hurt. He took a deep breath. “Bobby?” He took the remaining steps to close the distance between them. “What…what are you doing here?”

Bobby rubbed his nose and shifted his weight. “I come looking for you.”

“I can see that. Why?”

“Got somewhere we can talk?”

“Here is fine.” Sam said. Getting in that truck with Bobby was like inviting it all back into his life. It was admitting that the dark was filled with things normal people didn’t believe existed, not really. It was as good as throwing away everything he had.

“Need your help, son.”

Sam swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. No. He shook his head. “No. Bobby. Not now.” He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

“It’s your father.”

Sam closed his eyes and turned away. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“He’s missing, Sam. And I think something’s wrong this time.”

Sam huffed a heavy sigh and turned back to face him. “There's always something wrong. Give it a few days, he’ll turn up. He always does.”

Bobby shook his head. “You’re not hearing me.”

“You remember the poltergeist in Amherst, or the devil’s gates in Clifton? He was missing then too, he’s always missing and he’s always fine.” Sam laughed, but even to him it sounded strained. In the dream he wasn't fine. In the dream he disappeared and only his voice ever came back. “He’s probably looking for Dean again.”

Bobby scowled at him. “Dean?”

“Yeah.” Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “He called a few months back, left a message. Said he’d be coming my way and that Dean was…I don’t know…said he hadn’t seen him in a while. I thought maybe they’d…had a falling out.”

“Like him and you?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Like him and just about everybody he’s ever known.”

“Last I heard from your Daddy was a few months back too. Said he was on to something. Nobody’s heard from him since.”

That was a little different. A few months was a long time, even for John Winchester, to be gone with no one hearing from him. “What about Dean?” If Dean hadn't just been on a bender…if his father hadn't found him…maybe…

“I haven’t seen him in near a year." Bobby said, cutting off Sam's train of thought. "Figured he was off working his own gigs now, didn't have any need of my company.”

“Dad lets him work his own hunts?” Sam asked incredulously.

“Has for a while. He ain’t no kid anymore.”

Sam shifted on his feet. “So…what is it you want from me Bobby?”

Bobby gestured at the truck. “Your Daddy was headed to Jericho. Figured we’d start there.”

“Start what there?”

“Hunting.” Bobby looked at Sam like it was obvious.

Sam closed his eyes. “I swore I was done hunting for good.” He meant it. He had meant it then and he meant it now. He couldn't get dragged back in. He'd never find his way out again. “I’m sorry.”

He took a few steps away, then stopped. Missing. Both of them. It was like his dreams. The ones that came in the cold hours just before dawn, so real it hurt. The dreams that had driven him away from them in the first place.

Sam closed his eyes. It had taken everything he had to walk away the first time. He'd fought so long to get free. But even now it was clear in his mind. Dean's hand on the gun, the sound of the shot. "I…just can't."




Of course, it wasn’t that easy. He could see Bobby’s disappointment, feel it following him as he walked back to the apartment. His family needed him and he was hiding his head in the sand. Dean didn't just go missing. His father did, but he always turned up. A few days, a week…that one time when Sam was ten he was gone two weeks, but he came back. Stitched up and bruised, but he came back.

Three days Bobby was gone, three days Sam stewed in thoughts of his family dying, alone, torn apart by some supernatural thing. Three nights of memories; of Dean bleeding his life out on the highway outside Memphis after he got separated from Dad on a hunt, of Dean in the hospital after a bar brawl, of Dean laughing and poking fun at Sam while he studied. Thoughts of Dean alone.

Dean had never failed him, even when he thought Sam was a moron. Maybe it was more than Bobby could handle. Maybe it was more…maybe it was just like his dreams. He hadn't had them in a while, but he remembered them just the same; his father's voice as he died, his brother with the gun, a man with yellow eyes. They never made a lot of sense, but they always ended the same. Dean's hand on the gun, the sound of the shot.

It was two in the morning when he gave in. He tried to be quiet, but he woke Jessica just the same.

"Sam?"

He did his best to hide the fear that was clawing up out of his stomach, smiling as went to sit on the bed beside her. "I need to go away for a few days."

She frowned at him, her hand cupping his face. "Why?"

"It's…family. My family needs me."

"Your family? What family?"

Sam kissed her lightly. "I’ll be back in a few days, Jess. I just…there’s something I need to do.”

"I don't understand, Sam. I've known you for two years and you've never mentioned a family. And now, you're sneaking off in the middle of the night…does this have something to do with that man that was here?"

He stiffened. "What man?" There was something in the way her nose curled that told him she didn't mean Bobby.

"He was asking about you. Said he had something for you. I didn't like him very much."

"When was this?" Sam asked, getting up to go back to throwing his clothes in a bag.

"Yesterday. He said he'd come back." Jessica got up and followed him, her hand falling on his arm. "What's going on?"

Sam sighed. He didn't know what man she was talking about. "My father…he called a few months ago. Said my brother was missing. When he didn't call back, I figured he'd found him and everything was back to normal."

"But?"

"But, an old friend showed up here a few days ago. Turns out my father's gone missing too. I need to make sure they're okay."

"How? If they're missing?" She tugged on his arm, dragged him back toward the bed. "Sam, you're not making any sense."

"No, I know where my Dad was headed. I'm just going to go down to Jericho and have a look around. I'll be back in a few days." He didn't expect her to understand. He grabbed his bag. "Just…be careful. Don't talk to that man if he shows up again." He'd worry about whoever that was when he got back. He kissed her cheek and headed out, figuring he could steal a car or something and get down to Jericho, catch up with Bobby.

He was more than half way to Jericho when his cell phone rang. “Hello? Bobby? I'm on my way to catch up with you."

"Don't bother. I already left Jericho."

"You didn't find him." Sam didn't need to ask, he could hear it in his voice.

"He'd been there, but he's been gone a while. Found his stuff at a motel. I'm coming back to you."

"What should we do now?"

"We?" Bobby asked. Sam sighed.

"Yeah, Bobby. We. I'm giving you a few days, but then I have to get back."

"Well, I heard from a friend. Someone maybe spotted Dean."

Sam held his breath. "Dean. Okay, where?"

"Let me do some checking. I'll come and get you."

"Yeah, okay." Sam hung up and turned his stolen car around. He looked at his phone and dialed his father's number. It didn't ring, didn't dump to voicemail, just a message saying that his inbox was full. Sam sighed and dropped the phone to concentrate on getting home.

Sam ditched the car just south of Palo Alto, not far from where he’d found it and caught a bus back to the campus. He was a block away from the apartment, his stomach twisting uneasily. His eyes scanned the street. There were a few people out on the quiet street, familiar faces. A few waved as he passed. His eyes rose to the bedroom window. A shadow moved across it and Sam stopped.

His heart thundered and his head filled with fire, with Jessica screaming. Pain lanced through him. There was blood and fire and the man with yellow eyes. Sam gasped and held his head, moving toward the building. The man with yellow eyes. He was there, in the window.

Sam burst into the door. “Jess?”

The bedroom door was open. He moved into the room cautiously. He heard the shower through the bathroom door. There was no one in the room.

He'd imagined it. It was all his over-active imagination. There was no yellow-eyed man. Just Sam's childhood fears, brought bubbling up to the surface by thoughts of his father.

He huffed and dropped his bag by the bed, dropping onto the mattress. He hadn’t been gone long, six hours maybe, and he'd already let himself fall back into that paranoia fed by his father's obsession.

Sam fell back on the bed, closing his eyes. This was real. This was home. There were no ghosts or demons here. He was safe here.

This thing with his father could rip that away. Just like his father and his fixation on the damn demon had ripped away every other normal thing in his life.

Sam exhaled and turned to look at the bathroom, contemplating joining Jess.

Something warm and wet dripped on his face. He reached up to wipe it away, as more drops fell. He looked up, his eyes opening wide as he scrambled back, screaming. Jess was above him, pinned to the ceiling, her face a horrified mask of pain as her stomach slowly split open.

“Jess! No!” Like something from his earliest nightmares, flames erupted around her, engulfing her and the ceiling.

“No!” Sam jumped off the bed, reaching up to her, but the flames were too hot, too much. Fire danced across his skin as Sam screamed and ducked away from the flames.

Hands grabbed him and yanked him away from the fire. He was being dragged from the room. Sam struggled, his elbow jabbing at the soft stomach of his rescuer. “Jess! Jessica!” He broke free and nearly got back into the bedroom before those hands were around his waist again and tugging him backward.

“You trying to die with her?” Bobby’s voice grated against his ear. "She's gone, son. You can't save her."

"No. Jessica!" Sam stumbled against him as they cleared the front door, then pushed Bobby away. Sirens were blaring and people coming out to gawk. Bobby's hand fisted in his shirt and tugged until Sam was following numbly, across the small street.

The bedroom window exploded outward, raining shards of glittering glass over the fire crew starting to set up to battle the blaze. Flames licked out of the opening. Sam dragged air into protesting lungs. "Jess." In the swirl of flame and smoke, Sam could swear he saw him again. The man with yellow eyes.

“Nothing you could've done.” Bobby said, his hand on Sam's shoulder.

Sam looked at him, pointing to the window. When he looked back the man was gone. Sam's knees buckled and he sat hard on the curb. Sam shook his head, rubbing his face. “What the hell?”

He doubled over, dry heaving. She was gone. Just…gone. The pain was too familiar, too intimate. On some level he knew. This was how his mother died. “Why, Bobby? I was done, I was out. Why?”

Bobby squatted next to him and dropped something in his lap. Sam looked at it, then back up to Bobby. “Don’t know. Answer might be in there.”

Sam ran his trembling hand over the faded tan leather. “This…this is Dad’s.”

Bobby nodded. “Yep. He left it behind in Jericho. Figure you might want to hold onto it ‘til we find him.”

Sam nodded. Find him. They had to find him. Find Dean. Find the man with yellow eyes. Dreams or no dreams. Find him, so Sam could kill him.





Clanton. Pastor Jim had said Clanton. Bobby said to wait, let him figure a few things out, track what Dean'd been up to, what kind of mess they might walk into. Dean had been missing for nearly a year. A year.

Sam didn’t want to wait. He wanted his brother. He'd waited long enough, hidden away in safety while his brother was out there in the dark. He had thought if he left, the things in his dreams couldn't come true. His father would be fine. Dean would never have to make that choice. And still, the disconnected images from those dreams wouldn't leave him alone.

Somewhere out there was a demon that had killed his mother, killed Jessica, planed to kill his father if the dreams really were true. He had no leads on where his father had gone, and only this small hope to find his brother.

Sam had made some calls of his own. Talked to Jim and a few others. Dean had just stopped showing up where their father was. No one said anything about a fight or falling out between them, no one knew where or why they'd even separated. Dean had just gone away. Every now and then someone would see him, but he was like a ghost, there and then gone.

There were rumors that that was all he was. A ghost.

Sam wouldn't believe that. Couldn't. Dean had to be alive. Had to be. And Sam had to find him. So, he couldn’t wait. He hitched a ride out of Palo Alto while Bobby was doing his research. Caught a semi into Vegas, then stole a car and headed east.

At least he was moving. If he was moving he didn’t have to think past the next truck stop, the next back road. He didn’t have to see the gun, feel the cold bite of the barrel against his skin. He didn't have to hear his father's screams and taste the bitter failure of knowing he couldn't save him. He didn't have to remember the look on Jessica's face as she died, the taste of her blood on his lips.

Somewhere west of Clanton, Sam pulled the car off the road. He wiped it down, inside and out, took the plates off and shoved them in his bag. He could drop them in some dumpster once he got into town.

A few miles up the road, Sam stuck out his thumb and a pretty woman slowed down, checking him over and weighing the odds on whether he was a serial killer or rapist or some other kind of freak. She stopped and opened the passenger side door. "I don't usually stop for folks."

"I don't usually take rides from folks." Sam said, easy, smiling. "I'm just headed for Clanton."

"And I'm just passing through Clanton." He sat in the passenger seat, pulled the door shut.

"Thanks."

"Don't kill me, and we'll call it even." She smiled. It was a nice smile. It reminded him of Jessica.

She stopped the car at the first signal light and he opened the door. "This is good. Thanks." He watched her drive away and swallowed the burn in his heart.

Dean was here. Somewhere. If he hadn’t faded away again.

But Dean hadn’t faded away. The Impala sat proud as sin on the street outside some diner. The black paint was heavy with the dust of the road. Dean hadn’t washed her in a while. Sam could remember the hours his brother would spend cleaning the damn car, hands rubbing over every surface like the damn thing was a woman.

Sam approached it like it might disappear if he startled it, running one hand up over the back fender before he turned to the diner. Dean had to be inside. Sam took a deep breath and went to the door, opening it, his eyes scanning the interior. He didn’t see Dean, not at first.

It was a damn unusual place for Dean to begin with. The curtains on the windows were a frilly pink lace and the tables are small, like outdoor café tables, white and dainty almost.

Sam's eyes flitted over the booths lining the inside wall, but they're filled with high school girls giggling and jocks trying to be cool. A waitress in a ridiculously pink uniform was laying food down in front of a pair of cheerleaders.

He fought down a wave of panic. Dean was here. Somewhere. Sam turned to leave, but a movement on his right caught his eye, like catching his reflection in a mirror. Sam's own face, mouth open, eyes filled with fear, stared back at him. Sam let the door close, staggering a step forward.

“What?” Dean’s voice said, and the man sitting with Sam’s twin turned, twisting in his chair. There was shock and confusion in his eyes. Dean’s eyes.

That was his brother, sitting with…him. Only it wasn't him. It was some fucking doppelganger, a skin walker or shape shifter or some fucking thing. With his fucking face. Sam flushed with heat, his hand on the gun hidden in his jacket. He wasn't armed for a shape shifter, just regular bullets. He needed silver.

Dean's eyes flashed to Sam and back to the thing with his face, disbelief coloring his face.

“What the fuck, Dean?” Sam demanded, shaking now. .

The thing with his face pushed away from the table, making a low keening sound. Dean stood, pulling it to him, fucking protecting the damn thing as he thrust it toward the door.

His elbow slammed into Sam, sparking him to turn, follow. "Dean?"

He pushed through the door behind them, the three of them spilling out onto the sidewalk. Dean let go of it, but it reached for him, still keening that insane sound. Sam pushed his hands against his temples, trying to wrap his head around the image of Dean with another Sam…a Sam that was clearly not him.

They stopped beside the Impala, Dean's hand over his mouth. He folded over, pressing back against the car. The thing that looked like Sam was whining and moaning, its arms held around its stomach as it rocked back and forth in obvious distress.

“Dean, what the fuck?” Sam’s voice came out pitched a little higher than he wanted. He stood on the sidewalk, face to face with the doppelganger. “What the fuck is this?” Sam's hand trembled as he reached for Dean. Dean straightened up, his eyes sort of glazed and darting between them.

People were staring, moving around the odd triangle the three of them formed, two Sams and Dean. Dean had his back to the Impala now, his hands pressed against the windows like it was the only solid thing he had to hold on to. "Dean." Sam's voice cracked a little.

“Shut up, you’re upsetting him,” Dean said finally, when the double's keening ratcheted up. He inched away from Sam, closer to it.

“What is it?” Sam’s voice rose, the anger and the fear at war inside him and erupting through his mouth.

Suddenly the thing with his face just stopped. The sound, the rocking. Just stopped. Its eyes met Sam’s. “I’m his Sam.”

Sam choked back a curse, his nostrils flaring. What? How could that be? “Dean. Dean, what did you do?” he whispered the question, his stomach twisting.

“I didn’t do anything, okay?” Dean snarled. His eyes flared with anger.

“He wished for me,” the thing said.

“Sam, stop. Don’t talk to him.” Dean stepped onto the sidewalk, touched its face, turning it away from Sam.

Dean's back was to Sam now. Sam grabbed for him. “Don’t call him Sam!"

Dean yanked out of his reach, moving to push the damn double behind him, like he was protecting it from Sam.

"He’s not me, he’s not your brother!” Sam yelled. How could Dean call that thing Sam? How could Dean think that was him? "Fuck!" Furious tears burned in the corners of his eyes. His gut twisted as he reached for Dean again. "Please, Dean. Look at me." This thing had done something to Dean, that much was clear. Confounded him, bewitched him.

“Don’t cry, Sam, come back to the motel with us." It was smiling tentatively at him now. "We’ll explain, okay?” The thing reached out around Dean slowly and stroked a hand down Sam’s arm.

Sam shivered, his eyes tracing the hand that was so like his. The same scar under the first knuckle on his index finger, the same coloring. Only there were no burns, no signs of the fire that took Jess.

That meant the double wasn’t perfect, Sam saw that now. He was shorter by a few inches, and looked younger. The smile had faded and he was looking at Sam like he might go back to that weird keening sound any minute.

Sam couldn’t let Dean walk away, not when he’d found him…not when he was under some sort of spell or delusion or something. Certainly not thinking this fucking fake was him. Sam nodded a little, thinking that getting off this street and somewhere much more private was a good idea. He shuffled a little closer.

Dean just opened the door to the car and walked around to the driver's side.

Sam climbed into the backseat, watching as the thing that had his face got in the passenger seat, whispering to Dean, touching Dean’s arm. Dean seemed to calm with its touch. His eyes in the rearview mirror were back to that dull glazed look, vaguely confused. He smiled at it and patted its knee. Didn't even look at Sam.

He had to swallow the urge to scream at him. That thing was in his place and Dean seemed to want it there.

He hunched over, pulling air into his lungs and trying to place what this double was. It didn't act like a skin walker or shape shifter. It had to be something evil.

It said Dean had wished for him. There were thought-forms and familiars that might be wished into existence, but it would take mighty powerful magic to create and maintain. Dean didn't seem capable of that kind of focus of thought at the moment.

Sam didn’t know how long this thing had been masquerading in his face and his clothes, in his life.

Only it wasn’t his life, not really. Sam had walked away from that life. Given it up. Given Dean up. He shook his head, not wanting to believe that Dean would hate him for that, cast him aside for a fucking double.

It was college. It was only college. Normal people went to college every day.

And it was over. Gone. Just like Jessica.

And maybe Sam didn’t deserve to have this back. But this thing wasn’t him, and Dean deserved more than a fake Sam. Maybe if he could get Dean away from it he could get through to him, break the spell. If Dean didn't want him back after…Sam shook his head, the thought stealing the air from his chest. He'd deal with that later.


The motel room was so much like so many others they'd crashed in over the years. Two double beds, a television, a small table and a single chair. The place was small, stifling.

“Something came after me, at Stanford,” Sam said, unzipping his hoodie. He sat in the chair. He needed to get Dean to think past the spell, break through. "There was a fire. My girlfriend died." He held up his hands as if the burns would prove the truth.

Dean opened the window, but it didn't help much. The double sat on the nearest bed. There were too many of them for the room. Sam watched Dean move from the window to the end of the bed.

“Stanford?” Dean echoed. “So, you never left?” He glanced at the thing, who raised an eyebrow, and Sam knew that expression. It was his. It said, see, I was right.

He pushed the ache and grief away. He needed to focus, make Dean realize this thing wasn't Sam. He wanted to get through, not get distracted. “It was a demon, we think. I’ve been talking to Bobby.”

Something passed over Dean’s face. Surprise maybe. Sam licked his lips and exhaled. He was beginning to think he was out of his depth. Dean didn’t seem to be catching up very fast. Sam switched tactics. Maybe Dean would react to their father.

"Dean, we don’t know where dad is." Sam stood. He wiped at the sweat on his face. "Bobby seems to think that it might have something to do with mom. That maybe it was a demon, and that the same one came to Palo Alto. I—"

Sam looked away, swallowed. Jessica. He pulled his hands through his hair. Dean hadn't moved, just stood there, staring, barely blinking. Sam wanted to shake him, slap him, anything to make him react.

"You hear me Dean? Dad's missing."

Dean nodded slowly. "I hear you." Dean looked at it, as if expecting it to tell him what to say. "I don't know what you mean. How is he missing?"

"Look at me!" Sam snapped, bringing Dean's eyes to his. "Do you remember when you saw him last? No one's seen you in a year, Dean. A fucking year!" Sam stalked toward them. "Dad was looking for you. He called me for fuck's sake. Bobby said that you just... just dropped off the map."

"Bobby." Dean seemed to be thinking now, his eyes dropping to the floor.

"Yeah, Bobby. We were looking for Dad, then Jim said someone saw you around Clanton so I came out and...”

“And found us,” the thing said.

Sam’s eyes narrowed as he turned more fully on the thing. “Yes.” His voice was sharp, angry, rising in the too stale air. “So why don’t you fill me in. What the fuck are you and what are you doing with my brother?”

“What do you know about mom? About what killed her?” Dean interrupted, pulling Sam’s attention away from it. His face was clouded, his eyes searching out Sam's, like he was struggling through everything Sam had said.

“Not much. I don’t know what it’s after, why it keeps coming after us. If I could talk to dad…” Sam shook his head, tried to refocus. They could find Dad later. And after that, the demon. Right now, they had more pressing matters. “I want to know about this thing.” He nodded in the doppelganger's direction.

“Dean needed me. I came for him, came back to him,” it said in a tone of voice that Sam knew well.

So much about this creature was like him, his voice, his mannerisms, his face. A few missing inches marked the difference, like he was made from a memory of Sam, something from Dean's head. Like nothing that had happened to Sam since he left even mattered.

"I'm his Sam."

It kept saying that, but it wasn't him. It didn't know about Jessica or the fire or what Sam would do to get his brother back. It was a thing.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about." Sam’s face was tight, pinched. "You aren't me."

Sam pushed it and it cried out. Dean pushed Sam back.

"What the fuck are you?”

“I’m Dean’s Sam." It rubbed the place where Sam had touched him. "I take care of him."

Dean's face had fallen flat again, like his thoughts had simply stopped processing. Its hand was on Dean's arm, petting him. "I was born because he asked for me."

Sam held out his hand. "Dean, you need to come with me. Come away from it."

“Sam,” Dean looked at each of them, his eyes hazy, confused.

“Dean, don’t you see? He’s going to ruin everything,” the thing said, tears in its eyes as it pawed on Dean's arm.

“Jesus Christ, Dean, don’t listen to it. It’s done something to you,” Sam stepped closer. "Don't you see? It's not me, Dean."

"My Dean." It stood, holding Dean now, its head on his shoulder. "I'm your Sam, I came to you."

Sam put his hand in his jacket for the gun. He had to end this. It couldn't keep Dean under its spell with a bullet in its head.

“Dean, he’s got a gun!”

Sam barely got his hand free of the pocket. Dean's hand was on his wrist, wrenching his arm back behind him. Sam lurched away, attempting to break free, even as the gun fell from numb fingers. "Dean!"

Sam stopped struggling when he felt the barrel of another gun against the back of his head. "Dean?" Dean's hand on the gun…the sound of the shot.

“Now, just hold on a damned minute. I can’t even think straight in here,” Dean said, his voice gone cold and scratchy, like he hadn’t really used it in a while.

He yanked Sam upright and forced him forward, out the door of the room. In the time they’d been inside it had gone dark and the skies were rumbling darkly.

Sam's heart thundered in echo of the skies. This couldn't be real. "Dean, come on. I'm your brother."

"Shut the fuck up and let me think." Dean growled, the end of the gun biting into Sam's skin. It was so fucking familiar, Sam could almost hear the shot echoing into the dark already.

The rain started out slow, a soft mist that coated their skin. Sam raised his free hand slowly to the side. He felt the fear flush through him. In the dream Dean thought he was evil. In the dream it ended with the gun and the shot.

No sudden moves. Dean wouldn't kill him if he could just make him see reason. Sam breathed out slowly. "I'm your brother, Dean."

“Dean,” It was Sam's voice, Sam's inflection, but it wasn't Sam and he was never going to be okay with that. It was wrong. Weird and goddamn fucking wrong, like the way his brother’s gun was against his head, pressed into him like Sam was the fucking damn evil thing.

“Across the road, over that hill, we don’t want someone to call the cops.” It was beside them now, looking at Sam with a smug expression. It thought it had already won.

“Yeah,” Dean shoved Sam, across the road. The mist turned to full on rain, making the ground beneath them slick and their feet squished in the mud, slipping and lurching up the hill. Sam tried to yank his hand free, but Dean only growled at him and tightened his grip.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Dean would kill him. Maybe the dream had been real all along.

“Listen to me, Dean.” Sam's voice was cracking, frantic to be heard over the rain and the roar in his head. “This thing is not Sam. I’m Sam, don’t listen to it.” He twisted in Dean’s hands, trying to turn to face him. Dean needed to see him, see his face. Sam's foot slipped in the mud as they crested the hill. Dean dragged him upright as the double rounded on Sam, facing Dean over Sam's shoulder.

“Who’s been with you all this time, Dean?" Its face was a sneer, ugly and it didn't look so much like him now with his eyes squinting and dark, his lips curled. "I chose you. I came to you because you needed me. You need me Dean." Its eyes flicked to Sam's. "This guy?” It pointed a finger at Sam. "You heard him. He's only here because he needs something from you." It stepped a little closer. "He only came to you because he lost his little girlfriend and he's all alone. Needs you to help him. He doesn’t care about you at all. He'll leave you again when it's over."

“That’s not true, shut the fuck up.” Sam reared up and away from Dean, breaking his hand free and taking a step toward it, reaching for the fucking thing to shut it up. His hands closed on its neck, but Dean brought the butt of the gun down on the back of Sam's head. Sam stumbled forward under the blow, falling to his knees in the mud as the thing moved out of his reach.

The gun cocked, the sound clear even over the sound of the rain and Sam froze in place.

“Dean,” he whispered, “Don’t do this.” He couldn't see his brother. All he could see was the muddy shoes of the thing wearing his face. "Dean." He'd lost him. Lost everything.

It was whispering to Dean, telling him that everything would be okay once Sam was gone. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as the dream played out in his head. Dean would kill him, and their father would die, and the demon would win.

"God, Dean...don't shoot."

His brother was so far gone he might. He just might take that shot, and Sam didn’t know what to say anymore that would make a difference. The sky smelled like ozone as lightening flared behind them and thunder made the ground quiver under his knees.

"Shut the fuck up." Dean growled.

Maybe. Sam gasped in air, dug around inside him for his voice. His head pounded, pain radiating out from the knot where his skull had met the force of Dean's blow.

It came to him, squatting beside Sam, its hands on his face. "See, he's mine now. You threw him away, didn't need him."

"No." His thoughts tangled around the sound of the gun, the feeling of cold darkness that pulled him down. But Dean hadn't shot, not yet. He forced his head up, shaking with the effort to think past the gut-tearing fear that Dean didn't know him, that his brother was about to kill him.

It was so fucked up. Sam shook his head. How could Dean not see he was his Sam? Not this thing.

"Dean, please."

Dean's feet squished in the mud, right there, pushing it away from Sam. "Who are you?" Dean demanded, his voice gravel and shattered glass.

"Your brother, Sam."

The gun was against his temple, tight, cold. "I'm your brother. I'm Sam." He whispered it fervently, a prayer offered up in his final moments on the altar of his life.

Everything was quiet. The rain was the only moving thing. Then lightening split the air and the thing that looked like Sam screamed, a sound that was nothing close to human. Sam lifted his face to see Bobby coming up fast before Dean slumped to the ground beside him and thunder shook the ground.

Sam panted as he reached for Dean, taking the gun from his hand. The double screamed again, diving at Sam, its face contorted in rage and looking even less like Sam. They rolled in the mud, away from Dean and Bobby, who was cursing. Sam's head was going to explode. Sam tried to put the gun in its gut but his fingers were numb with cold and it slipped away.

Then it was squealing and Bobby had his arm around its neck. Sam struggled up to sitting, but the world wobbled and he collapsed back into the mud, trying not to pass out.

"Sam!"

Bobby nearly had it on its knees but it was still fighting, clawing at Bobby, trying to get back to Dean. Sam rolled over, climbed to his knees, then up onto his feet. The world tilted under him as he staggered closer, but he managed to stay mostly upright. He closed his hand into a fist and pounded it into its face. It took two blows and Bobby's stranglehold, but eventually it went down.

Sam sat down hard, his hand rising to cup the knot on the back of his head. "Fuck."

“Easy.” Bobby’s voice was anything but easy on his pounding head.

Sam pulled himself toward Dean, rolled him over to make sure he was okay. "What'd you hit him with?"

Bobby held up a stick. "He was going to shoot you."

Sam nodded. "He's…he's fucked up. I don't know what it did to him…but… fuck." He should be dead. It always ended the same. Dean's hand on the gun, the sound of the shot…and nothing. Only this time, the dark hadn't claimed him.

Bobby squatted beside Dean, checked his pulse. "He's going to be okay. Better once we get him away from that thing."

Sam stared at Bobby. "We can't just leave it here."

"What? You want to bring it with us?"

"It has my face." Sam wasn’t sure exactly what they were going to do with it, but he wasn't leaving it out in the world with his face.

"It won't for long. Once we get Dean far enough away, it'll lose form." Bobby said.

"What is it?" Sam asked, shuddering as he looked at it lying there unconscious.

“It’s a familiar. A witch’s creation. Fucking thing feeds off the victim. Would've killed him eventually. But slow. Would've driven him crazy first."

Crazy. Dean was practically that already. He would have killed Sam. Nearly had. If not for Bobby.

"How's your head?"

Sam touched the knot again. It throbbed, hot to the touch. "I'll be fine."

"Good. Help me with your brother."

Together they lifted Dean between them, sliding down the hill and back across the road. "Back seat." Sam said as they neared the Impala. Bobby's truck was parked beside it. "How'd you find us?"

"I was fucking lucky." Bobby said. "Saw the car, then I saw Dean." Bobby pulled his hat off and squinted back up the hill. "If you really want to bring that thing, we best get it and get out of town."

"Dean needs to see it for what it is." Sam said. If Dean could see it for what it was, he would know beyond a doubt that Sam was Sam. Or so he hoped.

The rain was slowing down as they got back to the top of the hill. The damn thing moaned as Sam rolled it over. Its face was all gray and some of Sam's features seemed to be melting away from it. He didn't want to touch it, but he didn't want to leave it either. Together, they got it down the hill and into the bed of the truck.

Bobby bound its hands and feet, securing it in the bed of the truck before pulling a tarp from behind the seat and tying that down over it. "You okay to drive?"

Sam nodded, grimacing a little as the pain rattled around in his head. "I'll get Dean's stuff."

"I'll head out. Better to keep some distance. Meet me at my place."



He could hear the damn thing screaming even as he pulled onto the dirt lane that led up to Bobby's place. He couldn't see it, but Sam figured that was safer for now. They needed Dean to wake up and make sure he was okay before they let him see it.

Sam rubbed at his head as he pulled to a stop. Bobby was on the porch, a shotgun in his hands. He got out and opened the back door of the car, pulling on Dean until he got his feet on the ground. Sam hefted him up and Bobby came to help him. Together they carried his unconscious brother into the house, laying him on the couch.

The closer they got to the house, the louder the thing screamed. Sam winced as it switched to howling, painful, distressed sounds.

“Don’t listen to it.” Bobby said. He pulled a book from a shelf and started flipping pages. “I don’t think its magic extends over anyone but Dean, but we shouldn’t give it a chance.”

“What do we do?” Sam asked, his eyes flicking to Dean.

Bobby inhaled deeply. “Break its spell. Took me a while to track down. Had to retrace where we knew Dean had been. A year's a long damn time, lot of ground." He put the book down and scratched at his beard. "I blocked its magic, but we need to crack it open, break its hold for good.” Bobby switched to a different book.

He looked up at Sam, his face angry. “I damned well told you to wait for me, didn’t I? I told you not to go sparkin’ off until I got back.” Bobby’s slammed down the second book and grabbed a third.

“I know, okay?” Sam backed away and sat down heavy in a chair, his eyes dropping to the floor. “But Jim called, and I didn’t know how long Dean would be there. I didn’t know about the familiar. I thought...” He needed Dean, that's what he'd been thinking. The fucking familiar had been right about that.

Dean moved, his hand covering his eyes. Sam looked from the floor to Dean, tensing. The howling was worse now, wordless and terrible. Dean shifted as if it was calling him. Somewhere out in the yard, the dogs echoed the sound, carrying it out into the distance.

“Stupid bitch must've thought it would be funny, found his weakness. No better way to kill Dean Winchester than through his family."

Sam didn't want to be Dean's weakness. "How do we break it?"

"I don’t know, but we have got to get rid of it. It’s upsetting my dogs.” Bobby’s voice lost some of its anger. He sounded tired, like the whole thing was wearing him down.

“We can’t. Not until Dean wakes up. He needs to see it, how it really is. Now that you’re blocking its powers...” Dean needed to hear the awful sound it was making. Know that it wasn’t him.

Dean suddenly rolled over, puking onto the hardwood floor.

“Dean.” Sam was at his side instantly, hands moving to hold him still. “Shit, Dean, don’t move.”

Bobby disappeared into the kitchen, coming back with a glass of water and a damp washcloth.

“Let’s sit you up,” Sam said, sliding a hand behind Dean’s neck and lifting. The rest of Dean’s body followed easily, until he was sitting with his back to the couch. “Try some water, okay?”

Dean took a few careful sips. His eyes skirted around him, touching briefly on Bobby, then Sam. His nostrils flared as the creature out in Bobby’s yard reached a new volume of pitiful.

“What?” he croaked out, looking surprised at the sound, or maybe at seeing Sam. He didn't know if Dean would even remember what had happened.

“Powerful magic.” Dean looked up at Bobby. “You might not remember, but you crossed ways with a witch, down in Georgia, a long while back, and she conjured something big for you. A damned doppelganger,” Bobby shook his head as Sam pressed the cloth against Dean's face.

“You mean a fucking pod person?” Dean asked, pushing Sam away.

Sam choked out something of a laugh because that was just such a Dean thing to say. Dean jumped a little, his eyes widening as he looked at Sam. He lifted a hand and touched Sam’s face. His eyes narrowed. "He looked like you."

Sam pulled back. “It was using you, feeding off you."

Dean's eyes were dark. "You called me, said you wanted to come home."

Sam looked away. "No, Dean. I didn't."

The thing in the yard howled mournfully and Dean shivered, folding his arms around his stomach. "I remember. You called me. Said something about Margaret Atwood and you wanted to come home."

Sam stood up, icy anger leeching into his blood now that the fire of his fear was eased. "No. I didn't call you Dean. The last time I tried, you'd changed numbers. How was I supposed to call you?"

"Sam, this isn't his fault." Bobby interjected.

Sam whirled on him. "He should have known it wasn't me."

"He looked like you." Dean repeated dully.

"It." Sam corrected. "That thing isn't a person, Dean. It isn't me. Does it sound like a goddamn person?"

As if to make his point, it screeched and Dean cringed.

"It was using magic to dumb you down, Dean." Bobby said, though he was looking at Sam. "Kept you from thinking too much. So you wouldn't have noticed the differences."

The room was quiet then, all but the howling of the dogs and the keening of the fucking familiar. Then Dean cleared his throat. "It didn't die."

Sam didn't understand that, turning to face Dean. "What?"

"A while back…you…" he made a face and rubbed his forehead, "…it…it took a piece of rebar to the gut. Should have killed you…it. Was sure it was over. Begged me to pull it out. Figured you'd rather go quick than suffer. Only…he--you--it didn't."

It uncurled inside him, freezing his blood. He couldn't look at Dean. "You…let it keep pretending it was me? Even after it…Fuck Dean."

"DEAN!"

Dean lurched up at the sound of his name, half way to the door. Bobby caught him, held him as he sagged, his body still trying to move even though his knees didn't seem inclined to hold him.

"No. Let him see." Sam grabbed Dean, his fist pulling hard enough in his shirt to tear it, dragging him out of the house and out into the yard toward the sound. Bobby'd lit it up with a spot light and Sam stopped them just outside the light.

"Do you see Dean? That's what you've been living with for the last year." But the anger was already gone, burned away by the pathetic sight of its twisted form, a mess of melting features, oozing skin that once looked like him. Its mouth was a black hole as it screamed and writhed, pitiful and terrifying. His fingers loosened, letting go of his brother as Sam looked away in disgust.

Bobby caught up to them, his hand fisting in the back of Sam's collar. Sam staggered back with Bobby's yank, landing on his ass in the gravel. "You goddamn idjit. I told you it wasn't his fucking fault."

Dean stood staring at it. After a long time, it finally stopped squealing, though the mewling as it strained against the ropes was worse. Dean looked at the ground, his toe drawing a line in the tiny stones.

"It was right, Sam. I wanted you. I wanted you to come back so bad. I wanted my brother back." His voice cracked, sharp edges cutting the air and Sam stopped struggling against Bobby.

Dean turned away from it, though his eyes didn't quite make Sam's. "It was all I wanted. So when it called, when it was your voice and your hair and your smile…"

Sam pushed Bobby off of him and climbed to his feet. "I'm here now." Sam responded, his hand on Dean's chin, turning his face to Sam's.

“The places I’ve been, Sam. Fuck. I was going to kill you.” Dean shook his head out of Sam’s hand. His eyes closed. "I thought you were the…thing. I really thought you were some evil son of a bitch."

"It had you pretty deep. I couldn't get through to you. Not with it so close."

Dean was quiet for a minute. When he spoke, he didn't look at Sam, or Bobby, or the thing, just stared out into the dark. "That stuff you said…about Stanford…your girl?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah." He held up his hands, running the fingers of one over the still healing burns on the other. "She died. The demon killed her. Just like Mom."

"Fuck, Sam."

Sam pushed the grief away. He'd have time for that later. He had Dean back. He had his brother and together they were stronger. Together they would find Dad, and then they would hunt down the man with yellow eyes.

"I think…I saw it. Before it happened. Saw the man with yellow eyes in the window…in my head, I don't know."

He felt Dean's eyes really, fully looking at him finally. Sam met them. "The man with yellow eyes…from your nightmares?

Sam nodded. "They came true Dean. He was there, and she died. I…dreamed about Dad disappearing, dying. I dreamed about you…killing me."

"But I didn't." Dean's hand was on his shoulder, tight, real.

"But you didn't. And that means we can still save Dad."

"Have to find him first." Bobby said, shoving a book into Sam's hands, his thumb holding a page. "And we have to end that thing before it drives the dogs batty."

"It was my head it fucked over." Dean said, reaching for the book.

Sam opened it to the page Bobby was marking. "It's in Latin."

"Your Latin always was better than mine." Dean pulled his hand back. "And it was your face, ugly as it is."

It seemed easy. A few minutes and it was over. Nothing left to mark its existence but the memories. Sam yawned, exhausted. "I could sleep for a year."

"I feel like I've been asleep for a year." Dean countered. The three of them headed back toward the house. Dean held back, let Bobby head in, his hand on Sam's arm. "So…we okay?"

Sam nodded tightly. "We got work to do."