Fic: Mirror Mask
Are you with me, Dean?
You’re not even with you.
~*~
Sam rides silently beside Dean, scanning the net on his satellite phone. He’s already planning the next case, chasing the next lead. Dean’s entire body is crawling with impatience, fear, anger, loss; his guts stretch taut like deck ropes in a storm, but Sam is as still as the ocean the night the Titanic went down.
He opens his mouth a time or two, but words don’t come. Once, Sam’s eyes narrow in his direction. You okay? Dean nods. You sure? Dean nods again. Sam wouldn’t be able to process this feeling, maybe wouldn’t even remember ever having felt it himself.
The empty shell beside him can’t remember what it is to know your brother is in Hell while you breathe air. It can’t feel the crushing weight of Dean’s accidental betrayal, months and months gone by that could have been spent searching for a way to save him wasted through ignorance and misplaced trust.
It isn’t Sam. It’s just an echo.
They roll into a town in the small hours, and Dean’s hands have long since slipped from ten and two to five and seven on the wheel. Sam offered to drive a couple hundred back, but it gives Dean the creeps to think that Sam could drive them from Miami to Seattle and never have to stop except for gas, so he said no, clinging to the wheel as if it was proof of his humanity.
They check in to a total dive, going off of memory, falling into cadence. Dean can almost pretend things are normal, as long as he doesn’t look. As long as he doesn’t ask Sam anything.
Sam flicks on the lights while Dean digs through the cooler, deciding to push his weariness aside long enough to quiet the rumble in his gut - the one he can do something about. You hungry? He offers Sam the spare sandwich, feeling only a dull twinge of panic when Sam shakes his head no.
Sam hasn’t eaten since they left Samuel back at the mansion to bury his men. Gwen’s hands, covered with the blood of her fallen comrades, had been shaking beneath the weight of the body she held.
Do you even need to eat?
Sam turns to look at him; that’s something, anyway. Contact. Muscle memory. No, he says. Not really.
Dean swallows. Sam did promise to tell him everything. He pushes past it, takes a bite of his ham and cheese. It’s cold. Dean shivers.
Sam nods abruptly. I’m gonna go wash the road off. Get some rest.
Dean doesn’t watch Sam retreat to the bathroom, but he still feels himself relax once the door closes behind him. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, forgetting his hunger.
Sammy, where are you.
He’s drifting off to sleep when Sam emerges from the bathroom fully clothed and looking for all the world like he’s ready to drive another 200 miles. Dean watches his brother’s empty shell brush his teeth out of the corner of his eye. Sam still has his routine.
Sam’s eyes lock onto Dean’s in the mirror. Dean feels himself flinch, and he hates himself for it. What?
Sam’s eyebrows knit downward. Did you see that?
Dean props himself up on his elbow. See what?
Sam turns, searching the room twice before letting his shoulders relax. Nothing, I guess. Trick of the light. He flips the switch, plunging the room into darkness. A moment later, a soft blue glow shines out from his laptop screen, casting angled shadows across his face.
Whatever, Dean mumbles, rolling over.
Dean dreams, but he doesn’t sleep.
~*~
When Dean rolls out of bed, Sam is gone. He waits to feel surprised, but the shock only comes when he goes to sink and finds a note in Sam’s long, scrawling cursive that says Back soon, coffee.
Dean splashes water on his face, not bothering to turn on the heat. The liquid is icy against his skin, and he tries to imagine what it would feel like if it were inside, filling him up until there was nothing left but cold. What am I supposed to do, he snarls at his face in the mirror, at the broken shell of a man who wished he couldn’t feel before he knew what it would have meant.
So angry, his reflection whispers back.
Dean freezes, blinks. He turns his head to the left, then the right. The man in the mirror follows suit, and Dean shuts his eyes, rubbing them with the back of his hand. Losing my damn mind.
We would know, says his reflection. We’ve been crazy for years.
Dean’s eyes snap open again, but he’s just staring at himself. At who he has become. Dean reaches out, needing to trace the edges of that man, confirm in some way that he’s real, that this whole thing isn’t just some horrible new nightmare. He wonders if he’s staring into his soul.
When Dean’s fingertips contact the smooth surface of the mirror, the air becomes dense, charged, and his lungs struggle against the weight of it. His instincts scream at him to run, but it’s far too late for running. His reflection grins at him, its eyes blazing a harsh, infinite black, pinpricks of light like stars where his irises should be. Hello, Dean.
Static arcs through his hand, sending a surge of fire burning up his arm that sinks deep into his chest, singeing and suffocating him from the inside out. Dean struggles to tear his hand free, but his skin is sinking into the glass. The creature in the mirror looms over him, the pits of its eyes growing larger until the void of distant stars fills Dean’s vision, blotting out any other light. Let go, boy.
The world inverts. A growling shout of triumph, subsonic and inhuman, roars through his mind. There is a tug. Dean rips loose from his body, spiraling down the vortex, leaving the world of the living behind. He lands in darkness, suspended above an infinite space by nothing, crouching in the light of the portal behind him. He spins around and lunges at the glass, but it might as well be bulletproof. No getting back through that way.
Dean’s body stands on the other side, an unhinged spark in its eyes. It waves at the mirror and laughs with abandon, throwing back its head until tears run from its eyes, and Dean feels them. Slowly it gains control of its breathing, and it shakes its head, amused. Bold move, Dean, asking a mirror for a glimpse of your soul.
What are you, Dean snarls, running through a mental list of every bad thing he’s ever heard of and coming up short.
I was Nothing, replies his own voice nonchalantly, And now I am Someone.
Dean’s hands curl into fists, and his nails scratch his skin. He still feels real, solid. He still feels alive. Where am I, he asks, his breath fogging up the glass. Where is this place? His heart skips a hopeful beat. Is this purgatory?
No boy, the creature chuckles. That is the in-between.
The vast blackness stretches out behind Dean, lit only by the tiny pinpricks of light. Not stars, Dean realizes, but other mirrors. Other passageways for this thing to snatch people. You don’t kill people, Dean says, realization flooding him like ice, You become them.
The creature tilts its head, and the smile it gives is small, secretive. Predatory. Not exactly.
Keys rattle in the door and Dean flinches, putting two and two together from Sam’s question mere hours ago. Did you see that? Crap, he should never have blown that off. The door swings open.
The thing’s grin grows larger. Looks like we have company.
Dean rushes forward, pounds against the glass with all his strength. No, no! Let me go! Sam!
Dean’s body straightens and turns slightly, tossing a greeting nod over his shoulder at Sam, who strides forward to hand it a large Styrofoam cup.
Sam nods back. Hey.
Your brother is so cold, so empty. The slithering voice curls its misty fingers around Dean’s shoulder and Dean jumps back from the window, throwing a wildly aimed punch at the dark. He trusts you, you know. Fingers stroke Dean’s hair, gently at first, then gripping firmly.
You’re wrong, Dean tries to shake his head in protest, He doesn’t know what trust is.
The hands in the dark turn his face to look back through the portal, where the creature in Dean’s body is handing Sam their rolled up copy of the newspaper, saying something about hitting on a case.
Oh, but he doesn’t have to know, smiles the voice. Trust to him is what you are. You drive him as I drive you. Now, I will drive you both.
Sam takes the paper and studies it intently while Dean’s body turns and flashes the mirror a quick smile. Dean can see the thing’s glittering eyes. He pounds against the glass again, furious, not believing but somehow wanting it to be true. Dean strikes and strikes until the skin on his knuckles starts to split and bleed and then he just hits harder, cursing the monster. Cursing all monsters.
The thing’s voice echoes through his head, the voice of a cat toying with its prey and relishing every nuanced movement of the hunt. You have no love for this thing, it says, notes of wonder playing through the shadows, Yet you would wound yourself for it. Delicious.
The thing takes a long, slow breath and Dean watches his chest expand. A sudden weakness creeps up his legs, gripping him bone deep. His knees buckle and he goes down. His fingers leave bloody streaks on the glass. His chest gets tight and he gasps, trying to suck down whatever passes for air in this place. What are you … Dean feels his eyes go wide. You filthy leech, get your hands off me!
The soul is the seat of emotion, Dean. But then you already knew that, didn’t you? The thing looks pointedly at Sam, who has set down the paper and started gathering up his things. Yours are truly a unique blend.
The world steadies, leaving Dean breathless. What are you doing to me?
Eating you, of course. That’s what monsters do, isn’t it? The thing’s voice goes cold and sharp as diamonds, thick with hate. They eat people, devour them. Isn’t that what you think? Only I devour souls. The thing takes another deep breath, and a railroad spike of pain drives into Dean’s temple. He screams, crumpling to the endless black floor, and he lands curled into the single tiny square of light cast from the mirror above. Souls, says the voice, Have such strong emotions. Love. Hope. Joy.
The pain ebbs, and Dean struggles to stand. Screw you. He gains the mirror a second time and he rallies his strength, pounding against the glass. Sam! Can you hear me?
But you … The thing in Dean’s body reaches into his duffle bag and pulls Dean’s gun. It levels the weapon smoothly at Sam’s back, aiming the sights for right where Sam’s old knife wound scar should be, if Sam has any scars left at all.
No! Dean redoubles his efforts, slamming his shoulder into the mirror with everything he has, high from a sudden flow of adrenaline.
You, the creature croons, pleasure in the creases of his voice, You have only anger. Despair. Fear. Wonderful. If you fear this much for a thing you do not love, if you have such a feast of guilt now, then how will you feel when it proves its undying trust in you?
Dean’s blood runs cold. What do you mean, you sonofabitch. I’ll kill you, I swear.
Your brother, Dean. He loves you so. Even he, who does not know how to love, remembers faith. He has placed his life in your hands. Dean watches himself tuck the gun away, growing dread in the pit of his stomach. He’ll do anything you say.
No. No, he won’t. He wouldn’t, Dean protests, but even as the words reach the creature, he already knows he can’t believe them. He’d told Sam he was gonna call the shots and Sam hadn’t even blinked.
Sam is a weapon, Dean. And you are the one that wields him. Well … you were the one. Sam goes to load the car, closing the door behind him. The thing returns to the mirror, standing with Dean face-to-face. Its eyes blaze a bright reflective blue.
Now I am the one. The thing about a soul is that it’s immortal, Dean. All that pain you have bottled up inside? I can live off of that for a long, long time - but guilt is so much sweeter. How about we see just exactly what Sam will do on your say-so? The possibilities are endless. Shall we make him kill for you?
Dean’s panic surges, rage and hate and blinding terror bursting through him. He channels it all into one mighty blow and hurls it at the glass. The glass doesn’t budge. The creature sighs, closing Dean’s eyes, shuddering into Dean’s skin, and Dean explodes with pain. He barely has time to register it before his sight goes dim, and he hears one last word before he’s falling away from the mirror, spiraling into the in-between until the blackness swallows him whole.
Delicious.
~*~
Time stretches out, or maybe it just stays still. It’s impossible to tell. Dean has no purchase, nothing to grab on to. He wonders if this is what drowning feels like, perpetually floating in a dark, weightless space. Pain ebbs and flows like the tides, coming and going at steady intervals. Each time it recedes, it leaves Dean weaker.
The pinprick lights of a hundred thousand mirrors blink in and out. Each one of them represents at least one person; people going to bed, leaving for work, lighting candles, singing their children to sleep. People who have no idea what’s watching them from behind the glass. There are more of the things hiding in here than just the one that snagged him, Dean knows. In here they have no shape or form, but sometimes Dean brushes against them as he floats, the living spots of inky blackness, and the absolute cold steals his breath away.
He calls them soul eaters.
Dean smiles a little. It’s not very original, but Sammy told him once that when a guy discovers a new species, he gets to name it. He knows plenty of Latin, but scientific names were Sammy’s thing when they were kids. He was always collecting crawly things and giving Dean the serious kill-me-now eyes every time Dean referred to them as ‘bugs’. Dean always preferred plain English.
He can tell when the thing in his body is eating or drinking. He can feel it if it stubs his toe, or shaves his face, or touches anything else … sensitive. Dean hopes the thing is only playing with Rosie, because when he kicks its smarmy ass out of his body he does not want to go home to the clap.
Once, he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder and squeeze. Sam didn’t have any instincts, couldn’t even tell the thing in front of him wasn’t his brother; but that grip, the strength it gave, those were just the same. Dean had leaned into the pressure like it could anchor him, his eyes stinging with tears that had nothing to do with the pain.
That was days or maybe weeks ago, and he’s long since given up trying to figure out what prompted it. Sam doesn’t feel, can’t miss him. He’s going to have to get himself out of this mess - somehow.
Dean has no other way to know what’s happening out there, what the thing is saying to what’s left of his brother. He concentrates on drifting, on staying relaxed and calm. The less he panics, the less the soul eater will have to feed off of. Something tells Dean that when the time comes for it to move on its plan with Sam, he’ll know. In the meantime, he hopes the damn thing is friggin starving.
Another wash of pain floods his soul, but instead of the distant, almost uninterested feel of the last countless waves, this one has teeth. Dean thrashes, too helpless and weak to get away, too angered by that fact to stay calm. For the first time in what feels like ages, the slippery voice of the soul eater whispers in his ear, in his head. I want to show you something.
The invisible teeth sink into the meat of him and he screams, visions of hellhounds swimming in the dark as the soul eater drags him through the in-between toward a nearly nonexistent speck of light. With an abruptness that makes Dean’s head swim, the pain stops. The creature’s grip vanishes and drops him onto solid, invisible ground.
When the world reorients, Dean is looking at a much smaller mirror. He reaches a trembling hand for the edge of the glass and pulls himself to it, or it to him. It’s only big enough for just his eyes to peer through, and the light burns his retinas after floating in the dark for so long. They don’t have to adjust for Dean to know what he’s looking at. He’d know his baby from any angle.
It’s like a watching a movie, isn’t it? The soul eater flashes the Impala’s rearview a quick grin, adjusting it slightly so that Dean can see Sam better. We’re about to try our first experiment. You’ve tuned in just in time.
Dean leans hard against the mirror, trying to see farther, but the portal isn’t big enough to see Sam’s whole face. From what he can see Sam is none the worse for wear, but it doesn’t ease his growing anxiety.
Damnit Sam, look at me! Dean taps on the glass frantically, but when Sam turns his head, it is to speak with the thing in the driver’s seat.
After we ice this thing we should head North. Bobby called, he needs us at his place.
Dean watches the scene unfold with growing dread, calculating possible locations. Last he was conscious, Bobby’s place was West of where they were. At least three days then, maybe more. Probably more.
Sure, answers the soul eater. Then, You ready for this? I mean, really ready?
Sam turns his face away, looking out the window, but Dean hears him murmur Yeah, I said I was.
You sure about that? This thing looks like a kid, Sam. The soul eater locks eyes with the rearview mirror and shrugs. Inside Dean’s head, he can feel its smile.
The chill of fear turns to the raging heat of anger. You sonofabitch. Don’t you dare.
Sam’s voice floats across the space between them, flat and resolute. I said I’m sure, Dean.
Right. The soul eater tosses Sam a disgusted look. I almost forgot you’re a damnT-1000.
Sam doesn’t answer but his shoulders tense, and something deep in Dean’s gut flutters uncomfortably. Sam, come on. That’s not me.
Isn’t it? The thing whispers.
Dean turns his back on the mirror, closes his eyes, feels his heart pounding in his chest. The words are his, but Sam would know he didn’t mean it. Sam would know what it really meant. Sam would know.
The sound of the Impala’s engine idles, then shuts off. Showtime, Dean. Try to keep up?
The horizon shifts and spears of light fall like shooting stars. The blackness in front of Dean becomes a wide passage lined with jagged edges of mirrors of all different sizes; some raw, some in frames, every one casting light into his dark world, every one illuminating a different room or space.
Dean spins back to the tiny portal of the Impala’s rearview, but it only shows empty leather seats. A shadow falls across a larger mirror to his right, and he hears the far away murmur of Sam’s voice, the sound of a slide being pulled.
Dean runs to the mirror, but by the time he gets there, Sam and the creature have moved on. The space just shows an empty lobby, fake Ficus plants and a small fountain courtyard. Hotel, maybe, or a bank after hours.
His muscles feel infused with lead, and he drops his forehead against the glass, trying to come up with some plan, any way to warn Sam, but it’s useless. After drifting so long, he can barely stand, let alone break the barrier, but he has to know.
Dean drags himself from light to light, searching through the windows. He casts for Sam, for the feel of his presence, his voice, anything he can use to pinpoint his location, but Sam isn’t there. Sam isn’t even on earth. He’s trapped in a cage with the Morning Star and Dean is here, wasting his time in this minefield of reflections.
He catches glimpses of them as they move, once in an elevator, not speaking, weapons drawn. Once moving down a long hallway lined with doors. They stop in front of an apartment and Dean watches the soul eater give Sam a nod. Sam crouches, pops the lock, and slides the door open revealing a dim hallway for an instant before they both slip inside and Dean is left alone.
You’re getting closer, says the thing in his head, its voice stroking the small of his back in a twisted parody of comfort. What’s behind door number two, I wonder?
Dean’s lungs feel like fire and his hands are shaking as the creature begins to feed off of his desperation, but he drives for the next mirror, focusing only on finding Sam, seeing with his own eyes the answer to the question of how far he would go. He has to know.
An oval mirror with a gilded golden frame floats at chest level, and it shows a young girl seated cross-legged on her bed, listening to her iPod and writing in a journal, pencils and erasers and a math textbook scattered around her. The view cuts the room in half, but Dean can see part of the bedroom door and, nearest to him, a fluttering piece of curtain indicating an open window.
Dean’s pulse jumps. He knows this girl is home alone in the same way he knows she is the subject of whatever case the thing has pitched to Sam. He also knows she’s just a girl. No, he protests, hearing his voice crack and tear with the starting notes of panic, Please. You’ve got your soul, just - just let her go.
I’m not doing anything, His own voice answers from right behind him, Your brother is going to do it for me, and then I’ll have another soul to take. Dean turns to see a square mirror with a black frame - the living room of the same apartment, where Sam is putting a ready hand on the young girl’s bedroom door. The soul eater is backing away, letting Sam take this one on his own.
Turning his back on the creature, Dean chooses the oval mirror. He grabs it by the frame, hoping to rip it from its moorings, but the golden metal is razor sharp and it sinks almost happily into his palms, cutting him to the bone. He hisses and lets go, slamming the glass with an brutal and efficient elbow strike instead. Sam! Can you hear me? Sam, don’t! Dean’s blood streaks the glass, clouds the picture. He tries to wipe it away but it only spreads across the image, obscuring his view.
In the living room, Sam moves. In the girl’s bedroom, everything goes to hell.
Sam moves so fast that Dean can’t track the moment of impact. One second the girl is sitting there on her bed and the next she’s gone, hauled off to a corner of the room Dean can’t see. She screams, and something crashes into a wall. Dean can feel the soul eater laughing and then he’s turning inside out, his muscles separating from his bones as it feeds, exulting in his horror and shock.
Sam’s gun goes off once, twice.
Dean starts to fall. He can feel the last of his strength fading away, bleeding out like cut brake line fluid. The soul eater rushes in behind Sam. Dean hears him say, Where is it?
Fire escape. Come on, Sam responds. The curtain fabric flutters, covering the portal as they rush by. Hurry!
The creature’s power drops Dean back into the empty space, and all the lights vanish except for one. It has backwards hands and upside down numbers on the round face. As Dean floats past, he grabs for it. His bleeding hands slip on the smooth brass circle but he manages to hang on, pulling it close to his chest.
Time.
Dean knows it’s the right portal. One way or another, this will be the final scene.
Sam’s dark outline rises into view above the brick edge of the roof. He climbs up, the creature following close behind him. They do a quick scan of the roof before Sam jumps down from the ledge, lowering his gun to his side. The soul eater stands on the wall seething with anger, the fact that Dean is watching through the portal seemingly forgotten in the excitement.
He spreads Dean’s hands wide in exasperation. What the Hell, Sam?
Sam shrugs, unconcerned. Sorry. I didn’t have a clear shot.
Relief floods through Dean and he nearly loses his grip on the clock face. He can tell the creature is furious. Since when do you let anything get away?
The barest ghost of a smile flits across Sam’s face, storm clouds threatening to roll behind his eyes. He raises the Taurus smoothly and takes aim straight for the clock without looking, locking eyes with the soul eater. Dean lets go of the frame, startled, and he hears the soul eater gasp in realization, too late.
Since never, Sam says, and he pulls the trigger.
The portal shatters, exploding outward in a rush of air. Dean feels his lungs expand. The shrinking stars vanish, swallowed up by light as Dean falls to the roof, landing hard on his knees. Sparks go off behind his eyes but they clear in time for him to see his body, still standing on the ledge, teeter and sway.
But how …
Sam swings the gun around, aiming at the soul eater. With each passing second the figure looks less and less like Dean. The angles and surfaces start to shine, glossing over, turning into mirrors. T-1000, Dean thinks.
Sam does smile then. That’s what I thought, he says, and he fires another round. The soul eater shatters into a billion powdered pieces, fine silver dust falling to the roof like droplets of liquid mercury as they rain across the concrete. They sizzle and hiss in the afternoon sun, vanishing along with the howling sound of the monster’s multifaceted scream. Sam nods, satisfied, and tucks the Taurus away.
The same grip that had anchored Dean in the dark falls on him again, and he finds himself looking up into his brother’s face. Sam is staring intently, taking stock of him in a carefully cataloging way, but his hand doesn’t leave Dean’s shoulder, and Dean can finally breathe.
Sam’s eyes meet his. Are you hurt anywhere?
Dean realizes that he isn’t. He turns his hands over, checking his palms to find them healed, no evidence of damage. No. I don’t think so.
Sam nods, unsurprised. It was feeding on your energy. You should take it slow. Come on. Sam shifts his grip and hauls Dean to his feet. Dean’s knees buckle immediately and Sam catches him, taking most of his weight.
Damn, thing took more out of me than I thought, Dean ruefully admits. A thought dawns on him. Hey, wait - where’s the girl?
Sam sighs a little. Locked her in her closet. We should get out of here before the cops show up.
Dean’s eyes narrow. I heard you fire.
Yeah … out the window. Sam hesitates. What, you don’t believe me?
Dean winces, remembering the creature’s words in the car, the way Sam had turned away. He switches tactics. How did you know it wasn’t me?
Took longer to do its hair in the morning, how do you think, Sam retorts, but his eyes are grave. Dean waits until Sam caves with a sigh. Seriously? Dean, you’d never let me kill a kid. You’re my brother. Right?
Dean closes his eyes. Yeah. That’s right. He concentrates on just breathing, and Sam waits until he’s ready to move, lapsing into easy silence.
Sam helps Dean down a different set of stairs. He settles Dean into the passenger’s seat when they reach the car, and he calls the cops as they drive away. He leaves an anonymous tip about a break-in with shots fired at the high rise on the corner of Fuller and Birch.
Dean struggles to stay awake as the afternoon turns into night. The stars overhead send shivers down his spine. He lets Sam distract him by filling in the gaps from the last three weeks; where they went, how he finally identified the thing that took Dean, how he learned how to kill it.
Dean grins a little as he sinks down into his jacket, shaking his head. Turns out it did already have a name. Dean doesn’t care. Soul eater sounds so much cooler. Slowly, as the glimpses and shadows become facts, Dean’s fear bleeds away. He closes his eyes and doesn’t worry about where he’ll be when he wakes up.
After all, Sam can drive them from Miami to Seattle without stopping for anything but gas, and as long as he’s here, he’s safe.
~*~
You’re not even with you.
Sam’s head tilts to the side. No, he says. I know that. I’m with you.