Fic: Deja Vu - Chapter Four
Dean is sitting at a plastic table in the mess hall with a pile of Martian credit chips beside him.
“Call,” he says.
Lucas allows the light of triumph to shine in his eyes. “Three aces,” he crows.
Dean winces. “That's a bad beat. That is a bad beat...”
Lucas grins and begins to gather up the credit chips that are on the table in between him and Dean.
“But, see,” Dean grins brightly, “I'm full... threes over aces.”
“What?” Lucas drops the chips back on the table and stands up, glaring down at Dean.
Dean laughs and spreads his hands. “Sorry. Hey, it's a cruel game, my friend.
Lucas flings his cards down on the table. “You’re a fucker, Eric,” he says. “A Goddamn hustling fucker.”
“And you all know it,” Jo says, coming across to glower at Lucas from where she’s brewing a pot of coffee. “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the mess hall,” she says, and Lucas glares at Dean again and then storms out.
Dean laughs again. “Oh man,” he says, “it’s like picking low hanging fruit.”
Jo sighs. “Remember your first week on board? When you were going to keep a low profile?”
Dean tips all of the credits he’s won into a plastic bag and begins to pack away the cards. “Yeah,” he says. “Well I decided that being the quiet dude who kept to himself would make me stand out even more. And not only that, I wouldn’t have any buddies willing to vouch for what a stand-up guy I am, if anyone came and asked.”
Jo goes back to making herself a cup of coffee and grumbles that Lucas absolutely doesn’t think that Dean is a stand-up guy.
Dean gravitates to her side and stands with his back against the galley bench and his arms folded. “It’d be suspicious if everybody liked me,” he says. “Besides, Osric and Adam and DJ all like me just fine.”
Jo rolls her eyes and Dean smiles down at her fondly. The last nine days have been the best he’s ever had. Granted, his non-implanted current memories only go back eight weeks, so maybe that’s not saying much, but Dean thinks he kind of loves space travel and repairing and maintaining a spaceship. Away from Carmen, the pressure is off to be someone he’s really not and Dean’s feeling a lot more comfortable in his skin.
Or Jensen’s skin.
Whatever.
“You ready for landing?” Jo asks.
Dean nods. “All packed up and ready to go,” he chews at his bottom lip and rubs at the back of his neck until Jo rolls her eyes and asks him what’s wrong.
“Just… how sure are we about the psychic?”
As a vouched-for crew member, Dean hadn’t been subjected to an outgoing psychic evaluation before he left Earth, but no-one enters Mars without a full psychic scan.
Jo has explained previously that the arrival of their cargo shuttle has been timed to clash with the arrival of both a passenger shuttle and a Saturn cruiser. When things are busy, the spaceport usually hustles cargo crews through quickly, with just a fast scan done by one psychic who, Jo insists, will be Resistance friendly.
Jo grins at him. “Relax, Eric. Just think real hard about how you’re going to Venusville to get laid first thing, and you won’t get a deep probe,” she inclines her head and when she speaks again her tone is lightly teasing. “Although you’d probably like a deep probe, wouldn’t you?” She winks and then ducks out of the mess hall leaving Dean red-faced and spluttering.
Dean’s i-passport scans without any drama; neither the holo photo nor the ID number raises any red flags. He lines up with Jo and DJ for the psychic scan and Jo relaxes beside him the very instant she sees the psychic. Jo is immediately before Dean in the line and when it’s her turn to step up, she spreads her arms wide.
“Hey, hey, hey,” she says. “Long time, no see Traci,” Dean watches as the two women hug. They chat briefly and Traci performs a perfunctory mind scan before waving Jo through.
“C’mon through, Cutie,” Traci says, beckoning Dean forward.
Dean thinks about Jay’s ass and fantasizes about a few things he could possibly do with it as noisily as he can, and Traci laughs out loud. “So when Jo said you were her boy, she didn’t mean you two had a little somethin’ somethin’ goin’ on during the trip,” she sighs. “Why do the gorgeous ones always gotta be married or gay?” She waves him through with a lascivious wink and smacks his ass when he walks past, making him jump and swear under his breath.
Jo puts an arm around him when he comes through and hugs his waist. “You did good,” she whispers. “You should have a message from HQ on your i-band, telling you where to go next,” she pulls away and gives him a small salute. “Good luck, Eric. I hope you make it.”
Jo leaves him in the arrivals terminal and Dean buys himself a cup of Homeworld coffee at the spaceport Starbucks and then sits down and checks his i-band. There’s a message telling him to check into The Red Rocks Hotel, along with the hotel’s address, so Dean heads off, taking his coffee with him.
According to the cover story, Eric Brady has been to Mars more than once so Dean tries really hard not to gawk like a first time tourist, but it’s hard not to be impressed. The Spaceport is at the very outer limit of the Upper Dome and with the exception of the very wealthy, most people never see any more of the Upper Dome than that. The fact that it’s at the outer limit, though, means that new arrivals to Mars are treated to a pretty spectacular view; sweeping sands that crest here and there like waves on a red sea and rocky outcrops that rise into the sky like islands. Everything is a dusty, diffused red and Dean can’t help the way his breath catches in his throat at the planet’s ethereal, alien beauty.
Like 95% of the people exiting the spaceport, Dean heads for the bank of elevators and gets in line. He goes all the way down to the Lower Dome and steps out into a hot, humid environment that leaves him gasping.
“Welcome to the real Mars,” says the man beside him with undisguised contempt. “The venting system is still shit and Governor Morgan just put the price of air up again.”
“You’re kidding,” Dean says as the two of them step out onto a crowded sidewalk that’s teeming with people who are obviously struggling to make ends meet.
“Nope,” the man says. “Morgan’s been promising to put a better venting system in down here the whole fifteen years he’s been Governor, but the Lower Domes’ve still got the same damn obsolete tech as when they first established the colony,” the man stops speaking abruptly and looks around uneasily. He looks at Dean carefully and then at the wall beside them, on which the letters MRA are scrawled in big black graffiti. “Not that I support the rebels or anything,” he says. “ It’s just that Morgan Corp makes record profits every year, and they still put the price of air up every Goddamn quarter and reckon they can’t afford new venting technology. Goddamn corporate assholes with their duty to make a profit for their shareholders.” His mouth twists. “What about their duty to us? I ain’t sayin’ the rebels are in the right, but us ordinary folk deserve a fair go.” He peels off and heads down a side street and Dean watches him go, thoughtfully. Things are obviously a lot worse on Mars than the media on Earth is reporting.
Dean shakes his head and checks his i-band again for directions to the hotel. He can’t help noticing that most of the people on the street have some type of mutation; a third eye, a disfigured face, hands like claws. It’s not as if he’s never seen a mutant before; Dean’s just not used to seeing them in such high concentrations.
Venusville is at the very far end of the Lower Dome. It’s dark and humid and steamy and built mostly from cheap metal that’s already starting to rust. There are brightly flashing neon signs in the windows of most buildings, advertising food and whores and cheap credit.
The Red Rocks Hotel is between a gambling house and a Yum Cha restaurant and by the time Dean gets there he’s worked up quite a sweat. The reception has rust-colored wall paint and decorative red boulders, and the reception desk looks like it was hacked out of the side of a red granite cliff.
The man behind the desk is dressed in a red safari suit and a red fez.
“Welcome to Red Rocks,” he says with a long-suffering smile. Dean can sympathize. The color-scheme is already giving him a headache, and that outfit? Ouch. “How can I help you, Sir?”
“I’ve got a booking in the name of Brady,” Dean says. “Eric Brady.”
The concierge brings up a holo screen. “Here we are,” he says. “Three nights, was it, Sir?”
Dean nods.
The concierge pushes a payscan across to him. “Just scan here,” he says.
Dean smiles and runs his i-band across the scanner. Once again his fake ID holds.
“According to our records you left something in one of our lock boxes last time you stayed with us,” the concierge says. “Would you like to retrieve that now?”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Sure.”
The response earns him a raised eyebrow, but the man goes and fetches a large rectangular stainless steel box. It has a fingerprint lock and Dean freaks just a little, but he smiles again and presses his thumb against the thumb pad. The box opens. The first thing he sees is a gun with an engraved slide and ivory grips. A .45 calibre ColtM1911A1 with a seven-round magazine, to be exact, his inner-Jensen helpfully supplies. Dean swallows and figures he’d better take the lock box up to his room with him. He shuts it and says thank you and the concierge smiles and hands him a swipe card, before giving him directions to his room
Dean nods and thanks the concierge. He hefts his duffle bag higher on his shoulder, tucks the lock box under his arm, picks up his tool bag and heads to his room. He dumps both his bags on the bag rack and then sits down on the bed and opens the lock box. He takes the gun out carefully and then notices that there’s a flyer sitting underneath it. Dean picks it up. The flyer is for a brothel called The Last Resort. He frowns. The gun makes sense. But a flyer for a brothel? Maybe it’s some sort of a clue. He turns it over. Written on the back, in scrawling print are the words ‘For a good time, call Jay.’
Dean frowns again and something unpleasant settles in his stomach. Jay’s a hooker? He’d thought…Dean rubs a hand across his lips and then shrugs. Jay’s important to Jensen, that much he’s certain about.
Dean leaves the flyer on the bed, but puts the gun in the wall safe that’s inside the closet. He stretches, looks around the room one final time, and then heads to the bathroom.
After ten days of steam blasts, he’s really looking forward to a proper shower. He luxuriates under the hot water for several minutes and then squeezes some of the hotel’s shampoo out of the miniature bottle and onto his hand. He begins to rub it into his hair and the hot water and steam really bring out the shampoo’s distinctive sandalwood smell, which brings another headache slamming into his skull as his hands begin to soap the broad back of the man in front of him. The man who’s leaning against the wall of the shower, acres of smooth, tanned skin on display as he presents himself for Dean’s touch.
“C’mon, Jen,” the man says, “that’s not where I need your hands.”
Dean slides his hands lower and massages the man’s ass. The man looks over his shoulder at Dean and it’s Jay.
“C’mon,” Jay urges. “Don’t make me beg for it.”
“But baby,” Dean recognizes his own voice. “You beg so pretty.”
“Asshole,” Jay says fondly.
“I’ll give you asshole,” Dean’s voice says. He slides one finger deep inside Jay and wakes up on the floor of the shower with cold water raining down on him. The headache has receded to a dull, distant throb.
Dean rinses off and then wanders back into the bedroom, towelling himself dry as he goes. He picks up the flyer again and decides it can only have been left for one reason; to tell him to go and meet up with Jay. He dresses in one of the casual outfits that Danneel had packed for him; tight black jeans and an equally tight white tee-shirt. He takes time with his hair. He’s not quite sure why he’s going to so much effort to look good for a hooker, but Jay seems to have meant something to Jensen, despite his profession, and he thinks his alter ego might be disappointed in him if he’s anything short of respectful.
Jensen folds the flyer and puts it in his back pocket, and then pulls a handful of Martian credit chips out of the plastic bag containing his poker winnings and drops them in the front pocket of his jeans.
He nods to the concierge on his way past the reception desk and then steps outside into almost unbearable heat.
Dean’s inner-Jensen instinctively knows that the climate conditions are courtesy of the greenhouses that grow the colony’s food crops, which are all located on this level. When the crops reach maturity, the greenhouses produce so much oxygen that they become a serious fire hazard. The solution is to vent the excess oxygen, but it’s tricky to do without also venting the nitrogen which is needed to maintain pressure in the habitat, especially with the ancient tech they’re still using. Climate comfort is sacrificed in favor of breathable air and, as a result, Venusville, which lies closest to the greenhouses, is ridiculously hot and humid.
The Red Rock Hotel has a decent climate control system, but the streets are unpleasantly hot and by the time Dean makes it to The Last Resort his tee-shirt is sticking to his back, there are beads of sweat running down his neck and his underarms are damp.
At first glance, The Last Resort looks like a bar. It has a black and white linoleum floor, a lot of small round plastic tables and a long bar. But that’s only on the ground floor. A long metal staircase leads to an upper level, where Dean can see a whole lot of doors, and hookers in varying states of undress lean over the balustrades in front of their rooms, attempting to lure customers to come upstairs. Other hookers are weaving their way between the tables downstairs, trying to talk visitors into buying them a drink.
Dean makes his way to the bar. He buys a shot of whiskey for courage and then tells the barman that he wants to see Jay.
“Jay, huh?” says the barman, wiping at the bar and avoiding Dean’s eyes. “You might wanna see Jay, but I seriously doubt that Jay wants to see you. He’s fussy see? Sticks to his regulars.”
Dean pulls the flyer out of his back pocket and slaps it down on the bar. “He’ll wanna see me,” he says. “Left me a special invitation.”
The barman looks at the flyer and then takes a long, hard look at Dean. Dean smiles and the barman sighs and shakes his head before making a call on his i-band.
“Got a customer for you, Jay,” he says. “Brought in a flyer; asked for you personally.”
He ends his call and deliberately goes down to the other end of the bar, away from Dean.
Dean shrugs and turns around. He leans back against the bar and keeps an eye on the staircase, because if Jay’s a hooker and he’s not already in the bar, he’s going to come from up there. He’s beyond shocked when someone sidles up next to him and squeezes his ass.
“Well, well, well,” a low voice says in his ear. “What do we have here?”
Dean turns and gazes up at the man he’s been dreaming about for weeks. He’s even taller in the flesh, and shirtless, which Dean really appreciates, because boy, is he built. His jeans are so tight Dean wonders if they’re actually spray-painted on, and he’s wearing a pair of cowboy boots and a cowboy hat.
“Well hello, cowboy,” Dean says.
Jay’s face twitches in amusement. He picks up the flyer and waves it at Dean. “I hear you’re lookin’ for a good time, Gorgeous,” he says.
“Hell, yeah,” says Dean.
Jay turns away and heads up the stairs and Dean follows him, which affords him a spectacular view of the man’s ass.
Jay leads them into a plain room, with a non-descript double bed, one bedside table and not much else. He turns to face Dean and appears to drink in his appearance, before meeting his eyes and holding them with an intensity that almost makes Dean blush.
“You got a name for me, Sugar?” Jay says.
“Oh I got several,” Dean says. “According to my i-band, my name’s Eric Brady. The name that my memories tell me belongs to me is Dean Winchester. But then I’ve got these other memories-deeper memories-that tell me it’s actually Jensen.”
Jay lowers his head and then turns away abruptly and walks toward the bed.
“What about you, Jay?” Dean asks. “Is that actually your real name?”
Jay turns back to face him, his expression pained. “You don’t remember me?”
Dean runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I remember you,” he says. “But only vaguely.”
When Jay steps forward suddenly, Dean is so sure he’s going to kiss him, that the right hook catches him completely off guard.
“Ow,” he rubs at his jaw. “Sonofabitch! What was that for?”
Jay’s eyes are as narrow as a cat’s. “That’s for making me think you were dead! Asshole!”
“Yeah, well. I haven’t exactly been myself lately. Ghost program, remember? I did the best I could. And I’m here now, right?”
Jay reaches forward and fists his hands in Dean’s tee-shirt and then his lips crash into Dean’s, needy and desperate. Dean kisses him back and then reaches around and grabs a handful of ass, squeezing the cheeks before dragging Jay closer so that their groins rub together. For a brief moment, Jay melts against him and then his whole body stiffens and he shoves Dean away.
“Sorry,” he says, running a hand through his hair and then pacing away from Dean. “I… sorry. We can’t,” he clears his throat.
Dean holds up his hands. “Hey, it’s okay, I get it. I’m not him. I’m not Jensen. He’s in here, but… we’re different.”
Jay smiles at him softly. “You are,” he cocks his head to one side. “And to be honest, I think I prefer you without the beard.”
Dean’s eyes widen. “I had a beard?”
“Oh yeah,” Jay grins. “And I gotta say, beard burn on the inner thighs? Really not fun.”
Dean blushes and Jay throws his head back and laughs. He sobers quickly though and fixes Dean with another intense stare.
“So,” he says. “How much do you remember about yourself? About Jensen, I mean.”
Dean crosses to the bed and sits down. “Not much,” he says. “I remember you. That we were…intimate,” he blushes again. Jay comes and sits down beside him and Dean notices the scar on his hand. He lifts his own scarred hand and holds it against Jay’s. “I remember this,” he says, his voice husky. “You were in the overhead duct. I was still on the ground. They shot through our joined hands.”
Jay nods, his eyes suspiciously shiny. “That’s when you were arrested,” he says. “I’m sorry, Jen, I wish I’d never left you.”
Dean puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you did. Who knows where you’d be now… who knows who you’d be, if you hadn’t. You did the right thing.”
Jay wipes at his face and Dean gives him a moment to pull himself together before he says, “Dr Badass wouldn’t tell me anything about who I am. Can you tell me, Jay? Are you allowed to?”
Jay nods. He stares down at the floor for a long moment and then straightens and turns to face Dean, meeting and holding his eyes. “Your real name is Jensen Ackles. You were employed by Mars Intelligence and you were sent to infiltrate the Resistance by Governor Jeffrey Dean Morgan. It was a deep cover mission and you spent years working your way in, gaining our trust. Of course our psychics were onto you from the start, but we had decided to use you; to keep you well away from anything important and send Morgan bad information through you.”
Dean’s stomach drops as Jay talks. He’s a bad guy? He doesn’t want to be a bad guy. Every fiber of his being is telling him that Morgan and the powers-that-be on Mars are in the wrong and the idea that he could be working for them and trying to destroy the rebels is gutting. He swallows and looks at the floor and wonders how much trouble he’s in here.
“Only a funny thing happened,” Jay says, his eyes shining. “You only ever passed on things that really couldn’t be used to hurt us and then you came to me and told me that you were Mars Intelligence. You admitted what you’d been sent to do; and then you gave us everything you could on Morgan, Morgan Corp and the Agency. You bugged Morgan Corp and the Agency for us, and you helped us get access to their computer systems. You were our double agent. And then you were arrested,” tears well in Jay’s eyes again. “We were sure they’d executed you. We had a Goddamn wake for you,” he stares at Dean and his expression hardens. “The fact that you’re still alive is suspicious.”
Dean meets his eyes. “You think they turned me? Turned me back? That I’m working for them again?”
Jay shrugs. “We’re worried that they may have turned you into some kind of ticking time bomb; something that won’t go off until it gets triggered just right.”
“I went through Spaceport security,” Dean says. “I don’t have a bomb in me.”
Jay rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking about a physical bomb, I’m talking about a psychological hijacking, where they use torture to program you to take someone out or destroy something.”
Dean is horrified. It’s absolutely possible. There is so much inside him that he doesn’t know about, like the way he just knew kung fu, but not until he needed it. And the way he knew his way around the engines of a space shuttle, but not until he had to. Who knows what else is buried deep inside his melon?
“I’m not sensing anything like that,” Jay says, “but that could just be because I’m not sensitive enough.”
Dean isn’t reassured. In fact he’s completely freaked out. Not least by the suggestion that Jay might be some kind of mutant. He…Dean…Jensen…whoever…could be a danger to the Resistance. He could be a danger to Jay. He gets to his feet.
“I’m gonna go,” he says. “If I could be triggered into hurting you guys, then I should just stay away.”
Jay moves to grab hold of him, but Dean avoids him and hurries out of the room and down the stairs. He bursts out onto the street and doesn’t stop running until he’s back at his hotel. He makes his way up to his room and then collapses on the bed, breathing hard.
He’d been counting on Jay and Dr Badass to help him remember who he is and to restore him to a meaningful life. But if he’s a danger to them all, if his brain has been programmed to destroy them, then he has to stay away.
Which means he’s a little fucked right now. Dean has no idea how he’s supposed to survive as Eric Brady.
He paces over to the wall safe and gets the gun out. He checks the magazine and finds that it’s fully loaded. It feels comfortable in his hand and Dean can feel himself calming down. He’s not quite sure what that says about him, but he figures the fact that he finds the weight of a gun in his hand reassuring can’t mean anything good. He sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed. Whatever he used to do in the past, maybe it’s time for a fresh start. One of his choosing. Maybe he could try to find Jo and sign on with another cargo ship. His breathing starts to even out, as he starts to make plans.
There’s a knock on the door to his room and Dean eyes the door suspiciously. The knock sounds again and Dean runs a hand across his lips and then stands up. He makes his way to the door, the gun still in his hand, and slips on the security chain before opening it. Outside there’s a grey haired man wearing a lab coat.
“Can I help you?” Dean says.
“Actually, Dean,” the man says. “It is I who can help you. Can I come in?”
Dean’s heart begins to beat double time, because the man knows who he is.
“Who are you?” Dean asks.
“I’m Dr Lehne, from Déjà Vu.”
Oh this can’t be good. Dean swallows. “How did you find me?”
“It's difficult to explain. Could you open the door, please? I'm not armed.”
Dean considers the question. If he’s going to have to take Dr Lehne out, inside the room would be a more private place to do it.
“Sure,” he says, “Just a minute.” He closes the door and then undoes the chain and opens the door wide.
Dr Lehne comes inside and Dean aims his gun right at the man’s head. He slams the door behind him and gestures him further into the room with the gun. “What do you want?” he demands.
“I’m afraid this may be difficult for you to accept,” Lehne begins.
“Go on,” Dean says when Lehne falls silent.
“I’m afraid you’re not really standing here right now,” Lehne says. “And neither am I.”
Okay, that he didn’t expect. Dean raises an eyebrow. “Uh huh,” he says, his tone deeply sarcastic. “Do tell, Doctor, where are we standing?”
“You’re not standing anywhere,” Lehne says. “You’re still strapped to a gurney at a Déjà Vu memory implant station. I’m monitoring you via a psycho probe console.”
“Oh,” Dean says. “I see. So none of this is real?” He smiles, mouth twisting mockingly. “I’m just dreaming? This is actually the wonderful Mars holiday that you guys promised me?”
Lehne inclines his head. “Not exactly,” he moves a pace to the side, but aborts the movement when Dean straightens the gun. Lehne sighs. “It’s more of a free-form delusion, based on the memories we were able to implant, before, well,” Lehne smiles gently and it’s really quite creepy. “Before things went wrong. You’re sort of,” he waves an arm, “making it up as you go along.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “What went wrong?”
Lehne’s face becomes a mask of compassion. “I'm afraid you've suffered a schizoid embolism and we can't snap you out of your fantasy. I've been artificially implanted as an emergency measure to try to talk you down.”
Dean’s jaw drops. “What a load of crap,” he says.
Lehne sighs. “Think about it,” he said. “You ‘came to’ and the last thing you could remember was going under for a Déjà Vu procedure, right?”
Dean raises his eyebrows and indicates with the gun that Lehne should keep talking.
“Don’t you see?” Lehne says. “You didn’t really ‘come to’. You were still in the middle of the implant procedure! But you’d suffered a schizoid embolism and things had gone off track. Everything after that-being followed, people trying to kill you, all the cloak-and-dagger stuff, the trip to Mars-those are all elements of your Deja Vu Ego Trip. Mr Winchester…Dean…you paid to be a secret agent.”
“Bullshit,” Dean says. “All that, it’s just a coincidence.”
“What about the guy? The one you just ‘met’? Tall. Slender but muscular. Clean shaven. Brunet. Demure and pushy. Just exactly the way you specified.”
“No,” Dean shakes his head. “He’s real. I dreamt about him quite a few times before I even set foot in Déjà Vu.”
Lehne’s face takes on a tense, pinched look. “Really, Dean? Can you even hear yourself? He’s real because you dreamt him?”
“He’s real because I remember him,” Dean says firmly.
Lehne sighs. “Maybe this will convince you. Would you mind opening the door, Dean?”
“You open it,” Dean says. He tracks Lehne with the gun as he moves slowly to the door and pulls it open. Carmen is standing outside, her face streaked with tears.
“Carmen?” he says, his face slackening with surprise.
“Come on in, Mrs Winchester,” Lehne says warmly.
Carmen steps into the room, her purse clutched nervously in front of her.
Dean switches his gun from Lehne to Carmen and her face falls.
“Sweetheart,” she says, and it sounds as if her heart is breaking.
“I suppose you’re not here either,” he says.
“I’m here,” she says, nodding. “At Déjà Vu. They called me when,” her eyes fill with tears again, “when everything went wrong.”
Dean laughs. “Oh that’s rich. So tell me then, darling. Why did you try to kill me?”
The tears welling in Carmen’s eyes begin to fall. “I didn’t,” she says. “I would never. I love you.”
Dean shakes his head. “This is bullshit,” he says. “You guys are just full of shit.”
Lehne scowls and points at him. “You’re really trying my patience, Dean,” he says, his tone scathing. “What’s bullshit? That you're having a paranoid episode triggered by acute neuro-chemical trauma. Or,” his voice becomes even more derisive, “that you're really an invincible secret agent from Mars who's the victim of an interplanetary conspiracy to make him think he's a lowly construction worker who didn’t even graduate high school? I mean, come on; even a lunk head like you ought to be able to figure this one out.”
Dean swallows and the gun in his hand wavers a little.
Lehne sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Look,” he says. “I know that you and Carmen have been having…intimacy issues; that you’ve been questioning your sexuality. But Dean, those problems are not unsurmountable. A good psychologist can help you work through it all. But first, you have to come back to reality.”
“Please, baby,” Carmen says. “Even if you don’t want me anymore, please let the doctor help you. Please come back to the real world and stop trying to live in this dream.”
Dean can feel his certainly faltering. Lehne has a point. It’s actually a lot easier to believe that he’s delusional than to believe that he might have done some important work for the good guys in the past. And Dean has no doubt that the rebels are the good guys. He frowns. Unless of course they’re just a figment of his imagination.
“Dean, please,” Lehne says. “You’re a young man. You’ve got a wife who loves you. This doesn’t have to be the end. We can pull you out of this, but you’ve got to want it.”
Dean thinks about it. “Suppose I did want to get back to reality. How would I do it?”
Lehne reaches slowly and obviously into the pocket of his lab coat and pulls out a plastic snaplock bag. Inside it is one small white tablet.
“What’s that?” Dean asks.
“It’s a symbol,” Lehne tells him gravely, “of your desire to return to reality. You swallow it and you’ll fall asleep inside your delusion and wake up back in the real world.”
Dean licks at his lips and glances at Carmen who nods encouragingly.
Dean returns his gaze to Lehne. “So,” he says, “if what you’re telling me is true and all this,” he waves a hand around the room, “is just a delusion, then I could pull this trigger and put a bullet in your head and it wouldn’t make any difference.”
“It wouldn’t make any difference to me,” Lehne says, his mouth pursed with displeasure. “But it would make a lot of difference to you. In your mind, I'd be dead. And with no one to guide you out, you'd be stuck in permanent psychosis. You may well play out your long, complex spy delusion, but in the end, reality will come crashing down and by the time it does, you'll be nothing but a vegetable!”
“Please, baby,” Carmen says. “Let us help you.”
Dean rubs a hand across his lips and glances uncertainly at Dr Lehne.
“Here,” Lehne holds out the white pill. “Take it. Put the gun down and take it.”
Dean lowers the gun. He takes the pill and turns it over in his fingers before glancing back up at Lehne.
“Put it in your mouth,” Lehne says.
Dean puts the pill in his mouth.
“Good,” Lehne says. “Now swallow it.”
Dean looks at Carmen who nods encouragingly and then at Lehne whose expression is disconcertingly anticipative. A bead of sweat runs down Lehne’s temple and Dean frowns, because why would someone who wasn’t really here be sweating? He side-eyes Carmen and sees her making eye contact with Lehne and in that moment he is absolutely certain what he needs to do. He spits the pill out, swings the gun up and shoots Lehne right between the eyes.
“Goddamn it, Dean,” Carmen says, backing away from him. “Now you’ve done it!”
Before Dean can respond, the wall in between his room and the room next door explodes in a shower of plaster, and four…no, six…armed and masked intruders dressed from head-to-toe in black, come bursting through, shouting at him to put down the gun and get on the ground.
Dean does a quick calculation of the odds and his inner-Jensen informs him grimly that there’s no way he’s going to be able to take out six armed attackers. He lowers the gun, slowly and obviously and then sinks to his knees and puts his hands behind his head.
Two of the attackers approach him cautiously while the other four keep their guns trained on him. Dean’s hands are twisted roughly behind his back and he’s handcuffed, tightly and hauled to his feet.
Carmen comes and stands in front of him, her expression cold and haughty. She stares up at him and then draws back her fist and punches him in the face. Dean’s head snaps back and his eyes water; the woman sure has one hell of a punch.
“That’s for making me come to Mars,” she says. “I fucking hate this planet!”
Dean manages a shit eating grin and Carmen turns away in disgust. She presses a button on her i-band and a moment later she says, “Governor Morgan, Sir? I’ve got him.”
<
| NEXT>>
Return to MasterPost
“Call,” he says.
Lucas allows the light of triumph to shine in his eyes. “Three aces,” he crows.
Dean winces. “That's a bad beat. That is a bad beat...”
Lucas grins and begins to gather up the credit chips that are on the table in between him and Dean.
“But, see,” Dean grins brightly, “I'm full... threes over aces.”
“What?” Lucas drops the chips back on the table and stands up, glaring down at Dean.
Dean laughs and spreads his hands. “Sorry. Hey, it's a cruel game, my friend.
Lucas flings his cards down on the table. “You’re a fucker, Eric,” he says. “A Goddamn hustling fucker.”
“And you all know it,” Jo says, coming across to glower at Lucas from where she’s brewing a pot of coffee. “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the mess hall,” she says, and Lucas glares at Dean again and then storms out.
Dean laughs again. “Oh man,” he says, “it’s like picking low hanging fruit.”
Jo sighs. “Remember your first week on board? When you were going to keep a low profile?”
Dean tips all of the credits he’s won into a plastic bag and begins to pack away the cards. “Yeah,” he says. “Well I decided that being the quiet dude who kept to himself would make me stand out even more. And not only that, I wouldn’t have any buddies willing to vouch for what a stand-up guy I am, if anyone came and asked.”
Jo goes back to making herself a cup of coffee and grumbles that Lucas absolutely doesn’t think that Dean is a stand-up guy.
Dean gravitates to her side and stands with his back against the galley bench and his arms folded. “It’d be suspicious if everybody liked me,” he says. “Besides, Osric and Adam and DJ all like me just fine.”
Jo rolls her eyes and Dean smiles down at her fondly. The last nine days have been the best he’s ever had. Granted, his non-implanted current memories only go back eight weeks, so maybe that’s not saying much, but Dean thinks he kind of loves space travel and repairing and maintaining a spaceship. Away from Carmen, the pressure is off to be someone he’s really not and Dean’s feeling a lot more comfortable in his skin.
Or Jensen’s skin.
Whatever.
“You ready for landing?” Jo asks.
Dean nods. “All packed up and ready to go,” he chews at his bottom lip and rubs at the back of his neck until Jo rolls her eyes and asks him what’s wrong.
“Just… how sure are we about the psychic?”
As a vouched-for crew member, Dean hadn’t been subjected to an outgoing psychic evaluation before he left Earth, but no-one enters Mars without a full psychic scan.
Jo has explained previously that the arrival of their cargo shuttle has been timed to clash with the arrival of both a passenger shuttle and a Saturn cruiser. When things are busy, the spaceport usually hustles cargo crews through quickly, with just a fast scan done by one psychic who, Jo insists, will be Resistance friendly.
Jo grins at him. “Relax, Eric. Just think real hard about how you’re going to Venusville to get laid first thing, and you won’t get a deep probe,” she inclines her head and when she speaks again her tone is lightly teasing. “Although you’d probably like a deep probe, wouldn’t you?” She winks and then ducks out of the mess hall leaving Dean red-faced and spluttering.
Dean’s i-passport scans without any drama; neither the holo photo nor the ID number raises any red flags. He lines up with Jo and DJ for the psychic scan and Jo relaxes beside him the very instant she sees the psychic. Jo is immediately before Dean in the line and when it’s her turn to step up, she spreads her arms wide.
“Hey, hey, hey,” she says. “Long time, no see Traci,” Dean watches as the two women hug. They chat briefly and Traci performs a perfunctory mind scan before waving Jo through.
“C’mon through, Cutie,” Traci says, beckoning Dean forward.
Dean thinks about Jay’s ass and fantasizes about a few things he could possibly do with it as noisily as he can, and Traci laughs out loud. “So when Jo said you were her boy, she didn’t mean you two had a little somethin’ somethin’ goin’ on during the trip,” she sighs. “Why do the gorgeous ones always gotta be married or gay?” She waves him through with a lascivious wink and smacks his ass when he walks past, making him jump and swear under his breath.
Jo puts an arm around him when he comes through and hugs his waist. “You did good,” she whispers. “You should have a message from HQ on your i-band, telling you where to go next,” she pulls away and gives him a small salute. “Good luck, Eric. I hope you make it.”
Jo leaves him in the arrivals terminal and Dean buys himself a cup of Homeworld coffee at the spaceport Starbucks and then sits down and checks his i-band. There’s a message telling him to check into The Red Rocks Hotel, along with the hotel’s address, so Dean heads off, taking his coffee with him.
According to the cover story, Eric Brady has been to Mars more than once so Dean tries really hard not to gawk like a first time tourist, but it’s hard not to be impressed. The Spaceport is at the very outer limit of the Upper Dome and with the exception of the very wealthy, most people never see any more of the Upper Dome than that. The fact that it’s at the outer limit, though, means that new arrivals to Mars are treated to a pretty spectacular view; sweeping sands that crest here and there like waves on a red sea and rocky outcrops that rise into the sky like islands. Everything is a dusty, diffused red and Dean can’t help the way his breath catches in his throat at the planet’s ethereal, alien beauty.
Like 95% of the people exiting the spaceport, Dean heads for the bank of elevators and gets in line. He goes all the way down to the Lower Dome and steps out into a hot, humid environment that leaves him gasping.
“Welcome to the real Mars,” says the man beside him with undisguised contempt. “The venting system is still shit and Governor Morgan just put the price of air up again.”
“You’re kidding,” Dean says as the two of them step out onto a crowded sidewalk that’s teeming with people who are obviously struggling to make ends meet.
“Nope,” the man says. “Morgan’s been promising to put a better venting system in down here the whole fifteen years he’s been Governor, but the Lower Domes’ve still got the same damn obsolete tech as when they first established the colony,” the man stops speaking abruptly and looks around uneasily. He looks at Dean carefully and then at the wall beside them, on which the letters MRA are scrawled in big black graffiti. “Not that I support the rebels or anything,” he says. “ It’s just that Morgan Corp makes record profits every year, and they still put the price of air up every Goddamn quarter and reckon they can’t afford new venting technology. Goddamn corporate assholes with their duty to make a profit for their shareholders.” His mouth twists. “What about their duty to us? I ain’t sayin’ the rebels are in the right, but us ordinary folk deserve a fair go.” He peels off and heads down a side street and Dean watches him go, thoughtfully. Things are obviously a lot worse on Mars than the media on Earth is reporting.
Dean shakes his head and checks his i-band again for directions to the hotel. He can’t help noticing that most of the people on the street have some type of mutation; a third eye, a disfigured face, hands like claws. It’s not as if he’s never seen a mutant before; Dean’s just not used to seeing them in such high concentrations.
Venusville is at the very far end of the Lower Dome. It’s dark and humid and steamy and built mostly from cheap metal that’s already starting to rust. There are brightly flashing neon signs in the windows of most buildings, advertising food and whores and cheap credit.
The Red Rocks Hotel is between a gambling house and a Yum Cha restaurant and by the time Dean gets there he’s worked up quite a sweat. The reception has rust-colored wall paint and decorative red boulders, and the reception desk looks like it was hacked out of the side of a red granite cliff.
The man behind the desk is dressed in a red safari suit and a red fez.
“Welcome to Red Rocks,” he says with a long-suffering smile. Dean can sympathize. The color-scheme is already giving him a headache, and that outfit? Ouch. “How can I help you, Sir?”
“I’ve got a booking in the name of Brady,” Dean says. “Eric Brady.”
The concierge brings up a holo screen. “Here we are,” he says. “Three nights, was it, Sir?”
Dean nods.
The concierge pushes a payscan across to him. “Just scan here,” he says.
Dean smiles and runs his i-band across the scanner. Once again his fake ID holds.
“According to our records you left something in one of our lock boxes last time you stayed with us,” the concierge says. “Would you like to retrieve that now?”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Sure.”
The response earns him a raised eyebrow, but the man goes and fetches a large rectangular stainless steel box. It has a fingerprint lock and Dean freaks just a little, but he smiles again and presses his thumb against the thumb pad. The box opens. The first thing he sees is a gun with an engraved slide and ivory grips. A .45 calibre ColtM1911A1 with a seven-round magazine, to be exact, his inner-Jensen helpfully supplies. Dean swallows and figures he’d better take the lock box up to his room with him. He shuts it and says thank you and the concierge smiles and hands him a swipe card, before giving him directions to his room
Dean nods and thanks the concierge. He hefts his duffle bag higher on his shoulder, tucks the lock box under his arm, picks up his tool bag and heads to his room. He dumps both his bags on the bag rack and then sits down on the bed and opens the lock box. He takes the gun out carefully and then notices that there’s a flyer sitting underneath it. Dean picks it up. The flyer is for a brothel called The Last Resort. He frowns. The gun makes sense. But a flyer for a brothel? Maybe it’s some sort of a clue. He turns it over. Written on the back, in scrawling print are the words ‘For a good time, call Jay.’
Dean frowns again and something unpleasant settles in his stomach. Jay’s a hooker? He’d thought…Dean rubs a hand across his lips and then shrugs. Jay’s important to Jensen, that much he’s certain about.
Dean leaves the flyer on the bed, but puts the gun in the wall safe that’s inside the closet. He stretches, looks around the room one final time, and then heads to the bathroom.
After ten days of steam blasts, he’s really looking forward to a proper shower. He luxuriates under the hot water for several minutes and then squeezes some of the hotel’s shampoo out of the miniature bottle and onto his hand. He begins to rub it into his hair and the hot water and steam really bring out the shampoo’s distinctive sandalwood smell, which brings another headache slamming into his skull as his hands begin to soap the broad back of the man in front of him. The man who’s leaning against the wall of the shower, acres of smooth, tanned skin on display as he presents himself for Dean’s touch.
“C’mon, Jen,” the man says, “that’s not where I need your hands.”
Dean slides his hands lower and massages the man’s ass. The man looks over his shoulder at Dean and it’s Jay.
“C’mon,” Jay urges. “Don’t make me beg for it.”
“But baby,” Dean recognizes his own voice. “You beg so pretty.”
“Asshole,” Jay says fondly.
“I’ll give you asshole,” Dean’s voice says. He slides one finger deep inside Jay and wakes up on the floor of the shower with cold water raining down on him. The headache has receded to a dull, distant throb.
Dean rinses off and then wanders back into the bedroom, towelling himself dry as he goes. He picks up the flyer again and decides it can only have been left for one reason; to tell him to go and meet up with Jay. He dresses in one of the casual outfits that Danneel had packed for him; tight black jeans and an equally tight white tee-shirt. He takes time with his hair. He’s not quite sure why he’s going to so much effort to look good for a hooker, but Jay seems to have meant something to Jensen, despite his profession, and he thinks his alter ego might be disappointed in him if he’s anything short of respectful.
Jensen folds the flyer and puts it in his back pocket, and then pulls a handful of Martian credit chips out of the plastic bag containing his poker winnings and drops them in the front pocket of his jeans.
He nods to the concierge on his way past the reception desk and then steps outside into almost unbearable heat.
Dean’s inner-Jensen instinctively knows that the climate conditions are courtesy of the greenhouses that grow the colony’s food crops, which are all located on this level. When the crops reach maturity, the greenhouses produce so much oxygen that they become a serious fire hazard. The solution is to vent the excess oxygen, but it’s tricky to do without also venting the nitrogen which is needed to maintain pressure in the habitat, especially with the ancient tech they’re still using. Climate comfort is sacrificed in favor of breathable air and, as a result, Venusville, which lies closest to the greenhouses, is ridiculously hot and humid.
The Red Rock Hotel has a decent climate control system, but the streets are unpleasantly hot and by the time Dean makes it to The Last Resort his tee-shirt is sticking to his back, there are beads of sweat running down his neck and his underarms are damp.
At first glance, The Last Resort looks like a bar. It has a black and white linoleum floor, a lot of small round plastic tables and a long bar. But that’s only on the ground floor. A long metal staircase leads to an upper level, where Dean can see a whole lot of doors, and hookers in varying states of undress lean over the balustrades in front of their rooms, attempting to lure customers to come upstairs. Other hookers are weaving their way between the tables downstairs, trying to talk visitors into buying them a drink.
Dean makes his way to the bar. He buys a shot of whiskey for courage and then tells the barman that he wants to see Jay.
“Jay, huh?” says the barman, wiping at the bar and avoiding Dean’s eyes. “You might wanna see Jay, but I seriously doubt that Jay wants to see you. He’s fussy see? Sticks to his regulars.”
Dean pulls the flyer out of his back pocket and slaps it down on the bar. “He’ll wanna see me,” he says. “Left me a special invitation.”
The barman looks at the flyer and then takes a long, hard look at Dean. Dean smiles and the barman sighs and shakes his head before making a call on his i-band.
“Got a customer for you, Jay,” he says. “Brought in a flyer; asked for you personally.”
He ends his call and deliberately goes down to the other end of the bar, away from Dean.
Dean shrugs and turns around. He leans back against the bar and keeps an eye on the staircase, because if Jay’s a hooker and he’s not already in the bar, he’s going to come from up there. He’s beyond shocked when someone sidles up next to him and squeezes his ass.
“Well, well, well,” a low voice says in his ear. “What do we have here?”
Dean turns and gazes up at the man he’s been dreaming about for weeks. He’s even taller in the flesh, and shirtless, which Dean really appreciates, because boy, is he built. His jeans are so tight Dean wonders if they’re actually spray-painted on, and he’s wearing a pair of cowboy boots and a cowboy hat.
“Well hello, cowboy,” Dean says.
Jay’s face twitches in amusement. He picks up the flyer and waves it at Dean. “I hear you’re lookin’ for a good time, Gorgeous,” he says.
“Hell, yeah,” says Dean.
Jay turns away and heads up the stairs and Dean follows him, which affords him a spectacular view of the man’s ass.
Jay leads them into a plain room, with a non-descript double bed, one bedside table and not much else. He turns to face Dean and appears to drink in his appearance, before meeting his eyes and holding them with an intensity that almost makes Dean blush.
“You got a name for me, Sugar?” Jay says.
“Oh I got several,” Dean says. “According to my i-band, my name’s Eric Brady. The name that my memories tell me belongs to me is Dean Winchester. But then I’ve got these other memories-deeper memories-that tell me it’s actually Jensen.”
Jay lowers his head and then turns away abruptly and walks toward the bed.
“What about you, Jay?” Dean asks. “Is that actually your real name?”
Jay turns back to face him, his expression pained. “You don’t remember me?”
Dean runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I remember you,” he says. “But only vaguely.”
When Jay steps forward suddenly, Dean is so sure he’s going to kiss him, that the right hook catches him completely off guard.
“Ow,” he rubs at his jaw. “Sonofabitch! What was that for?”
Jay’s eyes are as narrow as a cat’s. “That’s for making me think you were dead! Asshole!”
“Yeah, well. I haven’t exactly been myself lately. Ghost program, remember? I did the best I could. And I’m here now, right?”
Jay reaches forward and fists his hands in Dean’s tee-shirt and then his lips crash into Dean’s, needy and desperate. Dean kisses him back and then reaches around and grabs a handful of ass, squeezing the cheeks before dragging Jay closer so that their groins rub together. For a brief moment, Jay melts against him and then his whole body stiffens and he shoves Dean away.
“Sorry,” he says, running a hand through his hair and then pacing away from Dean. “I… sorry. We can’t,” he clears his throat.
Dean holds up his hands. “Hey, it’s okay, I get it. I’m not him. I’m not Jensen. He’s in here, but… we’re different.”
Jay smiles at him softly. “You are,” he cocks his head to one side. “And to be honest, I think I prefer you without the beard.”
Dean’s eyes widen. “I had a beard?”
“Oh yeah,” Jay grins. “And I gotta say, beard burn on the inner thighs? Really not fun.”
Dean blushes and Jay throws his head back and laughs. He sobers quickly though and fixes Dean with another intense stare.
“So,” he says. “How much do you remember about yourself? About Jensen, I mean.”
Dean crosses to the bed and sits down. “Not much,” he says. “I remember you. That we were…intimate,” he blushes again. Jay comes and sits down beside him and Dean notices the scar on his hand. He lifts his own scarred hand and holds it against Jay’s. “I remember this,” he says, his voice husky. “You were in the overhead duct. I was still on the ground. They shot through our joined hands.”
Jay nods, his eyes suspiciously shiny. “That’s when you were arrested,” he says. “I’m sorry, Jen, I wish I’d never left you.”
Dean puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you did. Who knows where you’d be now… who knows who you’d be, if you hadn’t. You did the right thing.”
Jay wipes at his face and Dean gives him a moment to pull himself together before he says, “Dr Badass wouldn’t tell me anything about who I am. Can you tell me, Jay? Are you allowed to?”
Jay nods. He stares down at the floor for a long moment and then straightens and turns to face Dean, meeting and holding his eyes. “Your real name is Jensen Ackles. You were employed by Mars Intelligence and you were sent to infiltrate the Resistance by Governor Jeffrey Dean Morgan. It was a deep cover mission and you spent years working your way in, gaining our trust. Of course our psychics were onto you from the start, but we had decided to use you; to keep you well away from anything important and send Morgan bad information through you.”
Dean’s stomach drops as Jay talks. He’s a bad guy? He doesn’t want to be a bad guy. Every fiber of his being is telling him that Morgan and the powers-that-be on Mars are in the wrong and the idea that he could be working for them and trying to destroy the rebels is gutting. He swallows and looks at the floor and wonders how much trouble he’s in here.
“Only a funny thing happened,” Jay says, his eyes shining. “You only ever passed on things that really couldn’t be used to hurt us and then you came to me and told me that you were Mars Intelligence. You admitted what you’d been sent to do; and then you gave us everything you could on Morgan, Morgan Corp and the Agency. You bugged Morgan Corp and the Agency for us, and you helped us get access to their computer systems. You were our double agent. And then you were arrested,” tears well in Jay’s eyes again. “We were sure they’d executed you. We had a Goddamn wake for you,” he stares at Dean and his expression hardens. “The fact that you’re still alive is suspicious.”
Dean meets his eyes. “You think they turned me? Turned me back? That I’m working for them again?”
Jay shrugs. “We’re worried that they may have turned you into some kind of ticking time bomb; something that won’t go off until it gets triggered just right.”
“I went through Spaceport security,” Dean says. “I don’t have a bomb in me.”
Jay rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking about a physical bomb, I’m talking about a psychological hijacking, where they use torture to program you to take someone out or destroy something.”
Dean is horrified. It’s absolutely possible. There is so much inside him that he doesn’t know about, like the way he just knew kung fu, but not until he needed it. And the way he knew his way around the engines of a space shuttle, but not until he had to. Who knows what else is buried deep inside his melon?
“I’m not sensing anything like that,” Jay says, “but that could just be because I’m not sensitive enough.”
Dean isn’t reassured. In fact he’s completely freaked out. Not least by the suggestion that Jay might be some kind of mutant. He…Dean…Jensen…whoever…could be a danger to the Resistance. He could be a danger to Jay. He gets to his feet.
“I’m gonna go,” he says. “If I could be triggered into hurting you guys, then I should just stay away.”
Jay moves to grab hold of him, but Dean avoids him and hurries out of the room and down the stairs. He bursts out onto the street and doesn’t stop running until he’s back at his hotel. He makes his way up to his room and then collapses on the bed, breathing hard.
He’d been counting on Jay and Dr Badass to help him remember who he is and to restore him to a meaningful life. But if he’s a danger to them all, if his brain has been programmed to destroy them, then he has to stay away.
Which means he’s a little fucked right now. Dean has no idea how he’s supposed to survive as Eric Brady.
He paces over to the wall safe and gets the gun out. He checks the magazine and finds that it’s fully loaded. It feels comfortable in his hand and Dean can feel himself calming down. He’s not quite sure what that says about him, but he figures the fact that he finds the weight of a gun in his hand reassuring can’t mean anything good. He sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed. Whatever he used to do in the past, maybe it’s time for a fresh start. One of his choosing. Maybe he could try to find Jo and sign on with another cargo ship. His breathing starts to even out, as he starts to make plans.
There’s a knock on the door to his room and Dean eyes the door suspiciously. The knock sounds again and Dean runs a hand across his lips and then stands up. He makes his way to the door, the gun still in his hand, and slips on the security chain before opening it. Outside there’s a grey haired man wearing a lab coat.
“Can I help you?” Dean says.
“Actually, Dean,” the man says. “It is I who can help you. Can I come in?”
Dean’s heart begins to beat double time, because the man knows who he is.
“Who are you?” Dean asks.
“I’m Dr Lehne, from Déjà Vu.”
Oh this can’t be good. Dean swallows. “How did you find me?”
“It's difficult to explain. Could you open the door, please? I'm not armed.”
Dean considers the question. If he’s going to have to take Dr Lehne out, inside the room would be a more private place to do it.
“Sure,” he says, “Just a minute.” He closes the door and then undoes the chain and opens the door wide.
Dr Lehne comes inside and Dean aims his gun right at the man’s head. He slams the door behind him and gestures him further into the room with the gun. “What do you want?” he demands.
“I’m afraid this may be difficult for you to accept,” Lehne begins.
“Go on,” Dean says when Lehne falls silent.
“I’m afraid you’re not really standing here right now,” Lehne says. “And neither am I.”
Okay, that he didn’t expect. Dean raises an eyebrow. “Uh huh,” he says, his tone deeply sarcastic. “Do tell, Doctor, where are we standing?”
“You’re not standing anywhere,” Lehne says. “You’re still strapped to a gurney at a Déjà Vu memory implant station. I’m monitoring you via a psycho probe console.”
“Oh,” Dean says. “I see. So none of this is real?” He smiles, mouth twisting mockingly. “I’m just dreaming? This is actually the wonderful Mars holiday that you guys promised me?”
Lehne inclines his head. “Not exactly,” he moves a pace to the side, but aborts the movement when Dean straightens the gun. Lehne sighs. “It’s more of a free-form delusion, based on the memories we were able to implant, before, well,” Lehne smiles gently and it’s really quite creepy. “Before things went wrong. You’re sort of,” he waves an arm, “making it up as you go along.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “What went wrong?”
Lehne’s face becomes a mask of compassion. “I'm afraid you've suffered a schizoid embolism and we can't snap you out of your fantasy. I've been artificially implanted as an emergency measure to try to talk you down.”
Dean’s jaw drops. “What a load of crap,” he says.
Lehne sighs. “Think about it,” he said. “You ‘came to’ and the last thing you could remember was going under for a Déjà Vu procedure, right?”
Dean raises his eyebrows and indicates with the gun that Lehne should keep talking.
“Don’t you see?” Lehne says. “You didn’t really ‘come to’. You were still in the middle of the implant procedure! But you’d suffered a schizoid embolism and things had gone off track. Everything after that-being followed, people trying to kill you, all the cloak-and-dagger stuff, the trip to Mars-those are all elements of your Deja Vu Ego Trip. Mr Winchester…Dean…you paid to be a secret agent.”
“Bullshit,” Dean says. “All that, it’s just a coincidence.”
“What about the guy? The one you just ‘met’? Tall. Slender but muscular. Clean shaven. Brunet. Demure and pushy. Just exactly the way you specified.”
“No,” Dean shakes his head. “He’s real. I dreamt about him quite a few times before I even set foot in Déjà Vu.”
Lehne’s face takes on a tense, pinched look. “Really, Dean? Can you even hear yourself? He’s real because you dreamt him?”
“He’s real because I remember him,” Dean says firmly.
Lehne sighs. “Maybe this will convince you. Would you mind opening the door, Dean?”
“You open it,” Dean says. He tracks Lehne with the gun as he moves slowly to the door and pulls it open. Carmen is standing outside, her face streaked with tears.
“Carmen?” he says, his face slackening with surprise.
“Come on in, Mrs Winchester,” Lehne says warmly.
Carmen steps into the room, her purse clutched nervously in front of her.
Dean switches his gun from Lehne to Carmen and her face falls.
“Sweetheart,” she says, and it sounds as if her heart is breaking.
“I suppose you’re not here either,” he says.
“I’m here,” she says, nodding. “At Déjà Vu. They called me when,” her eyes fill with tears again, “when everything went wrong.”
Dean laughs. “Oh that’s rich. So tell me then, darling. Why did you try to kill me?”
The tears welling in Carmen’s eyes begin to fall. “I didn’t,” she says. “I would never. I love you.”
Dean shakes his head. “This is bullshit,” he says. “You guys are just full of shit.”
Lehne scowls and points at him. “You’re really trying my patience, Dean,” he says, his tone scathing. “What’s bullshit? That you're having a paranoid episode triggered by acute neuro-chemical trauma. Or,” his voice becomes even more derisive, “that you're really an invincible secret agent from Mars who's the victim of an interplanetary conspiracy to make him think he's a lowly construction worker who didn’t even graduate high school? I mean, come on; even a lunk head like you ought to be able to figure this one out.”
Dean swallows and the gun in his hand wavers a little.
Lehne sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Look,” he says. “I know that you and Carmen have been having…intimacy issues; that you’ve been questioning your sexuality. But Dean, those problems are not unsurmountable. A good psychologist can help you work through it all. But first, you have to come back to reality.”
“Please, baby,” Carmen says. “Even if you don’t want me anymore, please let the doctor help you. Please come back to the real world and stop trying to live in this dream.”
Dean can feel his certainly faltering. Lehne has a point. It’s actually a lot easier to believe that he’s delusional than to believe that he might have done some important work for the good guys in the past. And Dean has no doubt that the rebels are the good guys. He frowns. Unless of course they’re just a figment of his imagination.
“Dean, please,” Lehne says. “You’re a young man. You’ve got a wife who loves you. This doesn’t have to be the end. We can pull you out of this, but you’ve got to want it.”
Dean thinks about it. “Suppose I did want to get back to reality. How would I do it?”
Lehne reaches slowly and obviously into the pocket of his lab coat and pulls out a plastic snaplock bag. Inside it is one small white tablet.
“What’s that?” Dean asks.
“It’s a symbol,” Lehne tells him gravely, “of your desire to return to reality. You swallow it and you’ll fall asleep inside your delusion and wake up back in the real world.”
Dean licks at his lips and glances at Carmen who nods encouragingly.
Dean returns his gaze to Lehne. “So,” he says, “if what you’re telling me is true and all this,” he waves a hand around the room, “is just a delusion, then I could pull this trigger and put a bullet in your head and it wouldn’t make any difference.”
“It wouldn’t make any difference to me,” Lehne says, his mouth pursed with displeasure. “But it would make a lot of difference to you. In your mind, I'd be dead. And with no one to guide you out, you'd be stuck in permanent psychosis. You may well play out your long, complex spy delusion, but in the end, reality will come crashing down and by the time it does, you'll be nothing but a vegetable!”
“Please, baby,” Carmen says. “Let us help you.”
Dean rubs a hand across his lips and glances uncertainly at Dr Lehne.
“Here,” Lehne holds out the white pill. “Take it. Put the gun down and take it.”
Dean lowers the gun. He takes the pill and turns it over in his fingers before glancing back up at Lehne.
“Put it in your mouth,” Lehne says.
Dean puts the pill in his mouth.
“Good,” Lehne says. “Now swallow it.”
Dean looks at Carmen who nods encouragingly and then at Lehne whose expression is disconcertingly anticipative. A bead of sweat runs down Lehne’s temple and Dean frowns, because why would someone who wasn’t really here be sweating? He side-eyes Carmen and sees her making eye contact with Lehne and in that moment he is absolutely certain what he needs to do. He spits the pill out, swings the gun up and shoots Lehne right between the eyes.
“Goddamn it, Dean,” Carmen says, backing away from him. “Now you’ve done it!”
Before Dean can respond, the wall in between his room and the room next door explodes in a shower of plaster, and four…no, six…armed and masked intruders dressed from head-to-toe in black, come bursting through, shouting at him to put down the gun and get on the ground.
Dean does a quick calculation of the odds and his inner-Jensen informs him grimly that there’s no way he’s going to be able to take out six armed attackers. He lowers the gun, slowly and obviously and then sinks to his knees and puts his hands behind his head.
Two of the attackers approach him cautiously while the other four keep their guns trained on him. Dean’s hands are twisted roughly behind his back and he’s handcuffed, tightly and hauled to his feet.
Carmen comes and stands in front of him, her expression cold and haughty. She stares up at him and then draws back her fist and punches him in the face. Dean’s head snaps back and his eyes water; the woman sure has one hell of a punch.
“That’s for making me come to Mars,” she says. “I fucking hate this planet!”
Dean manages a shit eating grin and Carmen turns away in disgust. She presses a button on her i-band and a moment later she says, “Governor Morgan, Sir? I’ve got him.”
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