The Highest Form of Flattery
Title: The Highest Form of Flattery
Beta and handholding: sendintheklowns and her infinite patience.
Summary: He’d been the centre of some crazy things in his life, but this? Hands down the nuttiest thing he had ever seen. Written for the Summer of Sam Love celebration.
a/n: series of missing scenes from various points in the episode - hopefully the chronology makes sense. Some of the dialogue is lifted directly from the episode, and I took a bit of an (accidental) liberty with the scene in the graveyard by leaving Sam unconscious for longer than he was in the episode. Sorry.
The Highest Form of Flattery
A convention.
Fifteen hours of solid driving, no sleep, no raising Chuck by phone and no idea what they were running into. He’d been on an adrenaline high since Wellington, Ohio, and for what?
A friggin Supernatural convention.
Sam’s face was probably an echo of his own, maybe even more alarmed if the way he was trying to keep Dean solidly between himself and Becky’s beckoning enthusiasm was anything to go by. Dean would tease him about that if he had the energy. Or if the whole thing wasn’t just so… weird.
They should probably leave. Hopefully they would, soon, once they’d cleared up Chuck’s belief that their lives were his bread and butter. And after they’d had a lot to drink.
Chuck had left them in the doorway to prepare for the grand opening. Becky was waving at Sam in what she obviously thought was a sultry manner, trying to entice him over to the bar, but Dean’s momentum had stalled.
He’d been the centre of some crazy things in his life; he’d even been the cause of some of them, but this? Hands down the nuttiest thing he had ever seen. There were guys in ghost make-up and monster costumes, a grown man walking around with a hook on his hand.
“What the...?” Sam echoed his thoughts as Dean’s eyes flicked, trying to take everything in. Finding out about the books was one thing, trying to ignore the blogs, but his brain just wasn’t prepared to cater to this. After the second ‘Hi Dean’ he’d endured enough and he grabbed Sam and stuck to the walls, trying to keep a low profile until Chuck came back out and they could find out what the hell was going on.
These people though he was a random dude that had chosen to dress up as himself. Dean couldn’t even get his head around that one. If he was going to dress up as someone, it would at least be someone cool like Han Solo or Indie, but Dean… Why the hell would he choose to be himself? And why would anyone choose to be a Bender, or - were those yellow contact lenses? Dean shook his head in amazement. Had that guy even read the story? And he’d chosen to emulate the yellow eyed demon over him?
That wasn’t the point.
Dean wasn’t entirely sure what the point was, other than he was surrounded by a bunch of whack jobs and feeling utterly exposed. These people knew who he was. They knew the things he had done. They knew his thoughts and his flaws in a way that no-one should know another person, whether they were aware it was real or not.
And they still wanted to be him.
They’d only read the story as far as Dean going to Hell though. He wondered if they’d still be fans if they knew what happened next. They thought the Winchesters were heroes. How would they feel about that if they knew how Dean broke in Hell? The things he had done. The things he had set in motion.
The Sams dotted around the room were all floppy hair and emo-eyes and soft edges. Would they want to play that role if they knew how hard those edges would get? Where they saw lost innocence, Dean was aware of the lies and addiction, the lines he was capable of crossing. Dean knew how far apart they’d drifted.
All the other Sams and Deans in this room could hold their heads high, because they weren’t weighed down by Gabriel’s revelations.
Even so, they were still here, and they were still together. He couldn’t help but wonder - in their shoes, how many of these other guys would be?
But then the ‘Dean’ that had first said ‘hi’ to him saluted him from the bar, and his Sam was laughing and sharing a beer while the real one was looking increasingly like he’d like to kill something, and Dean couldn’t say he didn’t envy the other guy that a little.
-0-
There was a ghost in the building. One guy had already been traumatised into leaving, and it was only a matter of time before another one of these freaks prodded it too hard in the wrong spot and the spook pushed back. And that wasn’t going to end well for any of them.
Dean had just wanted to leave, pretend he wasn’t even aware this entire weekend was happening, but no. Now he had to stay and save these idiots from themselves.
Or from Leticia Gore, at any rate.
Usually they tried to keep a low profile but it was hard to work when you had a room full of people watching your every move. And emulating it.
They were going about it the wrong way. If a hotel was haunted you didn’t go for the manager, everyone knew that, surely. The manager was a sales man, too frightened of scaring off guests to give anywhere near the truth. You tried the staff, the hired help, those who knew and lived the building, who had been around longer than anyone else and in a position to see things that others wouldn’t.
Those who could be more easily bribed into talking about it.
This room full of Sams and Deans and demons and wannabees - they were turning his life into a game, and they weren’t even playing it very well.
“Maybe we should go online,” Sam suggested. “Check out some of the local history in the area. The convention shouldn’t be able to fake that. Weed out the fact from the fiction.”
“Yeah, maybe…” Dean relented. It was clear they would be getting no help from the overly enthusiastic owner of this place. Any potential victim ever spoke to him in that voice and Dean’s first instinct would be to reach for the holy water, not take notes.
“Unless…” he nodded to the desk clerk, watching the proceedings with barely concealed distain. Alone, and hopefully out of earshot of any of these morons.
The tip they got about the attic was good, and it was definitely Gore’s ghost they were dealing with - score one for the real Winchesters. Now they just had to figure out where the bitch was buried, and this whole experience would soon be a bad memory.
It was a lucky break that they overheard the two dweebs talking about the cemetery on site, and please - since when had Dean’s voice been that ridiculously low pitched? Dean would have been willing to chalk it up to another red-herring planted as part of the game, but he had a geek side-kick, too, and Sam seemed adamant that the map was genuine.
Now they just needed to get it off their copy-cats long enough to read it. Something the much less reasonable, fake Dean seemed unwilling to see happen.
This wasn’t a game. The danger in this building was very real, and he was being prevented from putting a stop to it, blocked at every turn by a bunch of crazies who wanted his life. Hunting wasn’t about the fake IDs or the cool pseudonyms, or getting to cavort around with a big grin on your face and play Scooby-doo. It was about pain and loss and blood. The Sam and Dean story wasn’t about hi-jinks and entertaining riddles - it was about fear and betrayal and a burden that just got heavier with each new revelation and every passing day.
These people didn’t know him. They didn’t know what he dealt with every single moment of every day, yet they thought they could trivialise his life by turning his work into a stupid treasure hunt.
One they wouldn’t even let him win.
Dean was all for beating the guy down and taking his stupid map - he was fairly sure he could take him, and knew for a fact that his gun was real - but Sam had other ideas. All reasonable and placating and suggesting they work together. Like they really needed to finish the job with Dumb and Dumber in tow.
According to the map, the old cemetery was on the other side of the property, out past the old coach house. Dean didn’t really have time to get a good look before his double snatched the map away, tucking it out of sight and patting his gun theatrically, just in case they got any ideas.
Whatever.
He and Sam led the way across the hotel lobby towards the front door, opened it, and almost collided with a solid mass of yellow.
Dean looked up to see a white face and a red nose, a face-painted smile and a mop of frizzy yellow hair - the clown that had been in the bar earlier that afternoon.
“Well, excuse me,” it said in a more annoyed than comic tone of voice.
“What?” He wasn’t doing anything, and was so not in the mood to be taken on by a guy in a clown suit.
“Move it, pal.”
Dean turned to see his brother frozen in the doorway, eyes impossibly wide with surprise. Sam was eyeing the clown warily, but seemed to be making no attempt to move around it and out of the way.
“Err, Dean?”
“Yeah Sammy,” Dean smiled, grabbing hold of his brother and pulling him to the side, out of the doorway.
“What the..?”
“Right there with ya, buddy,” he said, patting Sam’s chest and hiking his bag further up onto his shoulder before moving away.
“Man…” he heard a voice whine from behind him. “You totally nailed that. I can’t believe I forgot about the clown thing.” Fake Sam’s shoulders were slumped in dejection as he continued down the front steps, his Dean shaking his head in disappointment behind him.
Sam blinked a couple of times and finally managed to close his mouth before he followed.
After the Rakshasa, Dean doubted a guy in a costume would have been able to shake Sam if they weren’t both already so freaked, and he hadn’t been taken by surprise. But it had served as a reminder that only one Sam and Dean were needed on this particular hunt. These guys might have been helping them, only now Dean was relegated to the position of Bobby in his own life and was seconds away from snapping. Bobby, who was even now alone in South Dakota, relearning his life in a wheelchair because he’d chosen to be a character in their story. Chosen to save Dean’s life. And if Sam asked him if he was okay one more time, he might just be forced to hurt something.
Sam had a hand on his elbow and was speaking to him in the same placating tone he’d just used on the others in the bar and it almost worked. Right up until the moment Dean realised what scene was being played out in front of him - one of his more painful memories laid open and exposed for their entertainment.
After that, even Sam pulling his most endearing empathy face would have had no effect.
“What is wrong with you? Why in the hell would you choose to be these guys?
There was a small blissful moment of silence. Even Sam looked slightly surprised.
“Because we’re fans… Like you.”
“No. I am not a fan. Not fans. In fact, I think the Dean and Sam story sucks. It is not fun, it’s not entertaining. It is a river of crap that would send most people howling to the nut house.”
The moment his little brother shoots him is the one they choose to recreate, out of everything? But then, there probably aren’t that many good memories to choose from. The suffering they cause each other, the pain that family can bring… who’d want it? He’s not a hero, he’s just beaten down and doing the best he can and drowning in the crap life throws at him. But even so:
“So you listen to me - their pain is not for your amusement. I mean, do you think they enjoy being treated like, like circus freaks?”
“Err, I don’t think they care. Because they’re fictional characters.”
“Oh they care. Believe me, they care a lot.” With that Dean pushed past them and strode off into the night. He could hear Sam trying to salvage the situation but didn’t stop to listen. As annoyed as he was, however, there was no getting rid of these guys now.
Dean sighed in frustration and slowed slightly to allow them to catch up.
“Okay, Dean,” Sam was at his elbow again. Dean didn’t know why he wanted to hide from the disappointment he could see on their doubles’ faces. The pity. “Let’s just do this, okay. One quick salt and burn and then we can get the hell out of here.”
“After we kill Chuck.”
“After we kill Chuck,” Sam agreed with a nod. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Dean whined, frustrated that Sam’s calm seemed to have the same effect on him as it did traumatised women. And giant nerds.
“Let’s just get this done,” he ordered. “Fast.”
-0-
The ghost dispersed with the standard amount of unearthly shrieking. Dean sagged with relief, doubling over to regain his breath, one eye on the shell shocked Winchester wannabees. They’d been immersed in the game, excited at the prospect of finding the bones; right up until the hunt had turned real. Real bones and real ghosts and real physical danger. These guys were crazy, certifiably so, but Dean wouldn’t have wished the last five minutes on anyone. Even if they had been asking for it.
The car and the guns and the women - that he got. But this…? The smell of burning, the grave dirt in his nails, the suddenness of the pain and violence… There was nothing to covet in that.
He straightened up and put away his lighter. Amateur Sam was opening and closing his mouth a little way in front of him, too stunned to form words. Dean’s own counterpart had a hand to his chest and was staring at the space where the ghost had vanished as though still trying to process what he had just seen.
Dean wondered if he ever would. Or should.
He took a step forward, meaning to say something - comfort or recrimination, he honestly wasn’t sure which - but he was beaten to it.
“Whoa… are you okay?
For such a big guy ‘Dean’s’ movements were surprisingly gentle when he turned to his friend, one shaking hand grasping the other man’s shoulder while the other settled over his heart, over the spot the ghost’s hand had been resting minutes before. He held it there for a long moment, as though reassuring himself he could still feel the strong thump of life beneath his palm, then breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Yeah man… I think so.” ‘Sam’s’ voice was shaky, but his stance was becoming more sure. “What about you, you okay?” Frantic eyes scanned the other man, who was yet to release him.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
It was a moment before they seemed to remember Dean was there. They both still looked pretty shaken by what they had seen, but were probably more reassured by each other than anything Dean might have said. He couldn’t say he didn’t know what that felt like, the need to reach out and be reassured. Neither of them had even seemed to notice their own fear and discomfort, and he wondered if that was an act. Were they really that close or were they remaining in character, Dean Winchester checking to make sure his little brother was…
Crap. Sam.
Dean spun, eyes searching frantically among the headstones. The last time he’d seen his brother he’d been flung in roughly this direction, and… there. A foot, a leg, and a completely sprawled Sam, still unconscious.
Sam’s pulse was steady, the only obvious injury a lump on the side of his temple which had already stopped bleeding, and as soon as Dean lifted an eyelid to check his pupils his brother stirred.
“Easy, man,” Dean whispered, breathing his own sigh of relief out in a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding. “You took quite a knock, just take it steady,” he instructed as Sam swayed in his attempt to sit up.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?” He lent forward, one hand on each of Sam’s shoulders to steady him, searching his face to try and anticipate what his brother was going to ask him, what he might need.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, Sammy,” he shook his head and smiled, patting his brother on the back lightly before standing and hauling him to his feet. He retained a firm grip on his brother’s elbow even after he was sure Sam was steady.
When he finally looked away it was to find his counterpart watching him, an approving look on his face. Dean flushed and let go of Sam’s arm, moving away to retrieve the shovel and flashlights that had fallen during the fight.
These people thought they knew them, thought they knew how to be them, and Dean didn’t know why he suddenly felt so self conscious being himself in front of them, giving more of himself than they’d already taken.
Sam staggered slightly over an uneven grave but caught himself with an ‘I’m good’ and an understanding smile that made Dean’s guts clench.
The other two had turned to go once they’d realised the brothers were okay and that it was time to leave, leading the way back to the path and the hotel, each still gripping the other’s arm to maintain contact, and Dean didn’t know why he was suddenly so angry at these guys who were trying to show him how to be himself. How to be a good brother.
Who were maybe doing a better job of it than he was.
He knew the look in their eyes, the firm grip and reassuring stance well enough to know it wasn’t fake. He’d wanted that; he’d missed it, spent so much time mourning something he hadn’t even lost.
As he watched Sam plodding on the path in front of him, hand subconsciously probing the lump on the side of his head, Dean honestly didn’t know if he stepped up, how the offer of assistance would be taken.
He couldn’t tell if the pang that realisation caused him was from sadness, or guilt.
-0-
He’d taken a chance and opened up, and they hadn’t believed him. He should have seen that one coming. But he meant want he’d said - they hadn’t needed to step up the way they had, and he and Sam would probably both be toast now if they hadn’t.
Damien and Barnes. They were the real heroes of this story.
Dean laughed along with them slightly uncomfortably, and turned to go. At least it was over now and they could finally leave.
After the whole killing Chuck thing had been taken care of.
“You’re wrong you know.”
“Sorry?” Dean turned. The voice had sounded surprisingly earnest.
“About Supernatural. No offence, but I’m not sure you get what the story’s about.”
“Is that so?” Dean didn’t know whether to be exasperated or amused.
“In real life, he sells stereo equipment. I fix copiers. Our lives suck. But to be Sam and Dean… to wake up every morning and save the world… to have a brother who’d die for you - well, who wouldn’t want that?”
They were both nodding so solemnly, as though willing him to understand, to share this with them, and maybe he hadn’t got it at first. He’d thought they’d been drawn to the story because of the excitement and danger, the cool car and the sanctioned violence. The escape from the real world. He’d thought they wanted in for all the reasons he wanted out. But two loners who’d found each other through this story, found someone who cared enough to die for them… It was still crazy, but it was the kind of crazy maybe he could relate to.
“Maybe you got a point,” he relented.
He left them and headed back to the car. Sam was around here somewhere, saying goodbye to Chuck and probably hiding from Becky, so Dean leaned against the roof of the Impala to wait for him, absentmindedly handling his keys.
It had been an insane weekend, but maybe it had been something of an eye-opener, too. Dean spent so much of his time dwelling on the crap fate had dumped on them - and who could really blame him. There was Lucifer and Michael, a brother with an addiction to demon blood, the tentative trust and the search for a God he wasn’t sure he even believed in. The odds weren’t exactly stacked in their favour. So maybe somewhere along the way he had lost sight of what it was all about, and what he was really here for.
He and Sam had their issues but they were still standing, and they were still together. And there was still no-one he trusted more to have his back. His little brother might not be as soft around the edges as he remembered, or still carry as much innocence as Dean might want, but the way Barnes knew him, the way he’d played him, was still recognisably Sam. Maybe they hadn’t changed that much fundamentally from the characters these guys knew. Maybe the last two years hadn’t undone them.
Sam was still here, still working beside him, still trying hard to do the right thing, and he couldn’t deny his brother was a damn fine hunter.
Dean would still die for him. Unequivocally. Without question. Sam had proved that went both ways.
He shook his head and smiled ironically. Trust it to take a pair of yahoo’s living their lives to show him that.
“You okay?” Sam emerged from the path to the garden behind him and headed to the passenger side of the car.
Dean nodded, surprised, and really looked at his brother for perhaps the first time in months.
“Yeah, you know. I think I’m good.”
END