Author's Note: Wow, thank you all for all of the reviews! I'm so sorry that it's taken me forever to add on to this, but now that I'm officially on break until January, I'll have some time to end this. I've had this story in my brain forever and I can't wait to see you what you all think of this.

Then: "It was you, Jared. Besides you thinking that you're a fictional character. I mean, you did something that wasn't…"

The cheap fluorescent lighting flickered.

"That wasn't what, Jensen?"

"That wasn't …normal."


Sam watched as his now bandaged brother rose from the motel bed, a grimace and on his face.

"We have to go," Dean said. The pain from the earlier bathroom incident had subsided, but his frustration remained.

"Where are we going now?"

"We're getting answers," Dean replied. Dean shivered at the memory of the creature that had attacked him not moments before. No bigger than a large housecat, the silvery feline creature had crawled in through the bathroom window as Dean had attempted to get his head straight. So many problems were piling up inside of his brain at that point that he was too slow to act when a pair of razor-sharp claws swiped at his face. The whole fiasco had happened so fast, and before Dean knew it, he was throwing the creature against the bathroom shower-head, where it held on with an almost human-like grip.

Dean would've dismissed it as a cat, but the eyes were too slanted, the claws were too sharp, and the fur felt like cold metal to the touch.

"Getting answers, huh? About that monster in the bathroom?"

"About everything, Jared! You, the ghosts on set, that…cat….thing! This is too much for us to handle. We're going to talk to somebody that knows about this kind of stuff."

Sam scratched his head, but followed closely behind his brother. They approached the abandoned truck, a 1998 Silverado that belonged to Dean's alias "Jensen", and Sam shot off one final question before they hopped in.

"And who would that be?"

Dean's only response was a frigid glare through the corners of his eyes. He opened up the old Silverado's driver-side door.

"Oh hell no, I thought you said everyone here was..."

The Silverado roared to life and the two men drove off in silence.

A half an hour later, the sun had already fallen below the horizon. A fresh, familiar aroma in the air signaled of the rain to come. The wind chill had other plans.

"Looks like it might hail out there," Dean said, peering out from window blinds. The walls around them boasted a style of wooden paneling from the 1970s. The living room furniture looked less department store and more Craig's List. Household decoration was limited to a Led Zeppelin poster, cheaply-framed and hanging near the entrance into the barren kitchen, and dust fell everywhere that a beer can didn't occupy.

"Clean much?" Sam asked Dean.

"Hey, this is your house, too, you know. We moved in together just a few months ago. You should've seen the place BEFORE I got here."

"I'm guessing you added that cute, angelic touch," Sam said, pointing towards the Zeppelin poster.

"That's Icarus, one of the few warriors that – "

"Would you two just get to the point," interrupted a single voice. "Why am I here?"

The down-to-earth voice matched the body that possessed it. Sporting a trucker hat, a pair of worn-in Timberland boots, and a black t-shirt that heralded, "I DO MY OWN STUNTS," the man of medium-build strode into the living room with as much confidence as the stick figures on his shirt.

"Bobby?" Sam nearly choked.


"Jim!" Dean interrupted, before his friend could get in any more words.

Sam took a seat, not knowing he did so until after a few deep breaths. He felt relieved at the sight of a familiar partner in the hunt – Bobby, like a father to him for decades – but knew somewhere deep down that the person he was staring at could not be the Bobby he knew so well. Instead, in this world, the man before him was just like Dean – a copy of the person he once knew.

"What's with him?" Bobby looked down at Sam's dazed and confused form.

"Long story. We need your help," Dean looked out the window while he spoke. "Things are getting weird. Weirder. Remember all that stuff that's been going on with our set?"

"Yes – wait, speaking of, shouldn't you two be on the set?"

"Yes, well no, we took a break. Thing is, with all of the freaky things that have been going on around here -"

"Yeah?" Bobby raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

"Well, it just got stranger. You see, well…umm," Dean held the back of his own neck, searching for an end to that sentence. Giving up, he walked behind the chair where Sam was sitting, who still looked confused, but curious to see Dean's next move.

"Screw it," Dean gave up, gripping Sam's shoulder from behind him and boasting a smile that looked more defeated than happy. "Who am I, Sammy?"

"You're Dean," Sam stated, matter-of-factly.

"I'm Dean. Right. And who's that?" Dean pointed to the man in the trucker hat.

"That's Bobby. Well, I think that was Bobby before the Trickster or some angel put a freakin' spell all over this place. I don't know anymore. All I know is we have to find a way to put things back."

"Back to what, Sam?"

"Back the way things were, with you, me, and Bobby, hunting things." Sam sighed, and threw his hands up in the air as if he had just made the most rational statement in the world.

Dean and Sam stared at the other end of the room for a reaction.

The man that looked like Bobby responded with a quiet nod and salute. He then turned around and walked the other direction, mumbling something about "great prank" and "wait'll facebook hears about this one."

"Wait, Jim, come back! You're the only one I could think of since you experienced this same stuff! Jim? JIM!" Dean was about to race after his friend, when a strong hand gripped him by his arm.

"Dean! Listen!" Sam's grip tightened, as his older brother crouched down to his level, fearing another supernatural occurrence.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps on the upstairs floor stopped the three men short of their breath. Slow and steady at first, the footsteps grew louder and faster until they were accompanied by something much more terrifying.

Someone, or something, had a chainsaw.

"What the hell is going on up there?" Bobby said. "You've got construction workers or - "

Before he could finish his sentence, the ceiling cracked in two, and dust, wood, and debris fell on the floor between them. Instinctively, Sam leapt off of the chair and grabbed the closest weapon he could find – a fire iron from near the fireplace. Meanwhile, Dean flew in the opposite direction towards a small secretary desk that held a Smith and Wesson .357, which was illegal in Vancouver. Dean reasoned, however, that the recent happenings on the set gave him reason to push the legal limits.

The jarring sound of a chainsaw finally stopped, and all that was left was a searing hole in the ceiling above the three men. Dust and dirt still fell as the brothers surveyed their surroundings.

Bobby held a large kitchen knife in his hand, eyes peering out from below his cap, and he felt the stance surprisingly comfortable. It was as if he had been here before, and was going through the motions of attack preparation as naturally as anything. It felt so…

"Jim, look out!"

A silvery creature leapt out from the ceiling's hole, and it flew towards the older man with cat-like graces. Bobby ducked just in time to see the monster's needle-like tail graze the top of his head.

"What the?" Bobby barely let out the words when another blast went off by his head. Dean was shooting into the kitchen behind Bobby's head, aiming at the sickening creature that was leaping from countertop to table, lightning fast reflexes allowing it to dodge each bullet that came towards it.

"Jim, get behind that couch. Sam, cover me!" Sam didn't blink as his hunting instinct took over. He watched the hole in the ceiling as he backed up against Dean who was now slowly entering the kitchen. Sam held the fire iron in his hands until his knuckles went white, but then remembered his dad's words - the best hunter is the one that stays calm under pressure.

He slowed his breath and his heartbeat down, and while he wished he had a gun like Dean, he felt his brother behind him do the same.

"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," Dean taunted quietly. "We know your 'roided ass is in here, so come on out!"

Immediately, the creature responded with what sounded like a lion's roar, and it leapt out from atop the fridge, sending several photos and notes that were once held there with magnets flying across the room with it.

The scene unfolded in a series of gunshots, papers, and claws. Sam struggled to get an eye on the mass of metallic fur that raced around him, while Dean aimlessly shot bullets that ricocheted off of either the creature or the cookware that hung around their heads.

"Are you hitting it?" Sam yelled, trying to find the source of the roars.

"I don't know! I can't see!"

And in that moment, as loudly and as quickly as the entire fiasco had begun, it stopped in midair.

The two men felt their movements slow and become frozen solid, as if they were being held in place by some invisible force.

Sam felt powerless with his entire body frozen, and he guessed the same for his brother. They remained in their attack positions, with Dean pointing his gun towards the creature's last spot in the kitchen sink, and Sam's right hand held the fire-iron high above their heads.

Even the papers and photos from the refrigerator had quieted their airborne dance around them, hovering slowly and then stopping in a haphazard position that defied gravity. Sam's eyes, the only parts of him that could move at this time, fell on the photo in front of him.

The picture was shot outside one of the Supernatural sets, with a setting sun as the backdrop. The two men in the picture had a beer in each hand and a smile on their face. They had posed for this, Sam noticed, but nothing about it seemed forced. No lies, no dark secrets, no doubts plagued the picture. This universe's Dean and Sam weren't just friends, they were brothers.

"Well done, I must say. Very well done, indeed."

The sound of characteristically sarcastic clapping echoed from the living room behind them. Sam felt his pulse quicken at the sound of this unfamiliar voice, and Dean could only grunt a few non-coherent cuss words.

"Don't try to talk just yet. I'll release you when you promise to play nice."

A shadowy figure approached them slowly, and Sam could make out only a hood over a smug grin.

"Now, who wants to play?"

To be continued...