A/N: Idea I got after playing that famous board game. Something of a cross between 5x08 and 3x11. Set in the beginning of S5. Based on the Discover the Secrets edition of Clue.

Disclaimer: I don't own SPN or Clue.

Chapter 1: You're Invited

"Man, are you still on that thing? It's been hours."

The sound of his brother's voice drifting from the doorway brings Sam back to reality. He stifles a yawn, briefly acknowledging his eyes are burning from staring at the laptop screen for too long. Blinking several times, he shifts his gaze to Dean. "Yeah," Sam mumbles. "Research."

As Dean closes the door, Sam catches a whiff of bacon. "So? Did you find anything?" the older brother prompts, setting the bag of food on a nearby table.

"Well, tons, actually," Sam reports. "Some people believe the crop circles are connected to their dreams. Ancient and sacred birds like the Phoenix and the Storm Bird Zu are illustrated in grass and wheat fields. More than once." He gestures to the page he'd pulled up. "Here it says, 'But immediately after the tribulation of those days the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will fall from the sky, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken.'"

Dean's eyebrows knit together as he tries to understand. He takes a huge bite of a bacon and cheese burger, and asks around the mouthful, "What the hell does that mean?"

Sam holds up a finger. "But that's not all. In 2010, an '11:11' crop circle formation appeared in Wiltshire, England. People made connections to Biblical texts, like Revelation 11:11, and even the Mayan calendar. Some think the world will now end on December 21, 2012, at 11:11 A.M. Universal Time."

Dean takes a seat at the table. "Then . . . are we talking E.T. bringing about the Apocalypse here, or what?"

"Honestly? I don't know. The only thing I do know is that whoever or whatever is making the crop circles has to be doing it from the sky. I mean, it's not like you can see the designs from the ground. There'd be no way to tell—"

"So basically what you're saying is we came all the way to Illinois for nothing," Dean supplies.

Sam releases a defeated sort of sigh and shrugs. "I guess. Besides this circle stuff, there's nothing weird going on. Normal death rates and amount of missing persons. . . . I was just so sure there was a case here." Disappointed, he joins his brother at the table and retrieves a salad from the bag, popping open the plastic lid and digging right in.

Dean, however, had remained skeptical from the start. It isn't surprising to him in the slightest. But he finds Sam's disappointment comical. Nerds and their research . . . peas in a pod, he muses. "Hey, no sweat. I'll give Bobby a call in the morning and see if he's got any new leads."

Sam nods. It's then that he notices it's three in the morning.

Dean lies awake for a while, hearing Sam toss and turn for the good portion of an hour in the bed next to him before the snoring starts. And just as Dean himself starts to drift off, his cell phone vibrates on the bedside table. He snatches it and answers it hurriedly, so as not to wake his younger sibling.

"Hello?" he rasps gruffly, heading for the bathroom.

"Dean," comes the deep reply.

"Cas?" he asks, flipping on the light and closing the door behind him. "What the hell, man? It's like five. What do you want?"

The angel ignores the question. "Where are you now?"

"At a motel in Illinois. Why?"

"I have reason to believe your brother is in danger."

Dean Winchester rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, thanks for your concern, Cas, but since when hasn't he been? Look, I'm beat, and I need some sleep. From what I can tell, he's been clean for a while now. The temptation is just . . . gone, okay? He's fine."

"I wasn't referring to your brother's demon blood addiction. I meant Lucifer has plans for Sam."

"I know, I know. I get it, all right? The Devil wants to wear him to the prom, but it's not like Sam will say yes. I won't give Michael the say-so either, you know that, we all do. So what's with you being a worry wart now?"

"Just be careful, Dean," Castiel advises, a note of concern detectable in his tone. "The demons are constantly on the move. Don't let Sam out of your sight."

And the angel hangs up, just like that. "Yeah, nice talking to you, too, feather brain," Dean mutters, clearly annoyed. He snaps the phone shut and heads back to bed.

Despite only getting a couple hours' sleep, Dean feels rested when he wakes. Sam's still snoring obnoxiously loud, drool spilling out of his gaping mouth, and, as an older brother, Dean feels obligated to take a picture. He laughs to himself as he puts on his shoes. "That's a keeper."

Asia blasts from the alarm clock at 7:30, at which point Sam jerks awake.

"Rise and shine, Sammy," Dean says jovially.

"Dude, Asia?" Sam asks in a tone that says, Are-you-kidding-me?

"Come on, you love this song and you know it."

"Yeah," Sam agrees sarcastically, "and if I ever have to hear it again, I'm gonna kill myself."

Dean reaches over to crank up the volume. "What? I'm sorry, I can't hear you."

Sam smiles and shakes his head as he watches his brother mouth the words and bob his head to the beat of Heat of the Moment.

After watching Dean gargle for over a minute in the bathroom, Sam returns to his bedside to get dressed. As he's pulling on a pair of jeans and tightening his belt, he notices two vanilla-colored envelopes lying on the floor near the door, as if someone had slipped them under during the night. Curious, he picks one up. It's addressed to a Mr. Victor Plum. Tearing open the mail, he pulls out a slip of paper. It's an invitation to some sort of party.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam calls.

"What?" Dean appears immediately beside Sam, drawn by the tone of voice his brother uses when's he's found something during a hunt. "What is it?"

"An . . . invitation, I think."

Confused, Dean picks up the second envelope from the floor. Scrawled in neat handwriting is the name Mr. Jack Mustard. "To what?" he asks, curious. Since when did they get invited to anything? And who had last names like Plum and Mustard?

"A party."

Dean opens Jack's envelope and finds himself holding a perfect duplicate of the invitation Sam is holding. It reads:


We're simply dying for you to join our party.

Who? The usual suspects

Where? A luxury mansion


"The hell . . . ?" Dean mumbles under his breath.

"Maybe they got the wrong room," Sam suggests, shrugging. "Happens all the time, right? Let's just return 'em to the front desk. Then we call Bobby."

Sam opens the door . . .

. . . and finds a butler awaiting his arrival. "Good evening, Mr. Plum," the man says, nodding to Sam. He turns to Dean. "Mr. Mustard. May I see your invitations, please?"

The brothers glance around, dazed by their new surroundings. Day had become night, and in place of the motel room was a long driveway leading up to the mansion they were now standing in front of. Once it reached the house, it encompassed a water fountain, which is spewing a steady stream of water from the top and sides. It looks to be made of marble by the light of the full moon. Two large oak doors allow entrance into the mansion, butlers standing on either side.

Sam notices he is wearing glasses, and adjusts them awkwardly. Strange, he's never worn glasses before. Looking down, he realizes he's made an outfit change. A purple suit and matching pants have replaced the t-shirt and jeans.

Dean also acknowledges his clothes have changed, except everything he's wearing now happens to be bright yellow . . . even his shoes. Sunshine yellow.

Aware that he probably looks like the sun, Dean clears his throat. "Yes," he says, handing over Jack Mustard's invitation. He shoots a look at Sam, urging him to follow suit.

"Of course," he replies pleasantly, offering Plum's invitation.

The butler quickly studies the names on the envelopes. "Very well, right this way, gentlemen." He gestures towards the mansion.

The brothers climb the last few stone steps a little uncertainly and enter, eyes darting to every inch of the hall. Other guests had already arrived before them, but Sam only counts four. Three women, one man.

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto," Dean whispers slyly out of the corner of his mouth, trying to keep a smile plastered on his face.

No kidding, Sam thinks. The women are each wearing different colors, he notes, white, blue, and a dark red the color of blood, like scarlet; the man wears a darker shade of green, outfit complete with suit and tie. As he sips a glass of what looks like scotch, he gives off a businesslike air, stance and smile confident. He looks at Sam and Dean, who have somehow assumed the identities of Plum and Mustard, with smiling eyes.

Dean is too busy noticing the women to care about green man. The one wrapped in scarlet is eyeing him up and down, coaxing him to join her across the room without saying a word. He spares a glance for a jealous-looking woman in white and one in deep blue who looks a bit wrinkly. But the scarlet one is all he cares about. Dean winks at her and takes a step forward.

Sam holds him back. "Dean," he whispers, still watching the other guests. "Where the hell are we?"

The colors, the figures, the mansion. . . . And Dean suddenly thinks he knows. "Ah, crap."


But before he can answer, the doors leading from the hall and to the rest of the place burst open. "He's gone!" a female servant shouts.

"Who's gone?" Sam, aka Victor, asks.

"The millionaire! The owner of the mansion! Gone! Vanished into thin air!" she insists.

"Yep," Dean says, nodding, witnessing the rest of the guests surround the servant, asking her questions about the owner's disappearance. "I know exactly where we are."

Sam meets his brother's knowing gaze, waiting impatiently for the answer.

"It might sound crazy, but . . . do you remember that board game, Clue? Yeah, well, we're in it."

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