zepp 'n pie

A guy dressed remarkably like Dean entered your field of vision. He had on a brown leather jacket with the collar turned up, a perfect replica of the amulet hanging over his shirt, and a flirty smile. “Hi. Are you supposed to be Jo?”

“Nope. Wrong number.” 

“Wait, wait,” he stopped you before you could walk away. “Wanna partner up with me on the hunt later? I’ve got my own EMF meter. Bought it off Amazon.”

Before you could dissect his sentence for questioning, the real Dean apprehended the both of you. “Don’t do this, man,” he advised his look-alike with a grimace. “Don’t be creepy.” 

Embarrassed and a little intimidated, the Dean-copy mumbled an apology and slinked away to join another pair of fake brothers. “This has got to be the weirdest fever dream ever,” you said.

“More like a friggin’ nightmare.” Dean scowled at him before shaking his head and turning back to give you a quick one-armed hug. “C’mon. Sam’s waiting.”

He led you further into the foyer past the merchandise stands, which you eyed with mild interest, towards the bar. More people wearing Sam’s and Dean’s wardrobes were scattered in here. You were alarmed to see a few baddies, until human laughter came from beneath their masks.

A disgruntled Sam was tucked away at a corner table, surveying the room from his seat. Upon seeing you, his shoulders sagged with relief. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said, standing to give you a hug. It had only been about ten days since you were last face-to-face with the brothers. But any time spent apart always felt too long. “You got here quick. Thought we wouldn’t see you until tomorrow at least.”

“When the bat signal’s raised, I come a-running.” You plopped down on the chair beside him and placed your duffel bag by your feet. “So I gave up murderous twin ghosts for what exactly?”

“Nothing,” Sam sighed. “Thought it was life-or-death. Turned out to be a false alarm.”

“Uh, I wouldn’t call this”--you twirled your finger in a circle, indicating the room--”a false alarm. It’s Attack Of The Clones. A full-on disaster.”

Dean scoffed. “Please. This makes Clones look like a cinematic masterpiece.”

“What is going on here anyway?” you asked, squirming around in your chair to get a good look at everyone in the bar. None of them looked familiar. You usually remembered the faces of people you’ve saved over the years, and that was the only reason you could think of for strangers to want to pretend to be them. 

With an obvious lack of enthusiasm, Sam gave you the bullet points. If you weren’t seeing the aftermath with your own eyes, you wouldn’t have believed him.

“So everything we’ve done, everything we’ve been through, this guy Chuck Shurley dresses it up as fiction and makes money off of it?” 

“Pretty much,” Sam nodded.

You leaned back on your chair, feeling only slightly overwhelmed. “Huh. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ve got the real scoop. Sam and Dean Winchester: The Prepubescent Years.”

“So help me, I will shoot you,” Dean threatened.

You cast him a wide grin then turned your attention back to the lounge. “Okay, I’m seeing lots of you guys, and a pretty decent Hook Man. Where’s me? Where are my clones?”

Sam hesitated. “You’re not… actually in the books.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, consider yourself lucky, kid,” Dean said enviously. “You ain’t full frontal. Which, thank you, Chuck, because I sure as hell don’t wanna read that about you. Matter of fact, I don’t want any of these pervs readin’ that about you. That’s just straight up wrong.”

You wrinkled your nose in distaste. Dean looked really bothered, meaning there were things about him in these books that he didn’t want anyone else to know. Maybe it was good that you weren’t exposed like they were. 

Still, it hurt not being included. These stories were as much yours as theirs. 

“But I’m badass. Saved both of you plenty of times. I should be in it. Or at least get a spin-off with me as the lead. Where is this prophet? I don’t care if an archangel’s guarding him. I’ll kick his ass.”

“Oh, maybe I should come back later then,” someone chuckled nervously. You looked up and saw two people approaching your table. One was a young blonde woman in a green vest and checkered blouse staring openly--and adoringly--at Sam. 

The other was a guy who could barely meet your eyes. Instead he fidgeted, his fingers tugging at the hem of his jacket.

Sam introduced them to you as Chuck and Becky. “So you’re the writer I’ve been hearing about,” you said, leaning forward to rest your arms on the table. He briefly glanced at you then looked away. “There’s a major plot hole in your story, my friend, and it’s got all my curves.”

Your statement brought color to his cheeks, while Becky tilted her head curiously. “What do you mean? Who are you to Sam and Dean?” 

“Well, you know how there’s three Ghostbusters?” She nodded. “I’m Venkman.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You are not Venkman.”

“Of course I am.”

“I’ve got way more Bill Murray in me.”

You turned to Chuck and said seriously, “See, you’ll never get these kinds of quotes without me. I’m just saying.”

Becky giggled, clearly amused where Dean was not. “Well, good news! Chuck got an investor so he’s going to be writing more books! He has to add you this time. You will, won’t you, Chuck?”

“I--w-well,” he stammered, and the fact that he had to think about it kind of bruised your ego. 

He was spared from answering further by a shrill scream piercing the air. The brothers and you quickly leaped to action, along with every other fake Sam and Dean in here. Chuck called you back, but the three of you were already rushing out the bar and into the foyer. You climbed the stairs up to the second floor where the scream came from.

A maid was cowering in the hallway, her arms covering her head. Sam helped her to stand. You asked her what happened just as the other clones gathered behind you.

“I saw a ghost,” the maid whimpered.

“A ghost?” a man playing Dean repeated in a gruff, lowered voice. “Could you tell us what it looked like?” 

“Why don’t you leave this to the grown-ups, pal,” Dean said, pushing him and the others back. If an actual ghost was involved, these guys were in over their heads.

More people tried to squeeze into the hallway to listen to the maid’s story which, as it turned out, was completely fake. It was a staged hunt, all part of the convention’s activities.

The three of you trudged back down to the lobby. A suited bunch was gathered around a man recounting the tale of one Leticia Gore who ran an orphanage here and butchered four little boys on this very night.

“Is that how we look like when we’re in our fed suits?” you wondered as you observed them from a distance.

“Of course not. They’re kids playin’ dress up.” Dean gave a disgusted groan. “This is about all the community theater I can take.”

“Yeah, this cannot get any weirder,” Sam agreed. 

“I’m gonna find a quiet corner and do some reading,” you said, patting both their arms. “I wanna know once and for all if Dean swiped that last piece of pie back in New Orleans.”

Ignoring his remarks, you headed to the merchandise booth that had all the books for sale. The vendor was a man wearing yellow contacts, imitating Azazel. Although why anyone would willingly choose to dress up as him was a mystery to you. 

You dumped the newly bought stack of books in your arms on the bar table you’d occupied earlier and settled into a chair. Carefully peeling back the cover of the first volume, you began to read.

There was a short introduction to their story which, according to Chuck, started when Sam turned six months old. You were familiar with the origin story, as it were. Bits and pieces of it came out the more you spent time with the brothers.

Then it cut to the night Dean pulled Sam out from Stanford to look for John. The book only mentioned Dean, but you were there too. Dean hadn’t broken in like Chuck had written, but rather you were there invited. Everything else that played out, though, happened just as you remembered. 

Chuck captured the details really well, and it was nice to see those moments from a perspective that wasn’t your own.

“Hey kid, turns out we got a real case here,” Dean interrupted, pulling you out of the story. “We’re about to go roast a ghost with Dumb and Dumber over there. You in?”

“Nah, I’ll pass.” Your eyes drifted back down to the page. “Who needs me when there’s more of you?”

Sam nudged your shoulder with the back of his hand. “Come on, it’d be nice to have you along.”

“I’m fine, guys, really,” you assured them. “I wanna finish these books. Go enjoy the barbecue. Here.” Using your foot, you slid your duffel bag over to Sam, who picked it up off the floor. “You can even take my gear. That way it feels like I’m there with you.”

“You just want me to put this in your car for you, right?” Sam said with narrowed eyes.

“Keys are in the side pocket,” you mumbled, mind already immersed in the story. He chuckled and patted your shoulder affectionately before leaving with his brother.

You were halfway through the sixth volume when you were joined by Chuck. He placed a bottle of your favorite beer before you, and you wondered if it was purely coincidence or if he really knew this was your drink of choice.  

“Consider this a peace offering,” he smiled.

You raised the bottle in thanks then took a pull. He still lingered by your table, and you sensed he wanted to talk so you invited him to sit down.

He was quick to take a seat, scooting the chair closer to the table as he did so. “So, uh, how are you liking the books?” he asked, trying--and failing--to hide his eagerness. He seemed to really want to know your opinion.

“There’s some pretty extensive editing,” you began cautiously. “Take Wendigo. Sam following Dean’s M&M trail? That was me. In Phantom Traveler, Dean was too much of a wuss to get on the plane so Sam and I took on that demon. Things I’ve done are on here. Someone else is just taking the credit.”

Chuck gnawed on his bottom lip, looking rather shamefaced. “You’re really bothered by this, aren’t you?”

“It’s hard not to feel bad about it,” you admitted. “I never knew my parents. Bobby tried to be the father I never had. Sam and Dean and I just clicked. I tagged along with them. I guess I wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere, and these ‘Winchester gospels’ reminded me I’m just an outsider. A secondary character not worth mentioning. Expendable.”

“No, no, you’re not expendable,” he rushed to explain.

“I am. I obviously am. Look how easy it was to take me out of the story. It would be just as easy to take me out of their lives.” 

Hesitantly, his hands stretched across the table to cover yours. “You’re not expendable, okay? You are important to Sam and Dean. You are important.” It was really nice of him to try and comfort you, but you just needed a moment to really wallow in your own self-pity.

His hands retreated back to under the table. “Can I be honest with you about something?” he asked, looking more nervous than you’ve ever seen him. “Truth is, you were in my visions. I just took a little authorial freedom and kept you out of the books.”

“But why?”