Author's Note: Hi! It's been a while. After months of fighting off the Zombie Apocalypse (that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it), I am taking a break and getting my mojo going with a bit of fiction. The teaser is short, but hopefully the story has some twists and turns for you in upcoming chapters. I promise everything will be answered by the end, cause I like making you wonder, but not leaving you hanging. Enjoy.

NOW... Jasper, Tennessee

"All my friends are skeletons."

As the strange voice zipped through his mind, Dean puzzled over which nightmarish part of his past warped that phrase into existence. Honestly, given the volume of evil in his past, it could have been his own morbid imagination. He might have called himself a sicko, but he sure wasn't depraved enough to talk to himself. Well, not yet. He never counted any possibility out at this point. Moreover, the idea of waking Sam and explaining why he was talking to himself sparked more disturbing notions.

Simply, he shifted and nestled against whatever pointy, broken mattress spring chose to poke him now. Pressure point after stinging pressure point jabbed into him as his mind rumbled with a thousand disconnected thoughts, stealing sleep and patience. His brain began to take over, filling with hundreds of what if, what was, and what could be until he growled at his own overactive mind. As the hour approached midnight, he fantasized that he could rip the grey matter from his skull, stick it in some jar, and be brain dead- at least until sunrise. Since a lobotomy was out of the question, he rumbled over horror movie trivia and even debated which Zombie movie displayed the most goodies of the hottest chicks.

"All my friends are skeletons."

Damn he hated nights like this. Vaguely, he remembered he use to thrill at the thought that night had finally come. Night meant hunting with Dads, teaching Sam, chasing chicks, driving back roads- saving peoples, hunting things. The switch happened subtly without a clear line of when. Maybe the night Sam died, the night he died, the day he came back from Hell, the day he thought Sam and he would never ride the roads again. Not that any of the reasons mattered; he would always hate night until the day he died, if no heavenly, brotherly, or hellishly interventions brought him back-- again.

"All my friends are skeletons!" A deep growl danced over the words, springing into a melody, an odd mixture of grumble and childlike discovery.

A faint snapping sound- dim and subtle popped within earshot. One by one, more sounds of breaking twigs sounded growing louder as if bones were cracking within the room.

Dean, jumping to attention, crashed from the motel bed as he peered into the darkness. Enough was enough. Not a thing was out of place- no sight, sound, or smell.

"You're nuts, Dean." Rubbing at the dryness in his eyes with both hands, the dry lids stuck to the desert orbs. He blinked a few times and dropped his hand to rub the bristle scratching at his cheek. "- and you're talking to yourself. Just bonkers."

He threw back his covers, dangled his legs over the mattress, and assessed the room with trained scrutiny. After nothing emerged from the darkness, he sneaked out of his bed to check all the precautions- salted windows, hoodoo, talismans, and charms. All of which Sam had uber justified each time they rested. As much as Dean protested the almost daily ritual of protections, Dean had to admit he felt safer with knowing Sam was on his side. Whatever mistakes had been made, that mattered more than any apocalypse.

Finally convinced that he had grown too paranoid and too burdened by angels, demons, Lucifer, God, and prophecy, Dean shuffled back across the threadbare carpet, actually relishing the idea of resting on the lumpy mattress. Before he risked the metallic punctures again, Dean wadded his sheets and blanket into a ball, nudging it under his head as he cannonballed on the bed with a thunderous whoop.

Cautiously, he stared at Sam, and with relief, he found the noise hadn't disturbed snoring ugly at all. With a chuckle, he laughed at his own lame joke and knew he would find a time to call Sam that in the future. He closed his eyes, taking in the darkness. When his lips parted, sneaking in a cool breath, he drifted back to the land between sleep and awareness, mingling for a moment on the precipice.

"All my friends are skeletons." The voice sang to him, almost deafening.

Instantly, Dean's ears rang, the words ricocheting inside his head like loose change in the dryer. The air thickened and heated, clogging solid in his throat and slamming his ability to breathe shut; however he felt the a distinct cool breath tingle across his neck. He desperately wanted to turn his head, face down an opponent, but nothing was there.

In the pitch black, Dean's struggle for air gnawed at him, attacking him with vertigo as he lost not only recognition but also control over his own body.

"All my friends are skeletons."

As the last note finished, Dean's legs moved, disjointed a first, but moving towards the motel door as the voice grew louder, waiting for him outside the door. Despite knowing this, he drew closer with each unwilling step. He didn't need to see it. He knew something was there calling him- luring him. The presence already sparked movement in his bones, breathed foul coolness on his skin, and sang disturbing songs in his ear without touching him. It had control.

"Let me in. Let me in. All my friends are skeletons." The song, as gleeful as playground kids singing Ring around the Rosie, repeated until the sound spilled maddeningly fast.

No matter how Dean wanted to fight or just to scream for Sam, he found his body moved only to the voice just beyond the safety of his door.