Title: Objects in the Mirror
Genre: Gen, crossover
Characters: Dean(s), Sam, Olivia, Walter, Peter
Rating: PG
Words: 7600
Spoilers: Supernatural up to 6.1, Fringe mid-season 3
Summary: Sometimes the man in the mirror isn't the person you thought he was.
Disclaimer: I own neither Supernatural nor Fringe. Dammit.
A/N: Not sure what this is or where it came from, not sure it does what I want it to do, but at least I've written something!

This is my first foray into Fringe fic, so please be gentle - I'm not as well versed in the Fringe 'verse as the Supernatural 'verse, and I would say this is more of a Supernatural story set partly in the Fringe universe.

OBJECTS IN THE MIRROR

He first began to suspect something was wrong when he realized the reflection in the mirror wasn't his own.

Sure, the guy in the glass looked like him. Same hazel eyes, freckles, ridiculous eyelashes.

But there was just something off. Something different.

His hair was a little shorter. Almost military. And he had this look about him. Haunted. Broken.

Maybe it was the paleness of his complexion; the sadness in his too familiar eyes; the desperation in his fixed stare.

As if, when he looked at the man in the mirror, his reflection came up wanting.

Wanting what, Dean Winchester didn't know.

Was he even looking at him? Or when he looked into the mirror, did he see only himself?

The first time it had happened, he'd been washing his hands after spending some quality time with his baby. Motor oil was a bitch to get out from under his nails. The guys at the garage laughed at him, but he needed long nails for the guitar, right? Couldn't use a plectrum for crap.

So there he'd been, working his hands up into a good old lather when for some reason he'd looked up at his reflection.

And his reflection had looked back at him, frowning.

He'd swallowed hard, before snorting derisively. "You're being an asshat, Winchester," he'd told himself. "Imagining things that aren't there." He'd leaned on the sink and shaken his head.

His reflection, noticeably, had not.

Swallowing again, he'd carefully turned his head to the left, then the right.

The glass had appeared to ripple somehow, and then his reflection had copied him perfectly.

He'd laughed at himself, turning away from the mirror, drying his hands and exiting the bathroom without sparing his reflection a second glance.

When it happened the second time, it began to dawn on him that maybe he hadn't been seeing things on the previous occasion after all.

Gingerly, he'd raised his hand in a two-fingered salute, waving at himself in the mirror.

His reflection hadn't waved back, just blinked at him with those big, empty eyes.

And he'd turned tail and run, not stopping until he was out the front door and halfway up the garden path, where he'd nearly knocked Sam over in his haste to get away from the house.

From the mirror.

From the other Dean Winchester haunting it.

Sam had laughed, of course. Told him he was being irrational. Seeing things.

Damn straight he was seeing things. Problem was, he was pretty sure things were seeing him too.

Since then, every time he entered the bathroom his stomach tightened into a queasy knot, and he raised his eyes cautiously to the mirror, breath held until he was sure he was the Dean Winchester reflected in the glass.

Today had been no different.

There he was, his reflection smiling back at him, smear of ash painted across his left cheekbone.

"Okay, a little less tequila at Sid's next barbecue…" he'd murmured, rubbing tiredly at bleary eyes.

And when his reflection had opened his mouth as if to speak, the smear of ash unaccountably absent from his face, Dean had frozen.

There was no sound, no words, but his reflection's mouth was moving as if he was talking, his eyes desperate, brows drawn into a frown.

It was almost as if… he was trying to tell Dean something.

"I don't… I can't…" Dean stuttered, taking a step away from the glass.

His reflection became more agitated, leaning forward, his palms flat against the mirror, mouth opening and closing in a rapid succession of words that Dean tried to lip read but with little success.

Sam. Sammy. A stream of unintelligible yelling and then—

"Let me in, you sonofabitch!"

Dean wasn't sure whether he actually heard the words or he'd just imagined them in his head, as barely contained fury gathered in his counterpart's stormy gaze.

He'd lip read him. He'd lip read him and imagined his own voice saying the words. That was all.

"Let you in where?" he asked uncertainly, reaching out toward the glass.

Just as his reflection began slamming his palms against it.

The light above Dean's head guttered as sparks shot out of the strip light above the mirror and a crack suddenly fractured the glass from top to bottom.

His reflection drew back, bloody palms raised towards his eyes, as if to inspect the damage.

He was breathing hard, face pale and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, dark circles under wild, suddenly uncertain eyes.

Dean took a breath as his reflection seemed to calm, the sight of his own blood apparently grounding him, distracting him.

"Who—who are you?" Dean asked softly, tentatively, reaching out toward the glass, hesitating, before finally one finger grazed the smooth surface.

His reflection didn't move for what seemed an eternity, eyes slowly shifting to stare back out of the mirror, before, cautiously, he too raised a bloody finger to the glass, mouth opening uncertainly.

"…hear me?"

Dean fell backwards, his finger slipping from the mirror as his reflection became mute once more.

He heard that. He heard that, dammit!

He was going nuts, just like Sam had told him. Imagining things that weren't there.

Recovering himself, he blinked hard before taking a deep breath and raising a shaking hand, the mirror eerily cool beneath his fingertips.

"…what are you? Answer me¸ dammit!"

This time, he managed to maintain the connection, fingers pressed to the glass where bloody fingerprints smeared the other side of the surface.

"I—I can hear you!" he murmured in wonder, moving a little closer to the mirror. "I—I'm going crazy, right?"

His reflection paused, as if considering his reply. "You let me in there, dammit!" he growled. "Or you let Sammy out!"

"Sammy?" Dean echoed. "You mean—Sam?" He frowned minutely, shaking his head a little. "Hasn't let me call him 'Sammy' since he was eight, dude."

The other Dean's nostrils flared, mouth contracting into a tight, white line. "Is this how you get your kicks now, huh?" he demanded shortly, his voice sharp like broken glass. "This how you're torturing him? By pretending to be me?"

Dean blinked. "Torture?" he echoed. "Hey, man, I ain't torturing nobody." He felt his own ire rising in response to the accusation, before becoming suddenly aware of the ludicrousness of his situation. He laughed shortly, shaking his head at himself. "Oh my God, I'm defending myself to my own reflection," he told himself, the derisive snort sounding a little unhinged, even to his own ears.

His reflection wasn't laughing. "You think your bitchboy Hellspawn mindgames are gonna work on me too?" he demanded. "I don't know which one o' those assclowns you are—Lucifer or that sanctimonious bastard Michael—but you touch my brother I swear to God I will come down there, rip open that stupid cage and then there's gonna be some smitin' goin' on!"

Dean blinked at him. "Lucifer?" he echoed. "As in—the Lucifer? Like the Devil? Like Sunday School the Devil? Like—like Hell and—and…" he trailed off, not entirely sure whether he was hearing what he thought he was hearing. "…Brimstone?"

His reflection seemed to pause for a second, eyes narrowing into slits. "If you're not one o' those dumbass angel scumsucking douchebags, then who the hell are you?"

Dean blinked again. "Uh," he stammered, an unbecoming and wholly unmanly squeak in his voice. "Dean Winchester," he managed, somehow feeling like he ought to apologize for it.

His reflection paused once more, chin raised a little. "Prove it."

"How?"

"When were you born?"

"January 24th."

"Year?"

"Uh. 1979."

"Okay. Where?"

"Where what?"

"Where were you born, dumbass."

"Lawrence. That's—that's in Kansas."

His reflection again paused. "What are your parents' names?"

"John and Mary. Uh. Winchester."

"And your little brother?"

"Sam. We already—I mean—we already covered that, right?"

"Got any other sibs?"

"I—uh—no. Not that I know of."

The other Dean shifted awkwardly. "You know an Adam Milligan?"

Dean frowned. "I don't think so."

"And—and that house. You live there with Lisa?"

Dean glanced behind himself, into the bathroom reflected perfectly in the room beyond the other Dean. "Carmen," he murmured. Almost perfectly. The shower curtain was blue not white. The window was closed, while the one behind Dean was open. "I live here with Carmen."

The other Dean let go of the mirror momentarily, a stream of disbelief issuing from his mouth unheard.

Recovering himself, he put his fingers back to the mirror, his voice a little shaky when he asked, "A nurse?"

"Huh?"

"Your girl. Carmen. She a nurse?"

Dean nodded wordlessly, before adding, "She's gonna get me thrown into a rubber room at the hospital when she hears about this." He wiped his free hand across his mouth, the confusion in his counterpart's eyes disquieting. "How did you know that?"

His reflection shrugged uncomfortably. "I think I had a—a dream or—or a fantasy maybe where—where she and I…" he trailed off, wiping his own hand across his mouth in a disturbing imitation of Dean's previous action.

Dean frowned. "Who's Lisa?" he asked at length, the other Dean's attention returning sharply to the glass.

"She's…"

And it hit Dean like a kick to the shins. "The hot yoga instructor!" he burst out, causing a shocked frown to appear on the other Dean's face.

"How did…?"

"We bought this house from her!" Dean replied.

"You and Carmen?"

"Uh-huh. She was moving in with her boyfriend, I think."

"Boyfriend?"

"Her kid's dad. He's a—"

"Barback in a biker bar—"

"—construction worker."

"Huh?" other Dean barked.

" Huh?" Dean replied.

Other Dean shook his head. "Ben's dad. He—Lisa said he worked in a bar."

"I think he used to. Was trying to get his life together, or somethin'. Decided he wanted to be there for his kid. Be a dad."

His reflection nodded slowly, eyes becoming shiny and a mirthless smile creeping across his face. "Figures."

"We got the house for a steal."

Other Dean nodded. "Sure. Sure. You and Carmen."

"Me and Carmen."

A discreet rapping on the door behind him startled him, Carmen's low voice seeping through the plywood. "Honey, you okay?" she asked quietly. "You've been in there a while."

Dean glanced back at his reflection, who was unaccountably smirking. "Guy time," he said.

"Uh, guy time," Dean parroted, before rolling his eyes in exasperation. Why the hell had he said that?

He heard Carmen snort, before adding, "You need a hand? Or. Y'know. Something."

The other Dean was actually laughing at his discomfort. And it was the first time Dean could remember seeing a genuine smile on his face.

"Nah, I got this."

"I'll just bet you do," Carmen replied. "Okay, just don't stay in there all day or your face might freeze like that."

Dean grimaced. "That's real funny, babe. You're hilarious, you know that?"

"Can't believe you're with Carmen," his reflection muttered wistfully. "Carmen. Thought I invented her out of a beer commercial."

Dean blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

"Listen," the other Dean's expression sobered abruptly. "If you're living in Djinnsville over there—"

"Gin what?"

"—wherever 'there' might be—"

"I—"

"Then mom's alive with you, right?"

Dean frowned. "Huh?"

"Mom. She's okay, right?"

Dean nodded slowly. "Sure. Lives in our old house in Lawr—"

"And Dad?" Again, desperation flooded his duplicate's eyes, and it was almost as if he was willing Dean to give him the answer he wanted to hear.

"Ambered," he replied slowly, his gaze dropping. "He was—he was ambered. Couple of years ago."

Once again a frown darkened his reflection's face. "What the hell's 'ambered?'" he asked uncertainly.

Again, Dean blinked at him. "Where have you been living the last twenty years?" he asked. "Ambered. Y'know? Fringe Division. They show up when—when there's a soft spot and they seal it with amber and anyone trapped inside is…" he trailed off, realization slowly beginning to dawn on him as his reflection gazed at him uncomprehendingly. "That's what this is," he murmured softly, panic gradually beginning to rise in his chest. "Oh my God. That's what's happening here. It's a soft spot. You're—you're me! But the me from—from over there!"

"Over where?" his reflection demanded. "What the hell are you talking about, man?"

"Oh crap they're gonna—if they find out they'll—"

"Listen to me." His reflection's voice was commanding, brooking no argument. "You need to get Sam for me."

Dean sucked in a panicky breath. "I—I what?"

"You need to get me Sam. Now. I need—I need to see him."

There was something in his eyes, something dark, something broken. Something hurting.

"Please?" he added, his voice softer, lower, an edge of pleading threading through the command. "Please. I need—I need to see him. I need to see Sammy. Just to—to make sure he's okay, he's safe. If that's the Cage, if that's Lucifer's idea of Hell—my idea of Heaven—then…then…I have to get him out, get him back. I can't—I can't do this anymore. Not. Not by myself. Please. I just. I just need to see m'brother."

Dean didn't move, kept his fingers pressed to the glass despite the sudden terrifying certainty that somewhere in Fringe Division HQ a computer monitor was beeping and an incursion was already being reported.

They'd be here soon.

He and Carmen had to go.

But Dean… the other Dean…

"Please? Just five minutes."

"Don't you have—where's your Sam?" he asked tentatively.

His reflection rubbed a hand across his face and sighed. "Your Sam is my Sam," he asserted. "I'm sure of it! It's the Cage—it's Lucifer. He's messing with his head. My head. You're an illusion—"

"I'm not an illusion," Dean assured him sharply. "If anyone's an illusion, it's you."

His reflection didn't answer, eyes downcast, his bloody fingers trembling ever so slightly.

"There's no such thing as Hell," Dean continued, an air of certainty in his voice that he really didn't feel. "I'm not in Hell, Dean," he added. "I'm in Indiana. Cicero. Just—just a different Cicero to the one you're in."

Other Dean's lip curled into a sneer. "How they hell can we both be in Cicero?" he demanded. "In the same friggin' house—"

"I—I don't think we're in the same house, Dean," Dean replied. "Look. There are differences. My window's closed, yours is open—"

"Blue towels, not white," other Dean muttered. "But I don't—"

"Alternate universe," Dean explained. "The Secretary—Secretary General Bishop. He said you didn't know over there. About us. Not like we know about you."

"Alternate…?"

"Two universes, co-existing side by side for hundreds, thousands of years," Dean explained. "Until—until someone from your side came over to our side and—and took someone. Took someone from here over to where you are. From then on, the two universes have been colliding. Our universe is being destroyed by yours. The amber. The amber seals the cracks. Cracks and soft spots and—and the whole world is going to hell. Figuratively, not literally. I think."

His reflection snorted. "Kinda sounds like an Apocalypse to me."

"The Secretary says we're at war. He says we have to destroy your world before you destroy ours."

Other Dean bit his lip. "And Sammy?"

Dean didn't understand. "Sam? What about him?"

"He's okay, right? Over there. Sam's okay?"

Dean paused for a second. "Yeah. He's fine."

Other Dean's palms were suddenly once again splayed against the glass, blood smeared across the surface. "I gotta see him. Please. You gotta let me see him." He swallowed hard. "One time—one of the first times I realized the mirror—that I… I saw him. I saw Sam. I saw Sam in the mirror, not me, and I knew, I knew it was Hell. I was looking into Hell. Somehow. And Sammy. Sammy was right there, like I could reach out and touch him, grab him, pull him out, pull him here. I need to get him out. I need to—"

"What—what happened to your Sam?" Dean interrupted, steeling himself for the answer he was pretty sure was coming.

His reflection's jaw tightened. "He died."

"And you think he's in Hell? Did he do something bad?"

"No!" His reflection shook his head shortly. "No. He—he did something good. He saved the world, man. He saved the world. And I promised. I promised him I wouldn't try to get him out, but one morning I looked into the mirror, and there he was, and I gotta get him out, man! He saved the world. Now I need to save him."

"You didn't—I don't think you saw Sammy," Dean explained slowly. "You saw Sam. My Sam."

His reflection's Adam's apple bobbed. "But he—"

"Sam's a lawyer," Dean continued right over the top of him. "Works at a practice in San Francisco. Couple weeks ago he was visiting. He and Jess and Mom and—"

"Jess?" other Dean seized on the word. "He's with Jess? Jess is okay too?" He closed his eyes, took a slow breath. "'Course she is. She was there. In Djinnville…"

"Dean?"

"They're okay. They're okay over there."

"Dean."

Other Dean's attention returned to the mirror, palms once against pressed against the glass. "Please—Dean," he said softly, almost stumbling over the name. "I need to see Sam."

Dean glanced over his shoulder. No one was kicking down the door. No one was ambering his house.

"I just need to see Sam."

Dean nodded. "I'll call him."

"This is crazy," Sam said, sitting on the edge of Dean's couch with his ridiculously long legs splayed out in front of him, Jess's arm linked through his. "Dean, let me get this straight. You want me to go upstairs to your bathroom, look into your mirror and talk to another version of you who you think is from the alternate universe, but who thinks I'm his brother who's stuck in Hell with Lucifer and the Archangel Michael. That about sum it up?"

Dean nodded, smiling apologetically. "Yep. That about sums it up."

Sam shook his head before running his fingers through his short hair. "Can't believe I flew two thousand miles for this."

"Sam, just let me explain—"

"Like you explained when you stole my ATM card?" Sam snapped, looking up sharply. "When you ran off with my prom date? Stole Mom's best silver to pay off a gambling debt?"

"Sam," Jess chimed in quietly. "Just give him a chance."

"I'm tired of giving him chances, Jess," Sam responded shortly. "I'm tired of his crazy stunts." He turned his attention back to his big brother and narrowed his eyes. "It's about time he learned how to be a grown-up."

Dean swallowed.

"Sam, that's not fair—" Carmen began to remonstrate, before Dean put a hand on her knee and squeezed gently.

"It's okay, babe," he told her softly. "He's right. Sam, you're right. I've done some crazy stuff in the past. But I swear to God, I'm not making this up."

Sam nodded. "You wanna end up in amber? Like Dad?"

"Sam—"

"He did a lot of crazy stuff too, Dean."

"I know that, Sam—"

"You said it was an emergency."

"It is an emergency!"

"Sure, when Fringe Division comes kicking down your door. You know what'll happen if this gets out, Dean? That you're talking to someone from Over There in your bathroom mirror?"

"Look, Sam," Dean laid a hand on Sam's wrist, holding on firmly. His brother stilled for a moment, sighing heavily before meeting his gaze. "Just come upstairs and take a look," Dean pleaded. "Five minutes. I swear. Nothin' happens, we'll go get a beer and laugh about this."

Sam shook his head. "When was the last time we went to get a beer together, Dean? My sixteenth birthday?"

Dean smirked slyly. "Man, those were some awesome fake IDs!" He sobered immediately at the disapproving looked Carmen shot in his direction.

"My point is, Dean, I never wanted to go get a beer with you that night! You made me do it! Like you always made me do stuff that got me into trouble! Dad grounded us for a month! I missed my soccer championships! Sarah Breckman ditched me! I even missed the end of year dance!"

"Life's hard when you're sixteen," Dean returned, sighing.

"And it's like it doesn't even matter to you!"

"Of course it matters, Sam," Dean insisted. "And I'm sorry it's all the crap stuff about our childhood that sticks in your memory. But I swear to you, Sam, on Dad's life, this is not some crazy stunt I'm pulling just to annoy you. Okay? This guy really needs to see you're not his brother. Otherwise I'm never getting him out of my mirror and my house'll end up ambered forever. Possibly with me inside it."

Sam sighed again.

"So are you gonna help me out or what? Just this once? Please, Sam."

Sam rubbed at his temples and squeezed his eyes tightly closed. "I'm so going to regret this, aren't I?"

"Here, just stand right there."

Dean positioned his brother in front of the mirror, standing on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder as he clapped his upper arms.

"Perfect."

"Dean?" Carmen questioned from outside in the hallway, Jessica standing just behind her. "Five minutes, right?"

Dean nodded dismissively. "Sure, babe," he agreed. "Five minutes."

Carmen folded her arms across her chest, one eyebrow raised. "You're a crappy liar."

Dean grinned brightly at her. "That's why you love me."

"Who said anything about loving you?" Carmen returned. "I'm just in it for the free car repairs, honey."

"Sure, sure," Dean agreed. "Best rates in town. Now get lost will ya? I'm busy here."

"And bossy," Carmen agreed.

"And short," Sam added.

Dean elbowed him between his shoulder blades. "No one was talkin' to you, Stretch," he replied.

Carmen shook her head. "Okay, okay, we know when we're not wanted. C'mon, Jess, maybe we ought to go braid our hair or bake a cake or something."

"Cake sounds good," Dean agreed. "Or pie!" he added as an afterthought, watching the women retreat down the hallway before turning his attention back to his brother and the mirror in front of him.

"In your dreams, hon," he heard Carmen retort as she headed for the stairs.

"Yeah, she's a pistol," he commented, immediately sobering when he met the impatient glare his brother was shooting at him through the mirror. "Okay, okay," he said. "Hold on to your pantyhose, Matilda."

"Dean."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, reaching his finger out toward the mirror. "Okay. This is where it gets kinda weird."

Steeling himself, he scrunched closed the eye nearest to the mirror, before gingerly touching the glass.

Sam sighed.

Dean opened his eye.

Sam was still glaring at him out of the mirror.

"Any time now, Dean."

"Just… just wait," Dean informed him. "This ain't exactly like video conferencing y'know—"

"Sammy?"

Dean's attention snapped back to the mirror, where his own face—or one very like it—had appeared in the glass, palm, now wrapped in bandages, splayed out on the surface.

He looked more hopeful, more animated than he had the last time Dean had seen him, a noticeable brightness in his eyes and squareness to his shoulders that hadn't been there previously.

"Sammy?" he repeated tentatively. "That you?"

Sam swallowed, eyes briefly flickering to his brother. "This is—"

"Weird?" Dean supplied. "Tell me about it." He turned his attention to his reflection, smiling lopsidedly at him before adding awkwardly, "So this is Sam."

His reflection didn't even spare him a second glance, and Dean swore he could see his counterpart's hitched breath misting up his side of the mirror.

"Er…" Sam managed. "I… Hey. I'm, uh, Sam, and I guess you must be—"

"Sammy," other Dean repeated. "It's you, right? Somehow? You're talking to me from the Cage?" His voice sounded full of hope, his eyes wide and shining.

Sam glanced at his brother before looking back to the stranger in the mirror. "I'm in Cicero," he supplied helpfully. "In my brother's bathroom."

"Told ya," Dean interjected. "Dude, this is my brother. My Sam." He sighed, averting his eyes a little. "I'm sorry, man. I don't know where you're Sam's at."

His reflection continued to lean his palm against the glass, gaze still pinned to Dean's brother.

"I'm sorry," Dean repeated, for want of anything else to say.

His reflection slumped dejectedly, leaning his forehead against the mirror, shoulders sagging and eyes downcast, all the life once again drained from his frame. "I was so sure…" he murmured disconsolately. "I thought if anyone could find a way to get a message outta Hell it'd be Sammy."

Sam frowned, glancing sideways at his brother. "You told him about the parallel universes, right?" he queried. "That if he keeps contacting you he's going to get you ambered?"

Dean's reflection looked up sharply, and Dean shrugged apologetically at him.

"Like—like your dad?" the other Dean said quietly. "That could happen to you?"

"Whenever there's an incursion from your world into ours," Dean confirmed. "I told you that."

Other Dean's eyes stuttered from Dean to Sam, lingering on the younger Winchester a little longer. "I could get you killed?"

"You could get us all killed!" Sam insisted stepping a little closer to the mirror. "Look, I'm not your brother, so you've got to stop doing this otherwise you—"

Dean wasn't entirely sure what happened next. One minute Sam was standing there, arms folded firmly across his chest, the next minute a very solid hand shot straight out of the mirror, fingers wrapping themselves around Sam's wrist and pulling. Hard.

Sam yelped in surprise, the other Dean's obviously firm and very determined grip dragging him forward a couple of steps.

"Hey!" Dean protested, grabbing Sam's arm and attempting to wrench it out of the spectral other Dean's tightening fist. "Let him go, man! Right now!"

There was desperation in mirror Dean's eyes, his other arm coming through the glass and wrapping strong fingers around Sam's wrist. "Please, Sammy!" he insisted. "You gotta come with me! It's not real! None of it's real! You're in Hell man, and I gotta get you outta there!"

Sam shook his head, attempting to pull further away, his and Dean's efforts only succeeding in pulling the other Dean even further through the mirror, his shoulders and head finally following his arms into their universe.

"This can't be happening," Sam insisted with wide eyes. "It's not possible! I thought only those kids the alternate Dr. Bishop experimented with on their side could do this?"

Dean froze. "Are you one of them?" he asked his reflection incredulously. "Are you one of his Cortexiphan kids?"

The other Dean blinked at him as if he didn't have a clue what he was talking about. His entire torso was protruding from the mirror now, his midsection eerily appearing to emanate from Dean's bathroom sink.

"Cortexiwhatnow?"

Suddenly a siren sounded loud from somewhere outside on the street, quickly followed by Carmen's panicked voice and the sound of her feet thundering up the stairs.

"Dean! They're here!"

Dean glanced at his brother, just as a piercing whistle of feedback shook the window and a man's voice, greatly magnified through a bullhorn, helpfully informed them, "This is Agent Francis, Fringe Division. Please evacuate this area immediately. Repeat, please evacuate this area immediately. An incursion has been detected in this vicinity and corrective measures must be taken. Repeat, please evacuate this area immediately…"

"Aw crap," Dean muttered.

His reflection paused, fingers still wrapped around Sam's wrist.

"Dean, we have to go!" Carmen threw open the bathroom door so hard it crashed against the wall. "They're here! Dean, they're here with the amber!" She stopped stock still when she saw the other Dean protruding out of the mirror, her mouth falling open slightly.

Dean spared her only the briefest of glances, immediately shifting his attention back to his reflection. "Listen to me, Dean," he said slowly, his voice as calm and even as he could make it. "This isn't your Sam. Trust me. This isn't Hell. I'm not Lucifer trying to mess with your head. This is just another version of the place you live, only my brother's here, he's standing next to me, and if you don't let him go, you're gonna get him ambered. You want that? Huh?" He put a gentle hand on top of the one other Dean had on his brother's wrist, almost surprised to discover the world didn't explode when the two of them connected physically.

His reflection paused, breathing hard, eyes shiny with unshed tears. "I was so sure," he said in a small voice. "That—that this was how I was gonna get him out."

"Please, Dean," Dean said, carefully disengaging his alter ego's fingers from Sam's wrist. "You have to let him go. You have to let Sam go."

The other Dean looked up at him, an almost unbearable mixture of pain and despair etched into his features. He took a shuddering breath before murmuring, "I can't."

"You have two minutes to evacuate the area," the Fringe agent's booming voice informed them. "All residents remaining within the cordon do so at their own risk."

"Dean!" Carmen begged. "Please!"

"Dean," Sam interjected, clearing his throat. "Look at me."

Dean's reflection hesitated for a moment.

"Look at me," Sam repeated, his voice more command than request, and Dean wondered if this was how he sounded cross examining some scumbag on the stand.

Dean's reflection looked at him.

Sam nodded, satisfied. "Look me in the eye and tell me honestly whether you really believe deep down I'm your brother."

The other Dean's gaze lingered on him only briefly before his eyes were averted, one hand disengaging itself from Sam's wrist in order to wipe clumsily across his face. "It's—I can't—"

"Dean, please," Dean said quietly. "I wish I could help you save your Sammy. But right now, you gotta help me save my Sam. If you don't let him go, we're all gonna die here."

Dean's reflection looked up at him, blinked a couple of times before nodding. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I never meant—"

"This is your final warning," Agent Francis interjected. "All residents must evacuate this area immediately—"

"Dean," Dean said. "Just let Sam go."

His reflection looked up at him and nodded, casting one last lingering look in his brother's direction before finally releasing his grip. "Bye Sammy."

Dean sat disconsolately on Lisa's couch, a full bottle of beer going warm between his fingers.

He'd gotten his drinking under control a little better these last few months, but sometimes, on days like this, it was so damn hard.

He didn't know what had happened to the Dean and Sam he'd seen in Lisa's mirror. Didn't know whether they got out before their entire block was mysteriously "ambered." Whether he'd gotten them killed. Gotten their house destroyed.

He'd just let go, like the other Dean had told him to.

Let go of Sam.

Like Sam had told him to.

His head told him it wasn't his Sam. Wasn't the Sam stuck in Lucifer's cage, suffering.

But his heart…

His heart saw his brother's feline eyes, his lanky frame, and it didn't matter that his hair was shorter or his face was a little fatter, because his memory just filled in all the parts that were wrong: the shaggy mane; the blinding smile; the heart big enough to save the whole world.

But he'd let him go.

A polite rapping on the front door startled him more than it should have, and he glanced up, for a moment unable to figure out why he was alone in the house.

Lisa had taken Ben to the mall. Oh yeah. She'd told him as they left. Asked if he wanted to go.

He wasn't even sure he'd acknowledged her presence.

Sucking in a sharp breath, he approached the door in four long strides, pulling it open to a hot blonde chick, an oddly familiar-looking guy in a dark overcoat, and an older guy who looked like he might have just stepped out of an insane asylum.

"Olivia Dunham," the hot blonde chick told him, flipping open an FBI ID in a way oddly reminiscent of the many times he'd introduced himself in the same way. "FBI. These are my associates, Peter and Walter Bishop."

The younger guy nodded but didn't say anything, and the older guy just smiled at him like he knew something Dean didn't.

"Can we come in?" the Fed prompted.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, almost expecting someone to be standing there. "Uh," he mumbled. "What's this about?"

The Fed—Dunham—inclined her head slightly, gesturing toward Lisa's living room. "If we could just come in, sir."

Her voice was low and measured, but there was no mistaking the fact that this wasn't a request.

Dean took a breath before throwing open the door. "Come on in," he told them, turning back toward the living room and the couch.

The younger guy was raking his gaze over every inch of the room in a way that was so subtle most people wouldn't have noticed.

Dean wasn't most people.

Dean sat himself down on the couch, gesturing that his guests should make themselves comfortable.

Dunham sat, as did the older guy, but the younger one turned away, started wandering around the room as if he owned the place.

"So," Dunham said. "You're clearly not the householder, Miss Braeden."

"Lisa," Dean supplied. "My—" He paused. Girlfriend? Partner? Friend? "Girlfriend," he decided was the simplest answer.

"And you are?"

Dean blinked. "Campbell," he replied shortly. "Dean Campbell."

Dunham nodded pleasantly, smile never slipping from her face. "It's funny, Mr. Campbell," she said, "but you bear a quite uncanny resemblance to a man who was one of the FBI's most wanted a couple years ago. Supposedly died when a police station exploded. You know anything about that? His name was Dean Winchester."

Dean did his best not to react to the sound of his own name. "No, ma'am," he said shortly. "Don't recognize the name."

Dunham nodded again. "Alright then, Mr. Campbell," she continued. "We're looking into a—uh—disturbance that occurred in the area at about 3.30pm this afternoon."

Dean blinked at her. "What kind of disturbance?"

"A tremor in the Force," the younger guy—Bishop?—put in from his current location over by the fireplace. He took a couple of short steps towards Dean, his face sobering. "C'mon, man," he said, he tone suddenly steely. "You know what kind of disturbance."

Dean shook his head, the picture of innocence, and not for the first time he wished Sam had taught him how to do the puppy dog eye thing. "I really don't."

"You lived in Florida for a while as a child, didn't you?" the older guy suddenly put in.

Dean frowned at the abrupt non-sequitur. "I lived in a lot of places," he hedged. "My dad—"

"Hunted monsters for a living."

Dean couldn't quite avoid his mouth hanging open for a little longer than it should have.

The older guy—also Bishop?—was grinning inanely at him.

"I don't know what—"

"Oh don't worry," the older Bishop assured him almost gleefully. "I never told anyone." He glanced sideways at Dunham, a shadow passing suddenly across his face. "You—you won't tell anyone will you, Olivia?"

The Fed's lips turned up into what Dean believed to be a genuinely affectionate smile. "No, Walter," she assured him. "We're not here to get Mr. Winches—Mr. Campbell into trouble. We just want to get to the truth."

She turned her smile in Dean's direction, and he was pretty sure right then he'd have told her his whole life story if she'd asked.

"What truth?" he asked instead. "I don't—"

"Don't know what we're talking about, yeah, yeah, we get that," the younger Bishop interjected. "Listen, we know what you've been doing, Dean," he added. "We're just not sure how."

"How old were you when you lived in Florida?" the older Bishop—Walter—interjected.

Dean shrugged. "I dunno. We lived there a couple of times—"

"You were six," Walter supplied brightly. "1985."

"How…?" Dean stuttered. "How did you…?"

"I was running some tests," Walter explained. "You father…well let's just say we had some acquaintances in common. He was worried about you and your…let me see…I want to say 'brother?' Younger brother, yes? He was worried about you. Said you were having nightmares, and your brother... Well. Perhaps better not to go into that."

Dean frowned at him. "What do you know about my brother?"

Walter shrugged. "He was too young to participate in my trials, but you weren't." He reached out a hand and patted Dean on the knee, which instantly had Dean reaching for the non-existent Colt that was no longer permanently nestled against the small of his back.

"What did you…?"

"It was a drug trial," Walter moved swiftly on. "A drug called—"

"Cortexiphan?" Dean hazarded.

Walter fairly beamed. "I see you've done your homework, my boy! Well done!"

Dean shrugged. "Someone mentioned it to me earlier."

"When you crossed into the other universe?" Dunham asked calmly.

Dean froze. "I don't know what—"

"I can do it too," the Fed continued. "Although it took me a lot longer to figure it out than you, apparently."

Dean opened and closed his mouth a couple of times like a stunned goldfish.

"Emotional stressors," Walter interjected. "I don't think he actually meant to do it."

"Plus there's a soft spot right through the middle of this house," the younger Bishop pointed out.

"Who was it you were looking for on the other side?" Walter asked, his voice turning suddenly wistful. "Father? Mother? She died rather horribly if I recall. Or your brother? Your father's concerns about him—"

"What 'concerns?'" Dean demanded.

Walter shrugged. "Anyway," he said, apparently deciding that would be enough to change the subject. "Although you weren't in my Cortexiphan trials for very long, you do still seem to have some lingering latent abilities."

"Let me get this straight," Dean put in. "My dad let you use me in a drug trial when I was six years old?"

Walter nodded. "Oh yes."

Dunham smiled awkwardly. "I'm sure he had his reasons," she said smoothly.

"Oh, he did," Walter agreed. "Said you hardly spoke, didn't socialize. A couple of your teachers wondered whether you were borderline autistic—"

"That's bull," Dean informed him.

"Oh, it's true, I can assure you, young man," Walter replied. "The problem was, your—um—anxieties as a child, the behavior your father hoped my trial might overcome, only seemed to be exacerbated by the Cortexiphan."

"What anxieties?" Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Walter blinked at him. "You saw monsters everywhere," he explained shortly. "Not surprising, considering your father's occupation—"

"My dad was a—"

"Monster hunter, yes, we understand that," Walter continued. "He said you had nightmares and had trouble sleeping, but the Cortexiphan, oddly, seemed to make this worse, up to the point where you seemed to be having nightmares while you were awake."

Dean frowned at him.

"You said you could see monsters in every room," Walter explained. "And that you believed they wanted to take your brother from you."

Dean shuddered.

"So I had to discontinue your involvement in the trials, stop giving you the Cortexiphan."

"You may have been seeing glimpses of the other universe," Dunham explained in that soft, sympathetic tone of hers. "To a child, anything that can't be explained, anything that's frightening, might be described as a 'monster.'"

Dean took a short breath. "Suppose I believe any of this," he said slowly. "You gonna lock me up now?"

"For what?" Walter asked shortly.

Dean blinked at him. "They said… they talked about 'amber' and people from something called 'Fringe Division' coming for them because—because of what I—"

"That's over there," Dunham assured him. "Not over here. We just wanted to check what had happened. Whether anyone was hurt." She glanced briefly at the younger Bishop, who was hovering behind her. "Whether anyone came over from their side."

Dean frowned and shook his head. "No," he said shortly. "No one…no one came over."

The silence that followed was punctuated by the sound of Peter Bishop drumming his fingers on the back of Dunham's chair.

"How did you get across?" Dunham asked quietly.

Dean sighed, averting his gaze to the window. "I saw… I saw my brother in my girlfriend's bathroom mirror," he admitted at length. "He—he, um, he died. A few months ago. I just. I just thought—"

"You were seeing Heaven?" Walter suggested.

Dean considered him for a long moment without replying. "It was him," he explained at last. "I—I ended up talking to—to another me. And I—"

"Did you just see into the other universe?" Peter asked. "Or did you actually go there?"

Dean paused again. He wasn't sure why he spilling his guts to these people.

"Sometimes it just helps to talk about your experience," Dunham told him softly, almost as if she understood.

"I could see them through the mirror," Dean said. "And then I—I just—I wanted to bring Sam back so I—"

"You went through to get him." Walter's expression was suddenly absolutely serious, all traces of whimsy completely obliterated from his genial face.

Dean nodded, just once. "I don't know how. One minute I was here. The next I had a hold of him."

"But you let him go?" Peter's voice cracked a little on the final word.

"Yeah," Dean admitted. "It wasn't him. I know it wasn't him. It just…he just looked so much like Sammy."

Dunham nodded, eyes flooded with what Dean could only conclude was genuine sympathy. "If the house you went into has been encased in amber," she explained slowly, "the soft spot you used to get through will be sealed forever. You understand? You won't be able to get back."

Dean nodded his understanding. "I know," he said slowly. "And I—I don't want to go back there. It wasn't my brother I was seeing. I know that now."

Dunham smiled briefly at him, before withdrawing a business card from her pocket and pressing it into his hand. "If anything else—if you see anything else," she said, "or if anyone from their side tries to contact you, call me. Night or day. Or if you just want to talk about it."

Dean returned her gentle smile with a half-hearted one of his own. "Thanks," he said. "I think I'd rather forget it ever happened."

Dunham nodded again, before rising to her feet. "Call if you need anything."

"I will," Dean assured her, and he might even have been telling the truth. Couldn't hurt to have a friendly in the FBI.

She took his hand, held it for a second, before making her way out into the hall, closely followed by Peter, who just gave him an odd look, but made no further comment.

Walter followed in their wake, pausing as the Fed and the younger man exited the house, before turning back to Dean and putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I know how hard it is," he said softly, ducking his head a little. "Losing someone. Wanting to save them. You may think you can replace them, you may think you've succeeded, but there are always consequences. No matter how much you love them and no matter how hard you try."

Dean wasn't sure whether the cranky old guy was speaking from experience.

"Wherever you believe your brother to be," Walter added, "Someday, you're going to have to let him go."

Dean nodded, remembering his own mirror image's words on the other side.

"It's not easy," Walter continued, "and I'm not sure I should be lecturing you on these things. I'd just hate to see you make the same mistakes I did." His eyes drifted out onto the front lawn, to where Dunham and the younger Bishop were heading for their car. "Sometimes, I think perhaps what's dead should stay dead."

Dean swallowed.

"And then other times," Walter continued, "I think that's just hogwash and you should do everything you can to save your loved ones." He squeezed Dean's shoulder gently. "Whatever you choose," he said, "I'm sure your brother would understand."

Dean nodded. "He told me to let him go," he said softly.

"And is that what you want?"

Dean just looked up at him.

Walter nodded. "Be careful, my boy," he said with a wan smile. "Sometimes poking holes into places where you're not supposed to be isn't always the soundest plan. But then, who am I to judge?"

He once again patted Dean's shoulder before making to leave.

"Thanks," Dean said to his retreating back.

Walter turned and smiled again. "I hope you find him."

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he agreed softly. "Me too."

THE END

Ta for reading!