Work Text:
It is late evening and the sun is starting to set. The shadows of the buildings begin to lengthen and Dean Winchester takes a quick look around his surroundings to make sure that he is alone. He draws himself close to the flimsy wooden panels which have been put up to block people from entering this abandoned subway station - 91st Street. He does not seem to be in anyone's sight, so Dean proceeds to pull the crowbar out of his haversack. While he still has some light, he takes out a camera attachment for low light conditions, uncaps his camera lens, then pushes it onto the lens.
After a final glance, he jams the crowbar into the gap between the panel and the pillar framing the entrance of the station. He pushes against the crowbar and the panel gives way easily which Dean figures makes sense as the station has been disused for quite some time. He goes on to tear enough panels out just so he can slip through the gap and into the darkness below. As he takes his first steps down the stairs, Dean turns on the flashlight he has attached to his belt and unclips it. He points it to the stairs and makes his way down, careful not to miss a step lest he injures himself.
Ah, the perils he puts himself through for work.
Dean is a photojournalist, having just graduated from college as an adult student a year ago. He now works at the New York Times where he is teamed up with a team of journalists - they write, he shoots. Just last week, however, he managed to pitch an idea to his boss. This time, he would be the one both writing the article and shooting the photos. It is an article about the abandoned subway stations of New York City so Dean has been going to various abandoned stations to grab some photos before he dives into the research.
He reaches the bottom of the steps and scans the dark platform ahead of him with the flashlight. It looks similar to many of the other stations he has been to: dark; graffiti on walls; abandoned shopping carts and disposed cans, probably remnants of the homeless squatting in the station to escape the cold. Nevertheless, he made it all the way here, so Dean takes a few photos of the platform. The station is silent save for the clicking of his camera and his footsteps as he moves around the perimeter of the platform.
Thud.
Dean hears a muffled sound - something akin to a belt hitting a thick blanket. He feels his guts twist and he whips his body around to the direction of the sound which seems to be coming from near the tracks. He frantically aims the flashlight around, hoping to catch the source of the sound. Nothing. He sees nothing. Probably just a rat falling off the platform and onto the tracks. He then realises that he has been holding his breath and he releases it shakily. He lets out a quiet chuckle as it strikes him how instinctively he reacted to the sound and how his mind brought it back to -
"Never mind that", he tells himself. He shrugs and takes some photos of the track, which he was about to anyway if not for the sound. After that, he takes a final glance around the station and decides that he is done with this station. He hurries towards the stream of dying light flooding down the entrance, out of the dark, and back to his apartment.
*
Dean plugs his camera into his laptop and sets his device up to transfer the photos over. He needs to look through his collection and filter out the photos he wants to use for his article. While the transfer is happening, he heads to his fridge and takes from the fridge some of the pizza he has leftover from dinner yesterday. He settles down in front of his laptop and starts looking through some of the photos which have already made their way over. Since the ones from 91st Street are the latest, they were transferred first.
He flits through the photos, pushing on the right arrow on his keyboard as he absent-mindedly crams the cold pizza into his mouth. He sees some photos of the tracks which he could use and then stops. One of them has what looks like a lens smudge; just a flit of greyish white in the dark corner of the tracks. He toggles with his arrows to the other photos of the track and sees no such smudge. Dean shrugs and drags the file of the photo to the recycle bin. It was probably a bug flying across the lens at the exact moment he activated the flash. In any case, the photo is not going to be useful.
An alert pops up telling Dean that the file transfer is complete. Dean looks at the number of photos: there are 300 of them. He rolls his eyes and lets out a groan - it is going to take forever to sort through the photos. He stares at the folder, stares out the window, then stares at his phone. Maybe now is a good time to ask Sam if he is free for dinner; it has been a while since Sam is so caught up with his work at the law firm these days. He grabs his phone and sends a text.
Hey, free for dinner?
Barely five seconds have passed before Dean gets a reply.
Yea sure. The usual?
The usual. See you, bitch.
Late one pays, jerk.
Dean smirks. Time to call it a day. He switches his laptop off, grabs his jacket, and heads out the door to meet Sam.
*
Dean wakes up the next morning and drags himself out of bed unwillingly. Dinner with Sam yesterday was a good break from work and he was, for one, glad to see his brother again. Despite living in the same city, they are both so busy with their respective work schedules that it was a miracle Dean managed to snag Sam for an impromptu meal at all. He heads to the kitchen to make some coffee and muses over how far they have come: two brothers with no mother and a largely absent father who was always shuttling them from small town to small town, now living in relative comfort in one of the liveliest cities in the world.
They have done well against the odds.
Once again, he switches his laptop on, navigates to the folder and starts organising his photos into separate categories so he can begin to generate some concepts for his piece. He sorts them by station first, starting with his earliest photos taken last week at Rivermouth. When he reaches 91st Street, Dean sees something odd. He sees the smudgy photo again and he swears upon the existence of apple pie that he put the file in the recycle bin yesterday before dinner. He opens the photo and stares at the smudge - it is still there and if anything, the smudge seems to have grown even larger. Dean considers this, grimaces, and closes the file. He begins to drag the photo into the recycle bin and stops to take his phone out.
He opens the camera app and switches it to video mode. With one hand holding his phone, he records him dragging the file into the recycle bin, right-clicking on the bin icon, then selecting "Empty Recycle Bin". There. The deed is done. He reviews the video and puts his phone aside. He has work to do and he takes a long draught from his mug of coffee. Soon enough, Dean realises that his stomach is grumbling and he looks to the corner of his screen. The deli downstairs it is.
When he returns from lunch, he starts his computer up again and returns to his folders. He feels this urge to check the 91st Street folder and he does so. What he sees alarms him. The file is back. Maybe he has a virus in his computer somehow? If that is so, it is slightly alarming and he needs to figure out a way to make sure his other photos are safe.
He reaches for his phone and sends Charlie Bradbury a text - she is a roommate from back in college and she was a computing major, which Dean realises as he is texting her that this might be below her pay grade. That said, they are close enough (you could say she is like the little sister Dean never had) for Dean to be shameless about it.
Hey Charlie. I have something weird going on with my computer.
What’s up?
There’s this photo file I have and I can’t delete it.
???
Dean sends the video he took and follows up with another text.
I've done this twice and the file still comes back. Is it some virus?
Dean have you been surfing dodgy porn sites again
If I said no would you believe me
No
Well
He waits as the texting bubble pops up on Charlie's side of his screen.
Anyway could be a virus. You can fiddle with it safely if you download some sandbox software to keep it isolated from the rest of your system. I’ll send you the link to one.
Cool thanks I’ll do that. Meet soon
Dean receives the link from Charlie through an email and he downloads the software. After a quick installation and a brief read of the user guide, he drags the culprit file into the sandbox environment to isolate it from his drive. He considers opening the file again to view it for a moment but his fingers falters just before he does so and he does not understand why. He tells himself that he is being silly and he opens the image.
The smudge has not grown only in size but seems to have gained some opacity - more of a white than a greyish white as it was. Dean licks his lips with nervousness and moves his face closer to the screen. The smudge - if it was a smudge - has definitely become more solid; and if he squints, he could almost just make out a shape of some sort.
This is a digital file and there is no reason why the image would be morphing as if it were a film copy. There is absolutely no reason at all. Dean stares at the white blob a little longer as he tries to figure out what it is, and if it is even a smudge at all.
Unsettled, Dean closes the photo and unplugs his laptop, He grabs his jacket, intent on heading to the deli to work. He needs to focus and maybe getting out of the apartment will do him some good. He heads out to door as he thinks about some excuse he could give for taking up a table for the afternoon.
*
The following morning, Dean wakes up and lies in bed instead of getting up. He stretches for his phone on the nightstand and unlocks it, intending to scroll some time away on social media before he actually gets up to work. He managed to organise his photos yesterday and even managed to come up with some ideas on how to frame his article, so he deserves a break.
He is scrolling away on Twitter when a notification appears. And it is not something he expected to read.
SINKHOLE ON 91ST STREET - ABANDONED SUBWAY STATION COLLAPSES, RESCUE OPERATION UNDERWAY
Dean jumps out of bed and washes up quickly, hoping to catch some pictures of the collapsed station. He can hardly believe it, given that he was there just two days ago and everything seemed fine. He grabs his camera, puts on his jacket, and lugs his bicycle out of the door. He needs to get there fast. He drops Sam a text to let him know where he is going - just in case.
Dean knows that he has reached the site when he sees some ambulances, police cars and firetrucks up ahead. He slows down and hops off his bike, hoping to catch a glimpse beyond the cordon where a crowd has gathered. Using his bike rather tactically, he pushes his way to the front of the crowd and surveys the scene in front of him.
The hole in the ground is huge - big enough to have rendered the street unusable since the road is gone in the middle. Even from this distance, Dean can see the tracks of the station, exposed to the sun for the first time in decades. Bits of broken road and sidewalk litter the platform, and Dean thinks he can even see a car or two. He brings his camera up and starts to snap some photos, bringing his focus onto the firefighters which are currently pulling some people out of the hole. They mostly seem okay, but Dean gulps as he notices a body covered by a sheet near one of the ambulances.
He puts his camera down, looks across the site, and his heart quickens as he sees a man in a trenchcoat, standing and looking on aimlessly. He is bloodied and appears to have some black substance pouring out of his mouth and ears. No one seems to have noticed that man who, miraculously, is still standing despite what Dean thinks looks to be horrible injuries. He tries not to think about the black substance.
Pushing through the crowd with his bicycle again, Dean moves hurriedly to the nearest firefighter to grab his attention. He taps the man on the shoulder and the man turns around. Dean takes a quick look at the name tag on his uniform ("Strand", it writes) and he calms himself down before speaking.
"Hey, are you all aware of that guy standing there? Injured?" Dean asks. He looks over and points to the man in the trenchcoat, who has during Dean's inattention reoriented himself to face Dean and Strand.
Strand looks in the direction of where Dean has turned to but turns back with his brows furrowed. "What guy?"
Dean is sure that the man is not just looking in Dean's direction, but looking at Dean. Even from this distance, he can see the man's piercing blue eyes reaching across the yards which separates them. Dean does not like that.
Dean turns back to face Strand when he hears Strand's response. "What do you mean? He's just right there and he looks like he's injured really badly - I mean - there's black stuff pouring out of his mouth! Just look!" Dean looks over again and points again, but this time his hand stops mid-raise.
The man is gone.
"Where?" Strand asks.
"Uh... he - he's gone," Dean replies. He looks at Strand again and he begins to feel embarrassed. He swore he saw that man but -
"Are you okay? You look a little pale," Strand says as he places a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean recoils at the touch.
"Y - yea. I'm okay," Dean says as he starts to back away. "Sorry about that. I need to go now."
"Hey, take care of yourself!" Strand shouts after him as Dean hurries away from the crowd. "Maybe take some iron supplements if you feel dizzy!"
*
Back at the apartment, Dean checks his phone and sees Sam's messages, asking if he is okay and why he went there when it is still dangerous. Dean rolls his eyes and replies with a short text saying he is fine and is back at his apartment.
Of course, Sam takes that as the cue to call Dean right away.
"Dean? Are you okay?"
"Hey - Sammy - yea, I'm good," Dean says. "Listen: I've been encountering some pretty weird stuff recently which I didn't get to tell you about over dinner."
"Uh... go on?"
Dean tells Sam about the project he has been working on and the photo on his laptop which refuses to be deleted, which has the white blob (last he checked, at least) developing in the picture even though it is a digital file. He explains that he went to the sinkhole since he was there just a few days ago to snap some pictures and then about the man he saw there.
"Dean, I know you are going to roll your eyes at this, but I'd suggest you buy some bags of salt to sprinkle around your house."
Dean does indeed rolls his eyes. "Come on, Sam. I know you're into that supernatural sort of stuff but really? They aren't real."
"Better safe than sorry, I guess?" Sam says sheepishly. "Anyway, I have to get back to work. I'll talk to you later, okay?"
"Yea, sure. See ya, bitch."
"Jerk."
The line goes silent and Dean puts his phone down. Sam has always been interested in the occult and has even ventured into practising what he thinks are some witchcraft rituals - not that Dean believed in any of that hippie shit, but as long as it does not involve some sort of animal or human sacrifice, he can close one eye to his brother's weirdness.
And yet, the past few days have shown Dean that certain things are unexplainable, or at least hard to explain. He needs to know that he is not going mad, that he is not losing it after Dad died last year and Dean finally took the chance to move to New York.
He needs to check the photo again. Surely, it is just some virus or bug.
Dean moves slowly to his laptop and starts it up. He boots up the sandbox and lets the cursor hover over the file icon. He takes a deep breath, clicks the file, and lets out a yelp.
There is no white blob. There is no smudge. Instead, he sees that man, standing on the tracks, staring straight at Dean's camera. He stands there in his bloodied trenchcoat, and even in the shadows, the image is so clear that he can see black goo coming out of every orifice: his mouth, his nose, his ears. Dean stares entranced in silent horror and it strikes him that the man is not just staring at the camera, but through the camera, through his screen, and at Dean.
A car honk from outside his window snaps Dean out of the paralysis. He punches in Alt+F4 to close the image, keeping his hands off the laptop as much as he could as if it was a wild animal capable of biting anytime. He slams his laptop shut and grabs his phone, wildly punching in Sam's number. Sam does not pick up.
Fuck fuck fuck
Dean leaps from his chair and leaves his apartment quickly, not caring to even lock it. He heads to the bodega downstairs to get some bags of salt, tossing some spare change at Benny standing behind the counter who looks at Dean in bewilderment as he carries several boxes of salt out of the shop.
Just as he enters his apartment and shuts the door behind him, he sees his laptop open. He had left it shut; slammed it shut, in fact. Dean moves slowly over to the laptop, turns over the corner and looks at the screen. The man has moved closer to the camera and Dean can see his features clearly now. Messy brown hair. Suit beneath the trenchcoat. The same blue eyes he saw just earlier today - piercing and manic. A grin plastered on his face.
Dean shuts the laptop and he rips open a box of salt. He pours a circle of salt around his laptop, going over it several times until the circle resembles more of a ridge than a line. He then walks over to his bookshelf, grabs the heaviest book he can find and places it on the laptop. Dean takes his phone again and sends Sam a message, asking him to call Dean again as soon as he can.
He puts his phone into his pocket and moves to the window. It is almost evening and the sky has turned a brilliant shade of pink. Dean takes a steadying breath and looks down to the sidewalk as he does when he gets stressed; people-watching as a form of relaxation, or it would have been, had it not been for the man standing on the sidewalk across the street. Dean's blood turns cold as he feels panic well up. He sprints to the table to grab the box of salt and sprinkles it in a line across his windowsill. As quickly as he can, he moves to the other windows in his apartment and does the same with the salt.
When he is done, he returns to the window and looks out. The man still stands there, looking up to Dean's apartment. People are passing by on the sidewalk but just like at the sinkhole, no one seems to be noticing that man, or at least not consciously. For some reason, anyone who was walking in a straight line towards the man seems to be swerving around him naturally. The man stares at Dean and Dean stares back. He figures if he could keep the man in his sights, he will be safe. Without ever breaking eye contact, he grabs a chair from behind him and drags it over. Dean notices that the black substance pouring from the man's mouth is now pooling at his feet, staining the sidewalk around his sensible working shoes.
He stares at the man and the man stares back.
*
Dean jerks awake with a start when he hears a car honk from outside the window. He is disoriented for a moment as he wonders why he has fallen asleep in such an uncomfortable position in the chair, then is suddenly wide awake as he remembers.
He shoots up from his chair and looks out of the window. The day is just starting and he can see the first rays of sunlight from beyond the roofs of the surrounding buildings. When he looks down to the sidewalk, no one is there. The ground is clean without any stains (or at least without the stains one would associate with the city). He silently thanks Sam for his suggestion to get salt.
Dean glances at the clock in the corner of his room and sees that it is almost 6.30am. The day is still early and perhaps he can get some work in. The issue seems to have been dealt with and he feels his shoulders loosen with relief. He walks to his table and eyes the circular ridge of salt he constructed yesterday. He reaches out to brush it aside and stops as he realises that is dumb - it is a lot of salt and he will make a mess. He can deal with the clean-up later. Instead, he reaches into the circle, pulls up the laptop lid, and screams.
On his screen is the blown-up image of an eye - a blue eye, the bottom eyelid clogged with black liquid which spills over; burst blood vessels rendering the whites awash with red; pupil dilated, and in the black of the pupil Dean sees his own face, a facsimile of unadulterated fear which would have been comical if not for the situation. He slams the laptop shut.
He fumbles for his phone from his pocket and tries to text Sam with shaky hands. He makes numerous typos and in his desperation, he gives up and dials Sam's number instead.
"Dean...? What - "
"Sa - Sam. Can you come over now?" Dean says tersely. "Please?"
"Why are - okay. I'll be right there. Give me ten minutes to cab down," Sam replies. Dean brings the phone down from his ear and he feels grateful for Sam's lack of questions. He backs off to the door of his apartment with the laptop in full view and stops when he knows he has moved into the corner beside the door. Against the wall, he slides down and waits for his brother to come.
*
The doorbell rings and Dean jumps. "Who is it?" he asks.
"Dean, it's me. Let me in," Sam replies. Dean clambers up and for a split second as he pulls on his door handle, he half-expected the man to be at his door, oozing black stuff all over the corridor, maybe with a grin on his face as if to say "hello Dean what's uuuuup".
That was, thankfully, not the case, and Dean moves aside to let Sam in. Sam comes in and does a little involuntary skip as he notices the line of salt along the entrance, almost hitting his head on the door frame in the process. Sam comes in proper and tears his eyes away from the salt line on the floor. He looks around the apartment and sees salt poured on the windowsill and tucked to the side of the room on Dean's usual working table, his laptop encircled in salt. Sam looks back to Dean just as he locks the door and he notices Dean is shaking.
"Are you okay?" he asks. He places a hand on Dean's shoulder and gently turns him around, concern lining his face. He sees Dean and has to admit that he looks terrible: he looks tired, afraid, and resigned.
"No, I'm not," Dean sighs. He begins to explain what happened since their previous call when Sam suggested Dean get some salt for protection. He talks about the man appearing on the sidewalk outside and the photo where the man has manifested. He also mentions what he saw barely 15 minutes ago - the eye, as if the man was ready to crawl out of his screen the moment the salt circle is broken. At the end of his monologue, Dean can tell Sam is not fully convinced.
"You don't believe me," he says as his heart sinks. "I must sound mad to you."
"Well, I - Dean, you know I enjoy reading up on the supernatural, but..." Sam trails off. He absent-mindedly moves towards the laptop and Dean knows what he is about to do. He is about to yell at Sam to tell him to stop, to not do it because he does not know what he is dealing with, but Sam moves the book aside and flips the laptop screen up.
It comes up empty. The laptop is shut off and the screen is black. Dean looks to Sam, speechless.
"I - I don't - it was just -" Dean stutters. Sam pushes the laptop lid down, turns to Dean, and crosses his arms with a sigh.
"Look, Dean. Maybe I can stay here tonight? It might be good to have someone around."
"Oh - okay. Sure," Dean says. This would not be the first time Sam has stayed impromptu and he has actually left some spare clothes around in the event of it. Sam moves over to the couch which he will be sleeping on tonight and settles down. He pats on the seat beside him and motions for Dean to sit. Dean walks over and glances at the laptop again before he sits on the sofa. He feels better now; safer - he finds Sam's presence grounding, just as he has always found it so while growing up. Yet, he cannot forget what he saw just before Sam came.
"Sammy, I know what I saw. Something isn't right with... I don't know what is wrong exactly, but things have been weird," Dean tries to explain. "You have to believe me - the man I've been seeing, there's no - "
"Dean, have you been drinking again?" Sam asks. That stops Dean in his tracks and he feels the smallest spark of anger lighting up in him.
"No. Why?" he counters.
"Nothing - I just thought, you know, it has been about a year since Dad is gone and back then you weren't - "
"What does John's death have to do with whatever I've told you?" Dean snaps.
"Right, right, sorry for asking. I was just concerned, okay?" Sam says as he raises both his hands in defense. Dean immediately feels guilty about his outburst and deflates into the couch.
"Anyway," Sam decides to continue and show his brother some support. "When did this all start? After you visited 91st Street, right?"
Dean nods in silence and he watches as Sam stands to move to the laptop. "What are you doing?" he asks in a voice that goes a little higher than it normally does.
"Figured we could do some research into the history of the station," Sam shrugs.
"Yea. No. Don't use the laptop," Dean says as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and flashes it to Sam. "Let's just use our phones instead."
*
"Hey, Dean. Look at this," Sam shakes Dean awake. Dean wakes up groggily and looks around. He has fallen asleep shortly after they started to browse the Internet on their phones for information on 91st Street. Sam, knowing that Dean did not get much sleep last night, has left him undisturbed while he continues with the research. The research went beyond Google and Sam actually had to log in to his city library account for the first time in ages to look through some old newspaper articles. If there is something Sam has learnt from this, it is that attempting to read newspaper print on a smartphone screen, even if zoomed in, is far from pleasant.
Dean sits up and moves so he can see Sam's phone. "I couldn't find much, but back in the 1940s there was a man by the name of Castiel Novak who got pushed onto the tracks by another man named Nick Vaught," Sam says excitedly. "The motive of the attack was never figured out and I couldn't find any photos of this Castiel Novak, but maybe there is some sort of link?"
"What sort of name is Castiel?" Dean snorts.
"Dean, come on," Sam punches Dean on the arm. "I don't know how this will help, but it's good to know, right? Hey, at least you now have some factoid to add to your article."
Dean hums in agreement. He glances at his phone and sees that it is almost noon. He had no idea he slept that long. He stands up to stretch and he notes that he feels way better after the nap.
"How long have you been looking for this information?" Dean asks.
"Couple of hours while you slept," Sam shrugs. "But it was pretty interesting and I'd take this over case law research any day."
Dean feels a smile grow on his face as he thinks about how his nerd brother actually managed to become some hotshot lawyer in New York after getting away from the influence of John. He fakes another stretch to wipe the grin off his face and turns back to Sam. "Hey, wanna go get something for lunch and maybe some snacks for tonight from the bodega below? We can watch a movie or something," Dean asks. "I'll even pay for lunch."
"Hell yeah," Sam says with a grin.
*
After yet another filling lunch at the deli below (Dean could never tire of it; besides, it is cheap) and a brief walk to Sam's place to grab his work laptop in case he needed it in the afternoon, they head on to the bodega to grab some chips and soda for movie night later. Sam, of course, promised Dean that he will put his work laptop aside for movie night.
They browse the aisles together with Dean holding a basket. He grabs random packs of snacks that look mildly interesting and Sam watches with some alarm as the basket fills rapidly with refined carbs, sodium, MSG, and sugar. He chooses not to mention anything about it and turns to the fridge to grab some fruit juice as he tries to retain at least a modicum of health in whatever they will be consuming tonight. When he closes the fridge door and walks towards Dean, he notices that Dean is standing in the aisle and looking ahead.
"Trying to figure out if you need even more chips?" Sam calls as he makes his way to Dean. Dean does not reply but continues to stare. Sam looks in that direction and notices that Dean is staring at the cashier. Granted, he did think that Dean might be into men as well – not that he would ever say it out loud – but this seems a little excessive. The cashier wears a blue vest over a white shirt, has a mess of brown hair and deep blue eyes. If Sam was being honest, he did not think Dean would be into that. He does not seem to notice Dean's staring though, as he is deeply absorbed in some spreadsheet he has laid out on a clipboard.
"Uh... Earth to Dean?" Sam pokes Dean in the waist and Dean swats his hand away.
"Are you seeing that? That man?" Dean whispers and looks at Sam with wild eyes. Sam gives him an odd look.
"Yeah? The cashier? Why?"
"That's him. That's the man I've been seeing around on the sidewalk and in the photo," Dean's voice grows more agitated. "What the fuck? Just yesterday it was this other guy who has been here since I moved to this apartment."
Sam gently pries the basket from Dean's hands and takes a cautious step towards the cashier. When he reaches the counter, the man finally looks up, startled by the towering height of the customer.
"Hi. Just these?" the cashier says. His voice is gravelly deep as if he has not used it in a long time. Sam nods and notices that Dean is now standing beside him with his hands behind his back, peering intently at something on the cashier's chest.
"Emmanuel, huh?" Dean asks. The cashier looks up in surprise and nods slowly. "Where did Benny go? He was here yesterday. And just about every other day."
"I'm filling in for Benny for a while," Emmanuel replies. "He isn't feeling well."
"I see," Dean nods in agreement. "Well..."
Sam hears a rip from behind him.
"Let's see if this makes you feel unwell too."
Sam whips his head to Dean just in time to see him toss a bag of salt, ripped open almost in half, at Emmanuel. Emmanuel barely has any time to react and the bag hits him square in the face, spilling salt down his shirt and all over the counter.
"Dean!" Sam grabs Dean by the arm and pulls him away. "What are you doing?"
"He's the ghost, Sam!"
Sam turns back to Emmanuel and sees an expression of shock on his face. His arms are still raised midway in his attempt to block the bag of salt and he puts them down. He looks absolutely miserable and tries to shake the salt out of his shirt. Sam glares at Dean, whose look of outrage turns into confusion when he sees that Emmanuel is really just a bodega employee who now has a huge mess to clean up. Sam lets go of Dean's arms and makes his way to the counter again.
"Uh - sorry about my brother. He hasn't been himself lately. Here," Sam says as he fishes out some notes from his wallet. "This should be enough to cover our purchases. Keep the change." He reaches for the basket and dumps the fruit juice he got in them.
"I'll borrow this basket for a bit. Uh - I'll let you clean up."
Emmanuel lets out a sigh and heads to the back to grab the broom. Sam yells an apology one more time, puts his shoulder around Dean, and guides his brother back to the apartment.
Dean knows what he saw. Emmanuel is literally a carbon copy of that man he has been seeing. Was this all some elaborate prank? Maybe Emmanuel somehow hacked into Dean's Wi-Fi network and transferred that cursed photo to his laptop. And maybe all the people he saw scooting around him on as he stood on the sidewalk oozing all that black stuff did so because this is New York City after all, and no one has the time to deal with some weirdo standing on the street making a mess. He might even have some sort of contraption under the trenchcoat to pump the black liquid out.
Yet, he knows that something feels wrong. The timing of this - Benny being replaced by Emmanuel only when Sam is around as if to prove to Sam that something is wrong with him; the sinkhole site where he first saw him. Or maybe there is something wrong with him. Maybe he is losing it.
"Dean, I know you won't want to talk about what just happened and there's no need to," Sam pushes gently because he is really worried about Dean now. Maybe Dean is overworked and he needs to take a break. An idea begins to form in his mind - perhaps he could arrange for some emergency private time-off; get Dean out with him to Dad's old cabin in the woods again where they can hang out for a week or so. The cabin has always been a source of comfort for the brothers and Sam knows it would do Dean some good.
"Let's just enjoy the rest of the day, okay?"
Dean looks to Sam, dejected and broken at what he just considered. He collapses onto his couch wordlessly and watches as Sam brings up Netflix on the television.
*
A few days have passed since Sam's stay at Dean's place and things have more or less returned to normal. Dean has not experienced anything odd with his photos, no strange man standing on the sidewalk, and strangely, no more Emmanuel at the bodega.
He tries to forget what he saw in the past few days, dismissing and trying to rationalise them as some sort of episode he had, or perhaps an elaborate plan done by Emmanuel (if that even really was his name).
Today, Dean has to head back to the office to provide an update on his project to his boss. After he gathered the courage to look through his photos again with Sam by his side just two days ago, Dean has been on fire - generating ideas and constructing a storyboard full of ideas for his article, along with the photos he would like to use. He admits his lens might not be the freshest or most unique take of the abandoned stations of New York, but he is nonetheless excited at the prospect of delving into the communities which have come and gone around these stations.
He heads to the subway stop near his apartment which is busy and full of people. So far, the day has been good. He had a good night's sleep, exercised in the morning, made himself some breakfast, and is now heading down the stairs of the station with a travel mug of coffee in hand. While descending, Dean thinks about what Sam said that night about the both of them taking some time off and heading to the cabin out by the lake - getting reconnected with nature will be good for not just Dean, but Sam as well. He decides right then that later at the office, he will apply for some PTO, maybe for a week. At the platform now, he fumbles for his phone from his pocket to send a text to Sam, but he freezes. He catches a glimpse of something he has been trying to forget.
He looks up and at the other end of the platform is Emmanuel.
Emmanuel stands there grinning, hands in that ridiculous trenchcoat of his. For a moment, fear threatens to overcome Dean, but it is quickly replaced by anger when he notices the smirk on Emmanuel's face which he would really like to wipe off.
Dean strides up to Emmanuel with large steps, intending to give him a piece of his mind.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Dean growls. Emmanuel's grin grows wider.
"Didn't you get my text? This is going to be so much fun," Emmanuel croons in that deep voice of his. Dean bristles at this.
"What the fuck are you talking about? What text?" A hard edge has formed on Dean's voice. He is tired. He is beyond frustrated at this man in front of him who has made him lose sleep over the past week and made him doubt his sanity. "Was this all some sick joke? Because if so, buddy, it ain't that funny."
Emmanuel shrugs and takes a step towards Dean. "Back off," Dean warns as he takes a reciprocal step back.
"Come on, Dean. This is going to be fun!" Emmanuel repeats.
"How - how do you know my name?" Dean stutters. He did not expect that and he is very sure Sam did not mention his name the last time Emmanuel was in the bodega. Speaking of which, Dean realises Emmanuel is in a suit under the trenchcoat. Someone probably working in a white-collar job doubling up at the bodega? What is going on? Dean looks around and sees that no one is paying them any heed on the crowded platform, though to an outsider they could just look like two guys having a mild disagreement.
"Of course I know your name - are you okay? It’s been a few days since I saw you," Emmanuel says as he reaches out and places a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean recoils and he shoves Emmanuel away from him. He shoves him hard enough for some of his coffee to slosh out of his travel mug which he did not close properly.
He shoves him hard enough for him to fall onto the tracks, just in time for a train to come rushing into the station. Time slows down and the world goes silent as Dean watches Emmanuel flail with his arms as he loses balance, yet panic never wells up in his eyes; his face. Throughout the fall which happens within a second, Dean is sure he is looking at the face of a madman, or maybe something more sinister. Emmanuel falls with a manic grin plastered across his face, and in a split second, he is gone from sight as the train roars down the platform.
He killed a man, Dean realises. He pushed a man onto the tracks and he feels the sour taste of bile rise in his throat, causing him to dry heave.
Sound comes rushing back into Dean's ears and he hears people screaming. People are screaming and shouting on the platform and running away from him. The screams snap Dean out of his trance and he makes his way to the front of the train on shaky legs, with people moving hurriedly away from him the entire length of the platform.
Dean reaches the front of the train and looks down over the side of the platform. He knows the body must have been dragged and he sees an arm poking out from the underside. He feels faint, but it still occurs to him that something is strange - the arm has no trenchcoat sleeve.
He has stopped breathing and he takes a few more steps down the side of the train. He looks around the corner of the front end of the cabin. His legs give way and he collapses onto the dirty subway floor. The bile which was there comes up in earnest now and Dean retches. His mind goes blank as he looks at the blood pooling on the ground, contaminated by the soot and dust of the subway tracks to look almost an inky black. Or they might be black, he does not care. He takes a breath and begins to sob at the sight of his brother lying dead on the tracks.
*
Hey Dean! I managed to get PTO for next week. Can't wait to get to the cabin with you - it's going to be so much fun! See you later at your stop - I want to check up on you. Cya, bitch.
***
COVID has hit the city hard and lots of shop spaces are emptying out. Unfortunately, they remain empty as the rent stays sky-high.
Adam Milligan is a fresh-faced photographer and has miraculously snagged a job in this economy. His current project is to go around the city to document these empty shop spaces for an article his best friend, Michael Shurley, is planning to write.
Adam consults the list of locations Michael has texted him to scope to check he is at the right place. He looks up at the unit number of the storefront and verifies it to be an old bodega that has closed down due to the lack of business during the peak of the pandemic.
He snaps a few photos of what used to be the bodega and heads home. That is enough walking for the day.