THE THING - REVIEW
★★★★★
Daniel Adler's Return to Horror Is a Masterclass in Paranoia
It's been nearly a decade since Daniel Adler started his filmmaking journey with The Blair Witch Project (2007) that scrappy, shoestring-budget found-footage nightmare that revolutionized horror filmmaking and proved you didn't need a few million to terrify audiences. You just needed atmosphere, tension, and the primal fear of the unknown.
Now, after winning three Academy Awards and creating one of the most successful production houses of the last decade and after conquering the recent superhero movie boom Adler returns to his horror roots with The Thing, and it's not just a return to form. It's a career-defining triumph. This isn't just one of the best horror films of the decade. It's one of the best horror films ever made.
And it might just be the smartest.
What separates The Thing from the glut of modern horror jump scares, loud noises, CGI demons is its intelligence, both in execution and characterization.
Adler's script refuses to dumb down its characters for the sake of plot convenience. These aren't idiotic teenagers wandering into dark basements. These are scientists, engineers, military personnel people who are good at their jobs. They make logical decisions. They debate. They test hypotheses. They think.
And yet they're still human. Flawed. Frightened. Paranoid.
The film's genius lies in this tension: watching intelligent people try to out-think a threat that defies all logic. The creature, an extraterrestrial organism that perfectly imitates any living being it consumes isn't just a monster. It's a biological inevitability. And the men trapped in Antarctica's Outpost 31 know it.
The Thing is only director Julian Cross's third feature film, following The Hollow Man and The Rites of Autumn two underseen, atmospheric thrillers that hinted at his talent but never broke through commercially. This is the film that will change that.
Cross directs with the patience of a seasoned master. He knows when to hold on a shot uncomfortable seconds longer than you'd expect until the dread becomes unbearable. He knows when to cut. He knows when to let silence do the work.
The Antarctic setting is as much a character as the men themselves. Cross shoots the ice fields in wide, desolate frames, endless white, no escape. Inside Outpost 31, the walls close in. The hallways are too narrow. The lighting flickers just enough to make you doubt what you're seeing.
And the sound design. My God, the sound design delivers a droning, synth-heavy score that feels like a heartbeat slowing to a stop. Adler and Cross seem to have resurrected the sound engineering that died in Hollywood a decade ago. For me, it was like watching a movie from the '80s and '90s again. You could hear everything, and it was perfect.
Cross uses practical effects almost exclusively with no CGI shortcuts here. The creature transformations are visceral. Bodies split open. Limbs contort. Teeth appear where they shouldn't. It's grotesque, yes. But it's also strangely beautiful in its wrongness. You can't look away.
The other factor that makes the movie so effective is the cast.
Wyatt Russell carries the film. MacReady isn't a typical action hero he's a helicopter pilot who drinks too much and just wants to survive the winter. Russell plays him with a weathered pragmatism. He doesn't want to burn his friends alive. But if it's them or humanity? He'll light the match. Wyatt, whose father is the legendary Kurt Russell and whose mother is Goldie Hawn, has proven that he inherited talent from both parents. The same steely determination Kurt brought to roles like Snake Plissken, Wyatt brings to MacReady. But there's something more vulnerable here too perhaps from Goldie's side.
Winston Duke, in his breakout role, brings gravitas to Childs, the station mechanic who doesn't trust MacReady's leadership. Duke's performance is simmering intensity; he was perfectly cast in a perfectly written role. Childs isn't just the skeptic he's the moral counterweight to MacReady's cold logic. Duke makes you believe Childs would rather die human than live as something else.
John C. Reilly is a revelation as Blair. Reilly, known for comedies like Step Brothers, strips away all humor and delivers raw, unhinged terror. This movie proves the actor can do serious dramatic work and could be the start of a career renaissance for him.
Bob Odenkirk as Garry, the station commander, is fascinating to watch. Odenkirk who worked with Adler in the critically acclaimed and Academy Award–winning 12 Angry Men plays Garry as a man barely holding on to authority. He's competent, yes, but he's also overwhelmed. And when paranoia sets in, you see him fracture in real time.
Anton Yelchin as Windows, the radio operator, brings nervous energy to every scene. He's the audience surrogate the guy asking the questions we're all thinking. Windows is the one who wants to believe there's a way out: that if they just call for help, someone will come. But help isn't coming.
Bryan Cranston as Copper, the camp doctor, anchors the film's body horror. Cranston is no stranger to Adler, having worked with him since 12 Angry Men and the Batman trilogy. Cranston gives one of his best performances in the movie, further proving that he is one of the finest actors of his time.
Ben Foster as Clark, the dog handler, barely speaks but his presence is haunting. Foster communicates everything through body language. Is Clark paranoid? Or is he something else? Foster plays him so twitchy and withdrawn that you're never quite sure.
Donald Glover as Nauls, the camp cook, provides brief moments of levity until he doesn't. Glover's charm makes his terror all the more effective. Nauls is the guy who cracks jokes to keep morale up, but as the body count rises, the jokes stop. Glover's transition from comic relief to genuine fear is seamless.
Logan Marshall-Green as Palmer brings grimy, twitchy energy to the film. From the moment he walks on screen, Palmer feels like a guy hiding something. Marshall-Green plays him like a man who's always one bad day away from snapping.
Michael Stuhlbarg as Norris is reserved, academic, and integral to one of the film's most shocking body-horror moments. Stuhlbarg plays Norris well a scientist who thinks he can understand the Thing but pays the price for it.
Domhnall Gleeson as Fuchs, the team biologist, brings scientific rigor to the chaos. Gleeson plays Fuchs as a man who needs answers. He can't accept "we don't know." Fuchs is the first to truly understand the stakes, and Gleeson makes you understand and feel the terrifying truth he discovers.
What makes The Thing so refreshing is that it doesn't spoon-feed answers.
The film never explicitly tells you who's human and who's not. You have to watch. You have to pay attention to body language, dialogue, behavior. Adler plants clues throughout: some obvious, some maddeningly subtle. And when the blood-test scene arrives (one of the most suspenseful sequences I have seen), you realize the film has been testing you all along.
This is horror for adults. Horror that respects intelligence. Horror that understands the scariest thing isn't the monster, it's not knowing who to trust.
If there's a flaw, it's that the film's deliberate pacing may frustrate audiences expecting non-stop action. This is a slow burn. The first act takes its time establishing characters, setting, routine. Some viewers will grow restless.
And the ending God, that ending is purposefully ambiguous. Adler and Cross refuse to give closure. The final shot leaves you with a question you'll debate for days. Some will call it brilliant. Others will call it frustrating.
I call it perfect.
Now here's the uncomfortable truth: The Thing is better than most of the films that will be nominated for Best Picture this year. It's more intelligent than half the prestige dramas. It's more meticulously crafted than most Oscar bait. The performances particularly Reilly, Russell, and Duke are as good as anything you'll see in 2016.
But it's a horror film. And the Academy treats horror like a genre ghetto.
Daniel Adler has already won three Oscars:
Best Original Screenplay twice (for 12 Angry Men and The Incredibles) and Best Adapted Screenplay for The Revenant. If the Academy treated horror with the respect it deserves, Adler would be on his way to a fourth.
But they won't. Because The Thing has blood. And tentacles. And a man's chest splitting open to reveal rows of teeth.
Never mind that it's also a masterpiece.
So instead we'll get the usual suspects: prestige dramas about important topics, biopics of great men, and maybe a musical if we're lucky. And The Thing, one of the year's best films, period will be relegated to "Best Makeup" or "Best Sound Editing." It's a damn shame.
The Thing is a horror masterpiece: intelligent, terrifying, and uncompromising. It features career-making performances from Wyatt Russell and Winston Duke and one of John C. Reilly's best performances. It marks the arrival of Julian Cross as a major directorial talent and has put eyes on the dark universe he is building with Universal. And it confirms what we already knew: Daniel Adler is one of the most versatile filmmakers working today.
If you can handle slow-burn tension, practical body horror, and an ending that refuses to hold your hand, this is essential viewing.
And if the Academy had any sense, Daniel Adler would be adding a fourth Oscar to his shelf.
But they don't. So he won't.
At least we'll always have the movie.
======
Rotten Tomatoes Score: 93% (Certified Fresh)
Metacritic: 89/100 (Universal Acclaim)
========
DANIEL ADLER'S THE THING OPENS WITH $52.8M
Daniel Adler's return to horror is officially a hit.
The Thing, the R-rated sci-fi horror thriller from Midas Productions and Stardust Studios, opened to a robust $52.8 million domestically this weekend exceeding studio expectations of $40–45 million.
For context, that's the biggest August opening for an R-rated horror film, beating The Sixth Sense's $26.6 million debut in 1999 (adjusted for inflation).
Several Factors Contributed to The Thing's Overperformance.
Daniel Adler's Name Sells.
Let's not bury the lede: Daniel Adler is box office gold.
The three-time Oscar winner has built a brand as a filmmaker who doesn't make mediocre movies. When Adler's name is on a poster, audiences show up. Period.
The Thing's marketing leaned hard into this: "From Three-Time Academy Award Winner Daniel Adler." And it worked. Exit polls showed 62% of opening-weekend audiences cited "Daniel Adler" as a primary reason for attending.
The Thing opened four weeks after Marvel's Ant-Man, which has now grossed $515 million worldwide and is winding down its theatrical run. Audiences were primed for something different and what's more different from a fun, CGI-heavy superhero romp than a cold, paranoid, R-rated survival horror film set in Antarctica?
With a 93% Rotten Tomatoes score, an A CinemaScore, and insane word-of-mouth, The Thing has serious legs at the box office.
Box Office Projections
Domestic Projection: $200–230 million
International Projection: $290–310 million
Worldwide Projection: $510 million (predicted)
.
.
.
Joanna and I walked through the streets of Malta, seeing the sights.
I was on the island in the middle of the Mediterranean to watch the filming of Game of Thrones. Today was going to be the Ned Stark beheading scene, and I was going to cameo in it.
Joanna was touring Europe, so I'd gone to one of her shows and she'd come along with me partly because she wanted to see the shoot, and partly because she wanted to see Malta.
"I'm telling you, that guy is some kind of fraud," I said.
Joanna frowned. "He just wants to give me some jewelry as appreciation."
The person I was referring to was this Malaysian guy whose name was something like Jho Low. The man was rich and he was throwing money around in Hollywood. He even approached me to be involved with Midas and to make a movie. The motherfucker offered $200 million to have me make a movie with his friends; I declined because he seemed shady. It also helped that Lucia and Carter had warned me.
"Yes, and what do you think will happen when he's finally caught and your name gets caught up in this? You know what kind of rumors it will start."
Joanna looked at me. "Why do you think he's a fraud?"
"No one, Jo no one has that kind of money to just throw around. Even I, a multi-billionaire, don't have the money that guy claims to have. I even warned Leo about him how shady he is but he and many others are taken in by how much money the man appears to have."
Joanna tilted her head. "But how is he a fraud? I thought he was some Malaysian prince or something."
"No, he's not," I said firmly. "Look, Jo, something stinks about him. Everyone he's involved with is shady. This has to be some kind of big con he's pulling. I don't know how, but I'm pretty sure the Malaysian government is involved somehow."
Joanna sighed. "Okay, fine. I'll make sure he doesn't come anywhere near me."
"Good," I said.
We continued our sightseeing. Some paparazzi took photos of us. Joanna even annoyed me a bit by playing it up for the cameras, hugging me, leaning into me which was only going to inflame certain sections of both our fan bases.
But soon it was time to go to the filming.
Joanna had even convinced me to let her cameo in the scene. She thought she was going to get the role of a noble or something.
But man, was she in for a surprise.
As soon as we got there, we were rushed into makeup. After an hour for me and two hours for Joanna, she finally emerged.
She was in a filthy smallfolk outfit ragged, torn, streaked with dirt. She was going to be part of the crowd calling for Ned's blood and death.
I, meanwhile, was standing in City Guard armor. I was going to be one of the guards who would haul Ned Stark onto the podium to die.
Joanna glared at me. "I hate you."
"Hey, you were the one who wanted to be in the episode," I said, grinning.
She huffed as we were led around the set.
The set was stunning.
The nobles' dresses were colorful and book-accurate rich fabrics, intricate embroidery, vibrant hues. Joffrey, played by Jack Gleeson, and Cersei, played by Lena Headey, wore costumes faithful to the books. It made it very different from the version I remembered from my world, where everything had been more muted and drab.
There were also many blue screens around the open set, which would be used to make the grandeur of King's Landing more imposing in post-production.
Joanna was swiftly intercepted by Sophie Turner and Maisie Williams, who were big fans. They peppered her with questions while I went to talk to Cal and Elias, who were ready to begin.
Jack Gleeson was there as well, along with Sean Bean.
"Well, Sean," I said, grinning. "Ready to die?"
Sean shook his head with a wry smile. "This is one of the few times I hadn't expected it. You have something great here, Daniel."
I chuckled. "You're going to make this show, Sean. This scene will basically define the entire series. It's the moment that tells the audience, 'No one is safe.' It's going to be what sets Game of Thrones apart from every other show."
Sean nodded thoughtfully. "No pressure, then."
I turned to Jack. "You ready to face Skyler White levels of scorn from fans?"
Jack smirked. "I'm mentally preparing. And I do have a thick skin, Daniel."
"Good," I said. "You're going to need it."
Soon, everyone was in their places, and the day's shoot was ready to begin.
Joanna was in position, almost unrecognizable as one of the smallfolk.
My scene was shot first with me and another extra bringing Ned Stark to the podium where he would confess and die. Sean delivered his lines perfectly, and the crowd roared for his death.
After that, everything went smoothly. Cal and Elias were able to shoot the rest of the scene efficiently, including Arya's shots as she watched her father die.
The day ended with applause for Sean, as he was officially done with the show.
I was really looking forward to the debut next year and the many years that would follow.
Still, those reactions to Ned's death were going to be amazing.
.
.
.
Christmas Special: Supernatural Crossover
.
.
I am Batman?! Pt.1
Dean stood in the bunker kitchen, building what he considered a masterpiece of a sandwich: turkey, bacon, lettuce, tomato, extra mayo, a slice of cheddar, a little mustard for kick, and just a hint of pepper. He hummed AC/D 's "Back in Black" under his breath as he carefully stacked each layer, admiring his work.
"Beautiful," he muttered, pressing the top slice of bread down with satisfaction.
He grabbed the plate and walked out of the kitchen, heading toward the large table in the center of the bunker's main room. He plopped down in his usual chair, set the plate in front of him, and reached for the remote.
Flipping through channels, he landed on a cartoon; it was an old Justice League episode.
"Nice," Dean said with a grin, leaning back.
He was just about to take that first, perfect bite when Sam walked in, laptop in hand.
"I thought you were researching," Sam said, his tone dry.
Dean looked annoyed, the sandwich hovering inches from his mouth. "I'm taking a break."
"Abaddon is out there," Sam said, his tone serious.
Dean finally took a bite. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it, then chewed slowly and said through a mouthful, "Yes, yes. Just let me eat my sandwich."
Sam sighed and sat down across from him. "I might have something."
Dean held up a hand, swallowing. "Right after I eat my sandwich."
On the screen, Batman and Superman were battling Metallo. Dean laughed as Batman used some kind of gadget to short-circuit Metallo's kryptonite heart, taking him down while Superman was still reeling from the radiation.
"See? That's what I'm talking about," he said, gesturing at the screen. "Batman is the best."
Sam ignored him and opened his laptop. "I found a strange case. Missing people in Millfield, Oregon. Small town, population of maybe fifteen hundred."
Dean took another bite, still watching the cartoon, and gestured lazily for Sam to continue.
"Eight people in the last four weeks," Sam said, scrolling through the screen. "All different ages, different backgrounds. No connections between them. But here's the thing: each one disappeared without a trace. No signs of struggle, no witnesses."
Dean swallowed. "Sounds like our kind of thing."
"It gets weirder," Sam continued. "The last victim, a guy named Tom Harker, was the only one who was found. He turned up a few days ago, alive but completely out of it. He kept saying he was living his 'perfect life' and that it was taken away from him. He killed himself a few days later."
Dean finally set down the sandwich and wiped his hands on a napkin. "Demons? Trickster?"
"Maybe," Sam said. "Or something else. Either way, I think we should check it out."
Dean picked up the sandwich again. "After I eat my sandwich."
Sam sighed, closing the laptop. "Fine. But we're leaving in an hour."
"Make it two," Dean said, taking another massive bite and turning his attention back to the TV.
It took them a day to drive to Oregon.
Dean and Sam drove the Impala into the town of Millfield. The streets were quiet, lined with old storefronts, a diner with a flickering neon sign, and a single gas station that looked like it hadn't been updated since the '80s. It looked like any other small American town.
"This place sucks," Dean muttered, eyeing the dreary atmosphere.
Sam looked out the window. "Looks normal."
"That's what they always say before people start dying," Dean replied.
They found a motel on the edge of town, The Pines Motor Lodge, a run-down two-story building with peeling paint and a parking lot full of potholes. Dean pulled into a spot near the office, and they checked in under fake names.
Inside their room, they changed into their fake FBI suits. Dean adjusted his tie in the mirror, grimacing.
"We need some new suits," he muttered.
They made their way to the sheriff's office, a small brick building on Main Street with a faded sign out front.
Inside, the reception area was cramped. A middle-aged woman sat behind a desk, typing slowly on an old computer. She looked up as they entered.
"FBI," Dean said, flashing his badge with practiced ease. "Agents Page and Plant. We're here about the missing persons cases."
The woman blinked, surprised. "I'll... I'll get the sheriff."
Before she could move, the door behind them opened and a man in his fifties walked in, broad-shouldered with graying hair and a weathered face. He wore a tan uniform and a badge that read Sheriff Dale Mercer.
He stopped when he saw them, his eyes narrowing. "FBI? We didn't call the FBI."
"Well, we're here now," Dean said. "Eight people missing in three weeks—"
Sam coughed. "Four weeks."
Dean shot him a look, then turned back to the sheriff. "Yeah. Four weeks. And you've got nothing."
Sheriff Mercer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Come in."
He led them into his office, a cluttered space with filing cabinets, a desk piled with papers, and a corkboard on the wall covered in photos and notes. He gestured for them to sit in the two chairs across from his desk, then settled into his own seat with a heavy sigh.
"Look, I don't know what's going on," Mercer said, his voice tired. "These people just vanished. It's like they walked off the face of the earth."
He leaned forward, pulled a folder from his desk, and flipped it open.
"Emma Collins, thirty-two. Schoolteacher. Disappeared on her way home from work."
He flipped to the next page.
"Jacob Reed, nineteen. College kid home for the summer. Last seen at the gas station. Surveillance footage shows him walking out, and then... nothing."
Another page.
"Linda Martinez, forty-seven. Librarian. Vanished from her own home. Doors locked, no signs of forced entry."
He continued listing the names—Michael Turner, sixty-one; Rachel Ford, twenty-eight; Kevin Larson, thirty-five; Diane Harper, fifty-three. Each one had the same story.
"That's seven," Mercer said, closing the folder. "Well, technically eight, but one came back."
Sam leaned forward. "Tom Harker."
Mercer nodded. "Yeah. Tom Harker. Showed up three days ago, wandering Main Street in the middle of the night. He was out of his mind, totally manic. He kept saying he wanted to go back, that he had a perfect life. He even attacked his wife when she came to see him, accusing her of bringing him back."
He shook his head. "Poor woman."
"He killed himself two days later, hanging himself in his basement," Mercer continued.
Dean and Sam exchanged a glance.
"Did he say anything else?" Sam asked. "Anything specific about where he'd been? Who took him?"
Mercer shook his head. "Nothing coherent. He said he was a billionaire. I think one of the nurses said he was rambling on about how he cured cancer or something." He waved a hand dismissively. "I don't know. The guy was completely out of his mind."
Sam leaned forward. "Can we speak to Mrs. Harker?"
"Sure," the sheriff said. He paused, his expression softening. "Just don't push her too much. She's in a very fragile state."
They left the sheriff's office and drove to the Harker residence, a modest two-story house on the edge of town. The paint was peeling, and the lawn looked like it hadn't been mowed in weeks.
Dean knocked on the door.
A moment later, a woman in her forties answered. Mrs. Harker's eyes were red from crying, and she looked exhausted, like she hadn't slept in days.
"Mrs. Harker?" Sam said gently. "We're with the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your husband."
"Oh... okay... okay," she said in a low, shaky voice. She stepped aside and led them inside.
They were led into a small living room. Magazines and papers were scattered across the coffee table, and a few framed photos of Tom and Mrs. Harker sat on the mantle, reminders of happier times.
She motioned for them to sit on the couch, then took a seat in a worn armchair across from them. She wrung her hands nervously, her fingers twisting together.
Sam spoke gently. "Can you tell us about the day your husband disappeared? And what happened after he came back?"
Mrs. Harker took a shaky breath. "Everything was normal the day he was gone. He went to work, same as always."
"Nothing out of the ordinary? Are you sure?" Sam asked.
"He... he mentioned meeting a strange man that morning, at the diner. But that was it."
She paused, her voice breaking.
"When he came back... I was so happy. I thought... I thought I had him back." Tears welled in her eyes. "But when I went to see him in the hospital, he looked at me and... he cried. It was like he hated me. He said he wanted to go back."
She broke down, sobbing.
Sam and Dean exchanged a look.
Dean leaned forward slightly. "Did your husband mention what this man looked like?"
She shook her head, wiping her eyes. "No. He didn't say."
Sam asked gently, "Did he mention anything about this 'perfect life'?"
Mrs. Harker sniffled, trying to compose herself. "Tom always wanted to become a scientist, but he couldn't. He couldn't afford the schooling." She looked down at her hands. "When I went to see him at the hospital, he was raving about how he'd won a Nobel Prize, how he'd changed the world, how he'd... he'd—"
She stopped, her voice cracking. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. It's too hard."
Sam nodded, his voice soft. "We understand."
He and Dean stood.
"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Harker," Sam said. "We're very sorry for your loss."
She nodded, unable to speak, and they let themselves out.
Outside, the sun was starting to set.
Sam turned to Dean. "So, what do you think?"
Dean shook his head. "I can't put my finger on it."
"Yeah," Sam said. "Me too."
Dean stopped suddenly, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward the woods at the edge of the property.
"What is it?" Sam asked.
"I don't know," Dean said slowly. "I just... I felt like we were being watched."
Sam followed his gaze but saw nothing.
"Let's get some rest," Sam said. "We can investigate more in the morning."
Dean nodded, but his eyes lingered on the treeline for a moment longer before he turned back to the car.
They arrived at the diner, a small, retro-looking place called Betty's, with red vinyl booths and a jukebox in the corner.
Dean and Sam slid into a booth near the back. A waitress came over, took their order, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Near them, another person sat, a man in his mid-twenties, sandy-haired and good-looking, with an easy, friendly demeanor.
He glanced over at them and nodded. "Evening."
Dean nodded back politely. "Hey."
Sam gave a small nod as well.
The man leaned back in his seat, casually sipping his coffee. "I heard there were some FBI agents in our town."
Sam nodded. "Yeah. We're investigating the disappearances."
"Ah, I see," the man said, his tone light. "A lot of unhappy people in this town. Some are just looking for an escape, you know?"
Dean narrowed his eyes slightly. "So what do you think happened to them?"
The man shrugged, still smiling. "I guess they went to their happy place."
Dean got a weird vibe from him.
Sam ordered some food to go, and a few minutes later the waitress brought it out in a paper bag.
As they stood to leave, Dean glanced back at the man one more time.
He was gone.
The booth was empty. No sign he'd ever been there.
Dean stopped in his tracks. "Did you see that?"
"See what?" Sam asked.
"That guy," Dean said, pointing at the empty booth. "He was just sitting there."
Sam frowned, looking back. "I didn't see him leave."
Dean muttered under his breath, "Okay, something is seriously wrong here."
Sam nodded. "Let's get back to the motel."
They returned to the motel room, ate in silence, and then prepared for bed.
Dean set his gun on the nightstand and kicked off his boots. "We need to find that guy tomorrow. He knows something."
Sam sat on the edge of his bed. "Agreed."
Dean jumped into bed with a groan of relief. "Oh, that feels good. Don't wake me up until like nine."
Within minutes, he was out.
==========
Dean woke up.
His senses were all over the place, but he knew one thing: he was definitely not in the motel room bed.
He was in the back seat of a car, a nice car.
"Jensen , wake up. We're here."
Dean's ears were ringing. He turned to his left and saw a stranger, a man in his thirties wearing glasses, smiling at him expectantly.
"What?" Dean croaked.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Jensen , are you all right?"
Dean blinked. "Did you just call me Jensen ?"
The man laughed. "Are you really doing method? I thought that was a joke. Look, come on. We're here."
The man opened the door and got out.
Dean, wide-eyed, looked around. They were parked outside what looked like a studio lot, with trailers and crew members walking around.
"What the hell..." Dean muttered.
Then it clicked. The man had called him Jensen . He remembered that name. That was when Balthazar had sent him and Sam to that alternate reality, the one where they were actors on a TV show based on their lives.
Was he back? Where was Sam?
Before he could process it, a lot of people came his way, assistants, producers, someone with a headset talking rapidly into a walkie-talkie.
"The schedule's tight, so we need to move."
"It's tomorrow."
"Costume in an hour."
"Mr. Adler will be here soon."
Dean barely registered what they were saying. He was being led toward a large trailer with his name on it, well, Jensen 's name.
As they reached the trailer, Dean stopped and held up a hand. "Wait. Stop. I need some time alone."
The assistants looked at each other, confused.
Dean walked into the trailer and shut the door behind him. He leaned against it, breathing hard.
"Fuck," Dean said, trying to calm himself down.
He took a deep breath, then pulled out his phone. Sam had to be here too. Yeah, he had to be.
What was his name again? It was something as stupid as Jensen Ackles.
He scrolled through the contacts: Christopher Nolan, Daniel Adler, Misha Collins.
Wait. Christopher Nolan? Wow. Jensen really went up in the world, Dean thought.
Then he found a familiar name, Jared Padalecki. He quickly called him. It rang twice, and then the call picked up.
"Sam?" Dean said immediately.
"Oh, thank God, Dean," Sam said, his voice tight with relief.
Dean laughed. "We are fucking back in that weird alternate dimension."
"Yeah, I got that when I woke up with Ruby again," Sam said, sounding stressed.
Dean grinned. "Nice."
"No. Not nice."
"Where are you?" Sam asked.
"I don't know, let me check," Dean said, sitting down on the couch in the trailer.
And that's when he saw it on the wall: a framed poster. Him. In a Batsuit.
"No way," Dean breathed.
"Dean, what is it?" Sam asked.
Dean stood up and walked closer to the poster, staring at it in disbelief. It was him, well, Jensen , in an incredibly detailed Batsuit.
He went to the laptop on the table and Googled "Jensen Ackles Batman." Results flooded the screen. He clicked on one, then another.
Jensen Ackles had starred in three Batman movies. As Batman.
Dean laughed, a loud, incredulous sound.
"Dean, what is going on?" Sam asked, his voice rising.
Dean kept scrolling. He saw it was November, and according to everything he was reading, Jensen Ackles was here to film the highly anticipated Justice League movie.
"Holy shit," Dean said.
"Dean, where are you? What's going on?" Sam demanded.
Dean grinned, still staring at the poster and then at the laptop, where he saw himself as Batman in screenshots from the movie.
"Sammy," he said, his voice filled with awe. "I'm Batman, Sammy."
He paused, then added with even more glee, "I'm the motherfucking Batman."
.
.