The yammering of his phone woke Sam from a sound sleep and his arm shot out without conscious thought, aiming for his bedside table. Instead of grabbing his phone, however, his hand knocked it to the floor, and the irritating marimba sound continued on. Grumbling, he threw the covers back and bent over the side of the bed, scrabbling around blindly for the phone. Again, instead of grasping it, his hand knocked it further away. The marimba kept playing.
Fully awake and fully irritated, he slid off the bed and peered under it. Sleep-mussed hair fell into his eyes; he brushed it back with one irritated hand, holding it out of his way, while reaching with the other for the phone, which was squarely in the middle and still warbling.
"Goddammit!" he snarled. He rearranged his body flat against the floor and stretched his long arm out, head cocked to the side and smashed against the side of the bed. Fingers flexed as he tried to reach the phone, but being unable to see what he was doing, he managed to push it further away instead. He let out an inarticulate growl of frustration.
"Hey, Sammy, do us all a favor and shut that damned thing up!"
Sam popped his head up over the side of the bed to glare wildly at Dean, standing in his bedroom doorway. "Just what do y'think I'm trying to do, idiot?!" His mood was not improved by Dean's exaggerated fearful expression and hands raised to fend him off.
"Whoa! Don't shoot the messenger!" Dean said over the warbling. "It's just I can hear the damn thing all the way back in the kitchen!"
"Gah!" Sam stood up and looked wildly around the room, searching for something to use as a hook to pull the irritating object closer. While he was looking, Dean bent over by the other side of the bed, scooped up the phone, and turned the alarm off. In the blessed, lovely silence, Dean held the phone out to him without a word, eyebrows raised with an air of smug superiority.
Sam snatched it back with another growl and dropped it on his bedside table. Dean grinned.
"C'mon. I've made huevos rancheros. Let's get some food into you, see if it puts you in a better mood. Things to do, places to go - it's errand day, Sammy!" he sang out, and swooped out the bedroom door. Sam shot a sour look after him, lips pressed together, then relaxed and snorted. Food did sound like a good idea, and, alarm adventures aside, it was kind of nice to have a day of mundane errands before them. No monsters to fight, no end-of-the-world disasters facing them, just a pleasant, boring time motoring around town getting the dry-cleaning, a hair trim, buying supplies for the bunker.
He scrubbed his hands through his hair, yawned, stretched, and then shuffled out the door to the kitchen. The tantalizing aroma of chorizo pulled him forward.
Sam spent the time on the drive to Kearney alternating between the crossword puzzle and sudoku in the KC Star. Dean sang along to the classic rock roaring out of the speakers. Sam did his best to ignore it. Summer heat poured in through the open windows, and when they finally stopped at Pretty Darn Good Cleaners and stepped out of the car, the stillness of the air magnified the heat so it slammed into them like a hot mallet.
Dean was singing "Jet City Woman" off key as he pulled his seat forward and reached in for the bundles of suiting. Sam winced at the off-key singing which had been obscured by the loud music, took one of the bundles, and they walked in the door. The air conditioning slammed into them as hard as the heat had, making Sam gasp at the contrast and shiver slightly. Sweat dried on their foreheads as they ambled up to the counter and dropped the bundles.
Dean thumped a hand down on the little old-fashioned counter bell, making it jangle loudly, and called out, "Yoo-hoo! Hey, Gina!" Sam leaned his forearms on the counter and smiled at her as she slid sideways between the plastic-wrapped bunches on the clothes trolley. As always, petite, slender, dark curly hair, deep brown eyes - Angela was his type, and he enjoyed flirting with her when they made their monthly run. A dimple appeared beside her vivid red lips as a smile peeped out at him.
"Hey, Gina," he greeted her. The dimple deepened as she leaned on the counter opposite him. "We're here to pick up last month's and drop off the new batch."
"And flirt," Dean added, poking his brother in the side with an elbow. Sam rolled his eyes. Something was off with Gina, he could tell; the dimple wasn't as deep as normal, her attention seemed to be divided, and he could have sworn her hands were shaking. Concerned, he straightened a bit.
"Hey. You okay?" He frowned, worried and feeling protective. She looked down at the counter, bit her lips, rubbed a finger alongside the worn edge, and shrugged.
"Oh, it's nothing. I just keep thinking someone's here, I don't know why. I'll be fine." She flashed a strained smile at him. "Got your ticket, boys?"
Dean fished in his jeans pocket, and held up a sweaty, crumpled piece of paper between two fingers. She shook her head at him and snatched it away, diving back into the shrouds of plastic.
Dean shivered and rubbed his arms. "Jeez, Gina, y'all need to turn the AC down!"
She poked her head back out and grinned. "Yeah, yeah, love to, hon, but it's on the fritz. I turn it down, nothing happens. We've got Beau coming over to fix it." She withdrew her head, the clothes trolley started moving in squeaking fits and starts, and then she reappeared holding carefully wrapped and hung suits. She slung the hangers on the waiting rod, dropped the ticket on the counter, and started sorting through the clothes they had brought in, shaking her head. "Look at this. What do you boys do to make such a mess?!" Her finger poked through a slice in one of Dean's shirts. He hunched his shoulders, looking vaguely guilty. "You need to treat your business clothes better," she chided him. "Extra for the repair work."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, still looking guilty.
The clothes trolley came back to life with a jerk and a squeal. Gina froze, her lips pressed together and a muscle jumping at the corner of her jaw. She stabbed at the button behind the counter a few times, and finally the trolley stopped, bundles of clothes swaying. "Gotta get that fixed, too," she muttered. "That's probably why I feel like someone's here," she added with a small, shaky laugh. "That'll be sixty-five oh two, Dean."
Dean grumbled beneath his breath, but fished in his pockets again for his wallet.
Sam took one of Gina's hands and smiled warmly at her. "So what're you doing tonight?"
She leaned forward and said softly, "Hmmm. That depends..."
"Dinner and a movie...?" he suggested. She drew her breath to answer, eyes sparkling with amusement, and the clothes trolley rattled into action again. At the same time, the temperature in the cleaners plummeted, and Sam could see his breath hanging in the air between them. Gina stood up, rubbing her arms, and started punching at the trolley button again. While doing that, she looked up. Her eyes focused behind the boys, a small whimper forced its way out of her mouth, then her face turned white, her eyes rolled up, and she crumpled to the floor in a faint.
Sam and Dean reacted before her body hit the ground. Sam whirled around, to find a stuttering black-and-white image of a man a foot away, leering at him with savage satisfaction. The ghost lifted a hand and Sam went flying across the room to smash against the wall. He slid down, emitting a faint "whoof!" of gasping air, then scrabbled to pull himself back to his feet.
"Shit shit shit shit! What the hell is a ghost doing at a dry cleaners?!" Dean shouted, ducking beneath a suit that had belled out as if inflated and was floating across the room. Another suit filled with air and followed the first, and another, and another. Sam stared at them in a daze and mumbled, "Like jellyfish...", then ducked to the floor as one swooped in his direction, unembodied arms reaching for him.
The clothes trolley rattled and clanked louder, the clothes, in their plastic cocoons, swaying and rustling as the track moved faster.
"Salt! Sam, got salt?!" Dean swayed sideways to avoid one of the floating suits, only to discover that he had moved into the path of another one, which promptly enveloped his face, wrapping him in poly-linen fabric. He said something else, but all that emerged was a muffled "Mmmf! Mmm mmmf mm mmm mmmf!"
Sam glanced wildly around, looking for salt. He saw none, but did see an iron resting on an ironing board behind the counter. He vaulted over the counter, stumbled to avoid stepping on Gina, and crashed into the ironing board, sending it clattering to the floor. He managed to snag the iron on its way down, and whirled back around, iron held defensively before him. Dean was staggering backwards, hands pulling at the suit jacket smothering him.
Sam vaulted the counter again, and swiped at the suit with the iron. Abruptly dis-inflating, the jacket slithered to the floor, and Dean huffed, gasped, scrubbed at his face, then eyed the iron dubiously. "Dude, that's stainless!"
Sam stepped around him to place his brother at his back, and answered, "Yeah, I know, but stainless has some iron in it, right?" The ghost reappeared in front of him and he slashed at it with the iron. It withdrew a bit with a frown, then pushed forward again. Sam waved the iron again, and the same thing happened.
Dean, who had peered around his brother and watched with professional interest, muttered, "Yeah, but not enough, I'm guessing." He looked around, in between the floating suits, for anything to use as a weapon. "We should take to carrying salt shakers with us all the time..."
"Or packets of salt from fast-food places." Sam was still cleaving the air before him with the iron, keeping the ghost at bay. With each swing, though, the ghost withdrew less and inched closer afterwards.
Dean caught a glimpse of Gina's head poking out over the counter. Her face was still pale and her eyes wide, and she looked as if she might collapse again at any moment. "Oh, no no no, Gina, stay with us, kiddo!" Her wide eyes locked on his and she gave him a faint nod. "Good girl. Tell me quick, got any salt in this place?" Stunned, she shook her head, then her eyes started following one of the floating suits and got even wider. "No no no, don't look at them," Dean said loudly over the rattle and clank of the trolley, the whispering rustle of the plastic wrappings. "Look at me, there's a good girl. No salt. Okay. Got something made of iron? Like a fireplace poker or something?"
She started to shake her head again, then stopped, thinking. "I think...maybe?" Her voice quivered, but she kept her eyes focused on Dean, trying to avoid looking at the suits, or the trolley whirling away behind her, or the ghost stuttering like an old-time film before Sam.
"Great. Awesome. Someplace you can get to it?" She nodded. "Off you go!" She blinked at him, then started backing up, still focused on him. She gulped one or two times, then took a steadying breath, whirled around, and dove under the moving clothes.
"Dean, we need that thing of Gina's quick," Sam muttered between gasping breaths, still swinging the iron. "Dude's getting ideas here." He made another pass with the iron, but the gaunt-faced ghost just snickered and blinked out, then back into existence right in Sam's face - behind the iron. Before Sam could say anything more, the ghost reached into him, hand vanishing into Sam's chest, and all Sam could feel was a spear of ice lancing through him, squeezing around his heart. He staggered back against Dean, then slid downwards, clutching at his midsection and groaning.
"Sam!" Dean grabbed him and held him on the way down, baring his teeth at the ghost, which was still reaching into Sam.
"Dean!" He turned his head at the call; it was Gina, peering over the counter, fave aghast at the sight of what the ghost was doing. She cocked her arm back and something went hurtling through the air. Dean reached out a hand to catch it - some small, heavy thing - and then swung his hand straight through the ghost. The ghost screeched and disappeared in a puff of grey and black vapor. Dean sagged in relief, holding Sam tight.
"Sam! Sammy!" He peered down at his brother's grey face and purple lips, and his heart clenched for a moment. He barely registered the sound of the trolley screeching to a halt, or the sight of three suits crumpling into heaps on the floor. Then Sam drew in a deep, shuddering gasp and started coughing, and color flooded back into his face.
Dean heard a rustling, and then Gina was kneeling beside him, darting nervous glances around.
"Is Sam okay? Is that - that thing gone? What was it? Why'd it look like granddad?What the hell is going on?!" It all came out in one burst as she began to realize that the episode was over. Dean looked down into his hand, at the object she had thrown to him. It was a small, cast iron fisherman, pipe jutting out between his teeth. He turned it over and over, then handed it back to her.
"Yeah, I think so, Sam's probably okay, the ghost is gone- for now - and it looked like your granddad because it probably is your granddad." She drew in a gulping breath, paused, then nodded. "So where's he buried?"
She blinked at him in confusion. "Um, nowhere? We cremated him?"
"Awesome," Dean muttered.
Sam sighed, pulled himself out of Dean's arms, and smiled at Gina. "Do you have something of his? Hair, a locket, something important to him?"
She frowned in thought. "The only thing I can think of his the collection of fishing flies he left us...fishing and the cleaners, those were his passions in life..."
"Fishing lures. Hmm. Are they here? Could we see them?"
She smiled back at Sam. "Hold on a sec." She darted away.
Dean looked at Sam with a concerned frown. "Dude. He had his fist right inside you! You sure you're okay?"
Sam shrugged. "Can't say I liked it; felt like I was being stabbed by the world's largest icicle...but, yeah, I think I'm good."
Dean squinted at him with suspicion. "Yeah, well, it looked like a heart attack. If you feel anything, dammit, you let me know!"
Sam rolled his eyes, and levered himself to a stand, leaning against the counter. "Yeah, yeah, quit worrying. I'm fine." He watched as Gina emerged between some clothes carrying a tackle box. She set it down carefully on the counter and opened it with gentle hands, looking down at the contents.
"What gets me is, why attack us? We're regular customers, nice guys, pay our bills..." Dean sounded injured. Gina flicked her eyes up to him and chuckled.
"Oddly enough, that one I can understand! Granddad was always pretty persnickety about people's clothes. He'd have given you hell about that gash in your shirt!" She stopped, looked out into the customer area where the ghost had been, and snorted. "Maybe that's just what he was doing?"
"Hunh. Still doesn't seem fair. Kinda judgmental, if you ask me." While he chewed that over, Sam poked around the lures, turning one, then another, over in his hands and examining them carefully.
"Well, I'm not seeing anything that looks like hair," he sighed. Dean peered into the box and pointed at one.
"So what's that stuff? The white fluff?"
Gina reached in and pulled the lure out. "Oh! Oh, yeah, I remember this. There should be about ten of them," she said. "He used the stuffing from his old fishing vest when it finally got too worn out to use anymore." She snorted again. "He said he was going to make sure it had one last chance at catching some big ones..." She looked down at the lure with a fond smile, eyes far away, lost in memories.
Dean looked at Sam. "That's it."
Sam nodded agreement. "Gina," he said softly, giving her hand a gentle touch. "Those lures with the stuffing from the old fishing vest are probably what's anchoring him here. We have to burn them." She looked up at him, hurt and grief in her eyes. "Gina, what we saw - that's not your granddad any more. What he is, is dangerous. He almost killed me. If we don't...deal with him, he will kill someone." He folded his long fingers around her hand holding the lure. "You don't want to remember him that way."
She bit her lip, a tear spilling down her cheek, and nodded. He took the lure from her, and she started rummaging through the remaining tackle, locating every last one that used the fluff. When she was find shed, it made a sad little heap on the counter. She poked at it once, smiled wryly, and whispered, "Bye, Pop-pop." Sam and Dean waited, and when she looked up and gave them a nod, Dean pulled out his lighter, flicked it open, and lit the tiny pile on fire.
"Nooooooooo!" The ghost materialized beside the counter, face stricken. "Gina, baby girl!" But the fluff, long dry, burned swift and fast, and his see-through manifestation went up in flames with it. A few last sparks whirled up to the ceiling and vanished. The three stood and looked up at that spot for a few moments.
Then Dean swooped down and plucked their suits from the floor, holding them up with a rueful look. Gina stared at them, mouth ajar, for a second and moaned.
"Oh, Lordy. Well, boys, I'll make it my priority to have these redone by this evening. Gonna be around town that long?"
"Guess so," Dean said, eyeing the suits. Sam nodded agreement.
Gina sighed. "No charge."
Dean drummed a triumphant tattoo on the counter, ending with a full-handed slap. "Well, then, we'll be off. Catch you later!"
As they emerged into the hot summer sunshine, Sam said, "Well. That was unexpected." Climbing into Baby, he added, "Now we're off for hair trims. No problem, right?"
Dean slid behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. "Yup. All nice and normal for the rest of the day!" He started singing along with the radio as he slid the car out into the street, heading off to the nearest SuperCuts.