Author's Note:
Written quite a while ago, but that Key thing got in the way…
This isn't so much an off-the-waller as an out-the-windower. If you see what I mean...
Rated T for language and situations. Posted first at SPNville dot net.
ONE
Sam came out of the motel bathroom, a decidedly huffy look on his face. While this was neither unusual nor cause for alarm in the general order of things, it never failed to make Dean curious.
"Whut?" he asked, finishing lacing his last boot and letting his foot drop to the floor. He watched Sam as he carried his assorted toiletries to his duffle, pushing everything in.
"Forgot to charge my shaver, and this room doesn't seem to have sockets that work," he grumped. "Just got done as it went flat."
"You're lucky then," Dean said pleasantly, getting off the bed and picking up his toiletries bag, heading for the open bathroom door, "that you're too much of a girl to have to shave every day."
"Jerk," Sam muttered to himself, mostly under his breath. Dean smirked as he put his bag down on the bathroom counter, pulling out assorted toothbrushes and shavers. "So are we doing this Seth County thing?" Sam called.
"What Seth County thing?" Dean asked, smearing a generous amount of toothpaste on the brush and jamming it in mouth, scrubbing away.
"The two deaths? I did explain to you last night. Well, I tried, but I think you just passed out from another late-night Nurple shift and I'd be surprised—"
"The guy with the… thing, right?" Dean interrupted, his words suitably slurred by bubbles caused by energetic toothpaste application. "And the… the other guy with the… the other thing?" He spat out a bucket-load of unwanted and unloved Colgate, picking up the tooth mug and filling it with water.
"Yeah, that's the one," Sam said brightly. "Not to be confused with that other guy, who had that other thing," he continued, with the amount of sarcasm he usually saved for a rainy day.
"Aw come on Sam, we had one night off. Just one. Don't start on me. You're just pissed cos no-one bought you drinks," Dean smiled, lifting the mug and rinsing his mouth out. He closed one eye to aim and fired the stream of water at the plughole. He was only slightly off.
"You won at darts!"
"Exactly," Dean sniffed, putting the mug down.
He picked up the towel and pressed it to his chin firmly. He dropped the towel to the counter top, leaning toward the mirror and snapping his teeth together loudly a few times. He scrutinised his pearly-white arsenal for a moment, running his tongue over the foremost teeth appreciatively before turning to look at Sam through the open door.
"I won money, and I got all my drinks for free. Is there any other way to spend an evening?"
"I'm surprised you can't answer that one yourself," Sam quipped.
"Yeah well. Not my fault there were like three guys to every girl in that place. Trust you to pick the only place we're outnumbered," he said off-hand, looking back to the counter top. He pulled out his shaver, plugging it in and flicking the power button.
"Not my fault you're going deaf in your old age. Or just have no short-term memory," Sam pointed out, wiggling a long finger at the kaput power socket.
Dean flicked the shaver on and off a few more times, then aimed a grimace at it that would have turned milk sour. He pulled the plug out again. He switched it over to batteries and found it still deader than a Wendigo with flaming indigestion.
"Super," he tutted, winding up the power cord and pushing it back in his bag. He leaned again toward the mirror, scrubbing at the short bristles over his chin thoughtfully.
"Dude, no-one's going to notice," Sam chided impatiently. "It's the wrong colour."
"True," Dean mused. "Didn't do it yesterday either, though."
"Does it matter?"
"'Spose not," he shrugged, zipping up his bag and walking out of the bathroom. He pushed it into his duffle and pulled it closed. "Ok then, we done?"
"Ten minutes ago," Sam said pointedly.
"Ok cub-scout, keep your hair on," Dean smiled, swinging his bag onto his shoulder and making for the door. Sam just followed, shaking his head.
The rear-view mirror was a beautiful vortex of orange, pink and purple swirls, heralding the start of another spectacular sunset. Had it known that two young sons of Winchester had completely failed to notice its majesty and awe-inspiring cohesion of colour and light, it may have been a tad put out. However, just as the boys failed to mark the passing of an incredible sunset, so the sunset failed to mark the significance of Dean swinging the Impala into the parking lot of a small but busy hotel. As he killed the engine and turned to his left, he looked up at all the curtains closed over the room windows.
"So why are we here?" he asked curiously.
"Unexplained suicides," Sam replied neatly, "two of."
"So?"
"So we also have reports of spirit sightings," Sam smiled. "I'm thinking they didn't jump, they were pushed."
"Hmm," Dean grunted, apparently absorbed in studying the hotel facade. "First one?"
"Samuel Petrie," Sam supplied, looking at his notes in his lap. "Took a dive from the top floor. Thirty-nine, with a wife and two small kids in the next state. Apparently no problems."
"Other than meeting the sidewalk not as Nature intended," Dean observed, squeaking the door open and climbing out.
Sam leaned over to the back seat, pushing his notebook into his duffle. He lifted it over the seat and got out of his side, closing the door quietly.
"And the second one?" Dean asked him, turning back through the door to fetch his duffle too.
"Ah… Michael Brown," he said. "Also apparently jumped from the top floor. Twenty-three, single, was just staying here cos he was in town for a convention."
"A convention?" Dean grimaced with a truck-load of palpable distaste. "Like fan-worship groupie crap?"
"Like… hang on," Sam said, pulling the notebook from his bag again. He read quickly, walking round the car to catch up with his brother as he walked toward the reception doors. "Dentist's assistant – nurse. Dental nurse."
"He was a nurse?" Dean blinked.
"Yeah. A pretty good one, or his boss would not have sent him on this all-expenses-paid trip."
"Male nurses," Dean snorted as he walked in through the door. "Sounds like a lame-ass attempt to get into the nurses' locker room to me."
Sam pushed at him in slight annoyance as they walked into a nicely carpeted lobby. It couldn't have been more than a hundred foot square, but it was adorned with enough pot plants and tasteful yet cheerful paintings to re-adjust even Dean's grumpiness from an eight-hour car journey.
"Good evening to you," said a rather upbeat lady at the desk. Built on the generous side, she perked at the very sight of them. Her long brown hair was pulled into a friendly but professional bun, her small black-rimmed glasses making her seem more cheeky than austere. She appeared to be in her late-thirties. "And how are you two gents?"
"Groovin' on the inside, thanks for askin'," Dean said genially, stopping at the counter and dropping his duffle at his feet in a way that told a long, detailed tale of weariness. Sam stopped behind him, putting the notebook away and looking around. He felt himself starting to relax, despite the history of the place.
"Can I interest you in a room?" she beamed.
"You certainly can," Dean replied gratefully. "Miss…?"
"Backet," she smiled. "But please, call me Lucy."
"If you insist, Lucy," he smiled.
"And what kind of room would you two fine gents be after?" she asked knowingly. "I have doubles, specials, or the luxury suite."
"Oooh, well, never could resist a bit of luxury," Dean admitted, rubbing his hands together.
"Luxury it is, then," she winked, turning to the computer on the side of the desk. She tapped away, searching quickly.
"Backet… As in The Backet Hotel? So this your place, then?" Dean asked, effecting surprise.
"It sure is. I've been running this place for ten years, now."
"That's impressive," Dean fished.
"Certainly is. It's not always been easy," she admitted, a small shadow passing over her face.
"Why's that?" Dean asked politely, a small smile covering the need to know. She paused in her computer work, looking at him slowly. She looked at Sam, then back at Dean.
"You… haven't heard of this place?" she asked, apparently a little surprised.
"Uhh…" Dean turned and looked at Sam. He shook his head with his usual Oscar-winning portrayal of Innocence In The Face Of Interrogatives, and Dean looked back at her. "Can't say we have. As a matter of fact, we've been on the road for a while, state-to-state, and this was just the best-looking place to park the car for a spell," he nodded pleasantly.
"Oh, well, lucky us," she said, smiling again. "Don't go listening to the local gossip."
"What do we have to ignore?" Sam asked politely, and she looked at him.
"Well they'll tell you we have ghosts here," she said off-hand. "Of course it's rubbish," she added loudly. Dean blinked.
"Ghosts?" he pressed. "Really?"
"Of course not," she replied, again a little loudly. "We don't believe in such things."
Dean turned slightly to catch Sam with a look side-on.
Sam's eyes decided they'd had enough of being told what to do by a brain busy mulling over a million things at once. Multi-tasking was one thing, but simply taking repetitive orders for dull manoeuvres was something else. His eyes wanted a change, something different; they wanted freedom from tyranny, independent movement, self-reliance. They took the executive decision to bypass the orders from Sam's brain and do their own thing as only they knew how.
They rolled all by themselves.
"Oh!" Lucy tutted. The boys looked back at her.
"That computer attacking you over there?" Dean teased.
"Just clumsy is all," she managed, bending behind the desk and picking up her fallen pen. "Anyway, we try hard to provide the best night's sleep we can round here."
She passed over a simple form that asked for names and contact numbers of the guests. Dean pulled it toward him as she handed him the pen.
"I'm sure you do," Sam put in easily. He waited until she was not looking at him. He nudged his brother, sending him an obvious 'it's not working' frown. "Can I ask a question, though?" he added to Lucy.
"Of course," she smiled. Sam looked back at Dean, who gestured to her slightly with his head.
"Now you mention it… The name of this place does sound familiar. I was reading the paper as we drove in, and it mentioned some people had died around here… Was it here?" Sam said quietly, leaning on the counter.
She paled and looked at her computer quickly as Dean paused in his writing and snapped his fingers.
"You know, that's right," he said, as if surprised at himself. "I heard someone got gank— er, died just recently," he amended quickly.
"We've had some bad luck, yes," she managed. "But nothing like the newspaper makes up." She refused to look at him, keeping her face on the computer booking screen. "It was a man - poor thing. Threw himself clean off the roof," she admitted quietly. "We still don't know why he did it. But please, rest assured that this is by no means a dangerous hotel," she added with a haste that would have put Dean checking the depth of a scratch in the Impala's paintwork to shame.
"I'm sure it's nothing of the kind," Dean smiled generously, and she looked up at him for a moment. He simply smiled and finished entering the information on the card.
"Well, anyway. You have our only luxury room, on the twenty-fifth floor, gentlemen," she said with some recovered cheer. "Just two floors down from the top, and actually, our biggest and grandest room. I suppose you could call it the penthouse."
"Sounds like my kinda place," Dean grinned, pulling out his wallet and finding a credit card. He slid it and the form back to her across the desk. She scanned them quickly before picking up the credit card and getting busy with the processing machine.
"Breakfast is between six and nine, Mr Scott, and if you want to wander round this lovely town, the maid can give your room a spritz while you're out. Just leave the card on the outside of the door."
"Thank you very much," Dean replied, taking the credit card slip she passed him and signing it fluidly.
"My husband would have been pleased," she said suddenly, and Dean looked up as he slid the slip back to her.
"Oh?"
"Well, we've never had men like yourselves stay here before," she grinned. "And you'll do wonders for our image."
"Right," Dean said slowly, clearly confused. She just winked at him, further cementing his bemusement. "So…"
"Oh, I'm sorry." She rang a bell on the counter and a slight looking lad appeared, presumably just old enough to work. "Patrick," she said smartly. "Take these nice men up to the luxury suite, please."
"Yes Mom – ah, Ms Backet," he said quickly. Dean nodded to her before casting Sam a glance. They picked up their duffles and followed the frail young man to the lifts.
"Here we are, sirs," Patrick said politely.
"Thanks," Sam said, nodding to him as Patrick unlocked the door for him and handed him the keycard. "Uh, how old are you?" he added politely.
"Fifteen, sir. Anything else I can get you, sir?"
Dean walked past them and into the room, smiling at the neat, clean white walls. He took in the small tasteful paintings framed at moderate expense and the smell of clean linen and pristine carpets. Then his face dropped in befuddlement.
"Dude, we're a bed short," he announced, confused. He turned to look at Sam, still in the doorway. Sam looked quite a way down at Patrick.
"Does the luxury room not come with luxury beds?" he asked politely.
Patrick's mouth worked for a long second, but nothing came out.
Dean, oblivious, walked over to the overly-large yet unique bed, dropping his duffle on it and stretching his arms out in front of him.
"Well, I got me a huge bunk, looks like you're sleeping on the floor, man," he grinned, bouncing down on the bed and letting himself fall over onto his back. He sighed in a rather too-contented fashion.
Sam looked back at Patrick. "Is there any way to change the room?" he asked cheerfully. "Normally we take two beds."
"Oh, er, sorry – very sorry sir," he stumbled quickly, and Sam couldn't help it; he huffed.
"Alright, calm down. It's no big deal," he said, letting his weariness show. "You can go, and we'll sort this out in the morning."
"Thank you sir," he squeaked, and turned and ran.
Sam walked into the room, closing the door tiredly. He leaned back on it, finding his brother already dosing on his back. He shook his head slowly, looking round and finding a rather large ornate sofa anyway.
"Looks like I'm taking the sofa," he said to himself. He dropped his duffle by the side of the generously-sized piece of furniture, looking back at Dean. "Dude!" he called over.
"Hmm."
"I'm taking the sofa."
"Hmm."
"And all of your blankets."
"Hmm."
"And I'm selling the Impala for a MacBook Air," he added, more loudly.
"Hmm," Dean managed.
Sam sighed, then began to peel his jacket off.