Chapter One of Many

Cape Cod, Massachusetts

The shiny black impala, shimmering in the early morning sunlight with dew from the night before, was the only car on the forested New England road. Its engine purred mischievously as it cruised along. The driver of the car rolled down his window and steadily stepped on the accelerator, increasing the volume of the radio as he did so. The passenger, who had been sleeping, groaned at the sudden loud noise. He tried, by turning away, to use his body as a shield against the pounding music, but he was too big and was choked by the seat belt. The passenger squirmed around for a few more seconds before reaching for the eject button. The driver tried to slap his hand away, but the other man already had the cassette in his hands and, with a gesture, threatened to throw it out of his window. At this, the driver simply looked offended.

"Come on, Sammy, it's classic. You don't want to do anything drastic here," he pleaded as the man on the passenger side glared at him, dangling the tape dangerously out the window. The impala swerved slightly, almost in laughter.

"Be careful, Dean! I won't throw away the tape, okay? Just don't run us off the road." Sam shook his head and stuffed the tape safely in his pant's pocket. A man on the radio, which had come on sometime during the hostage situation, finished up an advertisement for 'all natural dog food' and announced his station's morning playlist in a voice that was a little bit too enthusiastic.

"Now to start up our Way-Back Weekend, here's a good one by Morrissey: Everyday Is Like Sunday."

Dean, trying to change the topic to something safer, asked about the case. "So, what do you think this thing is?" He said as he repeatedly pushed the button to turn off the radio, but it stubbornly stayed on. Dean then tried and failed to at least turn the volume down. "Damn radio. Sam, you broke it when you touched it."

"It's your fault for blasting the music so loud all the time." The taller, moose-like man scoffed and pulled out a crumpled article about the sudden deaths of several teens in the small town of Wayfield, Massachusetts. He examined the details of the deaths, though he had already done so several times before, and still could not come up with any plausible ideas as to what it was that caused it.

Sam had to raise his voice to be heard over the music as he read out loud, "four days ago a bunch of hooligans were found in the woods not far from the train station, they had all their teeth missing and exactly 32 quarters in their place. One for each tooth. Says here there are no other injuries, internal or otherwise."

"So, what? You think the Tooth Fairy killed them? Brother, even I know that's crazy." Dean rolled his eyes and turned his head to look at his younger brother, when suddenly Sam let out a girlish scream. The car collided with something with an incredible force, Dean had just enough time to see that it was bright and colorful before he slammed his foot on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt on the shoulder of the road.

"Son of a bitch! Did we hit a deer?" Dean exclaimed, he looked at Sam but he gave no sign of answering. "Sam? You okay?"

"I saw - I mean, I thought I saw…" he trailed off, his voice shaky.

"What? Spit it out. What did you see?" Dean unbuckled his seat belt and moved to open the door.

"Never mind, It was probably just a deer," Sam recomposed himself, "I was just seeing things from lack of sleep, but I think we should check it out anyway." Sam released his own seat belt and stumbled out of the passenger side, following Dean to check on the impala.

"Well, we must've hit something. There's no way that was any pothole. Better not have dented my baby."

" I don't know, Dean. There's nothing on the road-"

"Look at this!" Dean yelled at the massive dent in the car's bumper, interrupting Sam. Dean went to pull out his gun, but Sam stopped him.

"What are you doing? You can't shoot a deer! Anyway, looks like he got away." Sam scolded his brother, then mumbled quietly to himself, "lucky for him."

"Don't be such a hippie, Sam. That deer would have had it comin' to him." Dean, having heard Sam's comment, waved his gun around as a clear threat to future and current deer everywhere. Sam shook his head, thinking his older brother was a hopeless case, and got back into the car. Dean stayed outside shouting in rage at the damage done to his car to no one in particular.

"Come on, car freak. Lets get going, the car won't drive itself." Sam said. After Dean gave no sign of moving, he added optimistically, "she's had worse, you can fix her up easily when we get there." Dean stood outside rooted to the spot, glaring into the surrounding pine trees.

Sam tried again to gently coax Dean into the impala, "Maybe we can get pie when we get to Wayfield."

"Fine," Dean grumbled miserably and got back behind the wheel, slamming the door. The radio announcer, in his upbeat tone, chattered on. Dean started to drive down the road wanting more than anything to just get to the motel already.

"Welcome back to our Way-Back Weekend! All your favorite 80s and 90s music played all weekend, every weekend. If you liked that song you will love what is coming up, we got some Asia and Kansas on the way. So don't turn that dial! And now, a quick word from our sponsors." At that announcement another dog food commercial came on advertising 'real meat in its kibble' and how it was 'perfect for dogs who like to hunt'.

"I wish the damn radio would just turn off." Dean murmured and thought longingly of the cassette still hidden in Sam's pocket. Sam, guessing Dean's trail of thought, moved further away from Dean in his seat.

"No way am I giving this back. Forget it." Sam said firmly. The advertisement came to an end only for ANOTHER dog food company to start selling its product.

"Bitch." Dean seemed on the verge of jumping out of the moving impala as the announcer advertised that this dog food was 'fit for a hell hound' and played a series of ferocious barks and howls that sent a shiver down Dean's spine.

"Uh… Does that radio announcer sound familiar to you?" Sam frowned at the radio, scratching his head as he pondered the familiar voice , which went on about dog food for the fifth time.

"Nope." Dean said dismissively. "What's with all the dog food ads?"

"No clue."

The impala settled into an uncomfortable silence. Even the radio had stopped momentarily, as if it were listening for something more. When nothing interesting happened, it lapsed into static.

They drove on in silence. Dean was too aggravated to put in another cassette from his collection, while Sam stared out the window at the green blur of passing trees, silently happy that the radio had stopped working before the station had a chance to play Heat of the Moment, or some other horror. With nothing else to do, he started counting mile markers. He had counted twelve before they reached a sign that read:

Welcome to Wayfield

Home of the first bakery

Please keep our coastal town clean!

"We need to stop for gas before settling in," Dean announced loudly, startling Sam out of his daydream, "and for some pie."

"Home of the first bakery," Sam quoted the sign, "I wonder if they have credentials to prove that?"

" Who cares? A bakery's a bakery." Dean sighed, "I love this town already." Dean smiled and pulled into Quick-Gaz-Cheap, which was the first gas station they had come across. Next to it was a Dunkin' Donuts, making Sam think longingly of a nice cup of hot coffee and some Wi-Fi. He wondered jokingly if he could get the donut shop's free Wi-Fi from where he was. Dean got out of the car, looking reproachfully again at the obscene dent in the impala's bumper, and started toward the gas pump. He stopped upon seeing the piece of paper taped to the pump that read: Pay Cash Inside.

"Sammy, you want anything from the store?" Dean said, but the Sam hadn't heard him, clearly too absorbed in his Dunkin' Donuts coffee and Wi-Fi fantasy. Dean racked his knuckles on the partially rolled down window to get his brother's attention.

"What?"

"Do you want anything from the store?" Dean repeated, pointing at the sign on the pump, he added, "they make you pay inside… and I want to see if they have any pie."

"No thanks... Wait a second, you're going to buy pie from a convenience store when the welcome sign to this town screams, 'we have awesome bakeries! Come, eat our baked goods!'" Sam shook his head in disbelief.

"Gas station food is cheap and delicious. It's the best of both worlds, Sammy." He was about to walk away when he turned back and said, "I ain't gonna miss out on those bakery pies either. We're definitely getting some later."

Sam laughed. "Hurry up and get gas then. We can go to the bakery after solving this case." Dean snorted at that remark, like Sam could actually keep him away from the pie until after they had hunted whatever it was that killed those kids.

Dean strutted up to the store, ignoring the fact that two people who just exited the store in front of him had stopped talking suddenly in the middle of their conversation and stared at the Impala's blatant damage. Dean glared at them as he walked past and went into the store; bells rang mockingly as he opened the door. He emerged a few minutes later holding a plastic bag. He went to Sam's side of the car and tossed him a couple of granola bars, even though he hadn't asked for them. Dean knew Sam liked to eat healthily and shivered at the mere idea of living without his precious junk food. He then proceeded to fill his baby up with gas while whispering tenderly to it.

"Shh. I won't let another big bad deer hurt you ever again. Everything will we better soon, I promise." He cooed, lovingly patting the roof of the car.

"Dean, you better not be talking to the impala again." Sam sighed then turned around to check the back seat for his jacket, the weather was colder than he expected, although it was the middle of Summer. His expression went from confused to horrified as he gasped. Frantically, Sam undid his seat belt and flailed out of the car. He cautiously looked in the back window, but there was no mistaking it, a clown wig of the rainbow variety and a large red nose that suspiciously looked like it would honk when squeezed were sitting comfortably on the seat.

"What's going on with you?" Dean tilted his head at his brother, questioning his strange behavior.

"Did you put those stupid clown props in the back seat?" Sam demanded, pointing at the back of the car. Dean finished up filling the impala and peaked into the backseat.

"What props? I don't see anything." Dean gave Sam a concerned look.

"Stop messing with me, it's right the-," Sam turned to look back inside, but the props had disappeared. "Oh."

"You're losing it, man. All those vegetables are ruining your eyesight, especially the carrots. You need some good old artificial sugar. Want some pie? I got two." Dean placed the bag on the roof of the car.

"No, Dean. I just need some sleep. By the way, carrots don't ruin your eyesight." Sam snapped, annoyed at his brother's joking manner.

"Alright, don't throw a tantrum. Why don't we check into a motel? I'll go out and try to figure out what this thing is while you get some sleep." Dean held up his free hand in surrender and moved his precious pies to the safety of the backseat. With the smell of gas lingering in the car, they got in, Dean went slightly over the speed limit as he drove off in the direction of a motel like a man on an important mission.

The motel's name was The Lazy Lobster Motel. It bragged of 'a good view of the water' and had the motto 'Quick-Zzs-Cheap'. It was rather doubtful there was any view out of the low windows other than the parking lot. With that motto, Sam wondered if it was owned by the same person that owned the gas station. The neon 'Vacancy Open' sign shone a faded red, and the letter 'y' sparked every few minutes as it blinked on and off. Dean slowed as he pulled into the parking lot and smoothly fit the impala into a space located near the front doors of the motel.

"Don't you think it's a little empty here for the tourist season on the coast?" Sam commented looking around and counting only three cars. One being the impala and the other two most likely belonging to employees.

"Tourists don't usually stay in ratty old motels. Anyway, at least you won't have to worry about loud neighbors, not to mention nosy ones. Come on, let's check in." Dean opened the glove department and picked out one of his credit cards, looking at it to make sure it wasn't one that had already been maxed out. The name on the platinum card read Emmett Brown. He fished around the car for his Emmett Brown ID, finding it in with his cassettes.

"How do you keep track of anything?" Sam grumbled as he got out of the car and stretched his incredibly long and stiff limbs.

"Don't patronize me, Mr. Daddy Long Legs. I have a system in place here," Dean retorted as he exited the car, stretching his shorter arms and cracking his neck. The brothers walked into the unimpressive lobby of The Lazy Lobster and sauntered over to the desk.

The man at the desk sat back in his chair, facing away from the counter, he leaned back with his feet up on a table that held a TV connected to the security cameras. He happened to be reading an issue of Dog Fancy magazine. The boys waited expectantly at the desk, but he didn't notice them even though they were clearly shown on the TV screen in front of him. Finally, Sam cleared his throat loudly to get his attention. The man turned around, and on his face was the most fake looking ginger mustache in existence. He looked irritated at having been interrupted. His name tag was engraved with the words: Greg Finnegan. Manager.

"How can I help you?" he asked unenthusiastically. He took one look at Sam and Dean and smiled derisively.

"Don't you own the gas station two blocks back?" Dean questioned, "'cause if you do, you got here pretty fast."

"Nah, you got me confused with my brother. We're twins. He's my biggest competitor."

"Really? A gas station is your biggest competitor?" Sam laughed, assuming Finnegan was joking.

"You got something' to say, boyo?" Finnegan gave a disapproving look at Sam's height. " I don't give rooms to tall rude meeses."

"Uh, sorry about my little brother. He's cranky," Dean said quickly, subtly stepping on Sam's foot.

"He ain't little." The manager scoffed. "How many?"

"Got anything with two beds?" Dean said, trying not to be rude.

"'Fraid we only have rooms with three beds."

"Well, it'll work," Dean said, handing the manager 'his' credit card. Finnegan swiped the card and ran the numbers.

"Yah got room 666. It's down the hall to the left." The manager returned the credit card and reached under the desk so far that he was almost completely concealed by it. He cursed loudly as he stood up and banged his head on the counter. Finnegan gave them the keys to their room, rubbing the sore bald spot at the back of his head. And almost like an after thought he added, "If you're in town about the bakery, I know a good one. It ain't the first bakery the town's famous for, but it's called Quick-Piez-Cheap," Finnegan smiled with his suspiciously fake-looking mustache "I would highly recommend it."

Dean looked at Sam and shrugged, then they made their way down the hall toward the room. Finnegan, pretending to have continued reading his magazine, watched them closely as they went.

Everything from the wallpaper to the curtains was lobster themed in the room, even the headboards of the beds had lobster carvings. It made Dean crave an all you can eat lobster dinner. Sam scowled at the little lobster bobble heads strewn around the room. One was placed haphazardly on every table.

"What gift shop barfed on this room? How does anyone sleep in here with all these little beady eyes staring at you?" Sam's scowl deepened.

"At least they're not clowns, right?" Dean suppressed his laughter by clearing his throat.

"Don't even joke about that. This is serious, we should be tracking down that murdering tooth thief. "

"You mean, I should be tracking down this Tooth Fairy bastard. You should be getting some shut-eye. Want me to tuck you in, Sammy? Tell you a story?"

"You can take your story and shove it up your -"

"Alright, alright! But I'm going and taking these pies with me. No pie for you." Dean said indignantly. He could see how tired Sam was and his expression softened into a brotherly smile. "Just get some sleep. I'm really worried about you."

"I will," Sam said reassuringly, adding as Dean opened the door, "be careful."

"Who do you think you're talking to? I'm always careful." He winked at his younger brother as he closed the door, locking it behind him.

Sam let himself fall back on one of the beds and sighed heavily. He glanced up at the clock and wrinkled his nose in disgust. A large, cartoony lobster was splattered on the clock face. He lay back on the lobster patterned sheets, and without even realizing it, fell into a light sleep.

It could have been hours later, or minutes, Sam couldn't tell. He was sleeping peacefully, sprawled out on the bed with his legs hanging over the side, when he was abruptly woken up by the blaring sound of someone's car from the parking lot.

We should have asked for a room on the rear side of the building, Sam thought irritably, then he realized that the incessant honking sounded very familiar, and his mind immediately drifted to the impala. He looked around the room quickly, but Dean isn't back yet. He checked the time and saw that only fifteen minutes had passed since Dean had left. Was Dean the one honking the impala? If so, Sam had a few things to say to him, a few strongly worded things.

Sam leapt from the bed, suddenly energized by anger with his brother. He grabbed his room key and, taking one last distasteful look around the room, he left, ruffled hair and all, slamming the door behind him without bothering to lock it. He stomped down the hallway, fuming. He was ready even to throw some snarky remarks at that motel manager if he decided to insult him by calling him 'moosey' again. Instead of finding the manager in the Lobby as he had expected, Finnegan had gone on a lunch break. It was only ten in the morning. Another lobster themed sign said in messy handwriting, 'Out to Lunch. Be Back in 1 hour'. Sam didn't think much of it, other than the fact that Finnegan was a pretty irresponsible manager.

Outside, the car continued to honk in one long drawn out earsplitting note. In a furious run, Sam threw the glass doors to the motel open and went outside, his long stride got him to the car in just three steps. The honking suddenly ceased when he reached the driver's side window. Sam's mouth dropped open. He was surprised to see that there was no one sitting in the impala, and the moosey man completely forget his anger at Dean.

"What is going on?" Sam scanned the parking lot, looking for someone who could be the culprit, possibly a hiding Dean or irresponsible motel manager. However, not a single other person or car was in sight. The parking lot was deserted save for himself and the Impala.

Suddenly the car horn started blaring again, making Sam jump. He bent over to take another look in the car, and noticed that the door was unlocked and the keys were casually flopped on the passenger's seat.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" Sam called, acknowledging that this scene rather resembled some kind of trap or horror film. All the same, Sam opened the door and darted in, determined to find out what had happened to Dean.

Somehow, the radio clicked on, even though the car as off. It was only static for a few moments, but Sam thought he could hear subtle voices. He leaned in, pressing his ear to the speaker when, all of a sudden, it screeched.

"GOOD MORNING VIETNAM! AND GOOD MORNING LOVELIES!" At the noise, Sam recoiled and slapped his hands over his ears. He moved to get out of the car, but some kind of force held him back against the seat as the door slammed itself shut. All the doors in the car locked in cannon.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

"Now! How about we play an oldie but a goodie," the radio went on cheerily, "this is for all you Asia fans out there! You know who you are."

There it was. The song of the devil was playing, no, blasting through the speakers. Heat of the Moment. Just as Sam was convincing himself that it was all a nightmare, the engine revved up. He watched in horror as the stick shifted by itself and he tried helplessly to hold it in place. The impala speeded backwards and stopped short of hitting the pole of the Vacancy sign, the momentum of it all flung Sam's large body around in his seat, giving him a serious case of motion sickness.

His only thought at that moment was, but it's not even tuesday today.

Sam slumped over in his seat, willing himself to refrain from throwing up. Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder. A series of high pitched, manic giggles came from the back seat, and the color drained from Sam's face.

Please don't be clowns, he prayed frantically, please please please…

The impala's engine revved threateningly again, and before Sam had a chance to compose himself, the car surged forward, turning sharply as it sped out of the parking lot and onto Wayfield's main road. Sam was thrown into the back seat by the force of it, and found himself staring into a painted white, red nosed, purple lipped face with a yellow, toothy smile just inches from his own. Sam, who will by all accounts deny this later, screamed like a tiny moose that sings opera music on YouTube.

The impala swerved dangerously as it raced down the road, accelerating at almost 88 miles per hour. Sam couldn't do anything except scream as the clowns grabbed his hair and nose, laughing hysterically. Spittle flew from their mouths, occasionally landing on his terrified face.

They were rapidly approaching an intersection, the traffic light changed from yellow to red, but the impala showed no signs of slowing down. On the contrary, it seemed to be increasing its speed, accelerating happily toward an imminent collision with a slow-moving ice cream truck. An ice cream truck that had, painted on its side, an idiotic lobster with dog ears holding a cone in its claws. Above the silly mascot, in big red letters were the familiar words, Quick-Scoopz-Cheap. Sam's eyes widened in disbelief, and he braced himself for certain death.

Dying by an ice cream truck collision while being choked by clowns was not the way he had imagined going out, although, how could he imagine such a horror?