Hello, again. Thought you were rid of me, eh? Not likely. This story is based on a real haunting, with some of the details changed, of course. It does follow on the events of Running, so Dean is still injured, and Sam is still in mother-mode. As always, the boys and their car don't belong to me. Please review, and I answer all reviews at my website. Onward!
The purring rumble of the Impala ceased as Sam cut off the engine. He laid a hand on his neck and tried to squeeze out the crick that had settled there after a long, ceaseless drive, but it would take more like a vice-grip to do that. Dean was sacked out in the passenger seat, eyes hidden by his sunglasses. He was still a bit peaky from his recent knife wound, though he wouldn't admit it. He claimed that he was worn out from all the sponge baths he had received in the hospital, so he didn't argue when Sam offered to drive. He dropped off to sleep almost immediately, and did not wake during the five-hour trip.
Sam ducked his head to look out the windshield at the motel before him. Built of dingy white brick and painted red metal, it consisted of a circle of long, barracks-style arms situated around a central hub, the office. A blinking, half-burnt-out neon sign proclaimed Snowflake Motel. Sam supposed that viewed from above the motel might possibly resemble a snowflake. But from the ground it just looked like a dive.
Dean gave a little snorting moan and peeked out from under his glasses. "We here?" he mumbled, drawing a hand over his mouth. He squinted at the motel and gave a groan. "Can't we ever stay at a Holiday Inn?"
"Only if you want to spend three extra hours at the poker table and live on ramen noodles for a week," replied Sam, opening the door and unfolding himself from the car. Dean hauled himself out of the passenger side, letting out a little grunt of pain but ignoring Sam's concerned glance.
"Simmer down, Florence Nightingale," mumbled Dean, shrugging deeper into his coat, trying to ward off the fall's chill. "Let's go see how lusciously this place is appointed." Together they walked up to the office. The "lawn" surrounding the pothole-filled parking lot was mostly dirt and weeds, with the occasional cigarette butt for color. Sam couldn't suppress a smirk at the rusted plaque that was bolted to the wall, proclaiming that Frank Lloyd Wright had designed the place. If he did, he must have been drunk at the time, Sam thought.
Dean pulled open the flyspecked front door and gestured to Sam. "After you, princess." Sam gave Dean a surreptitious obscene gesture, which Dean met with a toothy grin.
A mousy-haired clerk lounged behind the counter, working her piece of gum like it was going to get away, open-mouthed and loudly. She glanced up at hearing the door, then did a comical double take and looked the brothers up and down. "Hi," she drawled, a slow grin revealing a lovely gray tooth front and center in her mouth. "You need a room?" She fixed Sam with what he assumed was supposed to be a sultry look and ran her finger over her nametag. Mandi.
"Yeah. Two singles, please." Dean's voice was rich with amusement, and when the clerk turned to dig out a room key for them, he jabbed his elbow into Sam's ribs and gave a broad wink. He snapped back to casual mode as the clerk turned back around and handed them a pair of keys on large, brass tags.
"So what are ya'll doin' here? In town for the festival, are ya?" asked Mandi, twirling her hair around her finger. She was hitting every flirting technique in the book, one after the other. If she kept it up her ovaries were going to explode.
"We're reporters," replied Dean, a smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Oh gawd, not the human torch, again." Disgust twisted Mandi's face and she rolled her eyes dramatically. "I'm so tired of hearin' about it."
Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "Well, maybe if you tell us what you've heard, we can quote you in the story," offered Sam. "You ever been in the newspaper, Mandi?" At the sound of his voice, Mandi's eyes lit up and another goofy grin split her face.
"No," she tittered. "Okay, well, what I heard is that this new couple moved into the Santirelli house, right? The wife goes to work one day two weeks ago, and her husband stays home sick. When she gets home that night, she finds him in the bed, burnt to a crisp." Mandi was practically salivating at this point, punctuating her monologue with dramatic gestures and gum-snaps. "The bed is completely trashed, like the whole thing had been on fire, but there's no damage anywhere else in the house, no smoke damage, nothing." She leaned forward on the counter, showing an ample amount of cleavage, and lowered her voice. "I think it's spontaneous combustion."
Dean gave an eye roll of his own, but luckily Mandi was busy staring at Sam. "Has anyone called Art Bell?"
"Who?" Mandi's nose crinkled up in confusion.
"Nevermind." Dean shook his head slightly. "So is anybody still staying at the house?"
With a look that intimated that she was annoyed at being interrupted from leering at Sam, Mandi shook her head. "The wife moved back down south to be with her folks. Nobody there now but the cops."
Sam smiled at her and said, "Thank you for talking with us, Mandi. We'll probably be back to take some notes for the story a little later. But can you give us the address of the house? We'd like to go take some pictures." Mandi scribbled down an address and phone number on a hotel notepad and handed it to Sam, making sure to brush his hand with hers as she did.
"I thought you said no one was there. What's with the phone number?" asked Dean, glancing at the note.
"Who said it was a phone number for the house?" purred Mandi, eyes on Sam. Dean, unable to suppress it any longer, turned and walked out of the office, one hand on his abdomen to stop himself bursting his stitches as he howled with laughter. Sam crammed the address into his pocket and followed his brother, grinding his teeth.
By the time Sam caught up, Dean was already in the room, surveying the dim interior with a mixture of resignation and dismay. "The Holiday Inn is sounding better and better, Sammy," he said as Sam walked in.
Sam dropped his duffel on the floor and poked his head into the bathroom, then made a face. "I need a shower like nobody's business, but I'm afraid they haven't invented vaccines for the diseases in that bathroom."
"Figure we can grab a couple hours of sleep, get some dinner, then hit the house after midnight. Don't figure that the cops will be keeping a round-the-clock watch after two weeks time." Dean gingerly shucked his coat off and placed it on the scuffed-up dresser. "Unless you want to make a date, there, Casanova." Sam's only reply was a pair of middle fingers, and Dean barked a laugh. "Gotcha. Playin' hard to get."
And Sam found himself wondering why he hadn't just left Dean at the hospital in the first place.