There were pancakes. Everywhere.
They drooped over the hotel room's lampshades. They were plastered to the walls, the ceiling. Stacks of pancakes littered the sofa, the dining table, the kitchen counter. The window looked like someone had been shooting pancake dough - blat, blat, blat! - in spurts across the glass, and then the hot Phoenix sun had baked the lumps in place.
Garbage can? Pancakes. Sink? Pancakes. With a bit of neck craning, they could see that the hotel room's bathroom had been decorated the same way: pancakes.
The air smelled sweet, cloying, overpowering. The pancakes had been locked in the closed room, hot sunlight beaming in, the entire day, and the pancake aroma mixed with the normally stale hotel room smell they were used to. It was like being gassed.
Sam stepped back into the hallway, gagging and gasping for a breath of fresher air. Dean stayed in the doorway, stunned, his wide eyes wandering from one patch of cooked dough to the next.
"Well. Damn," was his only comment. It hung in the air for a moment, unanswerable.
"What the hell?!" he added, scratching the back of his head. He swung around, pointing an accusatory finger at his brother. "Did you do this, some kind of prank?" Sam started to say something, but Dean stopped him by shaking his head. "Nope. Not you, can't be; we were together the whole goddamned day." He turned back to glare at the mess. While he watched, another pancake appeared in the air before him and fell with a soft plop to land on the edge of the table. Unbalanced, it slowly slid from the table to the floor in a crumpled heap.
"Son of a bitch. Magic. I hate magic," he snarled. Sam, who had moved up behind him to peer into the room again, snickered, then sighed.
"I suppose we need to change rooms..."
Dean transferred his glare to him. "Oh, yeah, and just what do we say to them? 'Gee, sorry, sir, but someone's magicked our room so it filled with pancakes - " Another pancake plopped softly onto the sofa. Dean gritted his teeth. "'Oh, and, by the way, the pancakes keep appearing, and we can't stop them, so could we please have another room?' Yeah, I don't think so."
"Well, at least they haven't gotten into our duffles, right?" Sam's voice was hopeful.
"Thank god for small favors." Dean stepped into the room, bending down to collect the pancakes from the floor in front of him. He cleared a path to the garbage can and tossed them in. Sam, sighing again, stepped in and cleared a similar path to the nearest window, peeled dough off the glass, and wrenched it open. He looked down at the handful of pancakes he was holding, shrugged, and tossed them out into the parking lot. A pair of pigeons strutted across the pavement to peck at them, cooing.
"So - " Dean grabbed garbage bags from under the kitchenette sink, handing one to Sam. "Here. Keep an eye out for hex bags."
Sam just nodded and began stuffing pancakes into the bag.
A half hour passed. They had cleared away most of the mess, their cleaning efforts interrupted at irregular intervals by another pancake materializing and falling onto whatever was beneath it. Close inspection of typical hiding spots had revealed not a single hex bag. Dean slumped back onto the newly-cleared sofa, scrubbing his hands through his short hair.
Sam grabbed a pair of beer bottles from the small refrigerator, popped one open, and handed the other to Dean. Leaning against the wall, he took a long swallow, tilted his head back, and blew away the hair drooping in front of his eyes. "So: not a witch. Then what is it?"
They both watched another pancake's arrival and fall.
"Curse. Gotta be. The question is..." He paused to pop his own beer bottle open, tossing the cap in the general direction of the garbage. When it clattered on the floor, Sam snorted and leaned down to grab it. He held it up, squinting at his brother.
"Dude. Really? You'd make a lousy basketball player."
"Good thing I wasn't planning to be," Dean grunted. He swigged from his beer and continued, "Anyway. The question is, are we cursed, or have we somehow glommed onto a cursed object without realizing it?" His eyes wandered the room as if he were hoping the mentioned object would leap up and announce its presence.
Sam tilted his head back against the wall and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. "What have we picked up today?" Counting on his fingers, he went on. "Food from the grocery store...beer - "
Dean groaned. "No no NO, we don't have cursed beer, dammit! I won't stand for it!" Catching the skeptical eyebrow tilt from his brother, he said, "C'mon. Cursed objects usually have something to do with their...effects. Beer and pancakes don't mix, everyone know that."
"Oh, I dunno, Dean. Aren't there beer-batter pancakes?" Dean gave him a disgusted look. "Okay, I know it's a reach, but I can't remember anything we brought into the room that fits."
"Forks? Knives? Plastic cutlery shit we got from Burger Boy?"
"Hunh." Sam leaned sideways over the garbage can, dug out the bag that they had brought in for lunch, and peered in it. "Well, there is a fork..." he said doubtfully. He held the bag up with a quizzical look. Surging up from the sofa, Dean snatched it from his hand and grabbed one of the garbage bags filled with pancakes.
"Grab another, and let's trot them outta here. Maybe it was that fork." He didn't sound convinced. Shrugging, Sam collected two more bags of pancakes, and followed his brother out the door.
When they returned from tossing the bags in the hotel dumpster, there were five new pancakes strewn around the room.
"Goddammit!" Dean swore.
Sam made a quick sweep around the room collecting the magical detritus. "Not the fork," he said.
Rolling his eyes, Dean said, "Ya think?!"
Sam threw a pancake at him.