"Dean. I'm leaving," Sam announces, adjusting the collar of his jacket before flipping the light switch off in the bathroom and stepping out into the hotel room. The room is quietly dark, the first rays of the day just beginning to peek through the sheer curtains, flooding the room in a pale light that allows Sam just enough sight to be able to navigate the room without flicking on a lamp. He stumbles a bit, head throbbing, and squints to make out the shape of his brother, apparently not having bothered changing out of yesterday's clothes, legs tangled in the frilly comforter that has him half-covered.
"Dean," he repeats a bit louder, impatience welling in his chest, and swipes his hand at Dean's ankles. The contact jostles Dean from his sleep, causing him to shoot up in bed out of pure instinct, searching anxiously for the perpetrator before focusing, annoyed, on Sam.
"Dude," he rasps, fists rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "What?"
"Said I'm leaving," Sam repeats, slipping the room key in his pocket.
"Where?" Dean mumbles, voice muffled by the pillow in which he has again collapsed. "What time is it?"
"It's almost six and I'm heading back down to that doll room. I don't know, man, I just have this feeling. Whatever is happening here, I think it's tied up with that dollhouse somehow."
"Whatever it is, Sam, I'm pretty sure it'll still be there when it's, oh, actually light out," Dean groans, burying his face further in the pillow, blissfully unaware of the irritated frown settling on Sam's face.
"Dean," he starts, attempt to keep the annoyance out of his tone failing. "You saw how reluctant Susan was to let us look around; I doubt she's going to be all gung-ho in letting us peruse around in there again. And, anyway, you heard her. She's packing. Who knows if that stuff will even be there later-"
"Man, you are so not allowed to use words like peruse at five o'clock in the morning."
Sam makes a face. "Whatever, man. Point is we need to check out that room and since you obviously don't plan on helping me, I've got to do it myself."
"Again, I repeat. Five in the morning."
"Dean-"
"Five in the morning, Sam. It's fine, go play with the dolls. I really don't care. Just shut up. Trying to sleep here." Deciding that particular jab doesn't even deserve a response, Sam rolls his eyes and turns, stepping out into the hallway and slamming the door for good measure.
It doesn't take Sam long to jimmy the lock, mostly because the old makes of locks have bigger, less secure mechanisms that claim total defeat under the deadbolts he usually ends up picking. Once the lock pops, the door practically opens itself, swinging slowly with an ominous creak that reveals the room beyond. Looking up, Sam finds himself under the glassy stare of hundreds of pairs of eyes, causing him to shudder unconsciously. Dolls fall a close second to clowns in Sam's book, though he would never admit it, especially to Dean. He doesn't need another item on Dean's List of Reasons Sam is a Pansy, at least not until Sam finds something else to accompany irrational fear of flying and Ellen on his for Dean.
Swallowing, he carefully gets from his crouching position on the floor, cautious footsteps pausing as he slowly closes the door behind him. Glancing around the room, he zeros in on the first non-doll thing he sees. The thick stack of papers, secured messily beneath a thin brown rubber band, sit idly beside a small cardboard box atop the white dresser in the corner. Carefully easing it from the surface, papers jutting out every which way, Sam peels back a few of the papers, reading the scrawled cursive on the pages.
The printed header reads: Pierpont Inn. 1305 Wallsworth Avenue, Cornwall, CT, a small sketch of the hotel falling beneath the smaller letters of the address, forming a subtle break between the information that follows. Patron. Peter George, Allison Roads, Anthony Harrison. Dates booked. December 17- 22. October 3. May 10-13. Receipts. The further back he digs, the older they get, some of the pages beginning to tinge in yellow.
Could be helpful, Sam decides, tucking the bundle inside his jacket. A cross-referencing type of thing, see which of the guests he can dig up obits on and which checked out unscathed. Could be pretty key in determining possible motive, if the guests who were killed left early or if they stayed their whole booking, see if he could infer that some paranormal activity maybe caused them to try to escape, that sort of thing. Can't hurt, anyway.
He turns a bit too quickly, his coordination a bit off from the hangover he's nursing, and is sent stumbling to avoid a looming wall of dolls, his knee coming into contact with the shelving unit which falls back against the wall with a loud clunk. Shit. He winces, freezes for a moment, before slowly easing himself back from the shelves, holding his breath under the small clink the unit makes as it returns to original upright position.
Letting out a relieved woosh of air, Sam decides this whole stealthy routine isn't really working for him this morning. He needs to hurry this up, before he manages to break something or get himself caught.
Eyes landing upon the mini-hotel, the dollhouse built to an immaculate accuracy, he carefully makes his way over, steps falling softly as to suppress the creaks of the old wooden floor. His eyes skim the rooms, landing on the doll he had found the day before, head twisted a complete one-eighty at the bottom of the set of stairs. He lets out his breath, much louder than intended, once more picking up the figure. Out of feeling sorry for the guy, he reaches to turn his head back around, but stops himself beforehand, setting the doll back down. He shouldn't mess with it, not when isn't sure it might do.
His eyes trail up the staircase, winding around the hallway and surveying the individual rooms. Most are empty, still, untouched beds and intricate furniture sitting alone in an eerie calm. Gaze dusting over the rooms in the wing, Sam's breath catches in his throat as he notices a particular room.
One bed, a tan comforter with a repeating pattern etched into the fabric, lying between opposing walls of bookshelves and a fireplace, topped with a miniature deer head and framed by two tiny lit sconces. Hardwood floors lie beneath an area rug, the colors complimenting that of the bedspread and warm wooden walls well. Sam's eyes, however, go immediately to the man, the doll, dark hair falling around his expressionless face, clothed in a black suit and black leather shoes. Hanging. Hanging from the ceiling fan.
"Just like the man who died yesterday," Sam whispers out of realization, mind sent racing. That's it. It's this dollhouse, whatever is going in here has to be tied up with this dollhouse, somehow. It has to be.
Sam's eyes scan the dollhouse, finding a replica of a woman, clothed in a nightgown, in a bathtub in an adjoining wing. So when they die, Sam reasons, their deaths come to be through the dollhouse? Whatever happens to the doll subsequently happens to the person? Or is it the other way around- the person dies and the dollhouse replicates his death through the dolls? Whichever way, it seems to be working like a snapshot, leaving the pictures of their deaths painted via the dollhouse, long after their bodies have been taken. The dollhouse keeps the memory of how they died, frozen in time. But-
Sam's thoughts, racing at a hundred miles per hour, come to an immediate crashing halt when he notices a room, tucked behind a row of other rooms, on the opposite side of the hallway. The little door is closed, the room beyond decorated in an array of mauvey-pinks, creams and deep-set browns, wooden walls with blocked off displays. Against one wall lies the open door for the bathroom, against the other a splayed wedding dress. Sam feels his pulse quicken, stutter-stopping when his eyes come to rest on the back of the door.
Hanging from the door by a cord, feet not touching the ground is another doll. One past the three that died here, this doll looks uncomfortably familiar, just as the room surrounding it. Navy jacket and layered shirts, blue jeans and a close haircut, heavy duty boots dangling millimeters from the floor.
"Dean," Sam whispers, heart restarting at a pounding pace. He is on his feet and running before he even knows what's happening, throwing the door to the doll room open and sprinting down the hall as fast as he can without even so much as closing it behind him. He makes no stops, no efforts to conceal the evidence that he had been snooping because right now all he can think of is Dean and Oh God, no, please.
He practically runs into the door of their hotel room, shoulder coming into painful contact with the wood. Hand reaching for the doorknob, a jumble of obscenities and panicked half-words tumble from his mouth, cursing himself for locking the door because he really doesn't have the time. He fumbles for the key, fingernails embedding themselves in his skin as he claws for the metal, hands shaking so much he misses the keyhole several times before finally managing the sturdy click of the lock dislodging itself, sure that no sound he has ever heard has been sweeter.
He moves for the knob, stomach turning with a rush of pit-in-his-stomach nausea as he feels the heaviness, the weight against his motions. He manages the door open, with a rush of adrenaline-fueled strength that allows him in the room in a matter of moments.
His heart twists, stomach flops, head spins… world stops when his eyes come to rest on resistance he had been fighting against.
"Dean."
Just as he expected, an eerie, real-life depiction of the scene he had seen in the doll room, though the heartbreak of the actual trumps the prior, hundredfold. His brother, purple-faced, hangs from a red bandana, twisted into a makeshift noose on the hook near the door's top meant to serve as a coat hanger. His fingers claw, curled tightly around the fabric as his legs flail against the wooden expanse, pushing and slipping in an effort to provide stability to alleviate some of the strangulating tightness. His eyes bug, and Sam knows his brother has to be on the brink of unconsciousness… but he's alive. Dean is still alive.
"Dean," Sam repeats, out of relief or fear he isn't sure, but in a heartbeat he's there, in front of his brother, arm pressing upwards under Dean's ribcage in an attempt to loosen the pull as his other hand fumbles for his knife in his coat pocket. Fingers slipping at last over the cool metal, Sam reaches for the fabric, severing it in three sawing swipes that send his brother's weight crashing down against him. Sam instinctively bears the blow, wrapping his arms around him as he holds Dean against his shoulder, legs apparently of no use to him in any attempts to stand on his own. He hears his brother trying to breath, little smothered gasps that are barely audible, and it takes him a moment to realize the fabric is still tightened around his neck, choking off any efforts at air.
Sam stumbled backwards, fingers desperately trying to loosen the knot to little avail. He falls back against the bed, Dean practically tumbling in his lap, and he realizes that Dean's attempts at air are getting weaker, his body slumping against him with less resistance. He's losing consciousness, Sam realizes in a panic, sliding the knife up tightly between his brother's neck and the fabric, carefully but furiously sawing through the constraint until, at last, it gives. Sam hears the fabric split, hears the gasp Dean emits, so painful that he feels it in his own chest, twisting and stabbing and hurting.
He goes to make a grab for Dean, to pull him back onto the mattress, but finds his brother doubled over, gasping alternating long and short breathes, each a dagger in its own right. Sam, feeling helpless watching his brother struggle before him on the floor, just reaches out and places a calming hand on his back. He knows there is little he can do until Dean can breathe.
The thought sets his mind racing once more because he knows there could be additional complications with this. He knows there's a possibility the pressure could have crushed Dean's windpipe, sending his attempts at breathing into a useless death sentence. If that's the case, he could die in a matter of minutes. Sam brings his freehand to his face, finding a wetness there of which he is just now made aware. He doesn't know when he started crying, exactly. Figures it doesn't really matter.
What does matter now is that he can hear Dean's breaths becoming less desperate and more even, though an underlying tone of wheezing still accompanies each, reminding Sam that the act is still painful. Dean's shoulders begin to calm, the rapid heaving of his chest below them evening out as he remains, slouched over his knees in a ball on the rug.
"Dean," Sam tries, barely audible for lack of trusting his own voice. He places his other hand on Dean's shoulder, splaying his fingers on each side in a gesture encouraging Dean to sit up. He does, or tries at least, raising his chin up slightly and pushing upwards weakly. Sam helps to compensate for Dean's lack of strength with strong hands, pulling him up into a kneeling position, supporting his weight fully.
Sam's teeth find their way to his bottom lip as he takes in the sight. A cold sweat soaks Dean, who shivers slightly beneath his hold, skin still a purple-tinged red, though slowly fading into a paler version of his normal tan. Sam's gaze skims the dark purple ring around his neck, thick and deep, but can't stand to stay stationed there long. Instead his eyes travel up to Dean's, bloodshot and half-lidded, exhaustion playing across them so strongly he can't help but feel it himself.
"Dean," he repeats, feeling of relief creeping over him as he watches Dean draw in breaths, eyes sliding closed. "Dean… you alright?"
"Jus' peachy," Dean drawls sarcastically over an expanse of breaths, voice broken and scratchy, but functional. At the interaction, Sam lets out a shaky laugh of relief, reaching down to carefully guide his brother back up onto the mattress. Dean protests at first, soon aiding his brother as much as he can, collapsing against Sam as he ends up beside him on the mattress.
"Get off me," he murmurs, though he makes no effort to move away. Sam smiles, Dean tucked soundly against his side, head turned against his chest.
"What happened?" Sam murmurs, chewing on his lip as Dean extracts himself from his grasp, collapsing back against the mattress.
"I don't know," he rasps, breaths still coming at greedy intervals. "Last… I remember I was… sleeping, then… I find myself… pinned against the wall like some… moth… in a 4-H exhibit." Sam snorts at that.
"It's that dollhouse, man. I was checking it out and every victim, every last one of them- their deaths are in the dollhouse. Exactly as it happened. I mean… I saw you and…" he voice cracks, thoughts drifting off.
"Me?"
"Yeah, just like you," he murmurs. "Looked just like you, just like…" again, he can't finish his thought, instead gesturing towards the door.
"Huh," is all Dean offers, lazily dragging himself into a sitting position. He slouches over his knees, elbows supporting his weight.
"You okay?" Sam asks again, unable to hide the worry lines that begin to etch their path once more.
"Man, I'm fine. Stop asking if I'm okay," the grumbling reply comes, giving Sam an answer somewhere in the ballpark of, "I'm alive," which is good enough for him.
"I asked you twice," he sniffs. "I hardly think that's overkill. I mean, how would you feel if you saw that and found me hanging there-"
"I wouldn't," Dean interrupts.
"What?"
"I wouldn't. Find you hanging there. Your feet would be firmly on the ground and you'd be pouting there, whining that the noose didn't match your outfit." Sam snorts in disbelief. Dean almost died and he is still all over the split-second opportunity to insult Sam's height and manliness in the same sentence.
"You're…" Sam starts, unable to pinpoint the word. Unbelievable? Crazy?
Dean changes topics before he has the chance. "So how do you propose we stop this?"
"Destroy it. We have to destroy that dollhouse," Sam responds, with a bit more venom than he intended.
"Yeah? You think that will break whatever is binding it to the hotel?"
"It's going to have to," Sam sighs. "Besides, the place is being torn down anyway, right?"
"Sam, you know as well as I do that isn't going to do anything except damn the next thing they build here," Dean sighs before pausing. "So how do you purpose we destroy it?"
"I don't know. Sledgehammers or fire, I guess."
"Both incredibly inconspicuous," Dean murmurs.
"Yeah." The corners of Sam's lips upturn slightly. "The best option would obviously be to find something to counteract the curse. Problem being, we don't know if it is a curse and I don't want to waste the time and risk it getting someone else, you know?"
"Yeah," Dean agrees, rubbing unconsciously at the back of his neck, wincing. Sam feels his eyebrows furrow once more in concern. "Of course you could just put those Martha Stewart interior decorating skills of yours to use. Change up a rug or two and insult the curse into submission." Sam trades in his concerned face for his annoyed one.
"Whatever." A pause, then, "You think it'd work?"
"What?"
"I mean, changing things up like that. The thing works like a picture in time, timestamp thing, right? So if we change things beforehand and it isn't the same… do you think?"
Dean stares at him incredulously. "Seriously?" Sam shrugs.
"It might be worth a try, Dean. Like you said, fire and sledgehammers aren't very conspicuous."
"You…" Dean starts, shaking his head. "Fine."
"Alright. Well, come on, we need to get back there before anyone realizes I was there," Sam says, prying himself from the bed, then offering a hand to Dean.
"We? No, this is all you. I'm crippled, remember?"
"Yeah, well, if I remember right the reason you are crippled is because you were too lazy to get your ass out of the bed in the first place," Sam jabs, humor a cover up for the fact that he is still shaken inside. "Now come on. I don't care if you just sit there. We aren't splitting up again."
Dean sighs, "Fine," slapping his hand in Sam's to pull him up. He nearly falls when he gets up, his legs still jelly.
"Whoa," Sam breathes, catching him and wrapping an arm around his back to help keep his brother upright. He expects him to protest, tell him to get off, but instead Deans sags against him in comfortable submission, the unsaid hanging strong. Thanks.
Staggering towards the door, Dean can't help but get in one last jab, "Lead the way, Martha."
Playthings was the first episode of Supernatural I ever saw, and throughout the episode, this was the idea I had in my head. About three months ago, I decided to write it.
If you like to read my writing, you might want to friend me on LJ (wastetheyears). I posted this there about three weeks ago and I rarely visit this site anymore. I'll probably continue to post in both locations, but LJ is my primary one these days.