I've never written a Supernatural story before, so be gentle.
I'm hoping I kept the boys pretty much in character. I added a few behind-the-hand giggles for fans of the show that notice things like I do. (ex. Sam always gets choked, Dean always gets tossed against a wall, etc.)
The story is pretty cheesy, so don't take it too seriously. :-)
CHAPTER 1
"You're kidding, right?"
"Nope."
"Sam…" Dean Winchester clenched his jaw as he looked at his brother.
"Dean, I'm serious. I think it warrants some checking out. I mean…it is pretty weird," Sam said.
"So's Tom Cruise but we've never investigated him."
"Dean—"
"Ok, ok. Fine," Dean muttered as he slid into the driver's seat of his Impala.
---
Sam woke with a start as the Impala hit a pothole.
"Where are we?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.
"About 10 miles from Snowdell," Dean said. "Sit up and read that article again."
Sam cleared his throat and stretched before grabbing the manila envelope and flipping through the contents.
"Snowdell, Wisconsin. The bodies of 76 year old Eric Lloyd and his wife, 62 year old Beatrice Lloyd, were found in their home on Friday. No sign of forced entry, nothing stolen. The only evidence that anyone else had been in the house were a set of sooty footprints leading to and from the fireplace. Police checked the flue; no sign of ladders, ropes—nothing. Cause of death is listed as 'asphyxiation of unknown element'. Which is basically cop-talk for 'gee I don't know'."
"You got any theories? And I swear to God, Sam, if you say Santa Claus I'm going to pop you one."
Sam shot his brother an arch look and leafed through the envelope.
"I've gone through every death record in the Snowdell area for the last fifty years. So far there's been at least one death just about every year between December 15th and Christmas. All the same deal: no forced entry and footprints from the fireplace."
"Whoa, whoa. Are you telling me that nobody finds it a little weird that somebody kicks it the same way almost every year around the same time?"
Sam shrugged. "Guess not."
He looked out the window as they passed the city limits sign and his mouth went slack as he got his first good look at Snowdell.
Festive wasn't a strong enough word to describe it.
Every street lamp, telephone pole, and park bench was wrapped with tinsel and garland. Christmas lights hung from every storefront and home. Beside the quaint hometown market, children and teens were ice skating on a frozen pond.
"Oh my God. It's like we got sucked into A Charlie Brown Christmas," Dean said as he eyed everything with a look of disgusted interest, like one might look at road kill to identify what animal it used to be.
"It's normal for small towns," Sam said. "Look, Dean, just…try to blend in, alright? Be nice and don't draw a lot of attention."
"I'm nice," Dean said, affronted.
"Yeah, whatever," Sam said, opening his car door and stretching his long legs.
"You want left side of the street or right?" Dean asked.
"Left," Sam said.
"Alright. You take the grocery, beauty shop, and women's boutique." Dean gave a little laugh. "Typical."
"Shut up," Sam said.
"I'm going to the hardware store, Luanne's restaurant, and Madame Kimberly's Dance Emporium."
Dean waited for Sam to cross the street before cupping his hands over his mouth. "Hey, you better not waste time getting a pedicure."
Dean gave an amused laugh as Sam shot him that go-to-hell look again before ducking into the beauty parlor. He tugged his leather jacket tighter around him and walked through the lightly falling snow to the hardware store.
The doorbell chimed as Dean opened it and stepped into the store. His boots clunked loudly on the hardwood floor. From the overhead speaker, Bing Crosby sang of white Christmases, and people laughed merrily from the front of the store.
"Well, hello there, young sir," an old man said with a smile at Dean.
"Hey there…Walt," Dean said, reading the man's nametag. "I'm Agent Marley with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"How can I help you? See you at Bingo tonight, Martha," Walt called as a white haired lady smiled politely and left the store. "That's my girl," he told Dean. "Been married 46 years."
"Well, she's…a looker," Dean said. Man, his public relation skills sucked.
"That she is. How can I help you?" Walt repeated.
"My partner and I are here investigating the deaths of Eric and Beatrice Lloyd."
"Yes," Walt said with a shake of his head. "Terrible thing. Just terrible. And so close to Christmas. Eric and I were in the service together. Joined up in '58. Can I offer you some eggnog?"
"Sure," Dean said, never one to bypass any kind of free food or drink. The old guy was nice and forthcoming. Maybe a little flighty, but Dean was confident that he could get plenty of information out of him.
---
The tang of hair color and permanent chemicals hit Sam like a slap in the face. As soon as the bell above the door jangled, all eyes turned to him and the bustling beauty parlor fell silent.
"Well hello there!"
A round elderly lady with a pleasant smile greeted Sam as he stepped to the counter.
"Hello, ma'am. I'm Agent Cratchett," he said, flashing his badge. "My partner and I are in town investigating the death of Eric—"
"And Beatrice. So sad. Just tragic. My name is Brenda Thompson," the woman said, sticking out a hand. "Can I offer you a trim?"
"No, thank you," Sam said. "About the murders…"
"Such an unpleasant topic," Brenda said, ushering Sam to a barber chair.
He shook his head. "Really, ma'am, I'm on duty."
"So am I," Brenda countered. "One thing you should learn, honey. A beautician does her best talking when she's cutting someone's hair." She ran a hand through Sam's shaggy locks. "Although you wouldn't know that from the looks of it," she added to herself.
Sam's brows furrowed as he suspected he was just insulted, but he leaned back in the chair and let the woman put a cape on him.
"Who you got there, Brenda?" a white haired lady asked as she came through the door.
"This is Agent Cratchett from the FBI, Martha. He's here investigating Beatrice's death," Brenda said as she expertly clipped Sam's hair into sections.
"Oh, yes. I just came from the hardware store. His partner was there."
"Gwen, you'd better get out from under that dryer before those highlights catch on fire," Brenda called.
One of the round dryers lifted and a young woman stood up and got in another station.
"I want you to do my hair for the pageant tomorrow," the girl said.
"Oh, Gwenny, that color is splendid on you," Martha said.
"Gwen Staples, this is Agent Cratchett. I'm assuming Agent isn't your first name," Brenda said.
"Uh, it's Sam," Sam supplied.
Gwen smiled politely before asking Brenda if she could give her a manicure.
"Was Mrs. Lloyd in bad health?" Sam asked before they could get any more distracted.
Brenda picked up her scissors and began snipping. "Nope. That woman was in the best shape of any of us. She had a weekly Pilates class that she would go to. I went with her once, but Pilates isn't really for people with a squat-stature."
"Has anyone else in the area suffered from asphyxiation?"
"Not that I recall," Brenda said, spraying Sam's hair with water before setting into it with a razor comb.
If Sam had been an average FBI agent, he wouldn't have noticed the knowing look that passed between Brenda Thompson and Gwen Staples. As it was, he filed it away for further investigation when he had his handy-dandy laptop.
---
Dean was leaned against the side of Madame Kimberly's Dance Emporium sipping eggnog when Sam crossed the street. His brother held his arms out at his sides in question.
"Anything?"
"Just the nicest freakin' people on the planet," Dean said. "Oh, and Kimberly—of Madame Kimberly's Dance Emporium—gave me her number. But no one knows anything about the Lloyds' death, or if they do they aren't letting on. This stuff is fantastic," he said, lifting his cup and draining the last of his eggnog.
"D'you get anything? Other than a makeover, that is?" he said, grinning at his brother's freshly-trimmed hair.
"Nothing straightforward," Sam said self-consciously running a hand through his hair. "But there's definitely something going on."
"What makes you say that?"
Sam shrugged. "A hunch."
"It isn't one of your psychic freak-boy hunches is it?" Dean asked. "Never mind. Forget I asked."
They started back to the car and Dean tossed his cup in the garbage bin. "You know, this place is nice. The people are friendly, and talk about Christmas spirit...it's great."
"What?" Sam demanded, perplexed. "Dean, you hate Christmas. I mean, you're the only person I know of who stops watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas before he has a change of heart and gives the Whos their stuff back."
"Hey, those Whos had it coming," Dean said as he shut his door.
Sam shook his head at his brother and leaned back in his seat to snag his computer.
"So where to next?" he asked as he was waiting for the laptop to boot up.
"I figured we could go check out the house," Dean said.
Sam nodded and Dean pulled away from the curb.
--
"You notice anything weird?" Dean asked as Sam worked the lock on the Lloyds' front door.
Sam gave a scoff of laughter. "Uh…where should I begin?"
"Dude, check it out," Dean said, leaning over the porch railing and pointing down the street. "Rudolph, Santa, Rudolph, Baby Jesus…this is the only house on the block that doesn't have Christmas decorations."
"Now you're paying attention to decorations? Seriously?" Sam asked, tucking his tongue between his teeth as he gave the lock pick one final twist. "We're in."
They went in and closed the door behind them.
"You smell that?" Sam asked.
"What is that?" Dean replied, sniffing. "Wood smoke?"
Sam nodded. "There're no logs in the fireplace."
"So the killer smells like wood smoke? That's gotta suck."
Dean pointed to the plush white carpet.
"Sooty footprints," he said. He put his foot next to them in comparison. "Size…I'd say a 13, easy."
"Big guy," Sam commented. "There's also no Christmas tree."
"That's weird."
"Not really, considering they didn't have any decorations in the yard."
"Yeah, but what are the odds that the people that get smoked are the only ones on the block who aren't tricked out for the holidays?" Dean asked.
"So…what? You think some kind of vigilante decorating committee decided to kill Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd because they wouldn't put up a few lights?"
"Hey, those subdivision clowns are highly anal. Remember that episode of the X-Files?"
"Must have missed that one," Sam said dryly. "Look, Sherlock, just help me look for clues, alright?"
"I'm telling you, my dear Watson, it has something to do with the lack of decorations. I feel it in my pipe."
"That's probably some sort of infection," Sam muttered. Before Dean could reply, he went into the kitchen area. "I'm calling truce. Enough with the Sherlock Holmes references. Let's just get this done before one of the neighbors call the real cops."
--
Dean pulled the Impala into the parking spot in front of room 11 at the Snowdell Motor Lodge and the boys unpacked their gear.
Dean, in keeping with his ritual, grabbed a clean pair of boxers and headed to the bathroom to test the shower.
The true way to tell a good cheap motel, according to Dean Winchester, can best be seen by the amount of water pressure that is in the shower. If it is a soft pitter-pattering, then the motel sucks and is probably more suited for families on vacation. However, if the spray from the shower comes ridiculously close to peeling the flesh from your bones, then that is a good hotel for a Hunter.
The higher the water pressure, the easier it is to get clean when you are covered in blood, mud, and demon puss.
This particular motel shower received 8 out of 10 on the Dean Winchester Shower Scale.
While Dean showered, Sam put his geek-boy skills to use and looked up everything he could find on both Brenda Thompson and Gwen Staples.
"So? Anything?" Dean asked as he pulled a pair of jeans over his boxers. He plopped down on a bed and crossed his ankles.
"Brenda Thompson is clean; not even so much as a parking ticket. No clear association with any victim," Sam said. He took a drink from his soda and propped a foot on the chair across from him.
"Gwen Staples is another story. Back in 2000, Tim and Nina Staples suffocated in their sleep."
"Parents?"
Sam nodded. "The official report states that there were no signs of anything unusual in the preliminary autopsies. It was like they just held their breath until they died."
"Which is impossible, 'cause they would have passed out before they died," Dean said, sitting up and pulling on a t-shirt. "Any mention of footprints?"
"No, not in any of the reports."
"Come on," Dean said as he scooped up his jacket and headed for the door.
"Where are we going?" Sam asked, closing his laptop and pulling on his hoodie. The cold wind stole the air from his lungs as they left the room.
"I'm going to talk to Walt again. See if I can get anything from him," Dean said. "You go hit the library and do your record searching thing. You have money for a cab?"
Sam held his arms out with a look on his face that silently asked if Dean really thought Snowdell had taxis.
"Fine. I'll drop you off," Dean said as he slid behind the wheel.
--
"Dean, we've talked to almost everyone in this town and all we've got zilch. Nobody even acts like people have been dying. It's like we're in the freakin' Christmas Village of the Damned. It's starting to creep me out."
"Aw, poor Sammy," Dean said in a pitiful voice.
"Whatever," Sam said, dismissing his brother. He sniffed and huddled deeper into his jacket, trying to think of a way to hold his cell phone without having his fingers out of his sleeve.
"Dean, do you think maybe this is like some sort of demi-god thing?"
"What, like in Indiana?"
"I dunno. Probably not." Sam sighed and sniffed again. "I've been doing research for the past six hours. I think I might have something, but…it's not like anything I've heard of before."
"What is it?"
"Back in the 1920s there was this guy named Rudy Adavanta," Sam said. "He was a nice, charitable type of guy. If anyone in town had problems financially, he would take care of it for them. In exchange for his kindness the townspeople went all out for his favorite holiday. Any guesses which one?"
"Christmas," Dean said.
"Yeah. Get this: Rudy Adavanta was a full-time Santa Claus. Apparently there was a big department store here at the time that had its own Christmas division, and Rudy worked there year round."
"Ok, so?"
"So, one day while working, Rudy Adavanta fell off his platform and hit his head, landing face-down in the cotton snowdrift decoration."
"You're kidding," Dean said. "He suffocated?"
"Yup. How's that for bad luck?"
"Yikes," Dean said. "Alright, we have our 'who'. What's the 'why'?"
"I haven't gotten that figured out 100 yet, but I do know that everything was normal until 1958. That's when the first asphyxiation death happened."
"Ok, we'll keep digging," Dean said. "Any tell-tale signs amongst the victims?"
"I've got a theory," Sam said. "I'll tell you when you pick me up. I'm freezing my butt off out here."
--
Kaye Douglass sat on her sofa, sipping wine and reading. Since her blood-sucking ex husband had taken off with his 20 year old secretary, she had time to chill out and relax.
Her doorbell rang and she muttered a few choice words as she sat her wineglass down. She opened her door to a troupe of carolers singing Jingle Bells.
"You've got about three seconds to get off my porch, Mark," she told the man in front.
"Where's your holiday spirit?" Mark asked as the other carolers shuffled down the steps with hushed whispers.
"In Bermuda with a co-ed," Kaye replied before slamming the door.
She stormed to her kitchen to take a fresh bottle of wine from the counter and take it back to her seat. By God, if she had to put up with this town and their ridiculous festiveness, she'd do it while blind drunk.
She heard a noise behind her and turned.
"Oh, great!" she muttered as dirt and soot fell from her chimney flue. "Friggin' squirrels."
She sat her wineglass down again and went to the kitchen to get a broom. "What the hell?"
There was a set of footprints leading out of her fireplace. With fear slicing through her like a knife, Kaye whirled to run to her telephone, but stopped short as a figure stepped in front of her.
"You're not real," Kaye said, shaking her head slowly.
The figure stretched a white-gloved hand toward Kaye's throat, and she started gasping.
"Please," she wheezed as fat tears rolled down her cheeks.
She fell to her knees and onto her back, her eyes going glassy as she exhaled for the last time.
Large black boots clumped across the polished wood floor and returned to the fireplace. The killer laid a finger on the side of his nose and nodded, disappearing up the chimney in a puff of green smoke.