Why Winchesters Stay at Motels
I do not own 1408 or Supernatural. Too bad... Anything related to 1408 taken from the movie or the story.
"Hey, Dean!" Sam Winchester called from the table in the motel room.
"What?" his older brother Dean called from the bathroom in annoyance.
"Get out here!" Sam called. "I think I got us another case!"
"Another case?" Dean called. He walked out of the bathroom, holding a big patch of gauze to his chest. "Dude, I'm still patching myself up from the last one."
"Well, hurry up and finish," said Sam. "You're gonna want to see this."
Dean sighed, rolling his eyes. "Fine, but can I stitch myself up first?"
Sam nodded, and Dean headed back into the bathroom. About fifteen minutes later, he emerged, throwing on a new shirt and wincing as the stitches pulled slightly.
"Now, what's so important that I have to see?" asked Dean.
Sam sat down at his laptop, pulling up the internet page again. "The Dolphin Hotel in New York. We have one majorly haunted room."
"Majorly?" asked Dean. "As in, more than usual?"
Sam nodded. "Ever since the hotel opened in 1910, there have been fifty-six deaths."
"Fifty-six?" said Dean. "Well, it has been almost a century."
"All fifty-six deaths occurred in one room," Sam told him.
Dean shrugged. "Okay, I'm interested. Go on."
"And it's not really how many have died, but the way they died," said Sam. "There have been twenty-one suicides and thirty-five natural deaths. The first suicide was Kevin O'Malley. He was a sewing machine salesman, who cut his throat in 1910. Five men and two women have jumped from the room, three women and one man overdosed, Henry Storkin hanged himself in the closet in 1970, Randolph Hyde slit his wrists and cut off his genitals while he was bleeding to death—"
"Holy crap!" exclaimed Dean, frowning at the laptop.
"Tell me about it," said Sam. "Not to mention the strokes, heart attacks and epileptic seizures. They finally shut the room down in 1978, but even the staff has suffered because of that room. There was a heating problem about three years ago, and the maintenance guy had to go into the room to fix it. The next afternoon, he died of massive cerebral hemorrhage."
"What's the room number?" asked Dean.
"1408," said Sam. "The numbers add up to thirteen, on what would technically be the thirteenth floor."
Dean shook his head, amused. "Well, we better check it out. What's our cover? FBI?"
"The FBI wouldn't investigate suicides or natural deaths or freak accidents," said Sam. He thought for a moment and then nodded. "I think I got a cover."
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Dean and Sam pulled their duffel bags onto their shoulders as they got out of the taxi in front of the Dolphin Hotel.
Dean whistled as he craned his head to look up at the tall building. "Damn…Why can't we stay in digs like this?"
"'Cause hunter's salary doesn't pay," said Sam, heading for the front door.
An employee in a red jacket and black pants held the door open for them, and they headed into the lobby and over to the front desk.
"Welcome to the Dolphin Hotel," said the female clerk. "How can I help you?"
"Yes, my brother and I are writing a book about ghosts and other supernatural phenomenon," said Dean with a charming smile. "We would like to stay in room 1408."
The clerk's face seemed to freeze as she stared at them. The corner of her mouth twitched a little as she tried to smile.
"That room is unavailable," she told them.
"Look, we know you shut it down, like, thirty years ago," said Dean. "But we're gonna stay in it just one night to write our book," said Dean.
"Um, it's still…unavailable," said the clerk.
Sam frowned and stepped forward towards the counter. "Are you aware of a New York State law—not to mention two federal civil rights laws—that forbid you to deny a person a specific room if it is vacant?"
The clerk stared at him for a moment before looking down at the desk and back at them. "If you two will excuse me one moment."
"Sure," said Dean.
The clerk headed away from the desk, heading for a man in an expensive suit. They conversed for a moment before the guy in the suit headed for a back room.
"This is going well," muttered Dean.
After a moment, an African-American man in a suit walked out of the back room and headed for the Winchesters.
"Evening, gentlemen," he said, extending his hand to Sam. "Gerald Olin, manager of the Dolphin."
Sam shook his hand. "Sam Stephens. This is my brother Dean."
Mr. Olin shook Dean's hand. "If there is anything I can help you with during your stay, please don't hesitate to ask."
"If we could just get the key to room 1408," said Dean.
"We were thinking of upgrading you to a penthouse suite, no extra charge," said Olin.
"Just 1408, please," said Sam.
Mr. Olin nodded. "If you two would humor me by coming to my office for a more private conversation?"
Sam and Dean nodded. "Sure."
Mr. Olin led them back to his office and closed the door. "Please, make yourselves comfortable."
"Thank you," said Sam, sitting in front of the desk as Dean sat in the chair next to him.
Mr. Olin headed to a table behind his desk. "Could I interest either of you in a drink?"
"Sure," said Dean, shrugging.
Mr. Olin grabbed a bottle and held it up. "Le Cinquante Sept Deces, 1939. Exquisite. About eight hundred a bottle when you can find it."
Sam smiled humorlessly. "We appreciate the bribe, but we intend on staying in that room."
Mr. Olin set the bottle down on his desk. "How long?"
Sam shrugged. "Well, we were thinking just overnight."
"No one's ever lasted more than an hour," said Mr. Olin.
Dean shook his head, chuckling. "That's a very good selling technique right there."
"Why are you mocking me when I am genuinely, to the best of my ability, trying to help you?" asked Mr. Olin.
"Look, you can play this little game all you want," said Sam, trying to play the part of a writer. "But we all know that eventually, you're gonna give us the key, and we're gonna go up to that room and write our story, and your bookings are gonna go up fifty percent."
"Sir, you quite misunderstand the situation," said Mr. Olin. "Now, I know the Dolphin doesn't have the cachet of the Plaza or the Carlyle, but we operate at ninety percent capacity, always. And my concern here is not for the hotel. My concern here is not for you. Frankly, selfishly, I don't want you to check into 1408 because I don't want to clean up the mess."
Mr. Olin walked around the desk to stand between their chairs. "Now, hotels are all about presentation and fertile creature comforts. My training is as a manger, not a coroner. Under my watch there have been four deaths—four. After the last one, I forbade any guest from checking into room 1408 ever again."
Dean stood up to face Mr. Olin. "The last one was Randolph Hyde, orthodontist, manic-depressive. Slit his wrists, did a little self-surgery, turned himself into a eunuch, right?"
"Yes," said Mr. Olin. "So, you've done your homework. Well, grievously in its ninety-five years of existence, the hotel has seen seven jumpers, four overdoses, five hangings, three mutilations, two stranglings."
"Yes, we know," said Sam.
"Well, during your investigation, did you discover the twenty-two natural deaths that have occurred in 1408?" asked Mr. Olin, sitting down behind his desk.
Sam nodded. "Yes, we have."
Mr. Olin opened a desk drawer and pulled out a thick case file. "The causes of death in 1408 range from heart attack, stroke, drowning…It's all in here. I will let you have this and give you access to my office. You can take notes, put it all in your book. My only condition is that you do not stay in that room."
Dean shook his head. "We're still staying in there—"
"Dammit to—" Mr. Olin exclaimed, grabbing the case file. "Alright, here." He handed Dean the file. "Read the godforsaken thing. I guarantee you, once you've read it, you won't want to stay in 1408."
Dean opened the file and sat down to look at the crime scene pictures with Sam.
Mr. Olin began to head around the desk towards them. "The first victim—"
"Kevin O'Malley," said Sam. "Checked in the first week it opened. He slit his throat, right?"
"Oh, that's not the horrific part," said Mr. Olin. "Afterwards, in a fit of insanity, he tried to stitch himself back together using an old sewing needle before he bled to death."
"Damn," muttered Dean.
"Look, you don't have to stay in 1408," said Mr. Olin. "You can take photographs of 1404. It has the exact same layout and no one will ever know the difference."
"We are staying in 1408," said Sam.
"Mr. Stephens—" began Mr. Olin.
"Listen, pal," said Dean. "We have seen more hell than you could imagine. You wouldn't believe the stories we could tell you. 1408 is no different. We are trained to handle shit like this."
"So, I can't talk you out of this?" asked Mr. Olin.
"That sounds about right," said Dean.
Mr. Olin sighed. "Very well. Follow me."
He led them back out into the lobby and to the check-in desk. He took out a key and unlocked a compartment in the wall, grabbing an old brass key out of it with a metal keychain that read "1408." Mr. Olin handed the key to Dean.
"Nice touch with the, uh, antique key there," said Dean.
"We have magnetic cards also, but electronics don't seem to work in 1408," said Mr. Olin. "I hope neither of you has a pacemaker."
Dean smiled sarcastically. "Well, I guess this ghost doesn't like technology."
"I never used the word ghost," said Mr. Olin.
"Well, what is it?" asked Sam. "Poltergeist? Spirit? Demon, what?"
"Whatever's in 1408 is nothing like that," said Mr. Olin. He leaned conspiratorially towards them. "It's an evil fucking room."
Sam and Dean glanced at each other, sharing a confused look, as Mr. Olin led them over to the elevator. The three of them got into the car, and Mr. Olin pushed the button to the fourteenth floor.
Sam glanced at Mr. Olin. "Why don't the owners just close the room?"
Mr. Olin looked at him. "The Yasuko Corporation prefers to pretend there's no problem, just as they pretend there's no thirteenth floor."
Dean frowned. "The room's filthy, right? You closed it down in 1978, for crying out loud."
"No, no, no," said Mr. Olin. "We're very professional. 1408 gets a light turn once a month. I supervise, the maids work in pairs. We treat the room as if it's a chamber filled with poison gas. We only stay ten minutes, and I insist the door remain open. But still…" He sighed. "A few years ago, a young maid from El Salvador found herself locked in the bathroom. She was only in there for a few moments, but when we pulled her out, she was—"
"Let me guess, dead?" asked Dean.
"No, blind," said Mr. Olin. "She had taken a pair of scissors and…gouged her eyes out. She was laughing hysterically."
The bell dinged as the car doors opened. Sam and Dean walked out onto the landing of the fourteenth floor.
"This is where we part company," said Mr. Olin, stepping into the doors to stop them from closing. "This is as close as I get to 1408 unless it's that time of the month."
"Alright," said Dean. "Take care and see you in the morning."
"Mr. Stephens…" said Olin.
They looked at him again.
"Please…don't do this," said Mr. Olin.
Dean waved at him a little before heading off down the hall. Sam followed him as Mr. Olin stepped back into the elevator with a sad shake of his head.
"Well, he gets Creeper of the Year Award," said Dean, shivering. "I feel like I caught his crazy."
"Well, people get scared when faced with the unexplained," said Sam.
"Okay, well…" said Dean. "Either he doesn't know a ghost when he sees one…"
"Or we're dealing with something else," said Sam, looking through the file. He frowned at the gruesome crime scene photos. "Damn…"
"Bloody, violent deaths?" asked Dean.
Sam nodded, unable to take his gaze away from the file. "Yeah…"
"Well, if it wasn't a ghost before, it sure has created enough since then," said Dean. "Here it is."
Sam looked up to see that Dean stood in front of a door labeled "1408."
"Here we go," said Dean, taking the key out. He began to reach for the keyhole when he froze.
Sam stared at him as Dean blinked firmly a couple times and frowned. "What?"
Dean shook his head and glanced at Sam. "Uh…nothing. Must be tired." He began to reach for the keyhole when he froze again.
"Dean, seriously, what?" asked Sam.
Dean frowned, staring at the door. "I could have sworn it was tilted in the frame."
"What?" asked Sam, looking at the door. It was perfectly fine.
"The first time, it was tilted to the left," said Dean. "Just a little, but…And then it was fine. Then it was tilted to the right. And now it's normal again."
"Huh," said Sam, staring at the door.
They both stared at it for a moment before Dean shrugged.
"Well…better get on with it," said Dean, putting the key in the lock and turning it.
Sam looked back and forth before drawing a shotgun out of his duffel bag, cocking it and putting the bag by the doorway. Dean glanced at him, placing his hand on the doorknob. Sam stood at the ready by the doorway, holding the shotgun tightly in his hands, and nodded at Dean.
Dean turned the knob and flung the door open, pushing himself out of the doorway. Sam darted into the doorway, aiming the shotgun into the darkness. He couldn't really see anything, so Dean leaned into the doorway and flipped on the light switch. The two lamps on the sitting room side tables came on, filling the sitting room with light. Sam aimed the shotgun from one corner to the other, looking for anything suspicious.
The carpet was a dull, rust-colored orange, covering the sitting room and bedroom. A wooden armoire stood against the wall to the left of the doorway. Along the wall adjacent to the doorway, a marble fireplace stared at the room. A painting hung above the mantle, a painting of a wooden ship at sea. Across from the fireplace was the sitting room set, all high-class style furniture: a sofa, two armchairs, a coffee table in the center and two end tables on either side of the sofa with lamps on top of them.
In the corner to the left of the fireplace was a shoulder-height lamp, which turned on when Dean flipped the second light switch. In the wall opposite the doorway and armoire was a window with floor-length shades on either side. In between the tall lamp and the window was a painting of a woman reading to a bunch of children. To the left of the wall was a desk with a rotary-style phone and another lamp on it. On the wall opposite the fireplace was what appeared to be a mini-bar. Glasses and bottles of scotch stood on the counter.
Also along this wall—between the mini-bar and the desk—was a set of sliding double doors that led to a bedroom: one bed with faded gold comforter and two chocolates on the pillows, a painting on the wall above the headboard of men on horses with hunting dogs, a set of drawers across from the bed with a TV on it, a window in the right wall—the same side of the building the other window was in, two side tables on either side of the bed with lamps on them and a radio on the left table, and a closet next to that table.
On the other side of the armoire, a door led to a bathroom: white floor tiles, black wall tiles, two sinks, a toilet and a claw-foot bathtub/shower.
Sam lowered his shotgun, but did not put it away. Dean grabbed Sam's duffel and edged into the room.
"Anything weird?" asked Dean.
"You mean like tilting doorways?" asked Sam.
Dean shoved Sam's shoulder and headed into the bedroom, flipping on the light in there and dropping the duffels on the bed. "Only one bed."
"Yeah, someone's sleeping on the floor," said Sam.
"If we sleep at all…" muttered Dean, grabbing the two chocolates from the pillows and unwrapping them.
"True," said Sam, taking one last look out the hallway. "We sure about this?"
Dean glanced over to see Sam with one hand on the doorknob, still not closing the door. "Dude, we brought almost the entire arsenal; any weapon we could think of. Just close the freakin' door." He tossed the chocolates into his mouth.
Sam sighed and closed the door, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. He turned and headed towards Dean, who was unloading the duffel bags.
"Alright…" said Dean. "Here." He turned towards Sam and tossed him an EMF meter.
Sam flipped the meter on, pulling the antenna out, and the meter lit up insanely bright and shrieked loudly.
"Son of a—" exclaimed Dean, putting his hands to his ears.
Sam quickly flipped the meter off, staring at it. "Looks like we got something."
"Gee, ya think?" said Dean, lowering his hands. "That's more activity than anything I've ever seen."
"Then again, Olin said electronics don't work in here," said Sam.
Dean shrugged, going back to his bags. "Well, odds are…"
"Yeah," said Sam, heading into the bedroom and tossing the EMF onto the bedspread. He grabbed Olin's file from the bedspread where Dean had tossed it, opening it to flip through it. He shook his head in amazement. "Holy crap…"
"What?" asked Dean, loading a shotgun with salt shells.
Sam showed him a paper from a typewriter, spattered with blood. It read, "My brother was eaten by wolves on the Connecticut Turnpike."
"Son of a bitch…" said Dean. "This room drove them nuts before they offed themselves?"
"Probably," said Sam, closing the case file.
"Well, then, let's kill this mother," said Dean, cocking his shotgun.
They turned towards the sitting room and began searching for clues.
"We've only just begun…"
Sam and Dean jumped, spinning around to aim their shotguns into the bedroom. The radio had just flipped on, playing The Carpenters' "We've Only Just Begun."
"…to live…"
Not only was the radio on, but their bags were packed once again, sitting on the foot of the bed, and the chocolates were back in places on the pillows.
"White laces and promises…"
"Son of a…" muttered Dean, walking slowly into the bedroom and glancing around the room.
"A kiss for luck, and we're on our way…"
"Didn't you eat those?" whispered Sam, staring at the chocolates.
Dean nodded and headed into the bathroom to look around.
"We've only begun…"
Sam unzipped the duffels to see if anything was taken. All the weapons and research were in there.
"Before the risin' sun, we fly…"
A door slammed, and Sam jumped, spinning towards the bathroom to see the door closed.
"So many roads to choose…"
Sam stared at the door. "Dean?"
"Tell me you did that, Sam," said Dean through the door.
"No," said Sam.
Dean opened the door and walked into the bedroom. "I was afraid of that."
"We'll start out walking and learn to run…"
"Shut that damn thing off," Dean muttered, heading into the sitting room.
Sam headed over to the side table, reaching for the radio.
"And, yes, we've just begun…"
Sam flipped the radio off and headed into the sitting room. "Does anything feel weird about this room?"
"Other than the fact that it's supposedly evil?" asked Dean.
"Not that," said Sam. "I mean, we've dealt with all kinds of stuff, but this is the first time I've ever felt…"
"What?" asked Dean.
"Scared," said Sam.
Dean smiled at him. "Aw, does Sammy need a hug?"
"You know what I mean," said Sam. "It's like the hairs of the back of my neck are standing up, like when I turn around, something's gonna be standing there. You know? Like any civilian would get walking into a haunted house."
Dean shrugged. "A little. But that's our job, right? You gotta learn to ignore that feeling, but not disregard it."
Sam nodded. "I know, I know. A job's just never bothered me like this before."
Dean headed to the desk by the window, grabbing the menu. "Let's order room service."
"You think anyone's actually deliver to this room?" asked Sam. "It's taboo."
"Hey, they don't have to walk into the room," said Dean, browsing the food choices. "Just leave it outside." He frowned. "Hey, take a look at this."
Sam walked over to him and looked down at the menu. "It's in French?"
"It wasn't before," said Dean.
Sam looked back down at the menu to see it was now Russian. "What the hell?"
He blinked, and the next second, it was Italian.
Someone banged on the door, and they jumped, gasping.
"Son of a…" muttered Dean.
Sam headed for the room door, yanking it open to see that no one was there. He looked back at Dean, gesturing to the doorway. "You sure you don't want to leave?"
The door was yanked out of Sam's hand and slammed closed. Sam shared a look with Dean and grabbed for the doorknob, but the door wouldn't budge.
"Guess not," said Dean, setting the menu down. "Is it warm in here?"
Sam nodded, and Dean headed to the thermostat, looking at the reading.
"Dude, it's on 80," said Dean.
"Here," said Sam, heading over there and taking the cover off of it.
Sam tapped a finger on the mercury tube, and the air conditioner hummed as it popped on. Sam put the cover back on the thermostat. Dean walked over to the window and opened it to let in some fresh air.
"Sharing horizons that are new to us…"
Sam and Dean jumped again, and Sam headed into the bedroom to see the radio on again.
"Watching the signs along the way…"
Sam glanced at Dean and then headed over to the radio.
"Talkin' it over, just the two of us—"
Sam turned the radio off, frowning at the clock on the front of it. "Hey, take a look at this."
Dean walked into the bedroom to see that the numbers on the radio clock where fritzing on the screen. They stopped, and the clock read, 60:00. The next second, they read, 59:59. And then, 59:58.
"An hour," said Sam, looking up at Dean. "'No one lasts more than an hour.'"
"Great," said Dean as Sam looked back down at the radio. "A countdown. Ah!"
Sam turned to see Dean on the floor. One of the bedroom doors had slid out of the wall and hit Dean. Dean climbed to his feet, holding a hand to the side of his head.
"Dammit," muttered Dean, bringing his hand away to see that it was bloody.
"Come here," said Sam, heading into the bathroom.
"This room is starting to piss me off," Dean growled as he followed Sam into the bathroom.
Sam took some toilet paper and folded it up, turning on the sink faucet. He stuck the toilet paper under the water for a second before it began spraying out of the faucet, scaling Sam's hand. Sam yelled, yanking his hand back in pain. The water hit the basin and sprayed up into the air, steam rising from the sink. Sam reached forward, grabbing the faucet handle to turn it off, but the metal burned him.
"Dammit!" Sam yelled.
Dean grabbed a towel, wrapping it around the faucet and turning the water off. "You okay?"
"Yeah, fine," said Sam. "Here." He handed Dean the wet toilet paper.
Dean put the toilet paper to his wound, wiping it off. "I can't see it."
"Alright," said Sam. He headed into the bedroom to grab the first aid kit.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw a short, stout woman with wild hair rush at him, a hammer or something raised to strike. Sam darted back from her, hitting the bed and falling onto the bedspread. The woman was now gone. Sam looked around in confusion as something dripped onto his forehead. Sam looked up at the ceiling to see what it was, but his jaw dropped at what he saw.
"Jess!" Sam yelled.
Dean turned towards the doorway that led to the bedroom, but the door slammed closed. "Sam!"
"Jess, no!" Sam yelled.
Dean ran out the other door into the sitting room. He darted over to the door to the bedroom, but the sliding doors slammed closed. Dean slammed his hands against the glass in the doors, seeing Sam lying on the bed and staring up at a woman's body pinned to the ceiling. The body abruptly burst into flames.
"Jess, no!" Sam yelled, his hands thrown over his face.
"Sam!" Dean yelled, pounding on the doors.
The ceiling became consumed by the flames as they licked every inch of it. Dean stepped back, raising his leg, and kicked the glass, shattering it. As soon as the glass broke, the flames were immediately swallowed into the ceiling. Jessica's body was gone. Dean ran through the door, grabbing Sam.
"Sam!" said Dean. "It's over!"
Sam looked up at the blank ceiling, his eyes wide. "It was…It was…"
"I know," said Dean, nodding. "It wasn't her. The room made it appear. It wasn't real."
Sam shook his head. "No…it was real…That's the worst part of it…"
"Alright, I've had enough of this room," said Dean. He headed to the room's door, pounding on it and even trying to kick it in.
"Dean, whatever this thing is, it doesn't want us to leave," said Sam, pulling open the sliding doors and heading into the sitting room. "It's not gonna be that easy."
Dean leaned on the door, glancing back at Sam. His eyes widened as he looked at something behind Sam. Sam turned to see a woman in a green skirt and a red, plaid shirt walking across the room towards the window. She was transparent and flickering slightly. She was sobbing as she climbed through the window and threw herself off the ledge.
"Told you there was a ghost," said Dean.
"She was in the file," said Sam. "I recognized her from the crime scene photos. That was just a death echo."
"Great," sighed Dean. "We're back at square one."
There was a weird bang from the other side of the door.
Dean frowned. "What was that?" He turned and looked through the peephole. "You gotta see this."
Sam walked over to the peephole as Dean scooted back from the door. Sam looked through the hole to see nothing but a brick wall on the other side. Dean tapped Sam on the shoulder, and Sam looked at him.
"What?" asked Sam.
Dean was staring in the direction of the window and pointed at it, too. Sam turned to see that the window framed a brick wall. They glanced into the bedroom to see that the window in there had vanished completely; it was just a plain stretch of wall now.
"Well, dammit," muttered Dean.
Sam walked over to the window, putting a hand on the brick wall. "Oh, that's chilling…"
"What?" asked Dean, walking over.
Sam pointed to the brick wall, where a phrase was scratched into the bricks:
"BURN ME ALIVE."
"Dude," said Dean. "It's like Stephen King built this room."
"Yeah," said Sam, looking around the room. "Now what?"
Dean headed into the bedroom and opened his duffel bag, grabbing a shotgun. "Now, we improvise."
Dean cocked the shotgun and headed over to the door, aiming and shooting it with the salt shells. He tried again and again at different points on the walls.
"Dean, it's not working," Sam told him.
"Then you come up with some ideas," grumbled Dean.
Sam reached into his bag, grabbing their father's journal. He flipped it open to look for the exorcism rituals and froze.
"Dean…" whispered Sam.
"What?" asked Dean, heading over to him and looking down at the journal.
It was blank…completely blank.
"What the hell…" said Dean, flipping some pages. "What the hell kind of room messes with Dad's journal?"
"1408, that's what," said Sam, closing the journal with a thud and tossing it onto the bed. "Okay…Plan B."
"What's Plan B?" asked Dean.
Sam closed his eyes, thinking back to when he'd memorized the exorcism a couple weeks ago.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satantica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii—" Sam began.
Something began emitting a deep growl.
"It's working!" hissed Dean with a smile. "Keep going!"
"—omnis legio, omnis congregatio, et secta diabolica," recited Sam. "Perditionis venenum propinare. Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae—"
A thump issued from the ceiling.
"Hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu dei. Contremisce et effuge. Invocato a nobis sancto et terribile nomine."
All the furniture in the sitting room lifted from the floor about an inch or so and thudded back down.
"Quem inferi tremunt. Ab insidis diaboli, libera nos, domine. Ut ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias, libertate servire, te rogamus audi nos."
A wind whipped up in the room, throwing papers around the room as the windows slammed closed.
"Ut inimicos sactae ecclesiae humiliare digneris, te rogamus audi nos."
An inhuman growl-slash-yell filled the room, fading away as the wind died down. The room was very calm and peaceful now.
"It worked?" asked Dean, frowning. "Well, anyone could have done that."
The phone on the desk rang, and Sam and Dean stared at it for a moment before Sam picked up the receiver.
"Hello?" asked Sam.
"This is nine!" came a harsh, inhuman voice from the receiver. "Nine! This is nine!"
Sam held the receiver out so Dean could hear it also.
"Nine! This is ten! Ten! We have killed your friends! Every friend is now dead! This is six! Six!"
Sam looked at Dean. "You ever get tired of being wrong?"
"Five!" the phone shrieked in an empty voice. "This is five! Ignore the siren! Even if you leave this room, you can never leave this room! Eight! This is eight!"
Dean looked past Sam, and Sam followed his gaze, the hand with the receiver in it slowly falling to his side. The painting above the fireplace of the ship at sea had changed. The ship was now in a storm at sea, the deck covered with every victim of 1408.
They looked over to see that the painting of the woman reading to the children was now a woman holding a dead child. The front of her dress was ripped open at the chest, and her teeth were filed into fangs.
The hunt painting over the bed was now full of cannibal dogs tearing the men on the horses—and the horses themselves—apart.
The voice coming from the receiver in Sam's limp hand had turned raspy, grinding and spitting as it screamed.
"Six! Six, this is six, this is fucking SIX!"
"Screw you," Dean spat at the phone, heading for his duffel. "What now?"
Sam hung up the phone. "I don't know."
"Well, I think I do," said Dean. He pulled a bottle of whiskey out of his duffel.
"Really?" said Sam. "All hell is breaking loose, and your answer is booze?"
"Not just any booze," said Dean. He popped the cork out of the top and stuffed a cloth into it, holding up his lighter. "Molotov booze."
Sam smiled, shaking his head. "Worth a shot. But if we burn alive, I am haunting your ass for eternity."
"How do you haunt a ghost?" asked Dean as they put all their things into their duffels.
"Just wait and see," Sam told him.
"And when the evening comes, we smile…"
Sam and Dean looked up at the radio, just staring at it.
"So much of life ahead…"
"Ignore it," said Dean, grabbing his duffel and slinging it over his shoulder.
"We'll find a place where there's room to grow…"
Sam grabbed his duffel and followed Dean into the sitting room.
"And, yes, we've just begun…"
They put their bags next to the door and headed to the middle of the room.
"Sharing horizons that are new to us…"
Dean flipped the lighter on, holding it up to the cloth. It burst into flames, and Dean put his lighter away.
"Here goes nothing…" said Dean. He raised his arm and threw the Molotov cocktail into the bedroom.
It shattered against the bedroom wall, and the flames engulfed the wall and bed.
"Watching the signs along the way…"
The next second, the fire alarm from the hallway went off. A groan emitted from the entire room as the flames quickly licked at the ceiling and the doorway to the sitting room.
"Talkin' it over, just the two of us…"
The music was starting to gurgle and spit as the radio began to melt in the fire. The sprinklers came on as the room tried to put the fire out.
"Keep trying, you son of a bitch!" Dean yelled up at the ceiling. "It's useless!"
Sam picked up the glass ashtray from the end table, holding it up. "You ready?"
Dean headed over to the doorway as Sam followed him partway.
"Work—togeth—day to—"
Sam turned towards the one window left, seeing that the brick was starting to vanish.
"An—w—eve—c—we—sm—"
The radio was completely finished. Sam readied himself and tossed the ashtray towards the window. He threw himself to the floor away from the window and burning bedroom as the ashtray crashed through the window. The fire blew out of the bedroom and out the window, starving for oxygen. A giant fireball exploded throughout that side of the room as Sam and Dean threw their arms over their heads.
The fire slowly calmed a little as the oxygen began to steadily flow into the room through the open window. Dean reached up to the doorknob of the room, finding that he could turn it easily.
"Yeah!" Dean cheered, flinging the door open and barreling out into the hall.
Sam followed him quickly.
Dean looked back into the room as the fire roared and the room groaned in pain. "Burn, baby, burn!"
The two of them hauled their bags onto their shoulders, coughing as they ran down the hall towards the staircase. They darted past firemen, who ran out of the staircase towards 1408, and headed down the stairs as fast as they could.
"Well, let's hope there's no other 1408s in other hotels to burn down," muttered Dean.
"Let's hope," Sam agreed.
"And you wonder why we stay in motels all the time," Dean told him.
Sam frowned at him as he followed his brother down the stairs. "I believe that was you."
Dean shrugged. "Either way, 1408 is exactly why we don't stay in hotels."