TWO
Sam opened an eye at the slight hissing sound. For a long moment he wasn't sure what it was – then suddenly it all became clear.
"Ba-da da-na-na-na-na'l-la! Ba-da da-na-na-na-na'l-la! Greased and slicked down fine, groovy leather trim, I like the way you hold the road, mama it ain't no sin! Talkin' bout love - talkin' bout love - talkin' bout… Trouble-free transmission, helps your oil flow, mama let me pump your gas, mama let me do it all! Talkin' bout love - talkin' bout love - talkin' bout love…"
Dean's husky voice from the large en-suite bathroom confirmed Sam's worst suspicions: One, it was already morning, and two, something had put his showering older brother in a good enough mood to sing as loudly as he wanted from behind the closed door.
Sam dragged in a huge lungful and gave a monumental huff – his first of the day – and pulled the blankets over his shoulder more warmly.
"Dig that heavy metal underneath your hood, baby, I could work all night, believe I've got the perfect tools… Ba-da da-na-na-na-na'l-la! Ba-da da-na-na-na-na'l-la! Come to me for service every hundred miles, baby, let me check your points, fix your overdrive!"
Dean's voice continued as if no-one else existed, and Sam turned onto his side on the sofa, folding his pillow round his ears tightly. But neither peace nor sleep were his to enjoy. As he closed his eyes someone knocked firmly on the main door to the room.
"Mr Scott?" said a female voice.
Sam stalled a second huff – he had a quota to keep to, after all – and climbed off the sofa, going to the door and opening it quickly.
"Yeah," he managed, rubbing an eye and yawning.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Lucy, eyeing his rumpled t-shirt and matching hair. "I hope I didn't just wake you."
"Not really," he admitted, putting a hand to his trousers to pull them up slightly. "Something wrong?"
"Oh, well… Patrick said you weren't happy with the room," she said, biting her lip and appearing quite nervous. "Is there anything I should know about?"
"It's – well, it's a nice room, Ms Backet—"
"Lucy, please."
"Lucy. But we need another bed," he smiled politely. She stared, then slapped a hand over her mouth.
"Oh! My! I am so sorry," she gasped. "I just thought – different surnames on the booking-in slip, and… Oh dear me, I'm so sorry," she gabbled.
Sam smiled, putting his hands up in a bemused show of innocence. He was aware of a restrained muttering of music and the brief sensation of dissipating steam, as he heard Dean's feet on the carpet behind him. He ignored him.
"Really, don't worry about it," he said soothingly. "We were just wondering if there was any way we could—"
"Hey Ms Backet," the older brother interrupted cheerfully from behind Sam.
Her mouth appeared unhinged for a moment, her eyes opening just a little wider. She swallowed and nodded.
"Lucy, please," she said, her smile looking slightly forced, slightly desperate.
Sam turned to find Dean standing in just his jeans, rubbing his hair with a towel. Sam's eyes, buoyed by their stellar independent success the day before, again decided all by themselves that a roll was in order. They managed a spectacular ocular 360 that went completely unnoticed by everyone and everything except Sam's sub-conscious. He turned back to the hotel owner.
"So anyway, we were wondering if we could perhaps change the room?" he ventured, watching Lucy's gaze continue to hover just slightly to the right of his shoulder as if he weren't even there.
"If you like," she responded automatically.
"Oh hey, I have a question," Dean said suddenly, dropping the towel to the bed and snatching up a clean t-shirt. He carried it over in his hand, Sam moving to one side for him. The younger sibling leaned back against the doorjamb, folding his arms.
"Anything," Lucy smiled at Dean, her speech a little slow.
Dean blinked at her and Sam recognised his brother's attempt to conceal confusion. Dean shook his head briskly as if to wipe something from his active mind. "It's just that I can't get the electrical socket in the bathroom to work," he admitted.
"It's probably nothing – he's not very bright," Sam put in from above. Lucy looked at him, then back at Dean.
"No, no, these places have a funny connection," she said, "you'd best let me have a look at it."
Dean stood back to let her in. She passed between the brothers and walked off toward the bathroom. Dean swung the t-shirt to lie over his shoulder, following her to the smaller room. Sam closed the main door and walked back to his sofa, bouncing back onto it with enthusiasm and snatching the blanket up over him. He stretched out and squirmed and wriggled until he was comfortable, an unwilling party to the exchange going on in the bathroom.
"Easy," Lucy was saying, pushing the power plug into the wall. Dean folded his arms, something that appeared to make it hard for Lucy to look anywhere but the mirror at a fortuitous angle in front of her.
"Well I keep pushing it in, but then it jumps right back out again. I'm not exactly Einstein but I've done it enough times to know I'm getting it in right. Is it your socket or my plug?" he asked innocently.
She looked round at him, apparently choosing her words carefully.
"It seems to be ok now, Mr Scott," she said, biting her lower lip.
"Ronald, please," he smiled.
"You don't look like a Ronald," she ventured.
Sam, under his blanket, decided to Hell with pacing himself as far as his Huff Quota went, and let fly with another monumental harrumph that could definitely be heard all the way from the bathroom. 'Bon' he mouthed silently to himself.
"Bon, then," Dean smiled at Lucy. She looked back at the plugged-in shaver deliberately.
"Looks like it's fine," she said stiffly, and he pushed himself off the doorjamb and walked out. She followed, pausing to look at Sam before reaching the main door again. "I am sorry about the mix-up with the room, Mr Johnson," she said, and Sam opened his eyes suddenly, sitting up. "I tell you what, why don't I send you both up some breakfast and then see about changing your room."
Sam eyes darted from her to Dean while he appeared to fight to keep a look of complete anger from his face. He twisted his face into a polite smile and looked back at Lucy.
"Thanks," he managed politely, if somewhat edgily.
She nodded and looked at Dean once before sighing and going to the door. She opened it up and closed it quickly behind her.
"Mr Johnson?" Sam prompted immediately, deciding there was no way in or out of Hell that he was going to finish his lie-in this morning.
"Don't get your panties in a twist, Mr Johnson," Dean replied dismissively, walking back into the bathroom. He found the power cord and plug lying on the counter and huffed, picking it up and pushing it back into the socket.
"Mr Johnson? As in Brian Johnson? I'm not being Brian Johnson!" Sam cried petulantly, pulling back his blanket to stand.
"Sounds like an ordinary name to me," Dean commented, flicking the power on the shaver. The shaver sputtered and stopped immediately, the plug popping out of the socket abruptly. He tutted irritably.
"But it's not, is it?" Sam demanded. "I am not being Brian Johnson!"
"Dude, don't be such a girl," Dean chided, plugging the shaver in again.
"I am not being Brian Johnson! Not now, not ever," Sam huffed indignantly, walking to the bathroom door with his hands firmly wedged on his hips.
"You sure about that?" Dean asked, pushing the shaver power button. "Cos you sound like him right now."
The shaver ran for a half-second before the power again appeared to flee the appliance and the plug disengaged itself from the wall. Dean dropped the item to the counter, frustrated. He put his knuckles to the counter top, leaning his weight on them and staring at the shaver, trying to think of a suitable swear word.
"Asshole!" Sam blurted, and Dean jumped slightly before looking at him.
"Dude, it's a shaver, I don't think it has an-"
"Not the shaver, you! You're an asshole!" Sam cried angrily.
"You want to explain that?" he demanded with a biting harshness that did nothing to weaken Sam's own anger.
"Don't be a jerk," Sam snapped. "Brian Johnson took over lead vocals for AC/DC – after Bon Scott died. Not hard to work out, is it?"
"Woah, I'm impressed," Dean blinked, surprise nudging anger neatly aside. "I honestly didn't think—"
"No! You didn't," Sam countered, then leaned over and slapped the plug back into the wall. "Just… just get ready so we can start hunting down these ghost things."
He turned and walked off. Dean watched him for a long second, then let his gaze wander down to the bathroom counter. He looked up, caught sight of his own eyes, and looked away smartly. He picked up the shaver and turned it on. It ran for a whole three seconds, during which he simply watched it, his mind on other things. Then it stopped sharply as the plug again leapt out of the wall.
"Alright, I can take a hint!" he hissed, wrapping the cord round the shaver and bundling it all back in his small zip-up bag.
"Dude, is it too much to ask that you stay out of my bag?" Sam called from the main room.
"I ain't touched your bag, smartass," Dean snapped, walking out and heading for the bed.
"Oh yeah?" Sam retorted. "So why are all my shirts inside out? And why is there now a Magic—"
Dean stepped on something small and round and let out a startled bark of outrage, dropping his toiletries bag and clutching at his foot in pain.
"Goddamn it, Sammy!" he growled. "What are you, five? Do you have to leave your shit all over the floor for me to step on?"
"All my 'shit' is in my bag – the one you rifled through while I was asleep," he said pointedly.
Dean hopped to the bed, his left foot still grasped tightly in his hands. He let himself sit heavily and lifted his foot in his hands, tipping it up to him to see.
"I did not go through your friggin' bag! And if all your shit's in there, then what's this?" he demanded, yanking something from his foot. "A mapping pin – a goddamn mapping pin! And who carries the stationery? The files and folders geek – oh, that would be you," he snapped, holding up the small yet very sharp pin.
"What the hell?" Sam asked, his face creasing in thought. "The box is still shut, look," he added, turning back to his duffle.
"You know what? Forget it," Dean groused. "Just… get showered and ready to go, Sammy. I'm starting to dread breakfast."
"Yeah, good idea," Sam muttered suspiciously. He picked up a selection of clothes and towels, going into the bathroom and closing the door.
Dean let himself flop back on the bed, putting his hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling intently. He heard the shower start up and let his mind wander. It stumbled over Brian Johnson and staggered, trying to catch its balance, but then went completely arse over tit as Bon Scott reared his dead head.
Dean sighed and let his mind find its feet before veering sharply away from the whole mess of identities, deals and angsty Sam. Instead he thought about the two men who had jumped from the very top floor of the hotel.
He let his eyes close for a second, and was just wondering how long breakfast was going to be when he felt a nudge at his shoulder.
"Alright Sammy, I'm—" He opened his eyes and looked around.
The shower was still going, the room still empty save him. He sat up, putting a hand to his shoulder and rubbing slightly where he had most definitely felt someone's hand.
He got up and went to his duffle, pulling out the EMF meter and turning it on.
It spiked straight away, the needle slamming into the far reaches of maximum before it suddenly dropped and went dead. Dean looked up and around, staring around the room.
Sam opened the door and came out, finding his brother still standing in only a pair of ripped jeans, his hair still wet but towelled and left in amusing patterns, his left hand out holding the EMF meter and his face one of complete confusion.
"The two guys died outside," Sam pointed out, going to his sofa and picking up the blankets.
"No… Something touched me," Dean asserted, waving the meter around. It refused to register anything further and he tutted, turning it off.
"Yeah, you know what? Something touched me, in the shower," Sam said brightly.
"Seriously?" Dean asked slowly.
"Yeah! It's called water, Dean! Now get dressed so we can get asking about these 'ghosts' that people say are in this hotel."
"Funny," Dean muttered, bending over the bed to pick up his clean t-shirt. "Where do we start?"
"I'd say… library," he said deliberately.
"Ah. I'd say… ladies' coffee morning," Dean replied brightly, ringing the t-shirt in his hands to make a circle before popping it over his head.
"How do you know there's a coffee morning?"
"It was on the sign in the lobby last night, right next to the check-in desk," he replied, pre-occupied by the cotton shirt trying to twist itself the wrong way round him as he fought to get it straight.
"Dude…" Sam began, then realised he may as well try and keep Scooby Doo from a seventeen-storey snack. His shoulders sagged and he gave up. "Forget it. You go do ladies' morning. I'm going to—. Don't you think that t-shirt might be just a little inappropriate?" he interrupted himself.
Dean managed to get the t-shirt sat straight and looked down at it. Olive green and nicely fitted, it had the words 'Bite, lick or suck… it's all good' on the front in large white cursive letters.
"What?" Dean asked innocently. "You remember that thing we were doing in Fort Worth? And that very lovely marketing lady named Jenny at the Oreos sales convention? She gave it me."
"Oreos?" Sam prompted, his eyebrows scrambling up under his waves of fringe.
"Yeah. Why, what did you think it was about?" Dean smiled maliciously, turning so Sam could see the back. It did indeed sport a large picture of two Oreos, one chocolate, one half chocolate and half peanut butter.
"Whatever. What exactly are you planning to do at a ladies' coffee morning? –And don't say 'ladies'," he added quickly.
"Gossip, local history, the works," Dean winked, walking over and retrieving his toiletries bag from where he had dropped it on the carpet. He fished out his tub of wax and went back into the bathroom.
"Fine. I'm going to cancel breakfast and get to the library. Call me if you get anything," Sam called, heading for the room door.
"Oooh yeah," Dean smiled to himself, rubbing the wax between his fingers before attacking his hair with enthusiasm.