DRUNKIN'

DONUTS

Chapter two

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Sam stepped past Dean, pulling his hood down. "Rain, man, lots and lots of rain." He shook his head, droplets sailing every which way.

"You…you're…you," Dean snarled, slamming the door shut using his boot. "You're in trouble now." He jammed his gun back into his pants.

Sam sulked over to the small dinette table, dropping the soggy white, orange and pink box down.

"Where you been?" Dean demanded, stomping over to inspect the box.

"Oh, I don't know, Dean. Was such a nice day I thought I'd sit in the park, feed the ducks."

"Smart ass." Dean opened the soggy lid.

"I wasn't gone that long." Sam took a glazed donut from the box. "What time is it?"

"Half past crazy," Dean said dryly.

"Look, " Sam took a bite out of his donut. "By the time I got to Dunkin Donuts rain was coming down in droves," he swallowed.

"Droves?" Dean questioned. "What are you from Texas?"

Ignoring Dean, Sam said, "I was waiting for the rain to slow again before heading back, okay?"

"You could have called." Dean plucked a jelly donut out of the dozen.

"We needed some space," Sam said softly.

Dean eyed the treat and winced. His stomach was no longer barking out orders to 'feed me'. Dean swallowed, there'd be plenty of space between them soon enough, he dropped the donut back into the box.

"Thought you were hungry?" Sam finished off his donut, wiping his hands on his shirt.

Dean shrugged.

"You were worried," Sam offered, a small smile crossing his face.

"No." Dean did an about-face and walked away.

"Then what's with the attitude problem?"

"Chester's the one with the attitude problem. I'm delightful."

"Who's Chester?"

Dean flopped down on his bed, staring straight at Sam, he pointed at the wall clock. "Sam, Chester. Chester, Sam."

The super creepy cat's eyes shot back and forth, the swish, swish of the pendulum tail forever keeping time. Dean wished he could wipe the goofy grin off Chester's face and put it on Sam's - oh, but wait, his brother was born with a goofy grin. He wished he could rip the cat's tail off and turn back time. Dean blew out an uneasy breath. Wishes were as bad as ifs - they were big and lousy and not ever going to happen. It wasn't just being cooped up in the tiny shoebox of a room that was bothering him, them, Dean knew it was the tension of the job. His fear. Sam's guilt, over the whole going to hell deal. His time was coming due, closer and closer with each swish of Chester's tail.

"Eww, he is creepy." Sam's eyes moved in time with Chester's - back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and… "So," Sam shook his head, obviously trying to focus his attention back on Dean. "So, if you're so delightful, why don't you look delightful?"

Swish, swish.

"Dude, my delightfulness is shooting Rainbow Skittles out my ass… catch yourself one," Dean drawled, sarcastically.

Swish, swish.

Sam blew out a long breathy sigh, "Dean, I thought a little time to cool off might help. I'm tired. Tired of fighting about fighting. Tired of tiptoeing around you. Maybe we should talk about…" Sam canted his head. "You know."

Swish, swish.

"Sam, no. No more talk. No more spitballs. No more nothing. We're both tired. Just get out of those wet clothes and go rock out with your laptop or something." Dean rolled over onto his side, close-pressing his pillow around his ears.

Swish, swish.

The never-ending drone of time continued to pass by as fast, if not faster, than the rain falling from the sky.

"Shut up, Chester," they yelled in unison.

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This was one great gig. Dean smiled, eyeing the smokin' hot, half-naked bodies strutting across the stage before him. He leaned far back in his chair studying each and every curve of the exotic, erotic, sexy, and very naughty looking women that paraded past him one-by-one on the small stage. Velvet lips blew kisses his way. Bluer than blue eyes winked. A red headed girl flashed him a sneak peek of her butterfly tattoo. Dean could feel himself blush, he never blushed. Being the judge, jury and grand prize of his very own bikini contest - was a tough job, but, as the old saying went - someone had to do it.

How was he going to pick just one lady? Dean swiped the beads of sweat off his brow. A long-legged, long-haired brunet with grey-blue eyes and pouty lips stood a-la-natural before him. Dean could feel his temperature rising hot, hot, hot. If Angelina Jolie had a twin sister she was it - in spades. The flawless woman bent over seductively. Dean leaned forward, closing his eyes and parting his lips. Her fingers caressed the back of his neck as she drew him close. This was her. He had his winner, and didn't all hard-working bikini contest judges deserve a little fun? Their lips met, soft mewling sounds purred deep in her throat. Dean pulled her from the stage and she landed in his lap. She was perfect, a ten, maybe even a twelve, exactly what his downstairs brain had ordered. She kissed him long and soft. Her mewling turned to grunting, snorting, slurping, drooling, her cheeks flapping in the wind like a bulldog.

"Aw, gross." Dean shot straight up in bed, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "Who the…" He glanced around, searching for his beautiful contest winner. "What the …bleep, bleep, bleep." Dean glared across the room. Sam was sleeping at the small table, shaggy head laying on top his laptop's keyboard. "Sam," he called out. Sam snored on like a lawn mower trying to mow its way out of a deep, dark cave. "Damn you, Sam, you ruined the perfect dream, wake up." Sam wiggled his head. The laptop beeped, the lawn mower coming out of its cave and turning into a whiny puppy dog. "Hey." Dean angrily snatched his pillow from behind him, launching the cushion at Sam's head. "I said, wake up."

Sam slapped at his face. "Huh-what-why?" He bolted upright, eyes immediately locking on Dean. "What?" His features twisted in confusion.

"The hell you doing?" Dean growled.

Sam glanced down at the keyboard, long bangs falling over his eyes. "Rocking out on my laptop, like you told me to," he muttered groggily.

"More like drooling on it," Dean snapped.

"Why?" Sam wiped the drool from his lips. "Wha' you doing?

"I was enjoying," Dean paused, no longer hearing rain pelting against the window. "The peace and quiet," he lied, waving a hand toward the window. "Since it finally stopped raining." He scooted back against the headboard. "Maybe we can blow this place soon. I can't take much more of this room, or your..." Dean cocked his head to one side noticing an ice bucket, an empty glass, and his bottle of Jack sitting on the table next to the laptop. "You drank all my whiskey." He pointed an accusing finger at the half-empty bottle.

"Not all," Sam garbled "Still some left." He picked up the bottle, poured some into the glass, and swallowed a big mouthful.

"Damn it, Sam, are you drunk?"

Sam gave a goofy smile, knocking back more Jack.

"Answer me."

Sam peered at Dean through a drape of unruly bangs. He exchanged the glass for drinking straight out of the bottle.

"Are you drunk?" Dean repeated louder.

Sam tipped the bottle to his lips and took another deep swig, wiping the drops of Jack that dribbled out the side of his mouth and down his chin.

"Can you stop that and answer me?" Dean huffed, already knowing the truth.

Sam set the bottle down with a sloshy clunk.

"Sam."

"Yeah," Sam stood to wobbly legs, "So." His feet crisscrossed as he made his way toward Dean. "Oops." His feet jumbled together and he sank to his knees next to the empty Dunkin Donut box. "Dean." He shook his head. "I fell."

"Takes talent." Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge, glaring at the box. "What'd you do?" Dean frowned. "Eat all the donuts, too?"

"Well, yaaaaaaa," Sam chuckled, fidgeting on the floor. "Can you help me up?"

"No, you moron," Dean grouched. "What were you thinking?"

"I was bored," Sam grinned, rolling his eyes up so far Dean thought they'd get stuck that way.

"Cute, Sam, real cute."

"Geeze." Sam pushed himself drunkenly back to his feet. "What'd you do? Wake up on the wrong side of the bed."

"Dude, I woke up on the awesome side of the bed."

"Lemme guess." Sam teetered left. "'Cause you think you're awesome?" he laughed loudly.

"No, Sam, because I think I suck." Dean sat back against the headboard, crossing his legs at the ankles. "So, when did it stop raining? Maybe we can blow this place soon," Dean lowered his voice to a whisper, "Before I have to declare myself insane."

Sam staggered across the room, and peered out the window. "Eh, Dean."

"You gonna puke? You puke, you clean it up, bro."

"It's still pouring, man."

"Shut up, Sam, only thing pouring around here is your mouth."

"It's pouring." Sam pressed a hand flat to the window. "Rain." He swayed drunkenly

"Sam, do I look drunk to you?"

"Come look for yourself."

"You look for the both of us." Dean crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"I'm telling you, Dean it's still raining.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Tapping on the window…bush league, Sam, you'll have to do better than that."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Okay, so it's not raining, its hailing, now," Dean, said drowsily. "Go back to sleep, drool on your pillow this time."

The tapping turned to knocking.

"Dean," Sam scolded.

"Golf ball-sized hail," Dean grumbled, not moving.

The knocking turned to banging.

"Sam, this isn't going to work. Put your drunk ass to bed and let's just get along until this storm passes."

"I don't believe you," Sam screeched.

"That's what you said when I told you there was no Tooth Fairy, dork," Dean huffed, slipping down to lay on his side, blindly searching for his pillow. "If you don't stop that, I'm going to make you cry just like you did back then."

The banging stopped. "I thought so," Dean said triumphantly. "Toss me back my pillow, woman."

Dean's bed suddenly started to shake, thumping up an down on the floor. "Are you friggin' kidding me," he snarled, shooting upright. "Sam, I said quit…" Dean gaped in shock at his brother standing stiffly at the foot of his bed. "Does this look bush league to you?" Sam cocked his head to one side. "No hands." Sam wiggled his fingers, flashing Dean a satisfied smile.

"Son of a bitch." Dean flew off the bed, watching in shock as bed thumped up and down two more times by itself, then stilled.

"I told you so," Sam whined, like a five-year-old.

"Shut up." Dean brushed past Sam, heading toward the window to check outside, only halfway across the room he stopped. "Brrr." He shivered.

"What?"

"Cold spot." Dean shook off the feeling, marched to the window and drew back the curtains. "That," Dean turned to face Sam. "Is so wrong. It's pouring, and not making a sound."

"Know what else isn't making a sound?" Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Check it out."

Dean's eyes popped wide. "Chester!" He registered, staring at the wall cat's tail had stopped swishing, the hands of time frozen on three am, the cat's eyes also motionless, staring off to the left. Dean frowned at Sam, completely surprised. "How's that go?"

"Tried to tell you."

A gust of cold wind blew through the room, sending a lamp crashing into a wall.

"Holy sister of Angelina Jolie." Dean ran to the duffle bag for the salt gun. "Sam, check the salt lines."

The wind picked up again, blowing the cigarette burnt blankets and sheets off the beds and rattling the thin walls.

"Salt's good," Sam called out.

Dean loaded the sawed-off, aiming the muzzle around the room. With no target to shoot at, he started to search every corner of the room for a hex bag, anything to explain what in blazing tarnation was going on.

A strange smell filled the air, the wind continuing to whip things around the room, like dried Autumn leaves.

"What is that smell?" Sam asked.

"I don't know." Dean turned to see Sam peeking into the forbidden 'Porkey's' hole on his side of the imaginary line. "Naked college girls?" he asked.

"Nest of cockroaches." Sam leaned against the wall. "How'd we pick up a ghost?

"Gawd," Dean gagged, the smell and the wind getting stronger. "Sam, go, get out of here."

"Going to hell doesn't make you exden…exten….expendable, Dean," Sam blurted.

"Sam, just get out of here. I'll be right behind you." Dean stood stiff, guarding, ready to shoot should whatever this was materialize.

Sam moved to the door and tugged at the handle. "Go where? Door won't open."

"What do you mean?" Dean glanced briefly over his shoulder.

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" Sam gave Dean a defeated look.

"Take your whiskey goggles off, Sam, and go already."

Sam lifted a foot to kick the door, floundering and barely able to keep upright.

"Here, drunkin' donuts," Dean nudged Sam out of the way. "Hold this." He handed Sam the salt gun. "You forgot to say open says me." Dean yanked on the door handle. Nothing. "Open say's me." He raised his foot and kicked with all his might at the door. "Locked down in lockdown." Dean impatiently kicked at the door to no avail. "Come on," he yelled. "This makes no sense." Dean turned, ducking just as the donut box zoomed his way, so fast it probably would have taken his head off, soggy or not.

"Whoa, Dean, that nearly took your head off," Sam garbled.

"You're brilliant when you're drunk, you know that, Sam?"

"Good one, bro," Sam laughed out loud.

"Brilliant and way too happy," Dean tisked, continuing to sweep the room, trying to get a clue. "Make yourself useful man, try the window," he ordered Sam, dropping down to peer under the beds.

"It's stuck, too," Sam called out.

Dean popped up from under the bed. "Break the glass, Einstein."

"You're absol…absolu…absol-bluely collect." Sam leaned the sawed-off against the wall and snatched a chair. "Why'd I think of that?"

"Because you're absolutely tanked, man." Dean flipped the mattresses off the bed. "I still got nothing." He stood.

Sam flung the leg-end of a chair at the window. No glass shattered, the chair bouncing off the window like the pane was made out of cement.

Sam shook his head at Dean. "We're trapped," he said, retrieving the sawed-off.

The wind died down and all was silent again, the smell gone.

"Gold star for you," Dean shot out sarcastically.

"Jus' sayin'."

"How about ju' sayin' what is going on?" Dean's whole body shook and tensed.

"Do I usually know?"

"Everything," Dean sneered.

"Room's haunted, maybe the whole motel," Sam giggled like a girl who drank one too many daiquiris.

"Smooth, Sammy, real smooth. Can you stop talking crap and try to sober up," Dean sighed in exasperation. "Haunted by what? When? How? Come on, Sam, grow back your brain."

"Dean." Sam looked pale. "The walls are tilting." He took a step, sagging toward the floor.

"Ohhhhh, noooooo. No-no-no-no." Dean took two long steps, shot a hand out and grabbed Sam by the arm, stopping him midway.

"Dizzy," Sam complained, turning a tad green

"C'mon, c'mon, never could hold your liquor, " Dean mumbled. "No passing out." He wrestled Sam back upright.

Sam smiled big, leaning in close enough so that his nose touched Dean's. "I love you, man."

"Okay, Mr. overly touchy-feely." Dean let go his hold and backed away. "How about we do the whole, I'm an awesome big brother thing after we figure out what we're dealing with here. Can't gank what we don't know."

Sam slurred some barely coherent nonsense about a central processing unit.

Dean snapped his fingers. "The laptop."

"That's wha' I said." Sam tossed the salt gun to Dean who caught it deftly, despite the awkward pitch. Sam staggered over to the table reaching for the keyboard, but the laptop was torn away from his grasp and sent crashing into the closest wall. "No, no, no," Sam cried tottering a few steps, but stopping, obviously realizing the laptop was worthless now, smashed into a thousand pieces parts.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look.

"All righty then," Dean said calmly. "Someone doesn't want us busting up their little room party. Now what?"

Sam opened his mouth, bent at the waist and vomited on the carpet.

"Whoa, dude, not the answer I was looking for." Dean stepped forward, stooping a little to get a better look at Sam's face. "Bro, you okay?"

Sam spit out the bits of donut that were left in his mouth, waving Dean off with one hand. "Bathroom window," he gagged, "Small, but maybe…"

Dean immediately took long strides toward the bathroom, but the door slammed shut in his face just as he touched the knob.

"What do you want!" Dean whipped around, shaking in frustration. "You want some of this?" He waved the sawed-off wildly. "Come get it."

The air turned ice-cold, and Sam's giant wiz-kid book came flying across the room - a line drive to the center of Sam's forehead, knocking him away from the table.

"Gah," Sam keeled over.

"Sammy." Dean dropped down in front of Sam, setting the gun next to him and grasping Sam by the shirt, holding him up.

"Owe," Sam gasped, eyes rolling back white.

"Hey." Dean fingered the large goose-egg growing between Sam's eyebrows. "No passing out hangover boy. " Sam's head lolled. "Sam, you hear me?" Dean gave him a little shake. "Sam," he said loudly, giving his brother a harder jolt. You with me?"

Sam's eyes slowly moved back into place staring vacantly at Dean, but he didn't respond.

"Bro." Dean scowled, holding up three fingers. "How many?"

"Chocolate," Sam murmured.

"Dude, you flunked that test." Dean worriedly tapped the side of Sam's cheek. "Come on." Dean tapped harder. "I'll settle for you calling me sweetheart at this point."

"Jerk." Sam shivered. "Room's spinning."

"No it's not, bitch."

"My side is." Sam shook his head, seeming to wake from his daze. "Wha' happen?"

"Got knocked in the head by your geeky book, you remember?"

"Bathroom window," Sam garbled.

"Yeah, that didn't go so well. Got anymore bright ideas?"

Sam wilted against Dean. "None."

"So ever," Dean added. "Come on, let's get you up." Dean put action to his words, grabbing the sawed-off and wrangling Sam to his feet.

"Uh." Sam teetered.

"Over here." Dean led Sam back over to the table, leaning him against it. Dean gave a quick glance around.

One handedness was a skill thier dad had taught them early on. Keeping a tight hold of the sawed-off, Dean nabbed a dirty tee shirt off the floor. He dipped the material into the melted ice in the bucket and wrung out some of the excess water. "Take this." He handed Sam the dripping wad.

"Thanks." Sam held the wet shirt against the lump on his forehead.

"Better?" Dean questioned in concern.

"Stinks," Sam breathed.

"Yeah, you do." Dean's nose crinkled at the breathy smell of whiskey mixed with stomach acid and a dozen Dunkin Donuts.

"No, your shirt, man, it stinks."

Dean leaned forward and took a whiff. "Hold it there anyway, before that goose egg cracks open and your brains leak out." Dean stepped back, scrubbing a hand down his face.

The lights flickered on and off, like a funhouse strobe light. Dean blinked repeatedly, disoriented by the swirling shadows, the funky smell back. What the hell could have gotten past the salt lines? Or had it been waiting dormant for the right time to attack.

"Whatever this thing is, it's playing with us," Dean growled, "Tag. You're it," he yelled.

A yellow orb suddenlyappeared near the ceiling.

"Crap, time to make more donuts." Dean took quick aim and fired. "Take that."

The orb disputed with a shrill screech, plaster and salt spray showering down to dust the carpet.

TBC…

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