Author's Note: Y'all get a bonus today! It made more sense to me to post these two chapters at the same time, so I hope you enjoy both this chapter and the following one!
"A witch?" Sam's voice dripped with incredulity. He shook his head as stately and ancient houses passed by the window in a blur.
He and Dean were back in the Impala in search of the town's one motel. Sam had to admit to being mildly surprised that this part of Maine was considered enough of a tourist area to warrant having a motel in a town November's size.
This was the first opportunity the brothers had had to talk since Dean had dropped the witch bomb at the hospital. The words were barely out of Dean's mouth a second when Julia called Sam's name and got him settled in a small exam room. Ten minutes later, he was being released with a prescription for naproxen, ostensibly to break his headache but which Dean intended on getting filled for the first aid kit.
Dean smiled, either oblivious to or ignoring his brother's disbelief. "Yep, a witch. At least that's what local legend says."
Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. Oh, here we go, he thought, suddenly understanding why Dean hadn't shared this information before. "What's the legend?"
"Lillian Blackstone was still a newlywed when her fisherman husband's boat went down in choppy water in the winter of 1876. As was appropriate for a young widow back in the day, she went into mourning but apparently she never came out." He paused only long enough to clear his throat. "She dressed in all black and would spend hours standing on the widow's walk, just staring out at the ocean that had claimed her husband."
"And that makes her different from all other fishermen's wives how?" Sam muttered.
"Wiseass," Dean shot back. "Anyway. Years passed and she became a total recluse. Maintained the monochrome wardrobe, never left the house, the whole bit. Now think of how small this town is, how, as you put it, everyone knows everyone. Whenever there's an old woman like that in the neighborhood--"
"--all the kids are afraid of her," Sam interjected. "The rumors start flying: she's mean, she's a witch."
"Exactly." Dean slowed the car down as the traffic light ahead of him turned red. "Blackstone died in 1921 but for whatever reason no one ever bought her house and by now it's practically condemned. Of course, that just fuels the legend; she 'cursed the house' or some other such crap. Lillian Blackstone is now known as both the Black Widow and the Witch of November."
Sam scoffed. "I thought the witch of November was the winds off the Great Lakes that sank ships."
"Well, yeah," Dean said condescendingly, eyeing his brother. "It's a play on words, Sammy."
"It's funny," Sam said, his face deadpan.
Dean snorted and allowed silence to settle over the car. He held up a pamphlet on how to treat ear infections in children and squinted, trying to read the directions he'd scrawled across the back. After trying for another few seconds to read the pen markings across the printed words while still keeping his attention on the road, he handed it off to his brother. "I can't even read my own writing. What street's after Vernon?"
"Uh, looks like either Macon or Mason," Sam replied, squinting at the pamphlet himself. As he tore his eyes from the paper, he realized that the street in question was coming up quickly on their left. "Dean, Macon, right there."
"I see it," Dean said, flipping the blinker and making the turn just in time.
Two more side streets and a traffic light later, Dean pulled the Impala into the parking lot of a quaint little inn that looked more like an old-fashioned bed and breakfast than a cheap motel. Sam frowned and turned to Dean. "You sure this is the place?"
"It's the only place in town," Dean confirmed. He slowed the car to a stop in a parking space and turned the key in the ignition to kill the engine. After staring up at the building for another long moment, he turned to face Sam and shrugged. "Can't be any creepier than that place in Connecticut."
"This isn't creepy at all!" Sam exclaimed, smiling for the first time since arriving in November. He was envisioning thick, comfortable mattresses, light and airy bedspreads, windows that actually opened to let in the fresh night air. A bedroom, not just a motel room.
Dean eyed his brother and smirked at the dreamy look on Sam's face. "Let's go, Martha Stewart."
Sam couldn't think of a proper retort so he had to settle for giving his brother a scowl.
Check-in was completely painless and soon the brothers were standing in front of the door to their room, which still had its original glass knobs and an old-fashioned keyhole. To Sam's immense disappointment, the key they had been given actually opened a deadbolt that had been added on the upper half of the door. Dean smirked over his shoulder at Sam. "No, sadly, we don't have an old-school skeleton key."
"Shut up," Sam grumbled. "I was like, seven when I wanted one of those."
"Yeah but Sam, you didn't just want one," Dean argued as he slid the key into the lock and turned it to the left. "You would have killed for one."
Dean pushed the door open and the brothers stepped into the room. Smiles immediately lit both their faces as they drank in the details. Much nicer accommodations than they were used to.
The housekeepers had opened the windows and the room was filled with the warm June breeze and the scent of salt air. The lace sheers were fluttering in the soft wind. Both double beds were made of antiqued brass, the mattresses a good fourteen inches thick. The blue flowered comforters matched the pale blue patterned wallpaper, and the accents were done in calm whites.
Sam glanced over at his brother and smirked at the excited look on his face. "Dude, if I'm Martha Stewart, you're totally Laura Ashley."
"I'm going to pretend that you don't know the name of a home designer other than Martha Stewart," Dean teased, giving Sam a smack in the arm. He dropped his duffel bag on the bed nearest the door then sat down and bounced slightly to test the mattress. "It's been a long time since we were in a room this nice."
"I honestly don't think we've ever been in a room this nice," Sam said as he dropped his bag on the other bed. "Think we get turn-down service and mints on the pillows?"
"Heh, now you're asking for a bit too much."
"Well either way, I think November, Maine might just be my favorite place we've ever hunted."
Dean watched as Sam did his usual cursory unpacking: enough clothes to last a couple of days but not enough that he was unpacked completely. As Sam was busying himself with his quick chore, Dean ran down the itinerary for the hunt. "First up we're hitting the Blackstone house. I want to get in there with the EMF and take a look around. Then we have to try to talk to one of those kids."
"Even if Charlie's awake now, we're not getting anywhere near him in that hospital."
"Right, so Allie's our best bet," Dean agreed.
"Will she really be willing to talk to us, though? The police are going to make her tell the story to them over and over and over. I can't imagine she'd want to tell the story again to two random strangers."
"You know the difference between us and the cops, Sammy?" Dean asked. Sam shook his head. "These two random strangers are actually going to believe her when she says that the Black Widow did it."
Sam closed the bureau drawer and turned to his brother. "You really think there's a witch?"
"Maybe not a witch, exactly, but it could be a spirit or maybe something else entirely." Dean shrugged. "But there's definitely some ring of truth in this legend. That kid did not get knocked around by himself and the stories have been around too long for there not to be."
After taking a moment to mull everything over, Sam nodded. "All right. To the witch's house we go."