Chapter 3
And Then Some You Don't Want
Dean wasn't really surprised to find his hand shaking as he reached for the doorbell. He just hoped that Sam didn't see it, because that would lead to questions, and questions would lead to talking, and talking only ever seemed to lead to fighting and guilt.
Sam didn't seem to notice, though. He was gazing around the small neighborhood, looking at the kids riding their bikes on the sidewalks and the people getting their mail or mowing their lawns.
He finally turned back to the house after Dean had rung the bell and shoved his trembling hands into his pockets. "I can't believe it," Sam muttered, shaking his head, "you said she's some kind of model?"
"Yep."
"And she lives here?"
Dean glanced up at the house, a structure obviously built for a middle-class family with a dog and 2.5 kids, and shrugged. "Not everyone is Paris Hilton, Sammy."
"Just doesn't seem like the superstar thing to do," Sam said, "that's all."
"You know, some celebrities live in trailers or crappy little apartments. Some of them never leave the set."
"Whatever," Sam shrugged, wondering why his brother was making such a big deal of the model's living arrangements. He reached past Dean and rang the bell again before rapping loudly on the door. "Maybe no one's home."
Dean shook his head. "No. She has to be here. The place is haunted. We're here. She's home."
"Maybe she had another shoot."
"I said she's here," Dean snapped.
"All right. Man. Maybe she's in the shower or something."
"Maybe."
Sam eyed his brother, looking him over quickly and noticing that his jacket was shaking. "You all right?"
"What? Yeah, fine. Why?"
"Your hands are shaking," the younger man observed, pointing at Dean's pockets.
"Cold."
"You sure? Because it's, like, ninety degrees out here. You've been acting weird ever since you found this job. What's up?"
"Nothing," Dean defended, reaching out and hitting the doorbell again, "I'm fine."
"You seem kind of freaked."
"It's nothing, all right? Just some random girl with a random supernatural problem. It's nothing unusual for us, nothing different. Sam old, same old."
"Ok," Sam said, holding up his hands and backing away a step, "whatever. I give."
"Thank you," Dean muttered as the door began to creak open.
"Who is it?" a soft voice asked.
Dean gulped. He knew that voice, recognized it instantly. He heard it every night in his dreams, had latched onto it like a drowning person grabs hold of a lifeline, had stored it away in the farthest recesses of his mind where nothing could take it away.
"We're interns with your agency," he lied smoothly, "they sent us over to help clean up the mess."
"Oh." The door was pulled open to reveal a beautiful twenty-something with long black hair and deep, understanding eyes. "Sorry. Come on in."
The brothers stepped through the door and into the house. Paintings hung off walls, glass vases had been smashed on the floor, plaster was cracked, paint was chipped, wallpaper was ripped, and furniture had been completely demolished.
"I'm Carmen, by the way," she smiled, holding out her hand. Dean took it without a second thought.
"Dean," he replied, smiling as his hands finally stopped shaking and his heart began to slow, "and this is Sam."
"Nice to meet you," she said, "um, follow me, and keep your shoes on. Wouldn't want to add blood into the mix."
Dean grinned, finally letting go of her hand and following her through the house. "So, you, uh, were out of town when this happened?"
Carmen nodded. "Yeah. I was at a shoot out of the country and when I came back," she swept her arm out over the mess that had once been her living room, "I found this."
"Anything like this ever happened before?" Sam asked, gazing around the room and missing the way Dean glared at him.
"Once. I was here the last time. It was right before I left. I was asleep and I heard noises coming from the kitchen. I went to investigate and found the fridge door open with all the food splattered on the floor. I didn't even have enough left to make breakfast the next morning."
"You eat breakfast?" Dean asked in mock amazement.
Carmen shrugged. "What can I say? I have no willpower. Thank goodness for the plus-size circuit, huh?"
"I think you look perfect."
She smiled. "Thanks." She led the brothers through a maze of debris, careful to point out treacherous spots along the way. "So," Carmen announced as the trio walked through a door and into another mess, "this is the kitchen. It all started in here."
The brothers picked their way into the room, gazing at the destruction around them. Drawers had been pulled open, their contents spilled across the hardwood floor. Cabinet doors hung off hinges and food littered every area that wasn't covered by utensils.
"You weren't kidding about eating," Dean said, turning back to Carmen and flashing a smile, "even I couldn't shovel all of this away."
"Trust me," Sammy grinned, "he's tried."
Dean socked him in the shoulder. "What my friend means to say," he defended, "is that I'm not exactly a stranger to fine dining."
Carmen smiled. "Well, it doesn't show."
"Thanks," Dean replied, "I work out."
The model laughed. "I bet you do. So, where do you two want to get started?"
"Right here's nice," Sam said, leaning down to inspect an interesting combination of Lucky Charms, Cool Whip, and old sushi.
"Hey," Dean said, turning to Carmen and flashing another dazzling smile, "why don't you and I go talk while Sammy here starts to clean up this mess?"
"Talk about what?"
Dean shrugged. "What you think happened. How someone could have done this. Why anyone would want to. Who might have some kind of vendetta against you. Life in general."
"I'd love to," Carmen said, "I really would. Maybe a fresh perspective could help me make some sense of all of this. I can't, though."
"Why not?" Dean asked as the door to the kitchen opened and a tall man with a shaved head and more than a few tattoos entered.
"I've got a date," the girl admitted as the stranger wrapped an arm around her waist. "This is my boyfriend, Dave."