"Oh darlin', it's just what I've always wanted. Bedbugs, fleas and dust mites, oh my!" Pulling into the parking lot of the closest craptacular motel twenty minutes later, Skye spoke up for the first time since they'd left the bridge. As if she hadn't been daydreaming of a hot shower most of the day. Grabbing her knapsack she flung open the door, escaping the confines of the car before he'd even shifted into park. Sniffing herself, she couldn't tell if the smell had burrowed into her or not. Ugh.
Following as quickly as possible, Sam jumped out of the car, getting away from the stench emanating from Dean. Hell, if Dean could have run away from himself, he probably would have. Sliding out of the car, literally, he trudged to the front office, his unwilling companions in tow.
A buzzer went off as they opened the door and filed inside, alerting the desk manager to their presence. Not that he needed alerting considering he was standing right there. Looking somewhere between ancient and dead, the old man's wrinkled face was delightfully unconcerned at Dean tracking sludge into his clean lobby. Shabby, sure, but clean. Retrieving his now soggy wallet, Dean let out a deep sigh when it squished, dripping everywhere. Digging out the fraudulent credit card with the name 'Hector Aframian' across the front, he tossed it onto the log book that occupied the majority of the counter space, "One room, please. Two beds."
Picking up the card reluctantly with two fingers, the elderly gentleman glanced at it, "You guys having a reunion or something?
Dean's expression sharpened to one of actual interest as Sam spoke up, "What do you mean?"
"The other guy, Burt Aframian, he came in and bought out a room for the whole month."
Exchanging a look, the boys were struck momentarily speechless, a first in Skye's experience.
"Yeah, that'd be our Dad," approaching the counter, Skye leaned against it, knapsack pulled tight over her shoulder as she smiled and held out her hand for their room key, "Can you tell us what room he's in, please?"
The geriatric gentleman dropped the key into the palm of her hand after he ran the card, "Sure, no skin off my nose," he pointed in the general direction of the room John had paid for, "It's room 10, just over there. Can't give you the key though, against policy."
Closing her fingers around the key, she didn't seem too upset about that. Because a locked door would keep them out. Sure, "That's alright. We'll head over there after my brother takes a shower, see if Dad's in for the night. He keeps odd hours, if you hadn't noticed."
She started to turn away from the clerk, Sam and Dean waiting for her at the door before the old man caught her attention. Lowering his voice, he asked, "What the hell'd your brother get into?"
"He got into a fight with a port-a-potty...and lost," She smirked, tapping a finger to her temple, "He's a few sandwiches short of a picnic, if you get my drift."
The old man nodded in understanding as she made her escape, edging around Dean as he held the door for her and Sam. Looking down at her after they'd gotten outside, Dean grimaced, "A port-a-potty. Really, Tink?"
"Here, Hector, you paid for the room after all," she held the key out to him, dropping it into his outstretched palm as Sam went to find room 10, "Are you really bothered more by the port-a-potty comment than by the fact I implied you were feeble-minded? Your priorities are skewed, Swamp Thing."
Bickering back and forth as they crossed the parking lot to join Sam, they looked up when he spoke, amused but impatient, "You two fight like an old married couple."
They turned on Sam, both looking supremely insulted, responding in unison, "We do not."
"Sure you don't," He smiled widely before kneeling in front of the door to John's room, weight resting on one knee as he fiddled with the lock. Dean leaned against the wall next to him as Skye watched over Sam's shoulder.
"Can you teach me how to do that?," Not that she had any interest in becoming a felonious member of Team Psycho. Nope. None at all.
The lock issued a faint click, "Yes, but I'm not going to be around long enough, remember? You'll have to ask Dean."
"I'll just find an instruction book, thanks."
Standing, Sam twisted the knob and pushed open the door, stepping inside with Skye a step behind. Reaching back out, he grabbed an oblivious Dean by the shoulders and yanked him inside, closing the door behind him.
The inside of the motel room seemed chaotic to Skye, though undoubtedly there was some kind of system to it. The walls were plastered with various papers, maps and pictures. The bed was rumpled, items strewn across the duvet in haphazard fashion, including an open suitcase and a yellow plastic container that she could swear had a radiation symbol on it. That was reassuring. Stepping across the room, Dean turned on a lamp, lending a little illumination to the situation. Holding out a hand, Sam pointed downward, bringing Skye's attention to the tripwire John had set up.
"...paranoia, paranoia, everybody's comin' to get me…," she sang under her breath, setting her bag down by the door after making sure it wouldn't disturb anything.
Making a face that suggested mute agreement to her choice of song lyrics, Sam watched as Dean picked up a half-eaten burger that had been left carelessly on the base of the lamp. Dean wrinkled his nose, though how he could smell anything over himself was anyone's guess, "I don't think he's been here for a couple days, at least."
Kneeling, Sam picked up a white substance that was spread in a thick line around the room, letting it run through his fingers, "Salt, cats-eye shells...he was worried, trying to keep something from coming in."
"Salt and cats-eye shells?" Skye turned from where she'd been examining some of the papers on the wall behind the door, hands in her pockets to avoid touching anything that might possibly explode. Not exactly outside of the realm of possibility here, "What is a cats-eye shell?"
Answering absently, Dean stepped closer to one of the walls, eyes roving over the map pinned there, "Salt wards off spirits. It's a purifying element, like fire, they can't cross it. Cats-eye shells are typically used for protection against the evil eye."
"They're also used in gris-gris bags," Sam added.
Nope, she wasn't out of her depth here at all. Denial really wasn't just a river in Egypt, as Sam had pointed out earlier. Nodding slowly, she reached up to tug on the end of her braid, "And gris-gris bags are…?"
"A small bag that contains items used for spells and stuff, usually by someone that practices hoodoo," Dean answered again before looking over at her, "If we have to sit and answer your stupid questions all night, we'll never find anything useful."
"No such thing as a stupid question, asshole," she pulled her hands out of her pockets, clasping them behind her back as she stepped slowly along behind Dean, skimming the pages tacked to the wall, "If you don't ask, you don't learn."
"She's not wrong," Sam agreed with the sentiment. He was all about knowledge and it seemed she may be a kindred spirit in that respect. He didn't curse as much though.
"And yet she's never right," Dean threw out the insult as if it were second nature, which at this point in their rocky relationship it probably was.
"You two ever stop sniping at each other long enough to eat or sleep?"
"No," again in unison, followed by shooting each other dirty looks.
Seriously, it was so obvious it was a wonder strangers weren't stopping them on the street to urge them to get a damn room. Sam wasn't quite sure how much longer they could keep this up without one of them killing the other. Stepping across the small space, careful to avoid traps, salt, and shells, Sam asked, "What do you got here?"
"Centennial Highway victims, looks like," Skye answered, turning her head to look up at him, a friendly smile on her lips. She really did seem a little more comfortable the last hour or two. Amazing what a simple change of clothes could do.
Absently nodding agreement before speaking up, Dean taped one of the pages on the wall, leaving a grimy smear, "I don't get it though. I mean, different men. Different jobs. Different ages and ethnicities. There's always a connection, right? What do these guys have in common?"
"Ethnicities. Big word there, Dean. You get a word of the day calendar for Christmas?" She moved around him to stand by Sam, "Maybe she's just really not picky, in which case, you may actually have a shot."
Sam ignored their squabbling, staying quiet for several minutes, his gaze moving slowly along the pages on the walls as he skipped the copious amounts of information John had put together. He stopped when he read the words 'Woman in White'. Moving closer to get a better look, he turned on a lamp that was positioned near the wall, illuminating an illustration of a woman in a white dress. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, "Dad figured it out."
The two quarreling children turned toward him, interrupting a "discussion" they'd been having regarding the deplorable hygiene and sexual habits of each others ancestors, "What do you mean?"
Moving out of the way so Dean could take a closer look, Skye followed along as Sam pointed out the article on the wall. He sounded oddly frustrated, yet proud, as if he were upset that he hadn't figured it out, irritated that John had, but still proud of his father in spite of everything. A pretty accurate synopsis, really. "He found the same article we did. Constance Welch. She's a Woman in White."
Turning back toward the wall with the articles about the missing victims, Dean shook his head, "You sly dogs."
Crossing her arms, a blank look on her face, Skye was forced to ask, "If someone could, you know, clue me in...that'd be great. Aside from the fact that Constance was literally wearing white, what the hell is a 'Woman in White'?"
Smiling down at her, Sam was more than happy to answer, "A Woman in White is a woman whose husband, or boyfriend I'd assume, cheated on her. In grief or maybe a bout of temporary insanity, they kill their children and then themselves. They then turn into angry spirits, "Women in White", that target cheating men."
"You'd really think dead people could find better things to do with their time," she hesitated a moment before stepping over and sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb anything, "Does that mean you guys owe me dinner?"
Dean made a rude noise in the back of his throat, "No."
She was pretty sure he was lying and totally owed her dinner.
Sam was pretty sure Dean wouldn't actually mind taking her to dinner.
"Alright, so if we're dealing with a Woman in White, Dad would've found the corpse and destroyed it," Dean scratched at the back of his neck, little puffs of dirt clouds rising when he moved, uncomfortably itchy from the drying mud.
"Maybe, I'll get back to you on that, Little Bit," Sam temporized before turning to his brother, "She may have another weakness."
Before either of them could say anything else, Skye raised her hand, waiting with something that resembled patience for one of them to notice. Turning toward her, patience most definitely not being his virtue, Dean managed to keep his tone level instead if yelling. Mocking, certainly, but level, "What, Skye? Do you need to go potty?"
Giving him a dismissive look, she pointed out, "Just because you guys know all this information doesn't mean everyone does. In fact, I think it's safe to say you're in the minority," leaning forward, her arms on her knees, she spoke as if explaining something to someone with the IQ of a potato, "Don't you think it's a good idea for me to know this too? If I'm going to be here for however, long, learning all I can is the smart move, right?"
"Besides, learning is fun," she clasped her hands together, a disturbingly cheerful and extremely fake smile on her lips. She emphasized his name like it was a much ruder four letter word. "I don't really have the patience or the crayons to explain to you why learning as much as possible is the intelligent way to go, Dean."
The muscle in his jaw worked as he ground his teeth, giving her a stony glare. Seriously, how had he not cracked a tooth yet. Sam, however, seemed to agree with Skye, answering the question she hadn't yet asked, "You salt and burn a corpse, or bones, to put a spirit to rest."
"Salt and fire being purifiers and a spirit being ostensibly unclean."
"Exactly so," Sam seemed almost proud of her, "You're a quick study. You know, given half a chance, I think you'd be pretty good at this."
"Yes, I am, and no, I wouldn't," though she'd just said, not even two hours ago, that she would make an excellent Ghostbuster. Fickle woman.
"But thank you," she smiled," I'll take the compliment in the spirit in which it was intended. This would go a lot faster if I could just check out a book at the library and catch up on all the shit you guys already know."
Crossing the room to stand in front of his brother, Dean turned his back on Skye and resumed the conversation as if she hadn't interrupted, "Dad would want to be sure, he'd dig her up. Does it say where she's buried?"
Shoulders twitching as Skye muttered something about his line of work being oh so glamorous, he didn't acknowledge her in any other way.
"Not that I can tell," Sam crossed his arms, shaking his head, "If I were Dad though, I'd go ask her husband, if he's still alive."
"Not to interrupt yet again, as I know how aggravating that can be," her voice dripped faux-regret, "I'd like to point out that most graveyards keep records of who's buried in what plot. You know, just sayin'. If she's buried in one in town, wouldn't be too hard to find out."
Ignoring her as expected, Dean continued as if she weren't there and hadn't spoken, "Why don't you see if you can find an address. I'm gonna get cleaned up."
Moving stiffly, a puff of dirt following him around like Pig-Pen, he went out to the car to grab a change of clothes, re-entering a couple of minutes later and heading toward the bathroom for a desperately needed shower. Stopping him before he stepped out of the room, Sam called out, "Hey Dean, about what I said earlier about Mom and Dad...I'm sorry." He didn't like the tension between him and his brother and was anxious to put it to rest.
Almost smiling as he looked over at Sam, Dean held out a hand to stop him, "No chick flick moments."
Laughing, Sam agreed, "Alright. Jerk."
"Bitch."
All was forgiven as Dean vanished into the bathroom.
"Well thank God for that, I hate chick flicks. I can think of more accurate things to call him though, jerk seems a little mild," Skye leaned back, cautiously moving things out of the way before laying down with her hands laced behind her head.
"Oh I have no doubt," Sam looked over at her before resuming his slow walk around the room, still examining the articles on the walls, "Why don't you two get along, exactly? I mean, you seem to have a lot in common from what I can tell."
"Why Sam, how could you? I thought we were friends." Making a vague noise of dismay, she lifted her head to give him a look intended to strike fear into the hearts of lesser men. It wouldn't have, of course, but a girl could try. Wiping away an imaginary tear, she sniffed, "I don't think I've ever been so insulted...and trust me when I say that's sayin' a lot."
"See, that's what I mean. You're both sarcastic, cynical, stubborn smartasses with half your vocabulary taken up with curse words. Not that that's a bad thing, but hey, just calling a spade a spade here." Grinning, Sam spoke to her over his shoulder as he continued to examine the papers on the wall. Pausing in front of the mirror, he fell quiet for a second as he reached out to remove something from it, a smile on his lips. Turning, he crossed the distance in two strides to perch on the edge of the bed next to her, just far enough to not encroach on her self-imposed personal bubble, turning serious, "Really, Skye, why are you so hard on him? He's really not a bad guy."
Like he didn't already know the answer.
"'Cause he's a dick." Okay, admittedly that was just a knee jerk reaction. She looked up at Sam, sitting up slowly. Pulling a knee up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her leg and rested her chin on her knee, "I like you, Sam. You seem like a good guy. Real answer?"
"You don't have to but...yeah, if you're up to giving me something that's not all sarcasm."
She looked at him for a long moment, hesitating to speak what was really on her mind. She didn't open up easily or quickly, or really ever at all, and she'd only known Sam for about two seconds but...something prompted her to give an honest answer, to trust him just a little. In spite of years of proof that trusting people was a horrible idea. That alone spoke volumes for the guy.
"Alright. Seriously then," she tilted her head forward, rubbing the tip of her nose on the dirty knee of her jeans, "I know he's not a bad guy, Sam. I mean yeah, he's a dick, but I'm perfectly aware I snipe at him just as much as he does me."
Sitting patiently, Sam let her talk, realizing that having an actual conversation with someone seemed inordinately difficult for her. It was more than a little surprising to him that she was willing to open up at all considering they barely knew each other. But maybe that was why. Come Monday, he'd be out of her life so maybe it was almost safe to talk to him. Or something. Psychology wasn't his forte. Her expression softened as she let down the masks she kept so carefully in place, warm brown eyes watching him, the real Skye looking even younger than her eighteen years. Jesus, she really was just a kid. What was Dean getting himself into? If this was going to go anywhere, and Sam had absolutely no doubt that it would, Dean was going to have to handle her with kid gloves. Not exactly his specialty.
Finally organizing her thoughts well enough to speak them, she sighed, "He's dangerous, Sam."
Not the reply he'd been expecting, "He'd never hurt you, Skye."
"Not-," she smiled. No sarcasm, no snark, just a smile, "Not what I meant."
Studying a mote of dust intently, she let that sink in, realization slowly dawning on Sam's face. Not that kind of dangerous. Ha! She really did like him too. For a second, Sam felt like the matchmaker from Mulan, only prettier and with better hair.
"I've spent the last week two feet away from the man, Sam. I know he's a good guy. I can see that, I'm not blind. He's a good man, though I have no doubt he'd deny that," she pulled her other knee up to her chest, wrapping her arms around both legs and clasping her hands in front of her, "He's also, on occasion, thoughtful. Smart. Funny. Good taste in music...don't you dare tell him I said that...and he's almost as good lookin' as he thinks he is. So yeah...he's dangerous."
"Alright, I think I get it now. Hurt before you get hurt, right?" It surely didn't help anything that Dean had been wavering between biting her head off and doing sweet little things, like remembering she liked Juicy Fruit and giving her his jacket. The girl was already so turned around...he'd have to talk to his brother, get him to cool his jets.
"Something like that, yeah."
"Okay, fair enough, except...you guys are stuck with each other," he stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle, "Wouldn't it be a little more pleasant if you weren't fighting 24/7? You could be friends. Or at least civil. I'm willing to bet that under the cursing and the denim, you're actually a pretty nice person."
Poking her knee with the picture in his hand, he smiled, "And do you really need any more stress than you've already got?"
"Alright," she laughed, echoing his earlier statement, "Fair enough. I guess I can try to ease off. If he does. He really is a dick."
Sam couldn't bring himself to disagree. Pointing at the picture, Skye asked, "What'd you find?"
Taking the hint, he changed the subject, holding out the picture for her to examine, "This is the guy we're looking for."
"This is your Dad?," she took the picture, examining it closely, "So the good looks are genetic. The rugrats are you and Dean then."
"Yup," Sam smiled at the compliment, "I was maybe four or five? Not real sure."
"You guys were adorable. It is nice to know who I'm lookin' for," she handed it back, dropping her feet to the floor and leaning forward, elbows on her thighs, chin propped in the palm of her hand, "I'm not gettin' decent sleep anytime soon, am I."
"Yeah, probably not," Sam shrugged, "You'll get used to it. Eventually."
"I don't wanna get used to it, Sam," she shook her head, a frustrated look on her fact, "I wanna go back to my boring ass, broke ass life."
Except..did she?
Did she really?
There was nothing for her back in Louisiana. Hell, she didn't even like Louisiana. She could always go back to Oklahoma, she supposed, her Grandmother still owned the house there but really there wasn't anything for her there either. She had no friends, a temporary job, and no family except for one old woman who didn't even know how to dress herself anymore so...why was she so anxious to go back?
Frowning, she pushed those thoughts away. Of course, she wanted to go back, to pick up a normal life. Who in their right mind would choose to live a life on the road, stuck in a car for days at a time, taking a break only long enough to try and get killed by the monster of the week?
Dean was a case in point as he obviously wasn't in his right mind. Even Sam got away, going to Stanford to fight for that normal life.
"Speaking of," Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open, "Okay with you if I check my messages? Jess is probably worried sick. I should probably call her, but she'll be in class right now."
"Of course I don't mind, why would I?," she wrinkled her nose at the ridiculousness of such a question, "But hey, now that you mention it, can I use your phone when you're done?"
"Sure, no problem," Sam agreed, dialing his voicemail and putting in his passcode. 0124. Jess's birthday, and Dean's too, actually.
Leaning forward, phone to his ear as the first message played, just loud enough for Skye to hear.
'Hey, it's me. It's about 10:20. I just wanted to call and see if you were okay. I know you're probably busy but I miss you. Call me back as soon as you can. And Sam? Be safe, alright? I love you. I'll talk to you later.'
Smiling, Sam hit 'save' on the message, closing the flip phone and tossing it to Skye.
Catching it easily, she raised a brow, "You're not gonna call and leave a message for her, let her know you're breathin'?"
"Nah," Sam shook his head, "I'll call her here in a bit when I can actually talk to her."
Flipping the phone open, she started to dial a number from memory before hesitating and looking back up at Sam, "It's long distance. That okay?"
"I kind of assumed, Skye," Sam laughed, "Who would you know in California? But yeah, that's fine, don't worry about it. Thanks for checking though."
Hitting the 'call' button, Sam heard someone pick up after just a couple of rings, answering 'Shady Pines Assisted Living Facility, how may I direct your call?'
"Yes, I'm calling to check on Beatrice Bleu, can you tell me how she's doing today?," Skye paced around the room during the call, though careful not to step on any of John's various implements.
It was several minutes before she was finished, transferring a couple of times and at one point talking to someone like she'd talk to a small child. Her grandmother, if Sam had caught it correctly.
Ending the call, she closed her eyes for a second, looking drained and sad before forcing a smile and handing Sam his phone back, "Thanks, Sam. I appreciate it."
"Any time. Can I ask…?" he trailed off, leaving the question open.
"Yeah uh...my Grandma's in a nursing home outside of New Orleans. It's why we moved there, actually. They specialize in nutcases," she tugged on the end of her braid, smiling sadly as she made a joke out of her own pain, "She's got Alzheimer's. She was diagnosed about four years ago and it's gettin' pretty bad. She was pretty coherent today, actually. Apparently, she spent the day going dancing with my Grandfather...who died before I was born."
"I'm sorry to hear that. That just...sucks," He offered her a seat on the bed next to him, "You want to talk about it?"
Shaking her head, she took the offered seat, "Nah, I'm good. Thanks though."
"Alright. But...did I hear your last name is Bleu?," the corners of his lips twitched, "Your name is Skye Bleu?"
The bathroom door opened as Skye groaned, "I try not to think about it if I can help it. To make it worse, my middle name is Summer."
Emerging from the bathroom, towel in hand, Dean looked much better. Probably smelled better too, though she wasn't about to go sniff him.
"What was that I just heard?," he laughed, "Your name is Skye Bleu? Skye Summer Bleu? Oh that is fantastic."
The look on her face just made him laugh harder, because, like she said earlier, he was a DICK. Leaning back, Sam grabbed a pillow off the head of the bed and threw it at him, "It's not that funny. Besides, how did you not know her last name? Haven't you been hanging out constantly for more than a week now?"
"Yeah well, it didn't come up," The vague guilt in his voice wiped away his amusement as he shrugged into a leather jacket Skye hadn't seen before, "I'm hungry, I'm gonna head to that diner down the street. You guys comin'?
Shaking his head, Sam declined the invitation, "I think I'll look around here some more, maybe catch a quick nap."
"Skye? Aframians buyin'."
"Yeah actually, I'd love to. I'm starving," she held up a hand, "Think you could give me like ten minutes first? You're not the only one in that could use a shower."
That vague guilt deepened, though he smothered it pretty damn quick, "Yeah, sure, just don't take forever."
Dropping down to sit on the bed next to Sam, he already looked impatient.
Grabbing her bag from where she'd left it by the door, she headed for the bathroom, stopping short when Dean called her name. Turning, she caught the towel he threw at her.
"You're gonna want that, it was the last clean one."
"Great," Sighing yet again, she disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of the shower following soon after.
Giving his brother a long look, long enough to make Dean start to wonder what the hell he was staring at, Sam finally spoke up, "So Dean, about this little crush of yours-"
"I do not have a 'crush', Sam. What are you, twelve?" he interrupted, running a hand through his damp hair. He was tired and hungry and did not need this right now, "Don't start with this shit again."
"Calm down. Let me finish," Sam held his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. He wasn't about to betray any confidences, but he could certainly try and steer things in the right direction, "Look, I don't know why you're being so hostile about it exactly, but I can guess. It's either because you are in fact an emotionally stunted man-child or because, in that warped little brain of yours, you think you'll keep her at arms length then break the curse and send her on her way so no one gets hurt."
A little of column A, a little of column B.
A pretty astute assessment, but then, Sam wasn't exactly stupid and he knew his brother entirely too well, "Either way, do me a favor and ease off a little, okay? The two of you are giving me a headache the size of Montana. You guys are going to be stuck together for God knows how long. Being civil won't kill you."
...matchmaker matchmaker make me a match…
'I am not an emotionally stunted man-child, you unkempt freak of nature," Which is exactly what an emotionally stunted man-child would say, "...but you're not wrong. I'll chill if she does. Which, you know, good luck with that. I don't think she's physically capable of not mouthing off at least once every ten minutes."