Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain. No harm or infringement intended.
A text from Castiel summons Sam and Dean to an imposing hotel, ruled over by the mysterious Concierge, where the line between nightmares and reality is tenuous, and nothing is quite what it seems.
Written for the 2020 SPN Eldritch Bang on LiveJournal/Tumblr. Gory scenes, temporary major character death.
~#~
The Hotel on the Edge of Forever
There was a loud cry of consternation in the distance, soon followed by an enraged Sam bursting into Dean's room. "Hey, have you been messing with the laptop again? Everything's gone!"
"I may have needed to make some space," admitted Dean, sheepishly.
"It was all out of the way in the cloud; there was no need for you to get rid of it!" Sam groaned. "If you didn't insist on keeping everything local... I mean, I'd do it for you if I didn't live in fear of what I might see in there."
"Yeah, probably. Hold that thought," said Dean, only half listening as he reached for his beeping cellphone. "Oh, it's a text from Cas. I better get this, it might be important."
Sam rolled his eyes at the obvious 'saved by the bell' moment. Although, he did think it was odd that the angel hadn't rung his brother. The pair rarely missed an opportunity to speak with each other, especially given that they'd been apart for a couple of weeks now.
"He says he wants us to come meet him at some hotel in Maine," explained Dean, having read and re-read the message.
Sam whistled. "That's gonna be one long drive."
Dean frowned back down at his phone, squinted, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No, no, Colorado," he corrected, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Not sure how I managed to miss that."
Sam gave an amused snort. "Better to realize that before we get there! I mean, you're not getting any younger, do we need to be getting you some reading glasses, old man?" He guffawed at Dean's furious expression before turning serious. "Does Cas say why he wants us to meet up?"
Dean shrugged as he lifted the phone to his ear, having already made the call. The phone rang out before going through to a generic, automated voicemail service. Tapping irritably at the screen, Dean disconnected the call without leaving a message.
"It could be important," he said, making the statement sound more like a question.
"Then why's he not picking up?" asked Sam in a somber voice. Their eyes meeting was enough to communicate the strong sense of disquiet that both men felt.
"Meet you in Baby in ten," ordered Dean, breaking the spell.
In silent agreement, they both rushed from the room to collect their things for the long journey ahead.
~#~
Dean tried to distract himself with driving, but they'd barely reached the state line when the thoughts that had been stewing in his head came bubbling up unbidden out of his mouth. "I'm worried about Cas. It's just not like him not to get back to me."
Sam gave a neutral hum.
Dean cast his brother a sharp look. "Yeah, I know there were those times in the past, but we're beyond that. I mean these days."
Sam allowed that with a cautious nod of agreement. "Well, did you try GPS?"
"Of course," scoffed Dean. "It was the first thing I tried after he never called back."
"And?"
"No location found, it wasn't even picking up on an old one," replied Dean, the worry palpable in his voice.
"Well, that probably just means his data's switched off," said Sam, trying to sound encouraging but not quite reaching the mark.
"Yeah, but he knows as much as anyone to take care of that kind of thing before you go on a hunt."
Sam shrugged. "Maybe he forgot? It's probably fine - it's not like he even said he was on a case."
Dean gave his brother a sidelong glance. "That just means something's come up unexpectedly."
Sam's mouth set at that, recognizing it for the truth it was. "He's probably fine," he added lamely, fooling no one, least of all himself.
Dean put his foot down harder on the gas.
~#~
During the long journey to the hotel, Dean had been mostly lost in his own thoughts. He'd had time aplenty to mentally work his way through all the scenarios of why Castiel might not have responded. He was currently in a state of denial about his level of anxiety, trying to convince himself he was now in a place of Zen-like optimism. Sam was, as usual, fast asleep in the passenger seat and busily drooling onto his own shoulder.
On their arrival, and despite the urgent desire to get a hold of Castiel, Dean stared up at the hotel for several long minutes. He'd been expecting some country lodge-style building, something low and sprawling that was more in keeping with its environment, given the wide, empty fields around them. Certainly not this tall, featureless edifice of a tower that looked like it had been transported from a generic, urban Downtown and dropped to stand like some grim sentinel in the middle of nowhere.
He had the strangest feeling that he'd been here before. Or that he knew the place despite it not looking like somewhere he'd ever been – like in that peculiar way you get with locations in dreams.
As if sensing Dean's disquiet, Sam stirred beside him and shook himself awake. "The Cecil Hotel?" he queried, reading the faded and worn lettering over the building's doorway.
Something flashed behind Sam's eyes; anyone else other than Dean would have missed it. It looked a lot like confusion, recognition, and... well, maybe fear's too strong a word, but definitely caution, thought Dean.
"You okay?" he prompted, alert as ever to anything that might affect his brother.
"I thought it was in the city, not out in the country," answered Sam blearily, his voice still slurred from slumber as he rubbed at the gunk in his eyes.
"Sheesh, just how long were you asleep for?" chuckled Dean, giving his brother a gentle jostle with his elbow.
Sam pouted. "It was a long drive."
"A really long drive," Dean added pointedly, not that he really minded. If anything, the reverse was true. He'd welcomed the opportunity to just put his foot down and let the surroundings blur past him. Actually, when he stopped to think about it, he wasn't sure he could even remember exactly which route he'd taken to get them here.
It's not like he hadn't gone into autopilot on long trips before, he told himself, but this time it was more like he'd driven in a trance. He shivered. That was how people fell asleep at the wheel and ran off the road, or hit potholes and flipped their cars, and there was no way he'd ever risk totaling Baby or injuring Sam.
"Come on, look lively," he barked at his brother, uncaring that it was him that had spent the last couple of minutes woolgathering.
Sam unpicked himself from the car's interior, unpretzeling with long-practiced ease. His tendons creaked, and joints cracked as he stretched out from the long hours of confinement.
Dean glanced around from long-learned habit, scoping their surroundings. There was a surprising range of vehicles parked up, of all types, makes, and ages. Baby was far from the oldest. Just the damn-most classiest, he declared to himself.
Retrieving their duffle bags from the trunk, they both paused and caught each other's eye. The silent communication was clear – just what was it that had brought them here and what manner of weapon would it take to subdue?
"The old favorites it is, then," muttered Dean, barely audible above the wind, but Sam nodded his agreement. His pearl-handled gun tucked down at his back under his jacket, Ruby's knife on hand for Sam and a silver blade each.
"Salt rounds?" queried Sam, his voice a murmur.
"Have you seen this place?" Dean snorted. "It practically shrieks restless spirits. A shotgun and a tire iron are probably the only things we do need."
"Yeah, that and a tetanus shot," added Sam darkly.
"Let's get this over with," Dean declared, shouldering his bag while slamming down the trunk with a more decisive gesture than he actually felt.
They trudged up the gravel-lined path towards the hotel entrance. Dean couldn't shake off the faint feeling of trepidation at what they might find. Mentally preparing for the worst, he pushed his way through the heavy-set wooden doors. It was like stepping into another world.
"Well... I was not expecting that," he stated simply, looking around admiringly at the spacious, opulent surroundings - faded opulence, to be sure, but opulence nonetheless. There weren't many people about, but the few he saw looked clean and smart and...
"Classy," he spoke aloud.
Sam stumbled as he stepped through the door, his foot scraping over the lintel. He stood with a noticeable wobble as he took his place beside his brother. Dean reached out and grabbed Sam by the shoulder to hold him up, fearing for a moment that his brother might pass out.
Sam frowned, his forehead furrowing in that way he had of signaling he thought Dean had said something ridiculous without quite coming out and saying it. "It's okay," he shrugged noncommittally, clearing his throat and straightening as he did so, his color returning to normal. "I've stayed in better."
"When? Not with me, you haven't," snorted Dean. He shook his head with incredulity, the near-fainting forgotten at the ludicrousness of the statement. "I think you've been sniffing too many old grimoires," he chuckled over one shoulder as he strode ahead to the wide check-in desk.
Dean slowed as he approached the concierge, feeling uncharacteristically uncertain and self-conscious. He gently tapped his fingers against the dark marble counter with a nervous beat.
It was enough to announce his presence and to make the slim, smartly-dressed, and distinguished-looking, older gentleman look up from behind the desk. The man's eyes flicked from Dean to Sam and back again, taking in their meager luggage and travel-worn appearance. Much to Dean's surprise, the concierge's somber expression transformed into a warm, welcoming smile.
"Messrs. Winchester?" the man asked in a tone that managed to convey that he already knew this to be the case and was merely using it as a polite device to start the conversation.
Dean's surprise ratcheted up another notch, and he barely bit back the instinctive "Who's asking?" response. "Er, yeah," he answered instead, rubbing the back of his neck while feeling oddly embarrassed. "That's me... er, us," he added, gesturing awkwardly with one hand over to Sam, who had stopped a couple of paces further back behind him.
"Your associate informed us of your arrival, sir," explained the concierge. "Your room is all arranged and paid for, I just need you to sign here," he added, conjuring up a guest book and pen with a flourish.
"Good ol' Cas," muttered Dean as he scrawled his signature unevenly across the page.
"Here you go, sir," said the concierge, placing the key carefully in Dean's hand and placing his own hand over it. "Do let me know if there's anything you need."
Dean flushed and nodded, feeling strangely mesmerized and unable to look away. He was vaguely aware of the comforting bulk of Sam's presence moving closer to stand behind him and loudly clearing his throat.
"It's room 237," said the concierge pointedly with a sly smile and a raised eyebrow as if sharing a private joke. He released his hold on Dean's hand and gestured over to the corridor to the left of the lobby. "Take the elevator to the second floor."
"Thank you," grinned Dean back at the concierge who responded with a polite nod. He turned to an oddly subdued Sam as they made their way towards the elevator, "Did you hear that? We're in room 237." He could barely conceal his delight. "Y'know, like in The Shining," he prompted at his brother's lack of a suitable response.
"I heard something. Besides, it was 217 in the book," sniffed Sam, ignoring the single raised digit that was all he got by way of an unsuitable response.
"Nerd," scoffed Dean, tapping the elevator call button a couple of times, unwilling to let a little numerical technicality put a dent in his enjoyment.
The elevator chimed to announce its arrival. The brothers had to step aside to make way for a young woman with long, straight black hair in a white chemise-like dress. She pushed past them without a word and without looking at them.
"Creepy," observed Dean.
Sam shushed him. "Don't be mean, she might hear you."
"Shoulda known you'd defend the goth chick," snorted Dean. He noticed the elevator call button for the fourth floor was already lit. "Four, two," he said cryptically, his finger hovering over the second-floor button while muttering a series of numbers over and over under his breath as if trying to get the sequence right in his head.
"Goth what? And here's you calling others creepy," sighed Sam, slapping his brother's hand away and stabbing the second-floor button.
"Four, two, six, two, ten, five, one," said Dean jubilantly in a sing-song voice, this time a little louder for Sam to hear the numbers.
"Okay, I'll bite," replied Sam with a heavy sigh, as the elevator groaned into reluctant life. "Care to explain what you're talking about?"
"It's an urban legend from... Korea, or maybe Japan, I think," Dean explained. "You take an elevator to each of those floors in turn, then a strange woman gets on at the fifth floor - Little Miss Ringu back there's what made me think of it - but you mustn't look at her or speak to her-"
"Well, you blew that," scoffed Sam, shaking his head at his brother's ridiculousness.
"-and when you press one, the elevator instead goes up to the tenth floor. Then, when you get out, you're in another world," continued Dean, getting out of the elevator with a smile.
"And you say I'm the nerd," grumbled Sam.
"You're... the nerd," retorted Dean, trying to cover up his blushes by turning to focus on unlocking the door to room 237.
He was pleasantly surprised by the room, which was a lot cleaner and better presented than the usual places they frequented. Although, Sam had the same faint 'sucking-a-lemon' expression on his face that he'd had downstairs in the lobby.
What is his problem? thought Dean. Okay, it probably wouldn't stack up against a black light, but what hotel room would? It's not like even 'Francis' hasn't occasionally got his freak on.
Shrugging to himself, Dean made sure to leave Sam the bed nearest to the bathroom as he usually preferred. Maybe it'll make him a bit less pissy, pun fully intended.
"Nice room, huh?" Dean couldn't help but poke. Sometimes irritable siblings were like loose teeth, he considered. Even though you knew you shouldn't prod them, sometimes you just couldn't help yourself no matter how much it might end up hurting you too.
Sam grunted noncommittally, tossing his duffle bag sullenly onto his assigned bed.
"I need a drink, let's go back down to the bar," declared Dean with a dramatic sigh, having given up on trying to understand what had got into his, usually more enthusiastic, brother.
This time, there was no excitement of people in the elevator, goth or otherwise, nor descriptions of urban legends.
"So, when's Cas gonna meet us?" grumbled Sam.
"Good question," snorted Dean. "I'd have thought we'd have heard from him by now."
Struck by the thought, he paused in the corridor to hunch over his phone and stab out a message that was long even by one-finger typing standards.
He stopped and looked around, eyes narrowing with suspicion. His imagination was telling him that he could hear the corresponding sound of Castiel's phone announcing the receipt of the text. Sure that it was just his ears playing tricks on him, he nevertheless tapped out another, shorter message and strained his hearing, but this time there was nothing.
Having resumed walking, they had by now arrived at the bar area just adjacent to the main lobby. The large room was decorated in accents of warm orange and dark, lacquered wood. It had a cozy feel while still having that polished impersonalness so common in hotels. The place seemed moderately busy with a smattering of low conversational buzz taking place in the background.
Once again, Sam seemed discomforted with his surroundings, only reluctantly and then hesitantly sitting down at one of the smaller tables furthest from the bar and other guests.
Dean waved down one of the wait staff and motioned for two beers, which were delivered scant moments later in a smooth display of efficient activity. Always a generous tipper when funds allowed, Dean resolved to leave a suitable reward.
"Never keep a thirsty man waiting for his first beer," he declared, raising his bottle in salute to Sam.
Sam tutted, but nonetheless raised his own beer bottle and clinked it against Dean's. "I'd have preferred a soda," he complained, taking only the smallest sip of his drink with a grimace before putting it back down.
"Shut up," said Dean good-naturedly. "You need to loosen up and let out the bug that's crawled up your ass."
Sam winced, shifting in his seat. "I just don't feel comfortable here."
"Nah, I get it," said Dean, holding up a hand in a stop gesture. "I'm worried about Cas too, all the while making a big production of telling myself he's fine and yet not believing a single damn word of it. We just... gotta play it chill."
"No, I don't mean that," said Sam, leaning forward. He shook his head. "I mean, yeah, I'm worried about Cas, sure. It's just this place, it... creeps me out."
"In what way?" Dean asked with a concerned frown. "This has gotta be one of the nicest places we've ever stayed," he chuckled, knocking back the rest of his beer. "So let's make the most of it and drink up." Once more catching the wait staff's attention with almost ridiculous ease, he made a lazy motion for another round of drinks.
"You're kidding, right? Are you sure this was your first drink? Talking of which, here, you can have mine," said Sam, pushing the bottle towards his brother. "Although, I warn you I think it's off. It's got a weird taste."
Dean took a cautious sip, smacking his lips thoughtfully. "Tastes fine. Oh well, more for me, I guess," he chuckled.
"Knock yourself out," snorted Sam. "I'm feeling a bit queasy. I'll meet you back at the room."
Sam had barely left when Dean's cell rang. Looking at the caller display, he breathed a deep, shaky breath of relief to see Castiel's name come up.
"Oh, thank-" said Dean, barely remembering to bite off the blasphemy, so as not to upset the angel, as he answered the call.
The line hissed and crackled with static. "Where are you?" shouted Castiel without any preamble through the terrible connection.
"It's good to hear from you, too," answered Dean, sarcastically, more than a little put out at the less than welcoming reception. His underlying anxiety at Castiel's welfare was now replaced with an irritation that he knew was misplaced, but he still felt nonetheless.
"I came as you asked, but there's no one here," came the angel's plaintive cry.
"What?" Dean shouted, glaring at any guest foolish enough to cast sharp looks in his direction. "Where are you?" he asked more quietly.
"The hotel," cried Castiel, drawing out the word, desperation evident in his voice.
"Yeah, I'm here too, but I can't see you," said Dean, standing to take a good look around.
"Outside," said Castiel in an odd tone that sent a chill unbidden down Dean's spine.
Dean dropped a couple of bills on the table to cover the drinks plus gratuity, and he walked at speed towards the exit. "I'm on my way, I'll meet you out there," he said, almost giddy with relief.
"No, no, I mean there's nothing out there," said Castiel insistently, sounding more freaked out than Dean could ever remember hearing him before.
"What?" asked Dean, but the call had cut off amid a crackling burst of static. "Cas? Cas?" He tried to call back, but the phone went straight to voice messages.
The whiplash of feelings left Dean feeling nauseated and shaky. Using the GPS app on his phone, he once more checked for Castiel's location. This time the blue dot and the angel's photo appeared side-by-side with his own.
"Where the hell are you?" he whispered.
~#~
Sam couldn't get back to the room fast enough. He rushed to the bathroom, only just making it to the toilet bowl in time to unleash a torrent of vomit so continuous and violent he was sure he was going to suffocate. Still breathing heavily, he wiped his hand across his mouth. He felt dirty and greasy, a condition not helped by the poor cleanliness of the bathroom. Or the rest of the hotel for that matter, he thought.
Despite the griminess of the sink, he ran the cold faucet and splashed his face with the black-tinted, odd-smelling water. He drew the line at using the stained, off-white towel, instead preferring to air dry.
He regarded himself in the dusty, cracked mirror. He wasn't looking so good himself, he decided. Red rimmed, watery eyes underlined with dark purple smudges stared back at him. Considering he'd slept most of the way in the car, he'd have thought he'd look more rested.
It was this place, he was sure of it. Everything had felt off since the moment they'd arrived. Heck, from the moment Cas sent that text summoning us to this godforsaken place for who knows what reason.
And Dean had been just as odd, so effusive with his praise for the place.
I know we spent more than our fair share of times in some pretty crappy motels, but even relative to that extreme comparison, this place is still a dump. Everything about it turns my stomach.
From the chipped paint and peeling wallpaper of the lobby, and the sticky floor and tables in the bar, to the damp, musty-smelling bedroom, there was nothing that Sam could see that was worthy of such admiration. And don't even get him started with whatever weird bro-ship Dean had going on with the creepy, cadaverous desk clerk.
His reflection staring back at him seemed to silently agree. Sam rubbed at his face. Was that gray hair in his beard? He ran his hand down his chin, noting the sagging skin and jowls. He peered closer, his rheumy eyes no longer as sharp as they used to be. If he squinted, he could almost imagine he could still see the long, thick mane of hair he'd been so proud of in his youth, not the thin, greasy straggle of strands he now sported. The wiry hair that sprouted from his ears and nose was probably longer, he mused sorrowfully.
Wasn't that the curse of the old man, he thought, hair only growing where you don't want it? Still, hunched over as he was, he didn't have to look at himself too closely. At least the pain from his arthritis, normally so crippling, wasn't playing him up too much.
As he stared at his reflection through the white, foggy lens of his cataracts, he wondered when he had gotten so old. He could barely even remember how he'd looked in his youth. He wobbled in place, and he wondered where he'd left his walking cane, worried what a fall on the unforgiving marble floor might do to his fragile hips. The hard knocks of the hunting life had not been kind to his body, but at least healthy living had kept the worst effects of aging at bay. Still, we're all worm food in the end, he thought mournfully.
He patted his swollen, twisted claw of a hand gently on the sagging paunch of his stomach, which had started to grumble and growl in sympathy at that thought. Or rather, he felt it, the twisting roiling sensation in his stomach, his ears having long ago lost the ability to detect most sound.
Lifting his shirt with a trembling hand, he revealed age-mottled, paper-thin skin that bulged and stretched from the mass of dark moving shapes within. He cried out in fear, his voice a small, dry warbling thing, as the skin split and tore to release a cascading torrent of beetles, worms and maggots that poured from his disease and age-ravaged body to form a viscous, churning pool of gore around his feet. His screams were cut short as his bowels and feet gave way, and he fell hard and awkwardly into the filth surrounding him, bones snapping and breaking like glass from the force of the fall.
He shuddered at the excruciating agony of his injuries, gasping to breathe around the insects now pouring from out of his mouth and trying not to drown in the slime of his own rotting innards that surrounded him. He could feel the insects biting and burrowing their way back into his flesh as he desperately willed for death to take him and end the pain of his awful existence.
Sam blinked at his reflection, back as he was before, the water still dripping from his face. He jerked away from the mirror, stumbling and tripping over his own feet to collide with the wall behind him. He slid down heavily to end up sitting on the floor, gasping at the impact of his coccyx on the cold, hard stone.
What was that? It was like no haunting he'd ever heard of before. It was more like the visions of the future he had when Azazel had tried to make him one of his soldiers. He shook his head, the details already fading, although the traumatized feeling most decidedly not so. Could it have just been his imagination?
I'm just tired, he told himself, needing it to be true. I'm just tired, he repeated, dragging himself to his feet, grimacing at the twinge of pain in his lower back as he shuffled his way over to the bed.
Undressing quickly, he slipped into the rough, scratchy sheets as he tried to ignore the musty, damp smell of the bedclothes. I'm just so very tired, he said to himself as he stared up at the ceiling and desperately willed sleep to take him. If there was a faint hint of laughter in the distance then he chose to ignore it.
~#~
Dean wasn't sure what it was that had woken him, but he found himself wide awake and staring out into the dark in the general direction of the ceiling. He jolted in alarm, his heart hammering in his chest with a burst of adrenaline, at the sight of the tall, silent figure looming over him by the side of the bed.
"Jeez, Sammy, you damn near gave me a heart attack," Dean gasped, blearily rubbing his face as he struggled to get his breathing back under control.
The figure remained silent, swaying only very slightly in place.
"What's the matter, can't sleep?" Dean blinked and squinted up at Sam in the gloom, his brother's glassy unfocused stare, and slack, slightly-open mouth giving away the truth of the situation.
"Wow," exclaimed Dean. "You've not sleepwalked since you were a little kid and used to-"
As if on cue, Sam turned and walked off into the bathroom, pushing the door closed behind him.
"Disaster averted," Dean chuckled to himself, closing his eyes and rolling over onto his side. He snuggled down into the sheets, facing away from the bathroom, not needing to hear any more of his brother's ablutions.
He was once more slipping off to sleep, only faintly aware of the sound of a tap running, the bathroom door opening, and Sam's soft footsteps across the floor. He wasn't expecting the covers and mattress to move under the weight of someone climbing into the bed behind him. "Oh my god, you're going to be so confused come morning," muttered Dean. "Okay, you can stay, but keep to your own side."
He gave an exasperated sigh as Sam's chest pressed up into his back, and the heavy weight of Sam's left arm wrapped around his waist. "Well, no snoring then," he conceded.
Sam's hand started to slowly and oh-so-gently, stroke up Dean's side and down along his flanks, then back again in a circular motion.
Dean shivered under the touch. It was nice, soothing, but from his brother it was kinda... weird. "Dude, come on. I-I'm not sure I... I don't really like that," he managed to stammer out.
The touch and the motion become more insistent, increasing in both speed and pressure. "Sam, stop it," cried Dean, the comforting bulk that had been at his back now feeling like a crushing weight. The hand slid even further down. "Enough! Sam, I said stop," Dean screamed, his eyes flying open.
Sam lay asleep and lightly snoring in the room's other bed across from him.
Dean immediately broke out in gooseflesh, all while he felt the phantom hand trace its icy way up and along his thigh even as it, and the weight behind him, slid from out of the bed.
He turned around, even though terrified and dreading what he might see.
There was nothing there.
~#~
"We need to get outta here," said Dean, his expression and body language all locked down, all professional and business-like, as he pulled on his clothes and stuffed his belongings into his duffle bag.
"What's going on, what's wrong?" asked Sam sleepily, dragging himself out of bed.
Dean stared at his brother from haunted eyes in a face as pale and drawn as if he was recovering from a long illness. "Nah, uh-uh, not going there. No way I'd dream that. It had to be a ghost, must've been... yeah, a ghost," he muttered.
"What happened? What did it do?"
"It touched me."
"Touched you?" mocked Sam, before realization dawned with a look of utter mortification. "Oh, god, sorry. I'm so sorry. What-what did it look like?"
Dean's wide-eyed, wild-eyed stare and quivering lip said it all.
"Me?"
"I don't wanna talk about it," Dean shouted. He stopped and closed his eyes as he mentally counted to ten. When he spoke again, it was at a quieter than normal volume. "You know... you know I'd never... never ever... I mean I love you like a brother, but..."
"Dean, it's okay," said Sam, moving forward to try to pat his brother reassuringly on the arm. He frowned when Dean shied away from the contact.
"No, it's not," Dean hissed.
Sam made a more concerted effort, this time crouching down a little, holding up his palms. "It's okay," he said softly. "You're safe, so am I, everything's fine."
Dean recognized it for what it was - pure Psych 101 stuff to talk down a flaky witness, but despite knowing that it still made him feel better. Damn, he's good at the touchy-feely stuff, he thought with familial pride, only belatedly wincing at his poor phrasing.
"It's this place," said Sam. "It feels like there's something seriously wrong about it. Last night, I..." He stopped and had to take a deep breath, wiping at his mouth to compose himself. "I had the strangest dream, it was like I saw myself dying of old age."
Dean shrugged, seeming to find solace in concentrating on his brother's problems. "So you had a bad dream about something most hunters couldn't dare hope for," he scoffed but showed his interest by sitting on the edge of his bed opposite Sam and leaning forward to hear more.
"Not like this," said Sam with a shudder. "Plus, there was something else about it... it felt like one of my visions."
Dean sucked in an alarmed breath. "I thought the whole special children thing fizzled out after I killed Azazel, or are we talking demons, or ghosts, or what?"
Sam shrugged. "Maybe it's just this place, who knows? I just know that things have been weird since we got here – and we still don't know why we're here."
"Ah, I heard from Cas last night," admitted Dean guilty. "He's here, I can see that from the GPS, but it's like here's not really here." He shook his head in confusion. "He said there's no one here!"
"Well," said Sam, considering, "he's not really that far wrong, is he?"
"Huh?" replied Dean. "There's plenty of people here."
"No, there isn't. Well, apart from us. Just that creepy old concierge and the blonde girl in the elevator."
"Hey, he wasn't creepy. Maybe a little intense..."
"Dean, he looked like Gary Oldman playing the old dude Count in Dracula."
Dean blew out a breath. "What about the people in the bar last night?"
"It was deserted," said Sam, "Apart from your old friend Vlad the Impala."
Dean winced. He was struck by a sudden thought. "Hey, so you're saying the girl in the elevator was a blonde, not a brunette?"
~#~
They decided that their next course of action should be poking around the various floors of the hotel. Dean had even retrieved his old EMF reader from the bottom of his duffle.
"I've not used this thing in years," he marveled. He grimaced at the ear-splitting, electronic howl the device emitted immediately on being activated. "And maybe that's why," he shrugged, switching it off.
"Or maybe the EMF's just through the roof throughout this whole place," Sam suggested. Certainly, he could sense the presence of something all around them. Something powerful and implacable.
On impulse, he knocked on the door of the room they were just passing. To his surprise, the door opened – albeit only as far as the security chain allowed. Sam jerked back at the overpowering scent of death and corruption that emanated from the room, but not before he caught a good glimpse of the woman within. Wild eyes stared out at him from a gray-tinged complexion riddled with acne and sores, framed by limp, greasy hair.
"What do you want?" she screeched.
Sam exchanged a worried look with his brother. "Sorry to bother you, ma'am. We just wanted to check that everything was okay with your stay."
"It's fine, it's fine," she babbled hurriedly. "You can't come in, no, my husband's... in the bath."
Sam suspected from the smell that her husband had been in the bath for quite some considerable time.
"Why don't you come out here into the corridor, then we can talk without disturbing him," said Sam, trying to project himself as a calm, gentle voice of reason.
"No!" cried the woman, sobbing as she clamped both hands over her mouth at the noise she'd made. "No, you don't understand, I can't leave," she whispered. "I can't leave."
"Please, let us help you," Sam begged.
"Just leave me alone," she cried, slamming the door in his face.
"Shame," commented Dean. "She was kinda hot."
"You're kidding, right? There was definitely something seriously wrong with her."
"Now, now, Sammy," Dean tutted. "You shouldn't say stuff like that just 'cause she's not into you."
They both forced a laugh at that, even though by no stretch of the imagination did either of them find the situation funny, but it felt good to release some of the otherwise unrelenting tension.
They tried a few of the other rooms that showed signs of occupants, but no one else deigned to answer.
"We're wasting our time here," sighed Dean, as the light shining out from under the most recent door they tried was quickly extinguished in response to his knock. "Whatever is happening here, I don't think it's the guests that are doing it."
"You're right," agreed Sam. "It feels more like they're flies in a web."
"Come into my parlor..." recited Dean, automatically.
"Makes you wonder about the spider given it's got a 'web' this big."
They exchanged another worried look.
"Just so as we're clear," said Dean carefully after taking a moment to consider. "I don't think I'm going to be catching this one under a glass and putting it outside for you."
"Let's head on downstairs," sighed Sam.
~#~
As they got out of the elevator, Dean's nose twitched and his stomach gave a long, loud gurgle. "Breakfast?" he suggested, pointing to the hotel restaurant, even as he started to walk into the room.
"Oh my god, you're like some kind of bloodhound-" started Sam, trailing off as his eyes widened in horror, and he tried to make sense of what he saw, then wished he hadn't.
There was something dressed as a waiter, serving a long line of hotel guests. Sam couldn't quite make it out, as every time his eyes tried to focus on, whatever it was, it warped and wavered like something seen through a heavy heat haze.
The thing used a long fork and carving knife to slice the flesh from a rotting human torso laid out before it on a large silver serving tray. Perhaps sensing it was being watched, it looked up and smiled at Sam before slapping the meat down on the plate held by a waiting hotel guest, then repeated the process for the next guest in line.
The first guest shuffled past with a glassy-eyed stare, seeming unaware of their presence, as he headed over to one of the far, empty tables. Even before the smell from the contents of the plate hit him, Sam was gagging and choking, grateful that he hadn't eaten since yesterday.
"Morning," nodded Dean cheerfully to the passing stranger. "That sure does smell good."
Ignoring the waiter's mocking laughter, Sam grabbed his brother by the shoulder in a rough, frantic gesture, pulling Dean around and dragging him forcibly out of the room.
"You really don't want to be eating anything in there, believe me," said Sam in the face of his brother's shocked expression.
"Okay, if you say so," grumbled Dean, casting a mournful glance behind him, clearly not seeing the same as his brother. "I'm just hoping you've got another emergency stash of granolas somewhere because I'm telling you now, I cleared out the ones you hid at the back of the glove box..."
"So what now?" interrupted Sam.
"How about what you'd do in any hotel when you're not happy with the service?" shrugged Dean. "Let's go complain."
Sam nodded and strode on ahead at speed, his long legs getting him quickly to the reception desk. "I want to speak to the manager!" he demanded.
"Okay, you go, Karen," Dean snorted as he caught up with Sam, although he was impressed by his brother's chutzpah.
The concierge cocked his head and regarded the brothers with a bland expression. Dean felt a stab of emotion in his heart at the gesture that was so typical of Castiel.
"He'll be with you shortly," said the man, gesturing to a nearby sofa. "If you'd like to wait over there."
Sam turned to follow Dean but, despite feeling lethargic and oddly deflated, caught himself just before automatically doing as he had been told. "No," he insisted, through gritted teeth. His brow broke out in a sweat at the effort required to resist the powerful compulsion to obey.
The man behind the reception counter flickered for a second, like momentary interference in a television channel. Something indefinable changed about both his face and demeanor. Perhaps he stood a little taller, or maybe there was now a harder, more alien-look around his eyes. It didn't matter; Sam knew this was no longer the same man.
"Who are you?" asked Sam.
The man gave a small, smug smile. "You may call me the Concierge."
"Yeah, well that sucks for a name," laughed Dean. "And what are you, exactly?"
"I'm not sure it can be explained in a way that you'll understand... suffice to say, I am one of those that was here before... Chuck."
"I take it you're not a fan either."
The Concierge snorted with amusement. "Indeed. If we thought his obsession with creating was a minor nuisance, then you two are a constant irritant with all your messing with the natural order."
"If there's one thing I learned," scoffed Dean, "It's that the natural order can kiss my ass, and if it didn't want to put up with a little messing with, well, then it shouldn't have started it first."
"So deliciously full of yourself, aren't you?" sneered the Concierge. "That's exactly why I offered to take care of you for a while."
"Oh? How long do you think you can keep us prisoners here?"
The Concierge smirked. "Given that you gentlemen are already accustomed to the ways of Hell, I assumed you would be well versed with the concept of an eternity outside of the confines of linear time."
"Yeah, well, we've faced worse and won," scoffed Dean.
"Hardly," snorted the Concierge. "I am a liminal being. I exist in all places and concepts that are between. But here, here you are in my playground, and we are going to have so much fun together. Well, not so much for you, but then, of course, you already know this since you've both already had a taste of my feeding habits." He rubbed his chin with one hand as he made a production of studying them. "Hmm, brothers, and soulmates at that. For now, I think I'll keep one of you in your world and one in mine."
Dean positioned himself in front of Sam, pulling his gun out to aim it point-blank at the Concierge's face. "You'll have to come through me before you get to my brother."
"Oh, fire away if it'll make you feel better, I don't mind, but I think you misunderstand," said the Concierge, fixing his eyes on Dean's. "You're the one who signed my book, you're the one who checked in."
There was a flash of light and Sam fell back, sprawled on the floor and alone. Dean was gone.
The concierge, or rather the previous one, nodded at him from behind the front desk. "Goodbye, sir. I hope you enjoyed your stay. Do come again," he said with a bland, professional politeness.
Before he was even sure what he was doing, Sam's body stood under its own power and walked itself outside to the car.
~#~
Guests did come, although they were few and far between. Many arrived at dusk, in that beautiful hour just before sunset when everything was suffused by a golden glow. Tired from their long journeys and eager to find a place to rest before nightfall, few were deterred by the ravings of the lone madman in the car lot. None ever left.
The hotel, and the surroundings beyond the parking spaces, rarely looked the same. They often seemed to be in some Downtown location when they inevitably received the most visitors, whose vehicle State markings ran the whole gamut of the US. Less frequently, they were further afield in more remote locations, possibly even other countries. Sam suspected the hotel had made a point of moving itself to the Midwest because it knew it wouldn't get the Winchesters otherwise. He was also pretty sure that if he left he might never find his way back again.
Not that there was anywhere he'd go, not with Dean trapped within and Castiel still missing. Sam tried calling the angel religiously every day for a month until the phone number started to report it was out of service.
Each time he confronted whoever happened to be at the reception, it was always to be told that the Concierge was too busy to see him. Threats or acts of violence only got him a beating by a security team that always seemed to be on hand and were not unlike the waiter-thing in appearance.
He would spend most nights in the car, but, if he behaved himself, the hotel staff would usually let him back in. Whenever they did, they always had room 237 ready and waiting for him.
It was a weird, draining non-life Sam now spent in an endless limbo of waiting and expectant terror, and he suspected that this too was somehow sustenance for the Concierge. Sometimes, as respite, Sam would sit alone in the bar and listen to the background hum of conversation from the blurred shadows that were all that remained of the other guests that had been claimed by the hotel. It was the closest thing he had to human contact.
"Is this seat taken?" asked a familiar, deep voice that Sam had not heard for many months.
Sam's brief elation at seeing Dean died on realizing that it was not his brother. Not really.
"Turns out, the ability to keep a soul indefinitely between life and death is a useful, employable skill here," smiled Dean with a sharp-toothed, feral grin, his eyes bottomless black holes.
"You gave up," sighed Sam mournfully, slumping down into his seat in despair.
"This place is worse than Hell, and you never came back for me," scoffed Dean. "You have to play the game, Sammy," he added with a wink, getting up and walking out.
~#~
The more Sam thought about it, the more certain he was that Dean had tried to give him a message.
"What game, Dean?" he asked aloud.
It dawned on him even as he said the words. Of course. It was the stupid urban legend that Dean had spoken about, what now felt like a lifetime ago, back before they'd even realized they'd wandered into a trap. The 'elevator game' was supposed to take you to another world. Wasn't that what Dean said? I've already searched every room in this place at least twice over. Really, what have I got to lose?
He had only half-listened to Dean's explanation of how the game worked at the time, but it proved to be ridiculously well described on Google. Just to be on the safe side, he used a sharpie to write the numbers on the back of his hand rather than try to remember them: Four, two, six, two, ten, five, one.
The middle of the three elevators was the first to arrive. With a shrug, Sam got in and, after a careful look around, pressed the button for the fourth floor. When the elevator arrived at the intended destination, he held the door open, feeling foolish. Should I get out and back in, or just go straight to the next floor? Still feeling self-conscious, he jabbed the button for the second floor before anyone could see him. Although, what anyone here would think is another matter.
The next several floors passed in quick succession, with nothing remarkable other than the ratcheting up of Sam's anxiety. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the fifth-floor button and turned so that his back was towards the automatic doors.
If the rules of the elevator game had been clear on one thing, it was that you mustn't look at or acknowledge the mysterious woman who was meant to get on at the penultimate floor. If you did, she would 'take you.' Whatever that means.
Even without looking, he could sense the presence of someone stepping in behind him as the doors opened - a someone who then moved to stand in the furthest corner. Hand trembling, Sam pushed the button for the first floor, trying to restrain with all his might the urge to speak to whoever it was behind him. The elevator trundled into life, ascending, in opposition to the actual button pressed.
The doors opened to reveal the tenth floor, although it didn't look quite the same as when he'd previously searched the hotel. For one thing, the signs and room numbers weren't in any language or script he recognized. After the briefest moment of hesitation, Sam stepped out.
"Where are you going?" the woman behind him called in a high, screeching voice. In that moment, she was Eve and Lilith and Meg and his mom, and Eileen and maybe even Jessica. He knew right down to the pit of his stomach that if he went with her, she would guard him jealously and ferociously and never let him go.
He breathed a little easier once he heard the elevator doors slide shut behind him. Now he just had to find Dean, even if he had to knock again on every damn door to do it.
~#~
The first door Sam tried opened at his touch. Sam poked his head in to reveal the Concierge, standing with his back to the spacious, well-appointed room and staring out of the large window into the darkness beyond.
"So good of you to join us, Sam," called the Concierge in greeting, drawing the curtains closed before turning. He chuckled at Sam's surprised expression. "No, really. I should thank you for saving me the trouble of coming to collect you."
Sam stepped further into the room, leveling his pistol at the Concierge. "Where's Dean? What have you done with my brother?"
"Oh, don't worry. I've had him safely stored away in anticipation of your arrival," tutted the Concierge indulgently, waving one hand airily towards a luggage cart in the far corner with a single bulky suit bag hanging from it.
Sam paled and rushed over to the rack, one hand keeping the gun trained on the Concierge, while the other hovered over the suit bag's zip, his mind not able to accept what he knew must lie within.
"Apologies for keeping you waiting," continued the Concierge, as if nothing noteworthy was happening. "I'm sure you can understand that for someone with your... latent supernatural talents to see past my little tricks... the preparation can be somewhat challenging."
Gritting his teeth, Sam unzipped the garment carrier in one single motion. He couldn't contain his horrified whimper as long strips of loose skin and familiar-looking clothing flopped from the bag.
The Concierge broke into a broad smile, albeit one that didn't reach his eyes, and threw his arms open wide. "But we're ready for you now. This is the best room in the hotel, our finest suite!" He paused, dropping his arms and frowned at Sam's visible signs of distress. "Oh, for goodness sakes, stop making such a fuss and just breathe into his nose," he snapped.
Eyes blurred with tears and hands shaking, Sam did as he was told. He watched in stunned amazement as his faintest of breaths caused the scraps of hair and skin and cloth to expand out into the full and unharmed, if unconscious, body of his brother.
"See?" sneered the Concierge as if talking to a child. "And not a scratch on him. He's certainly good with a blade, I'll say that for him. I don't think I've ever seen someone skin themself so efficiently."
Sam swallowed compulsively past an urge to be sick. "Why are you doing this? What do you want with us?" he growled.
"Come now, I think we could all see which way the wind was blowing with the whole Chuck debacle. And then, once you've killed your own God, who's next? You've made a lot of very powerful beings very nervous, that's for sure. And, we're all of the opinion that if we're going to play the game, then it helps to find some creative way to remove our opponent's more powerful pieces from the board."
He gestured around the room again with a self-satisfied smile. "So, I volunteered to keep you safely tucked away, where you can't cause any more problems. Oh, don't look at me like that! I'm not a complete monster! You're together, aren't you? That's more than can be said for my other guests," he snorted.
He pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I do have other matters to attend to. I think you'll find you've got everything that you need. I do so hope you'll enjoy your stay here."
The Concierge smiled and slowly disappeared from view.
~#~
Sam had laid out his brother over one of the king-sized beds in the room. Even though Dean was clearly breathing, it still triggered unpleasant memories of his brother's death at the hands of Metatron. He stared for a long time before relenting and giving Dean a shake.
To Sam's immense relief, Dean started to stir. After repeated shaking, Dean groaned and sat up.
"Sammy? What is it?" He blinked myopically about the room. "I just had the most disturbing dream..." He yelped in alarm as Sam splashed a vial of water in his face and nicked his arm with a silver blade. "Hey! What're you doing?"
"Sorry," responded Sam, although he was anything but apologetic as he peered into his brother's eyes. "I just needed to be sure it was really you."
"Who did you think I was gonna... ah." There was an awkward silence which Dean tried to deflect by focusing on his surroundings. "So, where are we?"
Sam let out a slow, heavy breath. Where should he begin? "We've apparently been taken off the board," he said at last.
"The house always wins," Dean muttered, clearly still smarting from his disastrous gambling streak from the last time they had hit up the casinos in Vegas. "Still, seems like a nice enough room. What'd you do to get us the upgrade?" he offered skeptically, getting up and trying the door. "Locked."
"A gilded cage is still a cage," sighed Sam, lowering himself to sit perched on the edge of the bed, feeling weary all the way down to his very bones.
Dean hummed in absentminded agreement as he shook the door more forcefully. When that failed, he leaned forward and squinted through the door's spy hole. He darted back as if electrified, eyes wide and face pale.
"Well, so long as they do room service," he joked weakly, quickly stepping over to stand hovering beside Sam.
"What was out there, what did you see?" asked Sam, his voice rising with unease as he detected Dean's sense of agitation.
"Nothing," stammered Dean, giving Sam several anxious glances as he made his way over to the window. With another nervous look back at his brother and taking a shaky breath, Dean flung open the curtains.
They looked out of the window.
The surrounding fields had fallen away, and all they could see were stars. Above, beyond, and as far down as their eyes could see.
There was nothing out there, but the cold black ink of space, dotted with the stark white light of those distant alien suns.
In time, those too faded, and they were utterly alone.
THE END
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