Series Title: The Gallavantations of Sam and Dean

Story Title: Number 50 Berkley Street

Dedications: To our muses -angst/drama (Daquiri), and boredom/humour (Mistro). And for Grady, without whom our hippo would walk quickly.

"We were sitting in a dusty café in Hicktown, USA. Life was rolling by slower than a sedated hippo walking the plank –"

"Damn it, Sam! What the hell are you doing!" Dean sat up in the motel bed where he had been trying to sleep, and glared over at Sam, who was sitting on the other bed, fiddling with some sort of electronic device.

Sam looked at his older brother and said, "I'm practicing for when I record our life's story. Doesn't it sound familiar?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, of course. I must have forgotten that we happen to be 1950s private eyes, and– IS THAT MY EMF METER?"

Dean shot out of bed, and snatched the device Sam had been toying with out of his hands. Cradling his precious creation to his chest, he cooed, "Big ol' Sammy didn't hurt you, did he? It's ok, Brenda, the bad man won't come near you anymore."

"Brenda?" Sam repeated incredulously. "You named it?"

Dean became flustered and stuttered for a few moments. Finally he found his voice, and burst out with "There's a haunted house in London I think we should check out!" He flinched inwardly, instantly regretting his suggestion to check out the place.

Sam blinked in surprise at Dean's outburst. Then he smiled, knowing full well that his brother hadn't meant to change the topic so drastically. He sure as hell intended to exploit this opportunity, aware that Dean's stubborn nature wouldn't permit him to back out of this one.

Sam shrugged, and said with a self-satisfied grin "Okay, Dean. London it is."

Dean's mouth twisted as an internal battle raged between his anticipation of kicking evil's ass, and his almost-crippling fear of flying. On a plane. Over the ocean. Man, this was not gonna be fun.

"So, are you going tell me what the story is or do I have to wait for it to come out on DVD?" Sam inquired with amusement on his face.

"What?" Dean tore himself out of his self-piteous musings. "Oh, yeah. I heard about this house in London, on Berkley Street, and it's supposed to be frequented by a terrifying spirit. The story goes that once in the mid-1800s, three sailors were desperate for a place to spend the night, so they squatted in an empty house and –"

"Can't think of who's done that before…" Sam mumbled under his breath.

Dean continued as if he had never been interrupted. "–and in the middle of the night, they heard something approaching their door. It creaked open, and some huge, dark, formless shape entered and scared the hell out of them. One guy died of fright, right there; another bolted down the stairs, fell, and broke his neck. The last guy stayed coherent long enough to tell the cops what he saw, but went insane shortly afterwards. Sounds like something right up our alley." Dean hoped, however futilely, that Sam would change his mind about going, even though he knew it wasn't going to happen.

His hopes were completely crushed when his brother said cheerfully, "Okay, then. I'll phone and get the tickets!"

Dean rocked back and forth in his seat on the airplane, humming Metallica and occasionally muttering to himself, "I'm on a plane to London. I'm on a plane to London..."

Finally Sam threw down his book in exasperation, "Okay, this was your idea, so if you're going to act like a crazy weirdo the entire flight, I want to get off this plane now!"

(You may have guessed that they haven't taken off yet. Sam was not volunteering to jump out of the plane.)

"I know this was my idea," Dean muttered, "but you could've talked me out of it. Or at the very least suggested a different mode of transportation."

Sam scoffed, "Such as?"

Dean shrugged, wild-eyed, "I don't know. Boat?"

Sam snorted, "Right. Because we happen to be European settlers from the 17th century."

Dean glared at him, but Sam couldn't stop his teasing.

"Are you worried that a demon's possessed one of these people and he's going to crash the plane? Because if that's it, I happen to have a bottle of holy water with me. We could pretend it's perfume and walk up and down the aisles asking passengers if they would like to try on the new scent, Essence of Christo. Then we'll spray 'em with it."

Dean sat up a little straighter in his chair. "Don't use that insolent tone with me!"

"Ooooh. 'Insolent'. Big word coming from a drop-out."

"Nerd," Dean shot back.

"Jock,"

"Bitch!" Every passenger on the plane turned to stare at Dean, who promptly started to turn red.

"Umm..." he gave a nervous little cough, "We were just trying to decide what gender of dog we want to buy."

This merely earned him a few quizzical shakes of the head.

"Nice one, Dean," Sam's voice was simply oozing with sarcasm.

"Shut up. Bitch."

"Can't you think of anything more creative to say?"

"Fine. Slut."

They spent the rest of the flight in huffy silence.

"This is it," Dean said, waving an indicating hand towards the quaint little duplex, "The first floor is now a book store. The second floor is the residence of a freaky, evil spirit."

Dean's eyes were alight with the thrill of the hunt. He had quite forgotten his earlier argument with his brother. Sam, however, had filed away the incident in the back of his mind, to be used in future conflicts.

"This doesn't look like a normal site to be haunted," said Sam, his eyes taking in the small brick buildings, children running on the cobblestone street, and smiling adults going about their daily routines. He couldn't believe he had flown all the way to London for a dud of a ghost story. This was all Dean's fault.

Dean shoved Sam towards the entrance of Number 50, Berkley Street. A bell tinkled as they opened the door to the small bookshop. Making his way towards the back shelves – the ones farthest from the ancient little salesman sitting behind the desk and staring at the cash register – Dean whispered, "And what exactly is 'a normal site to be haunted'? Graveyards and Indian caves? Seems to me most of the freaks we hunt prefer white-washed houses in suburbia to run-down old huts on the wrong side of the tracks."

Seeing that Dean was right (and refusing to acknowledge it), Sam decided to drop the subject.

"Ahem," a dry, cracked voice spoke softly behind them, "Is there anything I can help you with?"

The brothers spun around to face the wizened old man who looked after the shop.

Sam quickly said, "No. We're just checking the place out." More like staking it out.

"Yeah, we really like reading books. Go books!" Dean lamely punched his fist into the air with the last line.

The old man looked at them for a second, then nodded and headed back towards his desk. As he left shaking his head, Sam distinctly heard the man mutter, "Tourists..."

The Winchesters scanned the first floor of the bookshop, memorizing the layout of the place, getting a feel for their surroundings. They would break in tonight, when it was dark (because everything must happen at night time), and they then would decide whether or not the place was really haunted, and what to do if it was.

A/N: Yeah, we know that this chapter has nearly zilch to do with ghosts and the ghost-hunting process. That comes up next chapter, which is due Monday evening. We only hope that the humor will hold you over until then.

-Mistro & Daquiri