This takes place about a month-ish after "The Benders". I hope to update frequently; but your reviews would really help me out! This should only be two or three, at the most, chapters. I know this chap's a bit long, but bear with me here.
Disclaimer: None of this is mine, therefore I am a poor girl working her way through school. But like the other girls on this site, if Jensen Ackles showed up at my front door, I wouldn't turn him away…grin
"Sam."
"Umgh..."
"Sam."
"Hrmph…"
"SAM!"
"Holy sh—!" Sam shot straight out of bed, almost cracking his head against the headboard in the process. He ruefully rubbed away the last bit of sleep from his eyes before shooting an intense glare in the direction of the now-chuckling Dean Winchester.
"What the hell, man?" Sam questioned, untangling his legs from the blankets now covering the ground. He headed in the direction of the bathroom, muttering to himself as he shuffled forward.
"Just thought I'd wake ya before throwing your ass in the car," Dean said calmly, smoothing down his hair in the reflection of the tiny box television set. "That's what I get for being considerate."
Dean could hear Sam snort at him all the way from the bathroom. Granted, the walls were thin—possibly the thinnest walls the Winchester boys had ever seen.
"Besides," Dean called out to Sam from his comfortable position on the other twin bed, "I think something's growing on the walls, and it sure as hell ain't nothing supernatural,"
Sam's head popped out from inside the bathroom, and incredulous look on the younger man's face.
"Since when is big, bad-ass Dean Winchester scared of a little mold?" Sam quipped, a playful grin on his lips.
"Since the little mold started morphing," Dean replied as Sam's head, along with the rest of his body, reentered the bathroom. As the shower started running, spurting jets of thin water, Dean's thoughts wandered. He hadn't wanted to wake his brother at the crack of dawn, but the kid was doing the whole fidgety thing again. Dean was adept at noticing the preludes to what could be yet another night terror. Watching his little brother entangle himself in the thin, possibly contaminated sheets of another crappy motel was Sign Number One. Dean had been up for an hour, anyway, relishing the feeling of doing absolutely nothing. That wasn't a feeling that was commonplace anymore- at least, not since John went missing. Well, pseudo-missing. Dean was still working on justifying this one in his mind. The brothers Winchester didn't get much down time anymore- there had been a rash of supernatural activity along the east coast, so as of right now they were holding down the fort in a tiny town called Manganee, in Connecticut. Sam had refused to take a break after what Dean referred to as "the hillbilly incident" and even Dean's threats and pleas didn't move him. They spent some time down south, working on a possible possession that had turned out, coincidentally, to be nothing at all. Dean hoped that Sam wouldn't ever find out that the "possession" was more of a forced vacation. They had talked a little, at least as much as Dean was willing to open up about, and had come to a conclusion about the human race in general: some people are just fucked up.
Dean had spent every night in Manganee tossing and turning- the place was so damn quiet, and he couldn't sleep without at least one drunk banging on metal. That was according to Sam, but what did he know? Dean knew more about his brother's sleep patterns than he would let on. Voicing his concerns about Sam's frequent nightmares was of no avail, so Dean resorted to watching Sam sleep whenever he could. His tactic was to catch it before it began. However, he'd rather shoot himself in the foot with Sam's .45 than admit that he still fussed over Sam like they were children.
He fussed on the inside, of course.
While Sam showered and dressed, Dean looked at a map to figure out the location of their next job. Heading to Boston to get rid of a house haunting seems tame enough, Dean thought to himself. He folded the map, shaking it to fix the creases. Maybe once they finished in Boston, they could go back to Stanford. Dean knew that Sam missed his friends—and it would be good for him to maybe, possibly, get some closure. Then again, Dean knew that the real closure would come when they caught that murdering son-of-a-bitch that liked to kill people and stick them on ceilings.
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Twenty minutes later, a somewhat put-together Sam emerged from the bathroom, toweling off his slightly curly hair. Dean was already slinging his bag into the Impala, so Sam quickly dressed and joined his brother. While Sam finished loading up, Dean turned in their keys to the girl at the front desk. It was still early in the morning, and the lighted motel sign advertising the vacancies was still on. The 'L' in 'motel' refused to stay on, so the sign advertised, in all its blinding neon-green glory, HARVEY'S MOTE. Sam put this MOTE on their ever-growing list of never-in-hell's-name-stay-there-again. Not even the shower curtain in the bathroom was free of mold. Oddly enough, this was a much nicer town than they were used to being in—Sam hadn't seen a single shotgun yet except for their own.
"Hey Sammy, the chick at the desk said there was some sorta Denny's ripoff about a mile down that-a-way," Dean came up behind Sam, jerking his thumb in the eastward direction. "I need my morning java jolt."
Sam grinned, sensing an opportunity. "It's Sam. And where did you learn what 'java' meant? I thought that was more of a frat-boy thing,"
"Oh, Sam likes being a smart-ass, doesn't he? Dude, I'm twenty-six, not ancient. I know chatspeak just as well as you college kids, Francis."
"Yeah. Whatever."
Exactly one mile down the road, a decent looking building came into view. It was a shock to see, in the middle of a town so quiet and seemingly deserted, a bright red diner stating brightly that it had served over a hundred travelers.
"Whoa," Sam said in response to the gleaming, tall building. It was much bigger than the joints they were used to seeing in stereotypical country towns.
"Yeah," Dean responded, maneuvering the Impala into one of the tiny parking spaces. "I always have issues with these kinda parking lots,"
"You have issues with parking lots, period." Sam stated in a matter-of-fact tone, getting out of the car. "You so do not need a firearm, Dean. At worst, there's a couple of roaches," Dean had been staring at the glove compartment, contemplating whether or not to take his Glock in with him. He didn't want to get tripped up again, considering what happened at that bar last month. Dean knew Sam was getting over it, slowly, in his own way, but how was Dean supposed to feel about his own brother getting jumped outside an almost-honest looking establishment?
"Dean. Come on, honestly. If someone sees it, it's gonna be hard to explain. I promise I won't run outside this time—if you want me to, I'll even go into the bathroom with you while you take a leak," Dean looked up sharply at these words, hoping to be able to read Sam's expression. Sam, conveniently enough, shut the door right in Dean's face and headed up the tiny walkway. Dean hurriedly exited the car and followed him, cursing Sam and his way with words. Both men entered the diner in unison, bell chiming over the door. It looked as if the owner of the restaurant lived above it, judging from the stairs behind the counter. The entire place was dirt-free, and smelled of lemons. It was completely deserted except for a few sections of yesterday's New York Times.
"How the hell do they get the Times all the way down here," Dean mumbled to himself, checking out the room. He unwittingly gravitated to a table over in the corner by a window, where he could see everything that was going on. Sam followed, heavy boots making a strange clomping sound in the silence. As they settled themselves in, the peace was suddenly broken by a high-pitched, echoing scream that reverberated around the room. Startled, Dean jumped to his feet, jostling the tiny table and overturning the salt shaker in the process. He reached for the nonexistent gun in his belt, withdrawing it once he realized he had listened to Sam for once. He was making that mistake again.
Sam stood up next to him, and both were silent, scanning the room with eagle eyes. At that precise time, all hell broke loose as five children burst into the room.
"Gimme back Barbie, you big fat meanie!" shrieked a little girl, no older than 5, almost falling down the stairs in haste to reach her screaming brother. He pulled ahead of her, taunting the child with the doll held out in front of him. She gave a shrill cry as he pulled the Barbie back, and the two promptly began chasing each other around the counter a few times before the girl tired. She stopped stock-still and pouted, hands on her hips in a sassy manner.
"Stupid!"
"You're the stupid, stupid"
"You're stupider!"
"Stop calling me stupid!"
"You said it first!"
Dean looked on in amazement as the dialogue between what seemed to be the two youngest children continued. Sam was more focused on the antics of the other three children, who, thought Sam, looked like they took a few too many happy pills this morning. The other two boys had jumped onto stools and were now swinging away, singing their happiness in random songs that Sam only caught snatches of. They were so loud that the little girl who was now dancing on the counter in time to her own beat was screwing up her face in pain. She hollered at them as they sang even louder, drowning out the sounds of the other three. One of the boys, the one with red hair, abandoned his stool-spinning and leapt atop the counter with the girl, who looked like his sister. None of the children seemed older than eight, as was apparent by their level of maturity. The two children seemed to be concocting a plan, and both looked around quickly before diving under the counter. The boy emerged triumphantly, holding aloft a jar of cookies with a ribbon tied around it, while only the girl's head was visible, moving up and down as if chewing on something rather vigorously. The soundtrack to this act of espionage was none other than "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" sung graciously by little boy number two, while the smallest boy and girl fought voraciously to determine the fate of green-markered hair Barbie. Dean remained standing, paralyzed by the noise assaulting his sense of hearing from all directions. As the younger ones bickered, another boy sang, and the other two chattered, they steadily increased volume to be heard over each other. And from somewhere in the background, a chiming sound was heard. In the midst of it all, Sam was forced into his seat by incessant wheezing brought on by laughter at the cookie-jar child's frolics. His attempts to fit his entire head in the jar were, as of yet, unsuccessful.
"CHILDREN!" roared an unseen presence. Dean tensed, thinking stupidly that this was the moment he would be attacked. Shaking his head, he tried to regain his senses.
There was an immediate scampering of feet as each child arranged him or herself to look as innocent as possible.
"Who was making the bells ring?" ordered an intimidating looking man, entering the diner through the same open doorway as the children had. He had the look of a father about him—everything from his large belly to short bristly beard shouted fatherhood. His expression was of a person awoken rudely into the cold, cruel, noisy air.
One of the girls shifted, and Dean recognized her as the one from below the counter. Her face was smeared with something that could once have been chocolate, and as her father shifted his gaze to rest upon this bandit, she quickly let go of a string that Dean could see was attached to the chimes above the door.
"Well?" asked the man, a little calmer this time. The girl shuffled her feet guiltily and stuck her thumb in her mouth. When her father kept his eyes on her, she used her remaining hand to point at Sam and Dean.
"Out, all of you!" he roared, catching Dean by surprise. He wasn't quite sure if that was directed at them, too. The children screamed, scampering around the older man as they headed for the stairs, sounding like a herd of buffalo with tiny hooves on the stairs.
"Tell your mother to fry up some eggs then get on down here to help with the customers! No horseplay on the stairs!" he shouted up after them, the cries slowly receding. The complete silence left Dean's ears ringing, the only sound being that of Sam trying to catch his breath. The man sighed, and turned to Dean, who drew back slightly, expecting another tirade.
"Gentlemen, I apologize for my children. Just for that horrible show of non-discipline, I'll fry you up some hash browns for free, how does that sound?" the man said briskly, smiling an encouraging smile at the two. Since Sam was still making tiny gasping noises, Dean hastened to reply.
"Oh, we'd thank you kindly for that sir," Dean said, his trademark charm coming out in every syllable.
"Sit tight for a bit, now. Gotta make the stove hot and heat up the ovens."
"Sure thing," said Sam, calm enough by now to get out a normal-sounding reply.
"Oh, and son," the man said, turning back from his path to the kitchen.
"Yessir?" Dean questioned, wondering what he had done wrong.
"It's okay to sit down now,"
Dean started, nearly falling into the booth seat as the man chuckled and headed into the back.
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