Dean looked at his signature like it was an ancient foreign language he had to translate. "That's bullshit." But it was his signature and given his brother's law-abiding attitude, he doubted that Sam had forged it. Still, it had been Sam who had checked them in. He clearly remembered Sam slamming the door of his car after offering to get the room. He also remembered Sam telling him that the desk clerk gave him the creeps. Dean eyed the man across the desk suspiciously. "My brother Sam checked us in. Tall guy, shaggy hair, probably insanely polite - you don't remember him?"
"No, Mr. Winchester, you checked yourself in." The man shook his head sadly and gave him a pitying look. "You were quite upset and you mumbled something about being alone and how it was your fault he was dead."
"Excuse me?" Dean leaned over the counter, oozing menace and danger with his body language while keeping his tone neutral. "Did I happen to say who had died?"
"Your brother. You must have had a bad dream and woke up thinking he was still alive, but the proof is right here." The desk clerk nudged the register closer to Dean.
Dead. Dean raised his eyebrows. Did this sick fuck actually think that he would believe that Sam was dead? Not going to happen. "Look, buddy, I don't know exactly what's going on here, but my brother isn't dead and I didn't sign this thing." Dean pushed the register back toward the clerk with his finger.
"Mr. Winchester, I'm sorry for your loss..."
"No, you're not because I haven't lost anything." Dean raked a hand through his hair. "Permanently," he amended. He glared at the clerk. "So, what's the deal? Are you a dream weaver? A Mare? What's this mindfuck supposed to accomplish? You make me believe I'm all alone and that Sammy left me again just so you can what? Steal my soul? Feed on my pain and fear?" Another possibility occurred to Dean like a punch in the gut. "Attack my brother!" Dean launched himself over the desk, grasping for the clerk, when a torrent of screaming agony ripped through his chest. He stumbled and the taller man used the opportunity to pin him against the wall. "Okay," Dean panted in harsh gasps, trying to ease the fire burning his chest. "Not a dream...next time...I'll just pinch myself."
The clerk just frowned at Dean, obviously not a man who appreciated humor. "Mr. Winchester, I understand that you're grieving, but I can't have you talking nonsense and attacking people. I'll have to ask you to leave." Dean struggled out of the man's grip. He let Dean go immediately and stepped back. Dean stared hard at the clerk and the taller man met his gaze warily. "Is there someone I can call for you, Mr. Winchester? Another family member or a doctor, perhaps?"
"No." Dean adjusted his jacket collar and walked back around to the other side of the desk. "There's no one to call except Sam and I won't be going anywhere without him."
"I'm afraid you're going to have to eventually, Mr. Winchester." The clerk straightened up the things Dean had knocked askew on the desk. He set his nameplate up and looked at Dean. There was a glint of triumph in his eyes. "Your brother isn't with you any longer."
"Yeah, well, we'll see about that, Al." Dean tapped the name on the nameplate and walked out.
----
"Fuck!" Dean stalked toward the bed. He had emptied the Impala's trunk and currently every weapon he owned was spread out on the faded gold bedspread. After that was done, he found himself at a complete and total loss as to what to do next. He had already searched the place - breaking into every room, broom closet, and boiler room - and the only thing he had found was the horrible sense that he had failed his brother. He had been so wrapped up in his own pain and hurt feelings when they had pulled into this place that he hadn't noticed it was hinky. In his search for Sam it had become abundantly clear that there was no one else staying at this motel. Aside from the lack of population, there was also no traffic on the highway and no wildlife scampering around the area. There were no coyotes yapping in the darkness or crickets singing. There weren't even any rats or roaches. It was like this place was cut off from the world and Dean was cut off from Sam. He didn't like it, he didn't like it at all.
"Christ." Dean walked back to the door. It was one thing for the nice houses with the picket fences to be harboring a nasty poltergeist - he could deal with Sam's precious normal being just a thin veneer for a lot of fucked up shit underneath - but truck stop motels were his normal. What the hell was he going to do? Shoot every desk clerk full of rock salt before asking for a room? He would probably be spending a lot of nights in his car. Dean stared out the window into the black night as if he could glare his brother back into existence. "What the hell is this place?" He didn't expect an answer and he didn't get one. "Where the hell are you, Sammy?"
A patch of fog appeared on the window in front of Dean like someone or something had breathed on it. Dean tensed, but his instincts weren't screaming 'threat.' His heart almost stopped though when a shaky 'S' curved on the glass followed by an angular 'A' and a pointy 'M.' It was how he had taught Sam how to print his name. It was how their Mom had taught him how to spell his own name as well as his baby brother's one rainy afternoon a few months before she died. He could still remember sitting on her knee on the window bench in Sam's nursery with Sam breathing deeply in soft little baby snores in his crib while the rain drizzled steadily down the pane of glass in front of them. Mom had told him to breath on the glass and then she had taken his little hand and traced 'Dean and Sammy' with his index finger. Did he tell Sammy that story while he had taught him how to spell his name on the car windows? If he hadn't, then he would tell him as soon as he could - Sam needed to hear that story - and this had to be a sign from Sam. There was only one way to find out.
Dean stepped closer to the window and breathed on the glass. He traced an 'M' and a 'Y' next to 'SAM' and then waited. Nothing happened. Dean frowned at the glass. He never had considered patience to be a virtue when his little brother could be in trouble. Before he could smash his fist through the window in frustration, he got a response. The 'MY' he had added was erased and an emphatic slash was drawn under 'SAM.' Dean grinned and managed to restrain himself from letting out a loud whoop. It had to be Sam, no one else could pull off a pissy attitude on a foggy window. Dean fogged up the window again just above Sam's name and wrote 'OK' and then - just to be an ass so Sam would know it was him - he added the 'MY' to 'SAM' as well as a question mark.
The words were immediately wiped away and replaced with 'FINE. YOU?' Dean breathed a sigh of relief. Sam wasn't dead. Of course, he had no idea where Sam was or how he was writing on their motel room's window, but at least he wasn't dead. Dean wouldn't even entertain the possibility that Sam was dead and was now a ghost. Sam wouldn't have written that he was fine if he were a ghost and if anyone should know that they were of the living-challenged persuasion, it would be psychic boy. Maybe he was the ghost. Dean shook his head at the thought. He didn't remember dying and a little rock salt to the chest was hardly enough to kill him. Besides, his chest still hurt like hell. Dean leaned in toward the window, but apparently his internal debate had taken too long because the words Sam had written disappeared and were replaced with 'DEAN!'
Dean hastily wrote back, 'I'M GOOD. WHERE R U?' and felt stomach twist when Sam wrote back 'MOTEL ROOM. YOU?' Dean confirmed that he was also in their motel room and hoped to hell Sammy was smart enough to come up with something other than one of them being dead to explain this. 'GHOST REALM?' That was a good theory, now they just needed a test. Dean glanced the array of weapons he had laid out on the bed. He grinned and jotted a quick note to Sam on the window. He crossed to the bed and picked up the shotgun. He loaded it with a couple of shells filled with rock salt and aimed at the window. His reflection wavered in the dark surface and Dean paused at the sight of the shotgun pointed at him.
For a moment, Sam's face floated in his mind - blood dripping from his nose and eyes black with rage. Dean shook his head and pushed that memory away. That was something he and Sam would work out face to face. He pulled the trigger, shattering the glass.
To be continued...