ATLAS HOUSE - NIGHT
Sam and Dean took out a couple of flashlights, kept their hands on their pistols and wearily entered what had to be the most tiresomely spooky mansion in Detroit. Heading from the lobby into the pitch-dark sitting room, it wasn't long before they found the source of both the light and the music: a smartphone sitting on an end table, alerting it's owner about a new text message by quietly playing a sad instrumental of "Ghostriders In The Sky." Dean ran a hand along the wall until he found a dimmer switch and turned the lights up.
The sitting room was decorated in Herter Brothers style and was lavish, almost to the point of tastelessness. There was a giant, tiled hearth at the back of the room with an armchair on either side of it. A man slept quietly in one of the chairs - tall guy, roughly Sam's height, in a three-piece gray suit, wearing an anti-possession charm. He was about fifty, athletic, very dark and his head was shaved bald as an egg. There was a rocks glass and a half empty bottle of Pimm's No. 1 Cup on the end table beside him, right next to his smartphone.
"Excuse me?" Sam asked. "Sir?" He knocked on the wall.
It took a moment for the man to wake up, and when he did, he bolted to his feet in a panic, drawing a .38 Special on Sam.
Sam and Dean raised their guns. Dean gave Sam a look.
"Fine," Sam said, in a huff. "I owe you a Coke."
Still half asleep, the man seemed to be coming to his senses. "The Winchesters?" he asked, speaking in a South London accent. He lowered his weapon; Sam and Dean lowered theirs.
"That depends," Dean said, giving the man's gun the hairy eyeball. "You know where we can find a guy called Red?"
"I am Red Brennan," he said. He had an oddly measured, elegant way of speaking. Maybe it was the booze.
"Really?" Dean asked with a bit of a laugh. "You're Red? Okay. Name like that, I was... kinda expectin' an Irish dude."
"And how am I not what you were expecting?" Red asked, giving him a sarcastically confused frown. He knew exactly what Dean meant.
Dean looked a little nervous. He turned to Sam, who was giving him the exact same frown as Red, as if to say, Don't look at me, dumbass, I ain't jumpin' in this hole with you.When Dean finally thought of something he turned back to Red.
"British," Dean said hopefully. Nice save.
"English," Red said. "And Red is my first name, not my nickname." He gestured to a nearby sofa. "Thank you for driving out, I hope you weren't too inconvenienced."
"Glad to help," Dean said, with equal parts relief and trepidation. He and Sam took a seat on the sofa and Red pulled up an ottoman.
"Garth didn't fill us in on much," Sam said. "You wanna tell us why you think you're in trouble?"
Red set his pistol down on the coffee table and put his hands together, fingers intertwined. He was having a hard time making eye-contact.
"I have visions," Red said.
"We know," Sam said gently. "The other seers had them, too. But everybody thinks their next. So I guess what I'm tryin' to say is,... what makes Garth so sure it's gonna be you? I don't think he would've made us haul ass from Missouri just 'cause you're solid buds."
"My visions aren't like the others," Red said. "They're not open to interpretation."
"They're vivid?" Sam asked. There seemed like there was an extra bit of sympathy in his voice.
"Like a silent film," Red said. "I saw him come for me."
"It's a man?" Dean asked. "What's he look like?"
Red wrung his hands, bit his lip. Like he didn't want to say. "Have you ever seen 'The Man Who Knew Too Much?'" he asked.
"The... Jimmy Stewart movie," Sam said.
"No," Red said quietly. "Not that one. The one with Leslie Banks." He finally looked up at Sam and Dean, who both seemed profoundly confused. "Never mind," Red said. He was breaking a sweat. "He's my age. Not... British."
Sam and Dean glanced at each other: got it.
Red was having a hard time going on. "He wore a tailored suit," he said. "Black on black. He wasn't as tall as we are, and he was..."
"Chubby?" Dean asked.
"I wouldn't say that," Red said, looking slightly alarmed.
Dean smirked. "Neckbeard?" he asked.
"He had a beard," Red said.
Dean narrowed his eyes at Red.
Sam looked back and forth between them, not really getting the vibe. "What happens in your visions?" he asked.
"He talks to me," Red said. "Has coffee with me. He takes his time, and then... he takes my eyes. He attacks me in broad daylight, I don't know why or how."
"Can you make out what he's saying to you?" Sam asked.
"There isn't sound," Red said. "There never is in my visions."
"Then what makes you think you're next?" Dean asked.
"I'm walking across the lawn of my church," Red said. "We're planning for a charity lunch. I sponsor one every year on National Pie Day. That happens tomorrow."
"Nice try, Kreskin," Dean said. "But National Pie Day was last week."
Sam looked sideways at Dean, then rolled his eyes. Of course.
"Forgive me," Red said. "I misspoke. I meant, National Corn Chip Day."
Dean's face fell. He muttered to himself, "Damn, he's right."
Sam took a beat to be mildly horrified of his brother, then started with Red again.
"And where's your church?" Sam asked.
"Russell Street," Red said. "'Sweetest Heart of Mary.' It's a beautiful church, but you'll forgive me if I have no desire to die there."
"Yeah, don't worry," Sam said. "We can make you safe right here. I'm pretty sure this is a guy we've seen before, we know how to handle him. You're gonna be okay."
"What does he want with me?" Red asked.
"You're eyes," Dean said. "Information. A date for the prom-. What he's after? Not really the top of our list right now. You are. But if he's the ugly sumbitch we think he is, we've got it covered. Time to hunker down."
Red winced at Dean's words. "But it can't be here," he said. "The inn is full of guests at the moment. It won't be safe for them."
"Motel sound good to you?" Sam asked.
Red nodded gratefully. He grabbed his pistol and the three of them headed for the door.
Dean cleared his throat. "Crowley?" he said to Sam pointedly. "You'd think Garth would've said something."
"I didn't describe him," Red said. "Garth never asked."
Red opened the front door. Dean caught up and calmly pushed the door shut before anyone could leave. He got between Red and the doorknob.
"What is it you said you did for a living?" Dean asked Red.
"I didn't mention it," Red said. "But I'm the innkeeper here. Are you wondering how someone so 'British' came at the position?"
"And how come there's Goofer dust at the door?" Dean asked.
"It's an old superstition-." Red began to say.
"How did you know what Crowley was?" Sam asked. He was behind Red now, arms folded. There was something like disappointment in his eyes.
"I saw him in my vision," Red said, turning to Sam.
"Yeah," Sam sighed. "You said there's never sound in your visions - it's not like the guy at the church could tell you his name. And just now you said that you never described the thing in your vision to Garth, which means he never told you the guy's name, either. So how did you know what Dean meant when he said Crowley?"
Red looked back to the door. Dean grinned at him.
"Hi," he said in a wryly sweet tone. "We're the Winchesters?"