Smells Like Trouble
Summary: Something just doesn't smell right… A motel stay gives our boys an ugly surprise.
Thank you soooo much for the lovely reviews. You do know how to make a gal type faster!
Usual technical hooey: Just having fun, etc etc.
Chapter 2
The lights on the police cruisers were activated, but there were no sirens and no policemen immediately in view. They could hear a low rumble of people speaking, closer to the motel office off to their right. Sam caught Dean reaching for his gun and quickly smacked his hand away.
"They're not here for us," he hissed. "Behave yourself." When it came to fight or flight, Dean usually picked fight.
The two stuck their heads out and peered down the row of rooms. All of the activity appeared to be in a room about three doors down. Officers were coming in and out, all looking a little green around the gills. One of them looked up and saw the two staring from their open doorway and began to walk in their direction.
Dean frowned and Sam could almost see his brother deciding whether to try and bluff their way in. Sam put a calming hand on his arm. "Down, boy. No stories. We're just going to behave and find out what happened from the nice policeman. Got it?" Dean nodded imperceptibly and Sam gratefully saw him relax his muscles into his 'I'm just a harmless bystander' stance.
The policeman, a fortyish looking man with the typical cop crew cut, walked up to the pair and gave them a professional once over. "Gentleman?"
"Officer," Dean answered mildly, "What's going on?"
"You two stayed here last night?" the man asked instead of answering. He waited for them both to nod. "Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary?"
Sam couldn't keep his eyes from straying to the gash poorly hidden in Dean's hair. Dean must have remembered it too because he was holding his head slightly angled away from the policeman, careful though to make it look like he was standing naturally.
"Long day on the road." Dean jerked a thumb in Sam's direction. "We got in late and went straight to bed."
Sam realized that they were standing in the open door to their room and Dean's blood-stained shirt and the towel were still soaking in the sink, not to mention a sawed off shotgun and some other lethal odds and ends sitting in a duffel bag against the wall. If his guess was right and someone had been attacked last night other than his brother, then Sam didn't want the officer seeing into their room. He gently nudged Dean to move out onto the walkway that ran in front of the rooms and followed him, shutting the suspicious looking items away from view.
"And you didn't hear anything?" The cop's glance moved back and forth between the two, wearing a purposely blank expression as he sized them up.
They both shook their heads. "No, sir," Dean offered, smirk carefully stowed for the moment. "You can hardly hear yourself think over the heater in there." Dean shot a look toward the room as if he could see the offending machine through the now closed door. Sam knew he was thinking the same thing he was. The ancient heater had made so much noise that they had slept through the cavalry arriving. More importantly they had slept through some disaster taking place only a few rooms away.
Without having to be asked they both produced their fake IDs. Using the mic at his shoulder the officer quickly checked them and Sam was grateful they were good enough to hold up to basic scrutiny. The cop noted their fake names in a notebook and handed the IDs back. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but stopped hearing noise behind him. All three men watched as a gurney, complete with a lumpy body bag, appeared from the room several yards away, being pushed by a man wearing a jacket that read 'Coroner.'
Sam felt the blood drain from his face at the sight. Someone hadn't just been attacked. Someone was dead, killed, and they had both slept through it.
"What happened?" Sam heard the catch in Dean's voice, but doubted anyone who didn't know his brother would notice. He knew Dean was furious with himself thinking someone had died and he could have prevented it.
"Cleaning woman found him this morning," the policeman wrinkled his face in distaste, "sliced to ribbons."
"Sliced?" Dean asked, adding a pained expression as he said it.
The policeman nodded. "Cut up, cuts all over him. Someone sure had something against him." He eyed them again. "You boys sure you didn't see or hear anything?" as if he found it hard to believe otherwise.
They both shook their heads again and did their best to look suitably horrified and disturbed by such unusual goings-on, and for once it wasn't completely an act. Finally the man nodded again and walked back toward the other officers still milling around the scene.
"Go start the car," Sam said quietly, already pulling the room key from his pocket. He heard the car rumble to life as he stuffed the bloody shirt and towel into a plastic bag left in the ice bucket and then shoved that into the duffel bag with the weapons. Dean wouldn't be happy if he got any of the weapons soggy. Sam quickly rinsed out the sink and then looked around the bathroom, ensuring there were no tell tale blood smears.
Normally a Do Not Disturb sign was enough to keep housekeeping from rummaging through their room, but the police just might decide to take a look while they were out. He didn't want anything to draw their interest. The blood wouldn't match the dead guy, but that wouldn't stop the police from taking a closer look at them and they certainly didn't need that.
Sam casually closed the motel room door and got into the car, setting the duffel bag in the back seat. "I'd say talking to the desk clerk is out for the moment," he remarked, watching the police still standing in a huddle between their room and the office.
Dean only nodded, his face tight and angry as he eased the car around the police cruisers toward the parking lot exit. Sam glanced over and saw he was looking in the rear-view mirror, still watching the police outside the murder scene. Then after another tense second, Dean let out the breath he'd been holding and turned out of the parking lot, heading back toward downtown, or what was considered downtown in a place this size. "Ok, so maybe we should've stayed in the car last night," he admitted.
Sam half turned in to look at his brother, shock at seeing the dead man turning to anger. "Ya think?"
Dean shifted uneasily in his seat. "I hate sleeping in the car. It makes me cranky."
"And we wouldn't want that," Sam observed. The difference between Dean happy and Dean cranky was not a whole heck of a lot sometimes. "Man, at what point did the possibility of being attacked by who knows what become better than being cramped up in the car for one lousy night?"
Dean's mouth quirked up on one side. "Would you believe me if I said I was hoping to shoot it, throw it out in the parking lot and then get a good night's sleep?"
Sam felt his anger level move from DefCon 4 to DefCon 3. Dean was going to try and laugh it off and he wasn't amused. "You can't throw ghosts out in the parking lot."
"Thank you for that, Mr. Obvious," Dean sighed, as if Sam ruined all his fun. "Well, whatever it was, it didn't come back." He paused for a beat. "Not for us anyway."
"It could've, Dean," Sam pressed, trying to get something through to his thick-headed brother. "It could've killed you."
Dean cocked his head to one side, still keeping his eyes on the road. "So why didn't it?"
Sam huffed in frustration, facing forward again. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"Cause the chick was pissed and all she did was take a swipe at me and then poof."
"Poof?"
"You know," Dean gestured with his fingers like a little explosion. "Poof. Gone. Evaporate. Whoosh. Vanish. Disappear."
Sam raised a hand for him to stop. "Thanks, I got it."
"Good, I thought I was going to have to resort to diagrams. You know I can't draw."
"So she poofed and then went next door and ripped a guy to shreds," Sam paused, thinking. "That or she ripped a guy to shreds and then came after you, but had already used too much energy, was too tired to do any real damage and dematerialized."
"Dematerialized? Dude, have you been watching Ghostbusters again?"
Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Look, we'll just go to the library and see if we can dig up anything on the motel."
"Poofed is a perfectly good word," Dean muttered.
Sam's lips twitched though he did his best not to smile. It would only encourage his brother. "One thing we do know."
"What?" Dean spared a look away from the road to glance at him.
"Whoever she is… She picked another guy over you." Sam's smile began to widen. "Maybe it's your hair. It's too short."
Dean kept his eyes resolutely on the road. "Dude, shut up."
Sam coughed dramatically, "I'm just saying."
Dean grunted. "I've told you before, Sammy. The day I start looking like Fabio," he spared a scathing glance at Sam's own long hair, "is the day I let you shoot me. Well… shoot me again anyway."
Sam's grin wobbled and then faded, but Dean only smiled and turned the radio up. Sam suspected his brother had been a drummer in a past life. He certainly liked hitting things where it hurt, and hitting them and hitting them...
Tune in tomorrow. Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel. Yeesh. That was nerdy. Uhh… More to come…
