Smells Like Trouble
Summary: Something just doesn't smell right… A motel stay gives our boys an ugly surprise.
Have I mentioned how much I like you guys? -BIG HUG-
Dean gets to do the talking today…
Chapter 3
"You find anything?"
Dean looked up from the computer screen he had been staring at for what felt like hours and sat up straight, stretching the tired muscles in his back. He hadn't bothered to tell Sam how little sleep he'd had the night before. Sam had needed the rest more and funnily enough, one ghost takes a swipe at your head and you're not nearly as inclined to sleep as you were before.
He and Marigold had sat up all night just to make sure little Miss I'm-going-to-scalp-you-if-I-get-a-chance didn't make another guest appearance in their motel room. And no, he had no intentions of telling Sam that he'd named the shotgun Marigold either. A gentleman did not kiss and tell. That and Sam would never, ever let him live it down.
Sam might leave him. Well, leave again. But Marigold never would. Was it weird that one of his friends, the one real constant, the one he relied on when everyone else left and everything around him fell to crap, was a sawed-off shotgun? Probably. Such was life. He supposed he would die one day with Marigold in hand still doing her best to keep the monsters at bay. Well, that was maudlin, Dean thought, mentally brushing the idea away. He had been hanging around Sam too long. Dean caught his own faint reflection in the computer screen. He needed a haircut.
What annoyed him and would not be swept aside, however, was that even though he had sat up until dawn to keep watch, he hadn't heard a thing. Even over the noise of the heater clanking like it was on its last legs, he should have heard a man being cut to pieces.
Dean focused again on his brother who was leaning over the computer desk partition. "Well?" Sam asked.
"Haven't found a thing," Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his strained eyes. "Other than we really should've stayed in the car. Our motel hasn't managed to pass a health code inspection in 10 years."
Sam shook his head, "Yeah, I didn't find anything either. I did talk to the librarian. She thinks the motel is not a place where 'a nice boy like me should be staying,' but there was nothing out of the ordinary about the motel that she could remember. Place isn't even that old. 20 years maybe."
"So no gruesome murders to speak of, no suicides, no 'Oops I accidentally put my boyfriend through a meat grinder'?"
"Not even an 'oops I've got a wicked hangnail'. It shouldn't be that difficult in a town this size. Something like this everyone would know about," Sam frowned down at him. While Dean had been working at the computer, his brother had been going through yard after yard of microfiche. Sam looked about as disgruntled as Dean felt.
"The librarian already knew all about today's murder," Sam continued. "They're not hiding anything. She told me all about him. Guy's name was Mitchell, local guy, married, three kids, worked in an office."
"So what was he doing at the motel?" Dean asked, but Sam didn't bother to give an answer since there was none. Dean scratched absentmindedly at his hair, then hissed, encountering the previous night's injury. "Maybe we missed something."
"I doubt it." Sam had a pencil tucked behind his ear and Dean thought he looked like a particularly unkempt accountant. "We've been here for hours, man. There's nothing to find."
"Dude, ghosts don't just appear. They are where they are for a reason."
Sam came around the partition, forcing Dean to look up at his Sequoia tall brother. He knew the universe was against him. He was reminded of it every time he noticed his younger brother was taller than he was. At least he wasn't better looking. That would have been cruel and unusual punishment.
"Look, we've been here all afternoon looking through this stuff. It's going to be dark again soon. We should talk to the desk clerk back at the motel before then," Sam urged.
"Fine," Dean said, pushing back from the computer table with perhaps more vigor than was strictly necessary. He hated it when things got complicated. Complicated meant messy. And messy increased the odds of getting hurt. He much preferred the tried and true 'Give me something to shoot' method and then moving on to the next job. A very fulfilling sort occupation as far as he was concerned. And if you occasionally got to save the girl in the process, all the better. Messy, however, usually ended up with Sammy being the Damsel in Distress and that pissed him off no end. Yup, Dean nodded. Find the bad guy. Point. Shoot. Marigold liked it better that way too. And Dean liked keeping Marigold happy almost as much as he liked keeping Sammy happy.
Dean and Sam walked into the motel office to find the same slender, middle aged man who had been on duty the night before when they'd checked in. His hair was carefully in place and he was wearing a polo shirt and slacks. The look was a little up-tight for Dean, but then not everyone was as wash-and-wear as he was.
"Checking out?" he said. "I know it's technically too late, but it's ok. I've been making exceptions because of the dead guy. No one wants to stay tonight. No extra charge."
Dean immediately raised a hand in the traditional 'whoa there' gesture. "Dude, chill. We're not checking out."
"Oh," the man's shoulders slumped. "What do you want then? I can move you to another room. You want a room farther away from the dead guy's? Cause that's easy enough. Got an open one here by the office."
"We're good, really." Dean stepped closer and leaned against the counter in a conspiratorial manner. "But, uhhh… Did you know the guy who got killed?"
"Why do you want to know?" the clerk asked suspiciously.
Dean gave the barest of smiles. "Just curious… Kinda freaky it happening only a few doors down… You know him?"
The clerk hesitated for several more seconds and then finally shrugged. "Yeah, he was a regular."
"A regular?" Sam asked, moving closer. The man was a local. He shouldn't have been a regular.
The man looked at Sam like he was being dense. "Yeah, a regular. You know… have a fight with the wife… looking for a little… companionship…" He shrugged again.
"That happen a lot?" Dean asked and caught Sam giving him a look. His tone must not have been as neutral as he'd been going for.
The clerk had apparently heard the change in his voice too because the suspicious expression he had been wearing returned. "More often than you might think."
No wonder the librarian had disapproved of a 'nice boy' like his brother staying here. Dean stood up from where he was leaning and purposely loosened up his stance, schooling his expression into an almost bashful grin. "And do you ever help people acquire a little 'companionship'?" Sam shot him a 'What are you doing?' glare, but thankfully remained silent, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
A knowing expression spread across the man's face and he relaxed, feeling back in familiar territory. "You two looking for some fun? I know some nice ladies."
Dean ordered himself to remain calm, though it took every ounce of concentration he had not to punch the clerk and then kick him while he was down. There were enough real monsters in this world without bastards like this one adding to the general misery of humanity. Finding a pretty lady to spend an evening with was one thing, but a woman who couldn't afford to say no was another thing altogether. Women were a precious commodity… He didn't like them being used badly.
Everyone had choices to make. He didn't like those choices being taken from anyone. Sam had left. That was his choice. Dad had left. That was his choice. And because they'd left, Dean knew where he stood with them, painful as that was to think about. Dean would take the harsh reality of being someone's afterthought, rather than the mockery of paying a woman to pretend she cared. If a woman wanted him, fine. But every woman should have the right to tell him to take a hike. And if he could live with being alone, then so could every other poor bastard on the planet.
Their father could have forced Sam to stay. Or Dean could have badgered him into it, given enough time. But Sam would have hated their father, and then hated them both for it. So Dean had chosen to let him go, chosen to be alone rather than make his brother stay. He had set Sam free although it had left him alone. Because after that, even when Dad had been with him he had been alone.
Still he couldn't have made Sam to stay with him. It would've been wrong. It would have killed everything in Sam that he loved, that made Sam, Sam. He couldn't force Sam to stay any more than he could pay a woman to stay with him. Alone was better than a forced companion who had to hide the fact that she hated you, hated the job she was being forced to do, hated that she had no other choice than to be with you. Dean wouldn't take Sam's choices from him, and he wouldn't take a woman's either.
"Did you find a friend for the dead guy last night?" Dean knew his anger was soaking through despite his efforts when the man took a half step back.
"You cops?"
"No," Sam said, purposely drawing the man's attention. "We just want to make sure that the same thing's not going to happen to us. That's all."
"Yeah, well he must've found his own entertainment last night, cause I never saw anybody leave that room."
"You normally keep an eye on the rooms?" Sam pressed.
"It's my job. I keep an eye on things. Owner gets ticked if anything gets in the papers."
"I'm sure he's just peachy today." Well that ruined that idea, Dean thought. Crap, crap and double crap. No one to talk to who might have been with the guy. He knew the man's 'date' hadn't killed him, but she might have seen something before running for it. Dean cleared his throat. "Anything like this ever happen around here before, a guy getting killed like this? Or maybe a girl?"
"No way," the clerk shook his head. "This ain't Chicago, you know?" He eyed them. "So you guys want me to make a call for you or not?"
Before Dean could reply, Sam put a hand on his arm. Dean shrugged it off, but not before realizing his hands were already fists at his sides. "No," Sam said, answering for him then grabbing his arm again and nearly pulling him out the door to the office.
"I wouldn't have hit him," Dean growled once they were outside, walking back to the room.
"Sure, Dean. You're the soul of discretion," Sam snorted. "That's why the Boy Scout ended up locked in the closet."
"Yeah, well, he was an even bigger ass than the clerk," Dean said, pulling the room key from his pocket. "But let me know if you see a grendilowe around here. It has a date with that guy."
Dean unlocked the door to their room and stepped inside, but stopped so fast that Sam ran into him.
"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam said angrily, moving around him.
"Dude, tell me you can't smell that!"
Sam raised his hands in defeat. "Not that again. Dean, there is no sm…"
Dean watched as his brother tentatively looked around the room, his brow wrinkling in concentration as he took a slow, measured breath.
"What is that? Smells like something rotten."
"No," Dean said with certainty. "It smells like something died."
Pardon me if someone else has used the name Marigold. It was just too perfectly Freudian and I couldn't resist. I'm sure Dean's car has a name too, but I'm not sure we're ready for that. More to come…
