Smells Like Trouble

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You know the drill…


Chapter 4

It was well past midnight. Sam sat back against the headboard and yawned. Dean was sitting on the other bed, his trusty shotgun beside him, but he had nodded off over an hour ago. Sam let him sleep. He doubted his brother had had any the night before. It was the usual game they played, trading off, but pretending they both got some rest. They'd done it so long now, it was second nature.

Sam pulled his jacket closer around himself. They'd decided to leave the noisy heater off and the cold was starting to seep into his bones, wasn't doing his sore arm any good either. So far he hadn't seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. He was beginning to think this was all a figment of Dean's imagination. His brother had only cracked his head on the bathroom sink and some normal human had killed the guy in the other room. It's wasn't like the motel had a great reputation. There was nothing in the papers, nothing anywhere. No rumors of a haunting. Nothing except that smell… and either the smell had vanished or they had just gotten used it. But Dean said he'd seen a woman…

A woman who was now standing at the foot of Dean's bed, staring down at him.

Sam's heart began pounding in his chest as he reached for the gun sitting beside him on the bed. The ghost's head snapped up and looked at him, raising a hand and wagging a finger back and forth. 'No, no.'

Sam left his hand on the gun, but did not raise it. He didn't want to provoke her. She was too close to Dean. Whoever she was, she wasn't doing anything. Yet. Just looking down at his brother's sleeping form as if studying him. Of course if she made a move in Dean's direction he would blow her to kingdom come.

Dean had been right. She had that old before her time look. She looked tired, worn, which wasn't really odd, he supposed. Ghosts were rarely looking their best. Her hair was a rat's nest, she was barefoot and the mini-skirt and too tight t-shirt she was wearing had seen better days.

Sam felt his heart skip a beat as the ghost again turned her head to look at him, the image of the person that had been flickering like a light bulb trying to go out. It always gave him the creeps and he tightened his grip on the gun as the woman's black eyes met his gaze.

"You are not one," she said, her raspy voice echoing in the chilly air.

Sam's breath caught in his throat. He didn't know what he wasn't, but he was grateful for it. He had a feeling that being whatever it was meant you ended up as a human shish kebab. Slowly her gaze traveled back to Dean, who was beginning to stir, despite his exhaustion.

The ghostly figure studied him again, cocking her head to one side, almost like Dean did, Sam thought. The ghost frowned and then raised her right hand and scratched through her wild hair and then Sam knew it wasn't just a coincidence. He'd seen Dean make that same nervous gesture every day since he'd come to get him from school. She was confused, angry, and studying his sleeping brother with frightening intensity, replicating his gestures.

Dean woke, as if sensing the tension in the room and lifted his head, his eyes widening at the sight of the ghost whose gaze was trying to bore into his very soul. Dean grasped the shotgun and began to raise it to fire.

"No, Dean," Sam said lowly, though forcefully.

"Dean," the ghost said in her raspy voice, as if adding the name to what she already knew. "You are not like them… although you could be." She cocked her head to one side again, mirroring him as he watched her.

"Like who?" Dean asked softly, almost like he was afraid to speak too loudly and wake the monster that had tried to kill him the night before.

"You fear solitude as a child fears the darkness," she continued, her voice hoarse, paying no attention to the question. "And yet you will choose to remain alone."

Sam glanced nervously toward his brother whose suddenly pain-filled eyes were fixed on the woman. Dean rubbed at his chest as if it hurt. And then Sam saw him do something he would have thought impossible.

Dean looked down.

Dean took his eyes off the thing at the end of the bed that was only a step away from killing him. His head was turned slightly so that Sam couldn't see his face. In all their years of hunting, Sam had never seen his brother take his eyes off the prize, never look away from his quarry. Dean met every threat head on. Sheer self preservation meant you kept your eyes on the thing trying to skewer you. And yet Dean had looked away, away from the ghost and away from him. She must have hit him dead-center.

"Dean?" he whispered.

Dean momentarily looked in his direction, but a strangled noise drew their attention back to the woman, still standing at the end of the bed. The ghost began to flicker furiously like a silent movie reel. She took a halting step back from the bed, raising her head, looking from side to side as if hearing something they could not.

Theywatched in horror as blood began to pour from wounds appearing one by one all over her body. Her clothing was ripped to shreds by an invisible weapon as she cringed trying to escape the barrage of cuts and slices tearing her skin apart. The woman opened her mouth to scream and a final, deep, killing slash appeared across her throat, the blood flowing out in a cascade. Over and over she tried to scream, but her ruined throat would not allow it. Then almost as soon as it had begun, the ghostly image flickered again and the wounds were gone.

The woman brought the full weight of her gaze back to Dean and Sam saw him tighten his grip on the shotgun, readying himself for an attack.

"You are not one who will pay for my favors," she said slowly, having to work to speak and now Sam understood all too well why her voice was only a hoarse echo of what it should have been. "But there are others who will pay." Her eyes became pits of fire as she spoke. "They will pay and pay and pay." The woman turned her face up and closed her eyes as if listening to a distant song. "They paid…" her voice lowered to a raspy hiss, "And now they will pay."

And just like that she was gone. In the blink of an eye, they were alone.

Dean sprang from the bed. "This is so not good." He began pacing back and forth. "This is so, so not good. How many rooms are there in this place?"

"I don't know, but there's no way we can check them all." Sam headed for the door and Dean followed close behind. They both ran out into the parking lot and stood back, scanning the motel rooms for any sign of a problem within.

"How in the world are we going to find her before she kills someone?" Dean asked. "We can't just break down all the doors."

In silence their eyes moved from room to room, finding only that, silence. There were no tell-tale movements of a curtain, no sounds of a struggle, no flickering lights, no screams for help. Sam had a sneaking suspicion there never would be. The woman had been unable to scream at her own death. He doubted she allowed her victims that luxury.

"Are we just supposed to wait until morning and let the cleaning lady find another corpse?" Dean demanded. "Cause that idea sucks."

"Go get the EMF meter. We'll do a quick sweep past the rooms, see if we get anything. I put it in the bedside table," Sam said.

Dean made a noise as if irritated that the thought hadn't already occurred to him and took off at a jog into the room. Sam expected him to reappear immediately and frowned when he didn't. The thing was sitting in the drawer in plain sight.

After another moment, Sam swore and ran back to the room. Dean was standing in the middle between the two beds and Sam instantly knew why. The smell hadn't disappeared earlier. They had just gotten used to it. After being outside for several minutes and returning, he could smell it again, the putrid rot in the air. He grabbed a chair and jammed it against the door to prop it open and ventilate the room.

Dean pointed toward the bed he'd been sleeping in. "I think it's coming from here."

Sam grimaced. "Maybe it's from the ghost?"

Dean shook his head and pointed again. "Help me out here, Sam. I'm thinking I may know why Snow White keeps coming back to our room." He waved Sam around to the other side of the bed.

"What are we doing, Dean?"

"We're going to pull the mattress off," he replied quietly.

The full stench hit them in a wave as they jerked the mattress to the floor, revealing the box spring underneath. The cloth covering had been either cut or torn, big enough for the killer to stuff the woman's corpse inside, her bloodied limbs askew, her wide terrified eyes staring at the ceiling. Her ruined throat was gaping and torn below her mouth, still open in a silent scream.

The body couldn't be more than a few days old.

Dean straightened and took a step back from the bed. "Dude, I told you it smelled."


Well, I hope the explanation for the smell met with your approval. One of my favorite urban legends… Someone checks into a hotel, notices a foul smell… and you know the rest… Kinda puts checking in at your hotel in a different light, huh? Ya know… Now that I think of it… The whole reason for this story may be that I really need a vacation and was dreaming of a nice cushy hotel somewhere…