Tastes Like Trophies

Summary: A night at a fancy hotel… And the concierge is only one of the things our boys have to face.

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Chapter Two

"Dean… Where's his head?"

Dean scooped up his car keys from the grass where the valet had dropped them, but ignored Sam's question. He scanned the dark lawn surrounding them, more concerned that whatever had killed the man might still be in the area. He wasn't armed and doubted his brother was either. The night was quiet, however, the gentle chirping of crickets the only sound.

Dean heard running steps coming around the corner and hurried to block whoever it was. Otherwise they would do the same thing Sam had done and trip over the body.

As he stepped away from the building, the concierge slammed into him, nearly knocking him over. Dean managed to keep them both upright, just. A pool of blood and other unpleasant byproducts of a messy death were a good motivator not to fall.

"You don't want to go over there," Dean said with certainty.

"You really don't," Sam added, appearing beside him to form a better screen.

"Does he need an ambulance?" the man asked, side-stepping to see around them. Dean could tell the exact instant when the concierge realized the man wouldn't be needing any medical help. That instant was directly followed by the clerk heaving his guts onto the lawn.

"What's going on, Simmons?"

They turned to see a tall, older gentleman approaching. He was in a dark, precisely cut suit, and looked to be a very no-nonsense sort. He had that whole British butler vibe going, Dean thought.

"Who are you?" Dean asked pointedly.

"My name is Smedley. I am the manager of Huntington House," the man frowned.

"Well, good for you," Dean said, his innocent expression barely hiding the sarcasm. "You need to call the police. You've got a body on the lawn."

Smedley's dour expression became fractionally more dour, but the manager ignored him, scanning the darkened lawn just as Dean had done earlier.

"His head's gone!"

They all spared the concierge a glance where he was still staring bug-eyed at the body.

"Is he correct?" Smedley demanded.

"Yeah," Dean answered. "Now are you gonna call the cops or am I?"

"Inside," the manager ordered suddenly.

"What?" the concierge said, his voice nearly hysterical.

Smedley grabbed his employee by the sleeve and began dragging him toward the front doors almost, but not quite, at a run. "Inside now," he barked.

Sam shot Dean a confused look, but they both quickly followed.

"Sam, call 911," Dean said. "I somehow get the feeling this guy isn't going to." His brother nodded and pulled out his cell phone, quickly giving the operator the bare essentials in only a few seconds before hanging up.

It always amazed Dean just how short a time it really took to tell what was going on. People always said, 'it's a long story.' In reality, stories really weren't that long.

911, your emergency? -- Hi, my name's Sam. I found a body on the lawn. He doesn't have a head.

Hey, what happened to your mom? -- Demon killed her when I was little. I miss her sometimes.

Easy as that. Just about anything could be summed up in a sentence or two. It's a long story really just meant, I don't want to tell you or you really don't need to know.

"You sure calling the cops was a good idea?" Sam asked. "This might be our kind of thing. They'll just get in the way."

Dean shook his head still carefully watching the darkened lawn for any signs of movement as they walked. "Whether this is our kind of thing or not, the whole hotel heard that scream. We can't hide this. The manager guy might try and I don't want it biting us in the ass later that we didn't call. There's no way the desk guy will be able to keep quiet. He'll tell everyone he can."

Dean shrugged, dismissing the hysterical man. There just wasn't much you could do with people who were crap in a crisis. You just did the best you could to work around them… and/or hit them over the head and kicked them out of the way so they didn't get you killed.

"So what do you think happened to that guy?" he asked.

"I don't know, but the skin was ragged," Sam observed. "Something just ripped his head off."

"Fast too," Dean frowned. "There wasn't much time between the scream and when we got there."

They hurried up the front steps into the hotel. "The laptop's in one of the bags," Sam said. "I'll see what I can find when we get to our room."

Walking back into the lobby, they saw the manager standing in front of the concierge glowering at him. "Focus, Simmons!" they heard him say. "I need to know who the last person to check in was!"

Simmons looked around confusedly until his eyes fell on Sam and Dean. "Those two," he said pointing. "They'd just checked in when we heard the scream."

Dean distantly heard the sound of sirens. The manager must have heard them too because he turned toward them, nervously eyeing the front door as if the police would barge through it any second.

"Are you hunters?" he demanded.

Dean felt his heart skip a beat and ordered himself to breath normally. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"Are you hunters?" the man repeated more loudly. "It's a very simple question. Deer, antelope, buffalo… Are you sportsman?"

"No," Dean said with a frown, then added carefully, "No, sport hunting."

The man grit his teeth and swung around scanning the nervously chatting people now filling the lobby.

"There has to be one," they heard him muttering. "No other reason."

"What difference does it make if we're hunters?" Sam questioned.

The manager was prevented from answering, however, by the appearance of a uniformed officer appearing through the front doors.

"And you thought it would be too uptight," Dean laughed tiredly, throwing his duffel bag onto the bed. "They've got dead guys just like every other place we stay."

The cops had asked the same questions every which way from Sunday. Yes, they'd found the body. Yes, it was without a head at the time. No, they hadn't touched it other than tripping over it. No, they hadn't seen anyone running away. No, they hadn't seen anyone suspicious hanging around the hotel.

They both looked around the room and Dean couldn't help a pleased grin from stealing across his face. So there was a body on the lawn. It wasn't his problem. Not right now anyway. His only job was to enjoy a good night's sleep while the cops did their thing. And their room was nice and cushy. It even smelled fresh.

"Quit grinning. It's creepy," Sam said. "So the room's nice. I'm sure they paid some specialist to pick out everything in here to be the perfect color. They certainly passed the price on to the consumer." He patted a wall. "It's a nice beige-y, browny, certified to be soothing color…"

"Taupe."

"I'm sorry?" Sam said, turning to look at him.

"I'd say it's more of a taupe," Dean said again. "And quit knocking the place just because it costs a fortune."

Sam moved closer and Dean fought the urge to back up. "Where would Mr. Who-Cares-It's-Just-Intestines learn the difference between beige and taupe?"

"Mom," Dean shrugged and saw the amused grin fade from his brother's face. Dean cleared his suddenly constricted throat and dropped his eyes, unable to meet Sam's. "We were in the living room and she had all these little pieces of fabric. I think she was trying to pick out curtains or something. I was sitting on the floor by her playing with… I had this f…" Dean took a shaky breath, "this fire engine I liked to play with. She asked which color I liked and I told her I liked the brown one. Mom just laughed. She sat down on the floor by me and spread out all these fabric pieces. She put her arm around me and pointed to each one. Beige, ivory, off-white, cream, eggshell, taupe, tan…"

He could see her in his mind's eye patiently pointing to each one and saying the names along with him. He could hear her pretty laugh as he worked to form the strange sounds. Sometimes he couldn't remember what she looked like, but if he closed his eyes, he could always hear that laugh.

Dean cleared his throat again. "She… she said when I was a big boy, I'd go to school and learn all the colors."

"You never told me that story," Sam said softly.

"Yeah, well, it was wishful thinking," Dean shrugged and moved away, though he could still feel Sam's eyes on him. "I spent all those years in school and I still can't tell the difference between off-white and eggshell." He shook his head. "I don't even know why I told you that stupid story."

Except he did. They both did.

"Ok," Dean said scrubbing a hand through his hair, "Now that we've verified that I am having a bona fide breakdown, I think I'll go to bed. Dead body or no dead body."

"Thanks for telling me," Sam said, and the look on his face made Dean back up another step until he bumped into the windowsill.

"Dude, if you hug me, you'll be paying for your own room."

Sam held up both hands and laughed. "Calm down. You're safe for the moment."

Dean heard a sound behind him and spun to look out the window. He could barely see anything other than the distant glow of the police lights on the other side of the hotel. The window itself was partially blocked by the bushes and Dean wondered why the hotel hadn't cut them back. He heard the sound again and quickly jumped back from the window.

"Hey, Sam? I think the shrubs just growled at me."

More tomorrow... Stay tuned...