A/N: I've mostly recovered from watching Lazarus Rising, several times, last night. Faint squees can still be heard.
A/N 2: Thanks again to Merisha and Scotia for the beta work. Any remaining errors, if I have not said this recently, are all my fault.
It took them another three hours to reach the east coast, crossing innumerable bridges and threading in and out of small town traffic, before they reached the Virginia Dare Memorial Bridge and headed across open water to the one hundred plus mile stretch of barrier islands called the Outer Banks. Dean headed north and pulled onto State Route 12.
"They call this the Beach Road – it was the only road at all for years before 158," Dean pointed his left arm out the window to the west, "was built." He pointed again this time ahead and to the left. "I hope we can get a room a room at the Seaside."
Sam watched as they pulled into the parking lot of Seaside Cottages and Motel. Dean hopped out of the car and grinned at Sam. "I'll see if we can score one of the cottages", and pointed to one of the tiny buildings taking up most of the property. "They look like doll houses, don't they? You and your little friends can have a tea party."
Sam looked at the building in frustration and shouted after him, "Dean, I don't even know if I can get in the door!" When Dean didn't react, he added, under his breath, "Goddamn munchkin". Dean stepped out of the office a few minutes later, dangling room keys. A tiny and ancient woman was trailing after him. Sam pointed his chin in her direction. Dean spun on his heel, startling her so much she almost dropped her cane.
Dean held her elbow. "Is there a problem?"
"I just wanted to meet your adorable brother", she said, pointing at Sam. Sam felt almost as surprised as the old lady when he heard that, and saw Dean making frantic 'come here' hand flaps in his direction. He ambled over to meet them.
Dean said, "Mrs. Pelham, this is my brother Sam", as an introduction, and headed for the car as Sam bent almost double to shake her hand. He heard the car start up, and had just turned to join Dean at the car when he felt something. He spun almost as fast as Dean had, catching at Mrs. Pelham's hand. He whispered, "Did you just pinch me?" She might have blushed under her make up, Sam couldn't tell, but she did smile before turning and making her way slowly back to the motel office.
He reached the car in time to pull his messenger bag from the trunk.
Dean raised his eyebrows. "So, you make a date?"
He snorted. "She wishes. Why do sweet old things always line up for a taste of me?"
"They can't resist those dimples."
Sam ducked as Dean reached over to pinch his cheek, laughing.
Dean looked thoughtful. "There was that cougar at the nautical museum … she would have shown you a very very good time. And she was rich. Your participation could have helped the Winchester Fund for Poor Hunters."
Sam grimaced. "Mrs. Pelham here is too old to be a cougar, Dean, and I'm pretty sure this place is not a gold mine. Maybe she's a sphinx?"
"Sphinx? Better than a crone, or a biddy. Maybe a blue hair …" he stopped when Sam punched his arm.
Dean looked at him resentfully for a second, then opened the door of cottage number seven. The interior was done predictably in shells, net, rope, and seascapes. It reeked of the fifties. The cottage was small but someone had managed to fit in a miniscule kitchen, too small to even be a kitchenette. Sam wondered if there was a word for that, and why they hadn't come up with one before.
Dean flipped open his phone and called Ernie. Once he finished, he turned to Sam. "We'll meet him tonight for dinner. There's this place not too far from here…"
"I'll go anywhere where the staff doesn't look like the friggin' Benders, Dean. Everyone at B's looked like extras from Deliverance."
They pulled into the restaurant parking lot at about 7:30 that night. Sam checked the sign. He read it again. "If anyone had ever told me I'd be eating at a place called 'Bob's Eat and Get the Hell Out' I would have laughed in their faces." He turned his head to look at Dean. "Dad liked this place, didn't he?"
"Sure, we both did."
There wasn't anything special about the restaurant, just formica topped metal tables, lots of metal chairs, and a row of benches along two walls. Like any place in a vacation area, the front of the place was littered with displays of branded tee shirts, drink holders, key chains … but Eat and Get The Hell Out?
He said, "Is Ernie here?" over the noise, but before Dean could answer two things happened. A white haired man back in the open kitchen yelled "Winchester!" and a middle aged man with bright blue eyes stood up from a booth, and waved, calling out "Dean, over here."
Sam was grinning by the time both men made it to them, one from around the counter and one from the far side of the restaurant, because Dean was blushing, actually blushing, at being recognized and greeted.
Dean introduced Sam to Jeff, one of the cooks, and Ernie Popkins. Jeff pumped his hand and said, looking back toward the door, "Where's the old man, Dean, still parking the car? Moving slower than the last time I saw you, I bet. Bob will want to see him."
Sam watched as Dean ducked his head a little bit. It was still hard for his brother, even after this much time. He cleared his throat, but Sam replied for him.
"I'm sorry to tell you but our Dad died a year and a half ago. Traffic accident."
Dean cut a quick look at Sam and nodded his thanks.
"Oh, Ace, I'm sorry," Ernie began, "I had no idea when I called his number."
"Of course you didn't, old man, its all right." He looked at Jeff. "He talked about this place all the time. He thought Bob was wasted here – kept talking about how he should open a national chain and insult the whole country instead of just this one little piece of it."
"He was a good man, Dean. But a national chain? Bob will never go for that – he can't fish for the whole country." He gestured toward the restaurant, "Grab one of the booths. We've got trout Bob caught this morning." He turned abruptly and headed back to the kitchen.
They settled in a corner booth and eyed the specials board before a fast moving waitress came to take their order. During the meal, Ernie talked and talked and talked, he apologized for it, but said even his wife didn't know how to turn off the spigot. He'd called John to North Carolina a couple of years ago, having relatives 'out to Greenville' who needed help. He had been a real estate agent in the Outer Banks for a long time, and launched into an exhaustive description of the rental market and the housing boom going on to the north. He looked at Dean at one point, and said, "In the high months, you can't hardly get within spitting distance of Duck what with all the eighteen wheelers, and Corolla is right out."
After finishing his surprisingly good trout, Sam watched in resigned wonder as Dean finished a mound of fried oysters that was almost as big as his head. He glanced causally around the restaurant and found his eyes drawn to the ceiling. The acoustic tiles had been covered with tee shirts, most sporting fishing and restaurant logos. There were some surfing ones mixed in, and some were autographed. Dean must have caught him looking, because he got a nudge in the ribs, and Dean pointed toward the ceiling in one corner of the restaurant.
"Be sure to check over there." He turned to Ernie and reined him in. "Why were you calling us this time, Ernie? One of your rental properties?"
Ernie settled back and looked over his shoulder. They were quite isolated, no tables nearby, and only an empty booth behind them, their closest company a large, and clearly artificial, palm tree strung with Christmas tree lights. "Well, I'll tell you…" and he did in earnest and vivid detail.
He described a series of extremely localized storms, almost hurricane strength, hitting different areas of the Banks in the last few months. One had wiped out a new housing development and golf course 'over to' Corolla, one a fishery in Avon, another went inland far enough to scrub a successful vineyard off the map. Ernie detailed several others, producing a manila folder stuffed with newspaper clippings, maps, lists of dates, locations, property, and the produce and livestock lost. Sam hadn't heard fish referred to as livestock before. Even the state-owned aquarium and botanical gardens inland had been affected.
Sam pulled out a pad and took notes – Ernie had not only brought clippings, he also knew the land owners or friends of the land owners, and was a wealth of information on witnesses, addresses, phone numbers, and the gossip almost a prerequisite in a community of this size. Ernie called them when the storms started causing fatalities.
"Why do you think this is our kind of gig, Ernie?" Dean stretched a bit, and scratched his head. "This area gets a lot of storms."
"Tell you the truth, Dean, I don't know for sure, but I'm hoping it's something you do something about. This'll kill the tourist industry, and we aren't even into high season yet. It can't be natural for these storms to be so selective, can it?"
Dean looked at Sam who shrugged. "We'll look into it and let you know."
"Staying at the Seaside again?" Ernie was grinning. Dean grunted and Sam half way expected him to draw a symbol for yes, a buffalo hoof print maybe, in the condensation on the table. Sam nodded. "Mrs. Pelham make a grab for your asses yet?" Sam felt the blush spreading to the top of his head and down his neck under his shirt.
Dean guffawed when he saw Sam's face. "Already? She went right for the white meat!"
Ernie grinned. "Don't feel bad, Sam. She got your brother and your father the last time they were here."
"Dad – she got Dad? Oh man, I wish I could have seen his face." He looked at Dean. "I'm saying Cristo the next time we see her." He stopped suddenly and frowned. "And you wanted to go back there? You like getting your ass pinched by granny, dickweed?" Dean and Ernie laughed so hard they had to wipe their eyes.
On the way back to the hotel, Dean took a detour to a Brew-thru and picked up a couple of six packs at the drive in window. "You gotta love drive-through beer. They have beer everywhere here", he said, pulling back on the Beach Road. "They even have beer at the pancake houses – how awesome is that?"
Sam shook his head, and smiled, unwilling to say how awesome that was.
On the way to breakfast the next morning, Dean drove north, and Sam watched the landscape on the left of the road gradually change over from shops and small houses to sand dunes that eventually towered over the road. He could see dozens of kites in flight in the air over the dunes. As they drove around a bend in the road, Dean nudged Sam to get his attention and pointed toward the sand.
"See that? Sticking out of the sand?"
Sam bent down and looked out of Dean's window and up at the dune. "It looks like a … a minaret?" He cranked around to look at it through the rear window as they passed it.
Dean grinned. "There's a miniature golf course under there – the top of a little castle is all that's left. There's even a hotel further back in the dune. Years ago, they used to let people dig down in the sand and explore it. It would be pitch black down there. And all that sand on top of you", he felt a small shudder go up his spine, "it would be like being buried alive." He looked at Sam. "There's a housing development behind there that's next to be buried. They put up fences and shit, but they can't stop the sand. It just keeps piling up. That's gotta be creepy, don't you think? Watching it get closer and closer…"
He trailed off and Sam watched him frown briefly. He was quiet until Dean pulled into the parking lot of a pancake house. He glanced at Dean. "What, you want beer?"
Dean gave him a half smile. "No. All you can eat pancakes and maple syrup."
Their servers were young, eager to please, and all had thick accents which to Dean's untrained ear all sounded vaguely Russian. When the check was produced, Sam asked their waitress where she was from, and she answered cheerfully enough.
"Bulgaria. And she", pointing at the hostess, "Serbia", her finger continued on pointing to the other waiters, "Serbia, Georgia, and Bulgaria, but I didn't know her at home."
After she left, Sam looked at Dean, eyebrows up. "Do you think that's unusual? Everyone here is from some part of eastern Europe."
Dean rubbed his hair. "Huh. I never thought about it. There's just kids with accents in the restaurants here."
"Well, one of the victims was definitely from that area - Gornyi Khiebnikov. He was working at the fish hatchery."
"Did Ernie have an address for him?"
Sam flipped back through his notes. "Actually no, just a general area."
Dean stood, dropping a few bills on the table. "Why don't I drop you at the library? I'll go see if I can find anything out about … Gorney? … and join you there afterwards."
"I think it's more like Gornnn-yee. You elide the 'n'."
"Bite me."
When they reached the car, Dean over the top at Sam. "Oh, and Sam."
Sam waited patiently.
"Kill Devil Hills – you know, that's the area where we think the Russian kids are? That refers to smuggled rum, not a demon." He scrubbed his hand through his hair and smiled. "Dad was all over it. One of the reasons we spent so much time here after the Greenville job."
Sam said, "Smuggled rum?"
"They hid barrels underneath the hill where the Wright Brothers Monument is in Kitty Hawk. That's all it was. Still, we both spent a lot of time checking."
He got into the car, and Sam slid in after him, timing it so that the doors slammed shut together.
"You went to the Wright Brothers Monument when you were here before?"
Dean smirked. "No, we didn't, not being geeks like you. You'd probably love it. They have a life sized model of the plane. I'll take you to see it before we leave."
Sam turned his head away toward his window before he rolled his eyes. His brother was so transparent sometimes. When he had his expression under control, he looked back. "Dean, that sounds awesome. I can't wait to go with you."
The smile he got back from Dean was worth pretending the visit would be for him. Sam was sure he'd end up trailing his 'non geeky' brother around the exhibits for hours.