Disclaimer: I don't own them, but I did my part. I converted one of my friends to a fan of Supernatural this season. Speaking of which, thank you, Jubilea for doing the beta work!

Hell Hath no Fury

Dean pulled to a stop outside the Harvey Motel office. The sign to the motel had a large rabbit on it. It seemed familiar somehow, but Dean could not put his finger on it. After he procured a key, and pulled around to the side, Dean tried to roust Sam.

"Sam," Dean said shaking Sam's shoulder. "Time to wakey, wakey."

Sam slapped Dean's hand away. "Just a couple more minutes," he replied sleepily.

"I'm not hauling your ass in there," Dean stated. "Come on."

Sam peeled his eyes open, and noticed they were at a hotel. He caught sight of the motel sign, and sniggered. Dean was already standing at the opened passenger door, holding the duffle bags. Sam winced as the bruise on his back pulled tight when he stretched to stand. He grabbed his duffle bag from Dean, and made his way to the motel room.

Dean hung back about half a pace behind Sam. Close enough to help if Sam needed it, but far enough away that he was not hovering. It was a balancing act sometimes. Needing to help, needing to be sure Sam was safe, but leaving him enough space to be a man, to be Sam. Dean opened the motel room door. He swung his duffle on to the first bed, claiming it as his own.

Sam dropped his duffle on the floor next to the other bed, and continued on to the bathroom without missing a step. He turned on the shower water as hot as he could stand it, and climbed in. The hot water helped relax his sore muscles. He could not suppress a small groan when the water stream hit the spot on his back he was sure was bruised from hitting the chair. When the water started to run cool, Sam stepped out of the shower. He shrugged on a t-shirt, and his boxers, and exited the bathroom.

Steam followed Sam out of the bathroom, and filled the room. Sam grabbed the laptop from near his duffle. He glanced over at Dean, and was surprised to see him reading a book. He had seen Dean read magazines, newspapers, comic books, and even ancient Latin texts. But, seeing Dean read a book was a rare sight.

"What are you reading?" Sam asked sitting down on the bed. He propped a pillow against the wall, and carefully leaned back. He fired up the laptop, and started looking for information on the Drumsfield house. He realized, belatedly, they should have done more research before heading up there in the first place.

"Margaret Drumsfield's diary," Dean replied looking up at Sam from over the top of the book.

"You really have a thing about snooping in dead women's diaries, don't you?" Sam remarked.

"You can learn more about a woman from five minutes with her diary, than you can from five years of living with her," Dean quipped.

"And, you're basing this on your vast experience with committed relationships?" Sam replied sarcastically.

"Committing to one woman, would be a crying shame," Dean smirked.

"For her," Sam mumbled.

Dean smiled, and then abruptly changed the subject, "Where have I heard the name of the motel before?"

"Harvey is a six-foot rabbit," Sam replied scanning a website he had found about Medford's history.

Dean looked over at Sam, his brow wrinkled in confusion. "Say what now?"

"A six-foot rabbit," Sam replied again with a sigh. He glanced down at his t-shirt, and started fumbling with the front of it, looking for something. "I, I, I seemed to have misplaced my button hole," he stammered.

In an instant, Sam felt a hand on the back of his neck pushing his head down, while fingers probed his scalp. Sam hissed as the bruise on his back pulled tight. Dean was now in front of him, both his hands on Sam's shoulders, concerned green eyes scanning his face.

"Jesus, Sam," Dean said. "How hard did you hit your head?"

"Dude, get off me," Sam replied giving Dean a small shove. "It's a quote from the movie. 'Harvey,' was an old black and white movie starring Jimmy Stewart. There was a big, six-foot tall rabbit that only he could see. I think we watched it with Pastor Jim."

"Ah, ha, yeah," Dean replied. "I remember now. That's why the sign seemed familiar." Dean made to stand, but he grabbed Sam's neck, and pushed his head down again.

"What the hell?" Sam protested. He felt his t-shirt lifted.

"You're supposed to tell me when you're hurt, Sam," Dean snapped examining the large, rectangular bruise. "Morticia left a calling card on your back."

"Oh, like you're so good at that," Sam defended. "It's just bruised, Dean."

Dean shoved Sam's t-shirt back in place, and released his grip on the back of Sam's neck. He moved to his bed, and flopped down. Dean turned on his side to face Sam, and asked, "What have I told you about staying away from the crazy chicks?"

"The same thing I've told you about not pissing off the already angry spirits," Sam retorted.

Dean mouthed Sam's words back, mocking him. He picked up the diary, and started to read again.

Sam turned back to the laptop, and they continued researching.

"I think I found something," Dean said an hour and a half later. "Margaret was not the proper lady she wanted everyone to believe."

"How so?" Sam asked not looking up from his article.

"It seems, Margaret was having an affair with one of the hired help," Dean stated. He started to read from the diary in a sotto voice, "Young Joseph is a vivacious lover. He never tires, he never ceases to amaze me, and best of all he never expects a commitment."

Sam paused his reading, and looked up. "Does Joseph have a last name?"

"Not that she mentions," Dean replied. "But, she did talk about his long legs, and his wild brown hair." Dean grinned and added, "Guess we see what attracted her to you. It wasn't just because you're a supernatural freak magnet."

"Somehow, that's not very reassuring," Sam replied.

"Yeah, and it seems Mr. Never Expects a Commitment, did expect one," Dean said. "Margaret was not pleased, and she sent him packing."

"So, maybe Joseph came back?" Sam theorized. "Maybe, he killed her?"

"Or, maybe they fought, and it was an accident," Dean said. "Or, maybe Mr. Drumsfield found out, and he killed her. We still have too many possibilities, and not enough answers."

"Yeah," Sam replied rubbing his eyes. "I'm not finding anything either. No record of David or Margaret Drumsfield appears anywhere after 1927. Of course, one or both of them could have changed their name. It was much easier back then to assume a new identity."

"Well, the only real question is; where are the bones?" Dean asked.

"Now that," Sam replied. "I may have an answer to." He motioned for Dean to come over.

Dean came over, and stood behind Sam's right shoulder.

"Here's an article from April 17th, 1927," Sam said. "The Drumsfield's were high-society, and their parties made the local paper. Here's a picture from the party."

Dean examined the picture of the Drumsfield's with ten other people in front of a large rose bush by a Jack and Jill fountain.

"And, here's a picture from the investigation on May 28th, 1927," Sam said pointing to the same fountain in the next picture.

"Where's the rosebush?" Dean asked.

"Maybe it died," Sam offered.

"Maybe, you found Margaret," Dean stated.

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