Previously: Sam drew in a deep breath—which Dean watched enviously—and stood, pulling a somewhat slower moving Dean along. Each double-checked his weapon one final time before moving toward the door. Sharing a glance, Dean reached for the handle and turned it, pausing to marvel at the undisturbed line of salt one final time before moving out into the hallway beyond.
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Chapter 2: What's Going On?
A line of golden, artificial light cut a diagonal line across the floor, disappearing into the darkened entryway directly across from their room, dimly illuminating a red and gold shower curtain and confirming the location of the bathroom. Dean spared a brief glance to his right, taking in and summarily dismissing the rather large bookshelf tucked into the wall, before moving cautiously to his left toward the source of the light, Sam on his heels.
A doorway appeared on the right a moment later, glowing peephole marking this as an apartment. Tiling led from this door forward and to the right into a kitchen while the left branched into a larger room in which he could just make out a lamp standing in the corner near a skeletal-looking futon frame. An overstuffed chair piled with pillows and a rolled up sleeping bag—pink, of all colors—sat beneath the light, a book haphazardly tossed over arm and a tall mug perched on the floor beside it.
Stepping fully into this room, Dean felt more than heard Sam slip into the kitchen as he moved toward the patio door leading out to a small deck. Beyond, the world was a chaotic swirling mass of snowflakes, nearly seven inches having already accumulated against the glass. From here, he could see the light he'd glimpsed before, realizing now that it was a light pole and that the apartment they were in had to be at least one story above the ground. Which meant, of course, that the front door was the only feasible exit.
"There's no one here," Sam said as he came up behind him, the kitchen having circled around into a dining room that connected with the living room. Confirming what Dean had already suspected, the absence of the apartment's owner nonetheless made him uneasy. Why bring them here and then leave them?
"What the hell's going on here?" Dean muttered as he turned away from the window, which had its own unbroken line of salt sprinkled liberally across the base. "You find anything useful in there?"
Sam shook his head. "A few dirty dishes and a laptop on the table, but it's halfway buried underneath a massive stack of papers and old junk mail. Whoever lives here hasn't touched it in a while"
"Great." Dean started to take a deep breath to sigh out his frustration when his ribs protested, reminding him that that wasn't a good idea. Huffing out what breath he'd managed to pull in through his teeth, he walked over to a large group photograph on the wall, taking in almost 20 people packed tightly together in summer camping gear. They ranged in age from about nine to probably 50, so it was more likely a family or community outing. There were three girls in it he thought might fit the age of the apartment's owner, given what he'd seen of it so far, but that was just a guess. Plus, the large sunglasses all three were wearing made it difficult to identify them. He didn't recognize any of them. And he was sure he would have remembered. Two of them were hot.
"So," Sam drew out slowly as he leaned back against the wall, carefully crossing his arms across his chest to avoid jarring his shoulder. "Are we going to hang around until whoever it is comes back, or are we going to slip out before they get back?"
"Safest thing would be to head out," Dean said, "avoid a confrontation."
"But we don't know where we are or where the Impala is, and in this weather, it'd be crazy to try walking anywhere," Sam pointed out. "We weren't exactly prepared for a blizzard when we came to town, even if it is Michigan."
Dean cocked his head to the side, thinking. "That strike you as strange?"
Sam looked puzzled for a minute. "Kinda. I mean, we're usually more prepared than Boy Scouts, but…"
"No, I mean the weather. Like you said, it's Michigan, so cold weather and snow are normal, but it's September. That seem a little bit early to you?"
Realization dawned on Sam's face only to disappear underneath a concerned, thoughtful frown. "You're right. Seems pretty unlikely."
"Almost supernatural," Dean drawled out, turning back to the blustering snow with a scowl. "Whatever's going on, I think this is part of it."
"Means there's something else going on in town besides a restless spirit." Sam sighed and banged his head lightly against the wall. "I wish I could remember what happened. I have a feeling it would explain a lot of what's going on."
"You and me both," Dean agreed, staring out into the storm as if willing it to reveal itself to him. "You have any idea what has the power to affect the weather like this?"
Sam shook his head. "A god, maybe. A lot of cultures attributed weather patterns to their gods: Greeks had Zeus, Germanic mythology had Thor."
"You mean the dude with the hammer and wings on his helmet?"
"That's how he's sometimes depicted," Sam said a bit skeptically. "Since when do you keep up on Norse mythology?"
Dean's face contorted in disgust. "Comic books, Sammy."
"Right. Anyway, I'd need to do some more research to know what we're dealing with or how to stop it, but until the weather calms down, I think we should stay here. Who knows what we might expose ourselves to if we go out in this."
"Plus whatever she's trying to keep out," Dean reluctantly agreed with a nod at the salt. "I still don't like it, Sam."
"I'm not exactly happy, either, Dean, but right now this is our smartest option. Unless you'd rather walk out into an unknown situation, figuratively and literally blind."
"I know, I know, "Dean said. Again, the sense of home that the place seemed steeped in was doing its best to get him to lower his guard. Everything from the dishes Sam mentioned—his kind of person, leaving things around—to the book left on the chair, the smiling faces in the photograph, conspired to make him relax, but while he was determined to remain alert, he had to grudgingly admit that Sam was making a lot of sense. Leaving now would put them at even more of a disadvantage. Plus, he really wasn't looking forward to making his way through the blizzard without protection, anyway. He much preferred experiencing such weather from the safety of his baby…
"My baby's out in it right now, somewhere, all alone," Dean exclaimed, eyes widening. "Who knows what might have happened to her. She doesn't like the snow, never has."
He watched as Sam closed his eyes and could all but here his little brother counting in his head in order to keep from saying something. Dean knew Sam didn't appreciate his connection to the Impala, thought he was crazy for being so attached to it. And while he really was worried about her, he was also pleased to see that the outburst succeeded in removing a bit of the tension that had been developing from Sam's shoulders. Even though he was going to remain alert, Sam didn't need to; the kid had enough things to worry about. No use borrowing trouble…or something like that.
"I'm sure the Impala's fine, Dean," Sam said in placating tones. "This isn't the first snowstorm we've been in."
"I know, but I can usually plan to try to park her somewhere under cover or at least out of the wind," Dean said. "She'll never forgive me for this."
"Dean."
Maintaining the sorrowful expression for a moment longer before allowing it to fade away, Dean surreptitiously watched as Sam's shoulders eased even further and felt himself relax minutely in response.
"You're right, Sam. We'll just have to find a hunt someplace warm, like Florida, for our next job, and I'll treat her to a tune-up and wax."
Sam just rolled his eyes.
"Now," Dean said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he headed toward the kitchen. "What do you see what she's got to eat?" He could feel Sam following along behind him but stop just short of entering, the small space being nearly too cramped for both of them at once. "Girls tend to keep more food, right? Maybe she bakes."
"Dean, it's rude to touch someone else's stuff, especially when we don't know her name," Sam tried to tell him, but a moment later, his stomach rumbled loudly, causing Sam to look down sheepishly.
Grinning at him from where his head was bent—carefully, again, as it caused his chest to tighten uncomfortably—Dean admonished him with a familiar phrase from their childhood. "But breakfast is the most important meal of the day." A moment later he came up armed with eggs, break, and butter.
"And here I thought you were sleep walking all of those morning when we were going to school," Sam said with a responding smile.
"It's called multi-tasking, Sammy," Dean said as he set down the ingredients and began to search for a pan, twisting without thinking and biting back a groan in the process and holding perfectly still as he waited for his vision to resolve itself. "Man, I hate broken ribs."
"It's just one, you big baby," Sam said as he swiftly shouldered Dean aside and directed him to a chair at the table. Allowing himself to be pushed away, Dean was pleased to note that Sam had moved out of mother hen mode and watched for the next few minutes as Sam ransacked the kitchen and began cooking scrambled eggs while simultaneously starting to clean the dirty dishes that had been left lying around. Just couldn't leave them alone.
The toaster was sitting out on the counter next to the stove, and slices of bread disappeared inside only to pop out a few minutes later, perfectly brown. A crock of butter and a knife were thrust in front of Dean a moment later as he was commandeered to help, which he did with increasing enthusiasm as the smell of breakfast began to reach him, reminding him of his own hunger.
In short order, he was cautiously digging in to a plate of food, Sam approaching his more slowly as if guilty about eating what he'd just made.
"Sam," Dean said with a look, "whoever it is won't mind. She brought us home and practically tucked us in. Plus, the meds. I'm guessing breakfast was next on the list. Assuming she's not some raging, psychopathic Annie Wilkes, but even then, we'd still get breakfast. Crazy chicks are…crazy that way." Scooping up a large forkful, he proceeded to chew loudly and obnoxiously to prove his point, smiling around the mouthful as Sam shook his head and started eating.
Soon all that was left were two steaming cups of coffee—French vanilla, of course, although if Dean was willing to admit it, and he wasn't, it wasn't half bad. Sam's was on the counter next to the sink, which he'd periodically pick up as he switched from washing to drying. He'd cast a glance over at Dean as if asking him to help but had apparently given it up as a lost cause.
He was about to make a comment comparing Sam to a girl—with such a great example of Sam's domestic talents, how could he not—when the sound of a key scraping at the lock drew both of their heads sharply to the door. Dean stood up as quickly as he was able, hand drifting back to rest near his gun, and watched as a figure liberally bundled in snowy, wet attire walked in and pulled the door shut behind her with an audible, although muffled, sigh. Stomping her boots lightly against the ground, both boys watched with amusement as a shower of snow fell to the ground. She seemed entirely oblivious to their presence.
Sam adopted his I-may-be-tall-but-I'm-really-harmless look and cleared his throat to get her attention, causing her to whip around and fling more snow everywhere. Before he could get in a word edgewise, a soft but firm voice said, "You're awake. Good. I have a few questions I was hoping you could answer."
Still radiating friendliness, Sam smiled and said, "So do we. We were hoping you could tell us…"
She continued as if he hadn't said anything, blurring the sentences together as if it were a speech she had rehearsed over and over…
"…What's going on?"
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Thanks to JenF for the helpful review. I'm going to do my best to keep Dean's range of motion limited, and painful. Also, I do have something of a classic storyline planned; it'll just take a few chapters to set it up.