5
August, 1993
Summer – not just summer – mid August. They're in Florida, of all places, in mid August. Worse still, they are in Florida in the god-awful heat and humidity of mid August in a small, cramped motel room whose large, bulky air conditioning unit sputtered its last puff of cool air (most likely) some time during the last decade and windows that had been painted over so many times there would be absolutely no hope (even with all of the tools and weapons the Winchesters own) of prying them open. Sam could not honestly think of a less pleasant situation.
Sam had lived, during his eleven short years of life, in all manner of places and climates. He knew for a fact (well, was pretty sure, anyway) that he had traveled through and/or lived in all 48 of the contiguous United States. He also knew for a fact that there was some truth to the idea of a 'dry heat' being superior to that of heat plus humidity. When the humidity was low – even if it was near 100 degrees (Fahrenheit) – it was still possible to be comfortable. Shade was at least ten degrees cooler and there would often be a refreshing breeze (at least in Sam's memories); plus Sam could still breath, feel the light air moving through his lungs with ease.
Humidity, on the other hand, made the air around him thick and very difficult to pull into his body. Sam often found himself wheezing or panting in areas with high humidity. And, there never seemed to be a breeze at all. No, Sam remembered there being a slight breeze once – it was warm and wet and not at all refreshing. The shade held no respite from the unpleasant weather, instead, conspiring with it to keep him miserable.
And, to add annoyance to aggravation, the motel his father had found actually had a pool – of course, there were more bugs and frogs and types of algae in it than water. Looking over the once white-washed, now moldy and dilapidated picket fence surrounding the pool, Sam groaned inwardly and quickly walked away from the smell of decay before it had time to set permanently on his skin. He was already going to have to peel his sweaty clothes off his back – he didn't need to add the scent of what could possibly be mistaken for a prize-winning science fair project (if the 'caution: no lifeguard on duty' sign wasn't still proudly displayed over what was once a diving board).
Sam slowly made his way back to their room from his trip to the newspaper box. He wasn't sure why Dad had given him the job of gathering the local papers – after all, Sam had been the one staying out of Dad's way. He and Dad had recently been at odds with one another for various reasons, most of which concerned their nomadic existence and Sam's never-ending quest for normal. However, as much as Sam would have liked to debate his side of the argument, their current residence (though a very strong point for his position) had zapped most of his energy and he had tried to spend the day being quiet (though, it came off more as whiny) and doing as little as possible.
If anyone needed to release some energy, it was his brother. Dean had gone from his typical cool, calm, and collected persona to practically splitting apart at the seems. Sam knew his big brother had never been comfortable with staying stationary for too long (which is what they had been doing since Dad's current hunt seemed to be going nowhere fast – much like Sam) but, for the last few days, Dean was practically vibrating, much like he had that day a few months back when he had succeeded in drinking two large pots (yes, pots) of coffee and chasing them with a sixteen ounce bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans. What could he say? His brother was never one to back down from a dare – strangely enough, it made Sam kind of proud.
Sam knew things had gotten out of hand when he sarcastically suggested to Dad that they try and find a copy of Wile E. Coyote's Acme catalog and purchase a large hamster wheel with a fan attachment so that Dean's excess energy could be put to good use keeping them cool. Dad had actually laughed a little but Dean, his oddly creative and mechanically inclined older brother, got a certain look in his eyes that made Sam glad that there wasn't a junkyard or flea market nearby.
Sam knocked on the motel room door: tap, tap... tap... tap. Then, turned the handle and walked in, finding Dad grumbling at the little table and Dean kneeling on the floor across the room. Sam handed the newspapers over to Dad and could now see that Dean was picking up Dad's journal – the journal that he could now see had been thrown across the room (most likely the result of a tantrum due to Dad's fowl mood if the chunk of plaster missing from the wall was any indication), causing much of its contents to spill out onto the floor. Whether Dad had told Dean to clean it up or Dean jumped at the opportunity to do something was beyond Sam.
By the time Sam had turned back to Dad, the man already had the three newspapers Sam brought in opened and scattered over one of the beds. His eyes were moving through the stories so quick Sam wasn't sure if he was really reading anything or just searching for some key words. The whole time, Dad's mutterings were growing, nearly growls now. Dean and Sam exchanged a look – the one that meant they both knew that Dad was going to have another bad outburst... and soon.
As a pre-emptive strike, Dean spoke up (which usually only made things worse, Sam thought) and offered to go to the library and research their hunt further. It took a moment for Dad to process the request (and Sam thought that the only reason Dad didn't completely blow up at Dean was because it was such an unusual suggestion), taking a little extra time before muttering something like if I can't find anything, what makes you think you can – but when Dean made it clear that he intended to take Sam along with him, Dad grumbled out the go ahead (then basked in the quiet of their absence).
The library was stuffy with its too-small air conditioner trying its hardest to cool the too-big area, but to Sam and Dean it felt like paradise after the motel room. Strangely enough, Dean suggested that they actually do some research – Sam had assumed the whole idea was just an excuse to get out of the confines of their motel. But, Dean explained that, the sooner they get this hunt over with, the sooner they could get out of Dodge and hopefully go up north to a state where the temperature wouldn't get into triple digits.
Sam couldn't exactly fight that logic, so instead he expounded on the plan and suggested they split up. Dean stayed at the reference desk and looked through old town newspapers to try and find patterns in behavior and location to see if he could pinpoint where the little monsters might be nesting. Sam went in search of mythological texts to get more information on the creatures, as he didn't really know that much about them. He needed more background information, as he was sure he didn't know the whole legend after simply watching an old episode of The Twilight Zone with William Shatner or catching a matinée about a furry little mogwai – no, he wanted to know more about gremlins.
Sam was getting frustrated again. He had been in enough libraries in his life to know where basically everything (in terms of common supernatural-related volumes) was located. But who'd ever heard of a library that didn't use the Dewey Decimal System in their organization? Finally spying a sign that read mythology and philosophy (honestly, who puts those two together?) a few rows ahead, Sam started for the area.
His path led him in front of a smudged window looking out onto a thriving courtyard. He stopped and tried to wipe away the dirt with his hand to get a better look, when a dark mass of feathers flew into the glass right in front of him. He jumped back in surprise just as an old librarian came over to admonish him for banging on the window. Only half listening to her words, Sam mumbled an explanation – it wasn't me; something flew into the window. As one, Sam and the small white-haired woman stepped up to the window and looked down to the ground.
Lying in an unmoving heap of beak and feathers was a crow, dead, neck having been broken due to the impact with the thick glass. The old woman shuddered and then turned to stare wide-eyed at Sam, asking why he would do such a thing. He returned her frightened look with one of confusion – the woman obviously thought he had somehow lured the bird to its death.
The woman slowly backed away from Sam, one step at a time, her eyes never leaving him. As she retreated, Sam heard her mumbling some old Cherokee saying: One crow is sorrow, two is mirth, three for a wedding, and four for birth. Then, she quickly scurried through the over-stuffed shelves and out of sight.
Even though Sam could feel the old woman watching from a window when he and Dean left the strange little library, he didn't think much about her cryptic words. After all, when your father is a garage mechanic by day and a demon hunter by night, you tend to get used to seeing and hearing and feeling all sorts of odd things.
However, the slightly cooler feel of the library was just what was needed to refresh Sam from tired and grumpy to his more common argumentative and ill-tempered self. And, the quiet and calm of the motel room (sans sons) was enough to take Dad from grouchy and short-tempered to rejuvenated and demanding. As if the sour but subdued moods due to the high temperature and cramped quarters never existed, Sam and Dad picked up their 24/7 argument where it had left off – in fact, from the intensity of the confrontation, Dean could swear they were now making up for the lost time.
Try as he might, Dean could not make his voice heard over his father or brother's. He tried placing himself in their eye-lines, tried to make them see him, tried to put himself between them – but they simply walked around him, talked over him, ignored that he was still in the room. If Dean wasn't as well-adjusted as he knew he was (really, he was!), he might've found a mirror to look in and make sure he hadn't become invisible. But, he knew that wasn't the case... and he'd stopped checking years ago.
Dean could remember a time when his father and brother had gotten along. They had once been Daddy and Sammy, and talked (not yelled) and joked and laughed with one another. He had almost caught a glimpse of that earlier when Sam made his joke and Dad laughed. Who cares if Dean was the one being mocked? It made him happy, brought a sparkle to his eye, to see the two people he cared about most in the world share a laugh. Hey, he'd even be willing to try and find such a contraption right now if it would bring those two together again.
And that strange path of cognitive process was what brought Dean to his conclusion: fix their air conditioner. Yes, this twisting and turning path was also the reason he never tried to explain his actions to anyone.
He left, rummaged through the trunk of Dad's Impala, found his make-shift tool box, and re-entered the motel room – all the while knowing that he hadn't been missed (they didn't even notice his absence). But, Dean liked fixing things – he could fix this.
He blew the dust off the top of the machine, made sure it was turned off, and unplugged it from the wall socket. Hey, he wasn't stupid. Then, he pulled out one of his mis-matched screwdrivers and began the process of opening up the behemoth in front of him. As he unscrewed the last screw of the front panel, the panel and several small brown-grey creatures with thickset pincer-like hands scampered out of the air conditioner. They were quite heavy despite their small size and Dean found himself pinned to the ground with his feet underneath him and the metal panel topped with a number of gremlins resting on his chest.
The commotion was enough to garner Dad and Sam's attention, causing both to stop yelling at the other and turn towards Dean. Father and son stood frozen to the spot for a moment, surprised by what they saw. However, the stillness was broken by the half-cry/half-growl Dean made when one of the little monsters used his shoulder as a scratching post.
It took only seconds for both Dad and Sam to grab bottles of holy water and spray the nasty things. At first, Sam had been surprised to hear that the holy water would melt them quicker than the wicked witch of the west, but he had kept his thoughts to himself due to the fact that Dean had snuck him in to see the movie only after Sam had begged him for a week and a half to see Gizmo on the big screen – even after Dad had told them both 'no'. What none of the Winchesters knew though was that, while only a few drops were needed to dissolve the critters, their liquefied state was highly acidic.
When Dad was finally able to pull Dean up from the floor, the kid was sporting claw marks and chemical burns that would not be easily explained away. But, Sam was relieved when the man rushed the boys to the nearest emergency room all the same. Sam stayed with Dean while Dad went back to the motel to quickly pack so they could be on the road as soon as possible (he would just have to come back on his own to make sure that there were no more nests around). Dean made some crack to Sam - when I said I'd rather leave here sooner than later, this wasn't exactly part of my master plan – to ease his kid brother's worries while they waited for Dad to return, but Sam remained quiet and introspective.
He was starting to see a kind of pattern forming... he just couldn't put his finger on what it was yet.