Sam watched in amusement as Dean checked his hair in the glass double doors. "Dude, you use so much gel it'd take a tornado to mess up your hair."
Dean gave his reflection a sly wink before turning to his brother. "The only thing missing from your head is the handle of the mop, so don't even talk to me about styling, Shaggy. I've gotta look good for my public."
"You've already got her number." Sam pointed out, referring to Greenfield's receptionist, otherwise known as 'Dean's Woman of the Week'.
"Ah, young one. You have much to learn in the art of women." Dean spoke in a polished tone as he placed his hands in Sam's shoulders. "Just because the desired object has been obtained does not mean one can let his guard down."
"I wonder if they have any straightjackets in this place." Sam knocked his brother's hands away as he took a step back. He couldn't help but chuckle as Dean took one last swipe at perfecting his coif.
"Hey, I make crazy look good." Dean smiled at his reflection, pleased with what he saw.
Dean pushed open the door just enough so he could squeeze through, letting it slip off his fingers as it closed behind him. A moment later he heard the telltale slap of flesh against glass as Sam moodily pushed the door open. Dean didn't have to turn around to know Sam was rolling his eyes at Dean's antics, but he did anyway.
"Sorry, Sammy, it slipped. Shoulder must be acting up again." Dean smiled angelically, rubbing his right shoulder for dramatic effect.
"How convenient." Sam muttered as they walked into the vestibule.
Dean's face fell as he approached the reception desk. The pretty young blonde he'd courted earlier was no where to be seen. Instead, an older woman of about sixty sat behind the large desk.
"Welcome to Greenfields." she greeted the Winchesters with a friendly smile.
"Yeah, so, uh, where's Michelle?" Dean asked, referring to the pretty blonde receptionist from the morning. His senses were on full alert; his eyes darted around the room while his nose desperately searched for her fruity perfume. But all he found was the white-haired old lady who apparently had taken a bath in her musty perfume before coming in to work.
"Sorry, sweetie, she's gone for the day. Do you want to leave a message?"
Sam stepped up to the desk, elbowing Dean in the ribs. "Actually, we're here to see George White. He's expecting us."
"You want to get your mind back into the game?" Sam hissed under his breath as the receptionist called to announce their presence.
"Oh calm down, Stick. I'm here." Dean grumbled back. He covered his nose with his hand, breathing through his mouth. "We should get a few gallons of that stuff. Spray a bit of that crap around and all the demons'll run for the hills."
The receptionist hung up the phone, saving Dean from receiving another admonishing jab from Sam. "Go right ahead, kids." she said, motioning for them to go on in. After a quick nod of thanks, Sam and Dean made their way back to George's room.
Knowing he'd regret it, Sam just had to ask about Dean's latest nickname for him. "Stick?"
Dean shrugged indifferently. "Seemed to fit. You're freakishly tall, weigh about 80 pounds soaking wet, and you're a major stick in the mud. So…Stick."
Yup, Sam confirmed to himself. He was sorry he asked. Not wanting to give Dean anymore ammo to use, Sam changed the subject.
"Well, this ought to be a piece of cake." Sam said in passing as the made their way down the corridor.
Dean stopped in his tracks. "What did you just say?"
Sam shrugged his shoulders. "Just that George already knows and accepts the whole ghost situation. So all we have to do is get the hood ornament and take down Marc's spirit."
Dean threw his hands in the air. "Well that's just great, Sam. We're screwed now!"
"What?"
"How long have you been doing this, Sam? You never say stuff like that! 'That'll be a piece of cake. Well, it could always be worse!' Crap like that always ends up biting us in the ass." Dean pointed his finger angrily at Sam. "And if I get bit in the ass by anyone or anything tonight, you'd better pray it's pretty little Michelle."
Sam waved away Dean's concerns as he walked the few remaining feet to George's door. He knew he was probably tempting fate, but he couldn't resist messing with Dean just a little more. "Ah, come on, Dean! Lighten up! What's the worst that could happen?" Sam teased as he rapped his knuckles on the door.
Dean was all set to cuff a smirking Sam on the back of the head when the door opened. At George's invitation, Dean pushed past his younger brother, making sure to 'accidentally' step on his foot on the way in.
Dean had just gotten past the threshold when George wheeled in front of him, blocking further access into the room. Although only a few hours had past since their last meeting, George looked as if he'd aged twenty years. His stubbly face was pale and drawn, his lips pressed together in a tight line. His palm was sweaty as he shook Dean's hand.
"George." Dean said sternly. "We've gotta talk."
George gave a tight nod in response. "We sure do. There're some things you failed to mention before."
"We could say the same thing about you, George." Dean shot back, squeezing George's hand a bit harder. Although he kind of liked the man, Dean had already been made a fool of once by him. He refused to be intimidated a second time.
George continued to stare Dean down. "Fine. I'll be straight with you boys if you do the same with me." His own grip tightened as his dark brown eyes flitted between Dean and Sam.
Dean looked back at Sam, who was listening intently in the hallway. "Deal." Dean agreed.
George rolled back a few feet, allowing Dean into the room. Sam followed suit, nodding in greeting as he stood next to Dean. George sat back in his chair and motioned over Dean's shoulder. "Dean, Sam…this here's my nephew, Sean."
"Ah, the keeper of the hood ornament." Dean said smiling as he turned around.
Dean's jaw dropped open. "It's you!"
Sam spun around at Dean's outcry. He had just enough time to wonder why the young man looked so familiar when Sean levied a hard right hook at Sam's jaw.
The force of the blow dropped Sam to his knees. He was vaguely aware of Dean's angry shouting, followed by the telltale sounds of a scuffle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw George's wheelchair rush past, undoubtedly joining the fray. Sam's eyes followed the spinning wheels up to where Dean had the Sean pinned up against the wall.
The collegiate bore the same look of hatred he'd worn when they'd seen him a month ago at Chet's Bar. His brown eyes flashed angrily as he broke away from Dean's hold, nearly pushing him into George. He pushed his blonde hair out of his eyes before launching himself at Dean.
Sam tried to speak, but his throbbing jaw decided it wasn't quite ready to move yet. Gently massaging his chin, Sam made his way back to his feet, holding onto the wall as the room swayed from side to side. Great, now he had a headache and his jaw hurt. Couldn't everyone just leave his head alone?
Working his jaw around, Sam tried again. "Dean! Cut it out!"
Sam's words cut through the angry red haze, but Dean wasn't quite through. He landed a solid left to Sean's stomach just as George wheeled into the back of Dean's knees. Both men fell to the ground; Sean holding his stomach, Dean on his hands and knees.
"Dammit, I said 'Enough!'" George roared. His muscular arm pushed Dean out of the way as he rolled over to his nephew. He grabbed the younger man's chin and forced his head upwards.
"You ok, boy?" George asked gruffly.
Sean peeled one arm away from his battered midsection, using it to wipe the trickle of blood coming from his split lip. "Yeah, I'm good." he croaked.
George wheeled around to face all three men. "Good. Now would someone like to tell me what the fuck that was all about?"
Dean spoke from his spot on the floor. "Why don't you ask your bastard nephew? He's the one who sucker punched my brother!"
Sean pushed himself to his feet and glowered down at Dean. "You guys are brothers? Really? How many men did your mother have to sleep with to produce retards like you two?"
Sean's words echoed in Dean's head as all thoughts of Sam and of their mission got pushed to the backburner. This preppie punk had dared insult the honor of his mother; the beautiful blonde angel who had rocked him to sleep as a baby, who'd tucked him in after reading him sweet stories of unrealistic happily ever afters. The woman who'd brought Dean's best friend into the world, instantly turning Dean into a big brother, a protector. The woman whose life had been sacrificed above his baby brother's crib.
Sam pushed away from the wall and managed to grab Dean as he launched himself off the floor at Sean. Hooking an arm around Dean's stomach, he pushed his shoulder into Dean's, forcing him back a few steps. He could feel Dean's fury pulsating beneath his fingers as he tried to keep him away from the smirking Sean.
"Dean! Dean, enough!" Sam shouted as he struggled to maintain his grip. A large part of him wanted to let Dean go, to have him beat the hell out of the asshole who had dared defile his mother's honor, maybe even getting in a few shots of his own once Dean was done. But they still had their job to consider. They didn't yet have the hood ornament. With every anxious second that passed, Sam could virtually see it fading from view.
Sam grabbed Dean's arms and gave him a hard shake. "Dean! Dean, dammit, cut it out! We've still gotta get the hood ornament." he hissed into his brother's ear.
Dean finally tore his eyes away from Sean and locked them onto Sam, who swallowed hard at the coldness in them. He held his breath waiting to see if Dean would make another move for Sean, or possibly even redirect his anger at Sam. It wouldn't be the first time he'd taken a punch from Dean, and it probably wouldn't be the last.
But to Sam's surprise, Dean took a deep breath and held up his hands. "Fine, whatever. Just get the hell off me." he said as he twisted out of Sam's grip.
"I swear if someone doesn't tell me what just happened, by the time I'm finished I won't be the only one in a chair." George growled.
"These assholes jumped me and my buddies last month over at Chet's Bar." Sean explained as he absently rubbed his stomach.
"If you had just helped us out instead of being a bunch of first rate pricks, none of that would've happened. Besides, you and your pretty little boyfriend threw the first punches." Dean shot back in defense. Sam rolled his eyes. He wished, not for the first time, that there was a cosmic off switch he could throw before Dean said something stupid. Of course, then Dean would never be allowed to speak at all. Saving that happy thought for later, Sam stepped up before the tentative truce was broken.
"Our car was stolen when we were in town last month. We asked your nephew and his friends if they knew anything and things got a little out of hand." Sam summed up quickly. What were the chances that George's nephew was one of the kids they'd fought last month? Only in the Wacky World of Winchester were things this screwy.
"So, did you ever find your car?" Sean asked tonelessly.
"No thanks to you." Dean answered hotly.
Sam stepped between the two men, feeling as though he should be wearing a black and white striped shirt and blowing a whistle. "Enough! You two can have your pissing contest when this is all over. But right now, we have a spirit to vanquish before anyone else gets hurt."
Sam turned to George. "Dean caught you up on what we found out, right? About the car and it's victims?"
George nodded. "That it's really Marc's spirit drivin' the ghost car? And that he's goin' after everyone who was there the night he died? Yeah. I swear, I don't know who's crazier...you for sayin' it, or me for believin' it."
Sam shot him a sympathetic smile. It was always tough bringing people into their freaky supernatural world. He almost felt he should apologize for turning the man's world upside down. Instead, he stuck to the matter at hand. "Did you call them?"
"I just finished a few minutes before you boys showed up. I got hold of all of 'em; told 'em to stay away from Blue Corner's Road. Although it was a bitch trying to explain the whole 'Marc's spirit is in a freakin' ghost car' thing to everyone."
"Was there anyone else there that night? Anyone else we need to warn?" Sam asked.
"Nope. Everyone's accounted for." George answered.
"The last time the Mustang showed up, it went after a late model white Corvette. Any idea who that might have been?" Dean was dying to know the identity of the scumbag who had simply driven off after Sam had saved his life, leaving his brother with a concussion for his trouble. He had a lot of people to avenge before their time in Danbury was through; Sam, who had been left for dead while trying to do the right thing. and now his mother. Sean's hateful words burned in his memory. He resisted the urge to have another go at Sean. There'd be time for that later.
"Timmy…one of my buddies. Turns out the Mustang had run him off the road a couple weeks ago. If you hadn't been there, who knows what woulda happened this time around." George broke off with a dry chuckle. "Poor guy's completely freaked. He said he'd never drive on that road again."
That answered that question. But there was still one that remained. Sam approached the subject cautiously.
"There's still one thing I don't get." Sam started.
"One thing?! Uncle George, this is insane! A ghost driving a ghost car...attacking people? Come on, you don't actually believe this crap, do you?" Sean exclaimed.
"It doesn't matter if you believe it or not. But it's happening, and if we don't do something to stop it, someone could die. So unless you have something constructive to offer, shut your cake hole and let the grown-ups talk, okay Pretty Boy?" Dean spat angrily.
Sean glowered at Dean, but said nothing.
Sam waited to make sure no further violence would occur before continuing. "Marc seems to be a vengeful spirit, meaning he's out to extract revenge. Now, obviously he died in a horrific crash way before his time, but that doesn't quite explain his actions."
Dean turned his back to Sean and spoke directly to George. "The game of chicken was Marc's idea. If he felt a sense of wrongdoing over the crash, you would be the only intended victim." he said to George. "But instead he's gone after everyone who was there that night. It doesn't add up."
"So what are you sayin'?" George asked, his eyes narrowing. "You accusin' me of somethin'?"
"No." Sam answered quickly. "It's just doesn't make sense. Marc died in a terrible crash mainly due to his own actions. What could be gained from attacking both your friends and his? If anything, he should be focusing in on you."
"He died. You lived." Dean said succinctly.
Sean stepped into the middle of the room, his face flushed. "Lived? You call this living? He's in a wheelchair! Do you even know what he's gone through these last thirty years? What gives you the right to attack him?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "What is this, a soap opera? For crying out loud!"
Sam put a hand on Dean's arm, but directed his words at the George. "No one's accusing you of anything. All we want is to put Marc's spirit at rest before he can go after someone else. He hasn't just gone after the people who were there that night; he's also gone after their relatives. It he can't get at you, he could easily go after your brother, or even Sean. We're only trying to help."
Another Oscar worthy performance by his little brother. Dean felt like applauding. He'd never admit it to Sam, but he sometimes envied the earnest, sensitive way Sam was able to reach people. That was one of the reasons they made such a great team. Sam's good cop helped balance out Dean's bad cop.
Dean felt a sense of triumph as George began to crumble. Just like it had so many times in the past, Sam's puppydog eyes and heartfelt sincerity had prevailed.
George lowered his face into his hands, breathing heavily into his palms. He let out a tortured moan as he leaned as far forward as his body would allow. Sean crossed the room and put a hand on his uncle's shoulder, sending a look of pure hatred at Sam for putting his uncle in this state.
"Fine." George said as he lifted his head. "You're right. There is somethin' from that night we all vowed not to speak of ever again."
"Uncle George?" Sean looked down at his uncle uncertainly.
George reached up and clasped his nephew's hand. "I know why Marc is comin' after us. He didn't die from the crash." He paused ominously. "He died 'cause of us."
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George has a secret...I bet no one saw that one coming. LOL Oh well. The next chapter will be up (barring any irritating real life interruptions) in 5-ish days. Happy Thanksgiving!!!