TWO
Sam wandered down the roadside, his duffle on his shoulder and his back straight. He felt free of something, something that had been nagging at him for a few days. He felt moved to start whistling, and began to enjoy the steady rhythm of his feet on the tarmac.
He was just getting into his stride when he heard a car coming up on the road behind him. He turned and watched it pass him on the opposite side of the road. Then it pulled over in front, the passenger window rolling down slowly.
"Hey!" a girl's voice called.
He paused, looking round and then over at the SUV, watching a blonde head poke out of it.
"Hey," he called back politely.
"We're looking for the Interstate," she called. He looked behind him, then ahead.
"You have to follow this road for like… five miles, I think," he said, pointing onward.
"You going that way too?" she grinned.
"I… could be," he shrugged.
"Cool! Get in!" she gushed.
He smiled to himself, crossing the dark road to the vehicle.
"Man, you are cute," the passenger said. "You'd better hop in the back, there's more room in there."
The side door opened to reveal four girls, two with jet black hair and two brunettes, smiling at him eagerly.
"You're… going somewhere altogether?" he asked.
"Yes we are," came a voice like hot chocolate, and he looked through the vehicle to the driver. She had turned to look through the car, back at him. Her beaded dreadlocks and beautiful dark skin took Sam's breath away. "And it looks like we're giving you a free ride, honey. Get in," she grinned.
"Why not?" he grinned, passing his duffle to one of the girls before climbing in. There was a general flutter of girlie giggles before the door was slid shut firmly and the car pulled away from the kerb again.
"This is going to be some weekend," Sam grinned to himself, and the girls giggled again.
Dean snapped up his gun quickly. He trained it on his target with deadly accuracy, his index finger rubbing at the trigger slowly as he stared. His blazing green eyes narrowed, his arm straightening slowly.
"Don't move," he warned. "Ever since we walked in here you've been watching us, laughing at us. Well not any more. I'm onto you. You're going down," he breathed.
He waited for the inevitable pleas and attempts to bargain. He lifted his chin and squinted slightly, aiming properly.
He squeezed the trigger.
The plastic sucker flew across the motel room and slapped straight into the eye of the plush toy of an armadillo, currently perched on top of the TV. However, due to the material and the angle it simply failed to make a clean contact. The sucker bounced off and fell to the dismally coloured carpet.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean marvelled, reaching for the other five suckered darts next to him on the bed. He loaded and fired all of them. Each of them simply fell to the carpet, either unwilling or unable to re-write some physics and stick to a furry object. "Gah!" he roared, frustrated, and simply threw the toy gun at the offending animal.
It wanged into the armadillo's head and pushed it off the TV soundly. Dean grinned and sat back, happy. He got up slowly, walking to the TV and collecting the six wasted plastic darts on the carpet. He paused as he straightened again, looking at them in his hands.
"Oh no," he sighed suddenly, his face dropping and his shoulders sagging. "I really am Muldur." He looked at his watch quickly, then threw all the darts at the bed. "Eleven thirty. Time to catch Rosalea behind her desk."
Sam felt someone shaking him and opened an eye slowly.
"Sam? Hey, Sam. Come on, honey, it's midday already," said a voice.
He swivelled the eye to look round slowly, the rest of his body waking up enough to tell him he was under a very warm duvet. His eye agreed to pass on a limited amount of information to his muddled brain as to the room; it was nicely decorated, very girlie, and had tasteful wallpaper.
This is not a motel, was his first coherent thought. He tried to open his mouth to answer but it appeared to have been painted shut. With last week's stale alcohol. He tried again, realising it was more muscle control than lack of moisture preventing him from communicating with the world outside his jumbled head.
"Yeah," he managed, opening the adjoining eye to look round. Something bounced on the bed next to him, and the warm welcome smell of coffee interrupted his confusion admirably.
"Here you go, sweetie," came the voice again, and he rolled his head to look to his right. The very striking girl with dreadlocks, Mirri, was holding a tall mug of coffee, presumably for him.
The last thirty-six hours caught up with him enough to make him aware he needed food. After the toilet.
"Thanks Mirri," he yawned.
He slid himself to sit up slowly and she passed him the mug. He took it gratefully and she leaned over to him, smoothing a hand down his face appreciatively. It brought back a lot of Sam's memories suddenly and she slid all the hair from his face and kissed him firmly. She gave him a smile that touched her eyes, getting off the bed. She winked at him before leaving the room, closing the door behind her.
He lifted the duvet, looked under, realised he had not a stitch on, and dropped it again. He shook his head, looking at his watch and trying to work out what day it was. He leaned over to put the very hot coffee on the side table. He scrubbed his hands in his face, trying to remember exactly what had happened. And in what order, after they had reached the driver – Mirri's – home the night before last.
It appeared to be mostly a blur, but he vaguely remembered vodka shots. And fun, excitement and adventure in Mirri's bed. And perhaps even absinthe.
"Holy shit," he concluded heavily, "I'm turning into Dean."
He got out of bed and managed to locate most of his clothes, even though they appeared to have been strewn around the room as if tossed from a Catherine Wheel. He picked up his jeans and his phone fell out. He bent and picked it up, finding two messages and a missed call on it. He blinked, surprised, then got dressed before finding the bathroom.
Half an hour later and he was ready to find out what his phone wanted him to know. He sat down in a very clean kitchen and pulled it from his pocket slowly. He opened the two messages first; one was from Dean, nearly thirty hours old. The second was simply a notification of a pending voicemail from yesterday afternoon.
He opened Dean's first:
'Enjoy your weekend. Stay safe. Don't bang any demons.'
Sam smiled, shaking his head and finding his voicemail number. As he was about to press the 'call' button he heard the kitchen door open and Mirri walked in. She smiled at him warmly, walking over and putting a hand to his shoulder.
"Afternoon," she breathed, kissing the side of his head. "You said you had to be off today."
"Yeah, I have to get back and make sure my brother's alright," he smiled.
"It's not even one, honey. Do you have to go right now?" she asked.
"Yeah," he managed. "I have to get back to where you picked me up, and that was quite a way."
"Well look, I have to drop my friend off this afternoon, close-by. Do you have a bus booked or you wanna come with us?" she asked.
"Oh, well… That'd be very good of you," he said politely. She grinned.
"Sugar, it'd just be nice to have you in my car again," she winked. She squeezed his shoulder before getting up and going to the cooker. "You hungry? I need food," she said, opening cupboards and looking for packets.
"Well, if you're making something…"
"Oh come now. After everything you've been up to this weekend, you need a huge late breakfast," she grinned.
"Thanks," he managed, looking back at his phone quickly. He pressed the 'call' button and listened to it connect.
The automated voice told him the date and time of Saturday, twelve fifty-five in the afternoon. He waited. Then a girl's voice started to speak.
"Hey Simon, or whatever your real name is," Rosalea began shakily, and his smile dropped slowly. "Look, I don't know where you are or what you're doing, but you have to call me at the motel right away, ask for me, Rosalea." She paused ominously. "It's Dean." She stopped talking and it sounded like she was breathing heavily. "Just call me!" she added, and then the message finished.
He played it again, listening more closely this time. Then he pulled his wallet from his jeans, looking through it for the card from the motel.
He dialled the number quickly, smelling bacon and possibly hash browns from behind him. Suddenly he didn't care.
The line clicked and Rosalea's voice spoke.
"Hey Rosalea," he interrupted quickly. "It's Sam – er, Simon," he corrected.
"Simon!" she gasped. "Simon! Where are you?"
"I'm ah… not far away," he hazarded, not entirely sure where he was.
"How quickly can you get here?" she demanded.
"What is it? Where's my brother?"
"I'm not allowed in to see him and my boss is back," she said quickly. "They only let family in, they said. He told me about the fake names thing, I didn't tell them his real name."
"Who? Rosalea, who?" Sam asked quickly, fear starting to prickle down his back.
"They said he had no family cos I told them his name was Paul Rodgers," she moaned. "I'm so sorry, Simon! You have to get down here and prove you're his brother! Otherwise they won't let you in to see him."
"Let me in where?" he asked quickly. "Where is he being held?"
"He's only there till tomorrow morning, then they have to move him, they said. I really tried to get in, I really did! I couldn't tell them he was using a fake name and fake credit card, could I?" she whispered, then abruptly started to cry quietly.
Sam stood quickly, drawing the attention of Mirri, who turned down the gas to watch him cautiously, sensing something was wrong.
"Rosalea, calm down," he said patiently. He swallowed. "I'll come straight away," he assured her. "I'll come down there and everything will be fine. Do you believe me?"
"No," she whispered.
"Rosalea–"
"He was so nice! He was such a gentleman!"
"Are we still talking about Dean?" Sam wondered suddenly. Belatedly he realised he had said it out loud.
"He was just trying to protect me – he saved me!" she protested.
"Yeah yeah, ok," Sam said soothingly. Mirri came over from the stove, putting her hand on his arm gently. He spared her a worried glance. "Just tell me where he is, Rosalea," he said quickly.
"Oh Simon I'm so sorry," she managed.
"Where is he, Rosalea? Where's my brother?" he said desperately, feeling his patience snap.
She gulped in a breath, steadying her nerve a little.
"He's… he's in the morgue," she breathed. "Simon… your brother's dead."