SEVEN
Rosalea brought the Impala to a stop at the side of the road, killing the engine and looking at Dean as she pulled the keys from the ignition.
"Look, maybe you should stay here," she said quickly. "What if someone sees you?"
"What if someone sees you?" he asked. "You're a fugitive too, now."
"True. But I'm not wanted for murder and fraud," she pointed out.
"Well if that's all they've got on me, I'm getting off lightly," he managed, before opening the door and disappearing. She sighed, then got out of her door, smiling as the door squeaked closed.
She walked round the back of the car to find him opening it and lifting the false bottom.
"Your doors squeak," she pointed out.
"I ain't the little boy I was, sweetheart," he quipped as he reached in and took out a sawn-off shotgun. She just blinked at the sight of the arsenal before her. She watched him root through for a handgun and take that out as well. Her eyes continued to sweep over the contents of the boot dumbly.
"What–"
"Here," he said, handing her a small box. "Hoping we don't need it. But I'd rather have it and not need it than the reverse," he shrugged.
"And…" She opened the box and looked inside. "Shells."
"Salt packets," he amended, closing the boot quietly.
"For… shooting ghosts?"
"That's right."
"Uh… look…"
"What?" he asked, turning and looking at her directly. She hesitated.
"Nothing, I just… I mean… ghosts?"
Dean smiled suddenly. "Yeah, I know. I remember the first time I saw a ghost. Freaked me out," he shivered, turning toward the motel. She caught the arm of his jacket securely and he looked back at her.
"Just… be careful," she said.
"Oh trust me Rosie, hunting ghosts is the easy bit," he smiled. "Avoiding the cops, that's a-whole-nother problem. Come on," he said, gesturing to the motel with his head. "What's the best way in?"
Sam looked up at Officer Michaels slowly.
"Can I , er… can I make a phone call please?" he asked quietly.
"Mr Winchester, you're allowed three," she said pleasantly. "You do realise we'll be listening?"
"Yeah," he said. "Just want to call my brother. Tell him I'm sorry," he said uneasily, and she sighed. She sat down opposite him, reaching out and taking his hand.
"I know this can't be easy for you. But you have to remember you're doing the right thing here." She paused and he smiled apologetically, his eyebrows hitching up in extreme discomfort. "I'll give you a minute," she said, getting up and walking out of the room slowly.
She closed the door behind her, and Sam pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket slowly. He looked at it for a long moment.
He scrolled through the numbers slowly, then found the one he wanted. He pressed the call button and raised it to his ear, waiting.
"Hey," said a surprised voice.
"Hey, er… Look, I'm sorry. I really am. It was the only thing I could do," he said slowly. "You do believe me, don't you, Dean?"
"Ye-ah," Dean managed, confused. "What are we talking here?"
"Oh… BS, I suppose," he admitted guiltily.
"BS? Really?" Dean replied seriously.
"Yeah. Sorry."
"How long's this been going on, Sam?" he demanded.
"Er… maybe… fifteen. Fifteen years," he said quietly.
"Then… Then you're in trouble, Sammy. I'm coming for you," he said angrily. The line was cut.
Sam looked up at the mirror, knowing he was being watched from behind it. He sighed and put an elbow on the table, letting his chin fall into his hand. He pouted.
"Super," Dean hissed, pocketing the phone. Rosalea looked at him, still halfway through climbing in the ground floor window.
"What is it?" she asked.
"BS!" Dean tutted. "Friggin' great."
"What does that mean?" she asked, dropping to her feet on the wooden floor. "BS? As in bullshit?"
"No, as in Bait and Switch," he replied quickly, looking round the room. "Sam's told the police we're at the basketball court right now. The police left fifteen minutes ago," he added.
"Why did he do that?" she asked, confused.
"To stop them trying here first. He's bought us some time. And to get rid of all the cops at the station. They could down to a skeleton crew," he added, an opportunist gleam in his eye.
"And what happens when they can't find us?"
"They'll come here. We have to find my dad's journal and get the hell out of here," he said, going to the door to the hallway. She followed him down the hall, pausing as he stopped outside room eight. "The police cordon's gone," he observed suspiciously. He put his hand on the knob and walked in, looking round.
She followed him in, looking around. "Oh no," she moaned, "the room's been cleaned. We have to get to the store room, any stuff that's found in the rooms gets dumped in there."
"Good. Let's go," he nodded, turning for the door.
But she froze. "Can you hear that?" she whispered. He stopped and looked back at her.
"What?" he asked quickly. Then he jerked around quickly, eyes narrowed. He brought the shotgun up and pumped two rounds into the chamber. "Stay behind me."
The low hissing sound set Rosalea's teeth on edge as she followed him to the doorway. He looked out, raising the shotgun quickly. He checked his left, then his right.
"Where's the store room?" he breathed urgently.
"Right," she whispered. "That's the same sound," she added. "It made that noise before it came through the door."
"Yeah, I remember," he said quickly, keeping the shotgun up as he started down the hallway.
They walked down slowly. The steady shuffling of Dean's boots made the hissing noise seem louder. They reached the end of the hallway. Dean stepped forward smartly and checked the left-hand bend shotgun-first. He moistened dry lips and watched the walls carefully.
"That the room?" he asked, nodding forwards. Rosalea looked round his shoulder.
"Yeah."
"You stay here."
"Like hell!" she hissed, grabbing onto the back of his jacket firmly. "You're the only one with a gun!"
He paused, taking his left hand from the shotgun and putting it to the back of his jeans.
"Here," he said, handing her the Glock handgun. She looked at it.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. It's loaded with salt. Just don't shoot me," he added, taking hold of the shotgun again. He pointed it in front of him and shuffled toward the store room door.
"Sir? No sign over here, either," the officer radioed, turning round in a circle, staring at all the people watching the basketball game. The overhead lights had come on, the sun starting to set, making it all so much more difficult. Shadows started to loom and stretch, making people's faces harder to check with any clarity.
"Fine. Spread out. We're not leaving here without the suspects," came the reply. The officer sighed, walking to the tiered seats and starting to walk up them slowly, surveying the crowd.
Dean put a hand on the doorknob, opening the store room slowly and looking in. Rosalea stepped in front of him and nipped in quickly, hurrying to the bookshelf at the back. She scanned it quickly.
"Is this it?" she asked, lifting the bound book.
"That's it," he said, relieved. "And my Fortean Times?"
"Are you for real?" she gasped.
"Hey, there was an article on a dog-beast found in–"
"Dean, how does this book help us?" she interrupted.
He let the shotgun drop and put his hand out. "Hopefully somewhere there's some information on armadillos attacking people," he said, handing her the shotgun quickly and beginning to leaf through it.
"Shouldn't we go somewhere else to read it?" she said patiently.
"Naw, we might just have to come back here to get rid of the thing," he muttered, pre-occupied as he paged through. "Look," he said suddenly, stopping.
"What?" she asked, looking down at the page he was reading. She spied rough sketches and notes, newspaper clippings and red ball pen markings on it. She gave up trying to read and waited.
"Not an armadillo, but… large animals appearing out of nowhere, attacking people. In each case… in each case they had… oh look at this," he said, turning the book around and lifting it for her to see clearly. "Every phantom animal had its own action figure," he said pointedly.
"So it's the stuffed armadillo in room eight?" she gasped. "But why?"
"I don't know – cos I shot it off the TV?" he hazarded.
"You are joking."
"Oh trust me, spirits get pissed off for a lot less."
"You're not joking. Good God," she sighed. "Why do all the men I meet turn out to be complete whack-jobs?"
"But I have a sense of humour, too," he grinned, closing the book and taking the shotgun from her. "So here's the plan: we get back to room eight and torch the cuddly summoning object, then swing by and get Sam, then make a run for it."
"You make it sound so easy," she teased.
"All–"
"And then you leave. I mean, you two leave. Right?"
"Well we can't really stay here," he pointed out, then hesitated. "What?"
"Nothing," she said dismissively. "Come on then."
Dean watched her walk out of the store room cautiously, then looked at the floor for a long moment. Then he sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and followed her.
"Officer Mason, sir?" the policeman radioed gingerly.
Mason reached out and tabbed the button on the radio on his desk.
"Yes. Where are they?" he answered quickly.
"Sir, they're not here," the officer replied, "We've combed the crowd, sir. It's a negative," he said.
"And you're sure?"
"Yes sir."
"Then get back to the station. They've got the jump on us," Mason tutted. "And the FBI will be here in an hour." The connection was unceremoniously cut.
The next moment his phone rang. Mason looked at it for a long moment, then reached over and picked it up.
"Officer Mason?" said a female voice, and he blinked.
"Yes ma'am," he replied. "Who–"
"This is Agent Rebecca Swift, FBI. We'll be arriving in thirty minutes."
"Great – er… one problem," he said quickly.
"You do have both brothers, Officer Mason? Or at the very least, Dean Winchester?"
"Ah… I have Samuel. And I know where Dean is," he added firmly.
"Where? We'll head there and apprehend him ourselves."
"He's…" He bit his lip, hating himself for giving it all away so easily. "He's at the Armadillo Inn, thirty miles from the–"
"We're on our way. Do not, and I repeat, do not let Sam Winchester out of your sight."
The line went dead and Mason slammed his handset down angrily.
"Stuck up FBI bitch," he muttered. Then he got up quickly and hurried down to the interview room, sliding back the viewing window and looking in.
Sam was still sat as he'd been left, except he now had both elbows on the table and his chin in both hands. He was staring into space, ostensibly lost in it.
Mason smiled. At least he still had Sam. Things couldn't be all that bad.