EIGHT
Dean hurried out to the car park through the same window they had used to get in. He ran to the boot of the Impala, skidding slightly in the wet gravel. He unlocked it and whipped it open, grabbing a small oilskin bag and slamming the boot lid.
He ran back to the window and tossed the small bag inside to Rosalea before hefting himself back through the opening.
"What's this?" she asked quickly, handing him the shotgun back and following him round to room eight.
"Barbecue tools," he grunted, hurrying over and snatching up the stuffed armadillo. He turned to her and swapped the oilskin bag in her hands for his shotgun, taking it and the creature into the bathroom.
She followed him, leaning on the doorjamb to see him about to sling the offending example of taxidermy into the bathtub.
He paused, looking at it.
"Hey look," he said, surprised, and she walked over to look too.
"What?"
"It's got a rip in the fur," he said, pre-occupied. "Maybe that's what caused it to suddenly come to life and start killing people."
"You know… I hate to say this, but…"
"What?" he asked, still studying the cut.
"Well… I just checked that room over before you two arrived – and it wasn't ripped then."
"You saying I damaged it, shooting it off the TV?" he asked, looking at her.
"It's possible," she smiled.
"Yeah well, put it on my bill," he said, looking back at it. "Hey… ah… The dude in the morgue they told you was me – did you get a good look at him?" he asked suddenly.
"Oh yeah, me and Sam got a real good look at him – he looked a lot like you at first glance," she said off-hand.
"Right…" Dean muttered, and Rosalea waited.
"What?" she asked slowly.
"So… It's come after me twice already," he said suddenly.
"What? You?"
"Yeah – it came looking for me, found me in your room…" he said thoughtfully. "Busted up the room, tried to kill me… Didn't work, it ran off… and thought it found me on the road out there. It hacked up that guy by mistake," he realised.
"So you're saying this spirit thing attacked the guy cos it thought he was you?" she hazarded.
"Maybe it needs contact lenses," he shrugged, deadpan.
She slapped his arm lightly. "Just burn it, Dean. Quickly."
He let it drop from his fingers into the tub soundly. He unwrapped the oilskin and emptied the contents in the sink next to him, picking up the lighter fluid and turning it on the armadillo, dousing it thoroughly.
"Uh-oh," Rosalea hissed, going to the bathroom window and throwing it open.
Dean ignored her, turning back to the jumble of items in the sink and finding the salt. He turned back and opened the lid, dumping small rough lumps of rock salt over the wet animal. He turned back and rummaged through for matches, but found none.
"Great," he snapped, slapping at his own pockets.
"What?" she asked quickly.
"You got a lighter?" he asked, looking around desperately.
"No, don't smoke," she admitted. She snapped her fingers quickly. "Reception! We give away matchbooks!"
She turned and ran out of the bathroom.
"Wait!" Dean called, picking up the shotgun and following her.
Agent Rebecca Swift leaned back in the passenger seat of the black SUV, reading her notes carefully.
"Right then," she said to the driver, a rather dour man called Grover. "This Dean character – he's not going to be easy."
"Shoot first, shout later?" he offered, noticing the sign for the motel and the eight miles left to go.
"In the knee," she said with satisfaction. "We want him in good enough condition to attend trial, after all."
"Good point," he nodded with a small smile. "I haven't seen the previous case notes to this one – what is he, another scrawny little psycho?"
"A one hundred and seventy-nine pound psycho with a lot of weapons," she said thoughtfully. "Might have a girl as an accomplice."
Grover shook his head disapprovingly. "What is it that these girls like about these weirdoes?"
"I don't know. Maybe he's just a smooth-talker," she sighed, lost.
"Ok you stinkin' piece of mouldy left-over corpse," Dean breathed, "kiss goodbye to the ugly-ass heap of furry crap that's been keeping that spirit here."
He stood over the bath and lit the entire matchbook. He waited a second for it to flare up completely, then dropped it on the armadillo.
It took a few seconds for the lump of fire to spread to the fur. The modest flames began to lick at the side of the animal, and Dean took a deep breath, nodding to himself.
"And that's it, is it?" Rosalea asked from behind him.
"Should be," he admitted.
" 'Should be'?" she prompted.
"Well killing spirits ain't exactly a science, Rosie," he said defensively. "But without its remains to tie it here, it should be dead-dead this time."
"Good," she said firmly. "I should go back to reception, explain why we have a small fire blazing in a bathtub in room eight," she said wearily.
"I'll just watch to make sure this actually does incinerate properly," he said, turning back to look at it. "Until its completely gone, there's a chance the spirit might come back."
"Like I said, you're a whack-job," she sighed, and he smiled slightly.
"A cautious whack-job."
"That's what I like about you," she said, patting his shoulder before walking out, "you're thorough."
He smiled to himself smugly, watching the flames slowly cause the carcass to break apart and fold in on itself.
"Samuel," Mason said pleasantly, walking into the interview room and sitting slowly.
"Sir," he said quietly.
"I know how you must feel, telling us where to find your brother like that," he said sympathetically.
"Yeah," he managed.
"But… we couldn't find him. Now, I know you wouldn't have lied to me," he said suavely, "and I know Dean's not exactly on the level with anyone, so perhaps we were just unlucky and we missed him."
"He wasn't there?" Sam asked, apparently surprised.
"No, he wasn't," he said clearly. "And now I'm worried, cos those FBI guys are going to find him first, and I don't think they'll be asking him nicely to lay down his weapons, you see what I'm driving at?"
"I understand, sir," he said, then sat back, his face a little vacant, a little sad. "What do you need me to do?"
"What would you like to do?" he said curiously.
"I'd like to help you contain him. I don't want him to get hurt, sir. He might be a wanted man, but… he's still my brother," he mumbled ashamedly.
Mason nodded, sitting back and folding his arms.
"Good. Problem is, I don't really have any way to stop him shooting at me. I mean, I turn up there with a whole host of other flatfoots, he's going to shoot me, right?" he said smoothly.
"Probably, sir."
"So I need someone to talk to him. Someone to stop him shooting people. Someone he'll listen to for long enough for us to get inside and disarm him without anyone getting hurt. You see how you could help me here?" he said quietly.
What an unctuous prick, Sam thought automatically. "Yes sir," he admitted, keeping his face defeated. "I could go. I could try and talk to him."
"That's my boy," he grinned, and Sam fought down the revulsion. Mason got up, turning and gesturing to the mirror behind him. He turned back to Sam. "So then," he said, waving Sam to stand, "Let's get to the motel and apprehend him before those FBI suits, shall we?"
The door to the main motel room slammed and Dean jumped slightly.
"Alright!" he protested, walking out of the bathroom, leaving the armadillo to burn by itself. "What's the–"
He stopped as he saw Rosalea plastered against the door, pushing it closed desperately.
"I heard it!" she hissed at him.
Dean ran back into the bathroom, checked that the corpse was nearly completely consumed, and snatched up the shotgun from next to the sink.
"Well he ain't gonna be around for much longer," he growled, coming back out and looking at her. "Get away from the door." He raised the shotgun.
She sprang off the door quickly, running to the back of the room, standing a good ten feet behind him.
"So it's going to be ashes before it can come through that door, is it?" she said nervously.
"Hope so," he bit out, levelling the gun at the door and waiting.
A low hissing started just outside the door and Rosalea stiffened in fright. Dean's finger rubbed over the trigger slowly. The hissing moved to the left of the door, against the wall. Dean's aim followed it as it ranged from the left, back to the door, then over to the right.
"What's it doing?" she whispered.
"Who knows?" he breathed.
The hissing became a snuffling, panting sound and they stared, repulsed at the noises. There was a moan and a muffled sliding down.
"Rosie," Dean whispered hoarsely, and she swallowed. "Check the tub. See if it's all ashes yet."
She didn't answer, just crept over to the bathroom door. She ducked in and it was silent. She poked her head out again.
"It's gone," she whispered.
They both looked over at the door. A long moan echoed round the door, then there was a loud thump on the boards.
Rosalea jumped in shock. Dean simply stared at the door cautiously.
They waited a long moment in silence.
Suddenly there was an ear-splitting whine, and Rosalea clapped her hands over her ears. Dean flinched but did not lose his grip or aim on the shotgun.
"Dean Winchester! This is Captain Mason! Lay down your weapons and come out of there!" came a loudspeakered voice.
Rosalea looked at him, and Dean let his shoulders sag, the shotgun dropping abruptly.
"Son of a–"
"Uh… Dean?" came another voice, also over a loudspeaker, and Dean paused, listening. "It's me! Sam! Don't shoot me, I'm only trying to stop anyone getting hurt before the FBI arrive!" he called.
Dean closed his eyes, wiping at them slowly with his right hand.
"Fan-friggin'-tastic," he grunted. "Could it be any more complicated?"
The door burst in abruptly. Dean lifted the shotgun. Rosalea screamed. They were showered in wood as they backed away to the window quickly.
And there, stood in the doorway, was the largest unearthly creature Dean had ever seen. It drew in a deep breath and let out a bellowing roar.
Then it threw itself at the human with the gun.