Sorry for the long delay, family issues at home. Thanks for reading and for all the really great reviews so far. I have really been overwhelmed by the great response to my first Supernatural story, and I thank everyone for being so kind. Rogue
Chapter Three: A Momentary Pause for a Commercial Break
Dean pushed open the motel office door, a tingling bell overhead announcing his arrival, and strode to the registration desk. Apparently oblivious of the fact Dean was standing there tapping his fingers impatiently on the wooden counter, the extremely overweight manager munched away on his meatball sub as he watched some show on television. Although Dean couldn't see the television screen situated somewhere underneath the counter, from the sounds of applause, sirens and bells, Dean gathered the man was watching some sort of game show.
Thick red sauce dribbled down the manager's scraggly brown beard and dripped onto his grey shirt to mingle with a vast variety of other food stains. He scrubbed his hand across his beard and then wiped it back and forth on his grungy shirt, smearing the sauce across his expansive flabby chest. "Damn, freakin' commercial breaks." A slew of curse words tumbled from his lips as he furiously tapped his finger on the remote. "Do I really look like I freakin' care about women's feminine products?" He briefly paused to take another mammoth bite out of his sandwich before returning his attention to flipping channels, and finally settled on another game show.
"Excuse me," Dean said, and cleared his throat when the manager still didn't acknowledge his presence.
"Damn it, pick door number two," the manager shouted at the television screen, his chubby sausagelike fingers curling tightly around his sandwich as he flailed his massive arms out to the sides. Sauce splattered on the dingy cream-coloured walls, and Dean was forced to back away as a spray of chunky red paste was flung in his direction. "That's the damn problem with these game shows, no one ever picks door number two, and the best stuff's always behind it. But no, they always pick door number one or three."
Dean cleared his throat again, eyes narrowing on the man, anger growing as the moments ticked by. "Think I could get some help here, Bubba?" The soft rumble of the air conditioning unit clicking on, briefly diverted Dean's attention to it, and he cursed under his breath knowing that he'd forgotten to switch off the one in his motel room. "Now."
"Just a sec." The man threw up his index finger and wagged it at Dean. He flipped the channel to another game show, and leaned back into his swivel chair. The black leather chair creaked and moaned loudly under the strain of the man's four hundred plus pounds, and Dean momentarily thought the weakened frame might just give out, sending the manager crashing to the floor. "Sudden death. Gotta love sudden death. Clock's ticking out, an' somehow it always forces people into making the wrong decisions."
"Look, I really need to pay for another — "
"Hold on, I'm on a break," the manager cut him off as he flipped the channel again to yet another game show. "This one's really good," he gestured toward the screen, "they put people in all sorts of survival situations against this one guy who's really good at winning the game, an' see how well they do against him." He turned in his chair to grin at Dean. "So far no one's ever beaten him."
"Sounds like a stupid game to me." Dean rolled his eyes, not believing that he was being sucked into a conversation about game shows when all he wanted to do was get back to Sam.
"All a matter of perspective, I suppose." The manager returned his attention to the television screen. "It's never a stupid game if you're the winner."
"You can't be the winner if it isn't a fair game to begin with," Dean countered smoothly.
"So you've never played a game where all the odds were stacked in your favor? Never cheated to win?" There was a gloating quality to the man's gravelly tone, like he already knew the answer to the question, and was just waiting to rub it in Dean's face. "Thought so," he added when Dean didn't immediately respond. "Most people cheat when they think they can get away with it. It's human nature."
"Can I just pay for another night an' get some fresh blankets and sheets?" As far as Dean was concerned the discussion was over. He didn't need some lowlife motel manager from east bumfuck passing judgement on him. Sure he hustled pool and had cheated at cards from time to time, but didn't feel he needed to justify his actions to anyone, much less this man.
"In a minute, this guy's about to lose, an' I don't wanna miss it." The manager folded his plump arms over his massive stomach and pushed back further into his chair, not about to wait on Dean until he was good and ready. "You shoulda seen the huge freakin' green python they had on this show before the commercial break. Gotta give the contestant a little credit though, he wasn't afraid of it. Most people would've been, ya know?"
"What the hell does a python have to do with a game show?" Dean leaned over the counter, craned his neck and tilted it to the side, trying to get a better look at the television, but could only see a small corner of the screen.
"Shock value, I guess." He shrugged, and gestured toward the screen again, chuckling. "Or maybe it was a diversionary tactic. You know, to make the player think that it's the real threat when there's an even bigger one just waiting in the wings."
What little Dean could see of the screen grew dark as a strange buzzing noise filtered through the television to fill the room. "What happened?" He nudged his head toward the tv before looking to the man for an answer. "You lose the channel or somethin'?"
"Nope." The manger grinned as he braced his hands against the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. "Sudden death. He lost."
Something about the way the man smiled when he had said, 'he lost' sent a cold shiver racing down Dean's spine. His thoughts spiraled to Sam and the strange illness he was suffering from, and worried that like the contestant, Sam was in a race against the clock and his time was quickly running out. Dean consciously shook the dire thought from his mind, and refocused his attention on the man who was now rummaging through the supply closet, searching for blankets and sheets for Dean.
Winded from the small amount of energy it took to gather the blankets and sheets, the manager plodded to the desk and threw the bundle onto the counter. "Course there's still a ways to go in the game." He sucked in a deep breath of air, and expelled it in a rush. The sweet saucy scent of it mingled with the man's sweat, and Dean was forced to stifle a gag, his stomach protesting violently against the pungent odor. "See the real fun part of this game is that they always make you think one thing is happening when in truth its something else entirely."
"What'd ya mean?" Dean yanked out his wallet, opened it and tossed three crumpled twenty dollar bills down onto the counter.
"Oh, I dunno," pale grey-blue eyes met and locked with Dean's, the man's seedy grin widening, "that's what the commercial breaks are for, to make ya wonder just what's gonna happen next." The manager tapped the keys on the register, ringing in another night's stay. He swiped the money off the desk, and placed it in the till. Handing Dean back his change, the manager began to scrawl him a receipt.
"Guess I don't understand." Dean scratched the back of his head, wondering why he was suddenly so interested in a show he normally wouldn't have even paused on if he were flipping channels. "If he already lost, how can there possibly be any more to come?"
"You really don't watch many game shows do you, boy?" He chuckled as he ripped the receipt from the notepad, and pressed it into Dean's hand. "Lifelines. Immunities. Whatever they freakin' wanna call it. Just another way to ramp up the tension."
"An' what does he get if he wins?" Dean shoved the change into his wallet, pocketed it, and grabbed for the bundle of blankets.
"Huh," the man furrowed his brow as he scrubbed his hand across his sweaty face, "not really sure. As I said, no one has ever won before. But I guess that would earn him the title of reigning Player of Games."
"That's it? No big cash pay out?"
"Yeah, I guess so." The manager trudged back to his chair, sunk down onto it, and grabbed for his remote.
"It's a stupid game," Dean turned on his heel, and headed for the entrance, but hearing the man deep throaty laughter, he turned back to stare at him.
"It's only a stupid game if you lose. But if you're smart," here he hesitated and tapped at his temple as he looked Dean up and down as if sizing him up, and subtle frown that slipped across his plump features, suggested that he found the eldest Winchester to be severely lacking in intelligence. "An' I mean really smart, can outmaneuver and out think your opponent's every move, then there's nothing better than winning the game. No other prize is needed," he concluded with a self-satisfied smirking grin. He folded his arms, cocked a bushy brow and waited for Dean to respond.
"If I ever decided to play on some freakin' game show," Dean shifted the bundle in his arms so that he could look the man squarely in the eyes, "I can guarantee you that I'd win cause I don't know how to quit."
"I'm sure that would be really interesting to watch." With a roll of his eyes, he returned his attention to watching television, obviously finished with talking to Dean as he once again immersed himself fully in the game he was tuned in to.
After Dean had exited the building, the manager stood, plodded to the window and peered through the dingy plastic blinds, watching the younger man walk back to his room. A wicked smile momentarily slid across his feature as his eyes shifted from grey-blue to serpent red and then back again. "Of course you'd try to win, but I'm way too smart to allow you the chance."