(no subject)
Title: Full Tilt Boogie (1/6)
Authors: hansbekhart & essenceofmeanin
Artist: ladyvyola
Rating: NC-17 (Sam/Dean, Michael/Dean, Sam/Michael, Sam/Dean/Michael, Sam/OC)
Summary: There are only two kinds of secrets: the ones you keep, and the ones you shouldn't have at all. When Sam and Dean take Michel on his first hunt (that doesn't involve a shtriga), they end up on the psychedelic dance floor of a long-vanished motel where disco never died and no one is quite who they appear to be. What was supposed to be an easy salt and burn descends rapidly into a morass of temptation and gold lame, bell bottoms and lies. No one gets to choose what secrets stay buried.
Unless they don't mind checking in ... forever.
"The moon was as big and round as a disco ball, the night that the Red Room burned to the ground," Dean says. He can't whisper dramatically; the music is too loud for that and anyway, Michael's hardly paying attention. The kid's staring unabashedly up at the naked girl gathering bills off the stage as 'Hot For Teacher' finally grinds to an end.
There's a pair of bright pink panties lying entirely too close to Sam's hand. He snags an ashtray to surreptitiously push them closer to the dancer with. She flashes him a smile and flounces away with them in hand. "Simmer down, Sammy," Dean says without looking over. "There's a naked girl dancing two feet away from us and you're not allowed to be a bitch about it. Mikey, this is for your benefit so you better be listening."
"Disco ball," Michael says, his hand wrapped tightly around his Coke. "Burned to the ground. I'm listening."
"Business first," Dean says approvingly. Sam rolls his eyes. "All right, Sammy. You wanna give Boy Wonder here the lowdown about what we're doing back in his neck of the woods?"
Sam sighs and flips open his battered notebook. "Madison, Wisconsin, home of America's ugliest hotel, the Red Room. Built during that heyday of architecture, the late 1960s, as a concept hotel. It was meant to look like a turkey from above, don't ask me why. We've stayed in some weird places in our time, but this one definitely takes the cake. It was taken over by a man named Bones - no last name given - in the mid-70s and turned into the largest discothèque in, uh, Wisconsin history. The Red Room became notoriously wild even for the swinger set, but when the decade ended, so did business. She burned down in the early 80s, cause unknown, taking sixteen people with her, including the owner. The bodies were never recovered."
"All that polyester and non-flame-retardant shag carpeting," Dean says, and Michael spits a mouthful of Coke onto the table.
"Anyway," Sam says, glaring down at the notebook, "the first recorded disappearance from the area happened about six months after the fire. Over the last twenty-five years, there've been almost sixty known disappearances, usually occurring around the full moon."
Michael scratches his head. "Maybe we're dealing with a werewolf?"
Sam taps his pen, frowning. "Pattern's wrong. The disappearances would be more regular, and there'd be some sign of the bodies afterwards."
"Plus," Dean grins, flipping the book around so he can read it, "We have a survivor. Morton Greene, age thirty-three. He was the prime suspect when his wife was murdered about five years previously, so the locals assumed that he skipped town. Three months ago he shows up dressed head to toe in disco duds, with total amnesia. Has no idea whether he killed his wife or what he's been up to since his disappearance, but comes complete with a brand new life story as some seventies swinger. Doctors are baffled."
Michael takes a swig of Dean's beer. "So… what do you guys think this is, then?"
"Try and guess, kiddo," Dean says. "Quick, quick. Think on your toes."
"Some sort of ... of time portal? A ghost hotel that brainwashes people?" Dean swings an arm over Michael's shoulders. Michael turns toward him, already smiling, their mouths nearly close enough to touch.
"Stranger things've been known to happen, kid."
"Is that so," Michael says, low.
Sam clears his throat. They twitch and turn back towards him. Dean takes his arm back with a pointed look at Sam. "Man," Michael says, oblivious. "Disco. That is … so incredibly lame. My first real hunt, and you guys take me to a haunted disco hotel."
"Hunting's not glamorous, Michael," Sam says. "It can't always be shtrigas."
"Yeah, sometimes it's clowns," Dean says. Sam kicks him under the table.
"So how do you guys know we're not going to become, like, Sly and the Family Stone, like that guy?" Michael asks.
Dean hesitates, his eyes on the girl on the stage. Not really noticing Sam watching Michael watch Dean. The girl's looking at him, making eye contact, and Dean grins. "Don't worry, kiddo. We're professionals. Nothing like that's gonna happen."
Michael scowls, worrying at the condensation on his drink. Dean tugs on his collar, then absently straightens it. Michael barely seems to notice. "Yeah? How do you know?"
"We just do," Sam snaps, snatching the journal back from Dean. The moment he does he feels stupid about it, and he stares down into his beer so that he doesn't have to meet Dean's eyes.
Last call sees them stumbling toward the Impala, the full moon high in the sky. Michael stops and stretches; Sam can hear his back pop in the quiet parking lot, as loud as the bass still thumping in the club. He glances over, catches Dean eyeing the pale strip of skin where Michael's shirt has rucked up. Dean throws Sam a smirk, bumps their shoulders together.
Michael dances ahead, slipping over the loose gravel, calls "Shotgun!" with his fist in the air. Sam laughs like it's the funniest thing he's heard all day.
"Get in the back, kiddo." Dean smiles as he climbs into the car and leans over to pop the other locks. Michael clambers in the back without a word of protest, leans against the front bench with his elbows in between Sam and his brother. Sam props his head against the glass, and Dean shoots him a look. "Don't get too comfy there, Sammy; we only got a hundred miles ahead of us."
Sam shrugs, his eyes already slipping shut. "I'll be fine." He drank more than he should've, only a hundred miles to go before he might be shooting things. Stupid to have done it; even Michael's awake and way too fucking eager. Sam can see Michael's hand out of the corner of his eye, the back of it brushing against the shoulder of Dean's jacket.
Dean glances over, waits for Sam to look back. "Fuckin' disco," he says.
"Still better than clowns," Sam says.
Dean grimaces. "Not really."
Sam swirls a finger near his temple, gesturing back and forth between him and Dean. "You think this'll hold?" he asks, too low for Michael to hear.
"Yeah," Dean says, "don't worry. It's worked before, right? We get in, get out, do a little salt and burn. Easy peasy."
"Easy peasy," Michael adds, with satisfaction, catching the last few words.
Dean grins over his shoulder. "That's my boy," he says, and Sam rolls his eyes.
The last thing Sam remembers before he falls asleep is the low murmur of conversation next to his ear. It's driving him crazy, but he can't figure out exactly why.
Sam wakes up when the engine quits, the silence abrupt after miles of rumbling car. His dad is grumbling in the front seat. Sam can tell he's trying to be quiet, doesn't know that Sam's awake. Dean crawls over the front seat, half pushed over by Dad, half-awake as he curls himself around Sam. His knees tucked into the back of Sam's knees, his arm wrapped around Sam's chest. Then it's not quiet anymore; Sam can hear Dean breathing against his neck, and slips back into sleep.
Sam wakes up when the car shakes, rattling down the center line like Braille. He's sixteen, and he can hear the girl in the front seat giggle when Dean jerks them back. Dean says 'shhhhh,' his head tipped almost too far back to see the road. Dean's mouth is open; Sam can see him lick his lips in the light from the road. He's breathing hard.
Sam wakes up when Michael laughs, quiet as Sam's ever heard from him. It's too hot, and for a moment Sam can't figure out why. Michael's moving next to him, his elbow brushing Sam's ribs. Sam cracks his eyes open; he already knows but they think he's asleep anyway and he needs to see. He sees Dean's cock sliding though Michael's fingers, his hand that's not on the wheel buried deep in Michael's hair. Sam's face is on fire, his eyes burning as he squeezes them shut. He can hear his brother breathing, and Dean says 'shhhh'.
He smells her before anything else, before he realizes what's going on, before he opens his eyes, before he realizes he's not in the car anymore; spicy perfume, sweat, the smell of her cunt. It's in his mouth, all over his skin, and he's fucking her against -
His hands feel carpet but his thighs burn under her weight, he's standing, holding her up against a carpeted wall. He could be dreaming; her hair is long and blonde and it covers his face like cobwebs. Jess' hair was like that, thick and soft and smelling like shampoo. This girl - he can't even see her face and somehow that's the worst part - snarls her nails in his hair, hard enough to hurt, groaning with every snap of Sam's hips. He can feel the sweat on his palms, sliding over her ass, damp at the backs of her knees. It's been so fucking long and for a moment that's all that matters.
But the last thing he remembers is falling asleep in the car, Michael blathering away, and reality slams back into his brain hard. He doesn't drop her, but it's a close thing - his knees shake and then they're both going down, Sam on his knees and her legs still locked around his waist. He falls hard and her thighs tighten reflexively and when he comes it's like it's been startled out of him.
"Fuck," he gasps. His dick slides out of her, still hard, and she stares up at him through a haze of blonde bangs. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." He covers his dick with his hands, barely aware of the motion.
"S'ok, sugar," she says. "Bone Daddy always makes sure I'm taken care of." Her voice is huskier than he expected and he leans back, unnerved by nothing at all. Nothing about her pings as dangerous but there's something slick and queasy sliding up his spine, and he'll trust a feeling like that.
"Uh," he says. "Good. Wait, what? Bone - you mean Bones? The, uh, the owner? Is he here?"
"Sweetie," she says, smiling pityingly at him, two fingers dipping down between her legs, "who do you think sent me?"
And just like that, she's gone, vanished between one blink and the next like every other spirit, the room stinking of sex and shag. Sam stares down at his cock, still slick, and winces.
He gets to his feet, still cringing. He's alone in the room now and sees that the shag carpeting extends up to the ceiling, all the way around him. He's enclosed in a purple womb, purple of the hue that makes him pat his hips reflexively, searching for a knife to stab his own eyeballs out. The twin beds are pure white, uncomfortably padded-looking, fringed at the bottom. The bed nearest to him is piled with luridly colored clothing in mainly mustard tones. There are no pictures on the wall, no photographs - no TV, no visible bathroom, just two doors and enough purple to drown in.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Sam says. "Where the fuck am I?"
He sits down on the bed gingerly, nudging the clothing aside. The bedspread feels sticky and after a moment he gives up and shifts over to the table, anonymous dark plywood, at least familiar from the thousands of cheap motels they've lived in.
All that he can remember is the car. A hundred miles out, too goddamn drunk to hunt for ducks, much less disco fiends. Michael chattering away right in Sam's ear. Not even a hitch in his memory between then and now.
"I fell asleep," Sam tells the room. "Maybe this is a dream. God, I hope it's not a dream. I hope this isn't what my subconscious looks like. Dean, where are you?"
If he'd fallen asleep - if they'd reached their destination - if they were eaten by this grotesquerie of modern interior design - then Dean would be here too, maybe looking for Sam and Michael himself, maybe boogying under a disco ball. A whole lot of ifs and maybes, but they hadn't walked in here blind. They had a plan and Sam was still of sound mind and body, so their biggest gamble had worked. Now all Sam had to do was find Dean.
He nudges the suit on the bed with the tip of one finger, grimacing. It looked like his size, at least. He puts on the underwear first, white cotton y-fronts that go all the way past his bellybutton. The pants he recognizes from the worst thrift stores Dean ever dragged him to, heavy double-knit trousers, double pleated in the front. The longest crotch he's seen that wasn't worn by a member of the AARP. The sweater's a turtleneck, the jacket made of some sort of nubbly material. Square bear duds, all the way. They look like they were pulled out of a trashcan on the set of Starsky & Hutch. They're also the only clothing in the room.
He feels even worse once he's dressed. He's never worn such tight pants in his life and the suit feels slimy somehow, like its last owner jogged up ten flights of stairs and then had sex in it. He palms his cock through the pants, a poor attempt at comfort. He'd probably be able to see every wrinkle and ball-hair through these things. No help for it - maybe, he thinks, if he finds Dean, he can beat Dean up and steal his pants.
The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. He's in the polyester Overlook and he's already been sexually assaulted by a ghost, but he might as well just be stepping out with the ice bucket. Sam tugs on the hem of his turtleneck and tries to remember the layout of the plans he found online. It was all in his bag - the map, the blueprint, the names and photos of the missing - all their weapons and supplies. Fuck. Wouldn't be the first time they've walked naked into a hunt, but other than brainwashing, they've got no idea what to expect. Naked and blind after all. Hell of a first hunt, Sam thinks, and wonders where Michael is. Hopefully with Dean, which is something he didn't ever expect himself to think.
He knew the kid wasn't ready. Michael had spent the past year with Bobby and his strays, the hunters that passed through Bobby's yard, learning anything that anybody would teach him. Every time the Winchester brothers came through, Michael practically panted to show off his new tricks and skills, dogging Dean's heels for hours at a time, and it all boiled down to one thing: take me on a fucking hunt already. Dean had said no, and no again, and no the time after that, but the next time they were at Bobby's he'd taken Michael out for some bow hunting. They'd come back a little flushed and the next thing Sam knew they were all on the road together. Just having another body in the car makes Sam bicker with Dean like they were kids again, actually makes him miss passing through entire states with Metallica and nothing else. Michael's a buzzing insect with his endless questions and complaints, and weirdly enough, Dean's been nothing but a willing ear. He puts up with every little inanity that comes out of Michael's mouth, answers every stupid question, even chides Sam for being impatient.
"You don't even like kids," Sam had said, but Dean only shrugged.
"He's not a kid anymore and he's gotta learn somehow." Well, now Michael was going to find out what hunting was really like.
He hears Dean before he sees him. The twisting hallway blocks his view, but there's only one direction Dean's voice could be coming from and Sam breaks into a run before he can even think about it. It takes him a long time to hear the other voices that are mingling with Dean's and he skids to a halt just as the doorway comes into view, blindingly bright.
He slumps against the hallway. The jacket catches on the rough faux-stone. It's hard to think with his brother only yards away, in god only knew what state of mind. They had had a lot of theories walking into the Red Room - Michael's brainwashing ghost hotel was their best bet, in fact - but no evidence, no back up plan in case they were all separated. They didn't even think about what they'd do if they lost track of Michael.
Fuck, Sam thinks. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and steps through the doorway.
He flinches back from the light. It's a physical assault after the gloom of the hall. The first thing he sees is a white railing covered in eyes. It sends a chill down his spine, and not only because the thing is fucking hideous. The railing encloses the lower level of the lobby. There are less people around than he would've thought, from the sound of it. The railing creates a wrought-iron boundary around a small cocktail lounge. It's populated by a few loungers, faded like a photograph that's been left out in the sun. He doesn't see Dean at all; his eyes sweep the room twice but the guy in the bell-bottoms standing at the reception desk doesn't even ping Sam's radar until the man turns and he sees his brother's smile.
Sam wants to laugh his head off right there, in a freaky eyeball room in a freaky haunted motel, because of course, Dean is hitting on the receptionist. She's giving it right back to him, leaning so far over the counter that even across the room, Sam can see a bit of black lace in the deep vee of her velvet top. She looks more solid than the loungers, more alive. He barely registers Michael until Dean reaches over to muss up the kid's hair.
"Yeah," he says to the receptionist, "it's been just me and my kid brother since our folks passed. It's real hard sometimes, but family's so important, you know?" His voice sounds wrong, like it's been oiled smooth and slick, and Sam never noticed Dean had an accent until it's gone. His voice is lighter too, and maybe that's what Dean would sound like if he didn't spend so much time breathing in smoke. It doesn't matter, Sam thinks furiously, that's not your damn brother. "We're on a road trip across the states, see the world before Keith here goes off to college."
"That's so sweet," she coos and reaches for Dean, strokes long red fingernails down the inside of his wrist. When she smiles, her teeth are yellow and pointed. Sam can only see Dean's profile from where he's standing, but he'd recognize that expression anywhere, that slow smile, you're the only person in the world right now smarminess.
Sam's at the desk in a few quick strides. Michael rolls his eyes at Sam and pushes their bags into Sam's arms. Dean doesn't even look over. He smirks at the girl and dangles the keys for Sam to grab. "We're in, uh - Room 15, right, sweetheart?" He pitches his voice into a stage whisper, saying, "There's five American dollars in it for you if you'll take my brother with you."
Sam drops the bags where he's standing, buckles bursting to spill clothing all over the shag. Michael gapes up at him. Dean's head whips around, the fury in his eyes dying as he looks up, way up, into Sam's face. He flinches back when Sam grabs him, both hands coming up to pry stupidly at Sam's fingers, digging hard enough into Dean's cheeks that he can feel teeth beneath them. The receptionist is swatting at Sam, trying to grab Dean's hand back, but Sam doesn't even hear her.
"Angus Young," he says, leaning close enough to feel Dean's panicked breath on his face, "you dick."
Dean goes as limp as if Sam cut his strings, staggering back against the counter. It saves him from falling all together when Michael launches himself at Sam, yelling, "What are you doing to him?" Sam has enough time to actually feel bad for underestimating the kid; Michael shoots right under Sam's reach and makes a pretty spirited attempt to take him down. Then there's a second pair of arms grappling for Michael, hooking under his arms and dragging the kid bodily away from Sam. Sam doesn't hesitate. Michael fights him harder than Dean did, who's staring grimly up at Sam from where he's got Michael pinned.
"Ron Jeremy," Sam says, both hands on Michael's face, whose eyes immediately roll back in his head. Dean takes Michael's weight easily, steadying the kid until he's got his feet under him. Sam's already turning, tensing for the next attack, but the girl's gone, disappeared sometime during the fight. No one else in the room has even moved. Sam can hear laughter and ice tinkling against a cocktail glass somewhere behind them.
Dean sighs, absently rubbing at the nail marks the woman left on his arm. What looked like a caress left angry red stripes up and down his skin. "That was fuckin' weird," he mumbles. His eyes are unfocused, but he manages a smirk as he drags his eyes up and down Sam's body.
"So, uh, how's it hanging, Sammy?"
Sam's face goes hot. Michael snickers, and Sam turns his head to glower at the kid, snapping, "I wouldn't be laughing if I were you."
Mikey just grins, admiring his peach-colored paisley shirt, the tan slacks just as tight as Sam's. The pink scarf around his neck is the crowning touch. "Whatever, these are killer threads. You shouldn't be so pissy, Sam - Dean's the only one that really got fucked here." He reaches out a hand to tap against Dean's flower-shaped belt buckle. Dean swats Michael's hand away before Sam can do so much as twitch. Michael, unfazed, turns and starts pawing through their dropped luggage. Dean stares down at himself, his lip curling.
"Purple," he sighs.
"Should see where I woke up," Sam says
Dean tenses unexpectedly, his hands flying to his neck. He screws his face up at what he finds: the amulet is there, hanging on a thick gold chain, but so is a lion's tooth and several religious medals. Further inventory turns up nothing else. "Dude, they took my watch and my ring and shit." He whimpers a little when his fingers encounter mustache.
"Yep," Michael agrees, from the floor. "I think they got just about everything. None of the stuff in here is ours. I've still got that charm Bobby gave me, but I think that's it."
Sam crouches down next to Michael on the floor, digging through the open suitcases. There had to be something in there that would fit him, a new pair of pants that wouldn't show his sac off to the world. The orange shag is surprisingly cushy underneath his butt. Dean stares down at them. "I loved that watch," he says mournfully.
"Could be worse. I woke up having sex with a ghost."
Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "No shit? Huh. That's a new one - oh, wait, you remember that time with Dad in Coffeyville?"
"I really, really try not to." Dean grins down at him, eyes crinkling, and Sam drops his eyes to the pile of clothes. Blushing again. He huffs out a sigh, trying to distract himself. "Everything in here was created for midgets."
"I think you're screwed, little brother."
Michael coughs. "I think we're all pretty screwed here, and not just in the ugly pants dance. Unless I'm missing something - which is possible, Sam, I know - we don't have any weapons or clothes of our own. Or food. I'm hungry." He stares at them expectantly, his brows raised.
Sam shares a long glance with his brother. "Yep," is all Dean says.
Michael waits for more, frowning. "So … how are we going to beat the bad guy without any of our gear?"
Dean leans down to grab Michael's shoulder, shaking him gently. "We improvise, kiddo. It's too early in the game to panic." His grin just gets wider at the disgruntled look he gets back. "All right, pop quiz, young Skywalker. What are our options?"
Michael rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers, like a light bulb had gone off over his head. "Oh, I know! We get the hell outta here and come back with a less retarded plan?"
"Too defeatist. It'll never work. Come on, Mikey, you told me you were ready to be a real hunter. Prove it."
Sam cuts off the starry-eyed response that looks to be coming out of Michael's mouth. "I need to talk to you," he says to Dean, who goes willingly enough when Sam grabs his elbow, merely throwing over his shoulder, "I expect answers when we get back!"
There's an ornamental brick fireplace in the middle of the room, separated from the reception desk and the cocktail lounge by the eyeball railing. Sam tries not to look at it as he ducks them behind the fireplace. They're not remotely out of earshot, but it makes him feel better. Dean stares at him skeptically. "Is this the big kids conference where you tell me again that you're sick of babysitting?"
"No," Sam snaps, and then takes a deep breath. "No, I just - Dean, I think he's right. We're in way over our heads here. This was supposed to be an easy hunt for Michael's first time in the field and the first thing that happens is that we all get separated and brainwashed. This could get a lot weirder than it has already. Something's … something's just off. I can't explain it. And now we've lost all our gear -"
"We've got that freaky brain of yours," Dean says.
"Yeah, and that's the only thing that kept you guys from checking in as permanent guests. We should get Michael out of here, Dean. Bobby would murder us if he knew what we'd him gotten into. Let's just get out of here and come back without him, do the job ourselves."
Dean scrubs a hand over his head. "He's gotta learn how to do this sometime, Sam."
"There's something off here," Sam says again. "I feel like this could get really bad, really quickly. You feel it too, man. There's something - something's going to -" Sam can see Dean's face twist as he tries to think of something clever to say, some way to make the situation seem not quite so bad. Sam turns away from his brother, glares out the window instead. The room is swathed in sunlight and everything is glaringly, psychedelically bright. There's a wide, grassy field out there beyond the Red Room's front doors, faded like the old postcards that Dean used to send him in college, printed with jackalopes or long-dead motels in flyover states. He feels stoned, disconnected; maybe it really is just a dream, itchy pants and shaky knees notwithstanding, and he'll wake up and be back in the car with a sore neck and his brother. He'd even be glad to see that stupid kid.
He jerks when Dean reaches over, fingers scratching through the short hair at Sam's neck. Sam slides his eyes closed, feeling abruptly sober.
"You okay, little brother?"
He slumps against the rough brick of the fireplace. Even when Dean pulls away, he can still feel the warmth of that hand on his skin. "Yeah," Sam says. "No. I don't know."
"It's gonna be fine," Dean says. "It always is."
"What's the last thing you remember, Dean?"
Dean hesitates. He glances over his shoulder, seeking Michael. Sam follows his gaze, spots their protégé still sitting patiently by the suitcases, picking through toiletry. "The car," Dean says, after a moment. "Found the field, parked, I went around to the trunk to get our stuff out. Mikey fell asleep too, not long after you did."
"He did?" Sam asks, before he can stop himself. Dean raises an eyebrow and Sam blushes. "Nothing, never mind. I must've dreamed it."
"Dreamed what?"
"You and Michael - look, never mind."
"Uh huh," Dean says. "Anyway, I was just about to wake you guys up, and then I looked up at the - at the moon. And that's it." He makes a final sort of noise, bringing his hands together. "Next thing I remember is you grabbing me, saying the safe word."
Dean shakes his head abruptly, like a dog clearing water out of its ears. "Still waking up, I guess. It was like I was really living the dream, you know? I knew everything about that guy. How his folks died. What his brother was gonna major in."
Mikey pops his head around the fireplace right next to Sam's face, and Sam flinches back from the sudden almost-touch. "Hey Sam, do you think salt's an option here? They probably have a kitchen."
Sam frowns, confused. "We're inside of a ghost hotel, somehow I don't think they're going to have salt lying around." He doesn't add, why are you asking me?
"Lay off, Sammy," Dean says easily, reaching forward to tousle Michael's hair. "No. Salt's probably not an option here, but that's a good suggestion."
Michael smiles, tucking his hair behind his ears, and ducks back around the fireplace. Sam makes a face and Dean returns it, smirking. "Hey," he says, the smirk dropping off his face, "I've got a thought. And don't be a smartass. What do you think about it grabbing all three of us?"
Sam frowns. "Forty-six people went missing in separate incidents, but most of them came to the site with other people."
"Who all went home safe," Dean says. "There were - what - eight who went missing as pairs. No record of more than two people disappearing at a time, though."
"We're breaking pattern," Sam says.
Dean's chin dips down towards his chest. "Ghosts never break pattern," he says. "We just don't know what the pattern is yet." He stretches back against the bricks, his shoulder warm against Sam's even through the scratchy suit. They watch a woman lean against the white railing in silence. She shakes long blonde hair from her shoulders; she's laughing and blushing. Chatting with thin air, pushing playfully at someone who isn't there
"I don't think it's gonna let us leave," Dean says, his voice worn thin. "But it doesn't really matter." He looks tired, lines drawn deep in the corners of his frown. Sam keeps himself still, staring down at his brother. Dean looks up at Sam as if he's said something out loud, his eyebrows lifting. "I hear what you're saying, but even if we do get out of here, we can't bank on it taking both of us again. We have to get all these people out of here and that's priority number one."
Sam shrugs. "I guess we've been in tighter spots."
It earns him a smirk. "I can think of a few." Sam holds his gaze for a long moment. Dean looks about ready to kill someone for a cup of coffee, but his eyes are warm and confident and it makes Sam feel stupidly better about being totally screwed. As usual. "Let's do some recon, get the lay of the shag. You can start waking people up when we know everything's copasetic. And I guess we can always torch that motherfucker when we find him. It'll be fine, Sam - we'll just keep a close eye on Mikey, make sure he doesn't get his fool self into trouble. Cool?"
He doesn't wait for a response, just calls over his shoulder, "Mikey! You ready to roll out?"
Silence is the only response from the other side of the fireplace. They both stiffen, listening intently. "Mikey," Dean barks, "So help me god, if you've set foot out of this lobby I am going to fucking kill you!"
Nothing. There are clothes strewn around the suitcases, six bottles of aftershave lined up next to them, as if Michael was just waiting to show them the treasure trove. "Fuck," Sam says, staring. "Fuck." His hand twitches at his side, looking for the gun that he should be carrying.
"Yeah," Dean says, and sags back against the railing.
"I knew it," Sam says, kicking at a green polyester monstrosity. "I knew this whole thing was fucked. Didn't even goddamn occur to us, being taken more than once. And now we're going to have to go hunt him down and just hope to god he's still in one piece and the safe word will still even work on him -"
His mouth closes so quickly that his teeth click together; nothing planned about it, no conscious thought cutting him off. The hair on the back of his neck prickles. Dean is too quiet. No matter how exhausted he is, he should be up on his feet and haring after their charge, and Sam knows what happened, feels it like ice water down his spine.
"Dean?"
He knows what he's going to find when he turns around, but it's still a sucker punch to find empty space where his brother should be. The woman's still there, giggling behind her hand, and Sam wants to slap the smile off her face even though he knows she can't see him. She doesn't even know he's there, alone again and hunting naked and totally, completely screwed.
"Shit," Sam says, even though no one's there to hear him say it.
Chapter 2
Authors: hansbekhart & essenceofmeanin
Artist: ladyvyola
Rating: NC-17 (Sam/Dean, Michael/Dean, Sam/Michael, Sam/Dean/Michael, Sam/OC)
Summary: There are only two kinds of secrets: the ones you keep, and the ones you shouldn't have at all. When Sam and Dean take Michel on his first hunt (that doesn't involve a shtriga), they end up on the psychedelic dance floor of a long-vanished motel where disco never died and no one is quite who they appear to be. What was supposed to be an easy salt and burn descends rapidly into a morass of temptation and gold lame, bell bottoms and lies. No one gets to choose what secrets stay buried.
Unless they don't mind checking in ... forever.
"The moon was as big and round as a disco ball, the night that the Red Room burned to the ground," Dean says. He can't whisper dramatically; the music is too loud for that and anyway, Michael's hardly paying attention. The kid's staring unabashedly up at the naked girl gathering bills off the stage as 'Hot For Teacher' finally grinds to an end.
There's a pair of bright pink panties lying entirely too close to Sam's hand. He snags an ashtray to surreptitiously push them closer to the dancer with. She flashes him a smile and flounces away with them in hand. "Simmer down, Sammy," Dean says without looking over. "There's a naked girl dancing two feet away from us and you're not allowed to be a bitch about it. Mikey, this is for your benefit so you better be listening."
"Disco ball," Michael says, his hand wrapped tightly around his Coke. "Burned to the ground. I'm listening."
"Business first," Dean says approvingly. Sam rolls his eyes. "All right, Sammy. You wanna give Boy Wonder here the lowdown about what we're doing back in his neck of the woods?"
Sam sighs and flips open his battered notebook. "Madison, Wisconsin, home of America's ugliest hotel, the Red Room. Built during that heyday of architecture, the late 1960s, as a concept hotel. It was meant to look like a turkey from above, don't ask me why. We've stayed in some weird places in our time, but this one definitely takes the cake. It was taken over by a man named Bones - no last name given - in the mid-70s and turned into the largest discothèque in, uh, Wisconsin history. The Red Room became notoriously wild even for the swinger set, but when the decade ended, so did business. She burned down in the early 80s, cause unknown, taking sixteen people with her, including the owner. The bodies were never recovered."
"All that polyester and non-flame-retardant shag carpeting," Dean says, and Michael spits a mouthful of Coke onto the table.
"Anyway," Sam says, glaring down at the notebook, "the first recorded disappearance from the area happened about six months after the fire. Over the last twenty-five years, there've been almost sixty known disappearances, usually occurring around the full moon."
Michael scratches his head. "Maybe we're dealing with a werewolf?"
Sam taps his pen, frowning. "Pattern's wrong. The disappearances would be more regular, and there'd be some sign of the bodies afterwards."
"Plus," Dean grins, flipping the book around so he can read it, "We have a survivor. Morton Greene, age thirty-three. He was the prime suspect when his wife was murdered about five years previously, so the locals assumed that he skipped town. Three months ago he shows up dressed head to toe in disco duds, with total amnesia. Has no idea whether he killed his wife or what he's been up to since his disappearance, but comes complete with a brand new life story as some seventies swinger. Doctors are baffled."
Michael takes a swig of Dean's beer. "So… what do you guys think this is, then?"
"Try and guess, kiddo," Dean says. "Quick, quick. Think on your toes."
"Some sort of ... of time portal? A ghost hotel that brainwashes people?" Dean swings an arm over Michael's shoulders. Michael turns toward him, already smiling, their mouths nearly close enough to touch.
"Stranger things've been known to happen, kid."
"Is that so," Michael says, low.
Sam clears his throat. They twitch and turn back towards him. Dean takes his arm back with a pointed look at Sam. "Man," Michael says, oblivious. "Disco. That is … so incredibly lame. My first real hunt, and you guys take me to a haunted disco hotel."
"Hunting's not glamorous, Michael," Sam says. "It can't always be shtrigas."
"Yeah, sometimes it's clowns," Dean says. Sam kicks him under the table.
"So how do you guys know we're not going to become, like, Sly and the Family Stone, like that guy?" Michael asks.
Dean hesitates, his eyes on the girl on the stage. Not really noticing Sam watching Michael watch Dean. The girl's looking at him, making eye contact, and Dean grins. "Don't worry, kiddo. We're professionals. Nothing like that's gonna happen."
Michael scowls, worrying at the condensation on his drink. Dean tugs on his collar, then absently straightens it. Michael barely seems to notice. "Yeah? How do you know?"
"We just do," Sam snaps, snatching the journal back from Dean. The moment he does he feels stupid about it, and he stares down into his beer so that he doesn't have to meet Dean's eyes.
Last call sees them stumbling toward the Impala, the full moon high in the sky. Michael stops and stretches; Sam can hear his back pop in the quiet parking lot, as loud as the bass still thumping in the club. He glances over, catches Dean eyeing the pale strip of skin where Michael's shirt has rucked up. Dean throws Sam a smirk, bumps their shoulders together.
Michael dances ahead, slipping over the loose gravel, calls "Shotgun!" with his fist in the air. Sam laughs like it's the funniest thing he's heard all day.
"Get in the back, kiddo." Dean smiles as he climbs into the car and leans over to pop the other locks. Michael clambers in the back without a word of protest, leans against the front bench with his elbows in between Sam and his brother. Sam props his head against the glass, and Dean shoots him a look. "Don't get too comfy there, Sammy; we only got a hundred miles ahead of us."
Sam shrugs, his eyes already slipping shut. "I'll be fine." He drank more than he should've, only a hundred miles to go before he might be shooting things. Stupid to have done it; even Michael's awake and way too fucking eager. Sam can see Michael's hand out of the corner of his eye, the back of it brushing against the shoulder of Dean's jacket.
Dean glances over, waits for Sam to look back. "Fuckin' disco," he says.
"Still better than clowns," Sam says.
Dean grimaces. "Not really."
Sam swirls a finger near his temple, gesturing back and forth between him and Dean. "You think this'll hold?" he asks, too low for Michael to hear.
"Yeah," Dean says, "don't worry. It's worked before, right? We get in, get out, do a little salt and burn. Easy peasy."
"Easy peasy," Michael adds, with satisfaction, catching the last few words.
Dean grins over his shoulder. "That's my boy," he says, and Sam rolls his eyes.
The last thing Sam remembers before he falls asleep is the low murmur of conversation next to his ear. It's driving him crazy, but he can't figure out exactly why.
Sam wakes up when the engine quits, the silence abrupt after miles of rumbling car. His dad is grumbling in the front seat. Sam can tell he's trying to be quiet, doesn't know that Sam's awake. Dean crawls over the front seat, half pushed over by Dad, half-awake as he curls himself around Sam. His knees tucked into the back of Sam's knees, his arm wrapped around Sam's chest. Then it's not quiet anymore; Sam can hear Dean breathing against his neck, and slips back into sleep.
Sam wakes up when the car shakes, rattling down the center line like Braille. He's sixteen, and he can hear the girl in the front seat giggle when Dean jerks them back. Dean says 'shhhhh,' his head tipped almost too far back to see the road. Dean's mouth is open; Sam can see him lick his lips in the light from the road. He's breathing hard.
Sam wakes up when Michael laughs, quiet as Sam's ever heard from him. It's too hot, and for a moment Sam can't figure out why. Michael's moving next to him, his elbow brushing Sam's ribs. Sam cracks his eyes open; he already knows but they think he's asleep anyway and he needs to see. He sees Dean's cock sliding though Michael's fingers, his hand that's not on the wheel buried deep in Michael's hair. Sam's face is on fire, his eyes burning as he squeezes them shut. He can hear his brother breathing, and Dean says 'shhhh'.
He smells her before anything else, before he realizes what's going on, before he opens his eyes, before he realizes he's not in the car anymore; spicy perfume, sweat, the smell of her cunt. It's in his mouth, all over his skin, and he's fucking her against -
His hands feel carpet but his thighs burn under her weight, he's standing, holding her up against a carpeted wall. He could be dreaming; her hair is long and blonde and it covers his face like cobwebs. Jess' hair was like that, thick and soft and smelling like shampoo. This girl - he can't even see her face and somehow that's the worst part - snarls her nails in his hair, hard enough to hurt, groaning with every snap of Sam's hips. He can feel the sweat on his palms, sliding over her ass, damp at the backs of her knees. It's been so fucking long and for a moment that's all that matters.
But the last thing he remembers is falling asleep in the car, Michael blathering away, and reality slams back into his brain hard. He doesn't drop her, but it's a close thing - his knees shake and then they're both going down, Sam on his knees and her legs still locked around his waist. He falls hard and her thighs tighten reflexively and when he comes it's like it's been startled out of him.
"Fuck," he gasps. His dick slides out of her, still hard, and she stares up at him through a haze of blonde bangs. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." He covers his dick with his hands, barely aware of the motion.
"S'ok, sugar," she says. "Bone Daddy always makes sure I'm taken care of." Her voice is huskier than he expected and he leans back, unnerved by nothing at all. Nothing about her pings as dangerous but there's something slick and queasy sliding up his spine, and he'll trust a feeling like that.
"Uh," he says. "Good. Wait, what? Bone - you mean Bones? The, uh, the owner? Is he here?"
"Sweetie," she says, smiling pityingly at him, two fingers dipping down between her legs, "who do you think sent me?"
And just like that, she's gone, vanished between one blink and the next like every other spirit, the room stinking of sex and shag. Sam stares down at his cock, still slick, and winces.
He gets to his feet, still cringing. He's alone in the room now and sees that the shag carpeting extends up to the ceiling, all the way around him. He's enclosed in a purple womb, purple of the hue that makes him pat his hips reflexively, searching for a knife to stab his own eyeballs out. The twin beds are pure white, uncomfortably padded-looking, fringed at the bottom. The bed nearest to him is piled with luridly colored clothing in mainly mustard tones. There are no pictures on the wall, no photographs - no TV, no visible bathroom, just two doors and enough purple to drown in.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Sam says. "Where the fuck am I?"
He sits down on the bed gingerly, nudging the clothing aside. The bedspread feels sticky and after a moment he gives up and shifts over to the table, anonymous dark plywood, at least familiar from the thousands of cheap motels they've lived in.
All that he can remember is the car. A hundred miles out, too goddamn drunk to hunt for ducks, much less disco fiends. Michael chattering away right in Sam's ear. Not even a hitch in his memory between then and now.
"I fell asleep," Sam tells the room. "Maybe this is a dream. God, I hope it's not a dream. I hope this isn't what my subconscious looks like. Dean, where are you?"
If he'd fallen asleep - if they'd reached their destination - if they were eaten by this grotesquerie of modern interior design - then Dean would be here too, maybe looking for Sam and Michael himself, maybe boogying under a disco ball. A whole lot of ifs and maybes, but they hadn't walked in here blind. They had a plan and Sam was still of sound mind and body, so their biggest gamble had worked. Now all Sam had to do was find Dean.
He nudges the suit on the bed with the tip of one finger, grimacing. It looked like his size, at least. He puts on the underwear first, white cotton y-fronts that go all the way past his bellybutton. The pants he recognizes from the worst thrift stores Dean ever dragged him to, heavy double-knit trousers, double pleated in the front. The longest crotch he's seen that wasn't worn by a member of the AARP. The sweater's a turtleneck, the jacket made of some sort of nubbly material. Square bear duds, all the way. They look like they were pulled out of a trashcan on the set of Starsky & Hutch. They're also the only clothing in the room.
He feels even worse once he's dressed. He's never worn such tight pants in his life and the suit feels slimy somehow, like its last owner jogged up ten flights of stairs and then had sex in it. He palms his cock through the pants, a poor attempt at comfort. He'd probably be able to see every wrinkle and ball-hair through these things. No help for it - maybe, he thinks, if he finds Dean, he can beat Dean up and steal his pants.
The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. He's in the polyester Overlook and he's already been sexually assaulted by a ghost, but he might as well just be stepping out with the ice bucket. Sam tugs on the hem of his turtleneck and tries to remember the layout of the plans he found online. It was all in his bag - the map, the blueprint, the names and photos of the missing - all their weapons and supplies. Fuck. Wouldn't be the first time they've walked naked into a hunt, but other than brainwashing, they've got no idea what to expect. Naked and blind after all. Hell of a first hunt, Sam thinks, and wonders where Michael is. Hopefully with Dean, which is something he didn't ever expect himself to think.
He knew the kid wasn't ready. Michael had spent the past year with Bobby and his strays, the hunters that passed through Bobby's yard, learning anything that anybody would teach him. Every time the Winchester brothers came through, Michael practically panted to show off his new tricks and skills, dogging Dean's heels for hours at a time, and it all boiled down to one thing: take me on a fucking hunt already. Dean had said no, and no again, and no the time after that, but the next time they were at Bobby's he'd taken Michael out for some bow hunting. They'd come back a little flushed and the next thing Sam knew they were all on the road together. Just having another body in the car makes Sam bicker with Dean like they were kids again, actually makes him miss passing through entire states with Metallica and nothing else. Michael's a buzzing insect with his endless questions and complaints, and weirdly enough, Dean's been nothing but a willing ear. He puts up with every little inanity that comes out of Michael's mouth, answers every stupid question, even chides Sam for being impatient.
"You don't even like kids," Sam had said, but Dean only shrugged.
"He's not a kid anymore and he's gotta learn somehow." Well, now Michael was going to find out what hunting was really like.
He hears Dean before he sees him. The twisting hallway blocks his view, but there's only one direction Dean's voice could be coming from and Sam breaks into a run before he can even think about it. It takes him a long time to hear the other voices that are mingling with Dean's and he skids to a halt just as the doorway comes into view, blindingly bright.
He slumps against the hallway. The jacket catches on the rough faux-stone. It's hard to think with his brother only yards away, in god only knew what state of mind. They had had a lot of theories walking into the Red Room - Michael's brainwashing ghost hotel was their best bet, in fact - but no evidence, no back up plan in case they were all separated. They didn't even think about what they'd do if they lost track of Michael.
Fuck, Sam thinks. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and steps through the doorway.
He flinches back from the light. It's a physical assault after the gloom of the hall. The first thing he sees is a white railing covered in eyes. It sends a chill down his spine, and not only because the thing is fucking hideous. The railing encloses the lower level of the lobby. There are less people around than he would've thought, from the sound of it. The railing creates a wrought-iron boundary around a small cocktail lounge. It's populated by a few loungers, faded like a photograph that's been left out in the sun. He doesn't see Dean at all; his eyes sweep the room twice but the guy in the bell-bottoms standing at the reception desk doesn't even ping Sam's radar until the man turns and he sees his brother's smile.
Sam wants to laugh his head off right there, in a freaky eyeball room in a freaky haunted motel, because of course, Dean is hitting on the receptionist. She's giving it right back to him, leaning so far over the counter that even across the room, Sam can see a bit of black lace in the deep vee of her velvet top. She looks more solid than the loungers, more alive. He barely registers Michael until Dean reaches over to muss up the kid's hair.
"Yeah," he says to the receptionist, "it's been just me and my kid brother since our folks passed. It's real hard sometimes, but family's so important, you know?" His voice sounds wrong, like it's been oiled smooth and slick, and Sam never noticed Dean had an accent until it's gone. His voice is lighter too, and maybe that's what Dean would sound like if he didn't spend so much time breathing in smoke. It doesn't matter, Sam thinks furiously, that's not your damn brother. "We're on a road trip across the states, see the world before Keith here goes off to college."
"That's so sweet," she coos and reaches for Dean, strokes long red fingernails down the inside of his wrist. When she smiles, her teeth are yellow and pointed. Sam can only see Dean's profile from where he's standing, but he'd recognize that expression anywhere, that slow smile, you're the only person in the world right now smarminess.
Sam's at the desk in a few quick strides. Michael rolls his eyes at Sam and pushes their bags into Sam's arms. Dean doesn't even look over. He smirks at the girl and dangles the keys for Sam to grab. "We're in, uh - Room 15, right, sweetheart?" He pitches his voice into a stage whisper, saying, "There's five American dollars in it for you if you'll take my brother with you."
Sam drops the bags where he's standing, buckles bursting to spill clothing all over the shag. Michael gapes up at him. Dean's head whips around, the fury in his eyes dying as he looks up, way up, into Sam's face. He flinches back when Sam grabs him, both hands coming up to pry stupidly at Sam's fingers, digging hard enough into Dean's cheeks that he can feel teeth beneath them. The receptionist is swatting at Sam, trying to grab Dean's hand back, but Sam doesn't even hear her.
"Angus Young," he says, leaning close enough to feel Dean's panicked breath on his face, "you dick."
Dean goes as limp as if Sam cut his strings, staggering back against the counter. It saves him from falling all together when Michael launches himself at Sam, yelling, "What are you doing to him?" Sam has enough time to actually feel bad for underestimating the kid; Michael shoots right under Sam's reach and makes a pretty spirited attempt to take him down. Then there's a second pair of arms grappling for Michael, hooking under his arms and dragging the kid bodily away from Sam. Sam doesn't hesitate. Michael fights him harder than Dean did, who's staring grimly up at Sam from where he's got Michael pinned.
"Ron Jeremy," Sam says, both hands on Michael's face, whose eyes immediately roll back in his head. Dean takes Michael's weight easily, steadying the kid until he's got his feet under him. Sam's already turning, tensing for the next attack, but the girl's gone, disappeared sometime during the fight. No one else in the room has even moved. Sam can hear laughter and ice tinkling against a cocktail glass somewhere behind them.
Dean sighs, absently rubbing at the nail marks the woman left on his arm. What looked like a caress left angry red stripes up and down his skin. "That was fuckin' weird," he mumbles. His eyes are unfocused, but he manages a smirk as he drags his eyes up and down Sam's body.
"So, uh, how's it hanging, Sammy?"
Sam's face goes hot. Michael snickers, and Sam turns his head to glower at the kid, snapping, "I wouldn't be laughing if I were you."
Mikey just grins, admiring his peach-colored paisley shirt, the tan slacks just as tight as Sam's. The pink scarf around his neck is the crowning touch. "Whatever, these are killer threads. You shouldn't be so pissy, Sam - Dean's the only one that really got fucked here." He reaches out a hand to tap against Dean's flower-shaped belt buckle. Dean swats Michael's hand away before Sam can do so much as twitch. Michael, unfazed, turns and starts pawing through their dropped luggage. Dean stares down at himself, his lip curling.
"Purple," he sighs.
"Should see where I woke up," Sam says
Dean tenses unexpectedly, his hands flying to his neck. He screws his face up at what he finds: the amulet is there, hanging on a thick gold chain, but so is a lion's tooth and several religious medals. Further inventory turns up nothing else. "Dude, they took my watch and my ring and shit." He whimpers a little when his fingers encounter mustache.
"Yep," Michael agrees, from the floor. "I think they got just about everything. None of the stuff in here is ours. I've still got that charm Bobby gave me, but I think that's it."
Sam crouches down next to Michael on the floor, digging through the open suitcases. There had to be something in there that would fit him, a new pair of pants that wouldn't show his sac off to the world. The orange shag is surprisingly cushy underneath his butt. Dean stares down at them. "I loved that watch," he says mournfully.
"Could be worse. I woke up having sex with a ghost."
Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "No shit? Huh. That's a new one - oh, wait, you remember that time with Dad in Coffeyville?"
"I really, really try not to." Dean grins down at him, eyes crinkling, and Sam drops his eyes to the pile of clothes. Blushing again. He huffs out a sigh, trying to distract himself. "Everything in here was created for midgets."
"I think you're screwed, little brother."
Michael coughs. "I think we're all pretty screwed here, and not just in the ugly pants dance. Unless I'm missing something - which is possible, Sam, I know - we don't have any weapons or clothes of our own. Or food. I'm hungry." He stares at them expectantly, his brows raised.
Sam shares a long glance with his brother. "Yep," is all Dean says.
Michael waits for more, frowning. "So … how are we going to beat the bad guy without any of our gear?"
Dean leans down to grab Michael's shoulder, shaking him gently. "We improvise, kiddo. It's too early in the game to panic." His grin just gets wider at the disgruntled look he gets back. "All right, pop quiz, young Skywalker. What are our options?"
Michael rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers, like a light bulb had gone off over his head. "Oh, I know! We get the hell outta here and come back with a less retarded plan?"
"Too defeatist. It'll never work. Come on, Mikey, you told me you were ready to be a real hunter. Prove it."
Sam cuts off the starry-eyed response that looks to be coming out of Michael's mouth. "I need to talk to you," he says to Dean, who goes willingly enough when Sam grabs his elbow, merely throwing over his shoulder, "I expect answers when we get back!"
There's an ornamental brick fireplace in the middle of the room, separated from the reception desk and the cocktail lounge by the eyeball railing. Sam tries not to look at it as he ducks them behind the fireplace. They're not remotely out of earshot, but it makes him feel better. Dean stares at him skeptically. "Is this the big kids conference where you tell me again that you're sick of babysitting?"
"No," Sam snaps, and then takes a deep breath. "No, I just - Dean, I think he's right. We're in way over our heads here. This was supposed to be an easy hunt for Michael's first time in the field and the first thing that happens is that we all get separated and brainwashed. This could get a lot weirder than it has already. Something's … something's just off. I can't explain it. And now we've lost all our gear -"
"We've got that freaky brain of yours," Dean says.
"Yeah, and that's the only thing that kept you guys from checking in as permanent guests. We should get Michael out of here, Dean. Bobby would murder us if he knew what we'd him gotten into. Let's just get out of here and come back without him, do the job ourselves."
Dean scrubs a hand over his head. "He's gotta learn how to do this sometime, Sam."
"There's something off here," Sam says again. "I feel like this could get really bad, really quickly. You feel it too, man. There's something - something's going to -" Sam can see Dean's face twist as he tries to think of something clever to say, some way to make the situation seem not quite so bad. Sam turns away from his brother, glares out the window instead. The room is swathed in sunlight and everything is glaringly, psychedelically bright. There's a wide, grassy field out there beyond the Red Room's front doors, faded like the old postcards that Dean used to send him in college, printed with jackalopes or long-dead motels in flyover states. He feels stoned, disconnected; maybe it really is just a dream, itchy pants and shaky knees notwithstanding, and he'll wake up and be back in the car with a sore neck and his brother. He'd even be glad to see that stupid kid.
He jerks when Dean reaches over, fingers scratching through the short hair at Sam's neck. Sam slides his eyes closed, feeling abruptly sober.
"You okay, little brother?"
He slumps against the rough brick of the fireplace. Even when Dean pulls away, he can still feel the warmth of that hand on his skin. "Yeah," Sam says. "No. I don't know."
"It's gonna be fine," Dean says. "It always is."
"What's the last thing you remember, Dean?"
Dean hesitates. He glances over his shoulder, seeking Michael. Sam follows his gaze, spots their protégé still sitting patiently by the suitcases, picking through toiletry. "The car," Dean says, after a moment. "Found the field, parked, I went around to the trunk to get our stuff out. Mikey fell asleep too, not long after you did."
"He did?" Sam asks, before he can stop himself. Dean raises an eyebrow and Sam blushes. "Nothing, never mind. I must've dreamed it."
"Dreamed what?"
"You and Michael - look, never mind."
"Uh huh," Dean says. "Anyway, I was just about to wake you guys up, and then I looked up at the - at the moon. And that's it." He makes a final sort of noise, bringing his hands together. "Next thing I remember is you grabbing me, saying the safe word."
Dean shakes his head abruptly, like a dog clearing water out of its ears. "Still waking up, I guess. It was like I was really living the dream, you know? I knew everything about that guy. How his folks died. What his brother was gonna major in."
Mikey pops his head around the fireplace right next to Sam's face, and Sam flinches back from the sudden almost-touch. "Hey Sam, do you think salt's an option here? They probably have a kitchen."
Sam frowns, confused. "We're inside of a ghost hotel, somehow I don't think they're going to have salt lying around." He doesn't add, why are you asking me?
"Lay off, Sammy," Dean says easily, reaching forward to tousle Michael's hair. "No. Salt's probably not an option here, but that's a good suggestion."
Michael smiles, tucking his hair behind his ears, and ducks back around the fireplace. Sam makes a face and Dean returns it, smirking. "Hey," he says, the smirk dropping off his face, "I've got a thought. And don't be a smartass. What do you think about it grabbing all three of us?"
Sam frowns. "Forty-six people went missing in separate incidents, but most of them came to the site with other people."
"Who all went home safe," Dean says. "There were - what - eight who went missing as pairs. No record of more than two people disappearing at a time, though."
"We're breaking pattern," Sam says.
Dean's chin dips down towards his chest. "Ghosts never break pattern," he says. "We just don't know what the pattern is yet." He stretches back against the bricks, his shoulder warm against Sam's even through the scratchy suit. They watch a woman lean against the white railing in silence. She shakes long blonde hair from her shoulders; she's laughing and blushing. Chatting with thin air, pushing playfully at someone who isn't there
"I don't think it's gonna let us leave," Dean says, his voice worn thin. "But it doesn't really matter." He looks tired, lines drawn deep in the corners of his frown. Sam keeps himself still, staring down at his brother. Dean looks up at Sam as if he's said something out loud, his eyebrows lifting. "I hear what you're saying, but even if we do get out of here, we can't bank on it taking both of us again. We have to get all these people out of here and that's priority number one."
Sam shrugs. "I guess we've been in tighter spots."
It earns him a smirk. "I can think of a few." Sam holds his gaze for a long moment. Dean looks about ready to kill someone for a cup of coffee, but his eyes are warm and confident and it makes Sam feel stupidly better about being totally screwed. As usual. "Let's do some recon, get the lay of the shag. You can start waking people up when we know everything's copasetic. And I guess we can always torch that motherfucker when we find him. It'll be fine, Sam - we'll just keep a close eye on Mikey, make sure he doesn't get his fool self into trouble. Cool?"
He doesn't wait for a response, just calls over his shoulder, "Mikey! You ready to roll out?"
Silence is the only response from the other side of the fireplace. They both stiffen, listening intently. "Mikey," Dean barks, "So help me god, if you've set foot out of this lobby I am going to fucking kill you!"
Nothing. There are clothes strewn around the suitcases, six bottles of aftershave lined up next to them, as if Michael was just waiting to show them the treasure trove. "Fuck," Sam says, staring. "Fuck." His hand twitches at his side, looking for the gun that he should be carrying.
"Yeah," Dean says, and sags back against the railing.
"I knew it," Sam says, kicking at a green polyester monstrosity. "I knew this whole thing was fucked. Didn't even goddamn occur to us, being taken more than once. And now we're going to have to go hunt him down and just hope to god he's still in one piece and the safe word will still even work on him -"
His mouth closes so quickly that his teeth click together; nothing planned about it, no conscious thought cutting him off. The hair on the back of his neck prickles. Dean is too quiet. No matter how exhausted he is, he should be up on his feet and haring after their charge, and Sam knows what happened, feels it like ice water down his spine.
"Dean?"
He knows what he's going to find when he turns around, but it's still a sucker punch to find empty space where his brother should be. The woman's still there, giggling behind her hand, and Sam wants to slap the smile off her face even though he knows she can't see him. She doesn't even know he's there, alone again and hunting naked and totally, completely screwed.
"Shit," Sam says, even though no one's there to hear him say it.
Chapter 2