Fic: Grey Ghost(5/7)
Fic: Grey Ghost(5/7)
Series: Special Projects
Summary: A drowning in a dry swimming pool draw the crew to Long Beach. Did we mention that the pool was on a haunted cruise ship?
Author: pen37
Beta: Clarksmuse
Fandoms: Smallville/Supernatural
Characters: Chloe, Sam, Dean
Pairing:Chloe/Dean
Rating: pg-13
This is a part of the Special Projects series. You can find the rest of the series here.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Zeddmore and Spengler's room was palatial in comparison to the one that Sam, Dean and Chloe were sharing. The suite had a large sitting room, master bedroom with it's own bath, and a smaller servant's quarters off to the side.
The sitting room itself was filled with video equipment, Dungeons and Dragons books, and dice. Dean looked at the tabletop gaming equipment, and rolled his eyes.
The Hellhounds missed his derision as they cued up the video for Chloe to watch. “This is video of one of the ghost tours earlier today. The tour guide keeled over and died right in front of them.”
“My guess is that the coroner's report will say something about acute pulmonary edema,” Sam said as he looked over Chloe's shoulder at the extremely bad video.
“See!” Spengler said excitedly. “Here! Right here!” He pointed out an image that was frozen in place. The tour guide was clutching at her chest, and leaning forward as if she were having trouble breathing. Behind her, a slightly blurry image of a woman in a pale, soaking wet dress with a forties-era cut stood out.
“Where did you find this video?” Dean asked.
“The guy who shot it was taking the tour. When he went back to his cabin and looked at the video, he saw her. Said that she wasn't there before.”
“Any chance we can get a positive ID?” Sam asked.
“Considering all the people who have passed through this ship? And given the sheer number of ghosts in residence?” Chloe said.
In response, Zeddmore picked up his video camera, and trained it on the three of them. “So what do you guys do in a situation like this?” he asked.
“For starters, we kick your ass unless you turn that thing off,” Dean growled.
“Hey man,” Spengler said. “This is our show. We got you that video that you're looking at. You guys wouldn't be poking around if not for us. So if you want our help, you help us with our show.”
“Dean,” Sam looked over at him with a pleading expression. “Come on. Just ignore them and focus on the job.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine. But talk to Chloe. She's our group public relations.”
Zeddmore and Spengler grinned at that. “So Chloe,” Zeddmore said. “What's the next move?”
Chloe glared at both Sam and Dean.
“We have to figure out what we're dealing with here,” Chloe said. “We may not even be dealing with a ghost. It could be a cursed object, or some kind of monster.”
“But given the setting, our money is on ghost,” Sam added with a grin.
“So the next step is research,” Chloe added. “We'll poke around the histories of the two folks who have died, and hope to find a common thread that links them. Something that might have brought them to the attention of a malevolent spirit. From that, we may be able to extrapolate what we're dealing with.”
“And we'll look into the ship's history too,” Sam said. “Maybe something happened in the past that would give us a clue why this is happening now.”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” Spengler said.
“Most detective work is,” Dean said. “You've got to get through the boring stuff before you can blast things with rock salt.”
“So,” Chloe looked at Sam with a smile. “Which do you want to handle? The ship or the deceased?”
“Let Dean and I handle the deceased,” Sam said. Which meant that they'd probably be impersonating an official of some kind. “We're good at that stuff. You can take your fan club and poke into the ship's history.”
“Fan club? You think he's talking about us, Ed?”
“I think he is, Harry.”
“Again they're not as funny as they think they are.”
“Bout as funny as a dead fish,”
“About that funny.”
Chloe rolled her eyes at Sam. “Thanks for winding them up, guys.”
“Any time,” Sam patted her shoulder.
* * *
Sam tugged at the collar of his brown suit as he and Dean walked up the front steps of a two-story suburban home. When they knocked on the door, a short, tired-looking brunette in a set of medical scrubs answered. She looked at them warily. One eyebrow quirked up in question.
“Mrs. Thompson?” Dean asked.
“Yes?”
He and Sam fished out business cards, and passed them to her through the cracked door.
“We're with First Trust and Security Insurance. Our firm represents the City of Long Beach, and the Queen Mary.”
“Oh,” her face relaxed from it's wary stance. “What can I do for you?”
“Cheryl lived here?” Sam asked.
“She was one of my foster kids,” Mrs. Thompson said. “She lived with me for eighteen months.”
“Do you mind if we come in and ask a few questions?” Dean pressed.
In response, Mrs. Thompson looked down at her scrubs. “I'm running late for work.”
“I'm sure that your employer would understand,” Sam replied sympathetically. “This will only take a few minutes of your time.”
She sighed, and rolled her eyes. “Okay, come on in.”
Mrs. Thomson's house had large ceilings and wide windows that let light in. The walls had framed photos of kids who had obviously been her foster children at one point or other and every available space on the refrigerator was covered in crayon drawings and macaroni art.
She led Sam and Dean to the kitchen table, and then poured each of them a mug of coffee. Once she sat down across from them, Sam pulled out a notebook and began to ask her questions.
“Did you ever suspect that Cheryl had a health condition?”
Mrs. Thompson shook her head. “Out of all of my kids, Cheryl was the healthiest. She usually helped me take care of the younger kids.”
“So she's never had any kind of problems with asthma?” Dean asked. “No history with breathing problems?”
She shook her head. “I take the kids in every fall and spring for annual check-ups. And Cheryl tested fine. She had her flu shot in the fall, and she took vitamins.”
“Did she ever mention seeing anything strange in the days leading up to her death?”
Mrs. Thompson shrugged. “You might ask her friends: Dub Walters and Matt Lewis.”
Dean looked at Sam and raised an eyebrow in question. Sam nodded in response.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Thompson,” Sam said. “We don't want to make you any later for work.”
As they walked back to the Impala, Sam glanced speculatively at Dean. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Dean had been positively giddy since Chloe had agreed to marry him. Sam hated to be the one to burst Dean's bubble, but he and Chloe needed to deal with her misgivings constructively. Otherwise they could be setting themselves up for the very mistakes that she feared.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“About Chloe.”
Dean's grin was positively gleeful. “Yeah?”
“Did she see seem a little bit . . . off to you?”
“What are you talking about?” Dean's eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head at Sam.
“Just . . . Has she seemed a little nervous, or something?”
Dean shrugged. “Maybe pre-wedding jitters. Aren't chicks supposed to get those?”
“Nevermind.” Sam shook his head. He just didn't see an easy way to talk to his brother about this. Dean was a smart guy. He'd probably picked up on Chloe's uneasiness. Problem was, Dean had a tendency to bury his head in the sand and insist that everything was alright, even when things were falling down around their ears.
Sam sighed. Maybe he should talk to Chloe instead.
* * *
The business cards worked at the high school where Dub Walters and Matt Lewis attended. The boys were serving detention, and a stern-faced principal pulled them out to sit at a picnic table with Sam and Dean.
“Now you two boys are in enough trouble for sneaking off from that field trip.”
Dean turned to hide a smirk at the principle's demeanor. It reminded him of his own high school experience.
“These young gentlemen have questions about Cheryl's death. I suggest the two of you answer all of them. If you know what's good for you.”
The boys waited until the principle had walked away to glare at them from a distance before they rolled their eyes.
Sam and Dean looked at one another, and Sam nodded for Dean to take the lead in this instance. Dean bobbed his head in quick agreement, and sat down across from the two boys.
“Sorry to bring Principle Hard-Ass down on you two,” he said apologetically. “Dude reminds me of my own principle.” He shuddered theatrically. “Scary guy.”
The boys looked at each other and grinned before looking back at Dean. “No hard feelings man,” The one on the right said. “You got us out of class. So the way we figure it, it's all good.”
“Tell you what,” Dean said with a grin. “Why don't we cut a deal? I'll keep you guys out her and out of class for as long as I can. And you guys tell me everything you remember about Cheryl's death.”
The two of them looked at each other and shrugged. “Sounds good.”
“Start off with your names,” Sam piped in as he pulled out his notebook.
The kid on the right shrugged again. “I'm Dub. This is Matt.”
“How did you guys know Cheryl?” Dean asked.
“Okay I guess,” Dub said. “When you get into detention as much as we do - we did. You tend to stick together. Survival instinct.” Dean and Sam both nodded in agreement. If you didn't find someone to just hang with, sooner or later you were easy pickings for the jocks - or in Cheryl's case, maybe the cheerleaders.
“So you guys snuck off from the field trip, and went to check out the pool.” Sam prompted.
“It was just -something to do,” Matt said wit a shrug. “We didn't know Cheryl was going to --” He broke off an shook his head.
“Do you remember anything weird happening? Strange noises?” Dean asked.
“Other than the ones the hotel manufactures for the ghost tour,” Sam added.
Matt and Dub looked at each other in confusion. Matt shook his head. “I ran to get help.” he said.
Dub looked down, as if mentally debating with himself what to say.
“Dub,” Sam leaned forward, and touched the boy's hand. “Whatever you say - I promise it won't sound weird. But someone else in that hotel died the exact same way that Cheryl did. Now we're trying to make sure it doesn't happen again. I promise that anything you have to say - we're going to take it seriously.”
Dub looked from Dean to Sam and back. Then he sighed, and lowered his head. “I'm sorry. Alright?”
“It's okay,” Sam said with a sigh.
“No --” He shook his head. “You don't understand. I thought I heard someone say - I'm sorry.”
“I'm sorry?” Dean lifted an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Dub shrugged. “But - that could have come from anywhere, right? Echo off the tile or something?”
“I'm sure that's all it was,” Sam nodded in a comforting manner.