Funny how the start of a new season of SPN always kick-starts my writing habits. Please review, and as always, I answer all reviews at my blog. And no, I don't own the boys.
There's something to be said for the fall in backwoods Maryland, thought Dean as he floored the accelerator. The trees outside, orange, red, yellow, purple, blurred into a rainbow as the Impala roared down the empty two-lane highway. Tangerine was playing softly on the radio, the gentle guitar licks and harmonies a perfect soundtrack to the vista outside the windows.
Sam was sacked out in the back seat, sprawled awkwardly in sleep. He was on the last leg of recovering from a nasty bout of food poisoning, which Dean may or may not have had something to do with, and was spending most of his time either sleeping or puking. But the worst was over now. At least Dean hoped so. Vomit was not his favorite thing.
Bored. Bored bored bored. Dean quirked a small smirk, then slammed hard on the brakes with both feet. The tires of the car squealed in protest, sending up an acrid smoke to mark their passing. Dean couldn't stop a little giggle as he felt Sam's body tumble forward and slam against the back of the seat, accompanied by a heart-felt "Fuck!" from Sam.
"What is it?!" Sam poked his shaggy head into the front seat, scanning for danger, his eyes still bleary with sleep.
"Deer. Came out'a nowhere." Only Dean's supreme self-control stopped him from laughing at the confusion on Sam's face. "You sleep okay?"
Sam grunted as he climbed over the seat to settle in the front. He fisted a hand against one of his eyes and nodded. "Stupid Bambi," he muttered and Dean allowed himself a chuckle. "We nearly there?"
"About ten minutes out." Dean jerked his chin toward Sam's notebook on the floor. "Give me the details again."
Sam groaned out a sigh as he reached for the book, fatigue still obvious in the stiffness of his movements. "On Halloween, a grave in a small rural town is dug up and the body stolen. Grave dates from the 1700s. Since the robbery, there's been a series of strange deaths within a fifty mile radius, all involving dismemberment, all victims were male." Sam sighed again and scraped a palm through his hair. "Looks like it was a professional job. The grave was neatly dug out, square and level, with ceremonial objects found in the area."
"So the body is gone altogether. Wasn't a salt and burn job?"
"They took the whole coffin. Nothing left behind."
"Anything about the corpse? Who was it?" Dean tapped the brakes once as he spotted a weathered road arrow indicating Ipswich, and then slowed to turn down a narrow pea gravel road.
"Not much. Sarah Nichols, died May 7, 1715, at the age of 32. Not able to find much beyond that. We'll have to check the local records for cause of death."
"What about our victims?"
"We've got pedestrian versus train, dismemberment. Farmer and a combine, dismemberment. Pilot and a prop 'plane."
"Lemme guess, dismemberment." Dean made a gruesome face, clearly grossed out by the thought.
"And a freak chainsaw accident…well, you get the picture." Sam tapped his fingers on his notebook, chewing his lower lip and trying to ignore the rocking motion of the car that was making his stomach do an uneasy rumba.
Dean guided the Impala around a sharp turn and slowed to a crawl as the small town came into sight. Barely more than a rough-paved main street, there was a line of run-down shops and houses, with a grungy-looking service station and a small, clapboarded church. "Great. Deliverance," muttered Dean, pulling to a stop at the service station.
Sam unfolded himself from the car with a groan at his creaking joints. His stomach gave a little twinge of protest and his mouth began to water, and he swallowed hard against the wave of nausea. Dean looked at him with concern, but Sam waved him on, spitting out a mouthful of thick saliva and resting his forehead against the cool roof of the car.
With one last glance at his brother, Dean ambled toward the bay of the garage, calling out, "Hello?" A grizzled head, topped with a grease-stained trucker cap, poked around the corner of the garage door.
"Yep?" The owner of the head, a portly man in filthy coveralls, walked out to meet Dean, wiping his hands on an equally filthy rag. "Help ya?"
"How ya doin'?" Dean stuck his hand out for a shake, but the mechanic just looked at him with disinterest. Dean gave a little cough and jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Okay. Um, I was wondering if there's a motel around here where we could stay for a few nights."
The mechanic jerked a thumb toward the center of town. "Bed and breakfast up the street."
Friendly town, thought Dean, smiling a half-hearted thanks and turning back toward the car. Sam was back in the passenger seat, his eyes closed and his face pale. Dean felt a twinge of pity for his brother, and eased the door of the car shut rather than slamming it. The engine rumbled back to life with a throaty purr, and Dean noted with some satisfaction that the mechanic couldn't resist a look of admiration at the car.
Less than a half-mile up the road Dean spotted a small wooden sign proclaiming, Ipswich's Own Bed and Breakfast. He eased the car to a halt and gently punched Sam in the shoulder. "Come on, Barfing Beauty." Sam exited the car without a word, his misery clear but unspoken. Dean again took pity on his brother and carried both of their duffels up to the front door.
The house was an incongruous sight, all fresh paint and eyelet curtains, set between two battered and run-down duplexes. The front porch was set with a pair of wicker rocking chairs, and a wicker table set with a bowl of cut flowers. Dean raised an eyebrow. "This place is kind of fruity, bro. Sure we want to stay here?"
"I'm not sleeping in the car, Dean." Sam's tone would brook no argument, so Dean shrugged and raised a hand to knock. But before he could do so, the door was flung open and the brothers found themselves face to face with what appeared to be an oompa loompa.
But no, it was only a wizened old woman with a high blond dye job and what appeared to be an addiction to spray-on tanning. Her face broke into a wide smile and she grasped Dean's elbow with surprising strength. "Welcome to Ipswich, darlings!" she trilled, pulling Dean over the threshold into a sitting room that smelled of potpourri and mothballs. "Are you here on a colors tour?"
Dean shot a look toward Sam, who had followed them inside and was looking nothing short of miserable. "Yes, love those fall leaves, ma'am," Dean answered, disengaging his arm from the old lady's grasp.
"I'm Joyce Franklin, proprietor of Ipswich's finest bed and breakfast," she gushed, running her hand down Dean's bicep. "How many nights will you be staying with us?"
"Can we just play it by ear, Ms. Franklin?" Sam piped up from the hallway, clearly ready to take his leave of Joyce and collapse into bed.
"Of course, darling, of course." She stepped around Dean and grasped Sam's hand with her own. "And it's Joyce." She gave a wink and a smile, her heavily mascara'd eyelashes fluttering like wings. "But I'm sure you boys would like to clean up before dinner."
At the word 'dinner', Sam turned a distinctly unhealthy shade of pale, so Dean stooped to pick up both duffels. "Yes ma'am, we'd love to get cleaned up."
"Up the stairs, third room on the right, darlings. Dinner is spot on six." Joyce pressed a key into Dean's hand, and then gave his arm a final squeeze. Dean got the distinct impression that it wasn't his arm she wanted to be squeezing.
Puffing under the load, Dean took the stairs two at a time, followed closely by a greenish Sam. He unlocked the door and chucked the duffels in, only to be pushed aside by Sam, who rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
With a sympathetic little chuckle, Dean flopped to a seat on one of the twin beds. Both beds were swathed in thick, ruffled bedspreads, with an inconvenient number of throw pillows scattered at the headboard. The wallpaper was a sunny yellow, with a curling pattern of lighter yellow roses twisting and climbing through it.
Dean heard the toilet flush and turned as Sam emerged from the bathroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Wordlessly, Dean dug his hand into Sam's duffel bag and proffered forth a toothbrush, which Sam took with a grumble.
"Surprised that you have anything left to throw up, princess," commented Dean. Sam just shook his head in misery. "But on the plus side, I don't think Joyce will let you get away without seconds and thirds of everything." Sam paled. "Especially spinach casserole."
Dean was answered by the slam of the bathroom door.