Chapter Text
Sam was nearly asleep when Dean pulled the Impala into the parking lot of another dingy motel. The car was warm from the heaters on full blast, which had been on since around the time Sam had fallen asleep, which was before they'd even gotten into Massachusetts. The vents were making a quiet rattling sound as usual and Dean sat there in the warmth of the impala, avoiding the wet cold of the rain outside. After a few minutes, he relented and climbed out. The soft rocking movement of the old car soothed Sam back to consciousness. He whined and shifted on the spot, moving his eyes away from the outside light of the lampost nearby.
"Hey" Dean slowly waved his hand near Sam's face, making him flinch slightly. Sam inhaled sharply and grimaced.
"You awake there Sammy?" Dean chuckled, his laugh was full and he smiled wide when Sam groaned and swatted his hand away. He retracted his arms from the impala's cab and stuck his head in the doorway. Sam was barely visible in the lack of light, to which the only source was the neon sign of the motel and the street lights that lined the tiny parking lot. Yellow light from the nearby lamp poured in through the back window of the impala, lighting up his brother's back, and making his hair look a red-gold colour.
"Sit tight, I'm gonna go get us a room," Dean said matter-of-factly, hitting the top of the car with his palm before shutting the door, making the car rock side to side softly. Sam just hummed and nodded, and leaned against the door again. Dean stared across the parking lot at the front office of the motel, a bright red vacancy sign was lit up brightly in the pitch dark, casting vivid red streaks of light on the wet asphalt. Dean took the almost empty pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, using his teeth he pulled the last one out before discarding the red and white package in a nearby trash can. He lit it with his ever present zippo, before flicking it closed and putting it back in his pants pocket
"Ivory Street Motel…" Dean muttered, exhaling bitter smoke into the night. The sign was red and chunky with bright white letters, like all the other ones along highways and on the outskirts of cities. The sign was glowing just a little, it was clear the bulbs hadn't been changed in a while. That or it was meant to be like that, which wasn't unlikely. The light from the streetlamps reflected off the puddles on the pavement, and Dean's leather jacket. The air smelled nice, it was cool out and a mist of rain dampened his brown hair as he slowly walked across the lot. It was quiet and the only sounds in the cool night air were the rain and the sound of vehicles flying past on the highway. Dean took a deep breath, taking in the crisp scent of rain and forest, it was a nice change from the warm, coffee smell of the impala's cab. The small lot was surrounded in thick pine trees, a faint fog hanging just above them.
As Dean walked he saw a little, handmade poster attached to the sign. It was written in what he assumed to be black marker. The paper was wet, and the ink had slowly started running down. It read "300 miles to Sahlehm", ultimately pointless unless you took the time to pull into the parking lot, with the added note that Salem was spelled wrong, very wrong in fact.
"Sah-la-hem?" He read aloud, laughing softly.
It was July and the nights were warm now but the bite of rain and wind sent a faint shiver down Dean's back as the cool air blew through his sleeves. The rest of the lot was almost empty, only two other cars were visible. One was parked on the other side of the motel. Dean couldn't see it now but he'd seen it while he was driving in. It was a dark cherry red pickup with shiny chrome rims, it looked almost unsettling, in the dingy parking lot, it was pristine. Though, Dean would have felt the same about the impala if it weren’t his own car.
The other one was a beat-up Honda Civic, probably an 88'. It was grey, and rust was eating at the bottoms of the doors and the back end of the bumper. He sped up his pace, trying to keep from getting too soaked as he felt icy water dripping down the back of his neck. He jogged and stopped underneath the overhang of the roof. Water ran off of it in thick rivulets, which looked red and purple from where Dean was standing. He stood for a few minutes, blue smoke blowing away with the wind. Dean rested his head against the wall, breathing in the cold air again, letting the chill settle in him. After he was finished, he stomped out what was left of the cigarette and walked around the side of the small building, glancing into the window. There was a short, auburn-haired woman standing behind the counter and brightly coloured string lights were hanging from hooks on the wall behind her. Dean stepped into the motel office, giving the woman a wave as he walked. The overhead light was an unpleasant yellow colour and Dean could hear it humming faintly above him. The walls were off-white but the yellow light made the whole room look almost sickly.
"Pretty late stop huh?" The woman asked, her eyes darting up to the clock above Dean. It was late, so late that Dean was surprised that he even found a motel that was open. He laughed softly and nodded. Dean nodded, his wet hair clinging to his forehead as he approached the motel's front desk. The woman's eyes, the colour of warm honey, bore into his with a curious intensity. She looked to be in her late twenties, and there was a tired weariness about her that Dean felt a faint kinship with.
"Yeah, last-minute thing," Dean replied, his voice carrying the weariness of a long day's drive. "I didn't even plan on stopping here, but the weather's turned pretty nasty, and I didn't want to risk getting caught in that fog.” The woman nodded knowingly, her fingers idly tapping the worn wooden countertop.
"Wise choice. Those storms can play tricks on your mind, you know.”
Dean stopped for a moment, trying to study the nonchalant expression on her face. He cracked a small smile, feigning skepticism. “What do you mean by that?” Dean watched her eyes shoot back up to him from the desk, a subtle panic in her hazel eyes. Her gaze remained fixed on Dean, her eyes seeming to pierce through his facade. She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone.
"Let's just say," she whispered, pausing to think for a moment, “This counties got more than its fair share’a cold cases.” She swallowed heavily and leaned back.
Dean was about to press further when the motel's overhead light flickered, casting eerie shadows across the room. He glanced up at it, and the low hum grew louder. The woman glanced up too, her expression tense.
"That happens sometimes," she said, trying to sound nonchalant again. "Power surges in this old place." Dean nodded, a sudden, and familiar sense of unease, much like the cold began to settle in him.
"Two twins please," Dean said abruptly. She opened an old-style leger, like the walls and the light it looked old and worn, scribbled names and times all in different handwriting and pen colours. She picked up a glittery green gel pen and popped the cap off, which landed on the counter with a soft clink. Without looking up she spoke again, going to write a name in the book.
"Your name please?" She asked absently
"Colby. Colby Englund. You take Mastercard?” He untensed when she nodded her head. The exchange was short, he handed her the credit card, which, at the behest of Sam, he’d hadn’t used a classic rock name for because they’d have to talk to the vics bandmates and “They’re metalheads, they’ll see through you immediately” according to Sam anyways.
The woman handed Dean back his card and a room key. “Check-out is 11am” She said. He just nodded and took the brass key from her and left. It was a small, brassy-bronze-coloured key, a pink plastic label attached to a key ring hooked in it. In blue marker, the number 023 was written in squiggly handwriting, the same green glitter pen she’d used in the ledger, he thought as he made his way back across the parking lot to the impala where Sam was still half asleep. The car was an inky black, a warped reflection on its body of the neon open sign. The brightly coloured lines twisted across the dark metal, like a circus mirror. He popped the impala's keys from his pocket and unlocked the doors.
Dean pulled open the driver's side door with a soft squeak. He gave Sam's shoulder a shake.
"Sam. Sammy," Dean couldn’t help but chuckle when Sam jerked upright and looked at him in surprise with the sort of deer in headlights look his brother got so often.
“Got us a room for the night, gotta be out by 11 am though,” Dean said, a familiar boyish grin on his face at his tiny victory. Sam nodded and picked his bag up off the floor by his feet. Sam sniffed and slid out of the vehicle, shivering at the sudden cold of the wind and rain. Sam shook it off as Dean grabbed his bag, locked Baby’s doors and started off to the nearby door. Sam sluggishly followed behind him.
The beat-up white door unlocked with a satisfying, little *click*
As he entered the room, he found it to be a small, dimly lit space, with faded floral wallpaper peeling at the edges, two beds sat about four or five feet apart, with brown quilted bedding on them and old scuffed furniture. The rain continued to patter against the window, creating a rhythmic backdrop. Dean sighed, feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and curiosity. Sam followed after him slowly, not saying a word before setting his bag on the floor and dropping onto the bed on his stomach.
Dean pulled out his phone to check for any messages but found that he had no signal, just as he'd expected in this remote town. He sighed heavily, laying back on the bed and staring at the ceiling for a moment, almost studying the wooden boards above him before deciding to take a quick shower. The motel's shower was positively mediocre at best but it was enough for Dean, who afterwards, practically threw himself in bed, his still damp hair leaving faint watermarks on the pillow.
Morning came quickly, the July heat and sun seeped steadily into the room. It was just past 8am and Sam sat alone on the admittedly uncomfortable motel bed, his computer sat in his lap. Sam chewed his bottom lip, faintly tasting his cherry chapstick. Sam was staring at the screen, reading the same police report repeatedly like a song playing over and over in his head. He sighed, thinking, trying to find something that helped the case, which for once was pretty easy, to think that was. Dean was out getting food and coffee and the Dean-less silence helped him think, he wasn't getting anywhere but could hear his own thoughts. That and the cheap motel room's air conditioning, the noise was soft and mechanical, a low, clicking hum coming from the other side of the room. He continued to stare at the screen as if a answers would just fall into his lap like he wanted it to. He sighed and stood but was nearly knocked off his feet by a familiar skull-splitting pain between his eyes. Sam's knees buckled and he shrank to the floor.
He groaned and covered his eyes in vain as the pain spread down the back of his neck. Sam's vision went spotty and he felt like he was going to pass out, faint visions of tall, looming trees creeping into his mind.
The low rumble of wheels on pavement was the first thing he could hear, followed by a song he just barely didn't recognize playing louder than he'd like from the speakers but he can tell it's a metal song. The driver, a man with long, dirty blonde hair, he appeared to be the most sober of the group. Sam could see him drumming on the steering wheel, his fingers tapping out a rhythm to the heavy metal music. There was five men in the car, none of which he can place names for, but they looked young, around Sams age, give or take a few years. Though, Sam couldn't make out any of their faces clearly, except for two with shaggy dark hair. All of them wore band shirts and dark pants, and the car's interior was shrouded in darkness due to the lack of daylight outside. The driver's gold-rimmed glasses caught what little light the passing lamp posts provided, creating an eerie reflection. He could only see his eyes on occation when he looked up at the rearview mirror. Another spike of pain hit Sam and he could see an old apartment building, it almost loomed over Sam in the dim light of dusk, casting a long shadow over the decaying neighborhood it called home. Unlike its neighboring structures, this building seemed to have succumbed to the relentless march of time and neglect. Every aspect of its appearance was unsettling. Attatched to the aged brick wall was a flickering neon sign that read "Parkside Apartments." The image burned itself into Sams mind. It was yellow and blue, parts of the metal framing had rusted and broken, resulting it the whole thing listing to one side. The building had narrow windows, each framed by cracked and weather-beaten wooden sills, that stared out like empty eye sockets. Outside, the flickering glow of a broken streetlight and the neon sign cast shifting shadows. Dan, the driver, pulled over, glancing at Pat and Spencer in the rearview mirror, Sam briefly caught a glipse of the young mans eyes, they were blue.
"We're here, gentlemen," he announced with a grin. The two faces he could make out stumbled out of the dark green camry.
The pain faded but not before he saw the men one last time as they opened the door to the apartment.
Sam was staring at the brown and grey carpet of the motel room, blood slowly trickling from his nose. He heaved, almost unable to breathe, still crumpled on the floor. Usually, having a vision helped asnwer questions, but Sam had been having the same one for days, five guys in a car, driving home from a party but unlike the last few times, Sam had something, an address. The other times it was always the same, like a recurring dream, just the same five men, only two of which Sam could ever see properly, driving. They'd never made it anywhere until today.
Sam pulled his phone from his pocket and called Dean, who almost immediatly answered.
"Dean...I've got a lead"