Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own the pretty boys or their show.

A/N: Thank you everyone for the reviews, I loved reading them all and have replied where I could. This is the second part of 'Room Number 13,' continuing on from Chapter 2. Enjoy!

Room Number 13-Part Two

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Nearly an hour later, the Winchester brothers found themselves lying on opposite sides of the narrow mattress, as far apart as they could get, which, admittedly, wasn't far at all.

Despite being crowded against Dean, shoulders pressing, Sam couldn't help the small smile which came to his face. It had been a long time since the two of them had shared a bed, and he couldn't help but be reminded of nights as a kid sneaking into Dean's bed, full of faith that big brother could protect him from everything bad in the world.

Sam turned his head towards his brother as he felt Dean roll over and dig around in his bag, which lay on the narrow strip of floor next to him. His smile faded quickly, however, as he caught the dim gleam of a sharp-bladed knife in the near darkness.

"Dean, there's no way I'm sleeping with a knife in the bed."

"Well, there's no way I'm not."

Sam shook his head, feeling the old track-pants he had rolled up into a pillow dig into his head. "Dude, no."

"When that evil spirit guy from the lobby attacks us, you'll be glad of it," Dean retorted, placing it under the one and only pillow in the room, which he had seized when Sam had finally managed a short, cold shower with the last of the water.

"For the last damn time, Dean, he's not evil and he's not gonna attack us. And anyway," Sam added, matter-of-factly, "knives don't work against spirits."

"This baby's pure silver. It'll do some damage, whatever the hell he is."

"He's a human!"

"So it'll work just fine then."

The bed shifted again as Dean snaked his hand around the knife handle. Sam grumbled to himself, but settled down, stretching out his legs and wishing, as always, that motel beds were longer. He kicked at the blankets, trying to loosen them enough that he could slip his feet out.

Dean clouted him on the collarbone.

"OW!"

"Quiet, Sammy, you'll wake the neighbours."

"What was that for?" Sam demanded furiously, not bothering to lower his voice as he reached up to rub his now aching shoulder.

"You're letting cold air in."

Sam continued to push at the blankets with his feet. "I don't fit on this stupid bed," he grumbled.

"Then go sleep in the car and we'll all be happy."

"I'm not sleeping in the car."

"Then shut up about not fitting. It's your own fault, anyway."

"How is it my fault?"

"Well if you weren't built like the Jolly Green Giant, you might actually fit on here, like everybody else."

Sam stilled. "So I'm not normal, is that what you're saying?"

"Course you're not normal," Dean retorted, without hesitation. "No one is as tall as you are." He paused. "Unless they're part of a circus or something."

Sam didn't reply.

"You know, the circus, the place where the clowns live."

"Shut up."

"Make me, Clown Boy."

"What does that even mean?" Sam demanded, yet only a soft snore answered him. He rolled his eyes. "I know you're awake, Dean."

Dean didn't respond.

"Dude, no one can fall asleep that fast."

A grunt sounded from the other side of the bed, and Sam twisted his head to the right.

"Dean! We were in the middle of a conversation!"

A loud snort bounced through the room, and Sam sighed.

"And I'm meant to be the freak," he muttered, rolling onto his side, away from his brother, still kicking at the blankets, but more quietly this time. He closed his eyes, and had started to drift off when another snore echoed through the tiny motel room.

"Shut it, man."

Another, louder, snore was the only answer.

"Dean!"

His brother only started to snore with each breath he took in, as well as out.

His frustration growing, yet unwilling to move even the slightest bit more than he had to, Sam awkwardly stretched his arm out behind his back and poked the sleeping figure next to him, possibly more violently than was necessary.

Dean woke with an abrupt jerk, cursing loudly.

"What the hell?" Blinking furious to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark, Dean looked over at Sam, eyes narrowed in the near darkness. "What was that for?"

"You were snoring," Sam stated.

"Well if you'd slept in the car like I suggested, you wouldn't be able to hear me, would you?"

"I'm not sleeping in the freaking car!"

"Why the hell not?"

"Because!"

"For a guy who was doing pre-law, you suck at arguing, Sammy."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

"I swear, Dean, you're like a little kid sometimes."

"I know you are, but what am I?"

"A jerk."

"Takes one to know one."

"I hate you."

"Yeah, well, I hate you more."

"Do not."

"Now who's immature?"

"Shut up."

"Says you."

"Dean!"

"Yes, Sammy?"

"Shut…the…hell…up."

"Make me, Clown Boy."

Wishing that he had a pillow to pull over his head, or possibly to smother his brother with, Sam instead just closed his eyes, taking deep, calming breaths.

"Sam?"

The younger hunter told himself not to react, that it would only egg Dean on.

"Sammy?"

He reminded himself that fratricide was a crime.

"Saaaammmyyy…"

And there was the whole cleaning up the evidence thing, which he was certain would be a pain in the ass.

"Clown Boy?"

Of course, Sam thought, anybody in any jury would understand that murdering Dean was a completely justifiable action five seconds after meeting the older Winchester. There was the small matter of Dean not being alive to meet them, but really, that was only a bonus. To his credit, however, he summoned all his self-control and gritted his teeth, determined not to give Dean the satisfaction of knowing he was being annoying.

After several long minutes, Dean fell silent, obviously bored of trying to irritate someone who refused to respond. Sam felt his brother shift about in the bed next to him, delivering a couple of kicks to the younger hunter's shins which Sam was sure were purposeful.

Slowly, Dean's breathing evened out as he fell into sleep, one from which Sam knew he would wake instantly at the slightest hint of a threat. Relishing in the silence, he let his own breathing match Dean's, let the whispered rhythm soothe him along with the darkness. Soon, the soft, slow inhalations of both brothers rose and fell in complete synchronicity as they slept.

It was the first night in many that Sam Winchester did not wake up in a cold sweat from nightmares that he alone could do nothing about.

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"Yo, Sam! You ready?"

"Give me a minute, would you?"

"Move your ass!" was the only response, and Sam grinned to himself as he shoved the last pair of socks into his duffel, before straightening and heaving the bag onto his shoulder. Swift strides took him to the doorway, and, digging through his pockets, he pulled out the small metal key the hotelier had given them the night before. Edging out onto the small patio drenched in bright sunshine, he hooked his foot around the door to pull it shut, and locked it. Dropping the key back into the front pocket of his jacket, he moved towards the Impala. Dean was leaning up against the car, unconsciously mirroring his position of the previous night, the trunk hanging open as he waited for Sam to deposit his stuff inside.

A smile still on his face, Sam let his bag drop with a thud into the trunk, then stepped lightly back as Dean slammed it shut.

"You're in a good mood," the older hunter commented, swinging the car keys round on his finger.

Sam just ducked his head, lips quirking. The past night's sleep had been the best he'd had in longer than he could remember. Whistling happily under his breath, he headed up the narrow path lined with low bushes to the motel lobby.

A different man was sitting behind the desk this time, swinging back on a rackety chair, bearded, and clothed in a plaid shirt stained with old coffee. He glanced up at Sam as he entered.

"Lookin' for a room?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. "No, actually, my brother and I stayed here overnight. I just came to return the-"

Yet the man, frowning, interrupted Sam. "How'd ya get in? The rooms are all locked when no one's stayin' in 'em."

Sam looked at him, puzzled. "The old man who was here last night, he gave us the keys."

"What man?"

"The creepy one," Dean interjected, having come inside after Sam. "With the glasses."

"There ain't anyone like that workin' here."

The brothers exchanged a glance, then Dean stepped forward.

"Look, mister-"

"Name's Fred."

"Fred. We got the keys from the guy yesterday. Sam, you got 'em, right?"

"Yeah." Reaching into his jacket pocket, Sam fumbled for the key he had put there only minutes earlier. Finding his pocket empty, he tried the other one, then his jeans, back and front. Finally, he glanced over at Dean and shrugged. "I didn't give them to you, did I?"

"Don't think so," Dean answered, but he checked his pockets anyway. Coming up empty, he looked over at the man on the opposite side of the counter. "We probably just left them in our room or something. Sammy here'll go check right now."

"You check," Sam retorted, yet his attention was brought abruptly back to the third person in the room, who had swung forward on his chair, letting the wooden legs land with a slam on the hard floor.

"What was the room number?"

"Number 13," the brothers replied simultaneously.

Fred shook his head. "There ain't no Number 13 in this place."

"Yeah, there is," Dean retorted. "'Cos we stayed there last night. Small room, looks like a box. Not much leg room."

The man pushed his chair back and stood to his feet behind the desk. "You boys are crazy. I've owned this here motel for near on twenty years, and my Papa owned it before me, and I know as well as anybody that we got twelve rooms here, 'n not a brick more."

"And I know as well as anybody that we spent last night in room Number 13," Dean returned, his jaw tightening.

"What you two boys get up to at night is your own business," the man replied, eying them suspiciously, "but I'll not have you making…wild accusations about my Papa's motel which he built with his own two hands!"

Narrowing his eyes at the familiar suggestion, Dean stepped forward, placing his hands on the counter firmly and leaning into them menacingly. "For the last damn time, mister, Sam here is my brother. My frater. Frere. Fratello. Hermano. Nothing more, nothing else."

"I don't care what he is to 'ya," the man retorted. "All I care about is not havin' no psychos in my motel!"

Sam, who had taken a pacifying step back as his brother took one forward, noticed that one of the hotelier's hands had crept under the desk, reaching, most likely, for a firearm of some sort.

Fred was still blustering at Dean, his voice becoming louder, his accent more pronounced. "So if you two aren't lookin' for a room, then you're gonna git your asses outta my Papa's motel before I call the sheriff!"

"But-" Sam felt it necessary to interject, in an attempt to placate the man.

"Out!"

"Look, Fred-"

"Get out!"

Raising his hands, Sam backed off, pulling an aggravated Dean by the sleeve of his jacket. "Okay. Okay, we'll go. We don't want any trouble."

"Says you," Dean muttered under his breath, but he let himself be tugged out of the lobby. When they were outside and standing side by side next to the Impala, he turned to Sam. "What the hell was that all about?"

Sam shook his head confusedly. "No clue. Let's just get out of here before that guy starts shooting at us." When Dean did not respond, he nudged his brother. "Come on."

Yet Dean had turned around, and was looking in the direction of the room they had stayed in. He frowned. "Hold on a sec-"

"What?" Sam asked as he headed round to the Impala's passenger door.

"Something's missing," the older hunter murmured, his brow creased as he stared at the long brick building standing on the other side of the parking lot where the rooms were located.

"What are you talking about?"

Dean did not answer, and instead started on a path towards the rooms.

"Dean!" Quickly checking to make sure that Fred hadn't followed them outside brandishing a rifle, Sam hurried quickly over to his brother. "Dude, come on, we gotta get out of here."

Yet the older hunter was standing stock-still, sharp hazel eyes scanning the low building. "It stops at Number 12."

"What?"

"The rooms. Look, man."

After throwing another apprehensive glance back at the lobby, Sam looked, his eyes travelling along the various doors, identical except for the number posted on them in large bronze figures. Nine…ten…eleven…twelve…

He stopped. "What the hell?" he murmured. He glanced over at Dean, and together they strode towards the very last room in the block until they stood on the small sheltered porch. They stared at the large number '12' before them.

"Dean?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Yet Dean had jumped off the small porch, and was walking around to the corner of the long building, gazing beyond it as though in hopes of seeing another solid, albeit small, room adjoining Number 12. Finally, he walked back to Sam, raising one hand to run it over his dark blonde hair.

"You're sure it was-"

"Yeah," Sam answered, without waiting for his brother to finish. "I had the key in my pocket this morning. I locked the door, I'm sure of it. Number 13."

"Huh."

When the older Winchester did not say anything more, Sam looked at him, eyes wide. "Dean, man, where the hell did we sleep last night? That guy in there was right, there's no Number 13 here, doesn't look as though there's ever been."

After a few silent seconds, Dean shrugged and reached his hands into his jacket pocket, pulling out the car keys. "Well, that's one for Unsolved Mysteries," he commented, as he turned and began the short walk back to the car.

Sam hurried to catch up. "That's it? That's all you're gonna say?"

"Yep."

"We don't know where we slept last night, Dean!"

Dean raised his eyebrows as he came to a stop next to the Impala. "If that's the first time that's happened to you, then you need to get out more, Sammy."

"I'm serious, Dean."

"So am I." Pulling the door open, Dean lowered himself into the car and busied himself in rolling down the window.

Ducking slightly so he could see into the Impala, Sam gazed at his brother. "Shouldn't we investigate this or something? I mean, our motel room disappeared!"

Dean shrugged. "You can go look for it all you want, Sammy, but I'm not sure if Fred over there would appreciate it too much."

Following his brother's nod, Sam saw a dark shadow move behind the lobby window.

"And besides," Dean continued, "the way I see it is that no one got hurt, doesn't look as though anyone ever will, so there's no use looking into it."

"But, Dean-"

"Get in the car, Sam."

"No!" Sam shook his head urgently. "We have to find out what's going on, it's our duty."

"Duty?" Dean repeated sceptically. "Dude, nowhere in the Hunter's Handbook does it say anything about investigating disappearing motel rooms."

"There is no 'Hunter's Handbook.'"

"Then it sure as hell can't say anything about it."

"Just give me a minute, will you, Dean?"

Yet Dean simply reached forward and wound up the window again. Sam banged on the clear glass, yet the older hunter just turned the key in the ignition. When the car started to roll forward, Sam hurried round until he stood in front of the slow-moving Chevy.

"Hey!"

The car stopped, the window winding slowly down for a second time. Dean's head appeared out the side.

"Dude, move."

Sam shook his head. "We gotta look into this, man."

"You can look around all you want, but I gotta tell you, hitchhiking's gonna be a bitch out in the middle of nowhere like this."

Sam delivered an angry glare towards the older hunter, yet it seemed to have no effect as the Impala started to shift forward again.

"Dean," he tried, one last time, but his brother pulled his head inside the car.

"Sorry, Sammy, but I'm getting out of here before Fred over there starts shooting."

Twisting quickly round, Sam watched the door to the motel lobby swing open, and the bristling, bearded figure that was Fred shove its way out, wielding an antique rifle which glinted sharply in the morning light.

"Dean, we can't-" Sam started, yet was interrupted by the sound of a gunshot ripping through the air. Only a few feet away from him, a sharp puff of dirt shot up from the dusty ground, sending small stones scattering over the parking lot.

"Sam, get in," Dean ordered, revving the engine loudly.

"But-"

Another shot went off and more stones scattered, closer this time.

"Now would be good, Sam!"

Sending one last regretful glance towards the row of rooms, Sam darted round to the passenger side and wrenched open the door.

"We're going already!" he heard Dean shout, as he swung himself into the seat and slammed the door shut.

Without further ado, Dean put his foot down flat, and the tyres screamed as they sought purchase on the dusty gravel before the car finally shot forward, leaving only the echo of the engine in her wake.

"I can't believe you're just ignoring this," Sam grumped, shoving his long legs under the low dashboard and trying to arrange them so it was comfortable.

"I'm not ignoring it, I'm getting out of the way of a maniac with a rifle," Dean retorted as the car spun out of the driveway, taking a sharp corner towards the main road. "And feel free to go back and play target practice for Fred anytime you want."

Slouching down in his seat, Sam cast an irritated glance back at the motel and its owner. "Why would he shoot at us?" he muttered, annoyed. "We were trying to help."

Dean's eyes were fixed on the road ahead. "Tell you what, Sammy, you can do your research thing and if you find anything about disappearing motel rooms claiming unsuspecting victims, we'll head back and exorcise that room, or Fred or whatever."

Sam simply glowered at him. "Doesn't this bother you?" he demanded.

"Nope."

"But you always get pissed when we can't figure something out."

Dean paused. "Yeah. But we don't usually get shot at either."

Sam snorted, and Dean cast him a glance.

"What?"

"What about that time in New York?"

"Misunderstanding."

"Philadelphia, with that gremlin?"

"Dude, we were trying to kill it, of course it was going to shoot at us."

"Missouri."

"That was Dad's fault."

"Yeah, it was." Sam paused, thinking. "Okay, how 'bout Georgia, the year I started highschool?"

"That was your fault."

"What? No, it wasn't."

"Sam, you told the owner of that abattoir that the spirits of the dead cows were haunting the place."

"They were!"

"Yeah, but you don't actually tell people stuff like that."

"Fine. How about Virginia?"

Dean smirked. "That was my fault."

"Yeah? How?"

"There was this girl, you see, and her dad kinda found out about us-"

"I don't wanna know," Sam interrupted, holding up a hand in protest.

"But she could do this thing, Sammy," Dean began, but the younger hunter just reached forward and flicked on the radio, turning the volume up loud enough to drown out his brother's voice.

Taking a hand off the wheel, Dean turned the volume back down as the Impala broke onto the freeway and roared forward, hungrily swallowing up the empty miles beneath her.

"Hey, Sam?" he asked, after a few miles had passed by.

"Yeah?"

"I told you that guy last night was a malevolent spirit cursed to give people bad rooms."

"Shut up."

Dean just grinned and kept driving.

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A/N/N: As I didn't have your email j, I am actually a Sammygirl at heart, but I love Dean too, and he just refused to lose this round. :P Hope you don't mind!

Thanks for reading everyone, and I'd really, really love to hear what you thought!