A good friend of mine from the CW boards said this needed a second chapter. So Denmother, this is for you!!

Why do they always think…? Pt 2

There was a soft tapping at the door. Dean groaned in protest. The tapping turned into an insistent rapping. He threw a pillow at his sleeping brother's head.

"What?" Sam looked up from his pillow, blinking bleary eyes.

"Door. Quiet. Shoot to kill." His brother's rough voice said from under several pillows, trying to drown out the noise.

"Fine. You're the one who was all over the news anyway." Sam forced himself out of bed. His feet were leaden against the cheap motel carpet as he dragged them toward the annoying repetitive sound.

Sam grasped the cool metal of the doorknob and jerked the door open. A man dressed in the standard motel uniform, black pants, white shirt and red jacket, stood in the hallway behind a cart.

"What's this?" Sam asked, rubbing the sleep from his eye.

"Compliments of the management, sir." The older man grinned. "Champagne breakfast."

Sam just blinked at the man. "Do you have the right room?"

The man pulled out a paper. "Room nineteen. Occupants two gentlemen." He smiled at Sam. "Sound like you?"

Sam looked at the room number on the door. "Yeah, I guess so."

"May I bring it in then?" The man's grin widened into a broad smile. Sam shrugged as he stood aside, watching in utter confusion as the tray was brought in. From under the tray he brought out a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of champagne. "Should I open this for you, sir?" His eyes searched the room, found Dean with his head buried under the pillows.

"Tsk, tsk. Perhaps this should wait?" He thrust the bottle back into its bucket. "Our manager has also asked me to inform you that if you should wish to change to a room with a king sized bed, there will be no charge for the change. You two have a wonderful day, sir." He threw Sam a mock salute as he exited, closing the door softly behind him.

"Dean!"

"I said I'd shoot to kill!" Dean's voice was muffled under his pillows. Sam promptly knocked them off his face.

"What did you tell these people?" Sam demanded, gesturing angrily to the door.

"What? Nuthin'." He reached for his fallen pillows.

"Nothing, Dean? Nothing? Then why is a fifty year old bellboy delivering a complimentary champagne breakfast to our room?"

"Champagne breakfast?" Dean shot out of bed, rushing over to inspect the tray. "Dude, this is awesome! They even have those little round things you like."

"It's called quiche, Dean. And that's not the point." Sam huffed.

"Quiche, huh?" Dean picked one up and sniffed it. He shrugged, popping it into his mouth. "Not bad," he said around the food in his mouth.

"Dean!" Sam stood with hand on hips.

"Hmm?" Dean was spreading butter on a biscuit. "Dude, it's free. Eat up."

"Dean!"

"What!"

Sam glared at him for a moment. "Nevermind!" He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He paused in the hall, gathering his thoughts. As he headed back to the registration desk, a smile came over his face. Sam returned to the room fifteen minutes later. He helped himself to some of the food on the cart.

Dean cocked an eyebrow at his brother. "Done with your tantrum now, princess?"

Sam nodded, chewing quietly. There was a knock at the door. "It's for you," he said, turning his back to the door.

Dean shot Sam a quizzical look as he walked over to the door. When he opened it, the woman from yesterday evening was standing there.

"Mister Mahogoff, you didn't tell me it was your anniversary. This hotel has special policies regarding anniversaries."

Dean stood, slack jawed, propped up against the door frame. "Anniversary?" He looked back at Sam. Sam's was hunched over and his shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.

She leaned forward to whisper, "He thought you forgot. Oh, dear. Poor thing."

Dean rubbed a hand down his face, shaking his head. Misinterpreting what it meant, she patted him on the arm. "Here," she pressed an envelope into his hand. "Hopefully this will help." She stepped back and said in a voice loud enough for Sam to hear, "You gentlemen have a wonderful day, now."

Dean closed the door, his eyes throwing daggers at Sam.

Sam was openly laughing now. "So, what'd she give you?" he chuckled.

Dean opened the envelope. Inside were complimentary tickets to the local antique doll museum, a ten percent discount off a romantic dinner coupon, a coupon for the local movie theater, and a map for all the local antique shops. Dean pulled out the dinner coupon and tossed the rest into Sam's lap.

"Looks like your day is all planned out, buddy boy. All I need to do is find a charming young lady who would like to go to dinner." Dean grinned.

Sam cleared his throat. "Um, actually, she called ahead. They're expecting both of us. Candlelight dinner." A wide grin spread across his face. "Violins." Sam chuckled. "And the doll museum is for you and that huge doll collection you have." He waved the complimentary tickets at Dean. "It's supposed to put you in a good mood."

Dean stood looking at his brother for a moment, weighing his options. "Aaagghh!" he leapt across the room, tackling the larger man, knocking both of them to the floor. Sam was still laughing as he fought back. When they finished they sat on the floor breathing heavily.

"Jerk," Sam breathed.

Dean took a deep breath to respond, "Bitch."

Both were chuckling when another rap came on the door. Dean stood while Sam heaved himself off the floor and across his bed, still breathing hard. Dean opened the door slowly, still breathless. "Yeah?"

It was the manager again. She peered inside the room, saw Sam laying across the bed breathing as heavily as Dean, and smiled. She gave Dean's arm a squeeze. "That's why we're called The Lucky Arms. Don't worry, I'll make sure you aren't disturbed." She walked away humming.

"Who was it?" Sam asked, winded, as Dean shut the door.

Dean ran a hand over his head. "Remind me next time to check the name of the place we're staying, okay? This is just too weird."

Sam sat up. "Weird as in…?"

"As in, I don't want to talk about it."

From the expression on Dean's face, Sam knew he should not push it any more. But younger brothers are genetically designed to do just that. "So. When are we leaving for the doll museum?"

Dean's fist practically whistled as it hurtled through the air. Sam barely ducked in time.