Dean huffed as he got out of the Impala and chugged a duffel bag out of the trunk, unloading the car. They had a lot of baggage to get and it was going to be fairly time consuming. He took two more out before trucking them into their newly acquired stay. John, already ahead of Dean, opened the door for Dean as he hefted them inside the hotel.
As John went over to the desk, Dean observed the lobby. It was slightly higher quality than he was used to. The walls were a cream color, while nearly all the furniture were different shades of red; bright red, pinkish, maroon, even blood red- it was all there. Sure, there were a few grungy spots on the ceiling and perhaps unidentifiable puddles of various liquids across the floor. In their line of duty, there wasn't much more you could expect without being suspicious.
Hanging above them was a small chandelier above their heads, sparkling when it hit the overhead lights in just the right way. Dean, pleased, set the bags down at his feet and sat down in a nice, but affordable couch. It was nice material, not icky, like, once again, he was used to.
He could settle for this.
Settling further into the chair, he looked over to his father. The lady at the reception's desk was currently discussing the route to their floor level and room number. They would no doubt get lost. Neither he, nor John, were used to looking down halls and riding up elevators to get to their room. Most of the time, the defiling motels they stayed in were one story, maybe two. Either way, this place left all their previous accommodations in the dust.
Dean visibly cringed when he watched an indefinable creature scuttle into the corner. Mostly in the dust.
Finished, John walked back over to Dean's current location, which was stretched out on a nice red couch with his legs propped up on the table in front of him. In one swift motion, John kicked his legs off.
"Get the bags, time to head up."
Dean threw one duffle over his shoulder while holding the other two, one in each hand. He followed his father down a narrow hallway until they made a left to reach the elevators. John walked forward, reaching for the button. In an instant, Dean ran up and slapped John's hand away from the button. John looked up, dumbfounded.
"I wanna do it."
Dean didn't get a chance to look at John's reaction as he pressed the button. He grinned widely as it opened up, the doors coming from the center and widening out. He was a little disappointed there wasn't a loud and ominous "Enter", but was nonetheless enticed by the odd contraption.
Once the elevator dinged at floor 4, they got out and headed to the room number 412. Arriving at the doorstep, John put the key card into the machine, pulled the door handle, then pushed against the door. It didn't budge; instead, a red dot appeared on the key card holder thingy, and they looked at it puzzlingly.
"Maybe you did it wrong" Dean said, more as a question than a statement. John went for it again, this time putting the card in the other way. The red light remained, the dot blearing at them mockingly.
Dean took the card from John and twisted it another way. "Try it now."
The red light transformed to green and John pushed at the door, opening it with a stiff push. He heaved a sigh of relief, took a duffle bag from Dean and walked into the room.
Dean looked around the room. No rust, mold, or other unidentifiable objects that could be mistakened for unknown lifeforms. Okay, that wasn't true, but it was a damn sight better than the usual up-in-your-face kind of mold, the kind that followed you around until you finally barfed up your lunch into the nearest trash can.
Thankfully, the room didn't smell like mold, instead of vanilla-scented air-freshener. There were two full beds on the left side of the room, backed into the wall. The sheets were of stark comparison to that of the lobby, being more a peach color than a bloody red. Satisfied, Dean chugged the bags on the floor and went over to sit on the bed farthest from the door. His father always took the other bed, no questions asked. It used to bug him, it really did. What would have happened if some murderous asshole had come into the motel and his father was the nearest victim?
Of course, he was sure that was John's reasoning all along.
John set the duffle alongside Dean's and sat on the opposite bed. "Now what? The guns are cleaned and we have to wait till the next full moon. We've got a long time to waste."
He was right. They had a werewolf to track, and it wasn't going to be fun. Well, the part where it died would be fun as hell but, for the other part, not so much. They had to track it down; it was known for hunting around local schools, chewing on little kid's intestines and internal organs. Not that that wasn't exciting and all, but he had a job to do, and he sure as hell'd get it done.
The next full moon was coming in about two weeks, so the Winchesters had time to spare until the due date. On the way here, Dean had spotted a local bar on the side of the street: The Braders, he recalled. He could use a break, if not a small one.
He stood up and headed over to the door. "I'm gonna check out the bar. I could use a beer."
John nodded, understanding the kid needed a break. Though he said nothing, the look in his eyes only meant one thing: Be careful. Dean nodded his head in his direction as he headed off to The Braders.
After fifteen minutes of twisting and turning, he finally found his destination. It was a small, but not too small to where the beer they served was crap on a stick. The exterior was that of wood with red spray painter on top saying "The best beer you'll find for a while." Nice motto. Nifty.
Dean walked in, not necessarily armed. All he kept was a small, deadly, knife in his backpocket. He, though wordlessly, promised his father he'd stay out of trouble, and he was good on that promise. But, if someone else wanted to get in trouble, he didn't have a problem with stepping up to the plate. Nothing wrong with more practice.
As Dean looked around the bar, he didn't really think a knife would be much needed. There were no bar fights going on and, even if there were people hustling, no one seemed sore about their losses. Not that there weren't any stupid people around; there always is, whether you were in a bar or in a high-class studio. The bar was filled with few drunks, but enough to where, if they all boycotted, the situation could turn rather sticky.
Dean kept to himself, heading over to the bar and sitting down. The tabletop was made of a nice marble, not too fancy too cheap. Just the way he liked it.
A young man appeared in front of him from behind the bar. Dean, already ready to order, faltered slightly. What struck Dean full-swing was how young the kid was. Maybe 17. No more. His shaggy brown hair was long, nearly his shoulders but not quite touching. His bangs nearly covered his eyes. He swooped them professionally out of his eyes to present them to the world; they were a deep, deep blue. Dean did a double take; those eyes, why did they look so familar? He was a scrawny kid; one of those kid's that probably couldn't hold a fist if someone should've there own up there ass. Dean was always one to judge based on appearance, at first glance, but he was beginning to see something lurk behind those blue eyes. He couldn't place it, but he decided against his previous statement. There was something with those eyes, the way they all but stared you down, watching, memorizing, and taking notes of every move you made. The way that, when someone moved, he moved in synchronization to negate the attack, if there was one to begin with.
Dean jerked himself out of his daze. He realized he had probably been looking at the the entire time. Embarassed, he quickly ordered himself a Corona.
Damn. He needs to be more careful.
I apologize there's not much Sam yet. I'm working on it, I promise. I don't know if you guys want me to finish so send me some love/hate comments!
Also, sorry its so short. I didn't want to work too much on it if you didnt like it...
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