This Restaurant is Haunted

Rating: PG-13/T

Genre: Humor/Supernatural

Summary: Written for the 50states_spn challenge on LJ. Takes place in late Season 2. Sam and Dean have a brief, ghostly encounter in a haunted Margaritas in New Hampshire.

Author's Note: New Hampshire is my home state, so of course I chose it. :D

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. It belongs to Eric Kripke. The song title is a spinoff from "This House is Haunted", by Alice Cooper.


"Okay, so, let me get this straight." Sam stared at Dean, deadpanned. "We took over two days to drive from Colorado to New Hampshire, got lost in endless forest and farmland because you couldn't stand to just stop and ask for directions, and in the end, of the countless haunted spots in this state, we came to investigate the haunted Margaritas restaurant?"

Dean made a confused face and shrugged, as though he couldn't comprehend why Sam was frustrated. "What, man? I was hungry."

"There are food joints everywhere! Downtown Dover's practically made of restaurants!" Sam pulled a bitch-face. "And Dover actually has some legitimately haunted places."

"A bunch of mill buildings where the lights flicker on and off." Dean rolled his eyes. "A house inhabited by the specter of an old man. A college campus with a dead girl. They're all harmless and never bother anyone. Tourist attractions."

"I would think the dead college girl would be an attraction for you." Sam grumbled ruefully. "And that's in Durham, not Dover."

"Durham, Dover, whatever."

"There's a difference."

"I know, I just don't care."

The waitress returned, carrying their drinks on a tray. "Did you need more time to decide?" She asked as she set the beverages down, nodding to the menus in front of them. Dean smiled that sweet, charming, I-would-dearly-love-to-get-in-your-pants-and/or-up-your-skirt smile.

"I think we've settled on our choices, right Sammy?"

"Uh, yes." Sam offered his own sweet smile, which was far less conniving than Dean's, and the waitress smiled back. He couldn't tell if it was a yes-indeed-I'll-meet-you-when-my-shift's-over smile or a Jesus-Christ-not-another-flirty-one grimace that was being forced into a smile.

They made their orders and settled back, Dean's eyes fixed on the waitress' behind as she walked away. "All right, so what do we know about this place?" Dean tore his eyes away from the woman and blinked.

"You're asking me?"

"You're the one who wanted to come here, so I assumed you knew about the history of the restaurant."

"Oh." Dean thought for a moment. "It's a… A restaurant." Sam nodded slowly, indulgently, "And it's haunted. By a ghost."

"Really?" Dean gave his brother a flat look.

"They have good food and it's haunted. What more do you want from me?" Sam stared, deadpanned, at Dean as he pulled a brochure he'd gotten from the waiting area out of his pocket, flipping it open.

"Apparently," He said, scanning over the story about the haunting, "This Margaritas is actually a remodeled prison that was once the city jail." Dean poked his head out of the booth and observed the barred prison doors hanging between the booths.

"And here I thought that was just their cutesy little theme," He mumbled.

"Staff and customers- primarily staff- report that furniture has been known to move on their own; on occasion, a waiter will set down a plate, turn their back, and when they go to pick up the plate again it has been moved a significant distance away."

"See? Haunted."

"But should we be hunting a ghost like this? It's not hurting anyone."

"Ghost needs to be put to rest. It stays here long enough and it'll go muy loco in its own time." Sam supposed that that was more or less true, but it made the thought of hunting down a relatively friendly ghost no more pleasant than before.

He reached without looking to his right, and only once his knuckles hit the wall did Sam realize that he'd missed his glass of Coke by about two inches. His eyes narrowed: He was reasonably certain he hadn't put it so far away. It was almost on Dean's side of the table.

Sam slowly reached over and tugged his soda back towards himself, and Dean watched him silently, sucking loudly on his own, the ice clinking loudly. Between learning the difference between a skinwalker and a werewolf and how to blow something's head off from several yards away, table manners had never been a strict priority for their dad in terms of teaching.

"You okay there?" Dean asked, eyebrow raised. "You looked freaked out. Casper groping you already?"




Sam's glass proceeded to crack and then explode over the both of them, glass spraying dangerously over hastily-covered faces. The sound of the glass shattering attracted sudden stares from the other nearby patrons, all of whom stared in shock. Dean grinned weakly at them.

"Glassware malfunction." He turned back to Sam. "That wasn't normal."

"You think?"

"Is everything all right?" The waitress had returned with their food. She had been about to put the plates down when she observed the shards of glass covering the table. "Oh my God- What happened?"

"This ghost of yours- It ever made anything explode before?" Dean asked, using his napkin to gingerly push the shards into a neat pile in the center of the tabletop. The waitress was wordless, and judging from the look Sam saw in her eyes maybe a touch suspicious that they'd broken the glass on purpose. But the glass had really shattered, and there were too many remnants on the table for it to have been dropped and then picked back up.

"No," She finally managed. "No, no- Never done that before."

"You might wanna check on that."

"We're gonna- Go get the glass off us." Sam stuttered, looking at Dean and motioning towards the bathroom. They left their seats and the befuddled waitress behind. They scuttled into the bathroom, shut the door behind them and double-checked to make sure that they were alone.

"Dean," Sam said as he began to pick the glass shards out of his shirt. "You think the ghost might be pissed that we were talking about hunting it down?"

"Uh," Dean winced a little as he pulled off his jacket and shook it thoroughly. "Maybe?" His little brother rolled his eyes.

"I say we just go. The ghost doesn't usually hurt people: Just the ones that try to get rid of him."

Dean's eyes narrowed. Sam could tell that he was obviously discontent at leaving a hunt (especially now that they'd been expressly attacked by the spirit), but he had to know that Sam was right. If they provoked the ghost, all they had to do was leave.

But evidently the ghost had heard that conversation too, and was not so keen on losing its playmates quite so soon.

As they emerged from the bathroom, the fancy western-styled lamps hanging from the ceiling began to tremble, and the light-bulbs inside them glowed white-hot: Sam and Dean noticed this barely a split second before each of the bulbs began to shatter in succession, glass raining down not only on the brothers but the patrons of the restaurant as well.

That's when the screams started, and everyone jumped up and started to stampede for the door as the waiters and hosts tried to restore some semblance of order and calm. While this resulted in the usual terror and chaos that stampedes are wont to incite, as the brothers watched, they got the idea that the tables being thrown into the air and then landing haphazardly on the floor was not a product of the humans in the room.

Plates began to fly through the air, silverware bouncing along like they had a mind of their own, salt and pepper shakers exploding left and right; all and all, it looked like something out of a very chaotic adaptation of the "Be Our Guest" musical number in Beauty and the Beast.

Sam and Dean ducked down behind an upturned table. "What do we do? We don't have any weapons on us." Sam said. Dean gave him an odd look and pulled aside his jacket to reveal the gun in his belt. His younger brother rolled his eyes. "Nothing that would be really effective on ghosts."

"Oh. Yeah, no, we don't. Should we make a break for the Impala and come back?"

"The ghost only haunts the restaurant. If we try to leave and come right back, someone will notice us. And later on, this place will probably be swarming with the police."

"And FBI agents who are looking for the Truth." Dean snickered. "It's not like we haven't worked around them before."

"Maybe we should just go, drive away and not look back." Sam reaffirmed from earlier. "Maybe it'll calm down once it knows we're gone."

"Yeah, mayb-"

It was at that moment that the ghost (the Winchesters, unfortunately, did not notice that the spirit had gone quite quiet during their conversation, listening) lifted a bowl of sauce-soaked pasta up over their heads and dropped it.

Thankfully, the bowl turned upside down, and there was a layer of gooey pasta between their skulls and the hard glass.

Unfortunately, Dean was not knocked out by this. If he had been, Sam could have just dragged him out and ended it there.

"OKAY!" Dean barked, jumping out from behind the table, shaking pasta and tomato sauce from his head. Evidently he'd forgotten that they had no weapons. "I'M DONE PLAYING! GET OUT HERE BOO-BERRY!"

Both Sam and Dean whipped their heads to the left as the sound of a soft hiss drew their attention. On the glass window that faced the street, the reversed 'MARGARITAS' slogan dominating it, a fine, icy mist had appeared, spreading over the expanse of the window and crackling softly. Then, slowly, words appeared as though drawn in the cold fog by a finger:


And right below that:

: P

Dean stared blankly. "Did the ghost just…?"

"…Use the 'tongue-sticking-out' emoticon to flip us off? Yeah. I think it did." Sam confirmed.

"I'm gonna kill it."

"It's already dead, Dean. Let's go."

"No way. No way. This is personal now."

As if to emphasize just how willing the ghost was to fight, a handful of mashed potatoes came from nowhere and slapped into the back of Dean's head with a wet splat.

Sam could swear he heard the mashed potatoes simmering as Dean's face grew dark red.

He really, really didn't want to waste time dealing with a ghost that they had provoked. He just wanted to leave.

"Dean, we're leaving." He grabbed the back of his brother's jacket. Fortunately, being larger than his brother, dragging him towards the door was not as difficult a task as one might assume.

"Like hell we are! Lemme go, Sam!"

"We'll come back later, Dean- With rock salt and iron." No they wouldn't. They had better things to do. Sam was going to get them out of New Hampshire ASAP.

"You bet your ass we will! I'LL VENKMAN YOU, YOU CASPER-POSING S.O.B!" Dean bellowed as Sam pulled him out the door.

Thankfully, he didn't see the ghost's response materialize on the window again:

Sure thing. I'll throw you a Scooby Snack when you come back, douchebag.



Ah, this was fun.

I've never actually been to this particular Margaritas before (It's about an hour and a half away from where I live, and that's with good traffic), so if you've been there before don't expect that I got the layout of the restaurant correct.