Chapter Text
“Didn't we say that we weren't ever going to do another haunted hotel as long as we lived?”
“This one's different,” Dean protested, glancing up. From beyond Sam's shoulder, he could just make out the road leading out of town to the Huckston Retreat. Brand spanking new, it was a perfect, cozy hideaway, or a great place to book a conference, if the pamphlet was anything to judge by. No mysterious fires, no murdering psychopaths, no people looking away and stammering when asked about the place. So far, from what Dean could gather, it was an newly built, old mansion style house with a large group of suites for high-paying clients. There were plans to open small cabins in the woods surrounding it. It was a nice place to stay. Barely open for two weeks.
And apparently, it already had a ghost problem.
“I don't know,” Sam said, returning his gaze to his lunch and research. Dean looked down at the huge amount of papers on the table, but couldn't help another wary glance over Sam's shoulder, though. “The last one was a doozy, man. And a bad one at that. We barely got out of there alive, never mind the living nightmare part.”
Dean conceded with a nod of his head. The Ocean House Hotel had been a living hell from the minute the doors had locked behind them. Chased all night by a murderous poltergeist with a hard-on for slicing and dicing, all while trying to figure out what the hell had really happened all those years ago, hadn't made for a night of fun. Still, they'd stopped possible future murders.
That point itself gave another point in Dean's favor, he reminded himself. “Yeah, but this one hasn't killed anyone yet. Just scared a bunch of teenagers, one of whom wound up in the hospital.”
“Unconscious,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow.
“And waking up slowly but surely,” Dean rejoined, raising his eyebrow and doing a better job of it than Sam did. “Look, we'll keep doing the research, we'll make sure that we're safe this time, no hidden little mysteries to deal with. Go in after everything's laid out, handle it, the end. Piece of cake.”
“You realize you've probably just jinxed us,” Sam said unhappily. “We thought the last one was going to be easy, too. Then Bethany showed up. Then he showed up.”
“Minor complications.”
The look Sam gave him could've cut through glass, and Dean had never been happier to be its recipient. He'd actually missed his brother's bitch-face, truth be told. And the heavy, put-upon sigh, which Sam chose that moment to exhibit. He'd missed that too.
He'd just missed Sam. His little brother, whole and in one piece, soul and all. It was good. Life was good.
...Yeah, okay, he probably was jinxing the shit out of them.
“Go over it again,” Dean said, stretching himself out in his chair. It was nice enough to eat outside at the cafe, and while it was no greasy spoon diner, the club sandwich wasn't half bad. Besides, better to eat outside where no one could overhear their conversation then inside where they were packed in alongside the other customers. For a small town, the place was hopping.
“It's a resort town, Dean,” Sam said, as if hearing his thoughts. Or, more likely, following his gaze to the cafe. “And it's just getting nice out. Bound to be filled with people. Be thankful we're not at Myrtle Beach or Hilton Head Island.”
“Huckston Retreat,” Dean repeated again, rolling his hand for Sam to continue. “Go, go, go.”
“Huckston Retreat, the 10th resort that Thomas Latter has built, has been open for twelve days, not even actually officially open,” Sam said, turning back to his pages with a sigh. “The opening party is slated for next week. Built to fit in with the historic aspect of the town, yet offers modern amenities such as a tennis court, walking trails, the usual for a resort. Construction on the cabins is set to be finished before summer.”
Dean couldn't help but glance around as Sam provided details. Beaufort, South Carolina was a nice sized city with a small town feeling and plenty of guests to keep it busy. Tons and tons of historic districts and homes, lots of open bay area for beaches and swimming. Made for a nice tourist attraction.
“Sounds nice enough,” Dean said, turning back to his brother. Sam was busy flipping through numerous pages that he had laid out in front of him, including a nice stack that was on top of his sandwich. He was biting his lower lip as he looked, the perfect picture of concentration, and Dean couldn't help but smile. God but he'd missed the geeky side of Sam.
“Yeah, until you read into the truth,” Sam muttered. “Three nights ago, a group of teenagers got inside, wanting to get the first look at the place. They reported that they saw a woman who was covered in a bloody dress, and they said it seemed like she was everywhere at once. No matter where they ran, she kept following them. She rushed them suddenly when they were almost out of the place, and pushed one of the kids hard enough to make him take a tumble down the stairs. Broken arm, concussion, still in the hospital.” He looked up at Dean with pursed lips. “Beyond that, she didn't hurt them, and the kids got out fine, except for Joel Green, the one she shoved down the stairs.”
“What's the history of the place?” Dean asked. “I know it's new, don't give me that look. I'm talking about the land, or if there was anything else ever on it.”
“Honestly?” Sam shrugged, helplessly gesturing towards the ocean of papers before him. “There's nothing. I can't find anything about the place. The land was purchased two years ago. The contract almost fell through twice before it was finalized. They got to work. No injuries except for one broken foot, when one worker dropped a hammer. No women were in the crew, though a few were on the committee, and none of them died.”
Dean hung his head and sighed. “Why can't they be easy?” he moaned.
“Hey, you're the one that wanted to take another haunted hotel,” Sam pointed out, like the irritating pain in the ass that he was. “I was totally okay heading west to those random dust clouds that were popping up in New Orleans.”
Dean had to admit, it'd been intriguing. Not exactly a place most people thought of a dust cloud forming, considering the place was damp and full of marshes. Still, they'd been closer to the Carolinas. “Rufus was in New Orleans already,” Dean reminded him. “Made more sense for him to check it out.”
“And now we owe him a bottle of whiskey.”
Dean winced. Yeah, that favor hadn't been cheap. “We'll make this one quick. Talk to the kids, scan the house during the day, and get rid of our ghost. This one doesn't have a mysterious past.”
“Then it shouldn't have a spirit,” Sam countered. “I don't know. I've got a bad feeling about this one, Dean.”
He'd had a bad feeling about the Ocean House Hotel, too. “I hate when you have bad feelings about stuff,” Dean grumbled, reaching for his sandwich.
“I hate when you don't listen to me about my bad feelings,” Sam said, turning back to his own plate. He frowned as if just realizing he'd piled all his research on top of his food, and Dean grinned around his next bite. Grumpy Sam, confused Sam, geeky Sam, it didn't matter. He'd take them all, so long as they were Sam. He'd missed his brother.
Still, he planned on taking Sam's bad feelings into consideration. He always did, no matter what the bitch might say. This one wasn't as ominous a beginning as the other hotel had been, but it was just as confusing. It didn't make any sort of sense. The place had no history, the land was clean, which meant there was a secret somewhere in the house. Or on the land.
Or...
Dean glanced up just as Sam did. “Someone might've been dumped there,” Sam said, beating him to it. “It was just clear land, nothing else there until Thomas Latter bought it up.”
“Did you check the town of Beaufort in general?”
“No,” Sam said, and the sheer, genuine regret in his tone made something stupidly warm swell inside of Dean. “Damn it, I should've thought of it.”
“Later,” Dean promised. “I'll get you into a library while I check out the kids. See if I can't figure out anything else from them. There's certain things they're not going to tell the cops. I'm surprised they told the authorities as much as they did.”
“They're fifteen, Dean,” Sam said. “At max. I think Joel's thirteen, the youngest in the group.”
No way a fifteen year old let a thirteen year old tag along unless they were a younger sibling. That was his in, right there. “Point. We'll find the library, get you settled, and I'll see what I can get out of the kids.”
“Hopefully by the time you get there, I'll have more for you to ask them,” Sam said, moving his papers aside to rediscover his sandwich. “Any details at all would help.”
Dean knew that – hell, he'd been the one to teach Sam that – but he was too happy about having the real Sam back to care. “You don't finish your sandwich and I will, Samantha,” Dean told him, and Sam hastily grabbed his BLT before he could do anything more than reach a hand out. He stole one of Sam's fries, just on principle, and reveled in the bitch face he got for it.
This job was going to be a piece of cake. He was certain of it.
“This case is going to be a bitch,” Sam murmured to himself, staring miserably at the pile of newspapers before him. There were a few heavy books off to the side, just in case the old papers weren't enough. All in all, there were two hundred mysterious female deaths in the past century alone, according to his web search of Beaufort, and close to one thousand disappearances for the town total since people began occupying it. That was the problem with an old town.
Dean was off, happily investigating and interrogating teenagers, though scaring them shitless probably wasn't out of the realm of possibility. That left Sam to wander through all the papers and registries. Alone.
It wasn't a bad thing, and Sam was grateful that Dean was letting him do it alone. Ever since Sam had seized and found himself thrown behind the Wall, capital letter a must, Dean had been a constant shadow, going everywhere and doing everything Sam did. It wasn't ideal, and Sam was getting frustrated at the short leash. Dean wasn't showing any signs of annoyance, but both brothers enjoyed, needed, their own space. Living in the confines of the Impala and in small motel rooms didn't leave for a lot of privacy or alone time. And while Sam adored and loved his brother...sometimes a break was a good thing.
And right now, he had a break. Of course, that meant the work was all on him. Of course.
He tossed another newspaper aside and sighed as he picked up another. The title from October 12th, 1940, was bold as it stated, WOMAN FOUND SLAUGHTERED BY SIDE OF ROAD. Brutally murdered, the axe that had chopped her up was found right beside her remains. No murderer in custody, but the husband had been the primary suspect at the time.
Sam's insides twisted, but he forced himself to put it in the possibility pile. The last thing either of them needed was another axe murderer in the hotel. “Please, God, let it be someone else,” he muttered.
Dean was probably already talking to the teenagers: Sam had to give him something. He quickly scanned the rest of the newspapers and obituaries, but the best victim he had was the slaughtered woman. Newspapers officially read, he switched over to the registries full of names and dates of the population. The heavy volume was covered in dust, burning his eyes and making him cough as he opened it. Add to that the headache that had come with all his bad misgivings, and Sam was having a great day. Truly.
All of the entries from the beginning of the town's records were hand-written. Sam tugged his laptop closer and opened back up to his search of the city's files. The online search had pulled up names and dates, but no further information. Only a question mark by the death year indicated that something was different. The registries would hopefully give him more information.
Actually, he was hoping that Dean would give him more information. It'd be nice if Dean could give him details. Something like an age, or a time period.
Making sure his phone was on silent, Sam shot his brother a quick text message.
202 deaths, 1196 disappearances. Narrow it down.
He wandered through more of the registries while he waited. Some of them were teenagers when they went missing, and some of them were very clearly boys, neither of them anything that could be described as a woman. The search engine hadn't allowed him to seek out women only, and sitting in the library, sorting through 1,196 random names, wasn't appealing to him today. He actually didn't want to spend time in the library.
Maybe he was coming down with something.
Just as went to try and feel his forehead, his phone lit up with Dean's response. Old but not 2 old dress from yesteryear
Good to know that Dean's texting grammar hadn't gotten any better while Sam's soulless body had been walking around. “Punctuation would go a long way,” he muttered under his breath, glancing around surreptitiously for the librarian. So far, no one had cast him the evil eye.
Dean's idea of “yesteryear” meant he was probably looking at the 1800's, maybe early 1900's. Even as he flipped the pages over to the year 1800, and changed the dates on the search, he couldn't resist shooting Dean another text. Details help. Also, so does punctuation.
The next text came back pretty fast. Who the hell takes the time to write that word out?
People who like to be understood in a text message, Dean. DETAILS. Correct spelling and using numbers appropriately is a start. He was bordering on two text messages now in length, and he knew exactly what Dean was going to send back, but it had to be sent.
He got the reply almost as soon as he'd sent his. U mean not 2 txt like ths?
Even as Sam's inner grammarian cringed, he couldn't help but grin. That was Dean. As much as had changed between them through the years, he could always count on his big brother to be the Dean he'd looked up to and depended on growing up.
The search came back with only 322 names of missing people this time, only a few murders that actually fit. The deaths only took a few minutes to determine that they didn't fit the category in the slightest. Anything else? Sam asked, not really expecting anything but hoping for any small detail. He couldn't check the registries out of the library, and he honestly really wanted to leave. Dean was probably fed up with the teens, if his constant texting was any indication.
Nothing jumped out at him from the books. Lots of people disappearing near the ocean, a few that just upped and vanished, for no reason at all.
The text, when it came, was a ready relief. Long flat dress no hoops white lace
Not a maid, not a servant, but upper class with no hoop skirt? Sam immediately ditched his first registry and settled for the second, and updated his search engine to 1875 and above. The list dropped to 156 people. Better.
Another text came in, the bright light startling him. You ready?
“More than,” Sam murmured, but he wasn't, not really. It'd taken far too long to find what little he did have, and he wasn't even done searching. Hell, he hadn't even really started.
He began searching through the book, cross-referencing the names back and forth, slowly eliminating them one by one. The dust from the books wasn't helping, and the screen kept getting brighter every time he looked at it, only making his headache worse. But slowly, surely, the list began to dwindle.
He was down to five names when something fell on his shoulder. Sam whipped around, heart pounding, only to have Dean throw his hands up in surrender. “Easy, tiger,” Dean said softly, but though he grinned, his brow was still furrowed in concern. “You never responded to my text.”
Sam glanced at the clock, surprised to find he'd been digging for close to an hour. “Oh,” he said, wincing. “Sorry.”
Dean snorted, worry lines disappearing into fond amusement. “Geek,” he muttered, but his grin didn't falter. “You ready to bug out?”
“Almost. Down to five names. Well, five names to check, one suspect already in the pile,” Sam said, nodding towards the newspaper he'd found...god, almost three hours ago. Dean reached over him for the paper, and Sam turned back to his registry. Sarah Smythe had been fifty-six when she'd disappeared: another one to check off.
The newspaper fell back onto the table with a loud smack, and several patrons looked over. “If that's who it winds up being, we're handing this off to someone else,” Dean said, looking sick. “Last thing we need is to get locked in with another axe-wielding psycho.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Sam said, eyes unwillingly moving to the front picture. A tall tree stood in the background of the photograph, with police wandering around the roadside. A white sheet covered the remains, and the bloody axe still stood out in the black and white photograph. He shivered, turning back to the registry.
“You still got a bad feeling about this one?”
“And growing more by the second,” Sam said, shutting the book. “Because that's all the names, unless the kids didn't tell you the truth, and I over-narrowed the search.”
“No, they described her to a tee,” Dean promised. He glared at the newspaper, as if that would help any. “Young woman, mid to late twenties, long dark hair with a bloody white dress. Lace, ankle-length, cuffed sleeves, hair down but not in her face.”
Definitely the earlier part of the 20th century, then. Or the tail end of the 19th. Either way, Sam had searched in the right places. Which meant that none of the names had worked out, and that left them with the woman in the newspaper.
As one they both turned to the innocent looking article on the table. “Dammit,” Sam said with a resigned sigh.
“Shit,” Dean summed up better.
Yeah, this job was going to suck.