When Sam and Dean left the motel around nine o’clock the next morning, there was no sign of Amy anywhere, nor any other members of staff; Sam probably reckoned it was such a small motel she could run it herself, maybe with a helping hand from time to time. Looking out of the dusty Impala window, the murky March weather was certainly not doing the town of Bennington any favours; all life seemed to have been sucked out of the town along with the absent sunshine. Then again, Sam thought to himself, having four murders in the last month probably doesn’t make a good tourist attraction.
As Dean pulled the growling Impala into a small parking space on the main street and switched the engine off, he turned to his brother in the passenger seat and said, “So remind me, who are we seeing again?”
“Well,” Sam replied, sounding grim, and with good reason, “I thought it’d be best if we saw the corpses of the victims first, both suicides and both murders. Take the EMF, see if there’s anything up, see if we can find any sulphur, you know, the usual.”
“Huh.” Dean seemed to ponder this unpleasant thought for a minute. “Good times,” he concluded, before opening the creaking door and getting out, Sam doing likewise. Having to take precautions, both brothers had had to wear their only suits; they were cheap, but they got the job done without being caught. Most of the time. Dean fished in his pocket and found a wallet with a fake F.B.I ID tucked inside, nodded to Sam, who’d been checking the same thing, and they began to walk away from the busier end of the street and turned left at a side road.
“I hope you know where were going,” Dean grumbled, as Sam pulled out a small map he’d found on the internet a few nights back and tried to get his bearings a little.
“Dean, the morgue isn’t exactly going to be on the main street, is it? Kind of bad for business?”
Dean gave an if-you-say-so look and followed his brother round a corner and onto a slightly more minor street than the one they’d just been on. The sign read Miller Street. As part of the training they’d received involuntarily from their father, Dean made a mental note not only of all the road and street names, but the route they had taken and how to get back to the car quickly if need be, if they got separated or for some other reason.
When Sam and Dean had woven round a few more corners and streets, they found Bennington Morgue. The building looked even older than most around it; the crumbling stone steps leading up to the main entrance weren’t exactly welcoming.
“Not exactly the most charming of places,” Sam said.
“Dude, it’s a morgue.”
Used to getting the job done as quickly, efficiently and as well as possible, Dean and Sam leapt up the stone steps two at a time and walked into the musky reception of the morgue. A bored looking man was sat at his untidy desk, typing shreds of information into a huge database. As Sam and Dean approached him, he looked up from his work and seemed almost to be happy to see them. Dean gave Sam a confused look. Neither recognising him, Dean figured that this must be the most exciting thing to happen to him in the job for at least a year. In all honesty, Dean pitied the poor bastard. He dug his ID out of his inside pocket and opened his mouth to speak, only to find the man replied first.
“Are you guys agents? Like, real agents?? Here in Bennington? Are you here to look at the Chase, Burgess, Taylor and Hughes corpses? I knew something fishy was going on!”
Dean gave an exasperated look at how sad a life this guy must lead, and was about to lead him astray for kicks, but Sam obviously felt that would be harsh. Besides, they needed him to allow them to see the corpses.
“Uh, yeah. We are.” Sam said, flashing his fake ID, and signalling to his brother to do the same. “Are those the double murder and suicide corpses?”
The receptionist nodded sincerely, as if he were a major part in a huge crime investigation.
“Can we see the bodies?”
The receptionist nodded and pointed them down the hallway to Room 176. As soon as they were out of earshot, Dean whispered “What a schmuck,” in Sam’s ear and he chuckled softly.
“He was just...”
“An innocent civilian. With a horror movie addiction, by the sounds of it.”
Sam grinned at his brother as he made a sharp left as they arrived at Room 176. But, under all their bravado and joking, Sam knew that he, and, more unwillingly, his brother, both longed to be innocent civilians sometimes.