Camdon Inn - Part 1
Master Post | Part 2
Dean Winchester was sure that, with a little bit of work, the building of the bed and breakfast they were standing in front of could be almost livable. You just needed to replace a few things-like maybe the entire house. Yeah. That’d work. Dean turned to look at his brother Sam who was staring at the rundown building with his nose wrinkled in distaste. “Seriously?” he asked, voicing both of their thoughts because jeez, if anything, you’d think Sam would have picked a nicer place. After all, he was always the one bitching about things not being up to his standard instead of just going to sleep like he was supposed to. Dean knew-just KNEW-that they were going to have a conversation tonight about the weird sounds in the walls and that neither one of them were going to be thinking there was anything supernatural about it. There’d be something to ‘hunt’ all right, but it wasn’t going to be any monsters.
The Camdon Inn had seen better days-days when part of its roof hadn’t caved in and been boarded over in a quick fix solution that was never meant to be permanent. Days when the whole left side of the building didn’t look ready to just lie down and take a nap. Days when maybe the lawn had been mowed. Maybe.
It was a two story building, standing in the middle of a small clearing, surrounded by the untamed woods of Northern Michigan with their colored, dying leaves and just looked like an absolutely fine place to be murdered: in the middle of absolutely nowhere, fifteen minutes from any sign of civilization and so stereotypically perfect for no one to hear you scream. The tall grass of the clearing was currently brushing the window sills and was probably ready to be baled any time now. Matter of fact, it was starting to overtake even the ‘road’ that they were currently stopped on. Not that Dean would actually call it a road. Maybe a ‘trail.’ A pathway. For deer. It was covered with dirt and sand instead of pavement and Dean really didn’t want to think about what it was possibly doing to the underside of the Impala. Dean had been disbelieving when Sam had told him to turn off the main road onto this little sidetrack and now, seeing their destination, he was even less impressed. He turned into the Camdon’s driveway, the Impala’s wheels crunching over the gravel as they wound their way around.
Sam winced. “It’s the only hotel in town, Dean…”
No wonder it was such a ghost town then. Apparently Silver Lake had missed the memo about tourism being one of Michigan’s biggest industries. You know, since the whole copper thing had wound down and Detroit wasn’t doing so hot anymore either. Or maybe they were just a little unclear on how that whole thing worked because there was ‘scenic’ and then there was scenic. “Great,” Dean said as they bounced their way to the hotel. “You couldn’t even find a reasonable house to squat in or something?”
Sam sighed and went quiet, waiting until the Impala rumbled to a stop and Dean killed the engine to talk again. “We’re here. We’ve stayed in worse.”
Dean snorted as he stepped out of the Impala. “Not for long we haven’t.” Sam could say a lot about their father and the various ratholes he’d left them in over the years, but not even he could claim that their father had made them stay in what Dean was fairly certain was a condemned building. Well, okay, not for longer than a day anyway. And they were definitely staying here for more than a few days.
“Dean…”
Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m not gonna complain, Sammy.” Much. “Scene of one of the murders right?” Dean hadn’t been kidding when he’d thought that the Camdon would be a fine place to be murdered. Especially seeing as how two girls had died here already. Just last month, actually. Dean could still see some strips of yellow police tape caught in the grass, discarded by what passed for the little town’s local copshop.
The Camdon’s appearance wasn’t helped any by the gray overcast skies that had been looming ever since they’d come within fifty miles of the town of Silver Lake, Michigan, either. The town was probably named “silver” because the sky was never blue enough for it to be “Blue Lake,” though Dean figured that a better name for the town and its “vacation spot” of a lake would be “Brown Lake.”
“It’s ‘cheery,’” Dean pronounced and headed for the trunk. “Go check us in, bitch.”
“Jerk,” Sam shot back automatically, already halfway to the inn’s front door. Dean sorted through the trunk of the Impala, making a quick check as he stuffed a spare duffel with various things to sneak into the hotel room-salt, books, spare weapons, silver bullets…
Three bodies had turned up already in the area just recently-slashed open from throat to hip and insides spilling out, the hearts missing. The two girls at the Camdon last month were the first-travelers, though to where Dean didn’t have a damn clue because as far as he was concerned, there wasn’t anything worth seeing in Michigan that was higher than Lansing and definitely nothing past the Mackinac Bridge. But yet here was where the girls had been, kicking around in the abysmally cold and dull Upper Peninsula. The other victim had been a local: an old man found at the edge of his property by the woods. Same cause of death. He’d died last week and it’d been his obituary that Sammy had circled and Dean’d reluctantly agreed meant something.
The wounds had been too messy to have been made by blade, the skin shredded with little rhyme or reason. Instead, it looked more like the work of claws, ripping and tearing open the victims. Which was just awesome, of course. Nothing like being pinned down while an evil motherfucker ripped out your guts.
This wasn’t the first time the sleepy little town of Silver Lake had been rocked by a string of brutal murders. Twenty-five years ago, five people had died the exact same way, flooding the front page of Silver Lake’s now defunct local paper and even making page 6 of the Detroit Free Press. They’d thought that they’d had a serial in their midst back then and all the resident bigwigs had made the requisite promises: “We’ll catch this criminal and bring him to justice”, “There’s no need to worry”, and “You’ll be safe inside your homes.” Dean really liked that last one because all of the victims of the last spree had been killed inside their homes.
The murders had suddenly stopped, though, one day out of the blue-just bam! The killer was gone without a trace. Wild theories had started about the killer committing suicide or possibly getting killed himself-all the same, obligatory bullshit. Really, the town of Silver Lake had just been glad to lose their little bit of notoriety, quickly dropping the story out of the news and dumping it into history.
That pointed to possibly a haunting, but that didn’t explain the wolf. A local cop report that had since been cleaned up had surfaced on the web, had a witness making a statement that she saw a large wolf kill her husband-not a mystery ghost or any other creature. She’d been convinced that it had been a wolf bigger than a man-at least until the next day when she miraculously changed her tune.
There were also rumors of a “dog man” in Michigan but besides a famous song written for an April Fool’s joke, they hadn’t found anything to back it up and Dean was willing to write that one off as a hoax if he had to. The murders, as well, were twenty-five years instead of ten, making it off the cycle even if the creature had gone elsewhere. Still, it never hurt to come prepared because, all in all, ignoring the time gap and the dog man actually looking like a dog, there were a couple of ticks in the “werewolf” column already.
Dean slammed the trunk of the Impala and headed to the heavy front door of the Camdon Inn. Plain and simple, it hung just off its hinges, looking like it would never particularly close right. Bet that felt real nice in the middle of winter what with the subzero temperatures and all.
Ever since that one time that Dad had hauled them up to Marquette in the middle of freaking February and they’d had to spend a horrible weekend snowed-in, stuck in a tiny cottage, Dean had never quite forgiven Northern Michigan. It hadn't been Michigan's fault that Sam and Dad were constantly at each others' throats but still. He’d made it a point not to come back until at least July. Maybe August. It was just too damned cold otherwise and the Impala never did all that well in snow. Especially not snow that piled higher than her hood. Somehow, though, with just that one circled obituary and a print-off of the girls’ earlier murders, Sam’d convinced Dean to come to Silver Lake during October, which, of course, still felt like freaking winter. Dean took the front steps two at a time as he tried to hurry inside.
The last step squealed when his foot landed on it and Dean hurriedly jumped off before it had a chance to cave in on him. “Jesus,” he whispered as he entered inside the building. Be just his damn luck to survive monsters and demons just to be done in by a front porch.
The interior of the Camdon Inn, Dean had to admit, looked better than the outside with its smooth wood floor and plush red furniture surrounding a warm fire-kind of like a porno mag hidden in a textbook’s cover. Without the hot girls, of course. There was always the definite possibility, however, that maybe the staff had just hidden all of the flaws away in random closets for the sake of the press’s cameras. Dean glanced warily around just on the off-chance he might be able to see the dusty sheets and moth-bitten rugs that the place demanded to up its creep factor stuffed away or hidden around a corner.
The building had more than a passing resemblance to an old hunting lodge, complete with Bambi making eyes at him over the fireplace. Matter of fact, there were a lot of dead stuffed animals just hanging around everywhere, staring directly at him and Dean couldn’t stop the small shiver that worked its way down his spine.
Maybe it was just Dean or maybe he’d been a hunter too long, but he couldn’t find it in himself to trust a taxidermist. There was something inherently creepy about the kind of person that got off on killing some creature and then putting it out on display like they were all about to have a tea party. Frankly, Dean had known serial killers with less disturbing habits. Dean eventually turned away from the happy forest friends currently staring him down and walked over to the front desk where Sam was standing, talking with the clerk.
“-oh, no,” Sam was saying. “I understand. The cabin’s fine.”
The clerk’s smile was positively oily, all ingratiating smarm. The man was balding with an ordinary face and wearing, quaintly enough, a checkered sweater vest. Dean gave a half smile when the guy turned to include him in the conversation. Impossibly, the man’s smirk grew even oilier. “Thank you gentlemen for being so agreeable,” the clerk said, making sure to stare long and hard at the both of them. “I’m truly sorry for the inconvenience. My name’s Brian and just let me know if there’s anything I can help you two with out there.” He tried to grab for Dean’s hand but Dean took an instinctive step backward, dodging out of his reach. “Anything at all,” Brian added. “I’m always here.” Dean cocked an eyebrow and bit his lip to stop the comment that wanted to pop out-they were probably going to need to interview the guy sooner or later and that’d most likely go over better if ‘Brian’ didn’t hate Dean.
That didn’t mean that Dean was going to keep it to himself once it was just Sam and him, though. Brian turned away and wandered around the counter to head upstairs as Sam and Dean headed for the door and Dean punched Sam in the shoulder on the way out. Sam glared at Dean who batted his eyelashes. “ ‘Anything at all,’” Dean repeated in a breathy sigh, curling his fingers in the sleeve of Sam’s Carhart. ‘You handsome piece of manmeat, you.’” He laughed, letting go of Sam. “Dude! He so wanted you.”
Sam’s glare turned a few degrees colder as he walked past and headed down the steps. “He was just being nice.”
“Oh, no, he wanted to know if you needed a sponge bath, Sammy,” Dean said, catching up. “Trust me.”
“For your information,” Sam started, turning around to glance at Dean, “he didn’t say anything like that until you walked up. And I seem to recall he was staring straight at you when he said the ‘anything at all’ line.” Dean stumbled on the last step and Sam shot Dean a triumphant grin, thinking that he’d finally won something. Fat fucking chance. “Maybe he thinks you’re pretty.”
Dean rolled his eyes. Whatever. It rankled that Dean didn’t really have a good comeback for that because, yeah, the guy had been looking right at Dean when he’d said that. “I still think he wants your ass, man. That’s all I’m saying. And he looks crazy, too.”
“Yes, Dean. Middle aged men in sweater vests. Evil.”
“No, I mean like ‘stab you in the shower crazy.’”
Sam gave a surprised laugh. “Norman Bates?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah. I’d watch your back in the bathroom, man. Just saying.” There was something about a person who could work with all those creepy dead animals staring at him-something was bound to be off there. They just proved that Brian possibly had mad skills if he ever wanted to stuff somebody. Sam was still smirking at him, though, so Dean changed the subject again. “Why aren’t we staying in the hotel?”
Sam held up a set of keys, shaking it. “Building’s being repaired,” Sam said wryly and Dean raised his eyebrows.
“No kidding,” he deadpanned, glancing back at the Camdon’s peeling shake siding.
“Not just general repairs, Dean,” Sam corrected. “Apparently when the girls were killed, whatever did it took out two walls and three doors in the process.”
“Damn.” Talk about your overkill. Dean frowned. “That wasn’t in the police report.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Sam agreed, nodding. “And they won’t allow us to go up anyway, so, so much for having an easy excuse to check it out.”
“Fuck.” Being able to investigate the scene to their hearts’ content had been the Camdon’s only good point. Besides the whole being the only place in town angle, but whatever.
“Yeah,” Sam said. “We’re in one of the cabins out back.” He jerked his head in the vague vicinity of the looming forest.
Dean sighed. “Isn’t that just special?” There was always hope, though, that the cabins would be in better shape than the main hotel even if, judging by the rest of the place, it was more like a slim chance. But at least in a cabin they really wouldn’t have to deal with the cleaning staff. Not that Dean had much faith in the cleaning staff here anyway.
Sam scratched the back of his head, glancing at the ground for a moment before throwing Dean a look. “It’s, uh, quite a way back they said.”
In other words, he wanted to take the Impala. Into the woods. Dean stared flatly. “Is there a road?” ‘Cause like Hell he was taking his baby for a joyride through the ‘rolling hills’ of Michigan.
Sam winced. “There’s a two track.”
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” His baby’s undercarriage was going to hate him. He was going to have to spend months trying to convince her to forgive him. A trip down a two-track was good for at least a tune-up, a good cleaning and at least two wax jobs-and that wasn’t counting anything that might get screwed up: steering, tie rods, brakes…. Fuck. Dean glared at Sam who just shrugged apologetically, pulling out his damn puppy dog eyes that never failed to make Dean cave faster than a house of cards. Sighing, Dean stomped back to the car, throwing the bags into the backseat as Sam slide in the passenger side. Dean slammed into the driver’s side and turned on Sam, pointing a finger. “If we get snowed in or stuck in mud or snowed-in it’s your damned fault.”
Sam glared at the finger Dean was waving in front of him. “Dude. It’s the middle of October. We’re going to be fine.”
Dean snorted before starting the car. The last time Sam had said that, he seemed to remember somebody coming down with pneumonia. As much of a bitch as Sam was normally, he was ten times worse when he was sick. He was all ‘Dean, get me this’ and ‘Dean, get me that’ and ‘Dean, massage my feet.’ Worse than a goddamned girl.
“You know,” Sam said, conversationally, “some people actually pay to come up here at this time.”
“That’s because they’re fucking crazy,” Dean retorted, throwing the Impala into reverse to back up out of the little driveway. He wasn’t going to talk about bored rich people and their incessant need to see dead leaves before they fell off trees.
Sam shrugged. “Whatever. Brian said that the two track branches off right after the mailbox.”
His baby was never going to forgive him. Dean was certain of that. He winced as he turned onto the two-track, hearing the tall grass scrape against the undercarriage and the sides, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. Never ever. And if she had a fricking scratch on her after they got done with this, he wasn’t going to forgive Sam. The trees were closing in on them and their branches were getting entirely too handsy for Dean’s peace of mind.
Sam sighed and rolled his eyes because no, he’d never understand but Dean didn’t expect him to. It wasn’t like he had to maintain the damn car and knew what those noises meant could be happening to it. Thankfully, the cabin was only about half a mile back, nestled into a tiny clearing in the forest. There was even a bit of gravel in front of it, perfect to park the Impala on though Dean wasn’t too clear on why there was gravel here and not on, say, the road. He wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. He parked and jumped out to check his baby’s paint job.
Sam sighed like a bitch again, obviously just holding back his nagging and grabbed the bags out of the backseat. “Just fuck it already and get it over with…” he muttered but Dean ignored him, petting the Impala soothingly. Sam never would understand.
Surprisingly, the cabin did seem to be in better shape than the hotel. At least the roof appeared to be in one piece and the rough-sawn cedar shake covering the building didn’t look too worse for wear. There was a tiny covered porch attached to the front of it and Dean walked up the steps to inspect the rafters. Looked sound enough, he supposed. He wasn’t exactly a carpenter, though, so what did he know?
Sam wrestled with the bags as he unlocked the door and, swearing under his breath, Sam finally managed to get the door open, pushing it in. Dean took it as a good sign that the door actually shut properly.
The inside of the cabin wasn’t too bad, either. Nothing fancy but they’d definitely stayed in worse. To Dean’s right there was a well used beige plaid couch sitting in front of a surprisingly clean fireplace, a threadbare rug in between them. To his left sat a little dining room table with three chairs where Sam was dropping their stuff and a little farther back, the kitchen jutted out into its own little corner, only being marked as a different room by the sudden start of cabinets. There was a stove, a sink and a refrigerator-the basic necessities so at least they weren’t going to have to rough it, entirely.
Dean strode to the cabinets, opening one out of curiosity rather than any sense of expectation. A good thing, he supposed, because it was empty except for a thick layer of dust. He twisted his lips into a pout anyway just for Sam’s benefit. “Looks like we need to do some shopping.”
“Huh?” Sam glanced up from where he was already starting to set up shop, hauling out book after book from the duffle bags and stacking them on the table. “Oh, yeah. Probably.”
“Ain’t no ‘probably’ about it, Sammy,” Dean said as he headed to the back of the cabin towards the two doors left to explore. One was set in the west wall, directly where the kitchen ended and Dean opened it curiously.
A small basin sink stood inside, with a mirror over top of it and Dean grinned at his own reflection before peering into the rest of the room. The toilet wasn’t anything special (was a toilet ever?) but the bathtub made his eyebrows rise. Claw-footed and huge, it looked big enough for three people and dominated the entire room. Also, he couldn’t seem to find a showerhead...
Dean sighed-so much for being able to hop a quick shower. It looked like he and Sammy were going to be taking baths while they were here. Which better not be long. He backed out of the bathroom and caught Sam’s eye. “Good news, Sammy! Brian won't be able to stab you in the shower later on. We don't have one.” Sam huffed and rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he kept unpacking.
Laughing, Dean opened the other door and whistled. There was only one bed which, yeah, might be a problem but at least it was freaking huge, too. It looked like part of a tree growing up out of the ground with its thick trunk of a base. Piled high with blankets it took up most of the room. Dean closed the door and turned back to Sam. “Dibs on the bed.”
Sam glanced up again. “What?” he asked, catching on just a little too slow again. Then he frowned. “I’m not sleeping on the couch.”
Dean shrugged. “Then I’m sure you’ll find the floor comfy,” he replied and moved to inspect the couch.
“Dude,” Sam said, frustration starting to seep into his voice, “if you’re done checking out the place like a dog, maybe you could remember that we have a job to do here?” He pointed at the stuff already unpacked. “Three people dead in the past month, more before, this ringing any bells?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Nag, nag, nag. If I wanted a housewife, Sammy, I would have gotten married.” But he grabbed the salt anyway and started laying down lines against the window.
“So,” Sam said, deliberately letting Dean’s barb slide in the effort of making peace, Dean was sure, “I’m thinking we should start with Barb Littleton.” He grabbed the chalk and bent down to etch a protective rune on the underside of the table. He probably didn’t forget if it curved to the left or to the right or if it didn’t curve at all and ended in a straight line with a circle on the end. That would be why it was always Sam’s job to sketch the runes.
Grunting noncommittally, Dean finished the first window and moved on to the second. “She the wife of the last victim?” Between the possible sorority girls and the old man, it was a safe enough guess.
“Yeah. And a witness.”
Master Post | Part 2