We're gonna Need a Bigger boat

The young woman stands in the open door, arms crossed over her chest, shoulder leaning against the jamb. She’s wearing loose jeans and a bulky fisherman’s sweater that not only looks like it’s seen better days, but doesn't look like it was meant for her. The arms are too long, the collar stretched out of shape and worn. She must be one of the caretakers the locals talked about. Dean didn’t expect her to be so young. The way the locals had talked about them, Dean expected to find a couple of tired seniors whose only job was to sit in the hotel and make sure the pipes didn’t burst over the winter.

But the woman in the doorway looks to be in her mid twenties. Tall, sturdy. She’s what the midwesterners would call good farming stock.

And she does not look impressed to see the Winchesters pulling up the long driveway.

Dean and Sam get out of the Impala and Dean employs his best, most charming, shit-eating grin; bright teeth, crinkling eyes, the works.

Her expression doesn’t change.

“Hey!” says Dean conversationally. He’s undaunted. Winchester charm works on everyone. If she doesn’t fall for his good looks and easy nature, she’ll fall for Sam’s ‘strong but silent’ approach.

“Hey yourself,” she answers as they walk up the long path that leads to the double doors. Each of the rectangular cement stones is carefully cleaned off and salted, the snow piled evenly on both sides of the walkway. “You boys lost?” she asks. Her gaze is shuttered, measured.

She’s gonna be a tough nut to crack.

“Actually, we came all the way from Kansas to see this place, didn’t we Sammy?” Dean says easily, pouring on his best ‘good old boy’ behavior. The attitude that charms the old and young alike. Sam nods dutifully, ready to fall into whatever ruse Dean wants to use to play this out. They’ve done this so many times for so many different people that he doesn’t even really have to listen to Dean any more. He can focus on the surroundings, eyes taking in the old architecture of the large hotel, surrounding greenery that thickens and becomes more dense the farther from the hotel it gets, mountains circling up around them, pressing in.

It’s kind of claustrophobic. He didn’t expect it to be. He’s been in places with mountains before, but these loom over them.

“That’s a shame. We’re closed for the season,” she replies. “You boys have a safe drive down the mountain.” She’s pulling back and already has one arm swung around the door, ready to push it shut.

Dean pops a hand up on the door, holding it open. “Oh, we were just hoping that we could take a quick look around. Maybe stay for the night? Our parents, they had their honeymoon here and we’ve been hearing stories about it since we were little, how beautiful it was, how pretty. And wow, the ghost stories…”

The woman fakes a smile, lips curling up at the edges, but her grey eyes remain cool and impassive.

“As I said, we’re closed for the season. You’ll be more than welcome if you come back in the spring.”

“I promise, we’re no trouble at all. We just need a place to bunk down and Sammy here just wants to wander around with his camera. Loves to take pictures. He’s been yammering on about the mountains and the evergreens and the snow since we crossed the state line.”

Dean slaps Sam on the shoulder and Sam nods agreeably, not really sure what Dean said. He’s distracted.

He thinks he hears whispering. He glances around, trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from and that’s when he realizes, it’s coming from everywhere. He can’t make out any words, just the soft sound of consonants and drawn-out vowels. Sam catches the woman staring at him suspiciously, eyes narrowing. She turns back to Dean.

“Well, there’s a couple of B and B’s in town that’ll be more than happy to have you guys, especially off season. Myself, I recommend the Hanging Garden. Fran’s a spectacular cook and she’ll take good care of you.”

“Wow, that sounds great, but… it’s just that we really hoped to stay here, at Cross Creek. As I said, our parents honeymooned here and,” Dean ducks his head bashfully and raises his eyes up to her, nearly batting his eyelashes, “family legend has it that I was conceived right here.”

“How lovely. And it will be just as lovely in the spring. You boys have a nice day.”

She’s shoving the door closed and damn, she’s strong. Dean has a hard time getting his foot in the open slot and he feels an awful pressure as the door hits his shoe with the full force of her weight behind it.

“Fay?”

She turns her head and looks over her shoulder into the darkened hotel where the voice has come from.

“Who’s at the door?” asks the masculine voice

She turns back and gives Dean the evil eye. “Just some tourists. They’re heading on their way.”

“Why don’t you invite them in for a cup of coffee?”

She shoots her glare of death over her shoulder and Dean can see her jaw clenching as she comically widens her eyes in annoyance.

“Coffee would be great!” Dean exclaims and he uses the distraction to push the door open, knocking her off her balance and backwards a few steps into the foyer.

Sam and Dean blink at the abrupt change in light. While outside they had gotten used to the sunlight bouncing off the snowbanks, painting everything in a harsh, white glare, inside it’s dark, retinal burn painting dark blotches over everything. There’s a large chandelier suspended high above the foyer, unlit. The only light comes from the open door and the bank of windows on either side.

“You’ll have to forgive my sister,” a young man is saying. “She’s… shy.”

The woman snorts in outrage and both Sam and Dean take a moment to stare at the siblings together.

They must be fraternal twins, nearly carbon copies of each other except for gender. They have the kind of strong, fine boned features that look good on both men and women. Dark hair, fair skin and dark grey eyes adorn them both. They even appear to be the same height.

Or they would be if the man was standing upright.

He’s slightly bent over, arms slung through brace crutches, although he has no visible injuries. They’re even dressed similarly and Dean realizes it’s why her sweater doesn’t seem to fit. It’s clearly her brother’s.

While she stares at them with suspicion and outright resentment, her brother, named Oliver according to the locals, has a warm smile and warmer eyes. He’s glad to have company.

“Don’t let her get to you,” Oliver says good-naturedly. “She’s like this with everyone. I’m Oliver, and you’ve already met my sister, Farrah, but feel free to call her Fay. Everyone does.”

“Dean Winchester, and my brother, Sam.”

The men shake hands all around. When Dean offers his to Farrah, she looks down at it and then back up at him. She doesn’t uncross her arms from her chest.

Fay stands beside Oliver with her steely eyes. “We’re closed, Ollie. You know that. Every season, all season. No exceptions.” Her words are clipped.

“Aw, lighten up, Feefe. Rules are made to be broken,” he says as he looks at Dean and Sam both. “Am I right?” Not waiting for them to answer, he turns easily, using his crutches as pivot points and starts walking away, clearly favoring his right leg, a pronounced limp in his step. “Besides, I have a good feeling about you two and I’m never wrong.”

Fay takes the time to glare at the Winchesters again before she stalks off after her brother. After a moment when she doesn’t hear Sam or Dean she turns back around and huffs at them.

“Well? Are you coming or not?”

***

It’s clear from the way Farrah continues to glare at them as she starts the coffee, she’s not pleased.

They’re in the service kitchen and it’s miles of stainless steel, hanging pots, utility stoves and sinks, industrial sized fridges and walk in freezers. Most of it has the overly shiny, clean look of ‘unused,’ but a small corner is cluttered with some well-loved appliances, a butter knife, a plate with toast crumbs and a jar of peanut butter.

Oliver has taken a seat at a small stainless steel table set off to the side, one of it’s edges against a wall, and gestures for Sam and Dean to do the same. There are only two chairs and Oliver helpfully points out that Farrah can grab one from the dining room.

“Can’t you, Feefe?” Oliver asks and his charming smile puts Dean’s to shame. She purses her lips at him and exits the double set of swinging doors that must lead to the dining room. She’s back moments later with a navy-blue velvet upholstered chair that she sets down at the table next to the two utilitarian steel chairs with a decisive ‘thunk’.

Dean takes the steel chair, across the table from Oliver and Sam hesitates at the blue velvet one.

“I can stand,” Sam says, nodding his head toward Farrah.

Farrah is cradling three ceramic mugs, saucers and spoons and sets them down with a clatter on the table, looking pointedly at Oliver. He ignores her attitude and gracefully sets out the stoneware.

“I prefer to stand,” she replies tersely as she brushes by Sam and busies herself getting powdered creamer and sugar out of the fridge.

“We don’t keep perishables about, I’m afraid,” says Oliver. “Once the season’s over, we dig in until spring.”

“You guys don’t head down to town at all?” Sam asks as he finally takes his seat.

Oliver taps his right knee. “I can’t drive with this bad boy. It won’t bend all the way and my hip can’t take a car seat for more than a couple of minutes. Unless I’m stretched out in the back.”

Dean and Sam both look to Farrah. She’s leaning against the shiny countertop, arms crossed again, expression blank.

“I don’t leave the hotel,” she says simply.

“Ever?” Sam can’t help from asking.

She pauses and while she remains impassive, Oliver tenses slightly. “Never.”

“You could get stuff delivered,” Dean offers.

Farrah smiles but it’s not very friendly. “I’m sure you heard all about it town. No one comes to Cross Creek during off season.”

“Yeah,” Dean begins conversationally, “the locals were real surprised that Sam and I wanted to come up and see the place. Kept telling us to come back in the spring. They said,” Dean fakes a conspiratorial smile, lowering his gaze slightly, “that the place was haunted.”

“It is.”

Farrah’s tone brokers no argument. The industrial sized coffee maker finishes the pot quickly and she’s up and over at the table ready to pour, not wasting any time. She glances at Oliver with a question in her eyes. Oliver in turn stares hard at Sam.

“Leave a little room for creamer,” Oliver proclaims and then turns his gaze to Dean. Oliver taps his finger once, twice, and then a third time on the table top. “Sorry, Feefe. He’s a nuller.”

At their stunned silence, Farrah pours Sam’s cup of coffee, leaving a little room at the top and then eyeballs Dean herself.

“It’s just a guess, but I’ll say black.” She fills his cup to the top. She does the same to Oliver’s and he adds a heaping spoon of sugar.

“You two psychic or something?” Dean says, flicking his eyes over to Sam once.

“Oliver is. With most people,” replies Farrah. She pours her own cup of coffee and adds a little sweetener to it and then leans up against the counter again.

“Yeah?” asks Dean, brain already spinning with ways to prove him a fraud. “What’s that mean, I’m a nuller?”

“Means I don’t get anything off you,” Oliver says easily with a shrug. “Don’t know whether to apologize for that or not.”

“But me?” Sam asks.

Oliver turns his dark grey eyes back to Sam and Sam feels the sudden desire to hide. “You… You’re like a… kaleidoscope. Most people who are new to me are like that. I can see a lot of things but they shift and change and I can’t pin anything down. Nothing substantial anyway. I can get your coffee preference. Small inconsequential things like that. And… your brother’s face. It shows up a lot. And maybe…” He frowns, eyes going serious and sad. “A fire. A woman in a fire. On a ceiling?” He shakes his head and then sees the look on Sam’s face. “I’m sorry, I’m looking away now. I won’t look back.”

Oliver’s tone is easy, conversational, as though he didn’t just confirm his claims of psychic ability. Sam has the sudden feeling that this isn’t going to be the easy salt and burn they had anticipated.

“And you?” Dean asks Farrah, a bit of his charm slipping at Oliver’s mention of their mother burning.

“I’m not like Oliver,” she states.

“I thought that twins were supposed to be…” Dean fumbles for the word. “Twinly?”

The frown she gives him is comical, all sharp angled eyebrows and disbelieving eyes.

“We’re mostly the same,” says Oliver. “Except I’m good with people.” He gives a laughing-eyed wink to Farrah and she rolls her eyes. “Unfortunately for you,” Oliver continues, “it also means I know when people are lying. I know your parents never honeymooned here and that Sam really isn’t all that into photography. But you are interested in the haunting.”

“Why did you invite us in if you knew we were lying?” asks Sam.

“I get a good feeling off you. I wasn’t lying about that.”

Dean and Sam exchange their own sibling look, expressionless eyes and blank faces, although there’s clearly some kind of communication going on. Finally Dean speaks.

“We’re interested in haunted places. We look for them, visit them. Try to figure them out.” Dean’s always cautious with his words, but he feels doubly so now. He’s careful to tell the truth, which in itself is a new feat for him, while still trying to keep the entire story to himself.

It’s a hell of a lot easier to lie straight out.

Oliver’s nodding thoughtfully and Dean can’t tell if he’s passed scrutiny or not. “So you’ve seen a lot of haunted places then. All across America?”

“Yep. We study them. Sometimes we’ve even been able to put a ghost to rest.”

Oliver turns in his chair, carefully moving around his hip and stares at Farrah. She stares back at him and while the Winchesters have unspoken communication between the two of them, it’s nothing like this.

The way they look at each other, Sam can almost see energy flitting back and forth between them. It makes the hair on the back of Sam’s neck rise.

Farrah suddenly slams her coffee cup down. “It’s a bad idea,” she states firmly at Oliver.

Oliver looks back at Sam and Dean. “You’ll have to forgive us, we do this. Have conversations amongst ourselves. Especially off season, we fall into a pattern. You see, I’m quite interested in what you’ll be able to tell us about Cross Creek. If it’s similar to the places you’ve seen. If there’s any other place like it out there. If there’s anything that can be done. But, Feefe - Farrah - is adamant that you should leave immediately.”

“Off-season is a bad time for the hotel,” she argues. “You can come back and look around all you want in the spring and I’ll answer any questions you have, show you all the nooks and crannies. But winter … It’s just not a good time.”

That’s interesting. Dean can’t think of a house or haunted place they’ve ever been to that had good and bad seasons. Ghosts and poltergeists don’t usually have a sense of time. It’s all the same to them.

“Whereas I would argue that off-season is the best time to poke around Cross Creek,” Oliver counters. “It’s the time when the hotel is its true self. It’s haunted year round, but there are things…”

“Oliver,” Farrah warns.

“Things that only come out during winter,” Oliver finishes. “Things you won’t see any other time of year.”

“And that’s why they shouldn’t stay.” Farrah looks at Sam and Dean again. “Come back in the spring, I’ll show you whatever you want. I’ll put you in the nicest room, give you the grand tour. I’ll make sure you see all the ghosts. But go back down the mountain for winter.”

“Look, I appreciate the warnings, I do,” replies Dean. “But Sam and I… we’ve seen some bat-crazy shit in our lives and we’d like to stay.”

Farrah’s head is turned off to the side, tilted slightly as though she’s listening. Sam turns his head and he can hear the whispering again. It’s quiet and he can’t make out the words, but it’s there.

“You can hear them, can’t you?” asks Oliver, jerking his head at Sam. Dean’s head whips to look at Sam sharply and Sam nods absently.

“I think so. It’s like whispering?”

Oliver shrugs. “I don’t hear them. But Farrah does. She sees them too.” Oliver looks over at Farrah. “What are they saying, Feefe? Do they want them to stay?”

She’s silent for a few seconds, staring off into space with a freaky focused gaze that flicks around, as though she’s listening to several people. “Of course they want them to stay. They love having people around,” she says dryly. “Bunch of kids, of all you.” The lights in the kitchen flicker, as if in protest to the statement. Farrah rolls her eyes and the lights flicker playfully again. She shakes her head at the empty space. “It’s still a bad idea.”

The lights continue to flicker and the blender starts up, whirring gleefully and with nothing in the pitcher, it starts to topple. Farrah puts one hand on it and it stops immediately. Several drawers in the kitchen open and close and the hanging pots and pans start to clatter against one another. Though he knows it would be of no use, Dean’s hand itches for his gun. Sam’s tense in his seat. Their instinct is to go into battle mode, to start fighting, find some bones, salt and burn.

In contrast Farrah and Oliver appear nonplussed and unimpressed.

Cupboard doors bang on their hinges, the sink faucet turns on and an egg timer starts dinging off-rhythm madly.

Farrah huffs in annoyance. “If anyone messes up this kitchen, they’ll be helping me clean it later,” she warns. “And I’ll cancel Saturday night, don’t think I won’t.”

The lights come on and stay on, all drawers slide shut quietly. All cupboard doors close, pots and pans stop swaying. The faucet turns off. Farrah’s eyes scan the room. She’s like a mother who has just about had it with her kids.

Farrah turns to the men. “You’ve got them all riled up now.”

“What’s Saturday night?” Dean asks warily.

At his question, Farrah looks embarrassed. “It’s, uh, this thing. This thing we do every year…” She sighs. “Look it’s kind of like a disco, okay?”

Sam and Dean both kind of sit back in their seats. This is definitely not like their usual hunts.

“A disco?” Sam repeats.

“For them. The dead,” she says. Her tone implies that she feels she’s given enough information but she’s just confused the boys more. “Look, if you’re gonna stay, and I still advise against it,” she continues directing the last part to Oliver who shrugs, “then I’ll ask them if you can come Saturday night. If you’re really all that into haunted houses and ghosts, then you’ll probably like it.”

“We’ll stay.” Dean’s voice is steady and even. He doesn’t even have to look over at Sam who is nodding.

“They’re big boys, Feefe, they can look out for themselves.”

“I have my brain full keeping you and the rest of the deadites out of trouble, and now I’ve got them too.”

“I told you. I’ve a good feeling about this.” Oliver smiles at her.

“Yeah, I’ll remember you said that.”

***

The brothers don’t say anything to each other until they are outside by the car, pulling their duffle bags from the back seat and an assortment of hunting tools from the trunk. Their eyes meet over the hood of the car.

“What the fuck, man?” Dean finally says. It’s only mid afternoon, but the sun is hiding behind a mountain peek and the air outside has gone cold. Dean’s breath puffs out from his lips in lazy clouds.

Sam shakes his head. “I got nothin’.”

“A disco,” Dean says flatly.

Sam shrugs. “Got me.”

“And the two of them with their weird woo-woo shit.” He makes a dismissive motion with his hands and hitches his bag up higher on his shoulder, slamming the car door shut and heading back to the hotel. “They don’t know fuck all about haunted shit. We know about haunted shit. Time to clear this place out.”

Sam smiles at Dean’s expressive face and copies his brother’s moves, slinging his own bag over his frame.

As he turns back to the hotel he hears it.

It’s not whispering this time.

It’s a low, drawn out groan.

He gets this image in his head of a slumbering giant stretching out its limbs.

Just when he thinks he might be able to make out more, the sound stops.

He looks up and realizes Dean is standing at the door waiting for him.

“You waiting for the bell-hop? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure he’s not coming.”

Sam shakes his head and hustles up the walkway.

***

Farrah’s right shoulder seizes and she drops the cup and saucer on the floor, small white pieces flying across the tile. She stares hard at the small mess.

“What is it?” asks Oliver.

“He’s waking up.”

The lights in the kitchen start flickering madly again, drawers open and close, pots and pans clang. There’s a desperation about it this time, a franticness. The voices start talking to Farrah all at once. Whispering, speaking, yelling, shouting. She covers her ears and shuts her eyes.

“I know!” she shouts into the kitchen.

Silence falls.

“He’s early,” comments Oliver unperturbed.

“Ollie. This is a bad idea. Those boys need to go home.”

“What if they can help? What if this is what we’ve needed all these years? What we’ve waited for?”

She shakes her head. “They can’t help. No one can.”

“You don’t know that. I’m telling you, I get a good feeling from them. This could be something for us. For you. We could leave Cross Creek,” he says lowly.

He should know by now, there’s no point in whispering. The ghosts always hear him. They cluster around Farrah, pressing in like frightened chickens in a hen house. They are shapeless at the moment, not bothering to make humanoid forms, instead existing in their usual state of amorphous energy. Although they are nothing but knots and clumps of ether, each one is a distinguishable and distinct presence to Farrah. She knows them all by name. Even the ones that don’t speak. She tries to keep her own feelings clamped down.

When she’s upset, they get worse. She pulls the cable-knit sweater around herself tighter. They can’t help it, she knows, but she hates the way they leech the warmth from her body.

“You can leave. You should leave,” she says. “They could take you down the mountain tonight, Ollie.”

“I’m not fighting you about this anymore. I told you. It’s not open for discussion. You stay, I stay.”

“Ollie…”

“No.” He stamps his crutch.

Farrah shakes her head back and forth, staring at the broken cup on the floor and the drops of coffee like they’re some kind of strange fortune telling runes. “We should make them go. It was one thing, when he was sleeping, but now he’s waking up and… It’s not safe.”

“You’ll keep us safe. You always do.”

She shakes her head again, wondering if it’s a blessing or a curse that Ollie can’t read her mind like he reads others. He can’t hear her thoughts unless she directs them at him. If he could read her mind he would know that it’s been getting harder and harder to keep him at bay. Every year for the last six it’s been getting more difficult to bar the door against the wolf. In the summer she can pretend it isn’t so bad. She can fool herself into thinking it’s just the solitude and the cold that tire her out during the long off-season. During spring, summer and fall, when the sunlight is shining on her face and she’s able to be outside for a whole day, she can almost believe her own lies.

But winter is back.

This year she thinks it’ll have teeth.

If she tells Ollie, he’ll be more convinced than ever that he needs to stay with her, that he can’t leave her alone. He doesn’t realize that keeping him safe takes more and more from her.

She tilts her head to the side, thinking.

Maybe Ollie is right. Maybe the Winchesters are here for a reason.

***

Farrah’s waiting for them at the foot of the stairs, the wide expanse of the tiled floor of the grand foyer between them.

“Where’d your brother go?” asks Dean with a jerk of his head.

“He has a hard time with stairs. I’ll be showing you to a room. I assume you can share?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Sam answers but she’s already turned her back and is starting up the stairs.

“If you’re staying, there are rules.”

Her voice echos in the empty hotel, bouncing off the walls and floor. Dean tosses a smirk Sam’s way, but his brother isn’t paying attention.

“Rules,” replies Dean. “Sure, of course.”

She turns her head slightly and narrows her eyes. “I’m serious,” she counters. “Do not wander off. If you want to see a part of the hotel, let me or Oliver know. One of us will accompany you. And don’t give me ‘but-I-heard-something’ as an excuse. The place is haunted. You’re going to hear things. You don’t have to go looking for them. If you want to see the ghosts, I can arrange it. Also, there’s an english maze on the grounds.”

“Really?” Sam asks, his face brightening.

“Yes. Do not go in it. It’s off limits.” She stops on the first landing where the staircase breaks off into wings, one to each side. There’s a small window alcove and she gestures to the glass.

Both Winchesters crane their neck and look out the pristinely clean window. Thick evergreen bushes poke out from underneath a blanket of snow. The maze is laid out in geometric precision, perfect 30, 45, 60 and 90 degree angles that must be a stone bitch to prune into submission. Sam’s brain takes a quick snapshot of it and even as Farrah moves on, continuing up the stairs, he can feel the gears of his subconscious starting to slide and lock as they rotate, churning through potential solutions.

At the top of the stairs she takes a sharp right, trailing her hand lightly along the dark wood panelling as she walks. The upper levels is cold and Dean’s waiting for the tell-tale puff of his breath to let him know that ghosts are afoot.

“The usual places that you hear about in hauntings are perfectly safe at Cross Creek. The attic and the basement are fine. Our ghosts are pretty tame. They like having people about. In the basement, we’ve a pool but it’s is drained for the season, so there’s no real use going down there, although there’s a games room if you’re bored. There is also a sacred American Indian burial ground just on the outskirts of the hotel’s property. It’s quite lovely even in winter and if you have an interest in history, I can take you there. If have hiking boots, that is.”

She passes by several doors with numbers on them before stopping at room 4. The brass number is charmingly tarnished and she quickly brushes her fingers lightly over the metal three times before she taps the lock and then turns the handle. She sweeps into the room and waits for them to pass her.

“I’ll get you the key so you can lock it, although it won’t do any good against the ghosts. They’ll probably rifle through your stuff first chance they get.”

It’s a quaint hotel room. The Winchesters have seen more than their share of piss-poor, moldy, rank and scuzzy hotel rooms and this place is like the Taj Mahal. There are two plush queen beds and if those quilts weren’t stitched by a roomful of lovely grannies, Dean will eat them. The pillow cases are simple but clean. The furniture is solid and unobtrusive. Two night-stands, a desk, a sturdy chair, and a small table with two low cushioned seats finish off the room.

Farrah steps over to the side and flicks on the light to the bathroom. It’s pristine like the rest of the room.

“The bed linens might be a bit stale and I’ll have to bring up some towels. If you need more blankets there are some in the closet. I haven’t done preventative maintenance on the water heater that serves this area, so I may have to shut it down for a day when I get to it. I’ll give you fair warning when I do. I’ll also be doing preventative work on some of the heaters and lights, but honestly, with the way the deadites are, they’ll be on and off anyway.”

“Deadites?” Sam questions at her second use of the term.

“Yeah. You know, like that movie with Bruce Campbell.”

“You seem pretty okay with the ghost thing,” Dean says.

She turns her steely gaze on him. “You came here because the place is haunted. It didn't just get haunted overnight. And I grew up here, so yeah, I’m pretty okay with it.” She shifts back and forth on her feet, nervous. “Look, I know Ollie said that he got a good feeling from you and Ollie’s not been wrong yet but… It’s really not a good time for the hotel.”

“Winter, you mean.”

She nods at Dean’s words. “Yeah.”

“Oliver said you protect them. Protect them from what?”

She turns to Sam. Bites her lower lip. Looks away. “There’s something else here. At Cross Creek. It’s been here for years.” She rubs at her shoulder, squeezing and pressing the muscle of her upper back and up around to the very top of her collarbone. As soon as she realizes she’s doing it, she drops her hand. “I don’t know what it is, but I’ve always been able… keep it at bay, I guess. But…the last couple of winters it’s been …” her eyes drift past them to the window and she steps over, pulls open the drapes and looks down at the courtyard and maze. “I haven’t told Oliver. If he’s stubborn about going now, he’d be worse if he knew. But this winter… it’s early.”

“I - thought I heard something?” Sam hedges.

Dean’s head whips around to stare at him. “What? When?”

Sam grimaces. “Outside. By the car. It sounded like…”

“It’s waking up,” says Farrah. “I think it sleeps over the tourist season. I think that all the people here… I don’t know. I think it’s like they push down on it and keep it asleep.” She turns back to face them. “If you leave now, you could take Oliver with you. Once you got to town, he wouldn’t be able to get back up. No one will come back up during the winter and he can’t drive with his leg. It’s too far. And maybe after he’s had some time away, he would… he could… It would be so much better for him out there, in the real world. He doesn’t have to stay here.”

“What about you? Don’t you want to leave?” asks Dean.

The lights start to flicker, blinking rapidly. If any of them were epileptic it would be seizure inducing. The room, already cold, turns several degrees icier.

“I can’t leave. They need me.”

“The… deadites?” Sam questions.

She nods. “Yeah. If I leave, there’d be no one to keep it from them.” The lights steady out as if reassured by her words.

“How many…” Sam pauses, “how many are there?”

Her eyes flick around. Dean suddenly realizes she’s counting.

They’re in the room with them.

“Fourteen.”

Their eyes widen at the number. It’s rare, really rare, they find a place with so many. Dean can’t help but look over his shoulder and scrutinize every corner, searching for any sign. He itches for some rocksalt and a shotgun.

She frowns. “I’m not sure where everyone else is right now.” She shrugs. “Around. They’re always around.”

“There’s more?”

“Yes,” she says to Sam as though it were obvious. “There are about 35 or so regulars, and then a crowd of anywhere between…” she waffles her hand, “say 20 to 30 rotaters.”

“Rotaters?”

“Ghosts that come and go. Sometimes I only see them once. Some of them have been coming and going for as long as I can remember.” she laughs quietly. “Honestly, I don’t think Jonah is ever gonna stay put. He’s too happy roaming around. But he likes coming back every now and then, touch base.

“I could make you a list,” she says slowly. “If you come back in the spring. I’ll make a list of everyone I know. Names, birthplaces, death places, details. Anything you want. I’ll tell you what I know, what I see, what they tell me about where they are, where they go, where they’ve been… If you take Ollie down the mountain, I promise. I promise. Anything you want.”

Sam’s got his sympathetic face. The one that just screams to witnesses and victims I feel your pain and want to help you. Tell me all your troubles. “Dean and I… we know things too. We’ve seen a lot of things. We’ve stopped a lot of things.” he pauses, giving his words a chance to sink in. “We can help.”

“I only want you to take my brother down the mountain. I can handle everything else.”

“Just let us stay for a day or so, see how it goes, see if we can help.” Sam’s determined puppy dog eyes are valiantly working their mojo, trying to wear her down. Dean does his best to fade into the background and let her focus on Sam’s earnest eyes and open face. “We don’t just investigate hauntings,” Sam pushes on. “We fix them.”

The dead crowd around her again, pressing in and she shivers at the drop in temperature. “The ghosts are fine. They don’t cause any problems.” She warns Sam with her eyes. “I don’t want anything to happen to them. They just want to be here and they don’t do anything wrong.”

Sam nods agreeably. “Sure, of course. But the other thing? The one you protect them from, what about that?”

She worries her lip between her teeth. She’s not looking at them. She’s got her head tilted to the side.

She’s listening to them, they realize. Many ‘thems’ if the way she moves her head around is any indications.

Stay, stay, let them stay. Maybe they can help you stop it, stop him. More people is always good, it doesn’t like more people. But we do. We can watch them and go through their things and read their books and touch their computers and see all the places they’ve been. Stay, stay, let them stay. Please, please. We want them to stay. Ollie likes them. Ollie-ollie-oxen-free says he has a good feeling. Stay-stay-let-them-stay.

She doesn’t like it when they all talk at once. It’s like being in a room full of shouting people only their voices sink right into her body, twisting and curling around with each syllable.

Sam can hear… something. He’s not sure what. It’s like whispering or rushing water or hissing wind. He takes a step toward her, almost unconsciously to get closer to the sound, to make it out. Dean’s hand on his arm stops him.

“Fine,” Farrah barks suddenly at the sprits and stiffens her spine as she turns back to the Winchesters. The hissing noise has stopped and Sam can only guess that the ghosts have made their point to Farrah. “Stay out of the maze,” she repeats, her tone brusque. “And room 43. Room 43 doesn’t ever get used. Not even during the busiest season.” She’s rubbing her shoulder. “Sometimes… sometimes the room tries to get you to go in. Don’t forget. I don’t go in that room. Even the deadites don’t go in that room.” She waits to make sure her words have sunk in. “You should think of this place like a tiny communist country. Unless I tell you you’re allowed to go somewhere, you’re not.”

She heads toward the door, stopping just inside the room. “Ollie and I have dinner around six-ish. Breakfast is whatever we want to grab, lunch is the same. The coffee’s usually fresh all day because we both like it. Dinner is sit-down. It’s not fancy and I can’t promise that either one of us is a great cook, but you can come.” She hesitates for a moment and continues. “If you have something small, something… like a watch or a trinket that you like, or keep with you a lot, you should give it to Ollie. If something happens, or you get lost, he can use it to find you. We live in the staff area on the main floor, close to the kitchen. Ollie’s usually around there. I’m all over the hotel doing maintenance and the like. Ollie will know where I am if you need me.”

As soon as she’s gone Dean turns to Sam.

“Why didn’t you tell me you heard something?”

It’s practically an accusation. Dean’s throat is tight and Sam knows it’s not with anger, but worry.

Sam shrugs. “It was just really quick. Out by the car, I don’t know what it was. It sounded like someone stretching. And then, when the ghosts were talking to her now and in the kitchen before, I can hear them a little too.”

Dean watches him for a moment. “You see anything?”

Sam shakes his head this time. “No. Nothing. But… I think she’s right Dean, I don’t get a bad feeling from the ghosts. But what I heard outside… that was different.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and eyeballs Sam.

Dean’s always for the hunt. If it breathes, he’ll smother it. If it moves, he’ll stop it. If it bleeds, he’ll bleed it dry. He can kill just about any kind of monster using anything he happens to have with him at the moment. He’s not afraid of monsters. But something is going on with Sammy and he doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t know how to stop it, how to fight it, how to make it go away. And that scares the shit out of him.

“That’s it,” Dean declares suddenly. “We’re outta here.”

“What? No, Dean,” protests Sam. “It’s not like the visions. I don’t know what it is but I don’t think it’s dangerous.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, unconvinced.

“I can do this, Dean,” Sam says, planting his feet and standing his ground. “This?” He points to his brain. “Whatever is going on with my head, it isn’t going to go away and we gotta figure out a way to deal with it. Maybe we can even use it. We came here to do a job and I can do it.”

Dean rubs his hand over his lips and jaw. “I dunno, Sammy.”

“We’re already here, they’re letting us stay. Let’s do this.”

They stand in a semi-face off for a moment until Dean finally points a finger at him. “If you get anymore weird shit going on with that skull of yours, you tell me, and I mean yesterday.”

“I will. I promise.”

Dean spends another four seconds looking somewhat unconvinced before he nods and starts pulling gear out of his duffle bag.

“So, we know we got a shit load of ghosts hanging around here. At least 35. We gotta figure out what’s keeping them here. Some of them could have died here and so we could get lucky and actually salt and burn a few, but if there were that many deaths, something tells me this wouldn’t be such a tourist hotspot.”

Sam’s nodding and pulling out his laptop. “I’ll go through my notes again and maybe tonight at dinner we can ask Farrah and Oliver a bit more about the history of the hotel. Maybe Farrah will still give us that list of ghosts.”

“What is with the two of them? Weird psychic twins? Seriously? Some families are fucked up.”

Sam gives him a pointed look which Dean dismisses with a hand. “We’re not exactly normal, but we’re not that level of bizarre-o.”

“I’ll remember that the next time I find your gun in my shoe.”

“Whatever. All I’m saying is, that shit is weird. He’s psychic and she talks to ghosts? I bet you twenty bucks that when we get down to the bottom of this place it’s gonna turn out that Freaky Farrah and Odd Oliver have been snatching tourists, dismembering them and Hannibal-Lecterizing them at the hotel buffet for years. And then we’ll have a whole town full of ‘but they were such nice and quiet kids’.”

Sam huffs in laughter at Dean’s expression. “Hannibal-Lecterizing them?”

“Shut it. It’s a verb now.”

***

They wander around the hotel for a few hours, completely ignoring Farrah’s warning and splitting up like they always do. Dean’s got the EMF reader and is systematically going through the hotel in sections, trying to get a reading.

For a place that’s supposed to be haunted the EMF is suspiciously quiet.

Dean checks out the attic, the upper floors, pausing at each room. The doors are all locked, which he finds odd. If this place is closed for the season, why lock the doors?

It’s his least favorite part of a case. Not that he’s thought much about it, but on the chance occasions that he has, this part here, after they’ve concluded a place is worth a visit and is a good prospect for a hunt, and they’ve managed to ingrain themselves in the situation by hook or by crook, and they’re just waiting for the shoe to drop… it sucks. At this point, they’ve done most of their research and they have to wait for something to happen. Something to lead them to bones to burn, or let them know they’ll need hex bags instead. Or wait for the next demon attack or vampire victim… For a job that’s steeped in danger and the unknown, fraught with the supernatural and freaky acts of nature, there sure is a lot of waiting around doing fuck all.

He has to pass by room 43 on his way back to the room to meet Sam and he’s not a total idiot. Despite the fact that he thinks Farrah’s warnings were over the top and a bit of a hard sell, he’s not about to go in there itching for trouble. He eyeballs the door. There’s nothing special about it. Looks like all the other doors he’s seen today. He inches closer to the door and holds the EMF reader up to the wood.

Nothing.

He huffs. Figures. The place is haunted, he’ll give it that. While the EMF hasn’t given him anything yet, Sam heard the voices and they've got enough anecdotal evidence to point pretty clearly at a run of the mill haunting. Years of bringing in the tourists have probably trained Farrah and Oliver to ham it up, hand out the dire warnings and significant looks. He taps the EMF to make sure it’s working and satisfied that it is, turns his back on the door.

He hears the bolt slide in its casing, unlocking the door.

He turns back and the door is slightly ajar.

Although he knows he’s alone, he can’t help the automatic reflex to look around and check for someone else. He holds the EMF in front of him and is surprised when the lights start to flicker. They don’t flicker the way the normally do. Usually they inch up the scale, two lights, three lights, six, nine - until the entire LED display is ignited with red.

This time the LED lights are pulsing. Up, down, up down. Like a heart beat on an EEG monitor.

And that’s… odd.

His eyes flick around the room from the doorway. It looks just like their room only it’s covered in dust and has the stale scent of years of abandonment. Farrah wasn’t lying when she said this room wasn’t used. The bedspreads are dated, even for a place like this, and the art on the walls is even more-so. If he had to guess, he’d say the room hasn’t been used in at least thirty years.

It’s cold.

The cold seeps over the doorway into the hallway, and even though he hasn’t stepped into the room, he can see his breath puffing out. As soon as it crosses the threshold of the room it disappears.

He’s not sure for a moment if he should bring Sam to this room. Normally the first thing he’d do is go get his brother and they’d both bust in with rock-salt and hex-bags and see what happens. But now with Sam’s… thing, his weird psychic thing, Dean’s not sure if that’s a good idea.

He’s standing there thinking when he sees something poking out from under the bed. It looks like a little toy horse, one of those multicolored horses that little girls go crazy about. Dean can see the top of it’s head, part of a bright pink and blue mane and the curve of its back.

Well, someone's been in there a little more recently than he first thought. He thinks those girly horses weren’t around until at least the 80s.

His lips curl in amusement. He’ll ask Sam. Sam will probably know simply because he knows obscure shit like that and then Dean can ride his ass for weeks about Sam knowing all about girly horses with pink hair.

His eyes travel over the door frame and threshold. Of course being told he can’t go in has left him with a burning desire to do just that. It’s not like he doesn’t deal with this kind of freaky ass shit every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

He’s just about to take a step in when there’s a horrible screaming sound, like too much wind being pushed through a small, leaky pipe and the heavy wooden door slams in his face, knocking him straight on the chin. He stumbles back a few steps regaining his balance. He touches his lip and checks his fingers for blood.

“Motherfucker,” he mumbles, pleasantly surprised when his fingers show up bloodless. He glances back up at the door.

Don’t

The word is written in some kind of liquid on the door, only really viewable when the light hits it right. He reaches out and touches it. Rubs his fingers together.

It’s not blood, which frankly is a surprise. But it’s not plain water either. It kind of smells like… babies. Like the warm, powdery smell of baby oil or baby shampoo. Pleasant. Soft. Innocent.

He looks sideways at the door. “I can’t wait to kick your haunted ass,” he mutters at it before he walks away.

***

Sam heads to the basement first and pokes around, looking for a cellar, dark corner, unused area; anything that usually screams here’s where all the haunting takes place. He’s got the video recorder out, looking for orbs, glowing lights or manifested spirits.

Nothing.

He ambles by the empty pool, the prevalent scent of chlorine permanently pressed into the fixtures. Deck chairs are neatly stacked in the corner, rope lane dividers are reeled up on large wheels. Water toys, flotation devices all securely stowed in large bins.

So far it’s the most boring haunted hotel ever.

He checks out a small gaming room where the only horror to be found is a preternaturally huge collection of jigsaw puzzles. He moves up to the main floor, roaming through the large dining room off the kitchen. The tables and chairs are all sorted to one side of the large expanse, leaving an empty, hollow space for the rest of the room. It’s dark and he can’t find the light switch for the large chandeliers, but there are large portrait windows on the north side of the room and they let in enough of the fading daylight for him to navigate around easily. He thinks he sees a few orbs through the small display screen of the camera but when he pans the camera around, they disappear. He pushes through the swinging doors into the kitchen and finds Ollie still seated at the small table, reading a book and drinking coffee. Sam can smell something wonderful cooking and it occurs to him that he can’t remember the last time he had a meal that he didn’t order off a menu.

“Checking out the place?” Oliver asks.

“Yeah, I hope that’s okay,” Sam says more for conversation than anything else.

“I won’t tell Farrah you’re by yourself. You better hope she doesn’t find out or you and your brother will get a tongue lashing,” he says with a hint of humor.

Sam has the grace to look embarrassed. “Yeah, she mentioned it when she took us to our room.”

Oliver takes a sip of coffee. “Oh, I’m sure she did. She’s quite adamant about certain things. Find anything?”

Sam takes a seat at the table. “Nah. I thought maybe I saw some ghosts but no dice.”

“Hmm, probably following Farrah around or hiding. They like to play hard to get sometimes.”

“Your sister read us the riot act about where we can and can’t go. What about you?” asks Sam.

“What about me?”

“Any warnings or rules for the hotel?”

“No,” Oliver says with a small laugh. “That’s Farrah’s department. No one knows the hotel like she does. I do better with people.” He folds the page of his book over and sets it on the table. He makes his way over to the stove, limping heavily as he doesn’t bother with his crutches for the short distance. His expression is thoughtful as he takes the lid off and stirs something. “And I would like to apologize for earlier.”

Sam’s brow furrows. “For what?”

“When we were having coffee and I was looking at your mind. I obviously found something very… sensitive and I’m sorry about that.”

Sam nods in acceptance. “So, you’ve, I mean, you both have been able to… do stuff your whole lives?”

Oliver bobs his head as he makes his way back to the table with his unsteady gait. “Yeah. I don’t remember not being able to know things about people. I think my parents noticed it when I was about five or so? And Farrah, she’s always been able to talk to the ghosts. My father could as well. He was the caretaker at Cross Creek before Farrah and I took over. Talking to the dead runs in the family so it was pretty much a given that one of us was going to be able to do it so it wasn’t exactly news when Farrah started talking about her invisible friends. I think he was surprised that I couldn’t as well, but I never had any luck with the dead. Just the living.”

Thinking about his own uncharted foray into psychic abilities, Sam leans forward. “What can you see about me? About what I can do?”

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea for me to look.”

Sam’s stomach rolls over. “Do you see something bad? Wrong?”

Oliver shakes his head. “No, not that, it’s just… I have the feeling you want a very specific answer from me and I don’t think I’ll be able to give you one. I’ve met other psychics before. Mostly low level ones, some didn’t even realize they were a little bit touched by it. They just assume they are good at reading people or exceptional lucky or just intuitive. It’s not that it’s harder to read other psychics. We’re all kind of like broadcasters. But people who aren’t psychic broadcast very cleanly. Other psychics tend to broadcast… differently. Like I’m looking through water. A lot of water.”

“Anything you can tell me. Please?”

Oliver purses his lips and sits back in his chair, eyeballing Sam without speaking for a few minutes. “They were latent. Asleep for a long time, your abilities. And it’s… ironic that it’s you, because your whole life you’ve been chasing normal while your brother and your… father?” Oliver questions and Sam nods. “They have been chasing after monsters. And you’re afraid you’re one of them.”

It takes the air right out of Sam’s lungs to hear someone else speak his fears out loud, and a stranger at that. He is afraid. He’s afraid that underneath his exterior lurks something that’s waiting to be set free. He’s afraid to talk to Dean about it, knowing that Dean will simply scoff and tell him that he’s not a monster, he’ll never be a monster. Dean will tell Sam all the things he thinks Sam wants to hear, needs to hear.

But all Sam really wants is for Dean to acknowledge the truth. They don’t know what’s going on in his head. And it’s a little scary.

“Am I?” he hedges finally.

“No,” answers Oliver easily, quickly and the speed at which he answers relieves Sam. “There but for your brother go you.”

Sam’s eyebrows come together. “What do you mean?”

“I get the sense that you were meant for something, something… monumental. Pieces being set out, plans being put into motion over long stretches of time and the culmination was to be…unheard of. But your brother was the unknown variable.” Oliver reaches out and places a hand over Sam’s, his dark grey eyes flickering back and forth as he tries to see deeper into Sam. “Dean is so ingrained into you. From a very young age. All I see is Dean, Dean, Dean. You’ve pulled away and left. You will continue to pull away and return. But you will always have him as your center. Your powers are a coal mine and Dean is your canary.”

“I don’t know if I’m okay with that,” Sam says without thinking.

“Doesn’t matter if you are or not. That’s the way it is,” he finishes, leaning back in his chair. “But the worst thing to do is to shut your eyes and stick your head in the sand. Pretending it isn’t there doesn’t make it go away.” Oliver counsels. “Now, did Fay tell you about dinner time?”

Surprised by the change in subject, it takes Sam a second to nod. “Um, yeah. She said we were welcome?”

“Yep. Hope you like stew.”

He has a quick recollection of what Dean said earlier, betting him they’re going to find out that Oliver and Farrah are the real creatures at Cross Creek.

Oliver laughs sharply. “Hannibal-Lecterizing? Is that even a word?”

It occurs to Sam it’s probably not best to think those kind of things around a psychic.

“Oh, I, uh… he didn’t mean it, I mean, neither of us think… he was just making a joke.”

Oliver waves him off with a hand still laughing. “I’m honestly flattered anyone would think we’re that enterprising. I can barely get around with my leg and Farrah’s just too boring.”

Sam lets himself laugh along at the suggestion, finding Oliver’s good mood infectious. “Yeah, I guess so, huh?”

“I might have to tease your brother about it at dinner tonight.”


Continue on to Part 2