Five: Remote Control
Bishop had a million thoughts rattling around in her
head as she absently turned her beat up silver minivan
into the parking lot of Penny’s All You Can Eat
As was usual for a Saturday, the lunch
crowd had arrived early and simply not left, hungry
families intent on taking the diner’s name quite
literally piling inside with what seemed like at least
a hundred kids apiece, all of whom appeared dead set
on consuming their own weight in burgers, fries and
ice cream sundaes.
Sandie barely noticed as she carefully
circled the parking lot, the ancient security cameras
dotted around the perimeter fence squeaking slightly
as they followed her progress.
Now what time did Janey need picking
up from soccer practice? Two-thirty? Or was it three?
Sandie shook her head slightly. No, three o’clock
was when she was supposed to be collecting Robbie from
Luis’ house and dropping the boys at Mitchell’s
birthday bowl-a-rama. So Janey must be two-thirty.
she berated herself as she scanned the parked vehicles
for one in particular. Ruby’s costume! Her youngest
daughter would throw a fit if she had to be the only
pirate without an eye patch in the school play. Must
run down to the store. Can’t have Cap’n
Ruby without an eye patch…
She smiled as she finally spotted the
big black car parked slightly away from the others to
the rear of the lot, checking the license plate number
and nodding in relief.
Soccer at two-thirty, bowling at three, eye patch for
Ruby and she had remembered to put a full clip
in the 9mm, right?
Easing the minivan into a spot just
left of the big shiny black car, she yanked on the parking
brake before pulling her purse roughly across the passenger
seat and tugging out the black handgun secreted inside.
Releasing the clip, she checked its stock of ammo before
sliding it back into the grip and sighing contentedly.
Soccer. Bowling. Eye patch. Bullets.
All was right with Sandie’s world.
with herself, she stepped calmly out of the car, not
really registering that this was the first calm she’d
felt all day. This was okay, this was right, she told
herself. Just get this done, then off to pick up
Janey after soccer.
Sandie’s smile faltered slightly
as she wondered how her oldest daughter was doing at
practice. She hadn’t scored a goal in four games
and was starting to get a little bummed about the whole
thing. Maybe she’d take her out for pizza. And
Ruby. Have ice cream. Maybe come to Penny’s…
Just needed to do this one little thing
patted the trunk of the big black Chevy as she passed,
walking slowly and deliberately toward the diner’s
entrance – no hurry, no panic – fingers
curling confidently around the Beretta just peeking
over the lip of her purse.
She glanced up at the security camera
above the door as the little bell chimed to announce
her entrance, smiling faintly and hoping her lipstick
get a new tube of the fuchsia next time I’m at
the drugstore, she reminded herself, suddenly remembering
she was out of her favorite shade.
“We’re a little crowded
today,” the brassy blonde waitress informed her,
smiling falsely as she lifted up the coffee pot to avoid
smacking some guy in a Phillies cap over the head with
it. “If you’ll just give me a minute…”
“Oh, that’s okay,”
Sandie replied cheerily, glancing around the crowded
restaurant and smiling brightly as her eyes lit on a
booth way in back toward the fire exit. “I’m
looking for someone…”
Silently reminding herself to pick
up the dry cleaning on the way to Janey’s soccer
practice, Sandie methodically drew the 9mm from her
purse, raised it to shoulder height, and began to walk
purposefully toward the rear of the diner, completely
oblivious to the sudden screams of startled patrons
all around her, some of whom began to fling themselves
off their chairs to cower beneath their tables as the
gun in Sandie’s hand swept in a wide arc above
Approaching the booth she’d spotted
from the doorway, Sandie’s smile widened as her
finger hovered over the trigger of the Beretta.
“Ah, there you are,” she
said pleasantly, before proceeding to empty the clip
into the horrified crowd.
Dean Winchester wasn’t having
the best day.
enough that the Impala had gotten a flat on the way
into town; that his best jeans had gotten a little more
ripped when he went to fix it; that Sam had insisted
on ordering him green stuff with lunch when
they’d finally found a half decent motel room
and made it to an overcrowded diner swarming with goddamn
kids; screaming kids, wailing kids, yelling kids, running
kids. Dean didn’t usually have a problem with
munchkins, but today his head was still trying to decide
whether he should have stopped when they brought out
that third pitcher of sangria last night, or whether
two should really have been his limit. Five, his throbbing
headache was telling him, was probably pushing it.
those checkout girls had really been in the
mood to party…
And then, of course, he still had to
put up with Sam’s continual mother-henning, which
had increased to epic proportions since that whole getting-possessed-by-a-demon
thing, culminating in his currently being force-fed
broccoli – even though Dean had been at great
pains to point out that even broccoli couldn’t
fend off demonic possession.
all of that was before some suburban housewife had decided
to burst into the diner and go all Terminator
on the customers.
that was all Dean needed today.
Gun-wielding soccer mom.
“What the hell?!” Sam hissed,
pulling Dean back behind their overturned table as a
bullet pinged off the Formica just as his brother reached
for the downed waitress currently spilling blood all
over the black and white tiled floor.
“Oh my god, that’s Sandie
Bishop!” the waitress cried, trembling hand pressed
to the bullet hole in her shoulder as her ashen face
looked up at the woman striding nonchalantly toward
her. “Her son’s in my daughter’s math
Dean made another attempt at grabbing
the waitress’ shirt, fingers finally snagging
on the fabric, enabling him to drag her back behind
the table just as the clickety-clack of the approaching
woman’s sensible heels came to an abrupt halt
six feet away from them.
“You can’t hide,”
the woman said calmly. “I see you back there.”
Dean glanced at Sam wide-eyed as he
cautiously slid his handgun from the inner pocket of
his navy blue jacket. “So I’m not usually
the paranoid type,” he muttered, leaning his head
back against the table as Sam drew his own weapon and
returned his brother’s incredulous gaze. “But
you get the feeling this chick’s here for us?”
Sam swallowed. “Now who’ve
we pissed off?” he muttered, daring to peek out
from behind the table just as another bullet took a
chunk of foam out of the seat against which he was crouching,
barely an inch from his ear.
“You wanna list?” Dean
offered, trying to ignore the oddly panicked look the
waitress was throwing their way.
Sam smiled awkwardly at the waitress,
pressing his hand against the one she was clutching
to her shoulder. “Just keep pressure on it,”
he instructed her reassuringly. “You’re
gonna be fine. Probably won’t even scar.”
The waitress didn’t look like
she believed him, trying to push herself further back
into the booth, into the space between the seats where
the table had previously been standing.
out come out wherever you are!” the soccer mom
sang cheerfully, taking another step towards them.
“Well she certainly don’t
look like no hunter,” Dean scowled, for the first
time in his life relieved to hear the sound of police
sirens wailing in the distance, just as another shot
rang out above his head and his scowl deepened. “So
who the hell is she?”
A loud click caused him to look straight
up, right into the barrel of Sandie Bishop’s deadly-steady
9mm, which had appeared over the top of the upturned
table and was currently pointed right between his eyes.
He gulped audibly, hands moving out to his sides in
a gesture of surrender as Sam did likewise.
“Hey lady,” Dean managed,
not moving one iota, eyes slightly crossed as he continued
to stare into the barrel of Sandie’s Beretta.
“You really wanna splatter a face this pretty
all over some random diner?”
Sandie glared at him. “You’re
going to get what’s coming to you,” she
assured him. “You’re going to pay. After
what you did…”
frowned, trying to uncross his eyes but finding himself
unable to focus on anything but the gun barrel hovering
inches from his face. “Sweetheart, you’re
gonna have to be a little more specific.” He smiled
nervously. “We’ve done a lot of
“You’re not getting away
this time,” Sandie interrupted as if he’d
not even spoken, suddenly shoving the barrel of the
Beretta right up against Dean’s forehead, forcing
what Dean would later refer to as a grunt, but Sam would
later refer to as a squeak to escape the older brother’s
“Wait!” Sam lurched forward,
drawing out his pistol with lightning speed and aiming
it above Dean’s head. “You don’t –”
“You’re going to pay –”
Dean snapped his eyes shut as Sandie’s
finger squeezed the trigger, Sam’s anguished scream
of “No!” intermingling with a loud bang
that resounded eerily around the suddenly silent diner.
All Dean heard then was the sound of
Sam’s harsh breathing, and he opened one eye cautiously,
taking an experimental breath of his own.
Sam’s eyes were as wide as that
Christmas morning when he was six and Dad had actually
remembered to get them a Christmas tree. He was staring
at a point beyond Dean’s shoulder, the older brother
slowly opening his other eye and muttering “Please
don’t let there be soccer mom brains all over
me,” before twisting around to follow the direction
of Sam’s stunned gaze.
Sandie Bishop was lying sprawled out
across the tiled floor, gun still held loosely in her
hand as a tiny trickle of blood began to ooze down her
temple and into her hair.
gaze immediately traveled up, to where a big black guy
in a greasy white apron stood clutching a frying pan
with both hands, teeth clenched together in a grimace
of either grim determination or abject terror, the sudden
tremble in his arms suggesting the latter.
Dean just stared up at him for a second,
vaguely aware of Sam scrambling toward the downed soccer
mom and knocking the Beretta out of her lax grip. He
blinked twice, before managing, “Dude, you totally
hit her with a frying pan.”
The cook seemed to come back to himself
slightly, a sheepish smile playing at the corners of
his mouth as his shrugged big shoulders. “Always
works in the movies,” he said, attention drawn
suddenly toward the window and the parking lot outside,
where two local cop cars had just screeched to a halt,
blue and red lights flashing angrily as boys and girls
in blue flung themselves out onto the gravel, cowering
behind open car doors, service revolvers drawn nervously.
“You in the diner!” a crackly
voice sounded loud over a bullhorn, feedback screech
almost drowning out the cop’s last couple of words.
“Throw down your weapons and come out with your
hands in the air!”
The cook shrugged again, ambling over
to one of the windows, rapping on the glass before shoving
it open a crack. “It’s okay, she’s
disarmed!” he yelled.
The cop with the bullhorn straightened,
motioning his fellows to move in, at which point Sam
quickly stashed his own weapon out of sight and grabbed
a fistful of Dean’s jacket urgently. “Come
on,” he said, tugging his brother toward him.
“We gotta get you outta here.”
Dean squinted at him, for a second
not catching on, before suddenly grinning lopsidedly.
“I keep forgetting I’m a dead serial killer,”
he said, not resisting Sam’s urging as his brother
tugged him down behind a couple more overturned tables
before beginning to crawl toward the emergency exit
at the rear of the diner.
“Everyone stay put!” the
cop with the bullhorn ordered, as the little bell over
the front door tinkled to announce the arrival of two
scared-looking young officers whose hands trembled on
their handguns as they surveyed the scene in front of
One of them approached Sandie’s
prone form, handcuffs at the ready, while his colleague
scratched her head in surprise as she took in the identity
of the ‘mad gunman’ some guy trapped in
the diner’s toilets had dialed 911 to report as
soon as the shooting started.
“Everyone stay where you are,”
the female cop repeated her superior’s orders.
“Once we’ve taken care of the wounded, we’re
going to want statements from all of you…”
Sam glanced back to ensure Dean was
still behind him as he quietly reached out to shove
open the emergency door. “Sorry officer,”
he muttered, ducking out into the parking lot. “Not
Dean followed close on his brother’s
heels, briefly checking out the cop before shaking his
head a little disappointedly. “Even though you
do kinda look like Heather Locklear in that uniform…”
the hell was that?” Dean burst out, only
able to speak once the blue and red lights of the additional
cop cars now swarming toward the diner were only distantly
visible in the Impala’s rearview mirror.
sat rigidly in the passenger seat, staring forward so
hard Dean was worried the kid might strain something.
“I think you were right,” he said at length,
jaw tense and eyes wide. “I think she was after
Dean glanced sideways at him, noting
his pasty pallor. “She wasn’t a hunter,
Sam,” he assured him confidently. “They’ve
not found us. If they’re even still after us.”
Sam swiveled in his seat suddenly.
“Then what the hell was she, Dean?” he demanded,
fists clenched against his thighs. “Because if
she wasn’t a hunter, then the only other logical
explanation would be possession.” He took a deep
breath. “Maybe she was one of Haris’ kids.
Maybe they’re not done with us…”
flinched involuntarily, suddenly feeling the weight
of the amulet heavy around his neck and unconsciously
reaching to turn down the volume on the stereo as Cozy
Dance With the Devil thudded from the speakers.
He swallowed hard, clenching his teeth as he tried to
regain his equilibrium, knuckles white as he clung to
the steering wheel just a little too tightly.
Sam winced, for a second tempted to
bite out his own tongue. “Dean, I’m sorry,
I didn’t mean –”
Dean shook his head. “This ain’t
exactly a demon’s style, Sam,” he said,
cutting Sam off as if nothing had happened, clearing
his throat as his voice cracked a little. “Sneak
attacks; spooky basements; ambushes in abandoned warehouses.
That’s a demon’s M.O. But taking out a crowded
diner using a possessed desperate housewife? No way.
Plus, you know, her eyes weren’t –”
his gaze inadvertently skittered to his own reflection
in the rearview mirror. “They weren’t –
Sam lowered his voice, looking away
awkwardly. “Neither were yours,” he pointed
out softly. “Not all of the time.”
Dean fixed his gaze hard on the blacktop,
voice faltering just slightly. “When – when
it was –” he cleared his throat again, shifting
uncomfortably in his seat. “When it was –
in control. That’s when…” he trailed
off, and Sam just nodded slowly.
your case, yeah,” he agreed, suddenly aware of
the loudness of the rain pattering against the windshield
and the rhythmic clunk of the wipers. “When it
was in control, your eyes went – dark.”
He sighed. Sam tried not to look away as his brother
gritted his teeth and continued to stare straight ahead,
as if too ashamed to look Sam in the eye. “But
yours wasn’t an ordinary possession, Dean.”
Or an ordinary exorcism. He glanced pointedly
at the amulet. “You had some help.”
Dean still wouldn’t look at him.
“Yeah,” he jerked out. “So? What’s
Sam sighed again. “Meg,”
he said shortly.
That got Dean’s attention.
“Meg?” he echoed, finally
risking a quick sidelong glance in Sam’s direction.
“Meg’s your point?”
“Her eyes looked perfectly normal
most of the time too,” Sam insisted. “And
the demon she was carrying was in complete control of
her. I just don’t think that’s an indicator
we can rely on, is all.”
didn’t comment, just swung the Impala into the
parking lot of the Travelers’ Paradise Motel,
bringing the big car to a halt in front of room four.
Switching off the engine, he scratched
his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Sammy,”
he said, voice a little resigned as he shoved open the
car door with a creak. “This just don’t
seem like a demon kinda deal.”
Sam exited the Chevy lost in thought,
following his brother into the dingy motel room and
trying not to wrinkle his nose at the ever-present mold
motif caking the walls. “Then what else could
it be?” he asked, slumping down on one of the
beds as Dean absently flicked on the TV. “That
woman knew us. That was no arbitrary diner hold-up Dean:
She was there for us.”
Dean nodded slowly as he began to flick
through fuzzy TV channels looking for a local news station.
“Maybe,” he said, before glancing up at
Sam. “Or maybe she’s something to do with
the whole reason we’re here in the first place.”
Sam frowned, prodding at a stack of
dog-eared pages spread out across his bed. “I
dunno, man,” he said skeptically. “The whole
weird randomness of what’s going on around here
was what originally got me to thinking maybe it was
our kinda deal. Today was personal.”
Dean shrugged. “I should think
the security guard who got shot during that bank robbery
thought it was pretty freakin’ personal too.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Yeah,”
he agreed. “Maybe. But some couple going on the
rampage at an elderly relative’s rest home and
trashing a security system?” He fixed Dean with
a disbelieving squint. “Electrical and computer
store thefts? Someone stealing a worthless hunk of crystal
from a pawnshop? Not exactly victimless crimes I know,
but still…” He scratched his head as he
pawed through the papers on the bed. “I dunno,
I guess it all just seems somehow connected in its randomness.”
He shook his head. “And then, of course, there
are the perpetrators. Ordinary people who’ve never
had so much as a parking ticket before.”
“Convenient they don’t
remember a thing about it when they’re arrested
too…” Dean mumbled.
Sam nodded. “Which is even more
suggestive of some kind of possession,” he argued.
“They’ve all experienced lost time, Dean.
Don’t remember any of it.”
“Which blows the whole demonic
possession theory right out of the water, Sam,”
Dean countered, eyes flashing before he averted them
uncomfortably from Sam’s. “Because they
– I –” His gaze gravitated downwards
to the amulet hanging innocently around his neck. “Because
I remember it, Sam,” he managed at last. “At
least some of it. And so did Meg, she told us that much.”
nodded slowly, taking a breath. “I guess,”
he agreed gently, focus shifting to the TV screen behind
Dean, which had cut to a local reporter almost lost
amidst a sea of flashing blue and red lights standing
right in front of Penny’s All You Can Eat Diner.
“Hey, turn that up,” he instructed, gesturing
frantically at the TV set.
Dean turned, flicking up the volume.
“…has been identified as
local thirty-eight-year-old mother of three, Sandie
Bishop,” the reporter was saying, face professionally
serious. “Mrs. Bishop is reported to have gone
on the rampage armed with a semi-automatic pistol, firing
at least nine rounds randomly into this crowded lunchtime
diner. A thirty-five-year-old waitress received a gunshot
wound to the shoulder, but her condition is not thought
to be life-threatening. No one else was injured in the
incident, which was brought to a dramatic conclusion
when the assailant was incapacitated by diner chef,
Marlon Andrews, who is being hailed as a local hero
by the customers and staff here at Penny’s. Sandie
Bishop has been taken to the secure unit at St. Agatha’s
Psychiatric Hospital pending evaluation, unofficial
sources stating she claims to remember nothing of the
“There, you see?” Dean
said, snapping his fingers at the screen as the cook
who had downed the soccer mom with the frying pan grinned
sheepishly into the camera. “Just like all the
other perps in this weirdo crime spree.”
Sam nodded sagely. “We need to
see Sandie Bishop,” he announced, decision already
“Yeah,” Dean agreed, jerking
his thumb behind him at the grinning cook on the TV
screen. “And we owe that guy a beer.”
“White pants,” Dean muttered
grumpily, staring down at himself in dismay before glancing
cautiously around the loading bay of St. Agatha’s
Hospital and motioning Sam to follow him through the
big swinging plastic doors leading into the building.
“Why do hospitals insist on white pants?”
Sam surveyed his brother’s current
attire, recently snagged from a convenient laundry delivery
piled up in hampers on the loading dock, and tried not
to grin too big. “You look cute,” he commented
with a wicked smile. “Dangerous, but cute. Kinda
like the Marshmallow Man.”
Dean scowled at him as he began to
stomp up the nearest stairwell. “At least I got
matching socks,” he groused, looking pointedly
at the inch of ankle clearly visible between the bottom
of Sam’s pants and his sneakers.
Sam followed the direction of his gaze,
grimacing at his one light blue, one dark blue sock
before casting a withering gaze in his brother’s
direction. “Dude, that’s the last time I’m
letting you do the laundry,” he muttered, peering
up the stairwell before following his brother cautiously.
Dean grinned back at him as he rounded
the corner onto the second floor landing. “You’re
just worried one of these days people are gonna realize
you’re really just a midget on stilts, bro.”
took the next three stairs in one leap, catching up
with his brother and shoving him in the lower back with
a well-placed elbow. “While you’re
just a midget,” he commented.
scowled over his shoulder at him. “For the last
time,” he grit out, stomping loudly up the next
flight of stairs. “I am not short! It’s
just standing next to you all the time makes me look
“Yeah, my getting all the sunlight
really stunted your growth, huh?”
Dean turned away from his annoyingly
tall brother with a huffed, “Freaky tall freak
of freakin’ nature,” as he gingerly shouldered
open the door to the fifth floor and peered out into
the corridor beyond. “Ah, man,” he whistled,
glancing behind him at Sam. “You are so going
to fit in here, dude…”
Sam shoved him out of the way with
a grimace, pulling up short at the sight of the barred
hallway and the assorted patients milling about in the
large common room beyond, several of whom appeared to
be carrying out animated conversations with the wallpaper.
“We better make this fast,” he muttered.
“I don’t want any more
medication!” the woman strapped to the bed spat
as the two orderlies entered her tiny room. “I
just wanna go home to my kids!”
The taller of the two young men raised
his hands, palms open toward her. “That’s
okay, Mrs. Bishop,” he said, voice low and soothing
as his colleague took one last furtive look out onto
the hallway before closing the door quietly. “We’re
here to help you.”
Sandie blinked at them – once,
twice – relaxing slightly against the padded restraints
around her wrists and ankles. “You –”
she began, squinting at the shorter orderly as an odd
image of him looking backwards and up at her suddenly
sprung into her addled brain. “You look familiar,”
she said slowly, unable to trust the veracity of her
own memories in the face of what the police and doctors
were assuring her she’d done. “Do I know
Sam smiled awkwardly. “I’m
Sam,” he introduced himself. “This is my
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Maybe
I give you a gun to wave at me it might all come flooding
back to you.”
Sandie froze, the memory of cool metal
against the palm of her hand, the solidity of an almost-pulled
trigger, and someone shouting “No!” suddenly
assaulting her senses. “You’re not orderlies,
are you?” she surmised, unsure whether to be afraid
Sam shook his head. “But don’t
be scared,” he reassured her. “We’re
not here to hurt you –”
Sandie laughed ironically at that.
“No, I’ve got nothing to be scared about,”
she told him, blinking back tears. “I’m
locked up in a hospital full of crazy people strapped
to a bed in a barred room while the cops tell me I shot
up a diner this afternoon… But I’ve got
nothing to be scared about…”
Sam bit his lip, a look of total understanding
spreading across his face. Somehow, Sandie was pretty
sure the look was genuine. “You really don’t
remember any of it?” he asked.
Sandie shook her head minutely. “They
say I had my husband’s gun,” she said, tears
beginning to slide down her cheek as her defenses weakened
in the face of Sam’s sympathetic expression. “I
don’t even know how to use the thing!” she
protested. “Ryan wanted me to take lessons, but
I didn’t want anything to do with it.” She
sighed, shaking her head again. “And they say
– they say I shot Maggie Wade. Her daughter was
at my son’s last birthday party…”
She trailed off, eyes turned up toward the ceiling.
“I don’t remember. I don’t remember
anything after –” She stopped suddenly,
mouth still slightly open, as if she’d forgotten
she was speaking.
“After what?” Dean urged.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
Sandie thought about that, eyes still
fixed on the grimy ceiling tiles. “I was –
I was on the internet,” she said slowly. “Looking
for movie times. Thought maybe I’d take the girls
to see that new Lindsay Lohan movie later…”
you really must be crazy,” Dean muttered
under his breath.
frowned disapprovingly at him, before producing a notepad
and pen seemingly from thin air. “What website?”
he asked, interest piqued. “You remember?”
Sandie’s eyes refocused on the
young man standing at the foot of her bed. “You
were there,” she said slowly, gaze flitting suddenly
to Dean and back again. “You two were at the diner.
I was supposed to – I had a gun pointed at you.”
Sam shifted from one foot to the other.
“It’s Sandie,” Sandie
urged absently. “Call me Sandie.”
“Sandie,” Sam smiled at
her again, trying to be as reassuring as possible. “You
remember which website you were looking at before you
“Spaced out?” Sandie supplied.
“Turned into a psycho gunperson?” She flopped
her head back against the flat pillow beneath her. “It
was just a local information website – pretty
new I think. Uh – PAEye.com or something I think
it was called.”
Sam nodded, not looking up as he scribbled
on his notepad.
“Why?” Sandie enquired.
Sam shrugged. “Probably nothing,”
he said. Then, looking back up at her, he added, “And
you don’t remember anything after that?”
“Bits and pieces,” Sandie
said slowly. “But nothing really until I came
to in the ambulance. Handcuffed to a gurney with a couple
of cops glaring at me like I was some common criminal.”
Dean took a step toward her. “You
knew us,” he said shortly. “You said we
wouldn’t get away again.”
Sandie blinked at him, scrutinizing
him hopelessly before finally turning her head away.
“I don’t remember,” she said. “I
don’t know what I said or what I did or why I
did it.” She fixed Sam with a pathetically helpless
stare. “I just want to go home. Can you help me?”
“Why’d you tell her that?”
Dean demanded testily, fingers curled tightly around
the Impala’s steering wheel as he hurriedly pulled
the big Chevy away from St. Agatha’s Hospital.
“What?” Sam demanded just
as testily, readjusting his notes on his knee while
avoiding looking up at his brother.
“You know what,” Dean growled.
“Why’d you tell her we’d help her?”
His gaze unconsciously strayed to the rearview mirror
as the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle,
and he fought the urge to glance down at the amulet,
certain that this uncomfortable sensation of being watched
he’d been experiencing since the incident at the
diner had nothing to do with any residual paranoia he
was still feeling about his all-too-recent possession.
No, this was just the regular kind
of old-fashioned paranoia he always felt – because
someone generally was out to get him most of the time.
just told her we’d try,” Sam insisted, not
failing to notice his brother’s edgy demeanor.
“The poor woman’s desperate. We can at least
give her some hope.”
“False hope,” Dean put
in shortly. “When have we ever been able to convince
the cops that something supernatural was responsible
for a crime? Huh? You forget St. Louis? Jeez, you’d
have thought a little CSI’ing on that shapeshifting
freak would have clued the cops in to something hinky
in his DNA. But no, they just go right ahead and bury
him, still thinking he’s regular old Dean Winchester
“Oh, will you get off that whole
St. Louis thing?” Sam groaned.
Dean came the closest to a sulk Sam
had seen him since he was nine. “It just bugs
me, that’s all I’m saying,” he groused.
“I mean, where’s Gil Grissom
when you need him?”
“Can we concentrate here?”
Dean shot a sidelong glance at his
brother. “I can talk, drive and concentrate at
the same time, believe it or not, Sam,” he insisted.
“It’s called multi-tasking.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Closest
you’ve ever gotten to multi-tasking were those
three air hostesses in Buffalo.”
Dean snorted. “Hey, I offered
to share, man –”
Sam wrinkled his nose. “Not if
my life depended on it.”
Dean grinned broadly, shoulders relaxing
slightly, for once oblivious to the expert diversionary
tactics of his little brother. “All right,”
he said at length, expression sobering. “Sandie
“I don’t think she was
possessed,” Sam said, leafing idly through his
notes. “At least, not in the traditional sense.”
squinted at him. “There’s such a thing as
neatly avoided the obvious comment, which would have
had Dean back in a tailspin faster than he could have
gotten the words “What about you?” out of
his mouth. “I don’t think its demonic
possession,” he mused instead, brows knitting
“Then what?” Dean asked.
“Mind control?” he arched an eyebrow uncertainly.
Sam shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe.
Would explain why she can’t remember anything
– just like the other upstanding members of the
community responsible for this apparently random crime
“So we need to salt n’
burn David Blaine or something?” Dean offered.
“’Cause man, I am so up for that –”
“He’s an illusionist, Dean,”
Sam pointed out.
“He’s a –”
Sam, you’re starting to sound like that battleaxe
teacher I had in fifth grade –”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Look, this
could be the real deal,” he said flatly. “Not
sleight of hand, or some Hollywood hypnotist out to
grab himself some ratings.”
Dean considered that. “So whatever
Dean shook his head. “If someone’s doing
this to people – mind controlling them –
then how’s he getting to them?”
“Maybe it’s someone they
all know, someone they have in common.”
someone who knows them.” Dean offered.
Then, “I guess it doesn’t necessarily have
to be someone they come into personal contact with…”
Sam bit his lip. “You mean like
people being hypnotized through their TVs?”
had that effect on me all the time.”
“Alright, what about that website
Sandie was talking about?”
Sam inclined his head as Dean turned
the Impala into the motel parking lot. “Worth
checking out,” he agreed. “But we need to
know what we’re dealing with before we go exposing
ourselves to anything –” A snigger escaped
Dean’s lips, and Sam just rolled his eyes. “Will
you just get your mind out of the gutter for one minute?”
Dean affected Serious Face. “I’ll
try, dude, but I’m not promising anything.”
“Listen,” Sam shook his
head with a sigh. “I think we’re going to
be here a little longer than we originally thought.”
Dean nodded in agreement. “Yeah,
I’ll go book us a couple extra nights.”
He swung himself out of the car, tossing the room key
to his brother as his made his way toward the office.
“No surfing HotSenoritas.com while I’m gone.”
Sam grimaced. “That’s called
‘projection’ you know,” he tossed
over his shoulder as he headed for their room. “Expecting
other people to emulate your own basest behavior…”
Dean made a base gesture with one finger.
“Emulate this, Sigmund,” he muttered, shoving
open the office door and striding up to the geeky-looking
clerk who was busily poring over the ancient computer
taking up half the check-in desk.
“I help you?” the clerk
asked without looking up, light from the computer screen
reflecting eerily off his thick plastic-rimmed glasses.
yeah,” Dean frowned at him uncertainly. “I’d
like to book room four for a couple more nights.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,”
the clerk told him brightly, casually reaching for something
beneath the desk. “You’re not going to need
an extra night anywhere.” He suddenly withdrew
a shotgun from beneath the counter, bringing it up and
into Dean’s face so fast the hunter barely had
time to react at all, much less reach for the Glock
secreted in his waistband.
Without thinking, Dean automatically
glanced over his shoulder in the direction he’d
last seen his brother as he slowly raised his hands
above his head.
Registering the concern in Dean’s
action, the clerk grinned toothily at him. “Don’t
worry about Sam, Dean,” he assured him, dragging
Dean’s attention back to his own immediate situation.
“The maid’s got something real special lined
up for him.”
the episode here