Characters: Dean, Sam (Gen, Humor)
Summary (2x11, "Playthings"): It wasn't The Shining, not yet, but who knew where it would lead?
Author's Notes: Happy Birthday, dotfic! It's a little late, but I hope you like it all the same. :)
"Why do these people assume we're gay?"
It was a reasonable question, considering, Dean thought. But then Sam turned it all back on him, which was ridiculous, except that now Dean was picking the idea apart.
How could it be bad to be butch? Or whatever? It was what it was, and so was Dean. Right? Exactly. No problems there…
He thought the whole gay vibe was probably something Sam was doing instead, like making cow eyes at him: Dean, my shoe's untied, or My stomach hurts, Dean, or Dad's not home yet. When's dinner?
Sure, that had been years ago, but old habits died hard. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, Sam probably thought Dean should have fixed the dead girlfriend problem, too.
Dean gave up trying to figure the gay thing out, mainly because he was having trouble concentrating. It felt like the hotel was crowding in on him, like he'd better pay attention or else.
There was the room full of creepy-ass dolls, with all their dead, unblinking eyes watching every move he made. There was the half-fossilized butler-concierge guy—something was definitely not normal with him.
That old lady in the attic had nearly given Dean a heart-attack, earlier. Maybe she was stuck in a senile fog, or maybe she'd chew your face off while you slept. No way to know, was there?
Thoughts like that were a little hard to ignore.
The day crept on, and whether it was because he and Sam were distracted by the relentless weirdness of the place or were just too damn slow, someone else got murdered. Sam went on to demonstrate his uncanny knack for making a bad situation worse by deciding that the whole thing was his fault, and that the solution was to get massively drunk.
Because that was fun.
Then he brought up the whole Kill me if I go darkside thing again, and he made Dean promise he'd do it. Being reminded of that was the last thing Dean needed at a time like this.
He put Sam to bed—a process that somehow detoured through a momentary slapfight—and Sam fell asleep immediately, as if he didn't have a care in the world. Lucky Sam.
It was too early for Dean to turn in for the evening, but he doubted he'd get much sleep when he did. Sam would be snoring all night, and tossing around on that squeaky bed frame. Dean thought about spending the night in the car, but he couldn't leave Sam alone. What if that old wedding dress on the wall came to life and attacked him? Dean couldn't let something like that happen to his brother.
So he went downstairs to do his own drinking, where the butler guy was probably waiting to ply him with spirits and then make off with his head or something.
This place was wall-to-wall wrong, and when they finally uncovered whatever the hell was behind it, it was sure to be something as freaky as it seemed.
The sooner the better, Dean thought. After that, he and Sam would hightail it out of here and never even think of looking back.
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