No Refunds

They were in another sleazy motel. They seemed to always be in one or another, and they were all exactly the same. Two beds, a television, and some bizarre separator stuck in the middle of the room. The boys could easily navigate the rooms blindfolded, if necessary.

After everything they had been through, it seemed that these motels were the only constant in their lives. They had lost so many friends; Bobby, Cas... the Impala. The motel rooms now took the place of the car, the familiar rooms comforting, in a stagnant way.

Sam looked over to his sleeping brother in the next bed as he put on his shoes. It was half six in the morning, the time that he always got up for a run, not long after Dean would finally get in from drowning his sorrows at whatever local hovel there was. Sam had been with him once or twice, to keep an eye on him, to perhaps glean some drunken insight into him, but he rarely struck anything deep. It was mainly just Dean's drunken insights on cleavage.

Dean claimed he was fine. Dean said he would punch Sam if he kept asking how he was.

Dean was lying. Sam knew that much.

He sighed and laced his shoes, ready to go for a run. He would let Dean sleep for a few hours before he woke him up, not that there was anything really to get up for. Just the usual – evading Leviathans whilst trying to figure out how to kill them.

Sam frowned. They knew Borax did something to them, and Bobby had said just before... he had said that they could kill each other by forcing them to eat themselves. Surely there must be something in that.

He shook his head and stood up, stretching, and looked back over to Dean. He was twitching in his sleep again, his hands grasping the sheets slightly, his brow furrowed. He did that a lot, but whenever Sam brought it up, he was only answered with flippant remarks, and a threatened punch.

In a few hours Dean would wake up from a nightmare, Sam knew, so he left to run in the meantime. He'd be back before sleeping beauty woke up.

He was right. When he got back into the room at 8, sweaty and in need of a shower, Dean was still asleep. He had rolled over, and the covers were wrapped around him tightly, though had fallen off on one side, leaving his right leg exposed. He was still frowning.

Sam showered quickly, aware of how fast hot water could run out in cheap motels. Despite everything they'd been through, the slings and arrows shot at them, the painful torture and all the broken bones, Sam still hated it when the water ran cold. It was the little things, he guessed.

When he left the bathroom, towel wrapped firmly around his waist, Dean was awake, blearily blinking in the dull light.

"What time is it?"

"About half 8." Sam guessed. "What time did you get in?"

"Wasn't counting." Dean told him gruffly, attempting to sit up, though his head was thumping like hell. "Shoulda been there, Sammie; the women there..." Dean whistled.

"Not listening, Dean."

"I mean the rack on this one girl-" He motioned with his hands across his chest, indicating that the woman was well endowed in that particular area.

"I really don't care."

"What's got your panties in a twist, Sammie?" Dean teased. "Get shampoo in your eyes again?"

"Nothing."

"Well, fantastic." Dean grumbled, swinging his legs from the bed. "Have we got anything?"

"For..."

"For my head? It's killing me."

"Don't be such a baby." Sam told him.

"Whatever." Dean stood, stumbling towards the tap and, turning it on, drank straight from the faucet. Once he was done he sloppily wiped his mouth and looked back at his brother. "So, why are we here? We got a case?"

"I don't think so." Sam said. "It looked like there might have been a haunting, but I looked into it yesterday. Just a publicity stunt."

"Great." Dean said. "As if we don't have enough to deal with without people just making things up!"

"Yeah, well." Sam said. "You may as well sleep in. Nothing to do here. I'll keep looking."

"No, I'm up." Dean told him.

"Bad dreams again?" Sam asked casually, but Dean didn't reply. Instead there was a heavy banging on the door, followed by a rattling on the handle.

"Get it." Dean said, sitting down.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You get it. You're dressed."

"You know the cleaner wouldn't mind." Dean winked, remembering the previous morning when the overweight, middle aged cleaner had slipped her number to him.

"Shut up. Get the door."

"Chicken." Dean said, and walked to the door, a lifetime of hangovers having given him enough practise to walk across the room steadily whilst in such a state. Making sure his hand was in easy reach of the shotgun placed beside the door, a safety precaution, he opened it, wincing as the sunlight reached his eyes.

He didn't recognise the person. It was a woman of about twenty, tanned with mousy blonde hair, and she stood, swaying on the step. Her eyes were rolling back into her head, but she focused when she saw Dean.

"Dean." She slurred, grasping his arm and stumbling forwards. Dean grabbed the shotgun, untrusting. Sam stood up, trying to see. "Dean, Dean..." She repeated, the name slurring together. "I'm... I'm..." She stumbled again, a faltering step inside, and she grabbed harder to his arm, attempting to stay upright. She grabbed his shoulder too, and pulled herself straight, to look him in the eyes. "I'm sorry."

Her eyes rolled back and closed as she fell, collapsing into his arms.