Supernatural: Fallen Idols
October 30th 2009 23:44
“Alright buddy, what’s so important that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?” a man asks as they both enter a dark garage.
“Trust me Jim,” his friend replies, leading him to a covered car. “It’s important.”
“Wait a minute, you’re not—“ Jim stops, staring at the covered car. “You’re not telling me that this is—“
“Yep.”
“You found it?” Jim asks, clearly surprised.
His friend pulls off the dust cover, revealing the car beneath. Jim let’s an awed breath. “You found it!” He laughs, moving in for a closer look and asking his friend if he’s sure.
“The numbers match.”
“How much you pay?”
“A lot.”
“Come on, how much?”
“A lot.”
Jim whistles and walks around to the driver’s side as his friend gets in behind the wheel.
“You start her up yet?”
“Been waiting for you.”
“Yeah, waiting to rub my nose in it, right?”
“Exactly.”
The man reaches for the key, but Jim stops him. “Wait, wait, wait. We need to record this for posterity’s sake.”
“Great idea.”
“Yeah okay.” Jim laughs, taking another look at the car as he laughs, “oh man,” and heads back inside to get the camera.
The second Jim’s gone, his friend’s breath goes ice cold, fogging up in front of him. He barely has a chance to frown before the radio suddenly turns on by itself, flipping crazily through stations. He reaches to stop it, but the needle continues to rattle back and forth between numbers.
Inside, Jim is getting the camera ready when he hears the sound of squealing tires. “Cal?” he calls out.
No answer.
“Cal?” Recording, Jim heads back to the garage. “Hey, you alright man?”
No answer.
“I thought I heard something,” Jim adds, running the camera over a nearby shelf and asking, “Cal? Is something wrong?”
He reaches the car and lowers the camera, staring in horror at his friend, now impaled on the car’s windshield.
“CAL!”
Blood runs down the front of the Porsche, revealing it’s famous name: “Little Bastard”.
~*~*~
It’s night and Sam and Dean are driving.
“So, what’s with this job?” Sam asks, looking over at his brother behind the driver’s wheel.
“Dude suffers a head-on collision in a parked car? I’d say it’s worth checkin’ out.”
“Yeah, definitely, but…we’ve got bigger problems, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure the Apocalypse will still be there when we get back,” Dean answers.
“Right, yeah,” Sam answers, adding, “But I mean, if the Colt is really out there somewhere--
“And we’ve been lookin’ for three weeks, we’ve got bubkus,” Dean interrupts.
“Okay…But Dean,” Sam answers, hesitating a second before adding, “I mean, if we’re gonna ice the Devil—“
“This is what we’re doing!” Dean interrupts again. “Okay? End of discussion.”
They drive in silence a moment, then Dean adds, “It’s just that this is our first real case back at it together. Now on, I think we ought to ease into it, put the training wheels back on.”
“So you think I need training wheels,” Sam answers, but Dean corrects, “No WE, we need training wheels, you and me, as a team. Okay?”
“Okay,” Sam answers softly, staring out the window.
Dean glances at his brother and adds, “I really want this to be a fresh start, you know? For the both of us.”
Sam looks at him then nods his head. “Okay.”
They drive on.
~*~*~
Canton, Ohio
Sam and Dean show their FBI badges to Rick Carnegie, the local sheriff. He asks them if they’re there on the account of Cal Hopkins’s death, and when they say they are, he tells them he’s afraid they’ve come a long way for nothing. “We already booked the guy who did it.”
Dean glances at Sam, who says, “I’m sorry, who do you think did it?”
Carnegie shows them Jim’s video, then turns it off and says, “Sicko taped his own handiwork.”
“I don’t follow,” Sam answers, and Carnegie tells them that it was Jim who killed Cal.
“Wait,” Dean answers. “What?”
“Well, he was the only one on scene for miles.”
“They were best friends,” Sam reminds.
“Most violent crimes are committed by someone close to the victim.”
“And how exactly did Jim slam Cal into a windshield with all the force of an 80 mph crash?” Dean asks.
“Drugs maybe?” the sheriff answers, and Sam and Dean try not to roll their eyes. “Look,” Carnegie adds with an exasperated laugh. “I know this ain’t brain surgery, boys. Whatever it looks like, that’s what it usually is. It’s simple.”
“Simple, right.” Dean looks over his shoulder at Sam. Simple? Riiiight.
“Right,” Sam adds. “Uh, if you don’t mind, we’d like to speak to Jim Grossman anyway.”
~*~*~
Inside the jail cell, Jim tells them he was in the house when it happened. “I didn’t even see it.”
“For argument’s sake,” Dean answers. “Say we believe you.”
“Well why would you? The cops didn’t.”
“Well we’re not your typical cops.”
“Please,” Sam adds. “Just tell us what you saw.”
“It’s not what I saw, it’s what I heard,” Jim answers, pausing. “Tires squealing, glass breaking.” He takes a deep breath. “It was the car that did it.”
“The car?”
“I mean I heard about the curse, but I just thought it was a load of crap.”
“The curse?” Dean asks. “What do you mean curse?”
“The car,” Jim reiterates. “’Little Bastard’.”
Dean does a double take. “Li-Little Bastard? As in THE Little Bastard?”
Sam is confused. “Wait, wait, wait, what’s Little Bastard?”
“It’s James Dean’s car,” Dean explains. “It’s the one he was killed in.”
“Yeah,” Jim answers. “That’s the one. Cal’d be looking for it for years. I mean, hell, we both had. But he found it first.”
Dean leans down to his brother. “Oh we are definitely checking this out.”
~*~*~
Dean walks reverently around the car as Sam asks, “So, what, this is like, ‘Christine’?”
“Well ‘Christine’ is fiction,” Dean answers. “This? This is real.”
“Okay, enlighten me.”
“Well after James Dean died, his mechanic bought the wreckage and he fixed it up,” Dean explains, walking around the front of the car. “And it repaid him by—“ gestures with a click “—falling on him. Then Tony McHenry was killed when it locked up on the racetrack, I mean death follows this car around like exhaust!” He looks down at the bloody steering wheel, adding, “Nobody touches it and comes away in one piece.”
Sam frowns. “Hmm…”
“Then in 1970,” Dean continues. “It vanished off the back of a truck. Nobody’s ever seen it since. I’m tellin’ you man, if this car really is Little Bastard, I will bet you dollars to donuts it what killed the guy.”
“So how do we find out?”
“Well Cal matched the vin number, but the only real way to know is the engine number.”
Ah. “I’m guessin’ the engine number is—“
“On the engine,” Dean finishes with a nod, giving the car a look. Great.
~*~*~
Having removed their jackets and jacked up the car, Sam and Dean stand looking at it.
“You want me to do it?” Sam asks, and Dean quickly answers, “No. No, no, I’ve got it.”
Very carefully, he approaches the car, telling it, “Okay baby, I’m not gonna hurt you, so…don’t hurt me.”
Pencil in mouth, Dean lays down, takes a moment, then rolls under the car.
Okay, so far so good.
He takes a breath and takes out the pencil, jumping then freezing when the car creaks. He quickly looks to the jack and back. It’s still holding up.
“Need a flashlight?” Sam asks, suddenly appearing at his side.
Dean jumps. “No. Don’t—do anything, just go away.”
“You—uh, okay.”
“Don’t speak! Alright?” Dean warns. “In fact, don’t even look at her, she might not like it.”
Dean takes a breath, licking his lips as Sam stands back up. He waits outside the car as his brother cautiously lifts the piece of paper and pencil.
The car groans.
Slowly, Dean lifts the piece of paper and quickly rubs the pencil over it, copying the engine number. He rolls out jumps to his feet, glad that’s over with.
He takes a deep breath and Sam just looks at him. Clearing his throat, Dean shakes it off and hands the piece of paper to him. “Find out who owned it.” He’s still trying to calm his nerves. “Not just the last owner, you gotta take it all the way back to 1955.”
Sam gives him an incredulous look. “That’s a lot of research.”
“Well I guess I just made your afternoon,” Dean answers, looking back at the car and letting out a relieved breath.
~*~*~
“So you want to be an actress, huh?” Dean asks the bartender.
“Yeah.”
“That is, that is so funny, because I am actually—“ he whips out a card “—an agent with William-Morris Endeavour.”
“Wow!” The girl grins and takes the
Dean chuckles, telling her he’s a star as his phone rings and the girl goes off to refill his drink.
Dean pulls out and answers his phone. “Yo.”
“Hey, it took me a while but I traced all the car’s previous owners,” Sam tells him, surrounded by papers and his computer.
“Any of ‘em die bloody?”
“No, in fact—“ Sam stops, frowning. “Hey, are you in a bar?”
“No I’m, I’m in a restaurant,” Dean answers as the bartender returns.
“Here’s your beer.”
Sam overhears as Dean tells the girl “Thanks.” Back on the phone he adds, “That happens to have a bar.”
Sam shakes his head. “I’ve been working my ass off here.”
“Hey, world’s smallest violin pal. I spent the afternoon up Christine’s skirt.”
“Actually you didn’t.”
“Meaning?”
“The car’s first owner was a cardiologist in Philadelphia. Drove it till he died in 1972.”
“So you’re saying…”
“That Porsche is not, nor has it ever been, James Dean’s car. It’s a fake Little Bastard.”
“Then what was it that killed the guy?”
“Good question.”
~*~*~
“Okay Mr. Hill, I finish,” a housekeeper says, head on her way out.
Mr. Hill, hard at work at his desk looks up. “Thank you Consuela. Have a good night.”
The housekeeper smiles a nod and heads out.
Mr. Hill goes back to writing, letting out a long breath. It shows up in front of him. He stops. That’s weird. Suddenly there’s a creek behind him. He turns around and is shocked.
“My God,” he tells the person. “It’s you…You’re dead!” He says, standing up. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
Abraham Lincoln growls at him and he stumbles backward, holding up a hand. The dead President inches towards him, and Mr. Hill backs up, muttering, “no, no.”
Too late. Abraham Lincoln zooms forward and grabs him by the throat, barring his teeth as he lifts the man by his throat. Mr. Hill’s eyes go wide, his tongue hangs out as he gags and—SPLAT! Blood hits the Lincoln memorabilia on the wall.
~*~*~
A crime scene photographer flashes a picture as Sherriff Carnegie tells everyone he wants them to use a fine-toothed comb. “The evidence is here. We just gotta find it.”
“Heard you got another weird one,” Dean says as he and Sam show up.
“Well it’s a-it’s a little strange on the surface, I admit,” the sheriff answers, squeezing through them and the door. “But once you look at the facts…”
“William Hill died of a gunshot wound to the head,” Sam answers. “No gun, no gun powder, no bullet.”
“Nope,” Dean adds. “Nothin’ strange about that.”
“Well there’s gotta be a reasonable explanation, there always is,” Carnegie answers, struggling to think of one.
“Well what’s your reasonable explanation?” Dean asks, and the sheriff glances around to make sure no one is listening.
“Professional killer,” he whispers, leaning towards them.
“Come again?” Sam asks, eyebrows raised.
“Well, CIA, NSA, one of them trained assassins, like in Michael Clayton!”
The brothers stare at him.
“Riiiiight,” Dean answers, exchanging a look with his brother.
“You’re welcome to look around, but these guys don’t leave fingerprints.”
“Mind if we talk with the witness?” Sam asks.
“Be my guest. She’s not makin’ any sense. And she’s not makin’ any sense in Spanish either.”
Dean nods. “Riiight.”
They head outside to find the distraught housekeeper speaking in tearful Spanish to a deputy.
“Consuela Alverez?” Dean asks, holding up his badge.
“Yes?”
The Deputy leaves.
“FBI.” He and Sam put away their badges, and Dean continues. “Now you said you saw something in the professor’s house. Right? Something in the window.”
She answers him in Spanish, breaking into tears again, and Dean looks at Sam. Sam steps in, sitting down next to the crying woman. “Uh, Senora Alverez?” he squints, trying to remember the right words. When he does, Dean answers, “Nice.”
“Freshman Spanish.”
Sam listens to her description, then translates to Dean, “Uh, tall man, very tall, with a long black coat and a—a beard?” he asks Senora Alverez, miming. She nods. “Beard.”
“Y un sombrero,” she adds.
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Dude was wearin’ a sombrero?”
“A hat, not a—“ Sam mimes a traditional sombrero as Senora Alverez interrupts, “No, no, no, un sombrero alto!”
“A tall hat?” Sam asks, and Dean adds, “Like a top hat.”
“Un sombrero alto,” she emphasizes again. “MUY alto!” She mimes a really tall hat on her head.
“What do you mean, like a stovepipe hat?” Dean asks, also miming.
“Si.”
“Oh yeah, like Abraham Lincoln,” Dean says to Sam, who nods as Senora Alverez’s face crumples again.
Tearfully, she agrees, “Si, el Presidente Lincoln.” She looks at them a moment, then cries, “Abramam Lincoln kill Mr. Hill!”
They both stare at her, and Dean nods. “Huh.”
“S-so, I go home now?”
“Uh, Si, gracious, ” Sam assures her, and she gets up.
“Gracious,” Dean adds.
Sam looks at his brother. What is going on here?
~*~*~
Back at the hotel, Sam and Dean are at the table, computers back-to-back as they research. Dean suddenly spots something in Jim’s video. “Whoa.”
“What?”
“It’s a freeze frame from Jim Grossman’s video.” He holds up the computer for Sam to see. “Am I crazy or does that look like James Dean?”
Sam looks at the reflection. “That looks like James Dean.”
Dean sets the computer back on the table. “So we got Abraham Lincoln AND James Dean?”
Sam doesn’t answer, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Famous ghosts?” Dean asks.
“Maybe…”
“Well that’s just silly.”
Sam’s expression changes. “No, actually, uh, there’s a ton of lore on famous ghosts. More than the, you know, not famous kinds. I’m actually surprised we haven’t run into one before.”
“Yeah but now we got two of ‘em? Two extremely pissed off ghosts?”
“Who’re apparently ganking their fans,” Sam answers, looking at his computer.
“What do you mean?”
“Professor Hill was a Civil War nut,” Sam answers, reading from his computer. “He dug Lincoln.”
“And Cal must have been a James Dean freak,” Dean says. “I mean he spent 17 years of his life trackin’ down the guy’s car.” Makes sense. “So you’re saying we’ve got two super famous, super pissed off ghosts killing their…super fans?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“That is muchos loco,” Dean answers, and Sam laughs.
“Muy.”
Dean just looks at him.
“Not muchos,” Sam explains.
“Yeah well,” Dean answers, brushing it off. “The big question is what the hell are they doin’ here?”
“Yeah. Ghosts usually haunt the places they lived. I mean, I get Abraham Lincoln at the White House—“
“And James Dean at the racetrack but…what the hell’re they doin’ in Canton?”
~*~*~
Sam is still busily typing at his computer as Dean stands by with a can in his hand, having take a break.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sam says suddenly.
“What?” Dean walks over to see for himself. “You gotta be kidding me.”
~*~*~
Sam and Dean wander through the Canton Wax Museum. Dean studies the wax Gondi as Sam stops next to the figure of Abraham Lincoln.
“Dude, he’s short,” Dean says suddenly.
“Hey,” Sam says, turning to look at his brother. “Gondi was a great man.”
Dean looks at the wax figure again. “For a Smurf.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the owner says, rushing in down the stairs. “This is our busiest time of the year.”
Dean looks at the empty hallways. “This is busy?”
“Well, not right now, but it’s early.”
“It’s 4:30.”
“So what can I do for you?” the man asks happily, changing the subject.
“Uh, well, we are writing a piece for Travel Magazine,” Sam answers, and Dean adds, “Yeah, on how uh, totally…non-sucky wax museums are.”
“That’s fantastic! A little press, just what we need.”
“Great, well we’re interested in two of your exhibits,” Sam answers. “Specifically Abraham Lincoln and, uh, James Dean.”
“Two of our most popular displays.”
“Oh yeah? So they bring in a lot of visitors?”
“Yeah we have our regulars.”
“I don’t suppose that uh, William Hill and Cal Hopkins were regulars, were they?” Dean asks.
The curator’s face falls. “As a matter of fact, they were. I heard what happened to them. It’s tragic, just tragic. That’s not gonna be in the article, is it?”
“No, no, no, course not,” Sam assures.
“You know, I gotta tell you,” Dean says, glancing over the man’s shoulder at the wax figure of Abraham Lincoln. “That Lincoln is so life-like.” The curator grins and turns around to look at it too as Dean adds, “You know, you can just imagine movin’ around.” Smiling, he asks, “You ever see anything like that?”
The man turns to look at him. “Uh, no.”
Dean shakes his head. No?
“Well, is there anything you can think of that would make your museum…” Sam takes a breath, searching for the right words. “Unusual? You know, for the article.”
“Oh I’ll say. There isn’t another place like us, not anywhere.”
“How so?” Dean asks.
“Well for one, that’s Honest Abe’s real hat.”
Both boys are surprised.
“It is?” Sam asks, and Dean adds, “Almost like his remains,” as he shoots Sam a pointed look.
The curator frowns at the odd comment. “Uh, I guess.”
Dean smiles at him, and Sam asks, “You wouldn’t happen to have any of James Dean’s personal effects, would you?”
“Oh yeah,” the man pipes back up. “Got his key chain! We got a bunch of stuff, uh, Gondi’s bifocals, FDR’s iron lung. This—“ he gestures to his jacket.
Sam eyes it suspiciously. “And who did that belong to?”
“The Fonz.” He gives them two thumbs up. “Season’s two through four.”
Sam stares at him a second, then quickly answers, “Well, wow, yeah that’s-that’s really cool…ish.”
Dean grins.
“Oh this? This is nothing,” the curator answers. “I’ve been working on a new collection of figures. Stuff that’ll really wow the kids.”
“Kids,” Dean asks, and the curator answers, “Yeah, Gen Y. Computer games, cell phones, sexting. They’re just fads. I’m gonna make wax museums hip again.”
He gives them two more thumbs up and Dean chuckles. Sam politely thumbs ups the guy.
~*~*~
That night Sam readies the weapons then heads back into the hotel room. There, he finds Dean standing at the window. He’s on his phone.
“Yeah, Abraham Lincoln and James Dean, can you believe that?” Dean tells the person on the other end of the line. “Why so kill crazy? Ah, maybe the Apocalypse has got ‘em all hot and bothered…Yeah, well we all know who’s fault that is…Well, I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
Sam slams the door. He’s overheard everything. Dean turns around, then says into the phone, “I’ll call you later. Bye.”
“What’s goin’ on?” Sam asks, walking into the room.
“You get the trunk packed up?”
“Yeah, trunk’s packed, who was on the phone?”
“Bobby.”
“And?”
Dean shrugs. “Nothin’.”
“So we’re gonna pretend I didn’t hear what I just heard?” Sam asks.
“Pretend or don’t pretend,” Dean answers with a shrug, turning to get his jacket. “Whatever floats your boat.”
“This was supposed to be a fresh start…”
“Well this is about as fresh as it gets,” Dean answers, turning back to look at his brother . “Now are we goin’ or not?”
He heads for the door and leaves. Sam sighs then wordlessly follows his brother out the door.
~*~*~
Back at the wax museum, Dean stops next to the figure of Abraham Lincoln, unable to stop himself from pulling off the hat and trying it on himself. Sam comes back with a trash can, giving his brother a look.
“Check it out,” Dean says, grabbing his coat lapels and pretending to be Lincoln. “Four score and seven years ago, I had a funny hat.”
“Dean,” Sam warns, unamused.
“We can’t have any fun with this?” Dean asks, taking off the hat and tossing it into the metal trashcan.
“Let’s just torch the objects, torch the ghosts, get out of here, okay?”
“I’ll go grab East of Eden’s keychain.”
Dean walks off to find James Dean and Sam looks around. His gaze falls on Lincoln, and he walks toward it, slowly leaning in for a closer look…
BAM!
The doors slam shut and Sam spins around. “Dean?”
Nothing.
“Dean!” Sam goes over to try the door but it won’t open. Sensing a presence behind him, Sam readies the shotgun, turning to look. Lincoln is still there, face highlighted in the dark room. Sam moves slowly back into the room.
Suddenly his gun flies from his hands. Before he knows what’s happening, Sam’s got Gondi on his back trying to choke him. He throws him off, turning to face the little man, who circles him, then pounces again, grabbing Sam around the neck.
The door busts open.
“Dean--“ Sam manages to gasp, and Dean squints in the dark.
“Is that Gondi?”
“Yeah!”
“Dude is squirrelly!”
“Get the—“ Sam gasps, glancing over at the wax Gondi, and Dean rushes over.
“Get the what?”
“Glasses!”
Dean grabs the glasses as Sam gasps for air. Dean quickly tosses the glasses into the trash and lights them on fire. Not a moment too soon. Gondi disappears and Sam heaves in a breath.
“You couldn’t have been a fan of someone cool?” Dean asks as they both catch their breath. “Really? Gondi?”
~*~*~
Back at the motel, Dean is pulling his clothes from the drawers. “Ready to blow this joint?”
“Dean,” Sam says, walking in from the bathroom. “Didn’t it strike you as strange the way Gondi just, vanished?”
“Strange how?”
“No screaming, no flam-out. I mean, that isn’t the way ghosts usually go,” Sam answers, watching his brother rush about the room packing.
“Still, I torched, he vanished.”
“Yeah, but I—“ Sam sighs, following Dean into the room. “Also, I feel like he was….tryin’ to take a bit out of me.”
Dean looks at him. “A bite?”
“Yeah, like he was hungry. But the thing is,” Sam answers. “Gondi, er, the real Gondi, he was a—“ Sam stops midsentence.
“A what?” Dean asks. “Spit it out.”
Sam finally answers, “He was fruitarian.”
Dean can’t help but laugh. He’s enjoying this way too much. Sam rolls his eyes, knowing what’s coming.
“Let me get this straight,” Dean asks. “You’re uh, ultimate hero was not only a short man in diapers, but he was also a fffrutarian?” He stresses the last word.
“That’s not the point.”
“That is good. That is--Even for you, that is good.”
“Look, I’m just saying I’m not so sure this thing is over,” Sam answers.
“It was a ghost,” Dean says simply. “It was a weirdly super-charged frutarian ghost, but it was still a ghost, now let’s go.”
“So first you drag me into town, and now you’re dragging me back out,” Sam answers grimly. He is not happy.
“You ain’t steerin’ this boat,” Dean says, hauling his bag onto his shoulder and heading for the door. “Let’s go, chop chop.”
“You know, this isn’t gonna work,” Sam says, stopping him.
“What isn’t?” Dean asks, turning to face him.
“Us. You me, together, I thought it could, but it can’t.”
“You’re the one that wanted back in, chief.”
“And you’re the one that called me back in.”
“Well I still think we’ve got some trust-building to do,” Dean answers drily, and Sam asks, “How long am I gonna be on double-seeker probation?”
Dean shrugs. “Till I say so.”
“Look…I know what I did,” Sam answers softly. “What I’ve done. And I am trying to climb out of that hole, I am, but you’re not making it any easier.”
“So what, am I just supposed to let you off the hook?”
“No. You can think whatever you what, I deserve it, and worse. Hell, you’re never punish me as much as I’m punishing myself, but the point is, if we’re gonna be a team, you and I, it has to be a two-way street.”
“So we just go back to the way we were before?” Dean asks.
“No, because we were never that way before,” Sam answers. “Before didn’t work. How do you think we got here?”
Dean frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Dean, one of the reasons I went off with Ruby—“ Sam swallows hard. “Was to get away from you.”
“What?”
“It made me feel strong. Like I wasn’t your kid brother.”
“Are you saying this is MY fault?”
“No, it’s my fault,” Sam answers. “All I’m saying, is that, if we’re gonna do this, we have to do it different. We can’t just fall into the same rut.”
Dean is at a loss. “What do you want me to do?”
“You’re gonna have to let me grow up, for starters.”
Dean doesn’t answer, swallowing hard. His phone rings. He stares at Sam a second, the puts his bag down to answer his phone.
“Yeah.” He listens, glances at Sam, then answers, “Yeah, yeah okay.” Dean closes the phone then tells Sam, “I guess you were right about this not being over.”
~*~*~
Sam and Dean get back in their FBI suits and go back to the police station, where Sheriff Carnegie is at a loss. He flat out tells him that he doesn’t know what’s going on, and Sam and Dean head into the next room to talk to the two young girls sitting there looking distraut.
“Excuse us girls,” Dean introduces them. “Hi, we’re with the FBI.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
“It was horrible,” the first girl cries.
“Way horrible,” her friend agrees.
“What was horrible?” Sam asks, to which they reply tearfully, “I thought she’d be nice.” “I still can’t believe it.”
“Believe what?”
“She took Danielle.”
“Who?” Dean tries again.
“It’s okay,” Sam assures. “You’re safe, just tell us who took your friend.”
One of the girls stares at him, scared, then finally manages to answer, “It was…Paris Hilton.”
The brothers just stare at here, and Sam makes sure he heard right. “I’m sorry?”
“She looked really good though—“
“Skinny—“ her friend chimes in.
“Skinny, and FAST!” the other girl agrees, wide-eyed.
“Wha-huh?” Dean is more confused than ever.
Sam is just as confused. “Uh—where, did they go?”
“We don’t know.”
“They just vanished.”
“Will you excuse us for just a minute?” Dean asks, then walks with Sam to the door. “Paris Hilton’s not dead as far as we know, right?”
“I’m pretty sure,” Sam answers. “No.”
“Which means it’s not—“
“Ghosts, no.”
“So either Paris Hilton’s a homicidal maniac—“
“Or, we missed something.”
“What do you want to do?”
~*~*~
Drerssed in scrubs, Sam flips through the crime scene photos then picks up a scalpel. Not looking forward to this, he turns to the body and starts cutting. He dips his gloved hands in, wrinkling his nose, and letting out a breath. “That’s ripe.”
He searches around a while, then lets out a surprised disgusted noise, pulling some small round object from inside the body. He stares at it. “What the hell?”
~*~*~
Back in his suit, Sam joins Dean outside the coroner’s office, telling him, “I can’t believe I missed it.”
“Missed what?” Dean asks, getting up to follow his brother back towards The Impala.
“I went back over the other three vics. There was blood loss. Major.”
“Yeah well, being a gory smear’ll do that to you.”
“No, no, I mean more blood loss than a car crash or a head wound should cause,” Sam answers. “Almost like—“
“Something’s feeding.”
“Yeah.”
“Awesome,” Dean answers sarcastically.
“And then--” Sam says, stopping to pull the object he found in the body out of his pocket. He holds up the bag for Dean to see. “There were these.”
Dean squints at it. “What are those, seeds?”
“Yeah. They were in both vic’s bellies.”
Dean quickly lets go of the bag, telling his brother, “I hope you washed your hands.”
“They’re unlike any other seed I’ve ever seen before Dean,” Sam tells him, studying the strange seeds.
“Wow just when I thought you couldn’t get any geekier.” Dean pats his brother on the back and goes to get in the car.
~*~*~
Back at the hotel, Sam hits a button on his computer, then, “Yahzee.”
Dean looks up. “What?”
“The seeds aren’t from around here,” Sam reports. “In fact, they’re not from any tree or plant in the country.”
“Where they from?”
“Eastern Europe,” Sam replies, looking at a map on his computer. “From a forest in the Balkans which is not even there anymore. It was chopped down like 30 years ago.”
“So?” Dean asks from the bed.
“So,” Sam answers, reading from his computer. “Local legend has it that the forest was guarded by a pagan god whose name was Leshii, a mischievous god who could take on many forms…”
“And let me guess? He liked to munch on his fans.”
Sam lets out a mirthless laugh. “Yep.” He clicks on another link, and reads, “Could be appeased only with the blood from his worshipers. He would drain ‘em, then stuff their stomachs with the seeds.”
“How’s he do it?” Dean asks, getting up from the bed. “What, he touches James Dean’s keychain then morphs into James Dean?”
“Hmm,” Sam thinks. “It’s as good a guess as any.”
“Yeah well, whatever,” Dean answers, leaning over Sam’s shoulder to look at the computer and asking, “How do we kill him?”
“Says here to chop off his head with an iron ax.”
“Alright,” Dean says simply. “Let’s go gank ourselves a Paris Hilton.”
~*~*~
Back at the wax museum, Sam runs his flashlight around exhibits as Dean follows with an ax. Sam stops at a door marked “CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS, DANGER DO NOT ENTER”. He whistles for his brother to join him, and they push aside the plastic-lined doorway into what looks like the setting outside a nice house. Suddenly Sam spots an unconscious girl tied to a fake tree.
“Hey.” He walks over to check her pulse.
“She alive?”
“Yeah, barely.”
Suddenly, Dean’s ax flies across the room and into a tree. He turns around just in time to spot Paris Hilton grin before punching him four times with surprisingly freakish strength. Dean’s down. Sam runs over, but she sends him flying across the room and into the patio of the house.
Dean shakes himself off, and turns to find the Leshii/Paris Hilton standing over him. She smiles. “Awesome.”
She raises her high-heeled foot, and Dean’s eyes widen as—BAM. The foot comes down and all goes black.
~*~*~
Sam and Dean are now tied to the trees, both unconscious. Paris Hilton is sitting on a nearby stump, legs crossed as she sharpens her nails on a knife.
*shhhink…shhhink…*
Dean wakes up first. Sam is soon to follow. They both look at each other. What now?
“Oh,” Leshii/Paris Hilton says, looking up. “I’m so glad you’re awake for this. This, is gonna be huge.”
“Super.” Dean answers sarcastically. “Wouldn’t want to miss it.” Behind the tree, he works on freeing his bound arms.
“I’ve been stuffing myself with fast-food lately,” Leshii/Paris Hilton answers, still sharpening her nails. “So it’s nice to do the ritual right. Prepare a nice slow meal for a change.”
“Just like the good ol’ days, huh?” Sam asks.
Leshi/Paris Hilton’s face flickers menacingly as she turns to smile at him. “You have no idea. People adored me. They used to throw themselves at me, put smiles on their faces.”
“I guess these days nobody gives a flying crap about some backwoods forest god, huh?” Dean asks, and she doesn’t answer for a moment.
“No,” she finally answers. “Not since they cut down my forest and built a Yu Go plant.”
Dean just smirks. “March of progress, sister.”
He looks away as she answers, “For years now I’ve been wandering. Hungry…” she continues her nail sharpening. *shhhhink…shiiiink…* “Scrounging for scraps. So not sexy.”
Dean gives her an incredulous look.
“But then,” she continues. “The best thing ever happened. She looks at Sam. “Someone tripped the Apocalypse, and I thought, what the hell, I’m tired of watching what I eat. I want to pig out.”
Dean glares at her.
“So I found this little place. It’s awesome.” She sets the knife down. “Adoring fans stroll right in the door.”
“Yeah,” Sam answers. “But they’re not YOUR fans.”
“So?” Clearly this is not a problem for her. “They worship Lincoln, Gondi, Hilton, whatever. I’ll take what I can get.”
“You know, I gotta tell you,” Dean answers. “You are not the first god we’ve met, but you are the nuttiest.”
“No, you, you people are the crazy one.” At their expressions, she elaborates, “You used to worship gods. But this?” She gestures to her Paris Hilton suit. “This is what passes for idolatry? Celebrities? What’ve they got besides small dogs and spray tans?”
They can’t argue with that.
“You people used to have old time religion. Now you have US Weekly.”
“Oh I don’t,” Dean answers. “I’m more of a Penthouse Forum man myself.” He winks.
Leshi/Paris Hilton gets up and walks over to him. “Maybe, but there’s still a lot of yummy mean on those bones, boy.”
“Well I hate to break it to you sister,” Dean answers. “But, uh, you can’t eat me. See, I’m not a Paris Hilton bff. I’ve never even seen House of Wax.”
Sam glances at his brother as Leshii/Paris Hilton answers, “No, but I can totally read your mind, Dean. I know who your hero is. Your daddy, am I right?”
Dean struggles to get out of the rope around his wrists as she walks over to the ax. “And this belonged to him, didn’t it?” she asks. “Poor little Dean, all he wanted was to be loved by your idol. One distant father-figure coming right up!”
She reaches for the ax just as Dean finally manages to rip out of the ropes. He tackles her and she lets out a shout. Sam continues to struggle with the ropes around his wrists as she watches Leshi lay into his brother. Finally, Sam breaks free and jumps over them both, grabbing the ax out of the fake tree. He swings around and –BAM BAM BAM!
Paris Hilton’s decapitated head rolls next to her blue dress clad body sprawled out on the grass. Sam turns to his brother, his face covered in blood.
“Not a word,” Dean warns, but Sam can’t help himself.
“Dude, you just got wailed on by Paris Hilton!”
“Shut up.” Dean falls back on the grass.
~*~*~
“Uh-huh,” Dean says into his phone the next day. “Alright, thank you.” He hangs up as he and Sam take their bags out to The Impala.
“Sheriff Carnegie,” he tells his brother. “Danielle’s gonna be alright. She’s sworn off ‘The Simple Life’, but other than that.”
“Glad she’s okay.”
“It gets better,” Dean answers. “Sheriff’s putting out an APB on Paris Hilton.” He laughs. “That oughta be good.”
They reach the car and put their bags in the trunk, and Dean turns to Sam.
“Look, I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday. About me keepin’ too tight a leash on you?” Sam doesn’t answer, and Dean adds, “You know, maybe you were right.” He pauses. “I mean, look, I’m not exactly Mr. Innocent in this whole mess either, you know, I did break the first Seal.”
“You didn’t know,” Sam reminds.
“Yeah well, neither did you…I’m not sayin’ demon blood was the way to go,” Dean answers. “But you did kill Lilith.”
“And start the Apocalypse,” Sam answers grimly.
“Which neither of us saw comin’. I mean, who’d a thought killin’ Lilith would have been a bad thing?”
Dean pauses and Sam lowers his head.
“The point is,” his brother finally continues. “I was so worried about watching your every move that I didn’t see what it was actually doing to you…So for that I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
Dean shuts the trunk, and asks, “So where do we go from here?”
Sam shakes it off and answers, “The way I see it, we got one shot at surviving this.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe I am on deck for the Devil, maybe the same with you and Michael, maybe there’s no changing that.”
“Well that’s encouraging,” Dean answers drily.
“But we can stop wringing our hands over it. We gotta just grab on whatever’s right in front of us, kick it’s ass, and go down fighting.”
Dean pauses a second, then nods. “I can get onboard with that.”
“Okay.” Sam nods. “But we’re gonna have to do it on the same level…”
Dean studies his brother a moment then shakes his head. “You got it.”
Despite their agreement, both brother’s have a certain sadness to their look.
“What do you say we get the hell out of here?”
“Hell yeah.”
They both turn to go to their normal sides of the car, but Dean pauses, his back to Sam.
“Hey,” he calls out, looking down at the keys in his hand. Sam turns back around to hear him, and Dean faceS him. He holds up the keys then offers them to his little brother. “You wanna drive?”
Sam glances from the keys to Dean, brows furrowed. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I could uh, I could use a nap.”
Okay then. Sam takes the keys and they switch places. Dean gets in the passenger side as Sam gets behind the wheel.
The brothers drive off.
Aawwwwwww! I loved this episode. As much as I love it (and I do), it was nice to get out of the gut-wrenching Apocalypse for a week.
All the House of Wax nods were hilarious, and Dean's Abraham Lincoln impersonation? LoL! Loved Sam trying to remember his freshman Spanish too. He did a lot better than I would have. 
Great episode all around! I'm so glad Sam and Dean are back fighting together!
“Trust me Jim,” his friend replies, leading him to a covered car. “It’s important.”
“Wait a minute, you’re not—“ Jim stops, staring at the covered car. “You’re not telling me that this is—“
“Yep.”
“You found it?” Jim asks, clearly surprised.
His friend pulls off the dust cover, revealing the car beneath. Jim let’s an awed breath. “You found it!” He laughs, moving in for a closer look and asking his friend if he’s sure.
“The numbers match.”
“How much you pay?”
“A lot.”
“Come on, how much?”
“A lot.”
Jim whistles and walks around to the driver’s side as his friend gets in behind the wheel.
“You start her up yet?”
“Been waiting for you.”
“Yeah, waiting to rub my nose in it, right?”
“Exactly.”
The man reaches for the key, but Jim stops him. “Wait, wait, wait. We need to record this for posterity’s sake.”
“Great idea.”
“Yeah okay.” Jim laughs, taking another look at the car as he laughs, “oh man,” and heads back inside to get the camera.
The second Jim’s gone, his friend’s breath goes ice cold, fogging up in front of him. He barely has a chance to frown before the radio suddenly turns on by itself, flipping crazily through stations. He reaches to stop it, but the needle continues to rattle back and forth between numbers.
Inside, Jim is getting the camera ready when he hears the sound of squealing tires. “Cal?” he calls out.
No answer.
“Cal?” Recording, Jim heads back to the garage. “Hey, you alright man?”
No answer.
“I thought I heard something,” Jim adds, running the camera over a nearby shelf and asking, “Cal? Is something wrong?”
He reaches the car and lowers the camera, staring in horror at his friend, now impaled on the car’s windshield.
“CAL!”
Blood runs down the front of the Porsche, revealing it’s famous name: “Little Bastard”.
~*~*~
It’s night and Sam and Dean are driving.
“So, what’s with this job?” Sam asks, looking over at his brother behind the driver’s wheel.
“Dude suffers a head-on collision in a parked car? I’d say it’s worth checkin’ out.”
“Yeah, definitely, but…we’ve got bigger problems, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure the Apocalypse will still be there when we get back,” Dean answers.
“Right, yeah,” Sam answers, adding, “But I mean, if the Colt is really out there somewhere--
“And we’ve been lookin’ for three weeks, we’ve got bubkus,” Dean interrupts.
“Okay…But Dean,” Sam answers, hesitating a second before adding, “I mean, if we’re gonna ice the Devil—“
“This is what we’re doing!” Dean interrupts again. “Okay? End of discussion.”
They drive in silence a moment, then Dean adds, “It’s just that this is our first real case back at it together. Now on, I think we ought to ease into it, put the training wheels back on.”
“So you think I need training wheels,” Sam answers, but Dean corrects, “No WE, we need training wheels, you and me, as a team. Okay?”
“Okay,” Sam answers softly, staring out the window.
Dean glances at his brother and adds, “I really want this to be a fresh start, you know? For the both of us.”
Sam looks at him then nods his head. “Okay.”
They drive on.
~*~*~
Canton, Ohio
Sam and Dean show their FBI badges to Rick Carnegie, the local sheriff. He asks them if they’re there on the account of Cal Hopkins’s death, and when they say they are, he tells them he’s afraid they’ve come a long way for nothing. “We already booked the guy who did it.”
Dean glances at Sam, who says, “I’m sorry, who do you think did it?”
Carnegie shows them Jim’s video, then turns it off and says, “Sicko taped his own handiwork.”
“I don’t follow,” Sam answers, and Carnegie tells them that it was Jim who killed Cal.
“Wait,” Dean answers. “What?”
“Well, he was the only one on scene for miles.”
“They were best friends,” Sam reminds.
“Most violent crimes are committed by someone close to the victim.”
“And how exactly did Jim slam Cal into a windshield with all the force of an 80 mph crash?” Dean asks.
“Drugs maybe?” the sheriff answers, and Sam and Dean try not to roll their eyes. “Look,” Carnegie adds with an exasperated laugh. “I know this ain’t brain surgery, boys. Whatever it looks like, that’s what it usually is. It’s simple.”
“Simple, right.” Dean looks over his shoulder at Sam. Simple? Riiiight.
“Right,” Sam adds. “Uh, if you don’t mind, we’d like to speak to Jim Grossman anyway.”
~*~*~
Inside the jail cell, Jim tells them he was in the house when it happened. “I didn’t even see it.”
“For argument’s sake,” Dean answers. “Say we believe you.”
“Well why would you? The cops didn’t.”
“Well we’re not your typical cops.”
“Please,” Sam adds. “Just tell us what you saw.”
“It’s not what I saw, it’s what I heard,” Jim answers, pausing. “Tires squealing, glass breaking.” He takes a deep breath. “It was the car that did it.”
“The car?”
“I mean I heard about the curse, but I just thought it was a load of crap.”
“The curse?” Dean asks. “What do you mean curse?”
“The car,” Jim reiterates. “’Little Bastard’.”
Dean does a double take. “Li-Little Bastard? As in THE Little Bastard?”
Sam is confused. “Wait, wait, wait, what’s Little Bastard?”
“It’s James Dean’s car,” Dean explains. “It’s the one he was killed in.”
“Yeah,” Jim answers. “That’s the one. Cal’d be looking for it for years. I mean, hell, we both had. But he found it first.”
Dean leans down to his brother. “Oh we are definitely checking this out.”
~*~*~
Dean walks reverently around the car as Sam asks, “So, what, this is like, ‘Christine’?”
“Well ‘Christine’ is fiction,” Dean answers. “This? This is real.”
“Okay, enlighten me.”
“Well after James Dean died, his mechanic bought the wreckage and he fixed it up,” Dean explains, walking around the front of the car. “And it repaid him by—“ gestures with a click “—falling on him. Then Tony McHenry was killed when it locked up on the racetrack, I mean death follows this car around like exhaust!” He looks down at the bloody steering wheel, adding, “Nobody touches it and comes away in one piece.”
Sam frowns. “Hmm…”
“Then in 1970,” Dean continues. “It vanished off the back of a truck. Nobody’s ever seen it since. I’m tellin’ you man, if this car really is Little Bastard, I will bet you dollars to donuts it what killed the guy.”
“So how do we find out?”
“Well Cal matched the vin number, but the only real way to know is the engine number.”
Ah. “I’m guessin’ the engine number is—“
“On the engine,” Dean finishes with a nod, giving the car a look. Great.
~*~*~
Having removed their jackets and jacked up the car, Sam and Dean stand looking at it.
“You want me to do it?” Sam asks, and Dean quickly answers, “No. No, no, I’ve got it.”
Very carefully, he approaches the car, telling it, “Okay baby, I’m not gonna hurt you, so…don’t hurt me.”
Pencil in mouth, Dean lays down, takes a moment, then rolls under the car.
Okay, so far so good.
He takes a breath and takes out the pencil, jumping then freezing when the car creaks. He quickly looks to the jack and back. It’s still holding up.
“Need a flashlight?” Sam asks, suddenly appearing at his side.
Dean jumps. “No. Don’t—do anything, just go away.”
“You—uh, okay.”
“Don’t speak! Alright?” Dean warns. “In fact, don’t even look at her, she might not like it.”
Dean takes a breath, licking his lips as Sam stands back up. He waits outside the car as his brother cautiously lifts the piece of paper and pencil.
The car groans.
Slowly, Dean lifts the piece of paper and quickly rubs the pencil over it, copying the engine number. He rolls out jumps to his feet, glad that’s over with.
He takes a deep breath and Sam just looks at him. Clearing his throat, Dean shakes it off and hands the piece of paper to him. “Find out who owned it.” He’s still trying to calm his nerves. “Not just the last owner, you gotta take it all the way back to 1955.”
Sam gives him an incredulous look. “That’s a lot of research.”
“Well I guess I just made your afternoon,” Dean answers, looking back at the car and letting out a relieved breath.
~*~*~
“So you want to be an actress, huh?” Dean asks the bartender.
“Yeah.”
“That is, that is so funny, because I am actually—“ he whips out a card “—an agent with William-Morris Endeavour.”
“Wow!” The girl grins and takes the
Dean chuckles, telling her he’s a star as his phone rings and the girl goes off to refill his drink.
Dean pulls out and answers his phone. “Yo.”
“Hey, it took me a while but I traced all the car’s previous owners,” Sam tells him, surrounded by papers and his computer.
“Any of ‘em die bloody?”
“No, in fact—“ Sam stops, frowning. “Hey, are you in a bar?”
“No I’m, I’m in a restaurant,” Dean answers as the bartender returns.
“Here’s your beer.”
Sam overhears as Dean tells the girl “Thanks.” Back on the phone he adds, “That happens to have a bar.”
Sam shakes his head. “I’ve been working my ass off here.”
“Hey, world’s smallest violin pal. I spent the afternoon up Christine’s skirt.”
“Actually you didn’t.”
“Meaning?”
“The car’s first owner was a cardiologist in Philadelphia. Drove it till he died in 1972.”
“So you’re saying…”
“That Porsche is not, nor has it ever been, James Dean’s car. It’s a fake Little Bastard.”
“Then what was it that killed the guy?”
“Good question.”
~*~*~
“Okay Mr. Hill, I finish,” a housekeeper says, head on her way out.
Mr. Hill, hard at work at his desk looks up. “Thank you Consuela. Have a good night.”
The housekeeper smiles a nod and heads out.
Mr. Hill goes back to writing, letting out a long breath. It shows up in front of him. He stops. That’s weird. Suddenly there’s a creek behind him. He turns around and is shocked.
“My God,” he tells the person. “It’s you…You’re dead!” He says, standing up. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
Abraham Lincoln growls at him and he stumbles backward, holding up a hand. The dead President inches towards him, and Mr. Hill backs up, muttering, “no, no.”
Too late. Abraham Lincoln zooms forward and grabs him by the throat, barring his teeth as he lifts the man by his throat. Mr. Hill’s eyes go wide, his tongue hangs out as he gags and—SPLAT! Blood hits the Lincoln memorabilia on the wall.
~*~*~
A crime scene photographer flashes a picture as Sherriff Carnegie tells everyone he wants them to use a fine-toothed comb. “The evidence is here. We just gotta find it.”
“Heard you got another weird one,” Dean says as he and Sam show up.
“Well it’s a-it’s a little strange on the surface, I admit,” the sheriff answers, squeezing through them and the door. “But once you look at the facts…”
“William Hill died of a gunshot wound to the head,” Sam answers. “No gun, no gun powder, no bullet.”
“Nope,” Dean adds. “Nothin’ strange about that.”
“Well there’s gotta be a reasonable explanation, there always is,” Carnegie answers, struggling to think of one.
“Well what’s your reasonable explanation?” Dean asks, and the sheriff glances around to make sure no one is listening.
“Professional killer,” he whispers, leaning towards them.
“Come again?” Sam asks, eyebrows raised.
“Well, CIA, NSA, one of them trained assassins, like in Michael Clayton!”
The brothers stare at him.
“Riiiiight,” Dean answers, exchanging a look with his brother.
“You’re welcome to look around, but these guys don’t leave fingerprints.”
“Mind if we talk with the witness?” Sam asks.
“Be my guest. She’s not makin’ any sense. And she’s not makin’ any sense in Spanish either.”
Dean nods. “Riiight.”
They head outside to find the distraught housekeeper speaking in tearful Spanish to a deputy.
“Consuela Alverez?” Dean asks, holding up his badge.
“Yes?”
The Deputy leaves.
“FBI.” He and Sam put away their badges, and Dean continues. “Now you said you saw something in the professor’s house. Right? Something in the window.”
She answers him in Spanish, breaking into tears again, and Dean looks at Sam. Sam steps in, sitting down next to the crying woman. “Uh, Senora Alverez?” he squints, trying to remember the right words. When he does, Dean answers, “Nice.”
“Freshman Spanish.”
Sam listens to her description, then translates to Dean, “Uh, tall man, very tall, with a long black coat and a—a beard?” he asks Senora Alverez, miming. She nods. “Beard.”
“Y un sombrero,” she adds.
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Dude was wearin’ a sombrero?”
“A hat, not a—“ Sam mimes a traditional sombrero as Senora Alverez interrupts, “No, no, no, un sombrero alto!”
“A tall hat?” Sam asks, and Dean adds, “Like a top hat.”
“Un sombrero alto,” she emphasizes again. “MUY alto!” She mimes a really tall hat on her head.
“What do you mean, like a stovepipe hat?” Dean asks, also miming.
“Si.”
“Oh yeah, like Abraham Lincoln,” Dean says to Sam, who nods as Senora Alverez’s face crumples again.
Tearfully, she agrees, “Si, el Presidente Lincoln.” She looks at them a moment, then cries, “Abramam Lincoln kill Mr. Hill!”
They both stare at her, and Dean nods. “Huh.”
“S-so, I go home now?”
“Uh, Si, gracious, ” Sam assures her, and she gets up.
“Gracious,” Dean adds.
Sam looks at his brother. What is going on here?
~*~*~
Back at the hotel, Sam and Dean are at the table, computers back-to-back as they research. Dean suddenly spots something in Jim’s video. “Whoa.”
“What?”
“It’s a freeze frame from Jim Grossman’s video.” He holds up the computer for Sam to see. “Am I crazy or does that look like James Dean?”
Sam looks at the reflection. “That looks like James Dean.”
Dean sets the computer back on the table. “So we got Abraham Lincoln AND James Dean?”
Sam doesn’t answer, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Famous ghosts?” Dean asks.
“Maybe…”
“Well that’s just silly.”
Sam’s expression changes. “No, actually, uh, there’s a ton of lore on famous ghosts. More than the, you know, not famous kinds. I’m actually surprised we haven’t run into one before.”
“Yeah but now we got two of ‘em? Two extremely pissed off ghosts?”
“Who’re apparently ganking their fans,” Sam answers, looking at his computer.
“What do you mean?”
“Professor Hill was a Civil War nut,” Sam answers, reading from his computer. “He dug Lincoln.”
“And Cal must have been a James Dean freak,” Dean says. “I mean he spent 17 years of his life trackin’ down the guy’s car.” Makes sense. “So you’re saying we’ve got two super famous, super pissed off ghosts killing their…super fans?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“That is muchos loco,” Dean answers, and Sam laughs.
“Muy.”
Dean just looks at him.
“Not muchos,” Sam explains.
“Yeah well,” Dean answers, brushing it off. “The big question is what the hell are they doin’ here?”
“Yeah. Ghosts usually haunt the places they lived. I mean, I get Abraham Lincoln at the White House—“
“And James Dean at the racetrack but…what the hell’re they doin’ in Canton?”
~*~*~
Sam is still busily typing at his computer as Dean stands by with a can in his hand, having take a break.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sam says suddenly.
“What?” Dean walks over to see for himself. “You gotta be kidding me.”
~*~*~
Sam and Dean wander through the Canton Wax Museum. Dean studies the wax Gondi as Sam stops next to the figure of Abraham Lincoln.
“Dude, he’s short,” Dean says suddenly.
“Hey,” Sam says, turning to look at his brother. “Gondi was a great man.”
Dean looks at the wax figure again. “For a Smurf.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the owner says, rushing in down the stairs. “This is our busiest time of the year.”
Dean looks at the empty hallways. “This is busy?”
“Well, not right now, but it’s early.”
“It’s 4:30.”
“So what can I do for you?” the man asks happily, changing the subject.
“Uh, well, we are writing a piece for Travel Magazine,” Sam answers, and Dean adds, “Yeah, on how uh, totally…non-sucky wax museums are.”
“That’s fantastic! A little press, just what we need.”
“Great, well we’re interested in two of your exhibits,” Sam answers. “Specifically Abraham Lincoln and, uh, James Dean.”
“Two of our most popular displays.”
“Oh yeah? So they bring in a lot of visitors?”
“Yeah we have our regulars.”
“I don’t suppose that uh, William Hill and Cal Hopkins were regulars, were they?” Dean asks.
The curator’s face falls. “As a matter of fact, they were. I heard what happened to them. It’s tragic, just tragic. That’s not gonna be in the article, is it?”
“No, no, no, course not,” Sam assures.
“You know, I gotta tell you,” Dean says, glancing over the man’s shoulder at the wax figure of Abraham Lincoln. “That Lincoln is so life-like.” The curator grins and turns around to look at it too as Dean adds, “You know, you can just imagine movin’ around.” Smiling, he asks, “You ever see anything like that?”
The man turns to look at him. “Uh, no.”
Dean shakes his head. No?
“Well, is there anything you can think of that would make your museum…” Sam takes a breath, searching for the right words. “Unusual? You know, for the article.”
“Oh I’ll say. There isn’t another place like us, not anywhere.”
“How so?” Dean asks.
“Well for one, that’s Honest Abe’s real hat.”
Both boys are surprised.
“It is?” Sam asks, and Dean adds, “Almost like his remains,” as he shoots Sam a pointed look.
The curator frowns at the odd comment. “Uh, I guess.”
Dean smiles at him, and Sam asks, “You wouldn’t happen to have any of James Dean’s personal effects, would you?”
“Oh yeah,” the man pipes back up. “Got his key chain! We got a bunch of stuff, uh, Gondi’s bifocals, FDR’s iron lung. This—“ he gestures to his jacket.
Sam eyes it suspiciously. “And who did that belong to?”
“The Fonz.” He gives them two thumbs up. “Season’s two through four.”
Sam stares at him a second, then quickly answers, “Well, wow, yeah that’s-that’s really cool…ish.”
Dean grins.
“Oh this? This is nothing,” the curator answers. “I’ve been working on a new collection of figures. Stuff that’ll really wow the kids.”
“Kids,” Dean asks, and the curator answers, “Yeah, Gen Y. Computer games, cell phones, sexting. They’re just fads. I’m gonna make wax museums hip again.”
He gives them two more thumbs up and Dean chuckles. Sam politely thumbs ups the guy.
~*~*~
That night Sam readies the weapons then heads back into the hotel room. There, he finds Dean standing at the window. He’s on his phone.
“Yeah, Abraham Lincoln and James Dean, can you believe that?” Dean tells the person on the other end of the line. “Why so kill crazy? Ah, maybe the Apocalypse has got ‘em all hot and bothered…Yeah, well we all know who’s fault that is…Well, I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
Sam slams the door. He’s overheard everything. Dean turns around, then says into the phone, “I’ll call you later. Bye.”
“What’s goin’ on?” Sam asks, walking into the room.
“You get the trunk packed up?”
“Yeah, trunk’s packed, who was on the phone?”
“Bobby.”
“And?”
Dean shrugs. “Nothin’.”
“So we’re gonna pretend I didn’t hear what I just heard?” Sam asks.
“Pretend or don’t pretend,” Dean answers with a shrug, turning to get his jacket. “Whatever floats your boat.”
“This was supposed to be a fresh start…”
“Well this is about as fresh as it gets,” Dean answers, turning back to look at his brother . “Now are we goin’ or not?”
He heads for the door and leaves. Sam sighs then wordlessly follows his brother out the door.
~*~*~
Back at the wax museum, Dean stops next to the figure of Abraham Lincoln, unable to stop himself from pulling off the hat and trying it on himself. Sam comes back with a trash can, giving his brother a look.
“Check it out,” Dean says, grabbing his coat lapels and pretending to be Lincoln. “Four score and seven years ago, I had a funny hat.”
“Dean,” Sam warns, unamused.
“We can’t have any fun with this?” Dean asks, taking off the hat and tossing it into the metal trashcan.
“Let’s just torch the objects, torch the ghosts, get out of here, okay?”
“I’ll go grab East of Eden’s keychain.”
Dean walks off to find James Dean and Sam looks around. His gaze falls on Lincoln, and he walks toward it, slowly leaning in for a closer look…
BAM!
The doors slam shut and Sam spins around. “Dean?”
Nothing.
“Dean!” Sam goes over to try the door but it won’t open. Sensing a presence behind him, Sam readies the shotgun, turning to look. Lincoln is still there, face highlighted in the dark room. Sam moves slowly back into the room.
Suddenly his gun flies from his hands. Before he knows what’s happening, Sam’s got Gondi on his back trying to choke him. He throws him off, turning to face the little man, who circles him, then pounces again, grabbing Sam around the neck.
The door busts open.
“Dean--“ Sam manages to gasp, and Dean squints in the dark.
“Is that Gondi?”
“Yeah!”
“Dude is squirrelly!”
“Get the—“ Sam gasps, glancing over at the wax Gondi, and Dean rushes over.
“Get the what?”
“Glasses!”
Dean grabs the glasses as Sam gasps for air. Dean quickly tosses the glasses into the trash and lights them on fire. Not a moment too soon. Gondi disappears and Sam heaves in a breath.
“You couldn’t have been a fan of someone cool?” Dean asks as they both catch their breath. “Really? Gondi?”
~*~*~
Back at the motel, Dean is pulling his clothes from the drawers. “Ready to blow this joint?”
“Dean,” Sam says, walking in from the bathroom. “Didn’t it strike you as strange the way Gondi just, vanished?”
“Strange how?”
“No screaming, no flam-out. I mean, that isn’t the way ghosts usually go,” Sam answers, watching his brother rush about the room packing.
“Still, I torched, he vanished.”
“Yeah, but I—“ Sam sighs, following Dean into the room. “Also, I feel like he was….tryin’ to take a bit out of me.”
Dean looks at him. “A bite?”
“Yeah, like he was hungry. But the thing is,” Sam answers. “Gondi, er, the real Gondi, he was a—“ Sam stops midsentence.
“A what?” Dean asks. “Spit it out.”
Sam finally answers, “He was fruitarian.”
Dean can’t help but laugh. He’s enjoying this way too much. Sam rolls his eyes, knowing what’s coming.
“Let me get this straight,” Dean asks. “You’re uh, ultimate hero was not only a short man in diapers, but he was also a fffrutarian?” He stresses the last word.
“That’s not the point.”
“That is good. That is--Even for you, that is good.”
“Look, I’m just saying I’m not so sure this thing is over,” Sam answers.
“It was a ghost,” Dean says simply. “It was a weirdly super-charged frutarian ghost, but it was still a ghost, now let’s go.”
“So first you drag me into town, and now you’re dragging me back out,” Sam answers grimly. He is not happy.
“You ain’t steerin’ this boat,” Dean says, hauling his bag onto his shoulder and heading for the door. “Let’s go, chop chop.”
“You know, this isn’t gonna work,” Sam says, stopping him.
“What isn’t?” Dean asks, turning to face him.
“Us. You me, together, I thought it could, but it can’t.”
“You’re the one that wanted back in, chief.”
“And you’re the one that called me back in.”
“Well I still think we’ve got some trust-building to do,” Dean answers drily, and Sam asks, “How long am I gonna be on double-seeker probation?”
Dean shrugs. “Till I say so.”
“Look…I know what I did,” Sam answers softly. “What I’ve done. And I am trying to climb out of that hole, I am, but you’re not making it any easier.”
“So what, am I just supposed to let you off the hook?”
“No. You can think whatever you what, I deserve it, and worse. Hell, you’re never punish me as much as I’m punishing myself, but the point is, if we’re gonna be a team, you and I, it has to be a two-way street.”
“So we just go back to the way we were before?” Dean asks.
“No, because we were never that way before,” Sam answers. “Before didn’t work. How do you think we got here?”
Dean frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Dean, one of the reasons I went off with Ruby—“ Sam swallows hard. “Was to get away from you.”
“What?”
“It made me feel strong. Like I wasn’t your kid brother.”
“Are you saying this is MY fault?”
“No, it’s my fault,” Sam answers. “All I’m saying, is that, if we’re gonna do this, we have to do it different. We can’t just fall into the same rut.”
Dean is at a loss. “What do you want me to do?”
“You’re gonna have to let me grow up, for starters.”
Dean doesn’t answer, swallowing hard. His phone rings. He stares at Sam a second, the puts his bag down to answer his phone.
“Yeah.” He listens, glances at Sam, then answers, “Yeah, yeah okay.” Dean closes the phone then tells Sam, “I guess you were right about this not being over.”
~*~*~
Sam and Dean get back in their FBI suits and go back to the police station, where Sheriff Carnegie is at a loss. He flat out tells him that he doesn’t know what’s going on, and Sam and Dean head into the next room to talk to the two young girls sitting there looking distraut.
“Excuse us girls,” Dean introduces them. “Hi, we’re with the FBI.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
“It was horrible,” the first girl cries.
“Way horrible,” her friend agrees.
“What was horrible?” Sam asks, to which they reply tearfully, “I thought she’d be nice.” “I still can’t believe it.”
“Believe what?”
“She took Danielle.”
“Who?” Dean tries again.
“It’s okay,” Sam assures. “You’re safe, just tell us who took your friend.”
One of the girls stares at him, scared, then finally manages to answer, “It was…Paris Hilton.”
The brothers just stare at here, and Sam makes sure he heard right. “I’m sorry?”
“She looked really good though—“
“Skinny—“ her friend chimes in.
“Skinny, and FAST!” the other girl agrees, wide-eyed.
“Wha-huh?” Dean is more confused than ever.
Sam is just as confused. “Uh—where, did they go?”
“We don’t know.”
“They just vanished.”
“Will you excuse us for just a minute?” Dean asks, then walks with Sam to the door. “Paris Hilton’s not dead as far as we know, right?”
“I’m pretty sure,” Sam answers. “No.”
“Which means it’s not—“
“Ghosts, no.”
“So either Paris Hilton’s a homicidal maniac—“
“Or, we missed something.”
“What do you want to do?”
~*~*~
Drerssed in scrubs, Sam flips through the crime scene photos then picks up a scalpel. Not looking forward to this, he turns to the body and starts cutting. He dips his gloved hands in, wrinkling his nose, and letting out a breath. “That’s ripe.”
He searches around a while, then lets out a surprised disgusted noise, pulling some small round object from inside the body. He stares at it. “What the hell?”
~*~*~
Back in his suit, Sam joins Dean outside the coroner’s office, telling him, “I can’t believe I missed it.”
“Missed what?” Dean asks, getting up to follow his brother back towards The Impala.
“I went back over the other three vics. There was blood loss. Major.”
“Yeah well, being a gory smear’ll do that to you.”
“No, no, I mean more blood loss than a car crash or a head wound should cause,” Sam answers. “Almost like—“
“Something’s feeding.”
“Yeah.”
“Awesome,” Dean answers sarcastically.
“And then--” Sam says, stopping to pull the object he found in the body out of his pocket. He holds up the bag for Dean to see. “There were these.”
Dean squints at it. “What are those, seeds?”
“Yeah. They were in both vic’s bellies.”
Dean quickly lets go of the bag, telling his brother, “I hope you washed your hands.”
“They’re unlike any other seed I’ve ever seen before Dean,” Sam tells him, studying the strange seeds.
“Wow just when I thought you couldn’t get any geekier.” Dean pats his brother on the back and goes to get in the car.
~*~*~
Back at the hotel, Sam hits a button on his computer, then, “Yahzee.”
Dean looks up. “What?”
“The seeds aren’t from around here,” Sam reports. “In fact, they’re not from any tree or plant in the country.”
“Where they from?”
“Eastern Europe,” Sam replies, looking at a map on his computer. “From a forest in the Balkans which is not even there anymore. It was chopped down like 30 years ago.”
“So?” Dean asks from the bed.
“So,” Sam answers, reading from his computer. “Local legend has it that the forest was guarded by a pagan god whose name was Leshii, a mischievous god who could take on many forms…”
“And let me guess? He liked to munch on his fans.”
Sam lets out a mirthless laugh. “Yep.” He clicks on another link, and reads, “Could be appeased only with the blood from his worshipers. He would drain ‘em, then stuff their stomachs with the seeds.”
“How’s he do it?” Dean asks, getting up from the bed. “What, he touches James Dean’s keychain then morphs into James Dean?”
“Hmm,” Sam thinks. “It’s as good a guess as any.”
“Yeah well, whatever,” Dean answers, leaning over Sam’s shoulder to look at the computer and asking, “How do we kill him?”
“Says here to chop off his head with an iron ax.”
“Alright,” Dean says simply. “Let’s go gank ourselves a Paris Hilton.”
~*~*~
Back at the wax museum, Sam runs his flashlight around exhibits as Dean follows with an ax. Sam stops at a door marked “CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS, DANGER DO NOT ENTER”. He whistles for his brother to join him, and they push aside the plastic-lined doorway into what looks like the setting outside a nice house. Suddenly Sam spots an unconscious girl tied to a fake tree.
“Hey.” He walks over to check her pulse.
“She alive?”
“Yeah, barely.”
Suddenly, Dean’s ax flies across the room and into a tree. He turns around just in time to spot Paris Hilton grin before punching him four times with surprisingly freakish strength. Dean’s down. Sam runs over, but she sends him flying across the room and into the patio of the house.
Dean shakes himself off, and turns to find the Leshii/Paris Hilton standing over him. She smiles. “Awesome.”
She raises her high-heeled foot, and Dean’s eyes widen as—BAM. The foot comes down and all goes black.
~*~*~
Sam and Dean are now tied to the trees, both unconscious. Paris Hilton is sitting on a nearby stump, legs crossed as she sharpens her nails on a knife.
*shhhink…shhhink…*
Dean wakes up first. Sam is soon to follow. They both look at each other. What now?
“Oh,” Leshii/Paris Hilton says, looking up. “I’m so glad you’re awake for this. This, is gonna be huge.”
“Super.” Dean answers sarcastically. “Wouldn’t want to miss it.” Behind the tree, he works on freeing his bound arms.
“I’ve been stuffing myself with fast-food lately,” Leshii/Paris Hilton answers, still sharpening her nails. “So it’s nice to do the ritual right. Prepare a nice slow meal for a change.”
“Just like the good ol’ days, huh?” Sam asks.
Leshi/Paris Hilton’s face flickers menacingly as she turns to smile at him. “You have no idea. People adored me. They used to throw themselves at me, put smiles on their faces.”
“I guess these days nobody gives a flying crap about some backwoods forest god, huh?” Dean asks, and she doesn’t answer for a moment.
“No,” she finally answers. “Not since they cut down my forest and built a Yu Go plant.”
Dean just smirks. “March of progress, sister.”
He looks away as she answers, “For years now I’ve been wandering. Hungry…” she continues her nail sharpening. *shhhhink…shiiiink…* “Scrounging for scraps. So not sexy.”
Dean gives her an incredulous look.
“But then,” she continues. “The best thing ever happened. She looks at Sam. “Someone tripped the Apocalypse, and I thought, what the hell, I’m tired of watching what I eat. I want to pig out.”
Dean glares at her.
“So I found this little place. It’s awesome.” She sets the knife down. “Adoring fans stroll right in the door.”
“Yeah,” Sam answers. “But they’re not YOUR fans.”
“So?” Clearly this is not a problem for her. “They worship Lincoln, Gondi, Hilton, whatever. I’ll take what I can get.”
“You know, I gotta tell you,” Dean answers. “You are not the first god we’ve met, but you are the nuttiest.”
“No, you, you people are the crazy one.” At their expressions, she elaborates, “You used to worship gods. But this?” She gestures to her Paris Hilton suit. “This is what passes for idolatry? Celebrities? What’ve they got besides small dogs and spray tans?”
They can’t argue with that.
“You people used to have old time religion. Now you have US Weekly.”
“Oh I don’t,” Dean answers. “I’m more of a Penthouse Forum man myself.” He winks.
Leshi/Paris Hilton gets up and walks over to him. “Maybe, but there’s still a lot of yummy mean on those bones, boy.”
“Well I hate to break it to you sister,” Dean answers. “But, uh, you can’t eat me. See, I’m not a Paris Hilton bff. I’ve never even seen House of Wax.”
Sam glances at his brother as Leshii/Paris Hilton answers, “No, but I can totally read your mind, Dean. I know who your hero is. Your daddy, am I right?”
Dean struggles to get out of the rope around his wrists as she walks over to the ax. “And this belonged to him, didn’t it?” she asks. “Poor little Dean, all he wanted was to be loved by your idol. One distant father-figure coming right up!”
She reaches for the ax just as Dean finally manages to rip out of the ropes. He tackles her and she lets out a shout. Sam continues to struggle with the ropes around his wrists as she watches Leshi lay into his brother. Finally, Sam breaks free and jumps over them both, grabbing the ax out of the fake tree. He swings around and –BAM BAM BAM!
Paris Hilton’s decapitated head rolls next to her blue dress clad body sprawled out on the grass. Sam turns to his brother, his face covered in blood.
“Not a word,” Dean warns, but Sam can’t help himself.
“Dude, you just got wailed on by Paris Hilton!”
“Shut up.” Dean falls back on the grass.
~*~*~
“Uh-huh,” Dean says into his phone the next day. “Alright, thank you.” He hangs up as he and Sam take their bags out to The Impala.
“Sheriff Carnegie,” he tells his brother. “Danielle’s gonna be alright. She’s sworn off ‘The Simple Life’, but other than that.”
“Glad she’s okay.”
“It gets better,” Dean answers. “Sheriff’s putting out an APB on Paris Hilton.” He laughs. “That oughta be good.”
They reach the car and put their bags in the trunk, and Dean turns to Sam.
“Look, I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday. About me keepin’ too tight a leash on you?” Sam doesn’t answer, and Dean adds, “You know, maybe you were right.” He pauses. “I mean, look, I’m not exactly Mr. Innocent in this whole mess either, you know, I did break the first Seal.”
“You didn’t know,” Sam reminds.
“Yeah well, neither did you…I’m not sayin’ demon blood was the way to go,” Dean answers. “But you did kill Lilith.”
“And start the Apocalypse,” Sam answers grimly.
“Which neither of us saw comin’. I mean, who’d a thought killin’ Lilith would have been a bad thing?”
Dean pauses and Sam lowers his head.
“The point is,” his brother finally continues. “I was so worried about watching your every move that I didn’t see what it was actually doing to you…So for that I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
Dean shuts the trunk, and asks, “So where do we go from here?”
Sam shakes it off and answers, “The way I see it, we got one shot at surviving this.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe I am on deck for the Devil, maybe the same with you and Michael, maybe there’s no changing that.”
“Well that’s encouraging,” Dean answers drily.
“But we can stop wringing our hands over it. We gotta just grab on whatever’s right in front of us, kick it’s ass, and go down fighting.”
Dean pauses a second, then nods. “I can get onboard with that.”
“Okay.” Sam nods. “But we’re gonna have to do it on the same level…”
Dean studies his brother a moment then shakes his head. “You got it.”
Despite their agreement, both brother’s have a certain sadness to their look.
“What do you say we get the hell out of here?”
“Hell yeah.”
They both turn to go to their normal sides of the car, but Dean pauses, his back to Sam.
“Hey,” he calls out, looking down at the keys in his hand. Sam turns back around to hear him, and Dean faceS him. He holds up the keys then offers them to his little brother. “You wanna drive?”
Sam glances from the keys to Dean, brows furrowed. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I could uh, I could use a nap.”
Okay then. Sam takes the keys and they switch places. Dean gets in the passenger side as Sam gets behind the wheel.
The brothers drive off.
Aawwwwwww! I loved this episode. As much as I love it (and I do), it was nice to get out of the gut-wrenching Apocalypse for a week.
All the House of Wax nods were hilarious, and Dean's Abraham Lincoln impersonation? LoL! Loved Sam trying to remember his freshman Spanish too. He did a lot better than I would have. Great episode all around! I'm so glad Sam and Dean are back fighting together! | 19 |
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