Dean and I stepped out into the hall, Dean shutting the door softly behind us. The awkward tension between us was almost palpable as we stood shoulder to shoulder without making eye contact.

"We don't..." I began.

"He's wasted..." Dean added.

"Right," I nodded.

Without another word, we both headed downstairs to the antique, empty bar. Sherwin, the guy who took our bags up to our room, was behind the counter as we sat down.

"Find any good antiques?" he asked us.

Dean and I glanced at each other, and then remembered the cover story we'd given when we checked into the hotel.

"Um, no!" I shook my head. "No, we got distracted."

"Have a drink."

Sherwin got two glasses out for Dean and I.

"Yeah, thanks," Dean told him as he poured the alcohol. "So, poor guy, huh? Killing himself?"

"That kind of thing seems to be going around lately," Sherwin shrugged.

"Yeah, yeah, we heard about the other ones," I nodded, taking a sip of my drink. "It's almost like this hotel is, uh, cursed or something."

"Every hotel has its spilled blood. If people only knew what's going on in some of those rooms they've checked into."

"You know a lot about this place, don't you?" Dean asked, smirking.

"Down to the last nail," Sherwin confirmed.

"We'd love to hear some stories."

"Boy, you should never say that to an old man."

⁘

Sherwin led Dean and I up the wide staircase, showing us framed photographs on the walls.

"This is little Miss Susan and her mother Rose. Happier days," he pointed to one black and white picture.

"They're not happy now?" Dean inquired.

"Well, would you be, leaving the only home you ever knew?"

"No," I muttered as Dean said something about never really having one at the same time.

He glanced at me, but I avoided his gaze. I had lived above my father's shop practically my whole life, and I hadn't even set foot in the place in nearly two years.

"Well, this is Rose's home," Sherwin continued. "It's been in the family over a century. Used to be the family estate. And now she gets to live in some senior graveyard, and they tear this place down."

"Yeah, that's too bad," I said as we started back down the stairs. "We hear Rose isn't feeling well, either."

"No, she isn't."

"What's wrong with her?" Dean pried.

"It's not my business to say."

"Oh," Dean nodded.

He looked over at another photograph of two toddlers, and nudged my arm, pointing out the picture next to it.

"Who's this?" he asked Sherwin.

Sherwin picked up the yellowing photograph of one of the toddlers sitting on a young black woman's lap. The young woman was wearing a quincux necklace.

"That's Rose, when she was a little girl."

"Who's that with her?" I pressed.

"That's her nanny, Marie. She looked after Rose more than her own mother."

Dean frowned in concern, and we exchanged a look as Sherwin replaced the picture.

⁘

When we got back to the room, Sam was awake and kneeling miserably in front of the toilet, his hair hanging in his face. Dean grinned at the sight, an evil gleam in his eye that made me shake my head.

"How you feeling, Sammy?" Dean called loudly.

Sam only groaned in response.

"I guess mixing whiskey and Jager wasn't such a gangbuster idea, was it?"

Dean glanced over at me, then continued hopefully.

"I'll bet you don't remember a thing from last night, do you?"

"Oh, I can still taste the tequila," Sam groaned again.

Dean smiled in relief, and I let out the breath I had been holding in anticipation. While I knew Dean mostly was hoping Sam wouldn't remember making Dean promise to kill him if the need arose, I think we were both also hoping he wouldn't remember telling us we should have sex.

"You know there's a really good hangover remedy," I jumped in before Dean could say anything else. "It's a, it's a greasy pork sandwich served up in a dirty ashtray."

"Oh, I hate you," Sam moaned, heaving some more in the toilet.

Dean was laughing, grinning over at me as I gave him a triumphant smirk.

"I know you do," I called.

"Hey, turns out when Grandma Rose was a tyke, she had a Creole nanny who wore a hoodoo necklace," Dean informed Sam, walking over to the bathroom. "Whoo."

He wrinkled his nose at the smell.

"So you think she taught Rose hoodoo?" Sam asked.

"Yes we do," Dean nodded.

"Alright," Sam stood painfully after flushing the contents of the toilet. "I think it's time we talked to Rose, then."

"Oh. You can brush your teeth first," Dean grimaced, heading back over closer to me.

Once Sam had freshened up, we all made our way to a door marked "PRIVATE" and Sam knocked.

"Hello? Susan?" he called.

Dean and I looked around furtively, moving in perfect synch with each other.

"Clear?" Sam asked us.

"Mm hm," I confirmed.

Sam began to pick the lock, and a moment later, we entered the room. Just like Sam had mentioned before, there were dolls everywhere. It was honestly creeping me out a bit. He led us toward a door in the back, which was unlocked. We went through, heading up a dimly lit staircase and down another hallway into a room whose door was left slightly ajar. An old woman, who had to be Rose, was sitting in a wheelchair with her back to us, and we approached cautiously.

"Mrs. Thompson? Mrs. Thompson?" Sam got to her first.

She was trembling, staring at nothing.

"Rose? Hi, Mrs. Thompson, we're not here to hurt you, it's okay-"

Rose didn't respond, only trembling harder.

"Rose?" Sam asked, getting closer in front of her, then addressed Dean and me quietly. "Guys."

He drew us aside, continuing in a low voice.

"This woman's had a stroke."

"Yeah, but hoodoo's hands on," Dean pointed out. "I mean, you've got to mix herbs, and chant, and build an altar."

"Yeah, so it can't be Rose," Sam continued. "Hey, maybe it's not even hoodoo."

"Or she could be faking."

"Yeah, what are you gonna do, poke her with a stick?"

Dean frowned, nodding, and I hit him on the arm.

"Dean, you're not going to poke her with a stick!" I hissed.

"What the hell?" Susan asked, entering the room. "What are you doing here?"

Sam and Dean started stammering, speaking over each other.

"Oh, we just wanted to talk to Rose..."

"Well, the door was open..."

"Look at her, she's scared out of her wits," Susan continued, walking over to Rose.

She glared over at us.

"I want you out of this hotel in two minutes or I'm calling the cops."

We left without hesitation.