Good Times, Bad Times

29. Born Under a Bad Sign

"That's it." Dean and Susana looked at him, stunned. "Next thing I knew I was sitting here. Bloody. Felt like I'd been asleep for a month."

"Okay," Dean said. "Retrace your steps. The manager said you left yesterday afternoon and he never saw you come back, so-" He pulled back the curtain and found a bloody fingerprint on the window. "Hey."

They walked outside the motel. It was daylight, but raining.

"Recognize anything?" Dean asked.

"Not really," Sam admitted as they went towards a parking garage out back. "Wait."

"What?" Dean and Susana questioned.

"I think I was here."

"You remember?"

"Not really, it just feels familiar, you know?" Dean and Susana shrugged and went to the nearest garage. Sam looked over to the second and pointed. "Try that one. Yeah."

Dean tugged at the padlock. "Okay."

"Wait." Sam dug in his pocket and frowned, pulling out a key and gave his brother and friend a significant look.

Dean opened the padlock with the key and raised his eyebrows at Sam while Susana tilted her head. He pulled the garage door open to reveal a filthy, beat-up VW Beetle.

"Oh, please tell me you didn't steal this," Dean said.

Susana shrugged. "It's cute."

Dean frowned and shook his head.

Sam fidgeted. They went into the garage and opened both doors of the car. Sam was on the driver's side.

He touched the wheel and showed Dean and Susana his stained finger. "More blood."

Dean and Susana pointed. "Sam. Backseat."

Sam reached down and picked up a blood-stained knife that stuck to the floor of the backseat.

He stared at it. "You two think I used this on someone?"

Dean paused. "I'm not thinking anything."

Susana slowly shook her head.

Sam looked around and rubbed the knife handle off on the inside of his jacket.

Dean picked up a pack of cigarettes. "Okay now, this is disturbing. Come on, man, this couldn't have been you. Had to have been someone else, someone who," he sniffed the pack, "smokes menthols."

"Here," Sam said. "Gas receipt. Few towns over."

They made their way to the gas station.

Dean glanced at the receipt. "All right. Receipt's for ten gallons at pump number two. You getting any, uh, any goosebumps yet? God, this looks familiar, déja vú vibes?" Sam shook his head quietly. "Maybe someone inside will remember you. Come on."

They went into the convenience store. The clerk looked up in shock, then anger.

"You," the clerk said. "Outta here now, I'm calling the cops."

"You talking to him?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, I'm talking to him. Jerk comes in yesterday, stinking drunk, grabs a forty from the fridge, starts chugging it."

"This guy? You're drinking malt liquor?"

"Not after he whipped the friggin' bottle at my head."

"This guy?" Susana questioned.

"What, am I speaking Urdu?"

"Look, I'm really sorry if I did anything," Sam apologized.

"Tell your story walkin', pal. Po-po will be here in five."