Supernatural: Night Terror (23 page)

“If you’re right,” Dean said, “until we fix this, we don’t sleep.”

He started the Impala. The radio was playing Bowie’s “Changes.”

“This involves multiple dreamers,” Dean said. “How the hell do we pin it down?”

“Maybe we need to figure out why it started.”

They stopped at C.J.’s Diner for breakfast, as Dean said, no point trying to figure anything out on an empty stomach. Once again, the place was packed, but the morning turnover rate was impressive and they were seated in a small corner booth after only about ten minutes of waiting.

Dean ordered what he referred to as the ‘heart attack special’ which included fried eggs, bacon, and home fries, while Sam asked for cereal and a muffin. Before they even looked at a menu, they each ordered the bottomless cup of coffee. Their server, who introduced herself as Bobbi Jean Todd and told them how thrilled she was to meet two honestto- goodness FBI agents, brought their plates in record time.

Around them, many of the townspeople talked in hushed and urgent voices about weird things happening in the night. Sam heard some people say that they had seen zombies, who then disappeared into thin air. A few said they’d heard about giant bugs eating people. The other side of these conversations involved those who hadn’t witnessed anything bizarre and questioned the sobriety and, in some cases, sanity of those telling the strange tales.

Sam was pleasantly surprised that his laptop computer picked up a serviceable Wi-Fi signal from their corner booth. While he ate, he skimmed through news stories on Clayton Falls, using “sleep” and “dreams” and “nightmares” as keywords. He got a hit right away, brought up the story, and spun the computer around so Dean could read the screen.

“Place opened about six months ago,” Sam said. “The ‘Restful Sleep Center.’”

“They treat sleep disorders,” Dean said before finishing his third and final egg. “Think they might be creating a few? Mad scientist at work?”

Sam sipped his coffee and shrugged. “Can’t rule it out.”

A portly man with thinning hair entered the diner carrying a small notebook and, rather than asking to be seated, gravitated toward the more ebullient conversations about the previous night. Sam heard the man introduce himself as Darren Nash, a reporter for the
Fremont Ledger,
a county newspaper. He then proceeded to ask pointed questions and take voluminous notes. He kept shaking his head in incredulity, but the smile on his face was that of a man who’d just discovered he held a winning lottery ticket in his hand.

“Press,” Sam said.

Dean glanced at the man. “Bound to happen. But unless he’s writing for the
Weekly World News
, he’ll have trouble getting any of this crazy shit past an editor.”

“Don’t know, dude,” Sam said. “Lots of witnesses.”

“I’m not lining up for an interview,” Dean said. “Besides, I’m done.”

As he pushed his empty plate away, Bobbi Jean arrived at their table as if magically summoned.

“Anything else, agents?”

“Just the check,” Dean said. “Oh, and two large coffees to go.”

Sam directed Dean to the sleep center, a detached brick building that looked like a modest inn or slightly upscale motel, while lacking the quaint charm of a bed and breakfast. The sleep center stood adjacent to a row of shops in a commercial district less than a mile from their motel. The sign mounted on the front wall of the building featured a crescent moon above the words “Restful Sleep Center.” A second line of text read “Sleep Diagnostics of Clayton Falls.”

“So this is it?” Dean asked, sounding disappointed.

“You were expecting a creepy old mansion?”

“They could have a hunchback working reception.”

The receptionist was an attractive young woman with jet-black hair styled in a pixie cut, wearing a sleeveless houndstooth dress. She sat behind a semicircular mahogany desk with a raised front panel. Laura Bronick—according to the gold nameplate on her desk—smiled broadly.

“Welcome to Restful Sleep!” she said.

“I stand corrected,” Dean said.

Her smile faltered a bit. “Excuse me?”

“Not important.” Dean removed his FBI credentials from his jacket pocket and showed them to her. “Agent DeYoung and Agent Shaw. Need to talk to whoever’s in charge.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“We’re not here to sleep,” Dean said. Then he added, sotto voce, “Although a few hours’ sleep sounds mighty good about now.”

Sam leaned forward. “We’re conducting an investigation.”

“Oh, in that case...” She consulted a chart on a stand beside her computer keyboard. “We’re short-staffed this time of day. I’ll see if our administrative director is available.”

She donned a slim headset with a tiny projecting microphone and pressed an extension button on the top of her phone console.

“Ms. Bessette, there are two gentlemen here from the FBI. No. They didn’t say. Okay. Thank you.”

She disconnected the call and smiled at them again.

“She’ll be here in a few moments. Please have a seat while you wait.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder at the luxurious tan leather sofa and bookending chairs along the wall opposite the reception desk. If anything, they looked too damn comfortable. He didn’t know about Dean, but if he sat down for more than ten consecutive seconds, he’d probably fall asleep.

“Thanks. We’ll stand.”

Dean shot Sam a look that told him he’d had the same thought.

“Surprised you’re open on a Saturday,” Sam said to the receptionist.

“We have patients check in Friday night and check out Saturday,” she said. “We’re closed Sunday and Monday.”

“So this place helps people sleep?” Sam asked.

“At Restful Sleep Center we identify and treat sleep disorders,” Laura said by rote in her infallibly cheery voice. Then she shrugged and went a bit off-script. “Sleep is important. You know what they say, if you never slept, you’d go insane.”

“They say that, huh?” Sam said.

Soulless Sam had gone over a year without sleep. Sam wondered if his soulless self might be considered insane. And if so, could the insanity have been caused by lack of sleep. Or was the absence of a soul—and therefore a conscience—enough to make an otherwise normal man appear insane? Because if sleeplessness was a contributing factor, wouldn’t that affect Sam too? They shared a body. Could long-term sleep deprivation cause lasting effects, even after a soul restoration?

Laura chuckled. “Well, I’m no scientist. That’s just something I read somewhere. If you don’t sleep, you don’t dream. And if you don’t dream, you go cuckoo.”

“Good to know,” Sam responded.

A statuesque brunette wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a blood-red business suit, and impressive heels entered the lobby through the glass door behind the receptionist’s desk. Her dark hair, piled high in a loose chignon, was held in place with jeweled hairpins. Sam fought a smile as Dean almost stood at attention, stepping forward to introduce himself.

“I’m Agent DeYoung,” Dean said. “This is my partner, Agent Shaw.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Sophie Bessette, director of the Restful Sleep Center.”

Dean shook her hand and reluctantly—or so it seemed to Sam—stepped aside for Sam to follow suit.

“I must say, the last thing I expected when I woke up this morning was a visit from the FBI. How may I assist you?”

“It’s a—uh, matter of Homeland Security,” Dean said, his voice hushed. “We’re investigating a series of strange incidents in Clayton Falls. You are familiar with what’s been happening in town, Ms. Bessette?”

The woman glanced briefly at the receptionist, raised her eyebrows, and looked back at Dean and Sam.

“I’ve heard some... unusual rumors. But I didn’t give them much credence. Are you saying these things are actually happening?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We haven’t had anything unusual happen here at Restful Sleep, if that’s what you’re checking. Have we, Laura?”

“Just the same old routine.”

“Of course, our patient records are confidential,” the director said. “Unless you have a warrant, I won’t be able to provide access to—”

“We’re not interested in patient records,” Sam said. “We were more interested in... Is there somewhere we could speak in private?”

“An office,” Dean said, bumbling a bit. “Your office. You do have an office, right?”

Sophie smiled indulgently at Dean.

“As a matter of fact, I do have an office. Follow me.”

“With pleasure,” Dean said, echoing her earlier sentiment and yet sounding decidedly lecherous for a professional environment.

As they followed the woman down the hall, Dean held out his arm to slow Sam and whispered, “Getting a definite hotfor- teacher vibe from this one.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“No?”

“Aside from when you tripped over your tongue.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe she’s luring you into her trap.”

They picked up their pace and fell in step behind her by the time she motioned them through a doorway into her spacious office. After they were all seated with the door closed, she asked, “Private enough?”

“We don’t want to cause a panic,” Sam said. “You see, we’re investigating possible terrorist activity here in Clayton Falls.”

“Terrorism? Here?”

“Possibly,” Sam said, quickly adding, “But more as a potential testing ground for a large scale attack in a major metropolitan area.”

“Okay, granting that this information is a bit alarming, I still fail to see how Restful Sleep could be involved in your investigation.”

“We suspected a weaponized airborne hallucinogen,” Sam continued. “But now we believe these incidents are related to sleeping.”

“Ah, comes the dawn.”

“Specifically, nightmares,” Dean said. “And we recently discovered that you treat sleep disorders here.”

“Agent... DeYoung, was it? All sleep centers treat sleep disorders.”

“We thought maybe it was more than a coincidence that nightmares seem to trigger these incidents and there happens to be a sleep center in town.”

She folded her hands on a daily planner in the center of her desk, a prim pose that was no doubt fueling Dean’s schoolteacher fantasies.

“Sleep centers are not that uncommon,” she explained. “One in fifteen Americans suffers from sleep apnea. In a town the size of Clayton Falls we could have close to a thousand patients for that disorder alone.”

“You must be very busy here,” Dean said.

“Unfortunately, the condition often goes undiagnosed.”

“Do you treat people who have nightmares?”

“Not directly,” she said, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “We don’t treat people simply because they might have nightmares. But those who have trouble sleeping may experience loss of breath and anxiety. Some of them stop breathing many times during a single night. Physiological symptoms of distress could potentially trigger bad dreams.”

“But you would have no reason to cause someone to have nightmares.”

“Certainly not,” she said indignantly. She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Maybe I could assist your investigation better if I understood what you believe is happening.”

“It’s complicated,” Sam said.

“Just a theory,” Dean added.

“We believe that somehow nightmares are... becoming real.”

“You’re joking.”

“We’re not sure
how
this is happening,” Sam said. “Initially we suspected a hallucinogen as the sole bioterrorism agent, but several people have been killed by these manifestations.”

“There was something odd about the hit and run,” she said. “A tragedy, certainly, but not a nightmare.”

“What’s ‘odd’ is that the car vanished after it killed each victim,” Dean said.

“There was more than one?”

“A second one last night. Same car. Multiple witnesses,” Sam said. “And we—Agent DeYoung and I—witnessed a few bizarre incidents personally last night.”

“And you believe these are somehow connected to nightmares.”

“A boy dreamed a tree outside his bedroom window wanted to kill him,” Sam said. “He woke up in a panic. His father came into the room and was killed by a tree branch coming through the window.”

“Again, a tragedy, but that could also be a horrible coincidence,” she said. “There was a violent storm last night.”

“The car involved in the hit and runs was destroyed a year ago,” Dean said. “Now it’s back. In mint condition.”

She patted her hair, tucked a few loose strands behind her ears and shook her head slightly.

“I’m not convinced—at least nowhere near as convinced as you two seem to be—but I can offer you a quick tour of our facility to... assure you that Restful Sleep has absolutely no involvement in these so-called terrorist activities, whatever their cause.”

Sam opened his mouth to decline, but Dean accepted her offer before Sam could get a word out. Resigned, Sam shut his mouth and followed behind as she led them to a few empty patient bedrooms that were orders of magnitude more luxurious than any of the motel rooms they had ever stayed in. Several times, Sam caught himself yawning, fighting the desire to curl up on one of the beds and catch a few winks while Dean and the director completed the tour without him.

“We diagnose and treat a number of common sleep disorders,” Sophie Bessette said as they walked through the facility, “including obstructive sleep apnea, insomnia, narcolepsy, sleepwalking, and snoring.”

“How?” Dean asked. “By watching them sleep?”

“Through polysomnograms, or sleep studies. Sleep technicians place sensors on the patient that record brain activity, breathing patterns, heart rate, and body movements. This feedback is monitored throughout the night. The results are then interpreted by our in-house physician and later sent to the patient’s referring physician for a consultation. Most sleep studies are concluded in one day—well, night.”

“What are the treatments?”

“The most common nonsurgical treatment is positive airway pressure therapy. The patient wears a mask that converts room air into pressurized air, which keeps the breathing passages open throughout the night. Sometimes weight loss can alleviate a condition. Or sleep position modification, using cushions or wedges to keep the patient from sleeping on his or her back.”