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The Winchester brothers stayed in shabby motels–it's canon–before they figured out how to tap the saleable antique assets of the Bunker–"safe" lore books and decommissioned artifacts and classic cars–but not just to save money. A down-on-its-luck lodging was less likely to have working security cameras, nosy personnel, and a concern over strange odors and sounds emitting from their guest rooms.
In other words, a modest establishment was a better way to keep under the radar of local law enforcement.
Bad guys doing bad business, criminals at the lower end of the food chain who had heard about Hunters, would clear out during the duration of their stay, some never to return. Didn't want to be around if the brothers suddenly showed up in a bad mood from ganking monsters and needed to work off post-hunt stress.
Didn't want to tick off angry men who lug around machetes and grenade launchers.
No drug deals in the parking lot, no loading and unloading of stolen goods from the backs of hijacked delivery trucks, and no play for pay, particularly involving minors, unless between and among cheerfully consenting adults.
The motel's longterm residents, mostly folks a step up from homelessness, were grateful for the peace and quiet. Felt safe even without realizing that they were under the Winchesters' protection.
Dean and Sam took their neighborly duties seriously, something which rarely made it into the Winchester Chronicles. It was their initiative to be good guys, not the machinations of Chuck the Author. Free will, something Chuck didn't plan for as it turned out.
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The nasty cop on the take who invented reasons to collect protection money, the smiling clerk with a taste for young girls or boys, the local muscle who like to beat up people for no reason? Those resident bullies and others of their ilk would undergo a swift transformation. One day they would show up with a black eye, walking with a limp. Real polite, like yes sir, no sir. Yes ma'am, no ma'am. Suddenly afraid of their own shadow. Even after the Winchesters left.
So what if residents noticed the brothers dragging a large furry body from the trunk of the Impala into their room at midnight, or heard the distinct sound of a chain saw after breakfast coming from said room the next day, or if the Winchesters asked the front desk to turn off the water to the building for, say, 30 minutes, while they fix a backed up pipe–sorry, dropped a box of Kleenex in the toilet and accidentally flushed it. Or so they would say.
It seemed a small price to pay in exchange for Special Forces-level private guardians on the property, as well as a pro bono ace mechanic and someone who could help the really smart emancipated teenager in Room 237 with her calculus homework.
Same for the blue and white flashes of light and the occasional exploding light bulbs. Like a lightning storm with the scent of ozone, but coming from the Winchesters' room. Weird, but the light bulbs would be replaced immediately. That was even weirder.
Some summer nights the brothers would materialize an ancient rusty grill, clean it off with water and steel wool, and throw on a bag of briquets. Dean would be in charge of cooking the hot dogs and hamburgers, Sam would bring potatoes and ears of corn and wrap them in tin foil. There'd be a cooler filled with cheap sodas and cheaper beer and all the fixings for a tailgate party: buns, condiments, and grocery store cole slaw and potato salad. A couple of gallons of generic ice cream. Vanilla and vanilla.
Classic rock and roll would blare from the Impala's speakers, and for one evening, no one had a care, no one had a problem. Everyone would eat and drink and laugh and tell stories, and old and young would boogie down together.
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It was rumored that at night unbrotherly sounds might float from their room at the end of the hallway. But unless you were standing right next to the air conditioning unit hung outside the window on a summer’s night or booked the room next door, you probably wouldn't hear a thing.
Just turn up the television or turn on your ceiling fan, your neighbors would tell you.
Nobody's business.