Winchester Mini-Storage General Policies:
1) As long as you can unload it yourself and it's not human, all unit contents are no questions asked.
2) All unit contents are confidential, and will not be accessed by the proprietors without the express permission of the customer, or if the contents threaten the general safety of Winchester Mini-Storage or its employees.
3) Before a contract is finalized, all customers must be able to pass a series of tests (holy water, silver knife, salt) in order to verify their human status.
3) All units are forged iron, lead lined with salt foundations, and come inscribed with basic anti-demonic warding. Any additional security is the sole responsibility of the customer.
4) All rented units must indicate one of the following danger ratings:
Level A: Low to moderate hazard (general spellworking ingredients, non-cursed weaponry, camping supplies etc.)
Level B:Moderate to high hazard (Cursed objects, explosives, bio-hazardous materials etc.)
Level C: High to Extreme Hazard (Contained spirits, demonic relics, deceased or captured monsters etc.)
Note: Any sentient unit contents automatically merit a Level C danger rating.
5) All unit prices are final and non-refundable. Any failure to pay on time will result in the voiding of the unit contract and the confiscation of any contained goods.
6) The proprietors are not responsible for any damage that comes to a customer or their unit contents during loading or unloading, supernatural or otherwise. The main office, open 24 hours a day, is equipped with a basic medical field kit. All other medical attention is the responsibility of the customer.
7) Each unit rented comes with an emergency codeword. If activated at any time by the customer, all units listed in that customer's contract will be sealed by the proprietors for 18 months. Unit contents will be inaccessible until the duration of the lockdown period is complete.
8) In the event of siege, natural disaster, or the Apocalypse, contents of all Level A units will be utilized to aid in the fortification and defense of the property.
Dean woke up to an angry buzzing on his bedside table at four in the morning. He scrabbled blindly for his phone, whose vibrating ring was harsh enough to rattle his keys, not to mention wake him up from an actual good dream. Those were rare enough that when Dean answered his cell it was with an irritated growl.
"You better not be calling for another synonym Chuck." A nervous sigh echoed across the line, followed by the clacking of a keyboard.
"No…," Chuck said reluctantly, the same way he said everything, "I just got a vision."
"Anything serious?" Dean asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes tiredly.
"It's Martin," Chuck told him, "And it looks like he's off his meds again. You said to call you if-"
"Yeah yeah I'll be down in a minute," Dean groused, looking around his wreck of a bedroom for his jeans, "Do you have a time frame?"
"Maybe ten minutes or so?" Dean rolled his neck, hearing a few pops that told him he was getting too old to be up and about before the sun. But that's what you get when hunters are your primary clientele.
"Alright, lemme get Sam up and I'll see you down there in a bit," Dean said, "Stall him if he gets there ahead of schedule. And don't let him get a hold of any keys."
"I know the policies," Chuck muttered. Dean rolled his eyes, hanging up the phone. Chuck was dependable but he was prone to pouting. Dean tugged on yesterdays Zeppelin t-shirt and made his way to Sam's door. He knocked three times and waited.
"…Whadyou wan' Deaan.." came his brother's sleep muffled reply.
"Chuck needs back up at the lot," Dean told him through the door, "Martin's on his way and he's not in the best frame of mind. I told him we'd stop in and take care of it."
Dean heard a lot of shuffling fabric and muttering about "freakin' family business…" before the door opened and Sam emerged, bleary eyed but mostly presentable, except for a spectacular case of bed head.
"Nice hair," Dean commented, ducking Sam's retaliatory punch.
"I don't see why we both have to go," Sam whined, "Chuck can't handle it by now?"
Dean shrugged. "You know Martin will go easier if we're there," he told him, "He knows us."
Sam reluctantly agreed and in two minutes they were pulling out of the garage in Dean's 1967 Impala, headed down the short dirt road that led to their main office. Dean could just make out the rows of units in the dark, the small sheds innocuous upon first glance, though anyone who cared to look closely would see they were made of iron and covered in Latin sigils. His headlights hit their weathered wooden sign (Winchester Mini-storage: Units available!) before lighting up the side of the small cabin-like building that served as their business headquarters. Dean groaned when he saw Martin's red pickup was already pulled onto the grass next to the office.
"Let's handle this so I can get back to sleep," Sam said, straightening his shoulders as he got out of the car.
"Amen to that," Dean grumbled.
"I'm not gonna ask you again son, I need my dang keys!" Dean didn't even have to look to know that Chuck was already wilting under Martin's frustrated tirade.
"I'm sorry," Chuck stammered, "But I'm just following the rules-"
"Hiya Martin," Dean called out as Sam followed him into the fluorescent lights of the office, "Havin' some trouble?"
Martin turned to greet the brothers, his shoulders drooping in relief.
"Thank the Lord you boys are here," the hunter said, "I'm locked outta my unit, and this knucklehead won't give me the spare set. Tell me you can set 'im right, Dean."
Dean shook his head. "C'mon man, we can't open up sealed units, you know that. It's for everybody's safety."
Martin's eyebrows cinched in a look of plain confusion, and Dean felt a twinge of pity.
"You gave us your code last year, remember?" Sam asked, "You wanted to make sure your supplies stayed safe while you were in the hospital." By hospital, Sam meant "mental institution", but Dean appreciated that his brother chose not to make that distinction. Martin Creaser had been a good hunter and a good friend to their dad while he was alive, and the brothers still tried to help him out now when they could. Dean wasn't about to write somebody off for having a few issues, when he or Sam could easily be in the same position someday. Dealing with the supernatural didn't exactly lead to good mental health.
"Yeah," Sam continued, "Eighteen month emergency lockdown. Nobody can get in there 'til November."
"My code?" Martin still looked uncertain.
"Hey Chuck," Dean called to the nervous writer, who was doing his best to hide behind the stacks of paper that covered his rickety ply board desk, "You think you can pull up Martin's file? It might help if we can all refresh our memory."
Chuck assented quickly, and a few shuffled papers later they were staring down at Martin's lease forms, reading what Sam and Dean already knew would be there. Unit Sealed at Renter's request. CODEBLACK: 2171974. Watching Martin's face fall as he realized what was happening was almost as rough as sealing his stuff up had been in the first place. But they had protocols for a reason, and the emergency code was the most important of all.
"Aw damn," Martin cursed, looking dejected, "I've done it again, haven't I boys?"
"It's alright Martin," Dean assured him with a hand on his shoulder, "We get it. It's tough out there."
"I'm sorry," he apologized, "It's just so hard to remember."
"I know buddy," Dean commiserated, "We talked about what can help with that though, right? You gotta take your meds."
"Yeah, you're right," Martin mumbled, "O'course you're right."
"Alright. You come back in six months, and we'll have all your stuff safe and sound like always. Sam? You wanna walk Martin out to his car, make sure he's alright to drive?"
"You bet." Sam hopped off the desk to grab Martin's bag and lead him outside. Dean could hear them talking about getting a beer and talking over old times once the hunter was feeling better. Grumpy as he was in the mornings, Sam was always good with customers.
"You okay Chuck?" Dean asked, looking to his clammy underling. Chuck sighed, wringing a hand through his disorderly dark hair. Poor guy really oughtta be working in a library somewhere or somethin'. He wasn't really cut out for the hunting crowd. Unfortunately being a real deal psychic tended to get you mixed up with the scary side of reality whether you liked it or not.
"Yeah, I guess," he said, "It's just a pretty craptastic situation. The Martin thing hits a little too close to home for me."
"Hey you're not like him," Dean said sternly, "Martin's just been in this business too long. You've got a whole 'nother level of shit goin' on in that head of yours."
"Maybe that's what I'm worried about," Chuck muttered, looking back to his computer screen forlornly, "Just don't let me end up like him."
"Martin's gonna be okay," Dean insisted, "He's got friends. He's got us. And so do you."
Chuck nodded, "Yeah...I guess. Thanks Dean." He took a gulp of lukewarm coffee that Dean had a feeling was mostly whiskey.
"No problem," Dean told him with a slap on the back, "Now are you done bein' a girl about this, or do you need a few minutes?"
"Nah I'm good," Chuck said as Sam returned from the lot, jangling the front door bell, "I was making some decent progress on this chapter when I got interrupted. I may as well keep going."
"Well Sam and me were making decent progress on sleeping, so if you don't mind we're gonna get back to it," Dean told him. Chuck just waved him off, already engrossed in the glow of the ancient monitor. So much for gratitude, Dean thought to himself as he and Sam left the fluorescent lights of the office behind for the eerie darkness of the parking lot. The darkness was interrupted by the appearance of a new set of headlights.
"Busy night," Sam noted, and Dean shrugged as the large SUV trundled into the gravel parking lot. After midnight wasn't unusual hours for people that got by on four hours of sleep. A dark figure emerged from the vehicle, and Dean recognized Gordon Walker with little difficulty. The guy was on the more dangerous end of the hunters they liked to deal with, according to their contacts, but he paid regularly and hadn't caused any trouble for them yet.
"Winchester," Gordon greeted them curtly, nodding at Dean then Sam.
"Walker," Sam responded coolly. For whatever reason, Sam had taken a strong dislike to the hunter early on. Hell, Dean wasn't gonna be knockin' back beers with the guy anytime soon, but they were runnin' a business here.
"How's hunting?" Dean asked, trying to break up some of the tension.
"You guys got any units?" Gordon asked instead of answering Dean's small talk. Come to think of it, the guy looked kinda on edge. Well more on edge than usual. His hands were in tight fists at his sides, and there was a tremor in his voice that suggested the tail end of an adrenaline rush.
"Yeah, sure," Dean said cautiously, "Chuck's on duty, he can set you up."
"Right, yeah." Gordon said curtly, heading for the rickety screen door. Sam tapped Dean's arm, indicating the large silver horse trailer that Dean just noticed was hooked up to the back of Gordon's truck with concern. The large splash of blood across the metal looked black in the dim light, though it had that unsettling sheen that told Dean it was pretty fresh.
"Everything alright Gordon?" Dean called after the tense hunter.
"None of your goddamned business Winchester," came the terse reply, "Or isn't that a clause in your policy anymore?" Dean scowled after the man, but shrugged. Technically he was right. Confidentiality was the main draw for their customer base. He tried to brush the encounter off, and by the time he pulled open the car door, the tension was gone from his shoulders.
"That was weird," Sam commented, brow still furrowed.
"Dude, you forget what business we're in?" Dean laughed before sliding into the driver's seat and revving his baby's engine. All in a night's work for the Winchesters.