(no subject)
Bobby was gone.
There was no arguing over that anymore, though they had. Finding the hut deserted had been answer enough for Sam, but Dean had wanted to go looking. It was the least they could do; he would do it for them; it was the same speech he'd used when Dad had disappeared. Sam hadn't been pleased about it, but for Dean he carried on. Maybe that was why the search, while thorough, was less extensive than before. Neither of them had the heart to say no.
When they got back to the hut there was... partitioning. Bobby hadn't left any kind of will. He wouldn't have had a use for one while there, so why would he have bothered? But there was a lot of stuff he had collected over the years -- clothes, gifts, books, a cat -- that needed to be taken care of. It was while half-heartedly and silently sifting through all of those things that Sam had taken a second to look around outside and saw it.
A door to what looked like a shed, but not much of one. Sam opened the door to find a staircase and nothing more leading down. Frowning, Sam shouted over his shoulder back to the house, "Dean, did--" But the door down the stairs caught his eye. That was much more familiar.
He didn't finish his question but made his way down the stairs, drawn to the door like in a nightmare, led by some sick impulse. It was just a door, he knew. It opened just like any door that could be sealed shut tight against the worst that Hell had to offer. And it led to a room, just a room, made of salt-coated iron with a Devil's trap on the ground and a poster of Bo Derek on the wall. It was just a room and it wasn't the room that made Sam shoot for the handmade trashcan and vomit, but the memories.
There was no arguing over that anymore, though they had. Finding the hut deserted had been answer enough for Sam, but Dean had wanted to go looking. It was the least they could do; he would do it for them; it was the same speech he'd used when Dad had disappeared. Sam hadn't been pleased about it, but for Dean he carried on. Maybe that was why the search, while thorough, was less extensive than before. Neither of them had the heart to say no.
When they got back to the hut there was... partitioning. Bobby hadn't left any kind of will. He wouldn't have had a use for one while there, so why would he have bothered? But there was a lot of stuff he had collected over the years -- clothes, gifts, books, a cat -- that needed to be taken care of. It was while half-heartedly and silently sifting through all of those things that Sam had taken a second to look around outside and saw it.
A door to what looked like a shed, but not much of one. Sam opened the door to find a staircase and nothing more leading down. Frowning, Sam shouted over his shoulder back to the house, "Dean, did--" But the door down the stairs caught his eye. That was much more familiar.
He didn't finish his question but made his way down the stairs, drawn to the door like in a nightmare, led by some sick impulse. It was just a door, he knew. It opened just like any door that could be sealed shut tight against the worst that Hell had to offer. And it led to a room, just a room, made of salt-coated iron with a Devil's trap on the ground and a poster of Bo Derek on the wall. It was just a room and it wasn't the room that made Sam shoot for the handmade trashcan and vomit, but the memories.