Dean knew this wasn't gonna be comforting to Ron, but he wasn't gonna sugarcoat it. "Probably gonna get a lot weirder from here."
Speaking of salt. Much as it was dangerously comfortable to be bundled up in all these blankets, Dean didn't feel comfortable sitting here while he knew there were ghosts and demons out there. Probably wasn't a good idea to be moving about, but old habits died hard and he'd be damned if he wasn't gonna lay down a salt line like he'd just been saying they should. The hunter got up gingerly, was glad he could actually sorta-kinda walk on his own on what still felt like uneven footing, and knelt carefully next to the bag of salt (carefully 'cause he didn't want to tilt over and brain himself on the door just 'cause his coordination was shot). He reached in and pulled out a small handful of salt, expertly laying down a thin white line of it so that if the door was opened, the line wouldn't be disturbed.
"There," Dean said. He sat back, meaning to sit back on his heels, but miscalculated and ended up sitting down all the way on his butt. He tried to make it look like he'd meant to do that. "Takes about two seconds."
He sat there for a few minutes, wondering what he should do next. The smart thing would be to spend the rest of the night here, resting up, getting more energy for the day and night ahead. But he still had a lot of crap he needed to get if he was gonna get that demon Punk-Ass in a devil's trap and he wasn't gonna get any of that doing the smart thing; place like this, he reasoned they had to have some kind of storage or supply closet with duct tape or packing tape. Rope? Maybe not - he wished - but strong tape like that was a good second. He didn't think Punk-Ass could break his way through a Key of Solomon, but the freak was already immune to salt up close. Dean wasn't taking chances. He needed tape to make sure he wasn't going anywhere while he exorcised him. Glancing over at Ron, Dean debated what he should do with him. Again, smart thing was to leave him here with another salt line where he was for extra measure. But the guy had saved his life and if he was gonna try to search for supplies, it'd only be fair to give the guy a chance to get some stuff for himself.
That and it'd be easier to have two pairs of arms than one, but Dean kept that to himself. And Sammy said he had no tact.
Fact of the matter was he still had a hunt on his hands. The longer he waited, the more of a chance that the demon would remember him and he'd lose the element of surprise.
Dean pushed himself to his feet, wincing a little as he jostled the cuts, and stood up, working extra hard to keep his balance. "I'm gonna have to head out again, Ron. Could you do me a favor, check my jacket for a map?"
It'd been a copy of a copy, but he wouldn't be surprised it some of it was rendered crap from being soaked through. Still, he needed to know what was on the floors so he could try to look for a supply closet or something dealing with storage if he was gonna have any chance of finding some duct tape. Dean occupied himself with padding over to the closet, raiding whatever dry clothes he could find, pulling the drab Landel's overcoat over his sweater and t-shirt and not caring how retarded he looked. What was important was he was warm, if maybe not in the best shape he'd ever been. Too bad whoever made these maps hadn't thought to earmark them with "Ghosts here" or "Beware of Shapeshifter" or anything that would've given him a good warning of whatever might still be out there.
[Dean's gonna try to head for General Storage. Did you want Ronixis to come?]
no subject
Speaking of salt. Much as it was dangerously comfortable to be bundled up in all these blankets, Dean didn't feel comfortable sitting here while he knew there were ghosts and demons out there. Probably wasn't a good idea to be moving about, but old habits died hard and he'd be damned if he wasn't gonna lay down a salt line like he'd just been saying they should. The hunter got up gingerly, was glad he could actually sorta-kinda walk on his own on what still felt like uneven footing, and knelt carefully next to the bag of salt (carefully 'cause he didn't want to tilt over and brain himself on the door just 'cause his coordination was shot). He reached in and pulled out a small handful of salt, expertly laying down a thin white line of it so that if the door was opened, the line wouldn't be disturbed.
"There," Dean said. He sat back, meaning to sit back on his heels, but miscalculated and ended up sitting down all the way on his butt. He tried to make it look like he'd meant to do that. "Takes about two seconds."
He sat there for a few minutes, wondering what he should do next. The smart thing would be to spend the rest of the night here, resting up, getting more energy for the day and night ahead. But he still had a lot of crap he needed to get if he was gonna get that demon Punk-Ass in a devil's trap and he wasn't gonna get any of that doing the smart thing; place like this, he reasoned they had to have some kind of storage or supply closet with duct tape or packing tape. Rope? Maybe not - he wished - but strong tape like that was a good second. He didn't think Punk-Ass could break his way through a Key of Solomon, but the freak was already immune to salt up close. Dean wasn't taking chances. He needed tape to make sure he wasn't going anywhere while he exorcised him. Glancing over at Ron, Dean debated what he should do with him. Again, smart thing was to leave him here with another salt line where he was for extra measure. But the guy had saved his life and if he was gonna try to search for supplies, it'd only be fair to give the guy a chance to get some stuff for himself.
That and it'd be easier to have two pairs of arms than one, but Dean kept that to himself. And Sammy said he had no tact.
Fact of the matter was he still had a hunt on his hands. The longer he waited, the more of a chance that the demon would remember him and he'd lose the element of surprise.
Dean pushed himself to his feet, wincing a little as he jostled the cuts, and stood up, working extra hard to keep his balance. "I'm gonna have to head out again, Ron. Could you do me a favor, check my jacket for a map?"
It'd been a copy of a copy, but he wouldn't be surprised it some of it was rendered crap from being soaked through. Still, he needed to know what was on the floors so he could try to look for a supply closet or something dealing with storage if he was gonna have any chance of finding some duct tape. Dean occupied himself with padding over to the closet, raiding whatever dry clothes he could find, pulling the drab Landel's overcoat over his sweater and t-shirt and not caring how retarded he looked. What was important was he was warm, if maybe not in the best shape he'd ever been. Too bad whoever made these maps hadn't thought to earmark them with "Ghosts here" or "Beware of Shapeshifter" or anything that would've given him a good warning of whatever might still be out there.
[Dean's gonna try to head for General Storage. Did you want Ronixis to come?]