The stag head, though. It was possible that it was simply something the occupants had bought for decoration, but given that this was a small town up in the mountains, the chances of that were lower. No, someone had shot and killed that deer. Deer hunting. The implication of that sank in.
Christ, he hoped he was right about this.
Sam spun around and went back through the house. If the hunting gear was stored in a truck somewhere outside, he was flat out of luck, but if not—if not. It was possible. His only problem was, where the hell did normal people keep their hunting gear when inside a building? This was something he had no expertise on. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually put anything away in their proper place. Drawers in motels were always left empty. He—they, it was they again—moved on so fast, unpacking was pointless. It made it easier to just grab and go, anyway, if they had to leave unexpectedly, especially if you had ten kinds of illegal weapons on you.
The master bedroom seemed unlikely, and the kids' bedrooms were out of the question. Probably not the kitchen, either. It left the study he'd looked in, an old computer sitting on a rough, heavy oak desk, a bookshelf lining the wall. Closet to the right.
His flashlight was starting to dim. Sam picked up the pace. A search through the closet left red smudges on the doors, but that was about all he accomplished. Damn it. Basement?
A part of him hoped so, hoped really, really hard, but man, if it was in the basement—he hadn't searched down there that thoroughly, too occupied with Dean to even think about it. Still, if there'd been some proper weapons there this whole time—
The corpses were still where he'd left them. Sam went down the stairs as fast as he could, which wasn't very fast, He half-expected Dean to be missing or torn apart on the floor, but Dean was right where Sam had left him. Sam checked him over first to make sure he was doing okay before he began pulling things out from shelves and shoving more junk aside. The bell on an old tricycle jingled cheerfully. He knew he should've tended to the bite in his arm first—it was still bleeding—but right now, he just wanted his hands on a solid weapon. He had no idea how much time passed. All he knew was that he'd nearly turned the basement upside down when his fingers finally closed around a large container, shaped like it'd fit on an ATV.
He flipped it open, casting another glance back at Dean as he did. There was no rifle or shotgun anywhere nearby, but inside, there was a pistol inside. A Glock, ten millimetre. Hunting pistol. And a hunting knife. He loaded the gun, tucking it into his back. He thought about taking another magazine, but frankly, if sixteen rounds weren't going to last them, they were as good as dead.
Making his way back to Dean, he sat down heavily beside his brother. Actually taking the weight off his leg made him that much more aware of how much like crap he felt.
He took Dean gently by the shoulder. His brother was looking at him this time, glassy-eyed, but at least his gaze wasn't sliding all over the place. "Dean."
no subject
Christ, he hoped he was right about this.
Sam spun around and went back through the house. If the hunting gear was stored in a truck somewhere outside, he was flat out of luck, but if not—if not. It was possible. His only problem was, where the hell did normal people keep their hunting gear when inside a building? This was something he had no expertise on. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually put anything away in their proper place. Drawers in motels were always left empty. He—they, it was they again—moved on so fast, unpacking was pointless. It made it easier to just grab and go, anyway, if they had to leave unexpectedly, especially if you had ten kinds of illegal weapons on you.
The master bedroom seemed unlikely, and the kids' bedrooms were out of the question. Probably not the kitchen, either. It left the study he'd looked in, an old computer sitting on a rough, heavy oak desk, a bookshelf lining the wall. Closet to the right.
His flashlight was starting to dim. Sam picked up the pace. A search through the closet left red smudges on the doors, but that was about all he accomplished. Damn it. Basement?
A part of him hoped so, hoped really, really hard, but man, if it was in the basement—he hadn't searched down there that thoroughly, too occupied with Dean to even think about it. Still, if there'd been some proper weapons there this whole time—
The corpses were still where he'd left them. Sam went down the stairs as fast as he could, which wasn't very fast, He half-expected Dean to be missing or torn apart on the floor, but Dean was right where Sam had left him. Sam checked him over first to make sure he was doing okay before he began pulling things out from shelves and shoving more junk aside. The bell on an old tricycle jingled cheerfully. He knew he should've tended to the bite in his arm first—it was still bleeding—but right now, he just wanted his hands on a solid weapon. He had no idea how much time passed. All he knew was that he'd nearly turned the basement upside down when his fingers finally closed around a large container, shaped like it'd fit on an ATV.
He flipped it open, casting another glance back at Dean as he did. There was no rifle or shotgun anywhere nearby, but inside, there was a pistol inside. A Glock, ten millimetre. Hunting pistol. And a hunting knife. He loaded the gun, tucking it into his back. He thought about taking another magazine, but frankly, if sixteen rounds weren't going to last them, they were as good as dead.
Making his way back to Dean, he sat down heavily beside his brother. Actually taking the weight off his leg made him that much more aware of how much like crap he felt.
He took Dean gently by the shoulder. His brother was looking at him this time, glassy-eyed, but at least his gaze wasn't sliding all over the place. "Dean."