Post by Sam Winchester on Dec 31, 2008 14:52:01 GMT -5
There wasn't much to go on. Not really.
But that morning, as he'd woken up to the sight of that same, peeling ceiling, the familiar scent of Bobby's coffee and cooking and the near constant clanging of Dean knocking the dents out of the Impala, Sam had finally reached the breaking point.
The monotony of their lives since Dad had... well, since Dad, had been driving Sam towards stir crazy for the past several weeks. Dean at least had the car to focus on - the car that was slowly becoming recognizable again after a hundred hours of his brother's careful mending. It was pretty much all that Dean had done since he'd gotten out of the hospital - fix the Impala. As though when it was put back together their lives somehow would be, too. Maybe that was true. Personally, Sam was a little worried that once Dean didn't have the car to hammer and weld and occasionally smash apart again with a crowbar, his frustration would start turning in more dangerous directions.
So it was for Dean as much as himself that Sam had set off to the library after breakfast, cursing Bobby's lack of an internet hookup - how could he possibly expect to stay up to date with the happenings of monsters and demons without the help of the world wide web? - and started scouring newspapers and forums for something the pair of them could hunt.
He'd thought of the Demon first, of course, and that nagging suspicion about the sudden death of John Winchester and the coinciding disappearance of the Colt had kept him on the search engines for half the morning in the hopes of matching up reports of electrical surges with cattle mutilations across the country. No joy. And finally, when he'd felt his fevered search beginning to take on signs of the same obsessive zeal that had infested him in those first few weeks after Jessica, he had gritted his teeth and forced himself to look at local newspapers for a sign of other supernatural phenomena.
He'd found it almost immediately. At least, he'd thought he had. With their luck, recently, it would turn out to just be the work of some psycho. Or a case of cultish mass suicide.
But then... where were the bodies?
No, this was something. He couldn't say, yet, what the something was, but it was definitely something, none the less.
Feeling more driven, more... elated, almost (a strange thing to be, he reflected, after reading a report of two dozen missing people) than he had since the car accident, Sam pulled out his cell and hit the first number on his speed dial.
But that morning, as he'd woken up to the sight of that same, peeling ceiling, the familiar scent of Bobby's coffee and cooking and the near constant clanging of Dean knocking the dents out of the Impala, Sam had finally reached the breaking point.
The monotony of their lives since Dad had... well, since Dad, had been driving Sam towards stir crazy for the past several weeks. Dean at least had the car to focus on - the car that was slowly becoming recognizable again after a hundred hours of his brother's careful mending. It was pretty much all that Dean had done since he'd gotten out of the hospital - fix the Impala. As though when it was put back together their lives somehow would be, too. Maybe that was true. Personally, Sam was a little worried that once Dean didn't have the car to hammer and weld and occasionally smash apart again with a crowbar, his frustration would start turning in more dangerous directions.
So it was for Dean as much as himself that Sam had set off to the library after breakfast, cursing Bobby's lack of an internet hookup - how could he possibly expect to stay up to date with the happenings of monsters and demons without the help of the world wide web? - and started scouring newspapers and forums for something the pair of them could hunt.
He'd thought of the Demon first, of course, and that nagging suspicion about the sudden death of John Winchester and the coinciding disappearance of the Colt had kept him on the search engines for half the morning in the hopes of matching up reports of electrical surges with cattle mutilations across the country. No joy. And finally, when he'd felt his fevered search beginning to take on signs of the same obsessive zeal that had infested him in those first few weeks after Jessica, he had gritted his teeth and forced himself to look at local newspapers for a sign of other supernatural phenomena.
He'd found it almost immediately. At least, he'd thought he had. With their luck, recently, it would turn out to just be the work of some psycho. Or a case of cultish mass suicide.
But then... where were the bodies?
No, this was something. He couldn't say, yet, what the something was, but it was definitely something, none the less.
Feeling more driven, more... elated, almost (a strange thing to be, he reflected, after reading a report of two dozen missing people) than he had since the car accident, Sam pulled out his cell and hit the first number on his speed dial.