Losing You

The Trials

The bunker had never been so trashed. Open books laid strewn across tables and floors, their pages having been scoured for possible notes or hidden clues. Old file boxes had their contents dumped and violated, no scrap of paper or folders were spared. Each and every spare room, closet, and potential hiding space was rummaged, pilfered, and ransacked.

Neither Winchester knew where you could have been hiding information about your excursions. It wasn't in yours and Sam's bedroom, that much was certain, but other than Dean's bedroom, they felt as if any other place was fair game, even the kitchen or the shooting range. You were incredibly clever and right now that scared Sam in a way it never had before. Your intelligence was attractive to him. He admired it as you continually sent him into a state of awe and affection, but currently it terrified him, as he realized your intellect could very easily be the blockade between him and you.

It wasn't until Sam and Dean ventured further into the bunker, to rooms they never even considered, that they found the room they needed. Despite the messy nature of the hunt, they did have a method and they kept to it, beginning at the front with the War Room and working their way deeper into the bunker. Though every bone in Sam's body was screaming to wreck the whole place until he found what he wanted, his head agreed with his heart in favor of your safety, and they settled on a reasonable method of finding you. And so, as Sam and Dean moved forward into the recesses of the bunker, they came across a lonely door with no clear indication on it of what was inside. Not even the men of letters sign was etched into the wooden door.

Sam pushed it open single-handedly, its hinges protesting with creaks and groans, while Dean remained directly behind him. If they hadn't agreed to search every single space in their underground home, they both would have skipped right over this room. Almost nothing was in it. A single dirty, cobwebbed lamp stood on a desk outfitted with nothing but a thick layer of dust. Behind it against the wall, three sagging cardboard boxes stood in the far corner, stacked atop one another, and an empty bookcase stood beside them.

They only took a second to survey the forgotten office and then went to work. Sam pulled the chain on the lamp, the old light casting a warm glow on the deject, dingy room. He swiped the cobwebs caught on his fingers onto his jeans and began opening the drawers of the desk. Dean started in one of the boxes.

Remnants of the days when this room saw more activity were stuffed into the boxes. A nameplate, files, pens and pencils, and a typewriter were all included. However, the desk was mostly empty, except for the middle drawer right above where one's legs would go if they sat at the desk.

Sam slid it open, the wood scratching and squeaking against the worn track, and inside laid a few items, neatly arranged and properly organized. Sam picked them up and placed them on the desk in order to sift through them thoroughly. There were three manilla files and two books. The folders had a decent amount of content in them and the books seemed very old. One was written in Latin.

Sam noticed that the folders and books weren't dusty like the rest of the room and he clenched his jaw. As soon as he flipped open the first folder, his heart plummeted. Organized notes written on lined notebook paper sat inside, their ownership clearly marked by your own handwriting.

Sam could only whisper, "Dean."

Dean's head whipped around, not expecting to see Sam staring down at anything consequential, but when he noticed his brother's shoulders drooping and his hands shaking with pages in their grasp, he dropped the contents of his hands back into their box and walked over to look at what Sam had found.

Dean knew as soon as his eyes landed on the stringently precise stack of notes. There was no mistaking the handwriting or the format of the pages. This had you written all over it.