And I Rise [1] (Supernatural)

I Rᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ Wʜᴇɴ I Lᴏsᴛ Mʏ Mɪɴᴅ || Tᴇɴ

The winding hallways weaved in and out of the darkness, corridors and passageways long abandoned with dust and painful memories. Dean and I walked quietly, our boots the only sounds echoing down into the dark. We reached a fork in the passageways. We were hardly covering much ground skulking around together. We didn't have time for it.

"I'll take the right, you go left," I said.

"No, I don't think so," Dean scoffed. "I'm not letting you go down there alone."

I groaned. Were we seriously going to play this tune again? I wasn't going to have this argument for a third time. I glared at him. "Look, we're not going to find this room stumbling around together. We'll cover more ground if we split up." Before he could shut me down again, I made the very loaded shotgun visible in my hand. "I'll be fine. I can look after myself." I sauntered down the right passage before Dean could procedurally hook a hand around my arm.

White doors lined each side of the corridor, washing out of its color as the beam of my flashlight hit it. The numbers went up the way I walked and down the other. 132. 133. The walls pealed and shedded its paint. 134. 135. I skirted past dusty wheelchairs and stepped over scattered papers. 136. My flashlight reflected on the glass of Room 137, the white paint dirty and washed out completely of its original color. Bingo.

I opened the door, but it struggled to budge. I squinted through the small gap between the door and the wall, glaring at the wooden furniture pushed up against it. Another shove and the scrape of the chairs against the ground sang, and I walked right on in.

The room was a mess like a tornado had ransacked it. Furniture was completely upturned. Papers littered the floor. The drawers of the filing cabinet in the corner were all slid open, the last somehow hanging on one side of its tracks.

I trained my flashlight on the papers under my feet—patient files, letters, medical records, and diary notes. My foot kicked a plank of wood, and, shining the flashlight beam on it, it read the name of our good doctor. This was his office.

I gazed around the destroyed room. What did the ghost want us to find in here? What was of importance here that wasn't lost long ago?

I searched the filing cabinet and found nothing. I investigated the desk, but found it picked clean. I even leafed through the papers on the floor, placing the shotgun next to me and physically sitting cross-legged and read through whatever was still intact.

Nothing. There was nothing here.

Footsteps echoed into my hearing and I stumbled to my feet. I slammed my back into the wall by the door. I went to load my shotgun and my breath hitched as my eyes fixed onto it still on the floor in the middle of the room. Shit, my mind hissed. I pressed myself further into the wall, schooling my breathing into short and curt breaths. My heart throbbed so hard, so painfully, in my chest that I could hear it in my ears as the footsteps grew closer and closer.