REVIVE ▸ d. winchester [2] ✔

Chapter 12

Dean's POV

"You sure this is the place?"

Sam glances down at the phone in his hand and the piece of paper sitting on his lap. His eyes flicker between the two for a moment before giving a nod. "This is it."

"Doesn't look like much," I point out. As I take my foot off of the gas pedal and let the impala come to a stop, my eyes take in the old and battered structure that stands in front of us. "Looks like a place for crazy people, if you ask me."

"Gary, or Larry, whatever his name is- these are the coordinates he gave us. There's nothing else around here for a few miles." As I turn off the engine, Sam looks over at me. "Looks can be deceiving."

"Well, in this case, I certainly hope they are," I state blatantly as I throw the keys in my pocket and move to get out of the car.

The area is quiet with nothing moving except for a few scarce tree branches rustling in the snow-cold Lebanon breeze. Only the slamming of the car doors disrupts the silence. I decide that this place would be a pretty decent location for an undercover organization to dig it's roots into. It's quiet, secluded, hidden from the world- and as Sammy said, looks can be deceiving.

"You've got it?" At my question, Sam reaches into his jacket and pulls out the small wooden box which holds the key to this place. And, if all goes perfectly, it could also be the key to everything we were searching for. But, seeing as how these past few weeks have gone, I'm not betting a lot of money on that.

At the very front of the bunker is a staircase that leads down to a single steel door. Old, distressed brick surrounds the door, framing the entire entryway. Sam and I carefully make our way down the steps, taking care to avoid the scattered icy spots, and pause in front of the door.

"When was the last time somebody was in this place?" I ask as I look the door up and down.

"Sixty-five, seventy years ago?" Sam answers skeptically. With that, Sam takes the key out of its box and places it in the lock. With little resistance, he is able to turn the key and let the heavy steel door crack open with a screech.

We are greeted by nothing except pitch darkness. Sending a quick glance to my brother, we both pull small flashlights out of our jackets. Without a second thought, our feet carry us forward and we enter what has become our best lead in weeks. And whatever I was expecting, what we find isn't it.

"Son of a bitch," I say breathlessly. I'm astonished.

The beams of our flashlights spread out several feet in front of us. From the dust floating through the air, I could tell we were standing on some sort of balcony, one that was several feet in the air.

"Look at this," Sam says in awe. His flashlight brings into view an assortment of 1950s-style communications equipment and countless other machinery that I had never seen the likes of before. "Ham radio, telegraph, switchboard... this was their nerve center."

"The man did say that they ran dispatch on their own team of hunters," I state as I remember one of the many things Larry had told us of this secret society. "It's like Bobby, but a thousand times cooler, huh?"

I shine my flashlight into the opposite corner of the dark space and find a table furnished with many simplistic objects. A chess board, the pieces spread out in a random order. An ashtray. A dirty coffee cup. "Wow. Halfway through their coffee and a game of chess- looks like whoever was manning the hub left quick," I observe meekly.

Sam huffs in agreement. "Yeah. They probably left on the alarm call that ended the Men of Letters."

"Makes sense," I agree.