Fallen [Dean Winchester FanFiction]

XIII

Thirteen

Several hours later...

It was now sundown. After gathering the needed information about the opera theater and Miriam Lowe's past, the trio of hunters gathered at the motel in preparation for the drive over to the opera theater. They assembled their weapons and other miscellaneous objects before heading into the abandoned building through the old service entrance. Once inside, they wandered around with their flashlights in hands until the oldest of the brothers stopped to give out directions.

"Alright, we're gonna have to split up. Sam, take the first floor."

"Got it."

Dean now turned to face Alaine. "And you're with me. We're gonna go down into the basement—"

A quick frown of disapproval contorted her features. "There's four floors," she stated. "I'll take care of the second, and Sam can join me on the third."

"Sam can handle that. I want you at my side."

"What for? To babysit me?"

The elder Winchester fixed her with a look that meant he was hardly in the mood to debate this with her. However, she cared little if her defiance upset him.

"I don't need you watching over me. I can take care of myself."

"I'm not about to argue with you. Let's go."

Alaine cast an exasperated glance in Sam's direction, her eyes silently asking him to back her up. The man simply gave a shrug of his shoulders before they resumed their progress through the theater's lobby and headed their respective ways. Begrudgingly, Alaine trailed behind Dean as they descended an old, moldy stairwell leading down into the basement.

Upon entering the area, a sudden chill trickled down both their spines. Dean held his shotgun at his side and ventured further into the room. The glow from his flashlight pointed into every corner, revealing soot-covered walls and charred furniture. He skimmed the bright light across the floor as they turned down a narrow corridor. There were rooms on either side of them, the doors either still in tact, hanging off the hinges or missing altogether. Dean ran his light through each and every room, prompting Alaine's own flashlight to shine alongside his.

"I think these were the dressing rooms," she said from a short distance behind him.

"Yeah, probably."

Further down the hall, he'd stopped at one particular door. Unlike the others, he noticed a gold plaque nailed to the wooden surface that was covered in dust. He brushed the dirt away to reveal the fading remnants of a name.

"Miriam Lowe. This must've been her room."

With a single push, the door eased open. Carefully, they sauntered in. Dean lead the way. He kept the beam of his flashlight far out ahead of him as he swept the expanse of the room with his gaze.