Chapter Fifty-Five: The Wasteland Harvest
The blinding white void of the System shattered like glass, instantly replaced by a reality that smelled of sulfur, burning rubber, and ancient, rotting meat.
Mame hit the ground with a heavy thud, his boots sinking into damp, grey ash.
For the first three seconds, he waited for the agonizing, familiar spike of pain in his chest. He waited for his micro-fractured ribs to scream and for the lingering venom in his bloodstream to drag him down into suffocating exhaustion.
It never came.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: Temporary Restoration Draught Administered.] [STATUS: All physical trauma suppressed. Host returned to Peak Baseline functionality for the duration of the Dimensional Transfer.]
Mame let out a slow, deep breath, testing his lungs. The air was thick and foul, but it filled his chest perfectly. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the smooth, fluid glide of un-torn muscle. He clenched his fists, reveling in the sudden, violent return of his grip strength. It was a temporary high—a biological band-aid applied by the System—but right now, feeling the cold, hard reality of a functional body was the greatest high he had ever experienced.
He opened his eyes and took stock of his surroundings.
He was standing in a dead, decaying forest. The pine trees here weren't like the lush, rain-soaked greens of Forks; they were withered, black, and twisted, reaching up toward a sky that was choked with a permanent, sickly grey smog.
About two miles to the west, cutting through the dead tree line, was the jagged silhouette of a ruined city. Plumes of thick, black smoke spiraled up from the concrete canyons, and even from this distance, Mame could hear the faint, chaotic echoes of gunfire and distant, unearthly shrieking.
Mame's dark eyes narrowed. An apocalypse, he thought, his tactical mind instantly categorizing the threat level. No sparkling leeches or giant wolves here. Just a dead world.
He had no idea what dimension the System had dropped him into, but he knew exactly what was required to survive it.
"System," Mame murmured, his voice a low, raspy whisper in the dead woods. "Open the box."
A small, digitized rift tore open in the air in front of him. Mame reached his hand into the shimmering void, pulling his stored tactical gear back into the physical world.
He worked with cold, mechanical efficiency. He pulled out a heavy, reinforced nylon tactical belt and strapped it securely around his waist. From the inventory, he pulled a handful of high-capacity 9mm magazines, slotting ten of them in a neat, accessible row across the front and sides of the belt.
Next came the weapons. He drew two matte-black 9mm handguns. He checked the actions, satisfied by the sharp, metallic clack of the slides, before threading heavy, cylindrical suppressors onto the threaded barrels. He slid the weapons into the drop-leg holsters strapped to his thighs. Finally, he pulled two wicked, serrated combat knives from the void, tucking them into inverted Kydex sheaths on the back of his belt for an instantaneous draw.
Armed, healed, and entirely unbothered by the terrifying decay of the world around him, Mame began his trek through the woods toward the burning city.
He moved like a ghost, his footfalls completely silent on the ash-covered forest floor. He kept to the shadows, his eyes scanning the tree lines, mapping out cover and exit routes with the paranoia of a seasoned veteran.
He was about half a mile from the city limits when he heard it.
Snap.
Mame froze. He didn't turn his head; he just shifted his peripheral vision. To his right, about thirty yards away, a figure stumbled out from behind a massive, dead oak tree.
It used to be a man, wearing the tattered, blood-stained remains of a mechanic's uniform. But whatever humanity it once possessed was entirely gone. The man's skin was covered in weeping sores, his jaw was slacked, and thick, dark saliva dripped from his chin.
But it wasn't a slow, shuffling zombie.
The moment the creature locked eyes with Mame, it let out a horrific, blood-curdling screech. The whites of its eyes were completely flooded with a dark, demonic red. It didn't shamble; it sprinted. It charged at Mame with a terrifying, rabid speed, tearing through the brush like a feral animal driven by pure, viral aggression.
Mame didn't flinch. He didn't step back. He simply planted his boots in the dirt and waited.
He watched the infected man close the distance. Twenty yards. Fifteen yards. Ten yards.
With blinding, fluid precision, Mame's hand dropped to his thigh. He drew the right handgun in a blur of black metal, leveling the suppressed barrel perfectly in line with the charging creature's skull.
Pfft.
A single, muffled gunshot coughed in the quiet woods.
The 9mm hollow-point caught the infected man perfectly between the blood-red eyes. The kinetic force of the impact snapped the creature's head violently backward, dropping it into the dirt in a lifeless, twitching heap right at Mame's boots.
Mame kept the gun raised, tracking left and right, scanning the tree line for a pack, but the woods were silent again.
A small, glowing blue text box popped up in the corner of his vision.
[CROATOAN INFECTED ELIMINATED] [FATE POINTS AWARDED: +10] Mame stared at the glowing blue text. He looked down at the bleeding corpse at his feet, processing the name. Croatoan. The demonic virus.
He looked back up, shifting his gaze toward the valley where the ruined city loomed. The air there was practically vibrating with the sounds of thousands of screaming, infected voices. The math in his head was terrifyingly simple. If one rabid, braindead infected was worth ten points, he was going to need to kill thousands of them to afford the Permanent Restoration Elixir and whatever gear he needed to kill Victoria.
A cold, dark smile finally touched Mame's lips.
The crushing weight of the Cullens, the agonizing burden of the venom, and the constant, suffocating anxiety of protecting Bella all vanished. In their place was the pure, unfiltered clarity of a target-rich environment.
He didn't have to hold back here. He didn't have to hide his nature from a police chief father, and he didn't have to play nice with golden-eyed vampires. Here, he was exactly what he was built to be.
Mame kept the suppressed pistol in his hand and stepped over the corpse, walking out of the tree line and onto the ruined highway leading straight into the heart of the infested city.
The harvest had begun.
Chapter Fifty-Five: The Arsenal and the Swarm
Mame sat on a thick, sturdy branch high up in a massive, dead oak tree about three miles outside the city limits. This was his base—a vertical sanctuary where the infected couldn't reach him while he slept. He leaned his head against the rough, blackened bark, letting out a slow, ragged breath.
He was exhausted.
Three weeks had passed in a blur of grey ash and black blood. The System's Temporary Restoration Draught was still actively suppressing the venom damage and the micro-fractures in his bones, but it didn't stop the sheer, grinding mental and physical fatigue of surviving in a warzone. His muscles ached from the constant, unbroken tension, and his dark eyes were hollow from a lack of deep sleep.
He looked down at his digitized interface floating in the misty air.
[CROATOAN INFECTED ELIMINATED: 98] [CURRENT FATE POINTS: 980] It was a solid start, but it wasn't nearly enough to afford the Permanent Restoration Elixir, let alone the dimensional energy required to get back to Forks.
In three weeks, Mame hadn't seen a single living human. Just the dead, and the infected. But the isolation had been educational. Mame had learned exactly how the Croatoans operated. They weren't the slow, brain-dead zombies from movies. The demonic virus essentially hijacked the human nervous system, pushing it past its natural breaking point. They ran with terrifying, erratic speed. They hit with the desperate, frantic strength of a drowning man. Most dangerously, they operated on a crude hive-mind frequency; if Mame made too much noise or lingered too long after a kill, they would swarm his position in seconds.
But Mame hadn't just been hiding. He had been looting.
He opened his System interface, pulling up his storage grid. Over the past three weeks, he had systematically raided three abandoned gun stores and a police precinct on the outskirts of the city. He had spent hours consolidating and organizing his loot into massive, digitized containers to maximize his efficiency.
He mentally clicked through his newly organized inventory:
[1 BIG BOX: WEAPONS]
[1 BIG BOX: AMMUNITION]
[1 BIG BOX: DRY FOOD & JERKY]
[1 BIG BOX: PURIFIED WATER]
Mame reached his hand into the shimmering blue rift of the System and pulled out his newly upgraded loadout. He wasn't playing stealth anymore. If they were going to swarm, he was going to meet them with a wall of lead.
He strapped on a heavy, reinforced set of full-body tactical armor he had scavenged from a SWAT locker, designed to protect his neck, chest, and arms from feral bites and scratches. Over that went a custom-rigged tactical vest engineered for maximum carrying capacity.
He drew his primary weapons: two matte-black Glock 17s. But they weren't standard anymore. Mame had fitted them with massive, dual-drum C-Mags, giving him 101 rounds of Federal HST 147-grain Jacketed Hollow Points in each hand. For his heavy artillery, he pulled out a customized AR-15, also fitted with a 100-round Beta C-Mag loaded with 5.56mm 77-grain OTM rounds—heavy, devastating bullets designed to shatter bone and drop charging targets instantly.
He slotted two spare 100-round drums for the pistols and two spare drums for the AR-15 onto his tactical vest. The sheer weight of the ammunition would have broken a normal man's back, but with the temporary peak-human baseline the System was maintaining, Mame carried it like an armored tank. Finally, he secured two razor-sharp, serrated tactical knives into the sheaths strapped to his belt.
He was a walking armory.
Mame took a bite of dry beef jerky, chewing methodically as he looked down through the dead branches at the city limits below.
Something was wrong.
Over the past week, the behavior of the infected had changed. They weren't just wandering aimlessly anymore. Mame watched through the scopes of his AR-15 as dozens—then hundreds—of Croatoans began pooling into the valley, sweeping through the woods in organized grids. They were looking for something.
They were looking for him.
Mame's tactical mind immediately pieced it together. If the Croatoan virus was demonic in origin, then there was a hierarchy. Lucifer, or whatever high-level demons were running this apocalyptic wasteland, had noticed that a hundred of their infected foot-soldiers had simply vanished into the woods without a trace. They were sending a swarm to flush out the ghost that was killing them.
Mame swallowed the dry food and took a sip of water from a plastic bottle before tossing the empty container into the System.
He had to move. The tree was compromised. If the swarm found him up here, they would simply tear the oak down by the roots and bury him under a mountain of infected bodies. He was in serious trouble if he stayed, and sitting in the woods was no longer an efficient way to farm the thousands of Fate Points he still needed.
"Alright," Mame muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp as he slung the AR-15 across his back and gripped the twin Glock 17s.
He couldn't stay in the shadows anymore. If the demons wanted to see who was killing their army, Mame was going to show them. He just needed to find a choke point—a place where he could funnel the swarm and unleash the full, devastating capacity of his new arsenal.
With a silent, fluid grace, Mame dropped from the high branches of the dead oak tree. He hit the ash-covered ground with a soft thud, his heavy armor clinking faintly, and turned his back on his sanctuary. He began to march deeper into the wasteland, heading straight toward the gathering swarm, ready to turn the apocalypse into a slaughterhouse.
Mame hadn't made it a mile from the dead oak tree before the vanguard of the swarm found him.
He was moving through the rusted husk of an abandoned gas station when three infected dropped from the collapsed roof. They didn't hesitate. They shrieked—a high, rattling sound that tore through the dead silence of the wasteland—and launched themselves at him.
Mame didn't even break his stride.
His right hand blurred, drawing a Glock 17. Pfft. Pfft. Two suppressed rounds punched through the skull of the first Croatoan. He sidestepped the second, his left hand smoothly drawing a serrated tactical knife from his belt. He drove the blade up under the creature's jaw, severing the brain stem, while simultaneously raising the Glock to put a hollow-point right between the eyes of the third.
The entire exchange took less than four seconds. He wiped the black blood from his knife and sheathed it.
But the damage was done. The shrieks had acted as a beacon.
A low, collective rumble began to vibrate through the soles of Mame's boots. He looked past the gas station, down into the valley. The tree line was violently shaking. Hundreds of ragged, feral figures were pouring out of the woods, their blood-red eyes locking onto his position. It wasn't a hunting party anymore. It was an avalanche of infected flesh.
"Right," Mame muttered. "Time to go."
He turned and broke into a heavy sprint. The full-body armor and the massive, fully loaded drum magazines strapped to his vest immediately began to weigh him down. If he tried to run a marathon carrying a hundred pounds of gear, the swarm would overtake him in minutes.
Without breaking his stride, Mame opened the digitized interface of the System. He unclipped the heavy spare C-Mags from his vest and tossed them effortlessly into the shimmering blue rift of his inventory, drastically lightening his load. He kept only what was in his weapons.
What followed was a brutal, grueling, fifteen-mile fighting retreat.
Mame ran along the cracked asphalt of the highway, utilizing every ounce of the System's Temporary Restoration Draught to push his human stamina to the absolute limit. Every time the vanguard of the swarm got too close, Mame spun around, raised the AR-15, and unleashed a controlled, devastating burst of 5.56mm fire into the crowd. Bodies dropped, tripping up the infected behind them, buying Mame precious seconds to turn and run again.
He vaulted over rusted cars, slid through the mud of dried riverbeds, and shot his way through tight choke points. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed in protest, but the cold, calculating rage in his chest kept his legs moving.
City - 15 Miles. The rusted green highway sign had been his only beacon.
By the time the jagged, ruined skyline of the City rose in front of him, the sky was darkening into a bruised purple. Mame crossed the city limits, diving into the labyrinth of concrete, shattered glass, and narrow alleys. The urban decay was exactly what he needed. He used the environment to his advantage—collapsing a fire escape behind him, weaving through the dark interior of an abandoned department store, and backtracking through a subway terminal to completely break their line of sight.
After an hour of silent, tactical maneuvering through the dead city, the shrieks finally faded into the distance. He had lost them.
Mame slumped against the brick wall of a narrow alleyway, his chest heaving, his armor covered in grey ash and black blood. He checked his System.
[FATE POINTS AWARDED: +450] [CURRENT FATE POINTS: 1,430]
He let out a ragged breath. He was getting closer.
Mame pushed himself off the wall and climbed a rusted fire escape to get a vantage point. As he reached the roof of a low-level apartment building.
Mame pushed himself off the wall and climbed a rusted fire escape to get a vantage point. As he reached the roof of a low-level apartment building, he looked out over the sprawling, jagged ruins of Kansas City.
The sky was darkening into a bruised purple, and the distant, echoing shrieks of the infected rolled through the concrete canyons like thunder.
Mame lowered his rifle, his tactical mind rapidly assessing his next move. He needed to find the main survivor camp, and he needed to do it fast. If Lucifer and the demonic hierarchy were organized, their forces would be heavily concentrated around whatever human resistance was left. That was where the real targets were. That was where the Fate Points would flow by the thousands.
But there was a problem. His meta-knowledge had a blind spot. He remembered the name of the resistance base—Camp Chitaqua—but he had absolutely no idea where it was actually located in this apocalyptic wasteland.
He closed his eyes, filtering out the ambient sounds of the dead city, and combed through his memories of the Supernatural episode. Zachariah zaps Dean to the year 2014. Dean wanders around the ruins, realizes the world has ended, and then... where does he go?
Mame's eyes snapped open.
Singer Salvage Yard.
Past Dean would go looking for Bobby. He remembered Dean finding Bobby's house in ruins, finding an empty wheelchair, and discovering a photograph or a journal that pointed him straight to Camp Chitaqua.
"Sioux Falls, South Dakota," Mame muttered to himself, pulling up his digitized System interface to check his internal compass. "Here's hoping he isn't already there."
It was a massive trek—nearly three hundred miles north through entirely hostile, dead territory. For a normal survivor, it was a suicide mission. For Mame, strapped with limitless ammunition and a body held at absolute peak physical condition by the System's Restoration Draught, it was a target-rich road trip.
He climbed down from the roof, slipped back into the shadows of the alleyways, and began the march north.
The journey took him four grueling days.
Mame managed to hot-wire a rusted but functional dirt bike he found abandoned on Interstate 29, which cut down his travel time significantly. However, the roar of the two-stroke engine acted like a dinner bell in the dead quiet of the Midwest wasteland.
Every few miles, a new swarm of Croatoans would pour out of the withered tree lines or abandoned gas stations, their blood-red eyes fixed on the noise.
Whenever the horde grew too large, Mame didn't run. He simply killed the engine, dropped the kickstand, and went to work.
The highways of Missouri and Iowa became his personal farming grounds. He moved through the infected with cold, mechanical devastation. When the vanguard of a swarm charged, Mame raised his AR-15, the heavy 77-grain OTM rounds tearing through feral bodies and dropping them in mangled heaps. When they managed to close the distance, he dropped the rifle, his hands blurring as he drew the suppressed Glock 17s.
Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.
He danced around rusted minivans and shattered semi-trucks, moving with fluid, lethal precision. He didn't waste movement. Every trigger pull was a headshot. Every flash of his serrated tactical knife severed a brain stem.
By the third day, his heavy tactical armor was permanently stained with black, viscous blood and grey ash. He had to stop twice just to open his System inventory, pulling fresh 100-round C-Mags from his [1 BIG BOX: AMMUNITION] to replace the empty drums on his belt.
But the exhaustion was entirely worth it. As he fought his way through the desolate American heartland, the blue text boxes in his peripheral vision became a constant, comforting companion.
[CROATOAN INFECTED ELIMINATED: +14] [CROATOAN INFECTED ELIMINATED: +22] [CROATOAN INFECTED ELIMINATED: +45]
By the time the jagged, rusted sign for Sioux Falls finally loomed out of the dreary morning fog on the fourth day, Mame pulled the dirt bike over and checked his interface.
He had slaughtered his way through nearly three hundred and fifty infected on the highway.
[FATE POINTS AWARDED: +3,500] [CURRENT FATE POINTS: 4,930]
A dry, satisfied smirk cracked through the layer of ash on Mame's face. He was making serious progress.
He left the dirt bike hidden behind a collapsed billboard and proceeded on foot. He navigated the familiar, winding dirt roads of South Dakota, his boots crunching softly against the gravel until the towering, rusted gates of Singer Salvage Yard appeared.
The yard, usually a chaotic maze of stacked cars, was completely overgrown with dead, twisted vines. The towering stacks of vehicles had collapsed into rusted mountains. At the center of the yard, Bobby Singer's house stood like a hollowed-out skeleton. The roof was partially caved in, the windows were shattered, and the front door hung limply off a single hinge.
Mame drew his customized AR-15, resting the stock firmly against his shoulder. He moved silently through the maze of cars, his eyes scanning the yard for any signs of movement. He needed to find the map to Camp Chitaqua—and he needed to find out if the 2009 version of Dean Winchester had beaten him here.
Chapter Fifty-Six: The Rendezvous at Singer Salvage
Mame stepped cautiously through the shattered frame of what used to be the front door of Bobby Singer's house. His AR-15 was raised, sweeping the dark, dust-choked corners of the living room with practiced, lethal precision.
The interior was a graveyard of broken wood, scattered books, and torn upholstery. In the center of the wreckage sat a single, heartbreaking testament to the fall of the human resistance: an overturned, rusted wheelchair.
Mame lowered his rifle slightly, his dark eyes scanning the thick layer of grey dust coating the floorboards. There were no footprints. No fresh tire tracks outside. No signs of forced entry other than the decades of natural decay.
He let out a slow breath. He had beaten Dean here.
"Perfect," Mame muttered.
He had no idea where Camp Chitaqua was hidden, but he knew for an absolute fact that 2009 Dean Winchester—having just been zapped into this apocalyptic future by the angel Zachariah—would come looking for his surrogate father. All Mame had to do was wait.
Mame decided to make the ruined house his temporary forward operating base. He spent the next hour clearing out the first floor, dragging debris away to create clear lines of sight to the yard's perimeter. He found a relatively stable section of the collapsed second-floor roof that offered a perfect, 360-degree vantage point over the maze of rusted cars.
For the next three days, Singer Salvage Yard became a quiet, isolated fortress.
Mame used the downtime to recover. The System's Temporary Restoration Draught kept the pain of his crippled biology at bay, but his mind desperately needed the rest. He spent hours sitting on the roof, eating dry jerky and drinking purified water from his [1 BIG BOX: FOOD & WATER] inventory, watching the horizon.
Whenever a stray Croatoan infected wandered too close to the perimeter gates, drawn by the scent of a living human, Mame didn't even bother climbing down. He simply rested his suppressed AR-15 on the edge of the roof, lined up the crosshairs, and pulled the trigger.
Pfft.
Another body dropped into the dirt. Another handful of Fate Points added to the total.
[CURRENT FATE POINTS: 5,120]
It was a slow, methodical grind, but Mame was patient. He used the quiet hours to meticulously clean his weapons, check his massive drum magazines, and organize his digital inventory, ensuring his twin Desert Eagles and customized Glocks were flawlessly prepared for the inevitable march on Lucifer's compound.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, the silence was finally broken.
Mame was sitting cross-legged on the roof, a combat knife in one hand and a sharpening stone in the other, when he heard the distinct, mechanical grind of a combustion engine.
He stopped moving. He slipped the knife back into its Kydex sheath and grabbed his AR-15, army-crawling to the edge of the roof to peer over the rusted gutters.
A beat-up, scavenged grey sedan was slowly crunching its way up the long dirt driveway leading into the salvage yard. It carefully navigated the labyrinth of overgrown, stacked cars before finally coming to a stop near the front porch of the ruined house.
The driver's side door creaked open.
A man stepped out into the ash-choked air. He was wearing a familiar canvas jacket layered over a plaid shirt. His face was entirely free of the thick, gritty beard that the future version of himself wore, but his green eyes were wide, taking in the absolute devastation of Bobby Singer's sanctuary with a look of profound, gut-wrenching horror.
It was Past Dean. The 2009 version.
Dean slowly closed the car door, his hand instinctively resting on the grip of the gun tucked into his waistband. He took a hesitant step toward the house, his eyes locking onto the overturned wheelchair visible through the shattered doorway.
Dean slowly closed the car door, his hand instinctively resting on the grip of the his gun tucked into his waistband. He took a hesitant step toward the house, his eyes locking onto the overturned wheelchair visible through the shattered doorway.
"Bobby...?" Dean whispered into the dead air, his voice cracking with a mixture of hope and dread.
Above him, Mame slung the AR-15 securely across his back. He didn't want to spook the hunter into a firefight, but he also didn't want to sneak up on a man trained to shoot monsters on sight.
Mame stepped over the ledge of the roof, his heavy tactical boots hitting the rotting wooden planks of the porch awning with a deliberate, audible thud.
Dean spun around instantly, his survival instincts taking over. Dean drawn and aimed his gun at the roof in a blur of motion, the hammer clicking back sharply.
"Whoa. Take it easy, Winchester," Mame called out, his voice a smooth, gravelly calm.
Mame slowly climbed down the collapsed section of the porch trellis, his hands resting casually on the straps of his heavy tactical vest to show he wasn't reaching for the twin Glocks holstered on his thighs. He dropped the last few feet to the ground, landing lightly in the ash just a few yards away from the barrel of Dean's gun.
Dean kept the weapon raised, his eyes narrowing as he took in the impossible sight in front of him. In a world where people wore literal rags and fought with scavenged pipes, the teenager standing in front of him was wearing pristine, high-tier SWAT armor, twin drop-leg holsters with massive drum magazines, and a custom assault rifle slung across his back.
"Who the hell are you?" Dean demanded, his voice tight. "And how do you know my name?"
Mame offered a dry, unbothered smirk. He looked past Dean, gesturing to the ruined house.
Here is the rewritten section, incorporating Mame's new dialogue about looking for the survivor camp, searching for Bobby's clues, and offering to let Dean test him:
"You aren't going to find Bobby in there, Dean. Or anyone else, for that matter," Mame said, completely ignoring the gun pointed at his chest. "I know there is a group of survivors out there somewhere, but I don't know exactly where they are. I came here trying to find their location. I thought maybe Bobby Singer had left some clues behind, but I've searched the wreckage and I can't find any."
Dean's jaw tightened, his finger hovering dangerously over the trigger of his 1911. A heavily armed teenager standing in Bobby's ruined yard, dropping names like he had read them out of a classified file. "I'll ask you one more time. Who are you?"
"My name is Mame," he replied, meeting Dean's hardened gaze without flinching. "And could you please lower your gun? If you want, you can do whatever tests you need to do—splash me with holy water, cut me with silver, check my eyes. Do what you have to do. But I am not a demon, I'm not infected, or anything else. I am human, just like you."
Dean stared at the boy for a long, tense moment. His survival instincts were screaming at him to pull the trigger—everything in this apocalyptic wasteland was a trap—but there was no black smoke in the boy's eyes, and no feral twitch of the Croatoan virus.
Without lowering the pistol, Dean reached into his canvas jacket with his free hand, pulled out a rusted silver flask, and unscrewed the cap with his teeth. He tossed a splash of holy water directly onto Mame's armored chest and exposed neck.
Water dripped down Mame's skin. No smoke. No sizzling flesh. No demonic screaming. Mame just stood there, entirely unbothered, wiping a drop of water off his chin.
"Satisfied?" Mame asked dryly.
Dean finally let out a slow breath, decocking the hammer of his gun and lowering the weapon, though he didn't holster it. "You know Bobby?"
"I know of him," Mame corrected smoothly. "I know he kept records. If anyone left a map to the survivor camp, it was him. But like I said, I couldn't find it."
Dean looked past Mame, his green eyes settling on the ruined, collapsed frame of the house and the overturned wheelchair. A deep, heavy sadness passed over his face before hardening into absolute resolve. He knew Bobby Singer better than anyone in the world. He knew exactly where the paranoid old hunter hid his actual secrets.
"You didn't find anything because you don't know where to look," Dean grunted, walking past Mame and stepping up onto the creaking porch. "Keep an eye on the perimeter. Let me see what I can find."