It was a damp, chilly room. Lined with stark brick walls and rusty broken shelves, it had probably been a storage room at some point, but right now, it was the only place that separated them from the creature that hunted them. The door had been barricaded shut and a pile of salt now lay on the floor, poured strategically across the entrance.
Frank Hardy pressed his hand against the ripped shirt that was serving as a temporary bandage for the stab wound in his thigh. He could feel the blood soaking through the fabric, wet and slippery, coating his palm and dripping down his leg. His other arm cradled his ribs, at least one of which he was pretty sure was broken; if the pain that pierced through his chest every time he took a breath was any indication.
A lone light fixture flickered in the centre of the room, casting an eerie glow on its occupants. Frank glanced over at the tall, shaggy brown haired man, who was rummaging through a tattered duffle bag muttering something about needing more water. There was already a loaded shotgun leaning by the door and Frank had caught a glimpse of a knife hanging from the man's belt.
Groaning, Frank rested his head against the wall, closing his eyes in frustration. He was trapped in a tiny room with a man was wanted by the authorities – Sam Winchester – who was supposedly going to save the two of them from a demon. He was going to kill Joe.