The theater was dark, massive velvet curtains blanketing the barely-visible stage. The large candle-basins at the edge of the stage lay dormant and unused, the ceiling dripping water from decades of neglect. The walls were stained with water, odd splotches of various different sizes and shapes that masked the once-vibrantly decorated wallpaper.
And it was quiet, the largest oddity of them all. The absence of sound itself was the theater's most obvious blight, the empty seats and dressing rooms a statement of disparity and woe.
There was no one there.
No prima donnas to irk the managers, no clumsy dancers being whipped into shape by impatient choreographers, and no patrons chittering eagerly in their seats as they awaited the performance before them.
A wizened old man, his face drooping with age and sorrow, entered the dilapidated theater. He looked about gravely, his face not showing a shred of emotion. He was as silent as the room he sat in, the quiet not disturbed by his presence. His wife, a tall and stately woman, entered beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder and startling him out of his memories.
His memories… a place where the stage was powerfully illuminated by the firelight, where there were always people bustling about in search of this or that, where the curtains practically shone their bright scarlet red across the room.
Sam Winchester remembered the fateful night years ago, when the stage was lit and the sounds of a bustling theater resonated in his young ears, and an angel fell for a demon.