The man walked slowly into the room, holding a small backpack and watching everything and anything that might be a danger to him. He moved around slowly, flashlight and gun in hand. The slightest noise made him flinch. He was ready for every possibility. He looked more closely at the room. When the house was in working order, the room must have been a site to see. A low hanging chandelier dangled above an ornate rug, both adornments covered in dust. In the corner was a desk, which probably contained a whole lot of nothing, but he would check it for valuables after he finished his task. He made a quick sweep of the room, searching for the end of his ordeal. He pushed aside the rug, hoping to find some sort of door or entrance beneath it. He was in luck! Right underneath the rug was a small, loose floor board. The man pulled the board quickly aside, and felt up the area underneath it. Bones, and a lot of them. A full skeleton. Perfect. The man quickly dropped his gun, took a gas can from his pack, and dumped its contents over the bones. He didn't have any salt, so burning the bones would have to work for now. He could return and finish the job of the problem should ever crop up again. He finished drenching the bones, and fished around in his pocket for a minute. Triumphant, he pulled a lighter out of his pocket, and held it up to the light of his flashlight. He snapped the starter, and a small flame spent to life. He held it over the bones and gasoline, and was about to drop it in, when a cold blast killed the flame. The man looked around and saw nothing. Putting it off to a random breeze, he attempted to relight the flame. No luck. He suddenly felt a hand tap his shoulder. He turned around, and saw his target, the ghost of Arthur Grey, who had died in the house 17 years prior. The ghost flung the man back, but his power had another affect. The chandelier fell to the floor, almost crushing the man underneath it. He had barely escaped. The man looked around from the floor, desperate to find anything to rid himself of the ghost. There was nothing to be had, though, not a lick of salt or iron in the house. "Low sodium freaks" he thought, "who doesn't keep salt in their house?" He looked around for the ghost, but saw nothing. Relieved he had little time to prepare, he tried to to stand up, but was racked with horrible pain, and was forced to stop. He looked down at his legs. Blood. Everywhere. "Son of a bitch," he said quietly under his breath. There was too much blood. Way too much blood. The chandelier glass must have cut his an artery. He felt the life slowly fade from his limbs as the blood flowed out of his body. He looked around again. What could he use to save himself? What could keep him alive, even for a little longer? There was nothing. Not a single thing that could help him. He attempted to slam his hand on the ground. He had hardly made any sound at all. He had already lost too much blood. He was losing strength. The blood had begun to pool around him now, little pieces of glass floated around him like islands in a lake. He started to feel himself lose consciousness. He tried to reach out, tried to do something, something to reach his brother, who was God knows where. His last thought was of his brother Sammy, somewhere else in this hell hole of a house. His last action in life was to reach for Sammy, and then he died. And he fell. He fell, and he fell, and he would never stop falling. Minutes later, another man walked into the room, and fell to the ground in despair. His brother, his pseudo mother, and his friend, was dead. There would be no more chances this time, no more deals to make, no salvation. Dean was dead, and he would suffer in hell, just as his father did before him. His soul belonged to the devil, and with the devil it would stay.