The basement smelled, Dean thought, nose wrinkling as he slowed down, moving cautiously. He knew those smells. Intimately, they'd followed him into a thousand nightmares, conjuring images he really could've lived without.
Blood. Fresh and dried up to powder. Old meat, not turning, not yet, but soon. Burned metal, whetted too fast. The thick, syrupy smell of organs, left to rot.
Killing room.
Along the walls, the leather sacks hung, dripping. On the table, metal winked as the flashlight slid over it.
Fuck, how many victims?
Reaching out, he touched one. His heart jumped into his throat as it moved.