So far, walking is really not working out for him. He's aching, still, even if the sensation akin of having live embers in his bloodstream has apparently faded, and the disorientation of not having any clear idea how he went from an abandoned church to this weird, anachronistically inconsistent hotel is just - it's just really not helping. He stops every few paces, bracing a hand against the wallpapered walls until the pulsing headache dulls significantly enough for him to feel up to moving forward another few agonizing steps.

Just another glamorous day in the life of Sam Winchester. He's got a room key, and unless he's reading it severely wrong, it has a little 112 emblazoned on it.

Which is just - really creepy. And weird. And wrong?

Maybe he'll figure it out when his brain doesn't feel like it's being fucking autoclaved.