The Records of Dean Winchester and Elena Gilbert

Disintegrate

Disintegrate |disˈintəˌgrāt|

verb

To begin to break up into small parts at a subatomic level, typically as the result of impact or decay.

Of a society, family, or other social group: To weaken.

[Editor's Note]: Most of this section is in fact not as dreary as I have let on. I have chosen to center this addition to the file around hunting, and it is because of this that the majority of it is quite uplifting. Dean and Elena enjoyed hunting together—as I have previously eluded to, they even made a game out of it. However, it is this game that resulted in the drastic shift in Dean's feelings towards Elena. And, of course, the Men of Letters... No, I will let you read that without any commentary on my part.

October 4th, 2016

[Editor's Note]: Just an aside, this first hunt was previously mentioned in the section titled "Fundamental," in case you have forgotten.

"So what's the score now?" Dean clicks his gun into place, glancing over at Elena. They're standing by the trunk of the Impala, going over their weapons one last time before they go into the building on their right. It looms up on their side, its boarded up windows hardly hiding the darkness inside. The abandoned house was home to a small family of vampires, but not for much longer. "Am I winning or are you?"

"You know very well who's winning," Elena grumbles, quickly sliding a machete out of its sheath. They'd been playing this game for a couple months now, keeping score of whenever one of them saved the other. It made hunts fun, in a way, and it helped distract Elena from the fact that she was killing things.

"Oh, right. Me," Dean says proudly. Elena sticks her tongue out at him, causing him to bark a laugh. "Clearly you're being a great sport about this. Smile, Lena! Maybe this will be your turn to save me."

"Or kill you," she snaps, pushing past him and marching up the steps of the dark building. Dean jogs to catch up with her, his machete swinging in his hand. They shove their way into the building, blinking into the darkness.

When Elena's eyes adjust to the lack of light, she gasps. They stand in a narrow hallway, closed doors lining the stained walls. A stairway at the end of the hall leads up into deeper darkness. The floor is covered with an old rug, the edges frayed and its original deep shade of red faded to a dull brown. Spots of harsh white leap up from the rug, and in Elena's first inspection they appear to be small pieces of plaster. That would explain the thickness of the air and the dust filling her lungs with every breath. But when Dean takes a step forward, a white chunk cracks under his foot. He looks down, kicking at it thoughtlessly. It scatters down the hall, bouncing against others of its kind and the wall. With a chill, Elena realizes what they are: bones.

"Come on," Dean whispers, putting his arm out to usher her forward. Keeping the machete close to her chest, Elena shuffles forward behind Dean.

Slowly, they make their way down the corridor. Elena is careful not to step on any of the bones, guilt worming uncomfortably in her stomach. When they reach the stairs, Dean lifts a finger to his lips to assure her silence. She nods and they climb the steps together.

The stairway turns in the air, turning them to face an identical corridor to the one below. The air is thicker up here, sticking in Elena's throat as she tries to keep her breathing even. She wasn't good at this yet; hunting was still foreign to her. Dean kept telling her it got easier with practice, but every creaky floorboard and flurry of dust sent shoots of fear through her bones.