damned_institute | Nightshift 30: M81-90 Hallway

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Nightshift 30: M81-90 Hallway

The radio crackled to life, and a strange voice emerged. Archer had been wondering what purpose the radio served. He doubted it was psychological warfare via Enya, but hey, he wouldn't put it past the Institute. Deciding to pocket it, he opened up his closet and geared up. That essentially meant putting on a large gray sweater and overlarge coat. Gray definitely wasn't his color.

Archer was about to leave when he remembered his pillow. It had felt awfully hard. Searching it revealed a durable, black flashlight. He'd probably need this too.

Pausing for a final glance around the room, Archer decided he was ready to leave. He exited his room, ready to see what horrors Landel's had to offer.

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God. He'd had enough of this crap of letting the wall guide him into a straight line; noticing weird things with his heavy eyes, his heart beginning to race, and then realising the apparent villains were a part of his flashlight's delightful shadow show; thinking he was about to lose footing altogether and leaning laterally on walls for seconds at a time.

When he finally arrived at every night's meeting point, his patience wore much thinner than usual.

"Sam?" He called in a plain-tired voice, giving the door two quiet knocks. "C'mon, haven't got all day." Resting a raised arm on the doorframe and rubbing his temple, he waited, mentally shooing away the headache to no more success than the previous attempts.

The door opened at the second knock, a touch swifter than caution should have permitted. The faint expression of relief Sam wore upon seeing Dean flickered and faded, and the younger hunter's eyes narrowed slightly. "You look like hell," he remarked, question and concern both buried not at all far below the surface. His hand continued to rest on the open door, holding it in place rather than stepping out immediately. Sealing off a swift avenue of retreat seemed at the moment even more foolhardy than usual.

Dean regarded his brother's statement with an air of cynicism, lazily bouncing off one foot to brush past him. The man parked himself on one of the beds, hunched over with a hand shielding his face. He remained seated for a bit, allowing the rush of blood coursing through his pounding head to settle, somewhat, and when he straightened to open his eyes again, he could actually look at the beam of his flashlight and not squint.

Standing slowly, almost cautiously, he blew a low whistle and chuckled once completely sure he'd made it to his feet without wincing.

"So kids, what've we learned today? Oh! That free speech is not a hot commodity? Aaay!" Dean forced a taut smile to indicate he was clearly pissed, sticking both thumbs up, then completing the act to perfection with a scowl while both hands traveled to his hips. "Think I'd killed someone the way she stabbed me with that thing. Assisting care my ass. Look at it, man!" He urged Sam closer to examine the large purple bruise on his upper arm.

"What, that? That's nothing," Sam replied, using the blithe remark as a mask, faulty though it was. The scrutiny he gave the bruise betrayed him readily, his concern only deepening - not over the mark itself, of course; in that his statement had been true enough. "You sure you're up for tonight?" He'd little clue how long the sedatives the nurses administered were meant to last, but any lingering effects could hardly be anything but detrimental, and they were already at a disadvantage.

It was a moment before his mind caught up to the implications. "So you were in on the riot." If asked, Sam would have to admit that he wasn't surprised - was perhaps even a touch relieved, though he was loathe to examine too closely the reasoning behind that particular lapse in logic at the moment.

"Tone it down, would you?" Dean quipped in return, hurrying to cover his battle scar with one hand as he feigned a look of blatant worry. "'Sjust a bruise, Sam."

He hastily veered for the bed again, that general feeling of wanting to puke encouraging him to take one of two options; either sit and quit fighting it, or say 'hello' to the nearest toilet bowl.

"Well, that's what I'm here to talk about," he answered, assuming a far more genuine expression of peace, eyes slightly narrowed against the light notwithstanding. Hunching forward with both elbows relaxed on his thighs, he fixed his focus on the other man. "You know as well as I do the strategy front's not a happenin' place. We should sit this one out. Prepare ourselves. Things're only gonna get worse, 'n it might help if we had a better plan than to improvise our way through Hell." He paused, scratching at his jaw while deliberating what angle to start this on. "... You said you had an idea. Let's have it."

He wasn't about to let slip a single sign shouting his wish to avoid another heart-to-heart, but maybe despite the effort there lay his fault. He appeared a little too calm, a little too slack. A little too willing to forget everything and move on like the show was over.

"You think I earned this stealin' cookies?" He muttered in response, gesturing at himself with a small shake of the head.

"No, but you don't exactly need a riot to cold-cock someone," Sam retorted, just a hint of amusement surfacing. "Or one of the nurses could've got tired of you trying to pick her up."

The levity did not, however, last. Sam nodded once, turning to glance at the door, as though he might find a way to see through it into the halls beyond. "We've been flying blind. We need to stop that, start looking to gather real information. Doctors' records might be a start. Whatever computer banks they have here'd be even better - that might give us numbers, floor plans..." He trailed off, shrugging slightly. "Might be a bit of a long shot, but it's better than just wandering around hoping we stumble over a way out."

And, he hoped fervently, it might offer some insight into just how and why those running the institute were toying with the minds of their patients.

"No way I'd chase that skirt," came a rejoinder of equal whim. "Don't know where it's been!"

Dean granted his brother a few nods as he listened. He was right there, it was a bit of a long shot, but they also couldn't keep this up, this ham-handed approach of loitering aimlessly like a couple of lost kids in the supermarket. The continuity of this brilliant plan was, in part, the elder's fault for a lack of due cooperation. So much had transpired since Sam's arrival, though. ... Nevertheless, he'd known Elena for a week when poof! Into thin air! To think he could've done something to stop it wasn't a piece of knowledge he could readily appreciate. People were dying, and Dean was sick and tired of acting the toothless spectator.

He slapped a hand on his knee before straightening with momentum.

"If we're gonna go that road, we should stock up our defense," he said with a fervent sparkle in his eyes. "Somethin' – no - anything you could belt someone with. Then we might make it to places under guard. Even got us a pharmacy started," the man cooed, flashing a lopsided grin and leaning back as if basking in his own grandeur.

Sam's eyebrows rose slightly at Dean's statement - while he would not in the normal run of things be surprised at such an achievement, they were rather without any of the resources they could usually draw on. "How'd you pull that off? I can't imagine the locks on their medical supply lockers could be picked with a paperclip..."

He did not, he insisted internally, feel rather irritated that paperclips were likely the best they could easily get their hands on, as far as equipment for breaking and entering went.

The topic of weapons gave him a moment's pause as well, and his expression turned thoughtful. "Guess we're going to have to raid a supply closet. Or figure out where the staff keeps any gear for their own security."

"Gimme some credit! Took a bit o' smooth talkin', but my, uh, doctor ate it all. 'Mr. Patterson,'" he struck up a woeful, formal tone, eyebrows furrowing as he gave his own personal impression of Dr. What's-His-Name. "'We're sorry to hear you have six months to live. May... we... offer you an aspirin?'" Dean laughed softly, face settling into a pleased expression. ... That the sucker'd been high at the time he was swindled was one detail the hunter knew best to keep to himself. "Two pills, one dose. Course, we're gonna need more than just a couple headache tablets."

He frowned in thought. Couldn't recall a storage room on the first floor.

"Could risk usin' those maps on the notice board," he suggested with a shrug. He didn't think it wise to rely on a team of patients who thought it perfectly safe to organise 'group assignments' in a place everyone and their mother could see... but he hadn't had the chance to properly assess the second floor, and it'd be kind of stupid to reject a source when it was there in front of them.

"Oh, almost forgot..." The older man canted his head sideways, idly running two fingers down the cloth-band necklace until the top of the amulet was pinched between them. He lifted it from his shirt for Sam to study. "Check it out," he said, a glint of renewed interest in his features as he glanced at it himself.

He still didn't get it... how'd his stuff - yeah, his stuff, not that hideous prison garb - find his closet? Whether the clothes were a gift or something else to confuse them, he couldn't tell. Though it wasn't like he was complaining.

In spite of himself, Sam found he couldn't quite cover a snort of laughter. The corners of his lips twitched upwards slightly, not quite a smile, but close. "And here I was thinking evil mutant freaks running a mental hospital for the damned wouldn't have heartstrings to tug," he replied. "Guess one of us could always get sent to the infirmary. There might be something we can get our hands on there."

The levity didn't last long, however, almost-smile transforming itself into a grimace that showed clear enough just how well he liked the idea of trusting information from a group that made itself so public. "That might work, if we can't find any more reliable information..."

There was no masking his surprise at the next revelation, enough to derail any further thoughts of intelligence gathering for the moment. Sam's brows rose further as he leaned to study the amulet. Odd, how the familiar seemed suddenly alien. "You found where they were keeping some of your things?" It was the only explanation that sprang readily to mind.

"No one's goin' to the infirmary. Are we clear?" He countered in a stern tenor, inspecting his brother with a sharp eye. "... Besides," he added in a voice of forced calm. "You really think these guys're stupid enough to leave a hole like that we can fall through? They'd have us on God-knows-what the entire time; have us restrained for all we know. Tight security, even for us."

Dean dropped the amulet, letting it hang around his neck in plain view.

"No, just scanned my closet last night and..." His eyebrows shot up, shoulders rising and slumping in a weary half-shrug. Bit by bit, he edged towards the wall, releasing an irritated sigh when he finally managed it, both legs sprawled in front of him and arms resting at his sides. "Checked yours lately?"

"Might depend on why we were there," Sam replied, though it was at best a token argument. His brother's logic was sound, and he knew it. Enough to be a touch embarassed - hare-brained schemes were not typically a large part of his repertoire. "Or if there was a distraction. Do you know what kind of security they have in there? It might be good to find out from someone, even if we never need to use the information."

He glanced towards his own closet, frowning slightly in thought. "Wasn't anything new in there this morning." His gaze slid back to Dean's amulet, wary now that the surprise had abated just enough for thought. Such 'gifts' from a mysterious benefactor sat uneasily with him. "Another mindgame?" he wondered.

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Nightshift 30: M81-90 Hallway

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