Night 41: M01-10 Hallway

[mitase.livejournal.com]

[in M7]

Hanatarou had managed to choke down about half of his dinner before finally giving up and pushing the tray away. With a glance back at Sora to make sure his roommate wasn't looking, he'd opened the closet door to get his uniform and started to change; he thought that if he was going to act like a healer he could at least look like one. Right?

He was just settling his pack in place when the intercom went off, and he gave a startled glance back toward the speaker. The announcement was creepy and disturbing as usual, but considering that he was already a bundle of nerves as it was...well, there wasn't really a visible impact on him. There were supposed to be two people - two strangers - coming by to be healed, and he hoped that he'd be able to help them.

The healer paused for a moment, staring blankly at the imitation Hisagomaru in the corner of the closet before finally deciding to leave it there for the time being. He'd have to see how he felt after trying to heal two people before deciding what he was going to do next.

Comments

[boyking]

Sam frowned, trying to figure out the best way to prop up the flashlight so that it'd actually be any good. In the end, he concluded that there was no other option except to have someone hold the light. He held out one of the flashlights for Dean to take.

"Yeah, I think." He paused, reconsidered the dim lighting. "No," he admitted, setting the other flashlight on the dresser so that it pointed in their general direction. "But it'll do."

It wasn't a well-lit room, but he wasn't working blind, either. That was probably the best they they'd get.

He'd been intending to use a beaker to store the ink in until the ghost had interrupted and he'd ended up leaving it behind. The mortar seemed excessively large so he rummaged through Dean's closet and came up with the lid on a milk jug. He eyed it for a moment.

It had potential.

Sam tore few strips of cloth from the bedsheet behind him—hopefully, Dean's roommate wouldn't mind—and dumped everything onto the table he'd pulled in close, then broke the needle off the syringe before dousing everything in alcohol.

It occurred to him, for a split second, that this was probably a really, really bad idea in the long Winchester list of bad ideas, but he chose not to contemplate this too long. Instead, he dug out the roll of pens. He cracked two, decided they didn't need more ink than that for this. It wasn't going to be particularly large or complicated. Mostly, he just wanted to trace something sufficient to keep a demon from riding his brother and hope none of this screwed up. Yeah, it was technically just a tattoo, but in his experience, there was always way too much that could go wrong with anything they did even when they knew what they were doing.

Sam honestly had no idea what the hell he was doing. But he figured maybe he shouldn't tell Dean that. He knew what to do in theory, so...those were some points in their favour.

He uncapped one of the remaining pens and sketched a rough design onto Dean's chest. Nothing fancy, just the pentacle inside a triangle. Basic devil's trap. Easier and different from the one he had which was a bonus. He wouldn't have a problem with matching outside of here, but when they were trying to avoid letting too many people know they were anything more than friends—carrying identical tattoos wasn't the way to do that.

With no sink nearby to wash his hands—the bathrooms weren't far, but they were far enough to make the trip a bit of a risk, what with a spirit having followed them around and all—Sam simply used the alcohol.

He picked up the needle and let out a breath. "Okay. Ready?"

He didn't wait for an answer, just made the first puncture and didn't pause. Sooner they got this over with, the better. It'd be extremely bad if they all mysteriously blacked out again before he was done.

[kindalikedit]

Dean took the flashlight, switching his grip on it so it pointed at his chest, over his heart.

Ready? Didn't matter if he was ready or not. Dean forced himself to relax, knowing the worst thing he could do was instinctively tense up and screw up his brother's work. The first prick was about as much fun as getting a big old shot, the ink-tipped needle sinking into his skin. Glancing down, he could see some blood welling up around the metal. Dean forced himself to look at it, remind himself that this was not even touching the tip of the iceberg on worst injuries he'd wracked up - accidental or on purpose - and kept an eye on Sam's hand, holding the flashlight pointed at himself as steadily as he could. Dean didn't think Sam was Van Gogh or anything but drawing a devil's trap didn't require you to be an art student or nothing.

Considering the family business, it surprised him they hadn't thought to do this sooner. What with Dad - well, Dad was Dad and paranoid? Didn't even cover it. He'd taught them everything possible to make sure they survived out there with all the monsters, all that evil...but it looked like he couldn't predict everything. Demons hadn't been as big a problem then as they were now - hell, they'd only had the Demon, with a capital D, and they hadn't even known what it was exactly only a few years ago. Dad, before then, had been the boss, the guy he looked up to and wished all the time Sammy would do the same. Now he had all these doubts, now he kept finding out every day, it seemed, just how much of a man Dad really had been, who could make mistakes and couldn't always roll with the punches. Dad hadn't ever had all the answers, despite what he wanted to believe.

It was just Sammy and him now. Probably too late to say he wasn't gonna go like Dad though. Dean was unusually quiet as he sat there, though part of it was he didn't want to talk and jostle Sam's hand.

Dean hated keeping secrets from Sam - he'd done it all his life, right from the start with hedging around the "where's Mom"s, up to Cold Oak, all to protect Sam. It was a load of crap. Dean knew it now. Sam was a big boy, and Dean wasn't gonna be there forever to keep all the ugly stuff as far from him as he could, so why was he trying to even bother? He couldn't just pull a Dad, up and roll over dead on his kid brother outta the blue like Dad had. Dean still loved the man, but that right there? A dick move. "Asshole" didn't even begin to cover it. Dean chewed his bottom lip as he glanced down at the slow, steady progress Sam was making with the ink and the needle. There was now a line of puncture wounds over his heart.

First thing's first. Make sure he couldn't pose a threat again and couldn't be possessed. Then maybe he'd be able to figure out how he was gonna tell the truth to his brother.

[boyking]

Honestly, this wasn't anywhere near as bad as stitching up a wound, but Sam had done that far too many times which somehow made it easier than tracing in a tattoo. But at least he did know how to keep his hands steady.

He managed to settle into it after a minute, though, dotting over the outline and wiping away the ink and few specks of blood as he went along, doing his best to avoid letting his fingers touch anything. He took his eyes off his work to glance up at Dean every so often, but he didn't say anything. Dean didn't seem to be in a chatty mood tonight and Sam opted not to bother him when there was no need to. It wasn't like he was feeling particularly talkative himself, afraid he'd just come off sounding forced. Or say the wrong thing and tip Dean off.

Still, he kind of wished Dean would say something, make it seem more...normal. He had to admit, their brief trip upstairs had felt a little like the way it had been before. Everything. But now he was here, scratching ink into Dean's chest because Dean thought he'd been possessed and Sam didn't know how to tell him otherwise.

And he knew he told himself that it didn't matter, Dean would need the protection regardless, but a part of him knew, too, that it shouldn't have come about this way and he had a feeling that their immediate problem might not be demons anymore. Maybe they were still the core of their problems, but the psychics here...Then again, telling Dean about them wouldn't do any good unless he got Dean to avoid making contact with anyone at all, period. There was no defense against that, not unless you were given a dose of demon blood from the start. Which Dean was still in the dark about.

Though he was probably the only one who was, Sam realized now. Because their dad had known enough, that much was obvious, and Sam couldn't imagine that after twenty years of obsessively tracking the yellow-eyed demon, Dad wouldn't have picked up on what Azazel had been doing to all those children. No, he'd known. And as much as Sam didn't want any of this getting to Dean, he couldn't deny that he kind of hated his dad for having made a policy of telling his sons absolutely nothing for another reason other than how much he'd always hated being kept in the dark like they were useless. Because if Dad had only said something, if he'd come out with the truth to the both of them from the start, then maybe Sam wouldn't have been shafted with the job of trying to figure out how to let Dean know he was a certified freak, complete with demon blood, without Dean looking at him like he—

Sam pulled his attention back to what he was doing and tried to keep his focus there. He decided that for once he probably wouldn't have minded if Dean had wanted to blast his damn Metallica tapes, might've welcomed it, even. Intolerable noises always made for a good distraction.

He didn't pause, but he did ask an almost offhand, "You good?" as he kept on going, just starting to move onto the pentacle of the design.

[kindalikedit]

A muscle in Dean's cheek twitched when Sam dug a little too deep on accident. Dean didn't say anything.

In the dark like this, he didn't know how long it took for Sam to get the first pass of the tattoo done. It wasn't art, but he could tell what it was supposed to be. Their limited resources and time had driven his brother to use a different devil's trap design on him, which would at least save him a lot of ink. Still, despite the fact Dean could tell what his brother had drawn on him with the needle - he wasn't sure drawn was the word when it'd been more like countless number of shots in a damn row - he knew Sam wasn't done yet. Had to be at least a couple more passes, 'cause right now the lines were still broken and even one break would render the whole thing a moot point and a waste of everyone's time. He didn't want to go through the trouble of getting the supplies for this, the tattoo, and then get possessed all over again 'cause he rushed Sam.

Dean glanced from Sam's hand to his brother's face. His little brother was still cast half-in shadow as he worked, looking again older than he was. Dean wondered what it'd been like to really die like that, if he remembered anything at all. He didn't think he had - he didn't even remember Dean holding him, bleeding in the mud that night in Cold Oak - but it didn't stop him from wondering anyway. Sammy didn't deserve this life, Dean thought. He'd been trained for it, could handle himself and even kick some ass despite the fancy education, but that didn't mean he deserved to have to live like this. Dean was torn. He'd assumed he'd eventually have to tell his brother the truth, prepare him for when he...well, when he wasn't around anymore, but there was also that niggling voice in the back of his head that wanted Sam to just drop the hunts, the constantly almost getting killed (or actually getting killed) parts, and live a normal life.

Hadn't he done enough?

Why couldn't he live a normal life when everyone else got ot?

Dean knew he'd been thinking it, when he'd been trapped in that djinn's magic acid trip. Did Sam? Did he ever just get tired of all this? Sam spoke up then, Dean glancing back down to the progress he was making and glad for the dim lighting. He put on a casual expression, would've shrugged if it wouldn't have screwed up Sam's work.

"Yeah, I'm cool," Dean said. "Just hope I don't get an infection on top of this."

Sam had done the best to sterilize the tools with what they had, so if he did get infected, he wasn't gonna blame him. Dean just didn't want to have to try to deal with all these hunts while fighting off infection, if he could help it. More blood had welled up as Sam went over the design, patting away the blood with a strip ripped from Angel's sheets, the white turning splotchy even in the crap lighting. At least he wasn't bleeding out, like he'd done in some dumps and Sam had been the only person there to make sure he didn't pass out on the spot on some lumpy motel bed the maids probably hadn't even cleaned in a few days.

[boyking]

Head down, Sam missed Dean's reaction, but he didn't need to see it to know from the slight tension in his brother's body that Dean wasn't exactly finding this pleasant.

He wasn't sure if the ink was gonna start bleeding given how much of a rough job this was. So far it seemed okay and he supposed it didn't matter so long as the trap was unbroken. It was more obviously a devil's trap than the one Sam had, though, which might make Dean more identifiable as a hunter by anyone who knew what they were doing. Slight cause for concern there, but...there hadn't been a lot of designs uncomplicated enough to do on the fly like this. Besides, the only time it'd be showing was during the showers. That, and—as much as they were trying to keep it under wraps, Sam didn't think people finding out what they did was gonna be their biggest problem. In a way, he wasn't even certain how long they could play up the ignorance; eventually, they were gonna come across someone needing help and you couldn't exactly get a person to trust you knew what you were doing by pretending you were a civilian, too.

And of course, there was the issue of how much Lelouch knew. Dean remembered nothing from last night, so he couldn't ask Dean how much he'd said and he hadn't been willing to delve into that with either Lelouch or Suzaku. You gave away certain things when asking questions; Sam didn't want to let them onto exactly what his priorities were. They already knew a hell of a lot as it was. It made it another reason for him to think that maybe he should just—

Still.

He shifted in his seat, leaning forward a little to get a better look at what he was doing. The light was really crappy. He was finished tracing the entire design by now and the dotting was close enough to look fairly solid, but he knew the smallest break could render the whole thing useless.

"Yeah, I hear you," he said, flicking his gaze up for a second.

Infections weren't the end of the world when you were in a hospital that seemed pretty interested in not letting you die during the day—he was fairly certain if worse came to worse, they could likely secure some antibiotics for Dean without even needing to ask—but they could get problematic. At best, they weren't something you wanted happening in general, not when you were busted up as bad as Dean was right now.

He didn't try to reassure Dean on the issue, though. They both knew what the risks were. Instead, he started scratching in short little lines that would hopefully connect any breaks in the design. His brows furrowed slightly; he was trying to be as gentle as possible, but there was really no such thing as gentle when you were cutting into someone with a needle, even if it was fairly shallow in comparison to what they were used to getting.

Anyway, he knew it didn't matter how many times you broke a bone or got stabbed; it wasn't like getting heavier injuries suddenly made you immune to pain from smaller wounds. Paper cuts could still hurt.

"Should be almost done," he said quietly.

[kindalikedit]

"Take your time," Dean grunted. "I got all night."

It didn't take all night, but it seemed to take longer than it did, thanks to Sam using a needle to sketch on him now - he wasn't just pricking him over and over, instead working his way through on another pass to make sure there weren't any breaks in the line.

After awhile, it looked like Sam was more or less done, his brother leaning closer to check out his handiwork as Dean tried to do the same, and instead just got a pretty good view of Sam's hair. His skin felt raw, like Sam had been running sandpaper under his skin, but it looked like a pretty good devil's trap to him from what he could see when his brother finally leaned back and gave him a chance to get a good look at it himself. Dean reached for a fresh scrap of sheet, patting away some of the blood and excess ink with his free hand, thankful he didn't fumble that or the flashlight despite not being able to feel much with his fingers still. "Looks good, Sammy. Thanks."

It'd take some used to waking up and seeing a tattoo there every day. Way he figured it, it was a small price to pay if it meant he was officially demon-proof. It didn't erase last night, but at least there wouldn't be any repeats. The devil's trap looked like it didn't have any breaks to him. Still, if Sam wanted to keep going and make extra sure, he'd sit his ass back down on the chair and let Sam have another go at him with that needle. Done patting away the blood and ink, Dean reached over for his shirt, suppressing a wince as the old gashes from last night protested, and began to pull it over his head, managing not to just itch at the skin over his heart no matter how tempting it felt. For a first timer at this, Dean had to say that Sam had done pretty good job, all things considered. He guessed he'd really find out within the next couple of days, counting inflammation and if infection set in, but until then, he was gonna kick back here in this room and not worry about it too much.

Dean leaned over, pulling out his journal from the desk. Dean wasn't too worried about people finding it; yeah, he probably looked like some uni-bomber just from what he'd written, but it wasn't personal...which probably said a lot about him when he could live with being seen as some psycho so long as he didn't have to get all touchy-feely. The hunter opened up to a fresh page, needing some time to figure out what to say. Obviously they were gonna need to get on the same page, make sure they had copies of the info he'd scrounged up, but Dean also wanted to try to steer things back on track. He hated these awkward silences, silences he wasn't even sure if they were all in his head or if things really had changed between them. Dean couldn't figure out why they would for the life of him. Sam didn't know about the deal, so it wasn't like he could hate him for it or anything.

looking back on this morning, Dean supposed he could be worried about him after that ugly possession from last night. He felt like shit about that, despite not remembering a thing. Sure, so maybe he had a reason for not feeling his best. Hadn't ever stopped him before from running his mouth off at Sam, if only to keep up the "it's awesome" vibe going. Maybe it was just this general feeling of exhaustion, that slight buzz in his head that said he couldn't keep going like this and not expect to get his ass kicked. Yeah, maybe that was it. Dean didn't feel up to getting all smart-ass with his brother, and Sam might've picked up on it and was waiting for him to spill his guts. That had to be the reason why it seemed like it was harder to act like nothing was wrong.

That and something was wrong, and it didn't have anything to do with last night, either. Dean could feel Cold Oak's secret, heavy and ugly just like Dad's kill-order. The difference was that order he could choose to ignore. This? Whether or not he wanted to go to Hell, he was going, and that was pretty much it. The only thing he had control of was if he'd make it through a whole year or if he'd get taken out on the job and get sent packing early.

[boyking]

Sam reached for the flashlight he'd set on the drawer when he was finished and shone it directly at Dean's chest, trying to get some more light on there to see how the tattoo had turned out. Kinda rough; it certainly wasn't a professional job by any means, but it was even enough, all things considered. Huh. So maybe it'd ended up better than he thought it would. Though they did have to wait and see in the following days. If they escaped infection, they'd be in the clear.

Nodding at Dean's thanks, he tore open one of the alcohol pads. "Sure."

He wiped over the tattoo in one last attempt to disinfect it as much as possible, nudging Dean's fingers out of the way as he did so. He thought about covering the fresh tattoo with something to keep Dean's shirt from rubbing over it and irritating it for the next couple of days, but they honestly didn't have anything except for the cloth, and there was no way to tape that down.

Never mind. It'd—probably be okay. Though that did remind him that they really needed to do some stocking up in terms of first aid supplies. They had the alcohol, which was better than nothing, but if they could get some suturing equipment and bandages, that'd be even better. Experience dictated they were gonna need it sooner or later. That, and it just—it'd made him feel better to have all that stuff on hand. A bit of assurance that if Dean ever started bleeding pretty bad, Sam could at least fix that much.

There was a moment's pause, and then he began gathering up the stuff they'd dumped on that table during the entire tattooing exercise. He knew he could've left it all there for awhile yet, but he felt like cleaning it up right now, the mess sort of bothering him a little. Especially while Dean remained quieter than usual, flipping through his journal and likely trying to trace through whatever patterns might be popping up. Sam might've teased something about him keeping a diary back then, but. Not now. He didn't know how it'd come across, like maybe Dean would find him trying too hard to bring things back to the way they were before, even if Dean didn't know there was a before in the first place.

It wasn't even that they hadn't ever silences between them. They had. Driving in the car or in that lull between hunts when they ended up lounging around a motel, it'd get quiet at times, and these days, Sam was even more used to silence—despite Ruby's tendency to chatter, she did shut up occasionally or sometimes she simply wasn't around—but this was a different kind of silence. The kind you could really feel settling over you. He had a sense he knew exactly what the problem was, too, and that didn't help.

Pushing the scraps of cloth to the side of the desk, Sam collected the bottle of ethanol and what was left of the alcohol pads, along with the needle and the other things they'd taken from upstairs. Used though it was, the needle could still be handy in other ways.

He slid open the closet with a careful hand, trying to keep a hold on the armful of supplies at the same time. "So. Pull together anything interesting?" he asked, pushing the items into the back of the closet, where it would be hidden by the clothes. He had a strong feeling the nurses didn't do a lot of thorough room checks considering Peter managed to stash a shovel in there with no problem, but might as well be careful where they could.

[kindalikedit]

Dean looked up from the journal. It'd taken a bit longer to get back into the groove again, but when he looked up this time, he had on that kind of lazy, self-satisfied smirk like he got a home-brewed tattoo all the time. Infection? What infection?

Yeah, Dean didn't believe it himself, but it didn't matter what he thought. The only thing that mattered was that Sam didn't think anything was wrong, aside from that incident with the possession, and he thought Dean was his usual self.

"Working on getting some numbers, but the chicks here are real prudes," Dean said with a shrug. He didn't push it too far, knowing that hugging Sam and jerking his leg too much got him asking uncomfortable questions. He motioned at the open pages. "Been working on getting some notes together, but it's not much. Tracking where the attacks were, stuff like that. What we need is some obits or something on these spirits."

He turned the journal toward Sam and pushed it across the desk over in his direction with one hand. There wasn't anything in there he'd want to keep to himself - he'd be damned if he started turning it into a friggen diary - though the fact he had a missing page was confusing. He remembered exactly how many pages he'd filled out and that was one too many: why would someone rip out a blank page from a journal? Couldn't be that they were that strapped for paper? Or had the nurses been snooping? Why leave the rest of the writing, which looked a lot more crazy than just blank paper? Hell, why hadn't they done any searches? It was like the broken locks, missing equipment, and blood on the floors here didn't exist, didn't happen? Dean was used to a lot of shit not making sense by conventional standards. This was starting to take the cake, though.

[boyking]

Sam huffed out a sound that was almost a laugh, exasperated only because it was expected of him. "Yeah, you don't have a phone, Dean."

It started as just an offhand response, but he realized that it actually was one of their problems. It hadn't been an issue so far, but they really needed a way to communicate with each other if or when they ever separated. They couldn't just rely on being able to stay side by side all the time.

They did have those radios. It'd probably be possible to turn it into a two-way, though he'd have to let Dean take care of that. Dean was the one who fiddled with old walkmans to make an EMF.

He pulled a chair up to the desk and sat down, leaning a little over the backrest to peer at the journal Dean pushed towards him. He'd already looked at it, of course, when he'd been searching for Dean, but mentioning that would lead them back to exactly what'd happened last night and Sam was hoping to avoid going there for as long as possible. Or ever, if he had to be completely honest.

"I can see what I can get from the nurses on the building's history, but..." He glanced up, shrugging in a way that implied it wasn't something to bet on. "I don't even know if that's gonna help in the long run. I mean, there's not really anything we can do about these hunts until we have something to hunt with."

One Bowie and a pillowcase of salt didn't count. At the very least, they needed a lighter. Accelerant, that could be easily grabbed from the batch of chemicals they'd run into upstairs, so that wouldn't be a problem. But until they could burn a body—and until they could get to the body they needed to burn which was another issue entirely—there wasn't a lot they could do. And that was only in terms of the spirits. The supposed giant cats and an apparently giant bird—yeah. He wasn't even going to touch that right now. That bird, or winged creature or whatever, from last night, he had no idea what it was, but all he could think about was that he seriously hoped it wasn't a frigging harpy.

He paused, then leaned over to reach into the drawer for the radio. He held it up to Dean. "Think you can pull off an EMF or a walkie maybe?"

Both would be nice, but they weren't exactly filled to the brim with ready tools. He'd prefer the walkie if it came down to it. Sensing spirits beforehand saved their asses plenty of times, but being able to keep in touch with his brother if they ever had to split up took priority. While he had no idea what kind of range they'd be able to get if they did manage this or what sound quality it'd be, it almost didn't matter. As long as he could know his brother was still breathing, it'd be good enough for him.

[kindalikedit]

Wasn't like he couldn't help himself to one. Hell, that wasn't even the point, the point, Dean thought, was the theoretical chick in question was into him enough to give him a number in the first place.

Dean watched Sam as his brother leaned forward to get a better look in the dim lighting. He'd been thinking the exact same thing he had: it was one thing to identify the hunts, even know where the corpses were that needed torching...it was another thing to actually be able to do their job cold like this. The potential shapeshifter running around was more bad news on top of the retardedly high number of ghosts haunting the joint - nevermind the fact they had at least two violent deaths that could easily lean into angry spirit territory. Dean had torched all kinds of bodies, but usually they were mostly decomposed. The idea of trying to torch a more or less fresh body, chilled from the morgue, wasn't exactly appealing. Dean was still trying to estimate how long it'd take to salt and burn a frozen body when Sam held up the radio.

Dean took it with a crooked half-smile. "You really gotta even ask? I can probably jury-rig it to be two way, at least. EMF'll be another ballpark, we need more parts for that."

He was still holding the radio when it suddenly came on by itself (never a good sign for them) and began broadcasting heavy static. It took a second to realize there was a voice behind the static, making disembodied, pained moans. Dean shot a look at his brother, stood up carefully and picked up his bowie knife, waiting for what else might come at them. Spirits couldn't get at them with the salt line surrounding them, but it wasn't like that stopped them from making their presence known. The intercom clicked on like the radio.

Dean didn't panic when a thin mist rolled under the crack between the floor and door's bottom. It curled in, in thin fingers at first, growing thicker by the second as it passed over the salt line. Whatever it was, it wasn't a ghost. Dean brought up his flashlight, standing next to Sam and automatically watching his back as he kept a wary eye out for any new visitors. That was when he spotted the splotch of red on the wall, right over Angel's bed and just outside the salt line - he'd laid it down around Angel's bed rather than having to move it - and growing larger by the second as the wall continued to bleed like something had died bloody behind it.

"Sam," was all Dean had time to say, before nightshift ended.