Nightshift 42: Ames Street

[boyking]

[from here; fast-forwarding past that thread with permission]

[ Inside Residence #3 ]

The problem with busting down a door instead of picking the lock was that the door wouldn't close properly after. When you were trying to barricade yourself inside from a horde of the living dead, not having a door that could close was a bit of an issue.

As were the very breakable windows. Sam didn't even know if the things outside were smart enough to deliberately smash the windows, but with enough pounding, glass was gonna break whether you meant for it to happen or not. He needed something with no windows and a single entrance with a locking door (preferably with a bolt, but he'd take what he could get). Which meant basement. If there was one. House like this, there had to be one.

No telling if the house wasn't occupied by zombies of its own, either. He didn't really have time to go around checking. Still, he'd rather take his chances in here than out there. Unlike Peter, apparently, the goddamn idiot, and he couldn't help wishing Dean had picked a better time to get his ass sedated. There was no way in hell he'd ever abandon his brother, but it didn't mean he liked having to turn his back on a town full of people or the guy who'd basically saved them both.

Too late to dwell, though. There wasn't anything he could do about it now.

Still holding onto Dean, he hustled him through the house. He was sure it'd been a nice home once, but it looked a bit broken down now, the walls cracked and yellowed, tiles in the dining room peeling. Sam didn't stop for anything. Taking a detour to look for a weapon was a bad idea when he had an armful of barely-conscious Dean and it wasn't as if he had his hands free, anyway. Keeping a grip on Dean was hard enough as it was. Dean wasn't exactly being helpful; he was damn near carrying his brother by the end, almost stumbling his way along. At this rate, his knee was never gonna heal.

He kept expecting one of those freaks to pop out of a closet any second, but either they were really lucky or something much, much worse was in store later. He found the door to the basement near the back of the house. Damn it, if it was locked—

But it wasn't. The knob spun beneath his hand, door swinging inward slowly, revealing pitch black darkness and a set of stairs he could hardly see the steps of.

Stairs. Oh God, stairs.

Stairs were good, technically speaking. They were narrow and let only one person through, two at most with some squeezing. It meant they could avoid getting dog-piled by a bunch of undead corpses. When you were supporting someone's dead weight on a bum knee, though, stairs pretty much just sucked. Looking down them now, Sam thought he might as well have been told to go down a mountain.

So he fumbled for the light switch along the wall, scanning the room to make sure there wasn't anything ready to jump them behind those boxes, then bolted the door and simply eased Dean down at the top of the stairs. They couldn't stay up here too long, but it would do for now. It didn't seem like anything was coming right after them. He figured they were...well, not exactly safe, but they weren't seconds away from getting killed. Which, frankly, was as safe as it ever got for them.

A few minutes, that was all he needed. Then he could go down first, check the area out. The last thing he needed was to drag Dean down only to have to drag him back up 'cause there was a damn zombie lying in wait. It'd be just their luck, too.

Sam let his head fall back against the door with a dull thump before he glanced over at Dean. Dean, who was starting to tip to the side dangerously. Jesus Christ.

It took some rearranging of limbs and a little bit of pushing, but he eventually got Dean to sprawl against his shoulder instead of just tumbling right over his lap. Though that would've made a picture worthy of blackmail and the thought almost made him smile. Almost.

Sam nudged him. "Hey. How're you doing?"

He didn't really expect to get a proper answer, but he was hoping to at least elicit a grunt. Maybe a mumble. Just something to let him know Dean could at least hear him.

Comments

[kindalikedit]

The most he got was a dazed, confused groan, although that was loads better than back at the buses.

"Sammy?"

Dean's voice was scratchy, the single word heavily slurred and muffled by his brother's shoulder. Right now he was just realizing he could feel anything at all, the heaviness still there like he had concrete everything, but his head. His head. It didn't feel right. Everything felt crappy, like being in a fog except he couldn't shake it. Dean moaned again, eyes fluttering as he tried to open them, some part of him still registering his brother's voice despite the slowly clearing haze of the drugs. Dean's first real thought that he could actually hold onto was I think I'm gonna puke, except he couldn't even tell if he'd already done that or if that option was still on the table. Couldn't remember nothin'. Dean's brain just stalled on trying to figure out if he'd thrown up yet and it took a long couple of minutes for him to start stringing together the next thought.

It basically amounted to figuring out he couldn't move anything. Like standing up? It just felt too damn hard, especially when it was easier to just slump against something - Sam's shoulder? - and go back to sleep. Chill out. Despite feeling nauseous, Dean felt...he felt pretty chill. Heavy, but so chill he couldn't even remember what the big deal was. He couldn't even feel much of his legs, the fact he had pins and needles or that he was sporting fresh new cuts on his arms. Once he got used to realizing there was this dark haze over everything, and there was really nothin' he could do about it, a guy just learned to relax. Go with the flow.

Dean's eyes moved behind closed eyelids as he sluggishly tried to move, his arms feeling like they were made somehow with Jello and rock. All he got for his efforts was that he started to slide off Sam's shoulder.

Hey, if he ended up the floor, he'd be cool with that.

[boyking]

Okay. Slight improvement.

"Yeah."

Dean's face was mashed against Sam's shoulder, practically eating his shirt as he moaned into the fabric, and Sam was starting to have trouble differentiating between a zombie and his brother at the moment. Of course, the one time when Dean should've remained still, he decided it was a good idea to start moving and promptly toppled over like a tree falling in slow motion. Figured.

Sam didn't even look over, just pushed Dean back into place again. He kept his palm against Dean's chest to make sure Dean stayed steady, grinding the heel of his other hand against one closed eye until his vision sparkled. Sitting here in the quiet, he could feel a mounting sense of panic, that sneaking chill that inevitably crept up on you when you were just sitting waiting for something to attack. A cue to get a move on, if anything.

He let out a breath. "I'm gonna be right back, okay? Just—" He carefully dislodged Dean from his shoulder, settling him against the small corner between the railing and the door. "Just don't fall over, dude."

Ninety percent satisfied that Dean wasn't going to tumble down the stairs and subsequently break his neck, Sam grabbed the railing and made his way down. The wooden steps creaked, his hand coming away dusty when he let go of the railing. He brushed his palm against his jeans, eyeing the junk filling the basement. An old dryer and washing machine were stuffed into one corner, couple of racks of unused paint cans, light bulbs—nothing much different from most basements. As much as he'd wished for a more furnished basement, something with actual rooms and a bed he could dump Dean on, this was honestly a lot better. Fewer places for surprises to hide in. As far as he could tell, it was clear.

Getting Dean down was a process Sam never wanted a repeat of. His brother leaned heavily on him and Sam damn near sent them both pitching forward halfway down. It wasn't until he'd settled Dean against the furthest corner, hidden from view of anything that might bust through the door, that he noticed the sticky warmth at his side.

He sat down next to Dean with a quiet grunt, lifting his shirt up to eye the bandage that was soaked through with blood. Crap. Not that he hadn't known this would happen. You ran around carrying a guy all night, chances were you were gonna tear some stitches. He pressed down against it, hoping to keep the bleeding minimal. It was all he could do for now. The cuts on his arm and hand were still seeping blood, too. But he'd take care of it after. He needed to see Dean first.

He took a second out to breathe, steady his focus, before he turned his attention over. The one benefit of Dean being sedated was that his brother was pretty pliant for once. It wasn't every day he could just check Dean for injuries without bitching or mocking or an inappropriate crack about Sam and nurses. It didn't look too bad. Scrapes, mostly, nothing that wasn't already healing. The only injury worth noting was the gash on Dean's left leg, slicing a few inches down his calf just next to the shin.

[boyking]

He leaned forward, inching as far as he could without standing up to grab the old white t-shirt hanging off the edge of a rickety table. It wasn't necessarily clean, but it didn't look dirty, either. His gaze flicked briefly towards the door as he tore a strip off the shirt. He didn't trust that lock at all. He knew they needed to barricade the door, but there wasn't anything to do that with. It wasn't as if he could push a heavy drawer up the stairs or something.

As he peered closer at the open wound, he could see a glint of glass. A couple of shards, tiny, caught inside the flesh. Sam frowned. Tweezers—where were they when you needed them?

Realizing he'd have to get up after all, Sam shoved himself to his feet. He fumbled his way through three cardboard boxes and a workbench table to come up with a pair of scissors, the smaller, pointed kinds. It was hardly sanitary, but it would do. There wasn't alcohol lying on hand. Sam figured by morning, if they made it that far, the injuries would be taken care of by the staff. It was unsettling, how that was done, but Sam couldn't say he didn't appreciate it to a certain degree, as well.

He laid a hand on Dean's shoulder, shaking him gently to get his attention. "Hey. Dean. You hear me?" He held up the pair of scissors in front of his brother. "I need to fix you up and it's gonna hurt a little. Okay? You listening?" He snapped his fingers. "Dean."

He was getting the sinking feeling that this might be an exercise in futility, but he had to at least try. He didn't want to go digging out glass from Dean's leg without warning. If there was anything that could cut through the haze of drugs, it was pain, and he really didn't need Dean reflexively punching him in the face.

[kindalikedit]

Dean's eyes were only half-opened, still unfocused. There were a lot of blurs in the front of him, one of them moving in front of his face.

"Uh..." Dean said intelligently. It came out as a vague grunt.

Whatever it was, he was sure he'd be cool with it. Dean couldn't help feeling like he'd nod off again, the black haze still so slow in clearing that he'd stopped paying too much attention to it. Sure, he didn't feel like he could keep lunch down, but so what? If he got sick, he got sick and if he didn't? Well, he could work with that too. Feeling so heavy made him cool with just about anything, and even if he couldn't exactly focus on the thing in Sammy's hand - much less look right at it and recognize it for as a pair of scissors, and make the connection it didn't belong in his goddamn leg - he was sure he was gonna be chill with whatever happened next. He was flexible like that. Dean just couldn't get himself to care. The drug-induced darkness, heavy and pressing in on him, seemed a lot more interesting.

Despite the sedatives, Dean jerked when something suddenly went into his leg. It flashed white through the haze. A moan of pain escaped him as he unconsciously flinched, tried to squirm away from his brother, unaware of the fact he wasn't exactly helping things as he weakly tried to push him away.

As cool as he felt with everything in general right now, he wasn't sure he wanted to get too comfortable with this.

Drugged as he was, Dean's perception of time was crap. He had no idea how long that something was digging around in his leg, sending spikes of white pain cutting through his nice little fog, but eventually it stopped. Dean's breathing had hitched a little, even half-conscious as he was, sweat beading on his forehead. The pain hadn't cleared his head, but he was starting to think that maybe he wasn't totally cool with everything and maybe he was starting to have second thoughts about all of this. Dean's leg continued to bleed, red running down to stain his sock and dribble to the floor as his brother finished removing the glass shards from the fresh injury.

[boyking]

Sam briefly debated obtaining a more concrete response from Dean, but it was clear that a grunt of what may or may not have been acknowledgment was as good as he was gonna get.

Household scissors weren't meant for delicate work, though. It wouldn't have been as much of an issue if Dean had been alert enough to hold still, but as it was, Sam found himself struggling to keep Dean in place while trying not to do anymore damage to the open wound.

Dean jerked. Sam yanked the scissors back just in time, cursing under his breath. This wasn't the best idea he'd ever had. Too easy to nick something vital like this, end up with Dean bleeding out in minutes. Leaving the glass in wasn't an option, though. He needed to bandage the cut and the pressure from that alone would drive the shards deeper into the flesh.

Sam paused, deciding how best to go about this when a quiet thump came from just above them. He glanced up. Time to move faster. His plan was essentially to wait it out down here; the town had all the signs of a curse and the basic theory of a curse was that if you lived through to sunrise, you were good to go. It sounded easy enough, but frankly, making it to sunrise didn't happen too often. Either way, he needed to fix Dean up just in case they had to get moving again.

Even if they were pretty trapped if anything came at them from down here—having a single exit and entrance only was a double-edged sword—but Sam wasn't thinking about that right now. He'd...deal with it if the time came.

In the end, he just held Dean down as well as he could while he carefully gripped each piece of glass between the scissor blades, talking meaninglessly the entire time because he figured maybe it'd help if Dean could hear him. Sam was midway through another just take it easy, I'm almost done when exasperation won and he muttered, "Damn it, stop moving."

He pulled out the final shard, letting it and the scissors drop to the floor as he exhaled. Christ. Dean looked like absolute crap, paler than even before. He leaned forward, hand on Dean's chest. "You okay?"

He couldn't help the spike of worry, though he knew Dean would be better again once he had a few minutes to recover. Dean's leg was a mess, too, covered in blood. Some of it Sam's blood, in fact, from where Sam had gripped him with his bleeding hand. He needed to at least wash the wound, if he couldn't disinfect it.

For the second time, Sam dragged himself to his feet and limped his way through the maze of junk. Sudden vertigo struck and he grabbed onto a shelf blindly to steady himself. It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten or drank anything since lunch. Hardly the first time he'd run on empty, but it wasn't something where the effects went away just because you did it often enough.

Behind the rows of canned tomatoes was where Sam hit the jackpot. Or—maybe not. But he did find a nearly empty case of bottled water, just three of them left. He took two and returned to Dean. His bloody hand kept slipping, but he managed to unscrew the top and wash out Dean's leg as much as he could before he wrapped the strip of fabric around it. It was crude, but it would hold.

Sam gently pressed the mouth of the bottle against Dean's lips, one hand behind his head to keep him supported. He tipped the bottle just the slightest, trying to coax his brother into taking at least one drink. He didn't want dehydration added to their list of problems. And who knew—if luck was on their side for once, it might even wake Dean up a bit.

[kindalikedit]

Between getting a pair of scissors jabbed into his leg a bunch of times and now the water, Dean was finding it a lot harder to just relax in that heavy black fog than before.

He couldn't swallow the water on his own at first, not when it didn't seem to want to go down and he instead choked on it, coughing it up as his eyes fluttered open again, eyebrows unconsciously scrunching together in discomfort. Dean groaned, a hand making a motion like he wanted to push the water bottle away but not quite making it, like he'd forgot halfway through what he was doing and went "screw it". It took a few more tries and more sputtering before he was able to pull together the coordination to remember how to drink and not just spill it on himself. He managed a few unsteady, small swallows before he started hacking all over again, chest heaving. Water trickled down the corners of his mouth. Between the scissors and the water, Dean wasn't having a fun wake-up call.

Popping to his feet was out of the question. But so was just chilling out like he'd been feeling was an awesome idea, especially when something or another kept interrupting him from sinking into the haze and letting that feeling of heaviness wash over him. In fact, he was starting to think he actually wasn't cool at all with any of this and that cottony feeling in his mouth? It bugged him.

The problem was he couldn't turn his head away from the offered water bottle; trying to get his body to actually do something was totally outta his league right now, even harder than remembering how to drink. Over the next couple of minutes, Dean somehow got through a quarter of the bottle - a lot of it ended up on his clothes whenever he gagged on it, but every now and then he'd instinctively remember to swallow the water. By now he was feeling just plain dizzy, nauseous, the blurs sometimes sharpening into things he almost sorta-kinda recognized before they tilted sickeningly away on him. Dean wondered if he was drunk. He thought he smelled cheap beer. Didn't remember drinking any though, and he hadn't been this shit-faced in a long time either. There was a good chunk of time where he forgot what he was thinking before it came back to him, right when he was already busy retching on the water.

Yeah. He didn't feel awesome. He felt like shit and he couldn't even seem to move.

As if from a distance, Dean could dully hear Sam. There had been a person talking at him, but he hadn't been sure it was his brother. Maybe he'd been imagining it. Now he knew who was trying to friggen drown him, one water bottle at a time.

Dean's eyes opened. This time they stayed open, even if he had trouble focusing on anything and he couldn't even shake off what felt like concrete weighing him down to push that water bottle from his face.

"N'more," he said, confused, only it came out as a barely coherent mumble under his breath. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. Head pounded. This time, a little louder: "Sam?"

He thought it was his brother, at least as sure as he could be when everything just swirled around him. Dean's eyes wandered over to Sam, still with that glassy look. There was a blur leaning over him that looked like it could be a person. Could be Sam. Maybe. Actually he wasn't sure at all, gazing at the blur's general direction without any real recognition, and Dean found himself suddenly distracted by a weird feeling in his leg, his eyes starting to slide away from the person-shaped blur 'cause multi-tasking wasn't something he felt up to right now. Leg or the blur, one or the other.

[boyking]

No matter how gently Sam tipped the water past Dean's lips, Dean seemed to sporadically alternate between swallowing and spitting it out, and Sam couldn't figure out when he was supposed to pull away or offer more. He ended up with water right in his lap, but he managed to get a few mouthfuls into Dean.

This was all as familiar as it was strange. Sam had lost track of how often he'd sat like this with Dean, but it'd be a long time since he'd had to do it, too. It struck him suddenly how close he kept coming to losing Dean. And it wasn't really even new, but ever since—

Sam snapped his attention up as Dean's eyes flickered open. "Dean. Hey."

A louder thump from upstairs and this time, he swore he saw a light sprinkle of dust fall to the ground. Oh, God, was that ceiling gonna give? He hoped that ceiling wasn't gonna give, but it occurred to him that just because those things weren't pounding right outside the door didn't mean they didn't know food was available in the house. The basic drive to feed made them just as dangerous despite their lack of intelligence, if not more. Revenants didn't have the tracking power of vampires, but it was entirely possible they'd caught a scent. He and Dean had, after all, been bleeding when they'd moved through the house.

Sam splashed the remainder of the water over his arm, then wrapped a second strip of fabric around it, tugging on it with his teeth to keep it in place. It was even more of a hasty job than Dean's bandaging, if that were possible.

Looking down at Dean's leg, he realized that the makeshift bandage had been soaked with blood faster than it should've. Damn it. Dean wasn't bleeding out, but with the state he was in—not to mention all the blood he had lost before they'd arrived here—Sam wasn't willing to risk it, either. He needed Dean recovering, not growing worse.

It'd be too much to ask for a first aid kit down here, though. Medicine cabinet was his best option. But it meant leaving Dean down here alone and it meant going up there while a zombie (or more) was wandering about.

He chewed his lip, debating, before finally settling on a decision and getting up again, this time to look for a more suitable weapon. He wasn't comfortable with leaving his brother's side, but those floorboards were definitely creaking up there and the entire house just seemed more and more broken down as time went on, like it was rotting, too. He was fairly certain it wasn't going to cave, but...And Dean wasn't doing a lot better despite his brief moment of lucidity. His eyes were already starting to glaze over again by the time Sam returned with a tire iron.

"Dean." Sam crouched down, wincing at the movement. He cupped his face and turned Dean towards him, trying to get him to focus again. "Dean. I gotta go. I gotta go and I'll be back, but you have to stay awake for as long as you can, okay?"

He pressed the tire iron into Dean's hands. "Here."

Right now, Dean wasn't awake enough to lift it, never mind use it, but just in case—if he woke up or something happened. Anyway, it was better than leaving him completely defenceless. Especially when there was nothing to specifically keep a revenant out, no salt lines or devil's traps. Hell, he didn't even know what'd been used to raise the dead and unless he did, there was no telling what would work or what might actually make it worse.

So Sam took the non-paranormal route, mopping up the blood as well as he could and tossing the ragged t-shirt in the opposite side of the room before pushing several boxes in front of Dean. He wasn't invisible, but at least he wasn't exposed. If all went as planned, none of this would even be necessary.

With one quick look back at Dean, Sam headed up the stairs. Of course, once he was out, it meant the door couldn't be locked again. The bolt didn't lock from the outside. He cast a glance around, shoved a near-empty shelf with a few withering books on it in front. It didn't prevent the door from being opened, but it kept the door from view and maybe that would be good enough to keep it from being noticed at all.

He edged carefully into the living room, picking up a fireplace poker as he did. Nothing so far, but what he'd heard downstairs had come from just down the hall.

[damned-town.livejournal.com]

The silence in the hall seemed tense, like it was listening to Sam's approach, before suddenly it erupted into twin flurries of movement. Sam would have had enough time to register that the dark shapes in the hall were small, little more than children; a boy and a girl and both bolting for the nearest adult and the safety they offered. Then they were on him, thin arms wrapped around his waist and both clinging to him as though terrified out of their minds. Something no doubt understandable given the current situation in the town.

It was only after a moment or two that it might have seemed odd that they remained perhaps a little too silent, and that the smell of rot and decay that was almost everywhere in the town was suddenly much stronger. Then the arms around Sam tightened and both faces turned up to stare at him with dull, accusing and, in the case of the girl in particular, horribly familiar eyes.

[boyking]

It was dark up here. He realized he should've grabbed a flashlight from downstairs, but he'd assumed the light working in the basement meant it'd work up here. A flick of the light switch told him otherwise. Dammit. There was the soft glow of a nightlight plugged into the wall that dimly lit the hallway. It was shaped like a teddy bear and that should've been his first clue.

But somehow, Sam just hadn't expecting kids, and that was kind of stupid of him, come to think of it, because towns would've had children just like they had adults. But he hadn't been quite looking down as much as he should've until something grabbed him out of nowhere. He jumped, instinctively pulling away except their grip was far tighter than it should've been, and Jesus her eyes, what the hell--

He would've known if it was actually her and it wasn't, but he couldn't help but hesitate for a split second before he just grabbed one by the arm, trying to dislodge it and knock it into the wall or something because they might've looked like children, but he knew better than to treat them like one. He had no idea what would take a zombie out; from what he'd seen earlier, they could be crippled or knocked down, but as far as killing them for good, he knew there was no way to do that without proper supplies. Which he didn't have.

And really, there was nothing not disturbing about having kids stare at you like you were fresh meat while you contemplated whether or not running an iron poker through them would do the job. He'd run into his share of changelings and child spirits and they were all far creepier than anything else.

Probably why Lilith was so keen on taking them as hosts.

[damned-town.livejournal.com]

While the girl was far stronger than a normal child should have been, she was still limited by being so much smaller than Sam and despite her strength he was able to rip her away and send her flying to smack into the wall with a dull thump. It didn't slow her down for long though, as in moments she was struggling back up to her feet, dead eyes never once leaving Sam's face.

The boy on the other hand tried to take advantage of Sam's momentary distraction, tightening his own grip and opening his small mouth wide to reveal rotten but disturbingly sharp teeth. There was maybe a moment's pause before he lunged in an attempt to take a chunk out of the hunter's leg.

[boyking]

His first encounter with a revenant had been the girl--Angela, Sam still remembered her name--but she'd been far closer to the way the raised and unsettled dead were supposed to be, more like a spirit than a mindless drone. This? This was just wrong. These corpses should've been biologically identical to the way they'd been when they were alive. They were animated corpses, not a new species altogether. Oddly sharp teeth wasn't part of the package.

But maybe it was easier, in a way, that they looked a lot less human. Even if it made no sense.

Sam jerked back, narrowly escaping a full-on bite, but he stumbled, sudden weight on his knee making his legs buckle and sending him flat on his ass. Something scraped the surface of the skin, though he couldn't tell if it'd drawn blood or not. He scrambled back, eyes on the girl starting to rise to her feet. There was no way he could take one without removing his attention from the other, but sitting there to let them both come at him was a bad idea. He risked the boy and went for the girl instead, snatching up the poker and shoving it forward, trying to drive it right through her chest, pin her to the wall even if he was lucky.

Those dull white eyes might've had something to do with why he'd targeted her first, but Sam wasn't really willing to think on it, too busy trying to get back to his feet. He didn't need that thing tearing out his throat. If he went down, there'd be no one to take care of Dean.

[damned-town.livejournal.com]

Whether the girl hadn't had enough warning or if it simply didn't occur to her to get out of the way was hard to tell, but the end result was the same; the poker caught her full in the chest, ripping through the rotten flesh and bone and soaking the child's nightgown with blood and gore. A surprisingly human shriek was torn from her throat, though it could have easily been from rage instead of pain, as despite the iron poker lodged in her, the girl lashed around as though she was trying to break free.

Sam didn't have time to let his guard down for even a moment however. The other child monster had been dislodged when he'd fallen backwards and then scrambled away, but it was uninjured and, with the poker still caught in what had once been its sister's chest, Sam was temporarily at a disadvantage. And while the boy's eyes clearly lacked much by way of even basic intelligence, he could still charge at Sam's open side, seeking once again to grab a hold of him and bite.

[boyking]

Sam couldn't help a slight wince as he watched the girl thrash despite the an entire iron bar through her chest, blood staining the carpet and walls. He didn't have much time to think about it, though, not even time to get his weapon back.

His side was still bleeding from where the stitches had torn and the other one went right for it, and he had no idea if it was because these were kids instead of adults, but they were moving a lot faster than the ones in town had been. Could've just been time passing, though, the creatures getting stronger as the night wore on. He'd been down there with Dean for a decent length of time.

Either way, an entire night of putting both his and Dean's weight on his injured leg had locked it up. With the added sharp throb in his side, getting off the ground in time wasn't even on the table. Sam threw up his arm instead, teeth sinking directly into the flesh just below the elbow, the damn thing latched on like a dog with a bone. White hot flashed through his arm. He bit back a yell, resisting his initial instinct to just yank, aware that he'd just tear a chunk straight out of his arm that way.

He fumbled for the poker, hoping to hell he could grab it before the corpse decided to chew off a piece of him all on its own. He pulled the weapon free, knowing full well he'd just unpinned the female in the process, and slammed the poker forward, aiming straight for the head this time. He had no idea what damage it would do—like everything in this place, nothing about this situation was matching up with what he thought he knew—but if it'd stun the monster enough to stop eating him, he'd take it.

[damned-town.livejournal.com]

The boy's jaw worked, trying to bite a piece off of his prey, completely mindless in feeding. Like the other, he didn't seem to notice or think to try and avoid the poker, but this time as the makeshift weapon tore through the skull, things were different. All struggle ceased and the small body dropped to the floor, suddenly as corpse-like in behaviour as appearance.

But things were not quite done yet. Freed from what as keeping her from moving, the girl advanced on Sam again, no doubt intent on trying to finish what the boy had started.

[boyking]

There was a sickening crunch when the poker pierced through the skull, the smell of rot so powerful, it made Sam dizzy. Blood poured from the torn flesh on his arm as the creature released him, though not so fast as to indicate that he'd nicked an artery. Small favours.

He rolled over onto his back, watching the girl go right for him with a freaking hole in her chest, not large, but still, he could damn near see through her body. God.

With no time to actually get out of the way, not with the state he was in, he brought the poker up and let her come at him. He didn't know if it'd be stupid enough or hungry enough to impale itself, but it was his best shot. His only shot, really, because if it didn't work, he was screwed and he knew it.

[damned-town.livejournal.com]

As before, the presence of the poker didn't seem to register at all, the girl simply kept coming, intent on reaching Sam even as the iron bar skittered across the rotten flesh before lodging once more in the gaping wound in her chest. Only then did she slow down, though it could have easily been simply because the poker was making things difficult for her to continue forwards.

[boyking]

There were a lot of images Sam could've done without. Watching a girl still move forward as her chest swallowed up an iron poker while a sickly sucking noise accompanied it was one of them, and it was partly a reflexive reaction of Oh, God that he shoved back, hard, trying to knock her off her feet and on her back.

The boy hadn't moved. Sam wasn't about to assume that one was dead, but it seemed getting stabbed in the head had at least temporarily stopped him altogether, which was more than he could say for the female. If he could get the girl on the floor, he could stop her in the same way. He had no idea why something like that would work on these zombies when it hadn't on others in the past, but at this point, Sam wasn't up to working out the logistics of it. If it looked effective, he was willing to use it.

[damned-town.livejournal.com]

The girl made a noise like a combination of a hiss and a death rattle and fell backwards, hitting the floor with a thump as the gaping wound in her chest emitting a foul reek of air. She wasn't down or still for long though, and Sam had to move quickly in order to wrench the poker free of her chest and plunge it with surprising viciousness at her head. The rotten bone shattered under the onslaught and, as the end of the poker bit into the floorboards, the animated corpse finally went still, leaving Sam flecked with blood and gore and alone amongst the carnage.

[boyking]

So now there were two rotting bodies of children on the floor of a creaky home and Sam was nursing a deep bite wound in addition to everything else, and the first and clearest thought to cross his mind was, Please tell me their parents aren't home.

Seemed quiet enough, though. They would've been down here by now, drawn by the ruckus or the blood, if they were here.

He thought about burning the corpses--standard procedure--or at least locking them in a room somewhere because he wasn't entirely certain they were actually down for good, but blood was soaking through his shirt and Dean still needed him. Besides, something told him that if they were gonna get up, it would've happened already.

Gripping the table against the wall, frame hanging crooked over it, he pulled himself to his feet. The vase on the table wobbled and crashed to the floor, spilling water and wilted tulips. He needed a bathroom. The medical cabinet. The house wasn't large, but the thought of making a sweep to search this out suddenly felt far too daunting. He stared at his wrist for a full ten seconds before he remembered that he didn't have a watch. What time was it? How long had it been? An hour or two, maybe? Couldn't have been more than two. They had a hell of a long time to go if they were gonna wait it out till sunrise.

He didn't bother taking the stoker with him. The body was gruesomely pinned to the floor, but the unsettling thought of leaving it that way was offset by the fact that he simply felt a bit more secure knowing that it was pinned. Just in case she reanimated again. He didn't know enough about this particular form of necromancy to say anything for sure, and if it was a curse like he was almost positive it was, that left even more up in the air.

For the first five minutes or so, he tried to take in everything he could see in the near pitch black, find a clue or something to add all this together while he searched his way through, but after he nearly stumbled into a wall, he gave up multitasking. A dish on the top of the microwave yielded a set of keys with a tiny flashlight. It'd do. He tried to take it off the key ring at first, but his bloody fingers kept slipping on the metal and he gave up on that, too.

He finally found the bathroom around the corner and down the hall. He edged inside cautiously. Empty. Not wanting to leave Dean alone any longer than he had to, he didn't take the time to be delicate about his search, just rummaged through the cabinets, shoving items aside (hairspray, cleaning products, shampoo, stacks of towels, prescribed sleeping pills, other stuff he didn't stop to register) until he located a bottle of rubbing alcohol and—no actual first aid kit, but the alcohol plus the clean towel was good enough.

As much as he was fairly certain there were no more zombies left in here, he knew he couldn't just leave it up to an estimated guess. He'd have to make sure. At least the place only had one floor. He really didn't think he could make it up and down that many flight of stairs tonight.

It was only when he passed through the living room for the second time that he caught the stag head over the fireplace. He'd missed it in his haste when passing through earlier, though God only knew how. It seemed pretty damn obvious now that he actually noticed it. It was by no means a normal stag head. It looked...a bit rotten, parts of its skin peeling off in places. He stared at it for awhile, a creeping paranoia making him feel as if it was watching him. Sam figured this was somewhat justified, given the circumstances. It seemed a bit too possible that the head was alive and ready to bite his finger off if he got too close.

Man. Shaking the sensation off, Sam glanced over at the large living room window. The curtains were of heavy fabric and drawn closed. He wanted to know how many revenants were out there in the streets, but he knew better than to reveal that he was inside like that. If they hadn't already known. So far, so good.

[boyking]

The stag head, though. It was possible that it was simply something the occupants had bought for decoration, but given that this was a small town up in the mountains, the chances of that were lower. No, someone had shot and killed that deer. Deer hunting. The implication of that sank in.

Christ, he hoped he was right about this.

Sam spun around and went back through the house. If the hunting gear was stored in a truck somewhere outside, he was flat out of luck, but if not—if not. It was possible. His only problem was, where the hell did normal people keep their hunting gear when inside a building? This was something he had no expertise on. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually put anything away in their proper place. Drawers in motels were always left empty. He—they, it was they again—moved on so fast, unpacking was pointless. It made it easier to just grab and go, anyway, if they had to leave unexpectedly, especially if you had ten kinds of illegal weapons on you.

The master bedroom seemed unlikely, and the kids' bedrooms were out of the question. Probably not the kitchen, either. It left the study he'd looked in, an old computer sitting on a rough, heavy oak desk, a bookshelf lining the wall. Closet to the right.

His flashlight was starting to dim. Sam picked up the pace. A search through the closet left red smudges on the doors, but that was about all he accomplished. Damn it. Basement?

A part of him hoped so, hoped really, really hard, but man, if it was in the basement—he hadn't searched down there that thoroughly, too occupied with Dean to even think about it. Still, if there'd been some proper weapons there this whole time—

The corpses were still where he'd left them. Sam went down the stairs as fast as he could, which wasn't very fast, He half-expected Dean to be missing or torn apart on the floor, but Dean was right where Sam had left him. Sam checked him over first to make sure he was doing okay before he began pulling things out from shelves and shoving more junk aside. The bell on an old tricycle jingled cheerfully. He knew he should've tended to the bite in his arm first—it was still bleeding—but right now, he just wanted his hands on a solid weapon. He had no idea how much time passed. All he knew was that he'd nearly turned the basement upside down when his fingers finally closed around a large container, shaped like it'd fit on an ATV.

He flipped it open, casting another glance back at Dean as he did. There was no rifle or shotgun anywhere nearby, but inside, there was a pistol inside. A Glock, ten millimetre. Hunting pistol. And a hunting knife. He loaded the gun, tucking it into his back. He thought about taking another magazine, but frankly, if sixteen rounds weren't going to last them, they were as good as dead.

Making his way back to Dean, he sat down heavily beside his brother. Actually taking the weight off his leg made him that much more aware of how much like crap he felt.

He took Dean gently by the shoulder. His brother was looking at him this time, glassy-eyed, but at least his gaze wasn't sliding all over the place. "Dean."

[kindalikedit]

Something was definitely up with his leg.

Dean had forgot all about Sam, didn't even really register the fact he magically had a tire iron appear in his hands, and instead had been totally engrossed in the weird feeling in his leg ever since he was left alone. His chin had drooped to his chest, eyes half-closed as he stared, seeing some white with some red and it not really clicking that he was bleeding and damn, that might be a good chunk of blood. The next thing he knew, something was shaking him, pulling his attention away from his leg. The person-shaped blur was back, but this time he was able to recognize the voice and hold onto it.

Sam. Oh yeah, he'd been with him, hadn't he, he suddenly remembered.

Dean gazed up at his brother, right at him this time even if his head was just a shifting blur, when suddenly Dean's face went even more pale than before. His coordination was crap, the drug still kicking his ass, but the lunch from earlier kicking his ass even more - he suddenly had got some coordination back and it was just enough to suddenly lurch out, narrowly miss headbutting his brother, and make a fumbling urgent grab at his clothes. He couldn't string together a sentence, but his brother was one step ahead of him anyway, 'cause by the time the nausea hit him, he was being held leaned over to the side, Sam bending him over.

Just barely.

Dean puked, gasping as it felt like he'd thrown up his whole damn stomach, with his guts riding shotgun. Eventually he had nothing left to throw up, dry-heaving and sagging in Sam's arms.

[boyking]

Sam was about to start fixing up his arm when Dean turned a few shades paler. He reacted without a second thought, years of makeshift hospitals in roadside motels playing doctor making him easily attuned to his brother. He used to think that that was just one more thing wrong with their life, that he could gauge how well Dean was doing—or wasn't doing, rather—just with one look, but he hadn't thought that way in awhile. These days, he was just glad for it.

The tire iron clattered as Dean propelled himself forward. Sam caught him before he could hit the ground, keeping him steady with an arm around his chest and one hand resting on the back of his neck. He simply held him as Dean emptied pretty much everything in his stomach and then some. When Dean was down to dry-heaving, he eased Dean upright again, reaching for their remaining water bottle and managing to get Dean to swallow a sip or two. Not more than that; he didn't want Dean going through round two of throwing up with the water.

Sam shifted them both a few feet away. He would've gone further, but he couldn't find the energy to. This was good enough. No point in giving up their vantage point, anyway.

Making sure Dean wasn't ready to throw up a second time, Sam turned his attention back to the bite on his arm. He unscrewed the cap on the half-full bottle of alcohol, wincing as he splashed some over the wound. The edges were ragged, red and angry. There was no need to take a close look to know that he needed stitches. Of which there were none at the moment. Seriously, what kind of house didn't have a well=stocked first aid kit, complete with sutures and all? Sam thought everyone oughta anticipate slicing a part of yourself open at least once.

He ended up just pressing the towel against the injury, gaze drifting down to Dean's bandaged leg. Carefully peeling back the cloth, he eyed it for a bit, then cleaned it with the alcohol and replaced the bandage. It'd stopped bleeding as much. Sedation aside, he figured Dean would be okay. Nothing he wouldn't recover from the next morning, provided nothing else went wrong tonight.

Sam placed the hunting knife, still in its sheath, next to Dean's hand. He glanced back at the door, as if expecting it to be wide open with zombies pouring down. Adrenaline rush from the fight upstairs essentially gone, the urge to close his eyes began taking over. Sam blinked, shaking it off. Sleeping now would be a bad idea.

He leaned back against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with Dean. For the first time since he first hauled Dean down here, he wondered how Peter and his brother were doing. God, he hoped they were okay. But if he had to be honest, a part of him just wasn't expecting them to be. He knew the odds all too well from experience.

[see-my-back.livejournal.com]

[backthreading with permission ^^;;; - Running in from here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/673721.html?thread=55671225#t55671225)]

"Not much further," she called back, giving Sasuke a moment to catch up. Not only would the houses offer protection, but they might have valuable information. And she'd much rather make a stand in the less crowded area than in the center of town in the thick of it all.

[sasuke-of-sound.livejournal.com]

The pain was beginning to spread up the side of Sasuke's neck, something that made the comparison to receiving Orochimaru's seal even stronger. At the same time, in comparison to the pain of a juuin this was nothing -- Sasuke could move and think clearly. The worst of it was a slight stiffness around his shoulder.

Also the fact that, if Sakura were right, the blood seeping from the teeth-wounds would attract even more of the walking corpses. Sasuke sped down the street after the sound of Sakura's sure footsteps (sharp and clean against the shuffling of the dead, something he had to be grateful for), unexpectedly grateful for the clothing he'd been given today. Walking through these streets in the slippers normally provided in the Institute -- or even worse, barefoot, as Sasuke had taken to doing at night -- would have been an experience to rival a few choice memories from Sound.

Although now that Sasuke thought about it, the remnants of nausea that he'd been ignoring were completely gone now. Actually, they'd been replaced by a completely unexpected hunger that was growing worse by the minute. He frowned, thinking back over the day; was it that they'd missed a dinner tonight? That didn't explain the suddenness or the strength of the feeling.

Sakura's voice and a pause in her footsteps drew Sasuke out of contemplation for a moment. Drawing level to her (beyond just movement, she even smelled different from the bodies coming after them, conveniently enough), he nodded at her to show that he'd heard and would be able to keep up.

Or at least he started to. The motion was clipped short by a pang of hunger that jolted even the pain of his wound out of mind. What the hell, he'd definitely eaten enough that it shouldn't have been this bad -- gritting his teeth, he fought to ignore it and pressed onwards.

"We should try the first house that hasn't been broken into already," he decided, tone leaving little room for protest. "It should provide some protection while we search for anything useful."

[see-my-back.livejournal.com]

Sakura dearly wished there was more light to see by. When Sasuke got closer, she couldn't make out much of the injury. There was blood, but it was mixed in with the same nasty remnants of the dead he'd been all but covered in during the fight.

Sasuke seemed distracted. Was it the fight? The injury? Something else? Sakura decided to wait until they were in a more convenient place before she started asking questions.

She glanced over the nearest row of houses, picking one a little way down the street. Hopefully it would be empty, or at least, mostly empty. She started running again, eager to get to the safety of the house. Infiltrating without making much noise was second nature to a ninja, so it didn't take her long to ease one of the windows open.

"The window's about chest height," she said before pulling herself up and inside. She ducked into a low crouch, glancing around the room and listening for that ever-present shuffling noise. One, maybe two of them in this house. Easy enough. She pulled one of the hatchet's from her hip and readied it.

Inside Residence #7

[sasuke-of-sound.livejournal.com]

By the time they hit the next turn Sasuke was reasonably certain that this wasn't a normal hunger -- his stomach felt so hollow that it was as if he hadn't eaten in a month. The pain in his shoulder was spreading at the same rate as well, and when he swung the shovel to knock back a particularly fast shambler the flesh felt oddly ... loose was perhaps the best way to describe it.

No normal infection spread this rapidly, of that much he was sure -- Itachi's body must have been tampered with, laced with something abnormal itself before being unleashed into the town. Or perhaps the very thing that had animated the corpse was the poison (but if Itachi had recognised Sasuke, then had it been ... but surely there had been nothing of Uchiha Itachi in that desperate creature).

Regardless of the exact cause, Sasuke was growing increasingly sure that something was distinctly wrong with him. When he clambered into the window he felt that strange looseness about his shoulder again and ignored it in favour of immediately slamming the window shut and listening for anything in the house.

Nothing they couldn't handle -- if he could just do something about the damn hunger, put anything in his stomach, he could definitely ignore the pain. Gritting his teeth, Sasuke readjusted his hold on the shovel and waited for the shuffling and moaning to draw close enough to hit.

Inside Residence #7

[see-my-back.livejournal.com]

Sakura crept forward, following the noise of the undead almost silently. Not that it did her much good. They seemed drawn to the scent of blood, or perhaps they had some way to track the patients or maybe just the living, who could say?

A child, half her age, shambled forward and Sakura was quick to dispatch it with her axes. Even if it was just a child, it was dead, only an enemy now. There was one more, she was sure, coming in from the kitchen. She threw the gerber this time, hitting an adult male between the eyes and dropping him to the ground. Gross, but effective. There wasn't time for delay anyway. She listened quietly for a few more moments before turning back to Sasuke.

"It's clear for now. I need to check your wound, then we can take a look around," she insisted, flicking the last bits of gore from her weapons before placing them at her hip again. She wasn't sure how much chakra she could use after that punch, but she'd do what she could.

The faucet in the kitchen was slow and rusty, but after letting it run for a bit, the water was clear. And at least it would be cleaner than whatever he was covered in now. She got a kitchen towel wet and returned to Sasuke's side.

"Hold still," she cautioned, tearing at the fabric near the wound before she pressed the rag to his neck. It looked like there was rot all over it. The infection would be awful if she didn't clean it well now. But as she pulled the rag away, bits of rotted tissue came with it. Not leftovers from some creature he'd defeated, but the skin around the wound itself seemed to actually be rotting away at the flesh around it. She nearly dropped the rag and had to bite back a startled gasp. Dammit! Just what was this?!

Re: Inside Residence #7

[sasuke-of-sound.livejournal.com]

There weren't any opponents of Itachi's level -- then again, when were there ever? -- and Sakura dealt with them easily enough, leaving Sasuke to continue trying to ignore both the hunger and the pain. Had the bite done something to his stomach? It didn't seem to make sense, but little here did.

Sasuke was about to start rifling through things in the kitchen (there had to be something in these half-rotted drawers that could be of use) when abruptly the hunger intensified to a nearly uncontrollable level -- if Sasuke didn't eat something now, didn't get something in his stomach -- and something smelled delicious. There was food in here, right next to him, a fresh scent rising through the still air.

From where Sakura was standing -- what the hell, was she carrying food on her? With more effort than it ever should have taken, Sasuke restrained the urge to grab the girl and demand that she hand over whatever it was that smelled so good. (But it didn't seem quite like any food that she could have gotten; what was it?)

A twinge of pain when she touched his shoulder helped bring him back to reality (a reality of being surrounded by creatures hungry for flesh and no idea when morning was coming, how the hell could Sasuke be so weak as to be distracted by hunger in a situation like this). Hiding a wince, he frowned at Sakura, keeping his voice steady by main force of will. She hadn't asked to touch him, just issued a warning -- just like she hadn't asked to destroy Itachi's body.

But did it matter if it was just a body? (Or had Itachi been in there, after all, and Sasuke had allowed someone without Uchiha blood to --)

"You shouldn't have interfered," he muttered anyway. For all his usual reticence, even Sasuke was willing to start some kind of conversation if it meant he might be distracted from the need to just -- sink his teeth into something.

Re: Inside Residence #7

[see-my-back.livejournal.com]

Trust Sasuke to act so ungrateful even as she was treating his injuries. That was all pushed aside, however, when she'd seen just how serious the wound had become. Whatever Itachi had done, it was not only disgusting, but she had no idea how to reverse it. It looked like it was causing the body to decay from the inside!

"Well, I did," Sakura stated firmly, trying to concentrate in the dim lighting. How fast would it spread? Maybe it was best to wrap it for now. She didn't have much chakra left after that punch. "And I'm not going to apologize for it."

"Besides," she added, leaving the rag at the base of his neck as she took a step back. "I could say the same to you. That jutsu... you didn't have to help me. But you did." Sakura kept from asking why, but let the question hang in the air for a moment before she turned on her heel.

"I'm going to see if there's anything we can use for bandages. Something in that wound is spreading. I don't like the look of it. You should lie down, but sit if you won't do that much. The faster your blood is pumping the faster it's going to move."

She took a few more steps into the kitchen, biting back her worry. What if she couldn't stop it? What if Sasuke became just like those mindless shambling dead? She swallowed her fear and started pulling out drawers and flinging open cabinets. She paused when she found a folded bit of paper, what looked like a map of the area. At least there was something helpful here.

"Does it feel strange? Any other symptoms?" she asked, digging through the musty medicine cupboard. If she didn't find anything useful she might have to resort to bedsheets or blankets as makeshift bandages.

Re: Inside Residence #7

[sasuke-of-sound.livejournal.com]

Sasuke had to admit that if there had been any point at which to intervene, that had probably been the best one for Sakura to jump in -- Itachi had certainly been distracted and almost definitely in a disadvantageous position. That didn't make it any less reckless.

Or unexpected. Sasuke could remember that intrusion just before he'd woken up in the Institute, the way Sakura had charged forward instead of staying back behind her teammates for the first time he could remember. Her attitude had definitely changed (or at least sort of evened out between the way she treated Sasuke and the way she treated Naruto); it now appeared certain that she'd grown stronger as well. That punch had been no simple physical blow -- Sasuke had sensed the chakra in it, as limited as they were here.

Before he could say anything further, though, Sakura called him on his reflexive dash to get her out of the way of the flames. Sasuke's eyes narrowed for a moment, waiting for the inevitable barrage of misguided hope and faulty interpretation (letting an ally go down was just plain stupid; there was no other reason) --

And then she moved on.

Sasuke blinked once in surprise, uncertain whether to be grateful or to expect consequences with interest later. Maybe Sakura simply recognised the situation and knew better than to press a moot point. She always had been smarter than Naruto, anyway.

"We don't have time to treat injuries," he said, pushing aside all extraneous thoughts and reminding himself that he needed the focus a mission mindset (a Sound mindset) at all times in this place. "The Institute will handle it by morning. We should focus on looking for useful items."

As for other symptoms -- that cloth had felt strange when Sakura had pressed it to the bite, oddly dulled. Almost as if through a layer of scar tissue (dead tissue), but at least the pain had receded from the main location. For the most part it was worst on the fringes of where whatever-it-was was spreading, but it still wasn't nearly as bad as a typical shinobi's injury; definitely nothing worth fussing over.

The other symptom was more of a problem. But how the hell could Sasuke articulate I feel painfully hungry because my dead brother tried to eat me and then exploded?

-- actually -- Sasuke stiffened, focusing on Sakura's scent as she moved around the room. Since when had his sense of smell been this acute? His other senses might have been sharpening since he'd grown accustomed to the blindness, but it didn't make sense for one to become so abruptly stronger, and he sure as hell wasn't an Inuzuka. And the focus wasn't heightened everything; just for Sakura.

Not the smell of perfume he'd occasionally associated with her when they were children, or even the smell of sweat that was doubtless clouded around both of them by now.

The scent of blood. Of flesh.

Without even thinking about it, Sasuke had taken a step towards Sakura. And another. In the interests of finding out if his suspicion was true, but also ... fuck, it smelled good.

Re: Inside Residence #7

[see-my-back.livejournal.com]

Sasuke gave no response to her question, but he didn't bother her further about interfering in the fight either. Maybe he could rationalize it away, but she wouldn't forget it so easy. It gave her hope, no matter the reason behind it.

But Sasuke, as ever, was focused on the mission. No regard for his own injuries. He and Naruto could be so similar on that point. Either one of them could be dying in agony in the dirt and they'd both say they were fine, keep going, keep fighting.

Stupid boys. As if she couldn't hear Sasuke walking toward the kitchen instead of sitting in the living room like she'd asked him to. She turned and pushed the map toward him. "Hold onto this, I think it's a map of the area. Might come in handy. Was there anything in particular you were hoping to find?"

Re: Inside Residence #7

[sasuke-of-sound.livejournal.com]

A map. Vaguely, Sasuke registered that this was a good thing -- body on autopilot, he followed the sound (and scent) of Sakura's movement and took the paper, pushing it into his pocket with one hand.

And grabbing onto her wrist with the other. As if from a distance, he heard himself say in a tone of voice that was undoubtedly distracted: "Something like this is good."

Good didn't even begin to describe the smell of living human that was rising from Sakura's body, close and then closer when Sasuke abruptly yanked the girl towards himself, reaching up to grab her shoulder with his other hand. Suddenly Itachi's actions made sense -- Sasuke could feel himself salivating at the barrage of blood-and-flesh assaulting his senses, stomach roiling in anticipation of the bite. Without even realising it, he'd leaned in enough that he could feel her hair brushing against his cheek, and the taste of her nearly on his tongue --

He was hungrier than he could ever remember being, and he was finally, finally about to satisfy it.

Re: Inside Residence #7

[see-my-back.livejournal.com]

Sakura expected their hands to brush as she passed off the map, but when he took the map and grabbed her wrist afterward, she stopped completely, looking with confusion from Sasuke's hand to his almost emotionless expression. He spoke, so close and suddenly she could all but hear her heart pounding in her chest. What was going on?

Countless reasons came to her; perhaps he'd just been waiting until he knew they were well and truly alone for a moment like this, maybe she'd finally receive some kind of affirmation that she was more than just a nuisance to him. He pulled her closer and she caught herself holding her breath for a moment, uncertain how to react to the sudden change in behavior. One hand was down at her side, held tightly around the wrist, but the other hesitated, hovered near his chest for a moment, before she let it rest there. Oh God, what if he kisses me? What if he wants to do more than that? What if I'm a bad kisser?! Agh! What do I do?!

"Sasuke-kun," her voice was quiet and shy as she felt a blush rising hot and fast in her cheeks, with Sasuke leaning in ever closer, going toward her shoulder. It wasn't the kiss she'd hoped for, but maybe he just wanted to start slow? Maybe---

Shit.

She should've realized sooner. The strange wound. The empty quality to his voice. The behavior that was so out of place. And how he leaned in, closer and closer to her, it wasn't hard to realize it was the same place he'd been bitten by his brother's corpse. Or it wouldn't have been if she hadn't been so lost in her own stupid fantasies! Just my luck the one time we get close and it's all going to hell!

"Let go!" she tried to jerk away once, but was surprised by how strong he was. The second time was enough to free her movement a little though, and her free hand swung hard and fast as she slapped the side of his face.

"Get a hold of yourself!"

Re: Inside Residence #7

[sasuke-of-sound.livejournal.com]

Sasuke had lost his mind for the moment, driven to desperation by the feeling of starvation and the prospect of filling his stomach with -- but the person whose wrist was in his hand (and shoulder oh-so-close to his mouth) was someone he knew. Someone he knew well, and didn't want to hurt, because ... but he was so damn hungry, who --

The realisation struck Sasuke a moment later than it did Sakura. Eyes widening, he managed to let go of her wrist only after she tried to jerk it away, struggling to try and force himself to take a step back. His body wasn't listening beyond that, however, a near-growl forming on his lips without his consent and hands about to lift to try and grab her again.

And then she slapped him. Actually slapped him (in the back of Sasuke's mind a voice was almost impressed). Sasuke's head snapped to the side and his hands froze in mid-air, a different pain resounding through his skull and fighting for space with the pain jolting from his shoulder and the ache of his empty stomach.

It was a damn blessing: Sasuke focused on that pain, seizing control over his body and mind with a burst of willpower that took him several steps back, body tense nearly to the point of shaking.

So that was the consequence of the bite of the reanimated dead. Less benevolent than that of a vampire, apparently. The hunger hadn't subsided and the scent of Sakura was still heavy enough that Sasuke could sense the consuming desire of his body to, well, consume. But that slap had given him something to pull him out of a stupor, and he was able to concentrate enough on the pain instead of the hunger to think clearly.

(... he owed Sakura, now. Damn it.)

"Get out of this room," he said once he was sure his voice was steady enough. Doubtless Sakura had figured it out by now as well; she'd always been smart enough intellectually, at least. "Find somewhere else far from here."

Re: Inside Residence #7

[see-my-back.livejournal.com]

Something was seriously wrong with Sasuke and the second after she let her hand fly, she already regretted it, but... whatever had hold of him seemed to weaken in that moment, and Sakura took a few steps back herself. She was concerned that whatever it was, it was strong enough to make even Sasuke give in. Dammit! It was like she was helpless in the forest of death in the Chuunin exams all over again!!

The Sakura then would've listened. She would've run from the room with tears falling down her cheeks and hidden until daylight. The thought was tempting, but she wasn't that same little girl anymore.

"I'm a medic-nin," she tried, "I want to help you. I might be able clear out what's causing it. Or at the very least stop it from spreading." She might've been able to handle Itachi as a living corpse, but fight Sasuke? Kill Sasuke? There was no way she could do that! "Please. Let me try."

Re: Inside Residence #7

[sasuke-of-sound.livejournal.com]

Sasuke was focusing on breathing steadily and carefully cataloguing every part of his body, remembering precisely how to move it and bend it to his own will. Compared to being chakra-confused for training in Sound (and the first few days of being blind), this was nothing. Sasuke was stronger than a stupid infection like this, anyway, chakra or no chakra; of that much he was certain.

That didn't mean that keeping the temptation of fresh human flesh around was a good idea. Sakura could take care of herself to at least some extent, so it wasn't a matter of needing to protect her from the other undead. At the very least she could make it to another house and barricade the door.

"You've already used plenty of chakra for one night," Sasuke snapped, impatient. "I can handle it. There's no need for you to be stupid and linger around danger when we've got what we came for already."

[human-sponge.livejournal.com]

Somehow, they had all managed to make it to a semblance of safety. There were still zombies around, but they weren't nearly as fast as the nurses or orderlies, who had apparently given up the chase. Peter wasn't sure where they were going to go from here, though. Did Sam have any sort of plan, or had it only extended as far as getting his brother to safety?

"Let's lean him against this wall," Peter suggested, motioning to the closest house with his head. He didn't start moving yet, though, since he wasn't going to do anything with Sam's brother until Sam actually confirmed that he was okay with it.

Speaking of which, Peter had to admit that he was extremely relieved that his own brother wasn't in Brian's condition. Peter frowned at the barely conscious man that he was holding up with one arm and then glanced at Sam. "What happened, anyway?"

[aleaderwillrise.livejournal.com]

Nathan watched the three, having just barely caught his breath. The smell lingering in the air wasn't a pleasant one, but Nathan took in large gulps of air, eager for what he assumed was a short respite. Looking from Sam to the sedated man, Nathan frowned a little. Considering they were carting him around, they were damn lucky to have gotten out of that scrape... but that was Peter, he reminded himself. Never stopping until he saved everybody.

It was almost frustrating, and yet after having his younger brother gone for so long, to be faced with a situation that was so unmistakably the work of his heart-on-his-sleeve younger brother made Nathan want to smile.

If he had to chance a guess at what this guy's problem was, he would assume the man was drugged. Nathan wasn't sure, exactly, how that could have happened, so he waited, watching Peter's friend, still trying to remain alert to the group's surroundings, just in case.

[boyking]

Either the nurses had been hindered by the fire or they'd decided it wasn't worth the chase, but they weren't there anymore and Sam didn't stop to question why.

He ducked onto the doorstep of one of the homes, not exactly a safe zone, but a short reprieve for now. He propped Dean up against the wall so that Peter could let go if he wanted; Sam held on, though, unwilling to stray even that far from his brother. He could feel Dean breathing, steady enough for now. His gaze darted out into the streets, not looking at Peter as he answered.

"Sedated," he said. "I think. I found him like this."

The zombies were slow, but that didn't mean they weren't advancing. They needed to go inside, but when he turned around, he realized he could actually see shadows of something moving through the distorted glass decorating the front door.

Maybe they should go inside a different house.

"We can't stay here. C'mon." He hustled Dean along a second time; the houses weren't spread too far which was good because it took them till the third house that Sam found it—all right, so it wasn't completely checked out, not by a long shot, but it looked empty and that was more than he could say for the others. He let go of Dean just long enough to break in the door with his shoulder, pushing Dean inside, one hand on the doorframe as he waited for the last of their little group to enter.

[human-sponge.livejournal.com]

It seemed like whatever Brian had done to get sedated, it had been pretty bad. Peter didn't recall anyone else remaining out of it for this long, or being in such a bad state that they couldn't even walk or function without help. It probably wasn't his business to ask how it had happened, though, and Sam had already explained that he had no idea.

Right now they need to focus on finding somewhere safe, and Sam seemed to think that one of these houses might be their best bet. Seeing how Peter didn't have any better ideas, he tried to help his roommate move his brother further along down the road until he stopped at a specific home.

When he realized that Sam was going to force the door open, Peter moved back, standing near Nathan until the coast was clear. He was about to follow after his roommate, but then he paused at the sound of a yell coming from somewhere closer to the center of town.

He sent Nathan a frown and turned himself around, staring in the direction of the noise as he let out a breath. He couldn't just go hiding when people might be in danger the same way Sam had been, could he?

"I should go back," he said, glancing over to Nathan. "You can come with me." There was no point in suggesting that Nathan stay behind, since he knew there was no way his brother would do that. He glanced at Sam over his shoulder. "Will you and Brian be okay?"

[aleaderwillrise.livejournal.com]

Nathan grabbed Peter's shoulder as soon as the words were out of his younger brother's mouth. His face was twisted in concern, the expression easily apparent on his face.

"No," he said, sternly. "No, Pete, we should stay here. We have to stay somewhere safe." The town was swimming with monsters -- it wasn't as if they had done this. It wasn't natural, but it wasn't their responsibility, either. He couldn't let Peter throw himself into dangerous situations. If he had his powers, that would be something different, but he didn't. He was a normal person -- they were all normal people with the same odds, and this kind of situation was every man for himself.

He'd already interrupted before Sam had a chance to answer Peter's question, but Nathan took the hand already on Peter's shoulder and firmly pulled him aside, glancing up to Sam with a quiet "give us a moment", a practiced move from his campaign.

He pulled Peter just a few steps away from the door frame, running a hand through his hair, and licking his lips. Nathan sighed, shaking his head once, his eyes on the ground before glancing up to meet Peter's, hard, unforgiving. "Pete," he said, slowly. "Don't be crazy. I know you want to help, but there's only so much you can do. Let's go with your friend." Be sensible, his eyes said, and he hoped Peter could read the sincerity in them.

[boyking]

Sam reached around and shut the door immediately without a word, not waiting to check if Peter had stepped through the doorway entirely or not. Bumping his roommate with the door was better than letting him get swarmed by zombies. Though it seemed Peter was thinking otherwise.

This was kinda what Sam had been afraid of. He couldn't deny that Peter's heart was in the right place, but—

He knew how revenants were killed and it sure as hell wasn't as simple as a shot to the head. He didn't want Peter jumping in without realizing that it took a silver stake and the corpse's original gravesite to take one down, but Peter's brother—it was his brother, Sam was almost sure of it now with their resemblance and the way they interacted—intervened before he could. He let them have their privacy. He figured someone closer to Peter might have a better shot at convincing him that it wasn't the safest plan to go heading out there right now.

Then again, it was exactly that that'd saved his and Dean's life and Sam knew that if it hadn't been for Dean's current state, he'd be out there, too. That need to do something, he knew it all too well. But at the same time, it wasn't Peter's job.

He sat Dean down on a small table by the door, a small pile of junk mail still sitting atop it. There was nothing around to barricade the door, nothing hefty enough, anyway, so he just kept an eye on it and hoped desperately nothing broke through as he peered at the cut on Dean's leg. He'd have to take care of that once they were more secure. Which needed to happen soon since hanging out right by a broken-down front door with windows all around? Not exactly the definition of safe.

He bit his lip, glanced over his shoulder. "I don't mean to interrupt, but we don't have a lot of time. Peter, if you go out there, you'll get yourself killed. You're not armed, and you can't arm yourself against revenants in the first place, not on the fly."

[human-sponge.livejournal.com]

Peter had been more than ready for opposition from his brother. If the man hadn't wanted him to run to Odessa to save a girl on a hunch, he certainly wouldn't want him going toe-to-toe with zombies, either. But Peter was sick of standing by while people got killed, and he was feeling invigorated by the fact that he had successfully managed to get Sam to safety, even if it hadn't taken that much effort on his part.

Tightening his jaw as Nathan pulled him aside, Peter made sure to at least hear his brother out before he protested. If he started interrupting, that would just make Nathan even more upset about the whole thing. Even in the darkness he could see the firmness in Nathan's eyes, but he felt his own stubborn nature rearing up.

It didn't really help when Sam got involved, and Peter wondered how his roommate could start lecturing him when he'd just as easily wandered around a dangerous institute at night when he'd first woken up here (and had dragged Peter along with him!). A zombie invasion was a little more extreme, yes, but...

"I know it's a risk, but... I have to take it," he said, glancing from Sam back to Nathan. "If we all go in that house it'll probably just attract more of them, and I don't think you can afford to get attacked again," he continued, giving Sam a pointed look.

He could hear the noise of carnage and running car engines and yells of pain coming from not too far back, and he didn't think he had it in him to just run and hide with his tail between his legs. He let out a breath and turned to fully face Nathan. "Please," he tried. "Let me do this."

[aleaderwillrise.livejournal.com]

Nathan looked from Peter to Sam, then sighed, his eyes moving to the floor for a moment. Really, he and Sam had both tried to get Peter to listen to reason, but Peter wouldn't, and Nathan couldn't really expect Sam to try any further. Sam had his own problems to worry about, if the sedated man he'd been hauling around was any indication.

Looking back up to his younger brother, Nathan sighed, but nodded carefully. "Not without me," he said, watching Peter. In this moment, Nathan thought, he could see how Peter was, in fact, his younger brother -- how he fit in the puzzle that was the Petrelli family, even when he often thought he didn't. It was that rock-solid determination, that conviction that once he set his mind to it that the task would be done that made Peter and Nathan so alike. It was, probably, the one characteristic that Peter had learned from their father, although Peter might be loathe to admit that. For a moment, Nathan wanted to suddenly pull Peter close -- he had his brother back, and Nathan wasn't sure he'd ever get over the joy he felt in knowing that -- but he refrained. It would be strange to do in front of other people.

Glancing towards Sam, Nathan muttered, "his mind's made up." If Sam knew Peter at all, he would know it was absolute. If not, well, he would learn that from this situation alone.

[boyking]

Peter had a point there. He couldn't afford another attack with Dean like this and the truth was, the one that he'd never be able to admit out loud, Sam didn't know how well he'd be able to protect Peter and his brother, anyway, when he had Dean to worry about.

Still, it didn't mean he had to like it. It was bad enough he'd already essentially abandoned the town. Then again, if Peter could do something about it—his roommate had mentioned abilities, so it could mean...and Peter wouldn't be alone.

Or maybe it was all simply him reaching for justifications as to why he was gonna let Peter go out there. Because he was. There was a part of him that thought he should try harder, but Dean needed him and time was running in short supply. Besides, years of growing up around both Dean and Dad, and yeah, Sam recognized that look. You didn't talk someone down from that without a lot of time and yelling. When a guy's own brother gave up, that was pretty much the end of the road.

He didn't nod, didn't acknowledge anything, just watched the both of them for several seconds. He wish he had something substantial to offer, but the reality was, he just didn't.

"Watch your back."

[annnd Sam's going up here, I guess?]