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

[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.