NIGHTSHIFT 26: M81-M90 HALLWAY
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Logan stepped into the hallway. He was sure that Parker would be fine by himself. There was no time to wait around, he had a rendezvous to keep. Moving swiftly, silently, he all but tore down the hallway.
Logan stepped into the hallway. He was sure that Parker would be fine by himself. There was no time to wait around, he had a rendezvous to keep. Moving swiftly, silently, he all but tore down the hallway.
The huntsman had noticed belatedly, as he sauntered toward M38, that Sam hadn't bothered with the essentials and had forgotten to tell him his room number. Rolling his eyes, Dean had retraced his steps despite the nurse's yabbering and left the bulletin note for his brain-dead brother. Sitting cheerlessly (the sudden energy boost suggesting he'd taken a short nap, in the mean time) while awaiting a response, it seemed the duration of dinner was spent there. Ultimately receiving a reply, he was being ushered into his room when the Institute's lights flicked off and the intercom crackled to life. A bit eerie, considering he'd only just closed the door.
Giving the winning smirk, Dean didn't acknowledge Kasady, merely grabbing the overcoat and flashlight from the closet before re-entering the hall with fizzing enthusiasm.
Man, the asylum got fairly loud at this time. Well, if his deductions were accurate, talk of the underground was all the fuss tonight. He'd thought of posting a warning message to the bulletin earlier that afternoon, sure, but that wasn't gonna prevent a bunch of reckless teens roaming downstairs unarmed.
The man gradually slowed to a halt when he reached a section of the layout he couldn't recall... He hadn't traveled this particular area previously. He knew the general location of M89... and if this block's arrangement was the same as others, then Sammy's room was right...
Here.
"Sam, open up!" He called sternly, rapping his knuckles on the door, the sound resonating sharply amid the hush in the hallway. Not that there was really a point in knocking... although he preferred the idea of the younger man using the room as a safehouse 'til the elder arrived, so Dean wasn't one to protest the use of manners, in this case.
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He pulled the door open only seconds after the knocking finished, with the sort of haste that suggested he had perhaps begun to entertain the notion of striking out ahead of time despite his promise; time was hard to measure, in full dark and with only the rhythm of his own breathing to tell how much had passed. The beam of his flashlight swept along the floor, angled so to give some illumination without risking glare. "There you are." The relief in his voice was barely disguised. His gaze swept out past Dean, casting down the hallway, what little he could see before it was swallowed by the dark. "Got a gameplan for tonight?" He was, for once, willing to defer without much argument, owing in no small part to the realization that he wasn't the one who'd been here for days, wasn't the one who knew how things worked.
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"No." He glanced back up at his brother, a nonchalant hand on his hip as he sighed. "But, wouldn't hurt to check things out, give the place a once-over, if possible. Think the monsters're bad? Well," the man tapped his flashlight on his forehead and then pointed it to Sam, "That ain't the half of it. This show's got a time limit. I say we go upstairs," he concluded, nodding more to himself. "Otherwise we could scout for a way south, to that basement I keep hearin' about, and, uh..." Smirking, he tilted his head. "Fall into a trap."
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"No idea. Usually it's lights-on when I'm gettin' somewhere fast." God, yeah. Shielding Elena from the twelve-year-old's nuclear blast; having a spider pounce at him; chatting with Signum; and then last night, with their not-so-touching reunion. Man, the nightshift schedule seemed out of wack big time, finally placed into perspective now his 'business partner' had it in his thoughts. The time constraint was one thing that escaped Dean entirely, and the fact one could choose to explore it, try to wrap their head around it, was a trap meant for the weak-minded. He was sure.
This joint was screwed up enough without worrying over something as trivial as time. It was like wondering if God existed and making a serious attempt to figure it out. The Head Doctor may as well have been a god, or demi-god, from where Dean was standing.
Heaving a tired sigh, he managed a slight smile at Sam.
"Well, you wanna do this or not? We could sit for a spell." Something apparently snapped inside him as the words passed his lips, and he visibly changed tact while he turned his gaze again, voice hardening a little. "But it'd be better to get a move-on. Plenty o' time for chatter tomorrow." If anyone in this world could read the signs on Dean's face, it was his own brother, so Dean was put into a rude kind of shock at suddenly needing his guard up. No scratching his head, no clearing his throat, no clenching and unclenching his fists.
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"Been sitting around all day," he replied, a faint, undefinable edge creeping into his voice despite that he was agreeing that there was little to be gained by holing up and talking. "I don't suppose there's anywhere we can find weapons around here?" He didn't sound hopeful, more as though he felt that the question simply needed to be asked, that he would be being lax if he did not make certain rather than just assuming the lack of armaments he'd seen meant there were none to be found.
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He rubbed a hand on his temple.
"Nope, though there was gossip about there being one in the Morgue yesterday. Doubt it's there now." The man clicked his tongue. "Whatever, let's just move. Likely we'll run into a distressed patient or two."
With that, he flipped the torch in his hand before switching it on. It was in the seconds to follow, where he aggressively shook the thing, that brought on realisation the batteries were dead.
"Crap. OK, guess you're in the lead," he mumbled, slipping the flashlight in one of his deep coat pockets instead of the ulterior desire to throw it on the floor.
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Then again, he wasn't entirely sure that an assumption that the morgue saw little enough traffic for something to go unnoticed would be entirely accurate.
One hand dipped to rummage in the pockets of his own coat until it closed around the spare set of batteries he'd stashed the night before. Two light sources, by his thinking, were better than one, and there was no guarantee they wouldn't become separated besides. He offered the batteries over with one hand, the other flicking the beam of his own flashlight more thoroughly along the hall in preparation for departure. "Here."
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Dean rolled his eyes when the batteries were offered to him, clearly daring the other to forward a comment. Something nagged for his attention as he swiftly popped in the spares, the beam of his revived flashlight illuminating a particular wound on his brother.
"Dude," he swiped Sam's arm up by the wrist, a troubled stare on the scarring he definitely didn't recall the younger man receiving. Not on his watch. "What the hell? I mean, I've said you shouldn't torture yourself, but..." Yeah, that was weak, even he could admit that.
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His entire frame stiffened as his wrist was snatched up, baring further the circle of marred flesh. His brow drew down into a scowl of frustration that was undermined, if only slightly, by a peculiar current of guilt. He did not quite look at his brother, gaze fixing just to the left as he replied, "Meg. Happened after your time, I guess." As explanations went, it was not perhaps the most enlightening, especially given that the events surrounding the woman's death, at least, had occurred before the divergence in their memories. But the evasion, coupled with the stubborn set of Sam's jaw, warned at his reluctance to give anything further.
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