The World You Thought You Live In 9/12
Chapter 9
"Shit. Sam!" Frantically Victor searched for a pulse digging his fingers into the abused skin of Sam's throat. For long seconds he only felt his own heartbeat and harsh breathing but then he found a strong pulse.
"Good, that's good." He hold his fingers in place for a few seconds longer just to make sure. That was when he noticed that Sam wasn't breathing.
"C'mon, don't do this to me." Three minutes, three minutes. Three minutes without air. Like a mantra the words echoed through his mind. Tilting Sam's head he opened the airways and took in a deep breath to give to Sam.
"Do that and I'll shoot you myself." Sam's voice was raspy. He coughed but it came out as a weak wheeze.
"You scared the shit out of me." Victor laughed and it sounded only a little bit hysterical.
"Did it work?" The words sounded like Sam was chewing on broken glass. He pushed himself up on his elbows clearly fighting the dizziness. Victor shook his head and Sam fell back with his eyes closed. His lips were moving but except for a squeaking sound he was silent.
"Don't speak." If the expression on Sam's face was anything to go by even breathing hurt. Victor patted him on the shoulder. "Is there a plan B?" Sam didn't respond. They were so screwed.
Suddenly the world exploded into a cacophony of different noises. The meters whined. An inhuman howl. A gunshot. The screaming of metal on metal.
Out of the corner of his eye Victor caught sight of the knife in Libbey's fist. Which disappeared only inches from his skin. Victor turned around and noticed Dean who was leaning heavily against the door frame shotgun loosely in his hands, only his stubbornness holding him upright.
Victor opened his mouth to asked how the hell Dean even get on his feet in the first place but was cut off by the trap door. It moved by itself. Rusty hinges not used in decades gave away unwillingly but when the trap door reached the turning point and gravity took over, it crashed to the floor. Too bad Victor's leg was in the way. The edge of a thick board smacked into his flesh and Victor's words turned into a guttural yell.
Ignoring Victor's agony Sam crawled forward. On hands and knees he examined the dark hole beneath the door. Victor blinked away the tears one hand rubbing the spot where he could nearly feel the bruise growing. Nothing broken as far as he could tell. With the rest he could deal later. For now he followed Sam's example and didn't try to stand up. Another blast of Dean's shotgun reminded him that they were not alone. And they were running out of time.
"Cover me." Sam's voice was still a raspy whisper and he was trembling but it didn't stop him from climbing down the ladder into the darkness. So Victor bit back the pain and hold his flashlight with one hand and the shotgun with his other. Fully concentrated on Sam's way down he had to trust Dean to cover his back. Another shot told him he did. How Dean had managed to reload his gun in his condition was a mystery Victor hadn't the time to think about.
Sam reached the bottom.
Mouthing an "OK" he gave Victor the signal to climb down. What he did as quick as possible which wasn't very quick. The pain sent lances of fire up his leg with every step but he gritted his teeth and shoved it back in his mind. He could deal with the pain once they had gotten outa here alive.
Back to back they scanned the room with the beams of their flashlights.
"That sick bastard." Victor's beam highlighted a row of glasses on a shelf clearly arranged to catch attention. Conserved in alcohol eyes looked at the intruders. Not looking, staring. The light combined with the smoothing dust returned the sparkle of life to the eyes. Their stare followed Victor through the room. Just like old oil paintings only creepier. Victor swallowed dryly and tried to ignore them.
Sam pointed to their right. On a table - a torture rack - lay a mummified body. A woman with what had been once long red hair. Scully.
Scrambled on the floor they found the remains of Donald Libbey. Or what was left of him. If he didn't know that it had been a human body Victor could have mistaken the pile for a sick sculpture. Made by Picasso on LSD. It looked like an explosion to Victor but nothing else in the room seemed touched by it. Decades of dust had covered the worst of it. Thank god for small mercies.
Sam pressed the salt canister into Victor's hand. He nearly dropped the flashlight before he could get a grip around both objects. No way he was messing with the shotgun in his right.
Sam dashed forward. So did Libbey and Scully. The next minute was a blur.
At some point Victor crashed into the shelf and the glasses went down. With an uff the air was pressed out of his lungs and the pain was back in his abused ribs. He had almost forgotten. Damn.
The smell of alcohol stung into his nose and a cold liquid soaked his clothes. Trying to get up, his fingertips touched something round and bouncy. He shrieked back. Frigging eyes.
Dammit Victor. Get your lazy ass up and finish the job. Something crushed on the other side of the room. Victor could only hope it wasn't Sam.
Gathering his things Victor pushed himself up. He didn't dare to look down to see where the other eyes went and he didn't care. One or two burst under his shoes. The mixture of alcohol and gunpowder in the air along with the dust didn't help his breathing, his lungs felt like they were filled with rusty nails, but he limped back to the table and splattered Libbey's corpse with salt. As an afterthought he did the same with Scully's body.
At some point Sam had joint him, dozing the remains with the lighter fluid.
Sam dropped the empty canister to blast Scully away however he had a book of matches in hand the next second.
"Out!" Sam yelled. Considering the alcohol all over - especially on his clothes - Victor started toward the ladder. Sam was right behind him tossing the burning matches over his shoulder.
By the time he got out of the hole Victor could feel the heat. Turning around to help Sam up Victor suddenly stood face to face with Libbey. The ghost screamed his anger and frustration at him. Victor saw the knife coming but he had no time to raise the shotgun.
I'm dead. The thought was clear in his head. Just a simple fact. But then Libbey burst into flames and he was gone.
"Is it over?" Victor didn't trust his voice but he had to know. If Sam noticed the edge of panic he didn't show.
Knowing better than to speak Sam nodded with a weak smile. They helped each other to their feet and more important to stay upright. Leaning on the furniture Victor made his way back to Dean. Sam seemed more stable but he was still trembling.
"D'n." With new energy Sam sprinted the last steps to his brother. Dean lay on the floor in a puddle of blood. Unconscious.
"Is he alive?" Endless seconds later Victor reached Sam's site. The pain in his leg and ribs forgotten at the sight of the motionless Winchester.
Sam nodded and directed Victor toward Dean's feet.
"OK, got him." Victor adjusted his grip around the dangling legs and waited till Sam had the torso in a hold that reminded him of the Heimlich maneuver. Together they lifted Dean up who didn't even twitch. Damn, he was heavy and he was bleeding again.
Victor couldn't say from where they got the strength but they carried Dean out of the basement and the long way back to the car. Getting Dean settled into the back seat was another tricky moment but Sam seemed experienced at that. How often did you have to deal with this shit alone? Victor didn't asked that question loud but he wondered. What had Sam said to Dean to convince the older Winchester not to drive with a concussion? But this time I'm not bleeding to death in the back seat.
And now it was Sam behind the wheel. The way he squinted Victor wasn't sure he could even see the road probably. His breathing was labored and he was covered in sweat. For a second Victor was tempted to offer to drive. But he didn't. His right leg being busted was an excuse but not the real reason. As long as one of the Winchesters was capable of driving he wasn't aloud behind the wheel, he got that. So he didn't offer it.
Sam drove like a maniac to the hospital.
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