Set in season 8, between Everybody Hates Hitler and Trial and Error. The boys have the Bunker, but are still getting to know it. Reviews very welcome!
It was dark. That's how it started. Not lights off, curtains closed in the middle of the night dark. Not inside of your eyelids dark, where the darkness has depth and texture and little floaters if you squeeze your eyes shut tighter. It was deep in a cave, fifty feet underground darkness, the kind where you can hold your hand an inch from your face and still not see a damn thing.
Sam was researching in the Bunker library, last thing he remembered. It was late, he was tired, and not being long back from a hunt hadn't helped. Still, he'd wanted to learn some more about the Judah Initiative, and decided to research whilst it was still fresh in his mind. Dean had called it a night, heading for his room for an evening with a glass of Jack and the best of Zepp. The faint sounds of 'When The Levee Breaks' had followed. Sam had tuned it out, sat down at the table with an open book, and – he assumed – fallen asleep face down in the fine print.
His first thought was that the power had gone out. He dug in his pocket to get out his phone and pressed the button to light up the face of it. Nada. Frowning, he felt around on the table for one of the lamps, and flicked the switch several times uselessly before realising that, stupid of course it's not going to work with the power out. He stood up, the chair scraping slightly on the floor, and fished his Zippo from his other pocket. Flicking it caused it to light – he could tell by the faint and fleeting smell of lighter fluid and ozone, and the warmth around his hand – but there was no visible flame, no illumination. That's when the adrenalin and first stirring of fear kicked in. He pocketed the lighter and turned in a slow circle. Nothing. "Dean?" he called. The sound was muted, and didn't echo. "DEAN!" he tried again, raising his voice to a shout. He might as well have been whispering for all the good it did. He took a deep breath, and started feeling his way around the table. If he could get to the control room, maybe he could figure out what was going on.
Dean had his headphones on. Sitting back in his chair, feet up on the desk, he was enjoying the music with his eyes half closed. The whisky glass was empty beside the chair, and he was pleasantly buzzed. Without warning, the music stopped dead and the darkness dropped like a blanket. Power cut was his first thought as well, but he was more annoyed than worried, his buzz and the enjoyment of the music interrupted. "Son of a bitch.." he muttered, getting to his feet and putting a hand out to steady himself on the desk. There was a crunch underfoot and sharp pain, and he cursed loudly as shards from the forgotten whisky glass embedded themselves into the sole of his right foot. "GODDAMMIT! SAM!" He took a large step forward to avoid any more glass, and bumped into the bed. Glad of the safety, he sat down on it heavily. Just as Sam had, he tried both phone and Zippo without success. More cursing, and he resorted to careful probing with his fingers to check the sole of his foot. He winced as he came across several sharp pieces of glass, and pulled them free. His foot was wet and warm, bleeding freely. Pulling out his knife, he cut strips from his bed sheets haphazardly, and did his best to bind his foot in the dark. Then, standing up and gingerly testing his weight, he limped towards the door, arms outstretched and searching for it. When he reached the door frame, he braced himself against it, and shouted into the darkness again. "SAMMY!" It was only then that he realised how muffled sounds were. He took out his knife again, flicked it open, and started limping down the corridor, his other hand feeling the way along the wall.
In the darkness behind him, something moved silently. It crouched down to the floor, and wiped long, thin fingers across a smear of blood left by Dean's bandaged, bleeding foot. Lifting fingers to its mouth, it licked them delicately, and smiled.