Sam was making slow progress trying to find his way to the control room. The complete darkness was disorienting. He'd tripped on something innocuous – an uneven floorboard, most likely – and when he got up again, he wasn't sure which way he was facing. There weren't even any echoes in his movements to give him at least some sense of space or distance. He frowned, and pictured the room in his mind's eye; tables in the centre, stone columns, bookcases. If he could get to a bookcase, he could trace his way around the room to the doors, and then down the corridor to the control room. He got down onto his hands and knees, and felt his way across the floor. His head found one of the stone columns first, bumping into it lightly. Muttering a curse, he stood up carefully, and with a little more confidence, he started walking around the room with both hands on the bookcases. As he moved, his fingers brushed against something sharp, and he realised what it was – the scimitar Dean had taken a fancy to. He smiled to himself; now he knew which side of the room he was on. He kept moving.
Dean limped down the corridor with grim determination. This was more than a power cut, and he was going to get to the bottom of it. The floor disappeared briefly beneath him, and he let out a muted cry that was cut off when his foot hid solid stone again. Just the steps, he told himself, shaking his head at his jitters. Two down, and left to the library. If Sam was still there, they could figure this out together. He rounded the wall at the bottom of the steps, and then stopped dead, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Someone or something was there in the darkness with him, behind him. He couldn't see it, but he could sense it – that gut instinct he'd come to trust as a hunter. Straining to listen, he even thought that he heard that something breathing. Pushing slightly away from the wall, he spun around quickly, slashing out with the knife. The tip of it caught briefly on something, and there was a hiss and a shuffle, but his second swing only sliced air. "I know you're there, you son of a bitch," Dean growled. A slightly louder movement behind him caught his attention, and he turned and swung again. The blade connected, and the familiar cry of pain stopped him short. "Sammy?!" He dropped the knife, and grabbed out blindly, his hands bunching at the fabric of his brother's shirt. "Sam, jesus. I'm sorry, I thought—are you ok? Talk to me!"
Sam hissed an intake of breath, one of relief at his brother's voice and pain from the slice of the knife. "Dean? Dammit, you sliced my shoulder," he said through gritted teeth. "What the hell is going on?"
Both of their voices muffled by the mysterious darkness sounded little more than whispers, but Dean sagged a little in relief at the assurance he hadn't hurt Sam badly. "There's something in here with us," Dean said. "I grazed it, I know I did. I think it's the reason for this freaky ass darkness. We gotta try and get some light in here."
"No kidding," Sam replied. "I was trying to get to the control room but if this is some kind of magic that's not gonna do a damn thing. How in the hell did this thing get in here, anyway?" he muttered.
"Let's work that one out after we've killed it," Dean said darkly. "We need to see what we're doing first, and I gotta get some damn shoes on. We'll get through the library and outside. Maybe we can dig up some stuff from the arsenal in the trunk. You got some books in there, right?"
Sam huffed a wry laugh. "Specific to this situation? Not likely, but can't hurt to look."
"Alright. Better than no plan at all," Dean said. "C'mon. I'm pretty sure my foot's still bleeding, and your shoulder's got to be." He bent down and groped around until he found the dropped knife then stood again. Arms around each other's waists, the boys moved carefully through the darkness back into the library.
The thing behind sniffed the air. Two prey. More blood. Dropping low to the ground to avoid being a target again, it followed their scent. Its eyes might have been underdeveloped, but its other senses were sharp as a knife, and the protective miasma of darkness it exuded was better than any camouflage.
