Stealth (A Tyburn Poem)
Slickest
Sickest
Thickest
Quickest
Stealing in its Slickest, Sickest way.
Evil at night's Thickest, Quickest comes.
© 2009, Vanessa Sgroi
It took Sam a bit longer than ten minutes to reach the car, gather and stow what he thought he might need, and make it back to the hospital room despite the fact that he kept his pace at a jog. When he pushed through the door, now accompanied by his laptop and a duffel full of basic hunter weaponry and equipment, Sam found Nurse Martin standing by Dean's bed, staring down at him intently with the tiniest of smiles gracing her face. Dean, for his part, lay completely still staring heavy-lidded at the door. Sam saw him visibly relax when he caught sight of him crossing the threshold.
He dropped the canvas duffel bag by the leg of his chair and sat the laptop down on the bed next to his brother's hip. "Hey, thanks, Monica. I really appreciate you staying with him."
She turned her luminescent green gaze toward him. "Certainly not a problem at all, Mr. Stanley," she purred, "Considering how luscious your brother is, it was my pleasure." The nurse winked and licked her bottom lip.
Nonplussed, the younger man watched her leave the room, a curious quirk in his eyebrow. He turned his attention to Dean. "You okay? She…uh…didn't like…do…anything, did she?"
"Wha?" Dean's gaze tracked Sam as he sat down in the chair next to the bed and settled the computer on his lap.
Sam studied his brother's face for a second. "Nevermind." He pushed the power button on the side of the computer, waiting for the pinging and twanging of the boot up to cease before speaking again. "So, you said you saw shadows? Is there anything distinctive about them at all?"
Dean battled the concussion-induced haze and struggled to answer Sam's question. "Cold."
"You're cold?" Sam sat forward, started to reach for the covers to adjust them, but his brother's next words stopped him.
"No, it's cold—they're cold. And hot."
"Cold and hot? That doesn't make any sense. Wait—you said 'it' then changed it to 'they're'—does that mean there are more than one?"
"Of many, one."
Sam waited for more but Dean's eyelids fluttered closed as his body finally gave in to his injuries.
The younger man reached out and rested a palm against his brother's forehead, smiling when Dean unconsciously turned into the touch. A fleeting moment of comfort readily and easily given but rarely accepted less it compromise his patented Winchester stoicism.
(SN) (SN) (SN)
Monica Martin sauntered down to the Nurses' Station and dropped down in a seat next to Ursula behind the counter. "Mmm, that man in 4-22 is just so scrumptious. All that long, lean muscle…"
Ursula looked up from the crumpled paper she was studying. "Bah! A feckless womanizer that one. You can tell just by looking at him. Mark my words, that handsome face of his hides a devil."
Monica giggled, a dreamy look stealing across her face. "Oh, Ursula, you just don't recognize a tasty morsel when you see one. That's too bad."
Nurse Perdue scowled. "The sooner he's gone, the better. I'm going to go get some coffee. Mooning over that worthless man isn't going to get that paperwork done, Nurse Martin."
(SN) (SN) (SN)
Setting the laptop aside for a moment, Sam pulled the EMF meter from the depths of the duffel bag and quickly scanned the room. The indicator lights didn't so much as flicker. Stowing it back in the bag, Sam grabbed his canister of salt and made a circle around the hospital bed before returning to his seat.
He settled the computer in his lap, rubbing vigorously at a crick in the back of his neck. Unsure where exactly to start researching, Sam called up his favorite search engine and typed in "shadows". Great only 90,100,000 hits. He backtracked and typed in "bodach". Better—only 190,000 hits. A quick glance at the top-most hits though proved the information to be basic and vague. Sam tried several more variations on the bogeyman terminology, but none of it seemed very useful. After an hour, he sat back with a groan and rubbed his eyes. Muttering a curse, Sam reached in his bag and grabbed his dad's journal, paging through it quickly until he found the single page headed "Bogeyman/Bugbear". A perusal of John's cramped handwriting revealed little in the way of clues and Sam sighed in frustration. He was about to slam the book shut when a cryptic scribble in the corner caught his attention. Thoen. There was a question mark after the word but that was all. An internet search turned up nothing. His frustration and confusion ratcheted up a notch. Could Dean have merely dreamt the shadows—a side effect from the concussion?
Sam stood and stretched his arms toward the ceiling, his back popping as he worked out the kinks caused by the uncomfortable chair. Unwilling to disturb Dean as he slept, Sam slipped out the door, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket as the door shut against his back. He quickly scrolled through his list of numbers and hit "Send" when he found the one he wanted.
"Calling this time-a night, this had better be damned good." The growl was a shade more gravelly and raspy than usual.
"Bobby, sorry to be calling so late."
"Sam? What can I do for ya? Somethin' tells me this ain't a social call."
"Yeah, guess you know me too well, huh?"
"Know you AND that brother of yours too well. What's wrong?" There was a hint of worry in his tone.
"I don't know. I don't know if anything's wrong really."
"Well, that's about as clear as mud."
"I'm here with Dean in the hospital, and I need…"
"Wait—hospital? Ah, hell, which one of ya got hurt? Or is it both of you?"
"Just Dean. We were on a job, and he got tossed around. I was worried about a blow he took to the head so I brought him in. Concussion, cracked ribs—well, they were just cracked when I brought him in—a badly sprained wrist."
"So he's gonna be okay then?"
"Yeah, but…"
"But?"
"There's something weird going on at this hospital—maybe."
"Why am I not surprised? You two could find trouble at a tea party."
Sam couldn't help but chuckle. After all, it was basically the truth. He proceeded to explain Dean's phone call, his headlong flight down the stairwell that further aggravated his injuries, and his assertions about the mysterious shadows. "And I can't seem to find anything useful, Bobby. At least not on the computer or even in Dad's journal. That's why I called you."
"You sure this is nothin' more than the concussion talkin'?"
Sam sighed and began to pace as Bobby echoed his earlier thoughts. "Honestly? I don't know. Dean's had concussions before which I know you know. We've sacked out at your place enough times recovering. They've made him loopy, disoriented—sometimes even belligerent. But they've never put this hunted look in his eyes. Besides, my gut says something weird's going on."
"And nothin' comes up on EMF you say?"
"Not so far."
"Not too many things out there that stealthy. Your daddy's journal really was no help?"
"He's got a page on bogeymen and bugbears. And of course, Daevas. I don't see much else that refers to shadows. Oh, and he has one word scribbled in the corner of the page on bogeymen. It says 'Thoen' but there's a question mark next to it."
Bobby sucked in a breath. "Death Shadows."
(SN) (SN) (SN)
He was running. Full out running. Quivering legs pumping. Muscles stretching and cramping in protest. Breath bellowing in huge, desperate gulps, sawing viciously across the back of his raw throat as he tried to escape his predator.
The prone hunter shifted restlessly on the bed, arms and legs twitching, eyelids fluttering.
Terror filled him as he realized the futility. They were merely playing with him. Surrounding him. Dark tendrils poking and prodding, offering acid kisses that burned like fire. Teasing him…before they devoured him…
(SN) (SN) (SN)
Sam's heart skipped a beat. "Death Shadows? Bobby, what're you talking about?"
"Thoen. They're Death Shadows. It's an obscure reference which is why there isn't more in the journal. From what you described, I think your brother's been targeted somehow. Did he say they touched him, Sam?"
"No—no, he didn't say…but…"
A stifled cry from inside Dean's room suddenly drew Sam's attention. "Bobby, hang on." Sam turned and rushed the few paces back to the door, sending it flying inward with an outstretched arm. He skidded to a stop at the sight that greeted him.
An unbroken ring of fluidly sinuous, roiling, ink-black shadows surrounded Dean's bed.
TBC…