And so cometh Chapter Eleven. I'll be honest, I'm a bit daunted by this whole 10+ chapter thing, I'm more of a one-shot kind of girl. At least they're short? _ aha, yes. ;) I'm going to get a bad reputation for oober-long fics if I keep this up. If you're still riding this daisy train, enjoy!
Jordan was barely awake, but already she knew something was different. She could move her fingers and toes, for one thing. The world around her had stopped spinning and after a few minutes of desperate blinking, edges began to appear through the fog, forming the shape of a room. An hour later—she was glad to find it felt like an hour later, and not simply an aimless drift through time—she could move, jerkily, and see as clearly as she ever had.
Moving and seeing, however, did absolutely nothing for her. She was in a concrete box with a single door, made of heavy-duty metal that boomed deeply when she struck it, telling her that it was thick enough to withstand not just bullets, but explosions. Fitted into this door, however, was something that made her violently, impossibly mad.
A camera.
"Are you watching this?" she shouted at the camera. "Are you enjoying this, you masochist? When I get out of here, I'm going to kill you! I am going to kill you, you understand me?"
She kicked the door a few times, punched it once, yelled in pain, and switched instead to hammering her fists against the door. It didn't do any good, but it was still a long time before she settled down and sank back down the floor. Her whole body ached from the sudden movement, after days and days of not moving at all, and her knuckles throbbed so badly she regretted—only a little—punching the door.
Once she'd caught her breath, she found herself wondering why there was a camera at all. So that it could keep tabs on her? It had lackeys for that, plenty of them. And—and this was the question that really sank a rock into her stomach—why wasn't she being drugged anymore?
Sam and Dean were hunkered down in a library and trying, as best as they could, to figure out a way to a) track down the John Smith baykok and b) shut down any and all mojo aforementioned John Smith baykok may be flinging around. Tracking the baykok would (in all likelihood) lead to them running headlong into battle, so they brothers mutually agreed, without actually saying so, to work on the mojo problem first.
The library they were sitting in was small by public standards but enormous by hunter standards, which is to say, it catered to hunters only; it was one of the benefits of hunting in Long Island. The shelves were mahogany, the carpet was thick and plush, and the desk jockey who'd been doubling as receptionist and welcoming committee wore silks and diamonds. ("Dude," Dean had said to Sam, leaning in close to whisper, "this is like a country club for hunters!") The library didn't have a name—except The Library—and existed in a deep corner of an old mansion that looked like something out of Jane Austen.
It was Bobby who had gotten them in, and he'd advised them to wear nice clothes, which had seemed entirely ridiculous to the boys right up until the moment they pulled in the driveway. Dean kept tugging at his jacket like it made him uncomfortable—because it was from his waiter's uniform, and was far too small—but Sam fit right in, because, of course, he had the Armani jacket that Jordan had nicked for him. The secretary-slash-receptionist gave Dean a scathing look and ignored Sam. He took this to mean (or hoped that it meant) that she had found nothing amiss with him.
They were sitting in overstuffed leather chairs, books and maps and sheaves of parchment arranged on every available space, including the arms of their chairs and their laps. The library had everything a hunter could ever want—Dean had made half a dozen explanations and began hastily writing in their dad's journal every time, with the gleeful excitement of a child for whom Christmas has arrived early—but it did not seem to have what they wanted. Needed.
Sam let out an explosive sigh and threw aside a book from 1654, worth enough money to retire on. His eyes were so tired he was seeing double, and except for a few glancing mentions of "forest demons" in the upper Great Lakes area, he'd found absolutely nothing on baykoks.
"Nothing," he murmured, leaning his head back against the chair. "Nothing at all. You?"
Dean shook his head, making a frantic entry onto a free page of dad's journal, and ending it with a flourished symbol that looked almost Chinese but included a shape Sam knew to be Enochian. "Haven't come across a single reference to the things, let alone mojo that'd wipe the slate clean. I'm starting to think it doesn't exist, man."
"That is because," a stiff British voice drawled, "you do not know where to look."
Both Winchesters jerked around in their seats, looking up at a hawk-nosed old man with electric blue eyes, his skin paper-white and creased with a thousand minute wrinkles. His mouth was a thin, lipless line that did not seem to stretch far enough for real expression. He regarded them coolly for a long moment, and then walked to the middle of the little circle of chairs that seemed to designate the study area, his steps each precisely the same distance apart, laid down firmly as if as from the result of great premeditation.
Dean had seen a lot of things in his day. He'd never seen anything that gave him the willies like this guy.
"Who are you?" Sam asked, when it became clear that Dean wouldn't. His brother seemed to be paralyzed, staring up at the old man with badly disguised trepidation.
"I," announced the old man, eyes blazing with pride, "am the Librarian."
Dean's mouth fell open a little.
Before either brother could speak, the Librarian reached into the pocket of his ancient black suit coat and pulled out a sleek black device, about the size of a paperback book, and thin as a sheet of paper; the light caught along its edge and seemed to catch there, glimmering in fat droplets. Lifting a long skinny finger, the Librarian touched it, and its black color immediately vanished, becoming clear and emitting a faint light.
"The baykok files," he told it, monotonously. "And—" His gaze flicked briefly to Sam, then back down to the device. "Cleansing spells, alpha classification, if you please."
It beeped in his hand and turned black, and the Librarian slipped it gently back into his pocket. He clasped his hands behind his back. "Now," he said. "What else may I acquire for you gentlemen?"
"If you're not a friend of Bobby Singer," Sam ventured, "what does it usually take to get in here?"
The Librarian lifted a long, elegant eyebrow. "Membership to the Library requires a donation of fifty thousand US dollars," he replied. Dean made a cough that sounded almost like a gag. The Librarian paused, eyes trained pointedly away from Dean, before adding, "Per visit."
This time Dean really did gag. His collar seemed suddenly too tight, for he was tugging at it frantically.
"Of course for a … shall we say, slightly higher benevolence, we do give lifetime memberships," continued the Librarian. "I am not authorized to speak as to exactly what this sort of generosity might embody, but I am quite sure you'll think of something." And he smiled. Or tried to: his lips gave a curious waggle and his eyes crinkled ominously as if the muscles there were being forced into something they'd never tried before.
"Right," said Sam, thinking on this. The Library clearly owed Bobby some sort of debt, although he doubted it was of the lifelong kind; he felt a pang of remorse that Bobby wouldn't get to use up his one visit himself. Sam decided they'd best make use of it. "Can you make photocopies of any of this, by any chance?"
The Librarian inclined his head gently.
"In that case, I'd like copies of your oldest manuscripts," said Sam, ignoring the fast look Dean sent his way. "A copy of the sixth-century hunter's bible, if you have it, and everything you have on warding spells—"
Dean had caught on. "And weaponry, and tracking—"
"—any records you have on confirmed unsolved paranormal crimes—"
"—a map of all the hell-gates would be great too—"
"—a list of all magically beneficial plants and herbs—"
"—ooh, and some coffee," Dean finished, grinning. The Librarian was looking pinched in the face, at there were little spots of white appearing on his cheeks that suggested that under the stone-cold expression of his face, he was actually furious. But he got out his paper-thin device again, and walked off, steadily muttering into it. Before he disappeared amongst the shelves, Sam distinctly heard him say, "And make a notation: if Bobby Singer ever calls again, tell him to burn."
Dean looked as cheerful as he had terrified. "Would a high-five be too much?" he wondered, and although Sam thought it probably was, he lifted his hand anyway, and gave a good-natured roll of his eyes when Dean said, "Nah, forget it." Sam kept his hand aloft, patient, until Dean snuck a look at him and said, "Ah, what the hell," and gave Sam a high-five that left his hand smarting and red.
"Feel better?" Sam asked mildly.
"Hell yes," said Dean, grinning. "I think we just got ourselves a first-class ticket to Save-Jordan-town."
Sam felt a real smile quirk his lips for the first time in days, a sudden rush of elation filling his chest. His brother was right. This was it. This was what they had needed.
We're coming, Jory, he thought.
