Here's the next installment, and—surprise—Dean is in trouble again.
The walls of the hallway started pulsating in and out, groaning under the strain. Paint peeled in chunks and fell upward toward the ceiling and evaporated. As he stood spellbound, a hole on the wall expanded; chunks of plaster hurled outward with a cloud of dust.
The walls pulsed outward again, and a jet of blood spewed from the hole, hitting him in the chest. He recoiled, stumbling back into a wall only to jump away from it when it moved violently against his back. A decaying arm thrust itself out of the gaping hole, reaching—
Dean bolted; his bare feet thudded hard against the tiles. Ceiling lights exploded and rained glass on him as he ran underneath them. Doors flew open and slammed against the walls. Carts slid across the floor into his path.
He made it to the stairwell and started down the steps. All light extinguished when the door slammed behind him. He kept his hand on the railing so he wouldn't slip on all the blood running down his body. He took another step down and splashed ankle deep into freezing water.
He pulled his foot back up onto the previous step and hesitated there, gasping for breath and clinging to the railing. The railing moved under his hand, coiling around his wrist like a livid snake, and he automatically relinquished his hold. Off-balance, he tumbled headfirst down the staircase—
Dean plunged into the water.
His mouth opened in an involuntary scream as the icy water cut through him and filled his throat. He turned and kicked off the bottom, reaching his hands up toward the surface.
They smacked a pane of glass. Heart rate rising, Dean slammed his fists against the glass again and again, trying to break through. He peered upward through the pane, desperately trying to think of a way out, and the back of his oxygen deprived mind recognized that Alma was kneeling on the glass above him, glaring down with eyes aflame.
Yellow spots obstructed his vision and danced across his line of sight. His hearing faded to a dim whoosh of liquid under his hands. He slammed his fists once more against the glass, scraping his knuckles deeply and breaking fingernails. Blood flowed from his wounds, clouding the water.
The glass cracked.
She leapt up; eyes widened, then narrowed in fury. She screamed.
Unable to think of anything but survival, Dean pounded the glass again; this time his fist broke the surface and he reached both hands up through the hole to make it bigger, gouging his hands and wrists in the process. Blood poured over the glass, and seemed to melt the material on contact. The dislodged shards of glass sank to the bottom of the pool. He raised his head and shoulders through the hole and gasped air into his lungs.
After a few long seconds he peeked up at Alma; she was watching him in disbelief. He didn't care.
Dean spat out a few mouthfuls of water and heaved himself up out of the water with shaking arms. He fell to his knees on the glass, coughing.
Alma screeched, furious. He looked up at her, tiredly, and felt his gaze fall instead on something behind her. A shadow hovered near the floor, a dark mist that was bent over and oddly familiar.
"Sam?"
Alma and the shadow disappeared with a flash.
The lights flickered back on. Glass turned back to tiled flooring, water dried up, paint chips flew back down to cover the walls. Upstairs, nurses chattered in the hallway.
Dean held his gouged arms against his soiled shirt; blood—his? Alma's?— flowed freely from the severed veins. He stood up slowly, using only his legs. His waterlogged jeans seemed enough to pull him back down, but he remained standing. "Sam?" he whispered weakly.
No answer. Of course. Dean thought, taking a wobbly step in the wrong direction. I've lost him again. Like socks in a drier or that stupid underwater city or all that treasure in that Nicholas Cage movie… uh…
His train of thought hit a wall, curled up into the air and spun. He gave up on thinking.
Dean stumbled upon the stairs and descended a few while gripping the rail, slicking it with blood as he moved. Instead of stopping, the blood from his wrists soaked into his shirt and dripped onto the floor. With dim interest he realized that, while his vision was back to normal, everything the blood touched was changing. The rail was sizzling, glowing with an iridescent light. Dime sized holes burned through the floor where it landed. His shirt was disintegrating.
Wearily he stumbled through the last few steps and reached the bottom. There was a door in front of him. Well, it made sense for there to be one door. It currently looked like three doors. Three blurring, stretching doors, each about a football field away from where he stood.
Dean's knees collapsed and he fell forward, unable to even feel the pain of the fall. He breathed out shallowly, vaguely aware that he was dying. The bloody ground felt warm and comfortable.
Clicking heels clattered against the floor beside him, interrupting the stillness. He didn't have enough energy to raise his head. Someone shouted something, frantic. The words all blurred together.
He blacked out.
Yeah, it's a short chapter. The next one will be longer, I promise, I already have it written. And Sam will be there. I just wrote it while waiting FOREVER at the technology building to get my computer updated for graduation. Lovely. Anyway, leave a review.