~*~Hey guys! Sorry I missed this on Tuesday. I was gone for the entire day. :P Just a little update-I've caught up in Supernatural and now have to become like everyone else, waiting on the edge of my seat from week to week. Inside Man, whew! Probably one of my favorites thus far of Season 10. Enjoy this episode! ~*~
After putting their stuff away, Sam changed into a pair of gym shorts and an old, bleached-red t-shirt, and headed to the end of the hallway, where the library-pool door had been teasing him for the last two days. He pushed open the door and inhaled the familiar scent of chlorine and mold, just like every other indoor pool he'd ever visited in his life.
The Olympic-sized pool sat at the front of the room, with several deck chairs scattered along one side of the tiled floor. There was even a bin to one side with a stack of pool towels. Beyond the pool, shelves of books stretched away as far as he could see.
Sam skirted around the pool and walked to the closest shelf, running his fingers along the spines. How was the Doc keeping them in such good condition with the humid air? There were all sorts of books—history, fiction, self-help, theology, mythology—but this particular shelf seemed to be dominated in classic science fiction. I, Robot; Dune; Ender's Game; Ray Bradbury's Martian Chronicles…they were all there, all the science fiction books Sam had remembered reading as a kid, and a few he'd forgotten about. He pulled out Lucky Starr and the Space Pirates, written by Isaac Asimov under the pen name Paul French, and grinned.
"This is sweet," he whispered, paging through the slim novel. It smelled just like his copy of the Lucky Starr series had—old, musty, just a hint of cigarette smoke clinging to the pages from the old second-hand store where he'd found it.
He looked up. "You're doing this, aren't you?" he asked the TARDIS. "Pulling these things from my memories?"
The TARDIS whistled.
"Anywhere else, that'd just be creepy."
He took the novel back to the pool and stretched out on one of the deck chairs. Despite the clammy air, the temperature of the room was perfect, not too cold like some indoor pools, and not filled with humid fog like others. If he closed his eyes, Sam could imagine he was sitting at an outdoor pool with the sun shining on him.
He let himself get lost in the pulp sci-fi story. He and Dean kept a stack of used books in a box in the back seat, occasionally trading them out at a used bookstore when the box was overflowing, but it was a rare moment that he had all the time in the world to read like he wanted.
A splash pulled him from the story. Sam lowered the book. Amy was floating on her back in the pool. She turned to treading water as he sat up.
"Finally," she said. "I was wondering when you were going to notice someone else was here. What're you reading?"
Sam smiled and tucked the book between the chair arm and seat. "Just an old story I remember from when I was a kid. What's up? What time is it?"
"Mid-afternoon. John said he tried to call you for lunch, but you didn't answer. He thought you were still mad at Sherlock for what had happened."
Sam grimaced. He was, but he hadn't meant to snub the others.
The door swung open, and the Doctor barreled through, wearing an old-fashioned red swimming suit with white stripes around the legs. He jumped off the tile and curled, landing in a neat cannon ball next to Amy. She yelped as water splashed over her. As the Doctor came up for air, Amy shoved him down again, laughing.
"Is Dean back yet?" Sam asked, moving to the side of the swimming pool. He let his legs dangle in the water.
The Doctor came up, gasping, and moved out of Amy's reach. "No, he's not."
Sam frowned.
"Is that bad?" Amy asked. "He's really mad at Sherlock, isn't he?"
Sam shrugged. "He gets like that. He'll be okay—better just let him come back when he's ready, rather than pushing him."
Besides, he wasn't ready to let go of this. It felt good, just relaxing like this, like he hadn't relaxed since he and Dean had started hunting together again. It was good to have a break from his brother's intensity.
"Did you get a chance to look through the data from the Cyberman ship?" he asked the Doctor.
"The TARDIS is running through it now. She'll let us know when it's ready. In the meantime—" The Doctor jumped at him.
Sam started to jerk away, but the Doctor managed to grab his forearm. The alien had quite a bit of strength despite his skinny-as-a-rail look, and he yanked Sam into the pool. Sam stumbled, struggling to find his footing, and Amy pressed down on his shoulders, dunking him.
Sam squirmed free and stood up, spitting water. He brushed his hair back from his eyes and squinted past the streaming water. The Doctor was already halfway across the pool, grinning like a madman. Amy was closer. Sam splashed her, making her yelp, and despite himself, despite Dean's anger and the Vashta Nerada and his own freakishness, a huge grin began to stretch across his face.
He took off after the Doctor.
Oh yeah, I could definitely get used to this.
###
He tried calling Dean several times after he finally got out of the pool, but his brother didn't answer.
"Really, Dean?" he said, leaving one more voicemail. "I'm not coming to get you. Man up and come back to the TARDIS already. This is stupid."
Sherlock was surly at dinner, only coming into the kitchen long enough to snatch a plate of lasagna that someone—Sam thought it was the Doctor—had made, before going back to the living room and staring at their lists, pacing as he ate. Sam noticed a few more pages had been stuck to the wall, but he didn't really want to interact with Sherlock long enough to ask what they were.
It was awkward with Sherlock completely ignoring him after dinner, so before long Sam made an excuse to go back to his room. He took the Lucky Starr novel with him, thinking he'd need something to read while he waited for Dean to call—because he had to call. Soon.
But the last few days caught up to him, and within minutes of stretching out on his bed to read, Sam felt himself slide into sleep.
The harsh ringing of his phone woke him. Sam jerked upright. The lights in their room had turned off, just the glow of the phone screen illuminating the bedspread beside him. Sam grabbed the phone and brought it up to his ear.
"Hey."
"Sam?"
"Dean? Where are you?" He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, fumbled at the bedside table.
"Back at Wetmore Landing."
"Why are you there still?" His fingers found the switch and pressed it. The sudden light made him cringe.
"I just stayed at the car. Thought maybe I should just let everything cool down. And then I heard it. Sam, I heard a wendigo."
Sam frowned. "Are you drunk?" Because that would be like Dean, sitting in his car and stewing and drinking until he was dead to the world. But Dean didn't sound drunk…
"What? No! I might have had a couple of beers, but I'm not drunk! I know the difference between drunk and monsters. Just get here, now, okay? And don't tell anyone."
"Why not?"
Dean swore. "Because I'm not in the mood for the Doctor's self-righteous preachin' and Sherlock's holier-than-thou attitude, okay?"
Sam snorted. "I don't think those words are exactly what you're looking for…"
"Blah, blah, blah, Sammy. Get here. Now." The phone went silent.
Sam dug his fingers into the plastic case and brought the phone up, ready to throw it—then dropped it on the bed and sighed. Drunk or not, he couldn't just ignore his brother. He got up and changed, stuffing a pistol into the waistband of his jeans as he cracked open their door.
A low light shone from the kitchen, but other than that the hallway was dark. Sam checked his watch. Almost three in the morning. He sighed and crept through the hall, hoping the TARDIS wouldn't be in one of her chatty moods, hoping she wouldn't alert the Doctor…
He got through the console room and out the front door without so much as a peep from the spaceship.
Once he was outside, Sam broke into a run. He crossed the channel, shivering at the chill the water left in the cold night air. The sky was clear, the stairs bright pinpricks as he scrambled up the sand dunes and back into the woods on the mainland.
He slowed down a careful walk, letting his eyes adjust to the dark pine woods. The stars and moon got a little bit of light through the thick needles, but not nearly as much as he wanted. But he didn't want to risk a flashlight. If Dean was right, if there was a monster out here, a flashlight would only be a beacon.
If Dean was right—had they been wrong about the missing people? Had the Cybermen only been part of the problem, and a wendigo really had been here, just like Dean had originally thought?
He could barely make out the yellow safety gate now, and the darker shadow that was the car, sitting in the empty gravel lot.
"Dean?" he hissed, his own heart jumping at how loud his whisper sounded.
No answer.
Sam pulled the gun from his waistband and crouched, sliding down the short hill to the car. One of the doors hung open.
Sam paused, listening. An owl hooted somewhere—a good sign, even though the mournful sound made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. There wouldn't be any animal life hanging around if a wendigo had shown up. He pulled a flashlight from his hoodie pocket and clicked it on, aiming the thin beam into the open door of the car.
The glove box had been opened, spilling maps and extra phones onto the floor and ground. Something copper glinted on the floor. Sam pushed papers aside and found several spent casings and the box of extra rounds Dean always kept in the glove box. It had been open, the bullets spilled out onto the ground.
His throat tightened. He looked at the gravel, seeing the scuffs and scratches of a fight. Something had attacked Dean. But why hadn't he heard any shots? Or had Dean shot at something before calling him? That didn't make sense. Dean would've mentioned it.
He tightened his grip on his pistol and followed the marks to the edge of the parking lot. The last few feet, there were two long scrapes, like someone's feet had been dragged. And right at the edge of the grass, he spotted a small, dark, wet spatter. Blood.
"Dean…" Sam swung his flashlight up into the woods.
Two men stood in front of him. Sam yelped and scrambled backward. They lunged after him, and he caught the flicker in their eyes, whites and irises going completely black.
Demons.
He fired at one of them, a wild shot that missed by inches. One of the men jumped, slamming a shoulder into Sam's stomach. Sam doubled over, jamming his gun into the man's chest and squeezing the trigger.
The man howled as the bullet tore into him.
The other demon wrapped his arm around Sam's neck, jerking him backward, off-balance. Sam jerked his elbow back into the guy's ribs. The first demon, the wounded one, grabbed Sam's gun hand, twisting his wrist.
Sam grunted and dropped the gun.
The demon followed it up with a punch to Sam's chest, another to his mouth. Sam sagged to the ground, dazed, the sky and stars whirling above him. The demon's foot came down, slammed into his temple, and Sam's vision went black.