Spoilers: slight references to events in 'The Benders'
Tomophobia
- Floor 4, part 3 -
oo0oo
"So," Kole said out of the blue, "I've been thinking..."
"Thinking?"
"Yeah, it's just this thing I do every so often when I get bored," she told him sarcastically. "You know – it passes the time."
Sam mumbled an apology. He hadn't meant to sound as incredulous as he had but, honestly, all that kept running through his head was Gotta find Dean! Gotta find Dean! Gotta find Dean! He supposed that, if they were going to find his brother and get out of this house of horrors, he'd better start thinking too.
However, it was kind of hard to get your bearings when every new floor transported you into an entirely different setting. Every new environment that they entered was so real... it was surreal. Sam was beginning to feel as if he was on some sort of perverse day tour, a wicked whirlwind of all the tourist traps – the pun, apparently, intended. A cemetery, a torture chamber, and a circus all for the low price of one ticket into this melanic manor.
And now they were in a hospital. And if anyone could spot the flaw in a hospital-disguise, it was a Winchester. John and Dean and Sam had spent enough time in the emergency rooms of countless medical buildings to know all the tell-tale signs. And, if someone was just putting on a show, they would be the ones who could see right through it. But, as far as Sam could see, this was indeed a hospital.
Actually, there was something missing: people. Sure, Sam and Kole could hear movement in the hallways and far off elevator bells, there were coughs and sneezes and moans coming from several of the rooms they passed, and there were constant announcements and codes being fired off from unseen loudspeakers... but there were no other people. It was a bit creepy.
"So," Kole began again, "do you have any theories on what it is we're dealing with?"
"To be honest," Sam said humbly, "I've been a little distracted since we got here. I guess I haven't really taken the time to theorize."
"Egregore?"
If Sam had not been used to Kole's seemingly non-sequitur (and often incomprehensible) sounding remarks, he may have been at a total loss. However, he knew that, when talking of research and studies, she was very serious and every word could be assumed to have meaning. But, this term stumped Sam. And, he was a big enough person to admit it.
"Huh?"
"An egregore," Kole, falling so easily back into professor mode, said, "is a sort of manifest thought form. An egregore is to the western occultist what a tulpa is to the Tibetan mystic-"
"Tulpa?"
"Yes, a tulpa is-"
"No," Sam said quickly, "no I know what a tulpa is. Do you really think this is... that?"
"Well, it's hard to say. In all the stories I've read, an egregore takes the shape of a person. If I had to name the form in question here, it would be the building itself."
"So, you think it's the building and not the caretakers that are in control?"
"Well, no not exactly," Kole less assertive in her theory. "See, that's where it gets tough. I mean, what if the house is the product of the caretakers – not that they simply went to the neighborhood Halloween shop and bought as many props as possible. What if, instead of some human or animal type figure, they brought this place into being. I'm... I'm not explaining myself very well, am I?"
"No, I get what you're saying," Sam reassured her. "Instead of those guys concentrating on creating a person, they made themselves a 'haunted house'."
"And," Kole continued on, "whether they got the idea from the urban legend..."
"Or maybe they've been doing this for a long time," Sam finished. "Maybe no one can ever locate the haunted house of legend because it is constantly moving. If these guys can visualize all this and simply bring it into being with their minds, it would be easy to move around and start fresh before anyone suspects anything.
"But why?"
"It's a symbiotic relationship," Kole told him. "An egregore depends on people to create it, but it thrives on negative psychic energy. Basically, it gets its sustenance from fear and other negative emotions."
"And what do the creators get?" Sam asked.
"I don't know."
"Well," Sam said, "maybe when we find that out, we'll be closer to determining how to stop it."
oo0oo
"Now class," the instructor said as he walked up next to Dean and laid a cold hand on his shoulder, "can anyone name a factor in the assessment of wounds?"
"The nature of the wound," one of the students, an eager young woman stepped forward, "whether it is a laceration, abrasion, bruise, or burn."
"Very good," the instructor said with praise. Then, he quickly sunk his scalpel just under Dean's left collar bone, right between his neck and shoulder.
Dean's body instinctively arched and his limbs flinched, but were mostly stopped by restraints on both of his wrists and ankles. He also let out a growl, but it was barely audible as the muscle relaxant he had been injected with was not completely out of his system.
"I think we'd better get some of these bonds tightened before the patient hurts himself," the instructor told the class. A few of the students immediately rushed forward and maneuvered the straps until Dean was held fast without a fraction of motility. Then, one of the students strapped his chest down and then his forehead. While the students were working, the instructor had taken out a pair of scissors and into Dean's shirt so that the students could examine the wound.
"Now, that's better," the man said, and though Dean couldn't see his mouth, he knew the man was smiling. "You should feel honored Mr. Winchester. After all, you are assisting in the education of these fine young people."
"Excuse me, Dr. Szell" Dean whispered, as that was the top volume of his voice, between pants, "but I was never big on school spirit."
There was another smile in the doctor's eyes as he placed his hand back on Dean's injured should and gave it a squeeze, causing more blood to flow and Dean to clench his teeth.
"Now then," the man said, turning to the class to move on with the lesson, "who can tell me the nature of this wound?"
"Its a laceration," another girl, with a baby voice that sounded somewhat familiar to Dean, said. "Or more specifically, an incision, as it's a clean, regular wound."
"And a burn," a male, whose voice also seemed familiar, said as he came closer to inspect the area.
"What?" the instructor asked.
"Here, you see? There's a burn as well as an open wound."
The instructor let out a snarl and the student quickly stepped back with the rest of the class. Then, turning to Dean once more, he glared and stabbed his scalpel into Dean's hip just above the pelvis. Before pulling the instrument away, he dragged it through the skin, making the incision nearly an inch in length.
"Well, I hope that you won't be making a mockery of this lesson again," the doctor said in a harsh whisper. "I don't appreciate the attempt to confuse my students by displaying two different types of injuries in one location."
The doctor glared at Dean for a few more seconds while he addressed the class once again.
"Another factor," it wasn't stated as a question, but one of the students answered anyway.
"The size of the wound," said a young male student, "in length, width, and depth."
"And lastly?" the doctor asked.
"The extent of the overall area of tissue damage," said the same student who noticed Dean's burn.
"Excellent."
oo0oo
"We're almost at the end, aren't we?" Sam asked, as he turned back to look over his shoulder for confirmation – not that there was any. He was starting to panic. "I haven't heard him... and most of these doors have been open... we looked in all of them and even the ones that were closed... what if we don't - "
"Sam," Kole softly interrupted, "all of these doors have been numbered, right?"
"Yeah," Sam shook his head, not really in the mood to try and follow her train of thought. "But they haven't exactly gone in order. They seem to be all over the place."
"OK, but they've each been four digits, right?"
"Yes," Sam snapped, rapidly losing patience.
"Dean's in there," Kole calmly told him, pointing to a door across the hall marked 101.
"What?" his eyes grew wide and he looked back and forth between his cousin and the door. He quietly stepped to the door and leaned in to try and hear anyone inside. "I don't hear anyone. I don't hear anything in there at all," he whispered. "What makes you so sure this is the right door?"
"Orwell," she said, as if that should explain everything. "These guys are strangely literary."
Sam shook his head again. His headache was back in full force and he didn't even want to ask what she was talking about. Listening at the door once more, Sam made sure there was no one moving inside the room. He assumed that if Dean was inside, the door would be locked and bolted and barricaded, but he tried the knob anyway. And to his surprise, it opened.
Sam took a tentative step into the dark room. He could only see as far as the intruding light reached inside from the hallway. From what he could detect, this was not another patient's room. It was more the sort for examination. He could see a sturdy chair in front of him facing the opposite direction.
As his eyes began to adjust, Sam could see a cushion at the top of the chair. No, not a cushion, as it seemed to be furry. And then Sam realized, just as Kole came in behind him with her flashlight on, that what he could see was hair.
"Dean!" he let out, barely louder than a whisper. He ran the short distance to the chair and spun it around, still cautious of a trick (Sam was not one to fall for such a deception twice), but was greeted by the sight of his brother.
Well, not exactly greeted, as his big brother was unconscious.
"Oh man," Sam muttered, checked (prayed) for a pulse, and then began loosening the ties that held Dean in place. He noticed that his hands were met with the occasional wet, sticky spots but he tried not to think about it as he released his brother. Come on Dean... Wake up... Stay with me... and other such phrases came out of Sam's mouth, but did nothing to rouse his unconscious brother, who slumped forward into Sam's arms as the last strap was released.
Kole could hear a voice on the PA system announcing a code black – patient abduction – room 101.
"Uh, Sam..." but Sam was too involved with Dean to notice anything else. This is so not good, she thought.
Looking through the still-open doorway, Kole saw a wheelchair across the hall. She ran out to grab it but was intercepted by a young woman in surgical scrubs and mask. As they both struggled for the chair, the medic lost her mask.
"Marcy?" Kole was shocked to see the timid girl who had started this all – the same girl that had asked them for the time when they were in the bar.
Marcy sneered, pulled a syringe from her pocket, and swiped it at Kole. But, while Kole had been surprised to see her, she wasn't stunned for long and took advantage of Marcy releasing her hold on the wheelchair. Kole shoved the chair at her, knocking her into the wall. Then, with a strike she learned from the Winchester brothers, she kayoed Marcy before the girl had a chance to move or call out.
"Sam!" Kole cried out, nearly running into him in the doorway. She twisted the wheelchair around so that he could set Dean, who had been slung over Sam's shoulder, into it. "Come on!"
"It's all right," he told her. "I've got him."
"Well, that's all fine and good, but we're probably going to have company real soon."
For the first time, Sam looked over Kole's shoulder and saw the unconscious young woman lying on the floor. He wanted to ask but thought better of it and put Dean into the chair.
"Hey!" a young man yelled from behind them. Before Sam was able to stand upright again, Kole took the handles and began running through the hallway while pushing Dean. Sam could see three guys in scrubs and masks coming towards them. Pulling out his shotgun, Sam aimed for the middle guy and all three of them froze – its not like they could have known it was filled with rock salt.
Sam ran and quickly caught up with Kole. They found the door (which was conveniently marked with a standard hospital exit sign), pushed through it, and Sam pulled one of the footrests from the wheelchair and fit it into the door handles. He had barely finished when an undetermined number of fists began pounding on the door. Angry voices were yelling at them, but the door wouldn't budge.
Tomophobia: fear of surgical operations