Dean bellowed until his throat was hoarse, kicking the door and pounding it with his fists enough times that afterwards his limbs felt like battered lead. But after who-knows-how-long of making as much of a ruckus as he could, he couldn't help feeling a sense of relief – albeit topped with fear – when he finally heard footsteps echoing outside. "Kay Sammy, they're commin…" Dean backed away from the door a bit so that he was standing in the middle of the room and took a defensive stance. Beside and behind him, Sam strained to see the doorway.
They were ready.
Suddenly realizing his biggest mistake, Dean quickly felt down his pockets for any form of a weapon. How did I not think to check… There. Dean's hand stopped over the back of his waistband, and he almost danced in disbelief. Thankgod, thankgod, thankgod, thankgod… He pulled out his .45, banging it against his palm quickly to make sure that the magazine was clicked in correctly. There wouldn't be time to check it, hopefully it was full… And hopefully it wasn't completely useless to whatever was out there. He pulled the safety back.
They were ready.
Dean could hear Sam shuffling around in the distance, probably following Dean's lead and checking his own pockets. Dean didn't really like the muffled grunts of pain as Sam moved around, or the fact that if he had a weapon, Sam wouldn't really be able to use it anyways... but the fact that his little bro would be just a little bit more protected was a comfort. He heard Sam cock his own gun, and it sounded like he had tried to muffle the sound with his hand to keep it nice and quiet. Attaboy Sammy.
They were ready.
Whoever was outside stopped pacing outside the door, and Dean raised his gun.
They were ready.
Without warning the door sprung open with inhuman speed, and three men charged in. In the dark it was hard to tell what was going on, but what with the claustrophobic space and the obviously large size of the men charging right at him, Dean started shooting without much thought. It only took him a few seconds to realize that it was useless, but by the time this thought hit his brainwaves he was already flying halfway across the room. He hit the far wall with a violent slap, and the air whooshed from his lungs without having to put up much of a fight.
They were so not ready.
The three men jeered in his direction – or at least they seemed to jeer… it was hard to tell in the dark – and crowded into the corner as if to make room for someone else. Dean's eyes moved to the open doorway, where a light seemed to be traveling the hallways on its own.
In the half-second before he got his air back, Dean could have sworn that that meant that the demons were working for Tinkerbell.
The light continued to bounce off the walls until it was apparent that it was from a lamp (not a fairy) that was making the lights bounce back and forth across the tiles, and not long after Dean made this brilliant realization the final man strolled into the room lazily. The oil lamp in his hand wasn't very bright, but suddenly everything was in perspective. In the corner were the three stooges; Dean recognized them from the ambulance. The room was about ten feet around or less, lined up with stone from wall to ceiling, and yes the stone table was in fact connected to the floor. But this wasn't the most troubling factor. The thing that stuck out most and firstly to Dean was the dead-white eyes of the middle-aged man in front of him with the beard and the slight under-bite. Dean's insides turned to jelly.
"Alistair."