Chapter 13

As soon as Bobby had sprung into action, the stranger in the window did the same. Bobby ran to the back door of the complex and flung it open, his gun at the ready. Unfortunately, his creepy quarry had vanished into thin air…or so it appeared. There was no trace of the thing. No footprints, no broken twigs or crushed leaves. There was absolutely nothing to track the thing with.

Then again, that sort of thing is actually pretty ordinary, when you kill things that don't exist.

Bobby closed the door again quietly, keeping alert. Wouldn't do for him to get caught with his trousers down when he was this close to finding his friends.

He backed away from the door, sidling up to the row of mailboxes. He scanned each one, looking for the name that had been dropped in the diner by the unsuspecting red head. He had just laid eyes on it when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, something in the stairwell. Bobby moved to the door that led to the stairwell and peeked in through the small window that was set in it. What he saw made his heart leap, but this time it wasn't out of fear.

Quickly opening the door he stepped through and crouched to the ground examining his find. It was a scuff mark from a boot, closely followed by the entire print. Bobby didn't have to study it too hard. He'd know those tracks anywhere.

They belonged to Sam.

Judging from the scuff pattern, Sam had been running up the stairs. But why? Had something chased him? Maybe the scarlet figure in the window? Bobby wasn't sure, but he knew one thing for certain.

He was on the right path.

Bobby paused a moment, trying to decide what to do next. According to the address on the mailbox, the librarian's apartment was on the sixth floor. Even if the guys weren't there anymore, he felt sure that there would be more clues to their whereabouts in that direction. With any luck, he might even be able to speak with the librarian and question her.

He knew that taking the elevator would be risky, but at his age six flights of stairs would put him out quite a bit. Both options would leave him a little vulnerable for a variety of possible circumstances, like getting ambushed while he was winded. However, his hunter's instincts won out over old age, and he decided to simply take the stairs…slowly.

Six flights of stairs later, Bobby had to pause in order to catch his breath. Even taking it one stair at a time, he reminded himself once again of why he'd retired. It felt unusually hot in the stairwell, and sweat was already forming under Bobby's cap. He opened the stairwell door a crack, just to survey the surroundings. Seemed normal. He stepped out of the stairwell, noting the large number six that was painted on the wall just outside of the door. Still seemed normal. The color of the walls was a sickly shade of grey that could also have been mistaken for olive green. Whichever the case, it wouldn't have mattered, because it was in the process of peeling off of the walls anyway. The carpet held the musty odor of mildew, as if there had been a large amount of water seeping into it at one point.

Bobby moved cautiously down the hall, scanning his surroundings as he went. He soon found apartment number 23. He knocked on the door. No answer.

'Of course no answer, there's probably not a dang living soul in the whole place.' He thought to himself.

He was poised to break through the door, when he noticed something unusual about the door of the supply closet. He stopped, scanning the scene from afar, but it was hard to tell what had caught his attention from that distance.

He moved closer, examining the closet. "Something happened here." He said quietly, noting the scrapes around the lock…on the inside of the door. He carefully stepped into the closet, bending down to pick something up off of the floor. It was a piece of rope, and judging by the look of the severed ends, it had been sawn through with a relatively small knife.

This was not a good sign.

Bobby continued his investigation, finding a second set of severed ropes on the floor of the closet, and a few more scuff marks on the floor of the closet. These were different from the ones in the stairwell, they were darker and closer together. "Dean." Bobby deduced. He grimaced in sympathy as he also noted a few rat droppings on the floor, remembering how much Dean hated those things.

The carpet in the hallway prevented Bobby from finding anymore scuff marks on the floor, but he found a considerable amount of chipped paint on the carpet outside the closet. He figured it was where Dean had leaned against the wall…meaning he was either injured or he was tired. He searched for traces of blood, and breathed a sigh of relief when he found none.

Bobby paused in his search, glancing at the apartment door. 'Should I see what's in there, or follow this?' After a moments though, he decided that whatever had transpired here had probably taken place after they got to the apartment, and thus he would continue this trail of evidence. He noted that there were patches in the carpet that were rubbed the wrong way, making them stand out a little from the rest of the carpet. Bobby stooped to examine them closer.

"Well, boy, looks like you were draggin' your feet." He said to no one in particular. "I sure hope you two are alright." He mused, as he thought about the implications.

He followed the tracks to the vending machine, halfway to the elevator, where they had suddenly become more pronounced…as though Dean had been trying to run.

"Now that's odd. Since when have you ever run from anything?" Bobby said aloud. Unfortunately, that was where the trail ended. It was almost as if Dean had be lifted completely off of his feet and taken…somewhere. Bobby went to the elevator. He pressed the 'down' button, hoping to find something of value inside. A red light flashed at the top of the elevator and a soft chime sounded as the door creaked open. Bobby poked his head in and looked around. Nothing, except a dent in the far wall just above the support bar. He decided to take a closer look.

His mistake.

"Andrea, wake the heck up!" Dean called roughly. He had long since decided that he was going to get answers from her if it was the last thing he did.

Of course, she would have to be awake first…

"Come on, Dean, give it a rest. She's out cold, it's pointless to keep doing that." Sam sighed from his seat on the cold, wet ground. It had taken the boys a minute to collect themselves after discovering that the fallen object before them was, in fact, the very person that had put them in this situation.

Dean had wanted to argue that she must be responsible for the unexplainable things that had been happening to them, but Sam didn't see the logic in it.

"Why not, Sam? She led us right into a trap, wouldn't it make sense that she was the one to set the trap?" Dean argued.

"Dean, how much sense would that make considering she's obviously trapped here with us?" Sam countered.

"I…she…you know what? I'm the oldest, and I say she's behind it. End of story." Dean huffed. Sam rolled his eyes, "Yeah, sure Dean, whatever. You know, when you say that, it just means you can't come up with anything better, which means I'm right." He grinned. It was that annoying-little-brother-grin, the one that all younger siblings have. Dean hated that grin…almost as much as he loved it. He started to come back with a sharp retort, but settled for his usual sarcastic charm, "Oooh, college-boy…thinks he's so smart."

That ended the argument, but the day was far from over. At that moment, Andrea began to stir.

"Finally, the Wicked Witch of the West is undead." Dean growled, "Nice of you to join us."

She groaned and rolled over, looking from one brother to the other. "Who…who are you? Where am I?"

The hunters looked at each other, and then back at their 'guest'. "Oh, come on," Dean started, "you don't forget a face like this overnight, sweetheart." Sam rolled his eyes again, and stood up gingerly. Dean could be so…so…Dean sometimes.

Andrea blinked, looking completely confused. She looked around at their strange surroundings. "Is this…snow? Where are we? What happened?"

"Why don't you tell us, huh? Come on Andrea, cut the crap." Dean crouched in front of her, eye to eye. He wasn't playing around.

Andrea knew that these two meant business, but try as she might, she couldn't remember a thing before right now. "Look, I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about." She said shakily. 'Did he call me Andrea? Is that my name?'

"Dean…" Sam placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean didn't break eye contact with Andrea, but he stood. Sam moved a few feet away, and then turned and waited for Dean to follow. At first Dean just stood there, towering over Andrea, but finally he moved cautiously away to where his brother waited.

"Dean, I think she's telling the truth." Sam said, when he was sure Andrea couldn't overhear them. Dean hesitated. He didn't want to admit it, but his years of experience at hustling pool, playing poker, and lying consistently had taught him to spot a lie from a mile away.

Andrea was telling the truth.

He sighed, "Yeah, I know. I don't know how, but she's completely lost her memory."

"Yeah, which means if she did get us into this, she won't know how to get us out. And if she didn't put all this together, she still won't remember anything useful." Sam agreed.

He had continued to wrack his brain in an attempt to figure out who or what was behind the events, but had since come up completely short. It felt like it was just out of reach, though, like there was just one more piece of the puzzle that needed to fit before he could figure it out. It was incredibly frustrating.

"Well, memory or no memory, we need to keep an eye on her, just in case it comes back." Dean said. Sam sighed, "All right, but look, we're not going to last much longer without food and water. I have a lighter, so we can probably melt some of this snow with it."

"Whoa, whoa, hold on. You seriously want to drink this stuff? What if it's not real snow?" Dean cautioned. Sam thought a moment, "Well, do you have any other suggestions?"

He had a point. "Uhhh…no. Alright, alright, go ahead." Dean resigned, "as for food, we could always eat the troublemaker."

Sam flashed a look of disbelief at his brother, blushing red as Dean let out a loud hoot of laughter as his statement gained the intended reaction. "Dean, you're so immature." Sam muttered.

15 minutes later…

"Sssoo then he says …'I'm a doctor, not a bricklayer!'"

All three companions bust out in raucous laughter, which quickly turned into a chorus of hiccups.

"No *hic* no, heerza good one. A *hic* nurse goes into…to a bar, right? And the *hic* bartender sez-" Dean began.

"Naw, dude…*hic* yer messsin it up." Sam slurred, "Pass me s'more *hic* wadder."

Andrea swayed as she reached for the small canister that held the melted snow, giggling as she did so. The liquid sloshed about as she stumbled over to where Sam and Dean sat, leaning back to back on each other. She handed it to Sam who reached for it, only to have Dean swat at his hand, "Hey! Iss my turn, *hic* Sssammy!"

Sam reached for the container again, "Noway Dean!" He grabbed the container out of Andrea's hands, who was still giggling like a six year old. Lifting it up to his lips, Sam missed the first time, spilling the clear liquid down the front of his jacket, but he tried again, and gulped a few swallows. "Now you kin have sssome." He said, clumsily handing the bowl over his shoulder.

Dean snatched it out of his brother's grasp, muttering to himself.

This continued for another hour or so, until finally all three had dozed off. Dean lay flat on his back in the snow, snoring loudly. Sam lay parallel to him, his head resting on Dean's stomach. Andrea lay a few feet away, curled up in the fetal position, the container of 'water' clutched tightly in her hands. It was still brightly shining, as there appeared that there was no sense of night or day in this place.

After a while, the trio began to wake…and it wasn't pretty.

"Oh, God…my head hurts like a b-" Dean's sentence was promptly cut short as a wave of nausea overtook him. He clamped his lips together in an effort to keep the contents of his stomach where they were.

Sam rolled on the ground, one hand on his side, the other on his stomach, his eyelids scrunched tight against the brightness of the snow. "Holy crap…oh, I'm gonna be sick." He said quietly. He glanced at Dean, who had suddenly turned a startling shade of pea green. He looked back over to where Andrea had been the night before, and grimaced. She was on her knees, and in the process of upchucking every last ounce of 'water' she had drunk the night before.

He grimaced again as the sound of Dean's retching reached his ears a moment later, and that was the last straw. Sam joined in, and soon all three companions were emptied completely out once more.

"Okay," Dean gulped, wishing he could rinse out his mouth, "I didn't see that coming."

"Yeah, me neither. I don't want to even think about drink-" Sam began.

"No, don't even say it. I don't have anything left to puke." Andrea groaned, "since when does water make you drunk?"

The boys looked at each other. There was no way. No natural contaminant would cause that kind of reaction. There was only one explanation.

The three of them closed their eyes against the glare as Dean stated the obvious, "It's not snow." He kept his eyes closed, wondering how they were going to get out of this one.

'We can't tell direction, what if we're going in circles?'

"Uhh, Dean?"

'There's no grass or animals, or anything. We'll need food soon.'

"Dean, dude…"

'How are we supposed to survive if we can't even drink the water?'

"Dean, open your eyes!"

Dean pried open his eyes as the desperation in Sam's voice reached through his worry. He blinked against the glare for a second, a blue haze clouding his vision for a second. Then his eyes adjusted.

What he saw made his breath catch in his chest. There was no more snow, no more mysterious glaring light. No, they would no longer have to worry about the alcoholic water.

Nope, now they would have to worry about quite the opposite. To his horror, Dean realized that they were all three kneeling in ankle deep ash…

…at the foot of a volcano.