sunnydalealum | (no subject)

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It's a bigger room, this time. The better to fit two dozen zhirelin in addition to the sorcerers themselves.

The conference room setup this time is much hastier, at Emma's orders. The table's been upended against the wall instead of removed entirely; the blood in the spell diagram is still tacky. Everything's in place, including the two most vital components: the real Kshaartian mandrake, and the Scythe.

Emma's trying hard not to pace as the two red-robed apprentices bend to light the first candles, as the priests in their darker robes begin chanting.

We're in the homestretch. Go. Go. Go.

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"Jesus!" Dean says (not yelps. Dean does not yelp.)

His attention snaps from the blazing spell circle to whatever the hell is moving that fast.

His gun comes up a second later, two shots slamming into the hellhound.

Whatever was in its head, it sure makes a mess splattered all over the floor like that.

Sam whirls at the first shot, in time to see the body of the hellhound fall, and takes in the rest of the scene as well.

He glances at the unconscious Emma, then trades a look with Dean.

"We done here?"

"Pretty much."

Dean looks down at Emma, mouth twisting like he's smelling something rank.

"You wanna pick up your pretty little toy there, Sammy?"

He grins.

"Seein' as you're the pretty pretty princess, after all."

Sam gives him a look, but crouches down to retrieve the Scythe, taking it easily from Emma's limp fingers.

He glances back at the growing fire in the center of the room, and his jaw tightens.

When he stands up again, he's carrying Emma as well as the Scythe. Sam meets Dean's eyes.

"She'll die if we leave her in here."

Dean's eyebrows go up.

"And your point is?"

He holds Sam's eyes for a couple seconds, then heaves a sigh.

"Yeah, yeah, quit your bitching."

He's not gentle when he hefts Emma over his shoulder.

Go figure.

The two figures crumpled in the middle of the spell-circle aren't moving anymore. The fire isn't spreading fast, but bitter reddish smoke is starting to collect in the air.

Breathing it might not be a great idea.

"Let's go."

He suits actions to words, pushing the door open and glancing up and down the hall before leading the way out of the room.

And this would be where Jonathan comes strolling calmly but intently down the corridor, looking for them.

"Hey, guys."

Meg's keeping pace behind him, glancing around nervously; she looks, at this point, more like an image badly Photoshopped onto the background than anything else.

When she sees the Winchesters, there's an audible sigh of relief.

One part of the plan, anyways, has gone like it should.

"Jesus."

Dean's eyes widen when he catches sight of Meg, fumbling with Emma in an attempt to grab a weapon.

Then he stops, looking a little sheepish.

"Dude, don't do that." Three guesses who he's talking to.

After he resettles Emma--man, does this chick weigh a ton--he looks at Jonathan.

"So. Uh. This mean we're ready to go?"

"More than, I'm thinking."

The look Meg gets is fast and a little guarded before Sam glances up and down the hallway, then gestures with the Scythe.

"We got what we came for."

Jonathan nods, all business.

"Then let's get out of here."

"Not gonna argue with you about that," Dean says, smile sharp and a little crooked.

He hoists Emma into a more comfortable position, sharing a look with Sam.

"Got some trash to drop off first, though. Gimme a second."

He's not careful when he opens a nearby door, dropping Emma unceremoniously on a chair.

If he managed to whack her elbow, her knee, or her head in the meantime, so much the better.

Then he comes back out.

"Okay. Now we can go."

Jonathan glances through the door, unconcerned but noting where Emma got to and her current condition. Just in case.

Then he reaches for the next door along.

This one leads back.

Sam trades a look with Dean and nods, then goes through.

His brother's not far behind him.

And this is Meg's cue.

"A bientot, guys," she says, with a wry blurry salute, and then disappears into a wall at speed as they go through the door.

She has places to be.

As the door closes behind them, the stairs door at the other end of the hallway flies open. Brianna emerges, one arm hanging limp below the hastily bandaged wound in her shoulder.

"Emma?" She coughs on the sharp smoke.

The alarms may not be working, but the smoke detectors themselves finally are: the sprinklers in the hallway ceiling flick on, one after another. Brianna lifts her good hand to shield her eyes from the water and calls again, her voice scaling up in dread. "Emma?"

A cough answers her, and she struggles through the driving spray to the side room where Emma is trying to get to her feet, one hand braced against the wall.

There's a bruise forming on Emma's forehead and cheek, and the water is soaking through her hair and suit.

It's also soaking through Brianna's bandage, and washing blood down her arm to drip pinkish-red off her fingers as she reaches to help support her boss.

"Come on," she mutters. "Come on, we gotta get out of here."

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