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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"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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