( Yeah, there's no friction there. Might as well be goddamn telepathy; Sam turns and Dean doubles down on his efforts, not supporting so much as half-dragging the injured man hastily toward the exit. The other two are frozen in place, unmoving, and Dean startles them back into the present by snarling out an authoritative, mean-sounding-- )
MOVE, go, now!
( Ultimately, it's the gunfire that actually gets them moving.
In the wrong friggin' direction. )
No, don't--
( Whatever else he might say is thoroughly drowned out by absolute unfathomable chaos. The guy in Dean's arm wrenches himself away in a moment of unbridled, mindless panic. His flight reflexes are like that of a man in the ocean, shoving anyone and anything down underneath him to keep himself from drowning. All he accomplishes is landing belly-down on the stone floor, but that doesn't stop him from clawing and crawling his way toward the exit.
Dean reaches for him just in time to see a soccer-ball sized hunk of rock drop down from the ceiling and smash his skull.
After that, he can't see much of anything. Dust flies, light snuffs out, screaming fills the room until it's chillingly, abruptly cut off. He kicks his glow into gear for what little light it produces -- right on time for his boots skid to a halt before a tentacle can seize him. He doubles back, ducking under rock and vaulting over crevices, one arm uselessly curled over his own head like it would accomplish anything against a friggin' boulder. It's just instinct.
His blue glow catches something -- something a little shiny, a little reflective -- wet stone. He heads for it immediately; running water means passage worn through rock hopefully. Turns out he's right. He practically shreds his forearms on rock hurrying himself through an awkward and narrow squeeze, but considering the alternative...
Worth it.
He's coughing up a hacking fit, swallowing dust, but yards of dense rock between him and it mean he's tentatively safe enough to concentrate on zapping his ass out.
Or, you know, he would if it weren't for spotting another body at the very edge of his glow's range. )
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MOVE, go, now!
( Ultimately, it's the gunfire that actually gets them moving.
In the wrong friggin' direction. )
No, don't--
( Whatever else he might say is thoroughly drowned out by absolute unfathomable chaos. The guy in Dean's arm wrenches himself away in a moment of unbridled, mindless panic. His flight reflexes are like that of a man in the ocean, shoving anyone and anything down underneath him to keep himself from drowning. All he accomplishes is landing belly-down on the stone floor, but that doesn't stop him from clawing and crawling his way toward the exit.
Dean reaches for him just in time to see a soccer-ball sized hunk of rock drop down from the ceiling and smash his skull.
After that, he can't see much of anything. Dust flies, light snuffs out, screaming fills the room until it's chillingly, abruptly cut off. He kicks his glow into gear for what little light it produces -- right on time for his boots skid to a halt before a tentacle can seize him. He doubles back, ducking under rock and vaulting over crevices, one arm uselessly curled over his own head like it would accomplish anything against a friggin' boulder. It's just instinct.
His blue glow catches something -- something a little shiny, a little reflective -- wet stone. He heads for it immediately; running water means passage worn through rock hopefully. Turns out he's right. He practically shreds his forearms on rock hurrying himself through an awkward and narrow squeeze, but considering the alternative...
Worth it.
He's coughing up a hacking fit, swallowing dust, but yards of dense rock between him and it mean he's tentatively safe enough to concentrate on zapping his ass out.
Or, you know, he would if it weren't for spotting another body at the very edge of his glow's range. )