Turn the Page -Sequel to More Than a Feeling

Chapter 9

"Sam!"

The edge in Dean's yell sent Sam sprinting through the fort and up the narrow stairs. He found his brother crouched before a huge wooden door, maneuvering his lock-picking tools inside a giant iron keyhole. "Is Ruthie in there?" Sam asked.

Dean grunted, then threw the slim metal tools onto the floor. "Too damn old and heavy," he growled.

Sam had been trying to stay calm, for Dean's sake as much as Ruthie's, but anxiety was wearing his nerves raw. "Dean, is she...awake?" He couldn't make himself say "alive."

"Hi, Sam." Ruthie's voice—a thin, weakened version of it, anyway.

He exhaled and pressed his hand against the time-worn wood of the door. "Ruthie. Thank God." He glanced over at Dean, whose pinched face suggested he did not share Sam's relief. Sam lowered his voice to a whisper. "What's going on?"

Dean rubbed his forehead, and spoke with his jaw clenched. "She's really out of it. The witch left her in there, so whatever spell she used is already happening." Dean put a hand on the door and stared at it as if he were trying to see through it. "She already sounds worse, just since I got here." He faced Sam again, deep creases appearing between his eyes. "We gotta get in there."

Sam nodded at Dean, then leaned closer to the door and raised his voice. "Ruthie, is there a lock on your side of the door? A deadbolt?"

A long pause. "Mm-hm."

He and Dean exchanged hopeful looks. "That's great. Can you come over and unlock the door?"

A longer pause. "I don't think so."

Sam's fingers curled against the smooth wood. "Why not?"

"Because...I'm so heavy." Each word dragged along, as though speaking took enormous effort. "I feel like...I'm a hundred years old."

Dean's face dropped toward the ground. He scraped both hands into his hair, and held the back of his head as though he had a migraine.

"Hey, Ruthie," Sam coaxed, "would you please try to come unlock the door? For me? It's really important."

A long sigh floated to them from inside the room. "I can try."

"Atta girl, Ruthie. You can do it."

For several seconds, they heard nothing. Then a thud, and the clatter of wood striking wood.

Dean's head snapped up, and he gave the door his x-ray stare again. "Ruthie?"

"I...fell out of the chair." She sounded so frail.

"It's okay," Sam told her. "Can you get up?"

A hiss of breath, some rustling, a whimper. "Sam, I can't move."

"Okay. It's okay, Ruthie." His hand hardened into a fist against the door. He wanted to punch straight through it.

"Keep her talking," Dean ordered, striding away down the hall.

Sam had no idea what Dean's plan was. Maybe he'd seen some dynamite somewhere in the museum. He wouldn't put it past him. "Hey, Ruthie? Did you see where she put the hex bag?"

"Mm-hm. Top shelf."

"That's good, Ruthie." His next question stalled in his throat, arrested by the sound of glass smashing, and shards tinkling onto metal. He squinted down the dark hallway and saw Dean yank something out of a case on the wall. Dean marched back toward him, the knuckles of his right hand dripping blood, and without a word, raised an ax and slammed it into the door. He ripped it out, and brought it down again with a bang.