tabaqui | Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)... SPN fic

Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)... SPN fic - part one

Saturday, October 28th, 2006 04:15 pm

Hullo! Yes, a new fic. Not Spander, though - just so you all know ahead of time. Doesn't mean i'm abandoning my boys! Like I said in an earlier post...Spike and Xander are just going to have to scootch up a little and make room on the fandom couch for Sam and Dean. Heh.

Anyway, this is a finished fic that's going to be posted every day or so until it's done, but don't worry - 'Neverland' is going to be posted too! Adult, as always. Enjoy!

The title is from 'To the Man-of-War-Bird' by Walt Whitman. Pretentious? Very possibly, but it felt right. :)

Many, many, many thanks to the lovely

reremouse for her steadfast re-re-re-reading and to

darkhavens. What would i do without you? And to

sweptawaybayou, 'cause she bounced and squeed all over this. *smooooooch*

"So, what's this thing again?" Dean asks, and Sam makes this sort of huffing noise, like he can't believe Dean's asking again. Not Dean's fault that the name's not as important as how to kill its evil ass. The car's only been off for five minutes and the cold January air is already slipping in, making Dean hunch his shoulders a little in his jacket.

"Bicho Papão. It's a Portuguese boogeyman. He's supposed to come with sacks and take bad kids away and sell them."

"Sell them. To who?" Dean wonders and Sam kind of shrugs.

"I dunno. The Spanish? Anyway – there's a lot of Portuguese immigrants around here so –"

"So the Sack Man kinda came along for the ride."

"Yeah." Sam checks his pockets for extra shells one last time and they slide out of the car. The footing is a little slick, the temperature hovering just above freezing. The sharp, metallic scent of snow is in the air and Dean hopes it will hold off until they're done here. He hates driving in snow, mostly because the other drivers are idiots. And he hates getting all that salt and mess on his baby.

Dean has his Glock tucked against the small of his back and his own shotgun, loaded with wrought iron rounds. Sack Man – boogeyman – they're all connected back to boggarts somehow, who're connected back to fairy, and the one true weapon against fairy is cold iron. So – shoot the bad guy, save the kids. Four, at last count. The latest one's been missing close to fifty hours – the first one already gone a week. Dean hates to see the wounded, wide-open faces of the grieving parents on the news.

*Kick some Portuguese…some Portu…huh.* "Hey, is there some kinda slang for people from Portugal?"

"No. There isn't." Sam frowns over at Dean and Dean rolls his eyes. Not like he's gonna start using it or anything, he's just curious. Some of Dad's Marine buddies had had names for every race and religion under the sun, but he'd never heard them verbally slur the Portuguese.

*Guess Sam's right. Which he doesn't need to know. Smug bastard.* Dean pats his own pocket, feeling the weight of a handful of shells. He doesn't imagine they'll need more than one shot each but 'be prepared' is one of the Winchester family mottos. Well, one they can claim out loud, at least.

"Okay, so – anything?" Sam asks, and Dean belatedly snaps on the EMF meter, frowning as it almost instantly goes nuts, squealing and spitting static.

"Fuck, guess so."

In front of them is an old warehouse, grimed bricks stained nearly black by the years. The two big, wooden doors are sagging and crooked – half off their hinges, the chain and padlock all that's keeping them together. Somewhere beyond the building are a dock and the sea and Dean can smell the thick scent of brine and rotting wood and fish in the cold, wet air.

They ease up to the doors and Dean turns the meter off, shoving it away into a pocket. There's faint light coming through the cracks in the doors and they both stop for a moment and peer through, trying to see – anything. But it's just shadows and a dim, amber light – candles maybe, or a bulb about to go out. Nothing concrete, so Dean just pulls at the hinge side of one of the doors, pivoting it up with a low groan and a clink of the chain. Sam compresses himself down impossibly small and duck-walks under the door edge. A moment later Dean slips through behind him and eases the door back into place.

They're surrounded by heaps of broken pallets and what looks like some kind of conveyer belt, snaking over half the stained concrete floor. The smell of fish is even stronger in here, even though Dean's sure this place has been out of commission for twenty years or more. It's an old cannery and the ghosts of long-dried scales glimmer in the shadows. A rusting chain-fall chimes softly, touched by some vagrant breeze, and Dean nudges Sam and they creep forward, toward the light.

They haven't even gotten half way across the building when Dean realizes they're too late. The smell of blood and piss and rot are unmistakable – choking – and they stop bothering to be quiet or even careful and just run.

All four kids are there – right there. Hung up in clotted chains, spread out and open like bruise-red stars and Dean feels his gorge rise, sick burn and too much spit in his mouth. Little blonde girl, little black-haired boy. A red-head and a brunette, none of them older than twelve. Dean just stands and stares, *…their heads are hanging down, thank God, can't see their eyes, can't see their eyes…* Sam's shoulders are curved down, his chin tucked. Fists so tight on the gun Dean can see every tendon standing out in sharp relief. There are marks scrawled on the walls and floor in what might be paint and what is most certainly blood. Little piles of charred stuff, burnt-down candles and cracked, yellow bones. Magic lingers in the air, tingling along Dean's skin.

The moth-dusted bulb hanging down on a frayed wire sways gently to and fro and for one heart-lurching, gut-twisting moment Dean thinks the kids move – thinks he sees them twist and flinch in silent agony. But no – nothing. The blood under their pitiful bodies is black and cracked and dry and whoever – whatever - did this is long gone.

"Dean –" Sam says, and he sounds like he did when he was eight and they found that little dead fawn along the side of the road. Soft, dappled flank and blood threading from its nose and Dean had just taken his hand and led him away.

"I know," Dean says, and swallows. The urge to vomit is being rapidly replaced by the urge to kill something – kill it hard. When there's the little click and scrape of something moving over in the shadows against the back wall, Dean feels his lips pulling back from his teeth in a silent, gleeful snarl.

He and Sam move like two halves of one whole, ducking and circling and inching past tangles of rusted steel, sharp edges just kissing calf or thigh or shoulder as they ghost past. The light is dim and smoky back here, but it's enough. It shows a serpentine of rusted chain, a pale, bare foot and tattered jeans and whatever is there isn't what they're looking for. Whatever is a whoever – a filthy knot of denim and raveling sweater and lank, dark hair. Curled up tight, pressed into the wall like they're trying to go through it.

Male – female – impossible to tell and Sam goes down on one knee, reaching out to touch the hunched, shivering shoulder. "Hey – you're gonna be okay, we're here to help –" Sam says, and the person flinches violently away. Hard enough to crack their head on the bricks – hard enough to startle Sam, who jerks back. "Shhh, hey – c'mon, I won't hurt you."

"Just burn me alive, just k-kill me with your f-fucking – kindness," the other says, voice stuttering through some damage or some illness, rasping and wrong. There's another slither and clink of the chain and Dean realizes that the rusting length is twisted tight around thin wrists – stretched taut up to a bruised throat. Plum and green and blue-black stains under the heavy links.

*Not what we're looking for, Jesus Christ, what the hell -?* Dean crouches down next to Sam and the figure flinches again, glitter of dark eyes through tangled hair. "Is it still here? The thing that hurt those kids?" The shaggy head shakes, no no no and Dean curses softly.

"What set the EMF meter off, then?" Sam asks. He puts his shotgun down – nowhere near the person, because you just don't do that. Dips his hand into his inner coat pocket, pulling out the little roll of lock picks he's had since he was thirteen.

"I dunno. That –" Dean nods his head toward the kids and the blood, swallowing. "That looks kinda…ritual-y, don't you think? Maybe some kind of – leftover energy?"

"Maybe." Sam reaches for the chain and the lock that's dangling crookedly under the crusted edge of a sweater sleeve. The person shudders all over and then freezes, head turned away. Eyes shut, as far as Dean can tell. Like they're just waiting to be hurt.

"Maybe it's still in here," Dean mutters. He takes the meter out again and turns it on and it screams. And the person does, jerking away from Sam and scrabbling on knees and bound hands away. To the limit of the chain, along the wall. Pulling up short when the chain runs out, sprawling on the pocked concrete. Twisting, uselessly fighting the corroded iron, bare feet pushing. Scraping off skin.

Dean clicks the meter off and the person shuts up, too, jaw snapping shut on that rasping wail. "Or maybe we're being fucking played," Dean growls.

Sam scoops up his shotgun, working the pump, and they advance on the person. It's just huddled there, curling up tight. Chest moving under the mud-colored yarn of the sweater in sharp gasps. Sam digs around in another pocket and pulls out his flask – unscrews the lid. Splashes holy water out in an arc, across fisted hands and the pale, bruised jaw just visible under the hair. Nothing. No smoke, no sizzle. The person – if it is a person – sighs out a long, trembling breath.

"Spiritus, in quo daemonia eiiciuntur…" the voice whispers, chin finally coming up – hair shifting back enough to show blood-shot eyes and more bruises. The Latin strangely accented, twisting the words. But Dean still recognizes them. 'Spirit, by whom demons are expelled…'

"Miserere nobis." Sam and Dean's reply is automatic – reflex. 'Have mercy on us.' But Dean's not feeling very merciful. He pushes his shotgun into Sam's hands and Sam nods once.

"I've got questions – you'd better have some fucking answers," Dean says. Bends down and grabs a handful of the noxious sweater and jerks the person to their feet. The face under the grime and the blood is neither male nor female. It's ageless and too pretty and that pushes Dean right over into the 'not human' side of thinking. So he doesn't feel too bad when he cocks his arm back and punches, hard as he can.

The thing goes out like a switched-off light and Dean lets the body slump back to the floor. "Go get the bolt-cutters, Sam," Dean says, taking back his shotgun – taking a step back from the prone figure on the floor. "We need enough chain to make sure whatever this is can't get away. Then we're gonna find a payphone and call the cops. Those kids…" Dean stops, sighing softly.

"They need to go home," Sam finishes. He rubs his fingers over his forehead, his head probably pounding. "Yeah, okay." He holds Dean's gaze with his own for a long moment and then he's gone and Dean crouches down just out of range, shotgun held easily across his knee. Thinking for a moment how much it's going to suck for these kids' families, getting a call past midnight. They'll know before anything's even been said – they'll know the minute their phones ring.

*Sorry. God, so fucking sorry…*

The bit of Latin is from this exorcism ritual: 'Exorcismale'. PDF.

Chapter two.

Tags:

spn,
thou born

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