Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)...part two

[tabaqui]

*waves*
Here we go here we go!
Part one is here.








Failure is like grave dust in Dean's mouth and he glares at the sprawled figure in the rear view mirror for a moment before getting out of the car. Sam hasn't said a word all the way back to the motel and Dean can't think of a single thing to say to make him talk.

He hauls the body out roughly and carries it inside, old sweat and new and blood-smell in his nose. Other, filthier smells from the ruined clothes that speak of a long confinement, or at least a hard one. Sam opens the door to their room and then goes back to the car for a few things while Dean deposits the limp form into a chair. He sheds his jacket to the bed – lays the shotgun carefully ready.

The chain has cut into the flesh of the skinny wrists – cut and bruised and abraded, but Dean isn't interested in playing Florence Nightingale. He picks up the long, trailing end of iron links and contemplates the best way to use it to chain this fucker back up. Maybe anchor it around the frame of the bed? Sam slips inside, rope and the bolt cutters in his hands.

"We should take the chain off, Dean."

"It might be the only thing keeping it from getting away," Dean answers, letting the slack slither out of his hands to the floor.

Sam's eyebrows go up. "You don't think – he's human?"

"Really don't."

"But…the holy water –"

"Sam…" Dean sighs – crouches down and holds his hand out for the rope. Sam hands it over – watches Dean press a jean-clad calf to the chair leg and start winding rope around it. "We've seen holy water not work before. I just don't wanna take any chances."

"Then –" Sam crosses to the bed and picks up Dean's jacket and pulls the meter out of the pocket. "We should check again now that we're clear of the warehouse. Nothing here, right?"

"Yeah," Dean says, knotting the rope tight. He stands up and steps away and Sam turns the meter on. It hisses and squeals, the needle jittering over into the red and Sam shakes his head.

"Guess you're right."

"Guess we better figure out what the fuck it is before we're sorry we dragged it back here. You gonna help me now?" Dean waves the rope-end in the air and Sam turns the meter off – tosses it down.

"Yeah, okay. Dresser leg, maybe?"

"I was thinking bed frame but –"

"Have to step over the chain."

"Yeah. Okay, dresser leg. We could use those cuffs –"

"Yeah." Sam goes to root around in Dean's duffel and Dean goes back to tying the things legs to the chair legs. Then they wind more rope around its upper arms and chest and run the chain to the dresser leg, wrapping it around and around. There's a good ten feet of slack – more than enough. Sam clicks the handcuffs through the last couple links and then through some of the chain higher up and gives it a tug. The dresser rocks a little, but it's solid.

Dean pulls the Glock out of his waistband, turns to lay it on the table and stops. The thing's eyes are open, watching him. He grins. "Well, look who woke up. Ready to answer some questions?"

Sam grabs the box of salt out of the hold-all and sketches a circle all around the prisoner, who watches with unblinking eyes. Then he lays a fast line of salt in front of the motel door – across the windowsill, under the curtain edge. Dean just watches their prisoner, the Glock heavy and comfortable in his hand, chilled from being outside.

"Ookay…" Sam says, putting the salt away and grabbing one of Bobby's books. "I've got this great exorcism –"

"Can't exorcise what isn't there, hunter," the thing says, and Dean leans against the dresser, laying the gun down and drawing his knife. Gunshots draw too much attention, anyway.

"Well, we can give it the old college try. Or Sam can, at least." Flash of a grin at Sam and Sam just shakes his head – pages through the book. *Fuck, what is it? Can't be another demon like… Can't be.* The thing just stares. Twists its hands a little, wincing. There's dried blood on the chains – blood soaked into the cuffs of the sweater. Moons of black under the ragged nails and more bruises. *It's vulnerable, at least. Could just be the iron…*

"Praecipio tibi, quicumque es, spiritus immunde, et omnibus sociis tuis hunc Dei famulum obsidentibus…" Sam chants and Dean follows along in his head. The words are familiar – almost soothing. Sam's voice is even and calm – low, because there's no need to scream the words. Their power is in their age and in their shape – in what they define. The thing just sits. Closes its eyes and looks tired to death and Dean is not feeling sorry for it. Sam reads on, glancing up, but after a few more minutes it's clear that nothing is happening. No begging – no screaming. No pain or blood or spitting of noxious substances and Sam's voice fades to silence.

And the…person, Dean supposes, opens dark-circled eyes and licks chapped, split lips. Speaks in that painful rasp, in that strange and wrong-sounding Latin. "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end."

"Amen," Sam whispers. He looks bewildered and unhappy and Dean grits his teeth. Crouches down in front of the person, his knife resting delicately on the length of chain that hangs down – puddles on the cheap carpet.

"What's your name?" he asks.

Dark eyes flicker up to Sam – back to Dean. "Rafe."

"Why were you there? Why were you a prisoner?"

Rafe shakes his head. "I'm not…sure. It needed…it took something. From me. I don't…" He takes a shaky breath. "Those ch-children. It…they screamed –" His rasping voice breaks and he turns his face away, chest hitching as he struggles for control.

"Dean –" Sam says, soft, and Dean stands up and moves a few steps away, sliding his knife into its sheath.

"He tripped the meter, Sam. He's not possessed or a demon but…there's something off about him. He's not human. Or not all human." Sam looks over at the hunched figure, biting absently at a hangnail and Dean bats Sam's hand away from his mouth. "Dude – your hands are filthy."

"Jesus, Dean…" Sam wipes his fingers on his jeans and hunches his shoulders a little. He hasn't taken his coat off and there's a smudge of something on one shoulder, dark and sticky-looking. "Okay, so, he's something but – he's hurt, Dean. We can't just leave him like that."

"We can until we know for sure he's not gonna go postal on us. And this – Sack Man –"

"It didn't do this. They don't. They kidnap but they don't…kill. And they don't do magic. You saw that place, Dean. Something happened there – something big."

Dean pushes his hand back through his hair, frowning. "Yeah, I know. Fuck…"

"Yeah. We need to look up those markings – figure out what it was doing. We need –"

A sudden thought comes to Dean and he turns back to the other, who looks as miserable as a wet cat. "Hey – how'd you know that Latin? Where did you learn that?"

Rafe jerks slightly, startled – blinks dazed eyes up at them. "It…it was just there. In my h-head. I don't –"

"Know, yeah. Okay."

"Please can I – can I have some w-water?" Rafe asks, and Sam's whole face flinches.

"Dean –"

"No, Sam! We need to do some research first. We're not taking any chances." Sam's mouth sets, thin and hard, but he doesn't argue. Goes instead to the table and the laptop and opens it, settling into the only other chair with a scowl. *Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fine. I'm right, Sam. Not going to risk you out of…pity.* Dean watches Sam type for a moment – watches him take out his cell and start scrolling through the hastily-snapped pictures he took of the scene. Sees him take a sharp little breath when one picture shows the dead kids.

Then Dean goes to the sink and gets a cupful of water for Rafe.



Again, the Latin rite is from this PDF file here, and the translation is:'I command thee, unclean spirit, whoever thou art along with all thine associates who have taken possession of this servant of God...'


Chapter three.