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

Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)... Chapter three

Monday, October 30th, 2006 11:59 am

*la di da*

I know. I have nothing to say! I must clean house today, oh joy.
:)
Previous chapters are here.

Dean comes awake to the sound of voices, talking softly. He rolls over, his hand sliding away from the knife-hilt. Some habits aren't worth breaking. He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, stifling a yawn. Feels like he hasn't slept at all. After some coffee and something drenched in syrup and possibly powdered sugar – he'll be awake. But right now he feels dazed and shaky and cold, even though Sam's got the heater on.

"Sam?"

"Night table," Sam says, and Dean squints into the lamp-light and finds a cup of coffee, steaming hot. He cradles it in his hands as he awkwardly swings his legs off the bed – slumps forward, elbows on thighs. If he could absorb the liquid through his skin he would, but for now he just breathes in the warm steam and tries to wake up.

"Find anything?" Dean asks, half the cup inside him now and his eyes actually staying open. He feels like hell, Sam looks like hell and their guest – looks two days dead. All in all, it's not a pretty picture.

Sam yawns, knuckles to his mouth. An uneasy hour or so for both of them, sleeping by turns and it's really not enough. "Yeah, I did. I think I know what we're dealing with."

"Okay. Hit me." Dean gets up and moves around the bed – settles again on the corner nearest Sam and then he notices something. "Dude – what the hell?" he asks, staring at Rafe. Who's still chained, yeah, but his legs are pulled up into the chair seat, the rope coiled up and tidy on the floor. The chain's laying slack, the cuffs on the dresser top.

"He had to use the bathroom, Dean. What the hell was I supposed to do?"

Rafe looks away, clearly not involving himself and Dean just stares down at his hands for a moment. At the black specks imbedded in his knuckles – at the ragged skin around his nails. He needs a shower, he needs to get laid, he needs a fucking drink. "Sam… Yeah, okay. So – what're we up against?"

"We think it's a demon, but – "

"We?"

Sam makes the face that means he's ignoring Dean. Or – ignoring what he's saying. "Most of the symbols were in Latin or Hebrew but some of them were angelic script. From what I can tell, we have something trying to become something else."

Dean rubs his hand over his face – scrubs it back through his hair. It doesn't help. "What?"

Sam makes an impatient noise and shifts a book out of the heap on the table – tilts it toward Dean. "In ancient Palestine, some of the first-born were sacrificed to 'Moloch', one of the Princes of Hell. They... burned them alive." Sam points to a passage and Dean squints, sleep-blurry eyes refusing to focus on the tiny, smudgy text. "Moloch is actually thought to be Ba'al or –"

"Sammy, please," Dean interrupts. "Half-awake version."

Sam almost smiles but it fades fast and Dean feels a flutter of unease in his belly. Rafe shifts in the chair, the chain clinking softly. "We think a demon is trying to bluff its way into heaven by transforming itself into an angel. Using borrowed…power, I guess. Power from those kids. Their…souls." Sam stops and breathes, his knuckles white on the spine of the book. "We think it was bargaining with Moloch for something. Information, probably. How to do it."

"Their souls? Are you sure, Sam?"

Sam nods stiffly, putting the book back down – fidgeting with papers and pens – not looking at Dean. "Pretty damn sure, man."

"Christ," Dean mutters. He sits there, thinking. Sipping coffee and trying to get rid of the cold shivers going down his spine. Some…thing, taking souls. Some thing trying to get into a heaven Dean's not really sure he believes in… "Those kids weren't burned, Sammy."

"It burned selected…parts," Sam says, mouth turning down and his eyes going flat – angry. Dean remembers the thick, cooked-meat smell that had underlay everything else and grimaces.

"Fuck. Okay. So – what's he got to do with all this?" Dean asks, shooting a hard look at Rafe, who cringes back just a little.

"We're not sure. Maybe he needed an adult sacrifice? Or –"

"Why can't he remember?"

"I don't know," Rafe says, frowning. "I was there first, before the…children. Maybe I know about… Maybe it needed…information…?"

"Oh, Jesus. You're just guessing -"

"He's the one that recognized the angelic script, Dean." Sam starts flipping books shut – tidying away the papers he's scribbled on and Dean sighs.

"It just seems really far fetched, Sam, you know? I mean – angels?"

"Don't you think they exist?" Rafe is looking at him curiously, his fingers working, working, working – wrists flexing under the chain. Smell of fresh blood in Dean's nostrils, blood and old iron and his stomach lurches a little.

"What I know exists are monsters. Evil fucking monsters. If there are angels out there…they're sure not helping."

"Angels aren't the…good guys," Rafe says, and his voice is a little distant – a little strange. "They're terrible beings of fire and vengeance. Soldiers of God that no one may divert."

"Some stories say they taught humans things. Medicine and…" Sam waves his hand, yawning. "Stuff…skills. About love."

Rafe looks at Sam, his white face oddly shadowed by the bruises. His eyes, Dean notices, are a clear and crystalline grey, ringed with black. "They taught them about jealousy, too. About power and covetousness and desire... There wasn't a war in Heaven for nothing, hunter."

Sam flinches a little – looks like he wants to object. Like he's going to whip out the laptop and start looking up examples of angelic goodness on Angels-R-Us dot com or something and Dean pushes himself to his feet. "Okay, great, angels suck, whatever. I'm starving. Sam –?"

"I think we really need to get that chain off," Sam says, leaning forward and looking at Rafe's wrists and Dean wants to tell him forget it. But Rafe looks like a five-year-old could take him out and he sure didn't try to hurt them back at the warehouse. "Dean," Sam says, looking up when Dean doesn't say anything.

And Dean sighs, because what the fuck else is he gonna do? "Yeah, okay. Jesus."

"He actually was a good guy," Rafe says, and Sam laughs. He's got his lock-picks out again and he bends over the snarl of chain, delicately probing the padlock's innards. Dean shoves his Glock into his waist and a rosary in his pocket and wishes he had something else – something more. Wishes he had the Colt and one more bullet but that's…lost now. Like so much else. So he just stands there watching Sam do his thing and eventually the Master Lock clicks open, stiff with grime and blood.

The revealed skin under the chain is a mess of bruises and deep welts – skin rubbed raw and bloody. It's not so bad around Rafe's throat but Sam still winces as he helps unwind the links and Rafe's eyes are wet, lashes clumped together, by the time Sam's done.

"Wow, that's really… I've got some Betadine and stuff, why don't we clean this up?" Sam says, rolling the filthy sweater-sleeves up. Dean wants to tell him to stop being so fucking nice. Rafe just gets up, stiff and shaky, and shuffles to the sink that's against the far wall. Sam follows him, first aid kit in his hand.

Dean slumps back down onto the bed. *Never gonna get anything to fucking eat.*

Chapter four.

Tags:

spn,
thou born

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