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

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

Wednesday, November 1st, 2006 05:23 pm

Hallo!

Well, we just got back from a visit to my folks. So fun! We - my two brothers, my sort-of-sis-in-law, me,

pretties_4u the cousins and a family friend and his son all dressed up and we went out to get teh candy! It was a blast. Four pirates, two witches, a 'bat queen' a harem girl, and a 'construction worker' *snerk*, and the white-face guy from scream. My oldest brother was a rowdy 'Scottish' pirate, yelling remarks down the block and handing out 'pirate gold' - we had such fun! Despite the temperature! Heh. Pictures to follow soon.

And now - the next bit of this. So glad some of you on my flist are giving this a chance and reading it!
Previous chapters are here.

"You'd better tell me what the fuck is going on," Dean snarls, snatching Rafe up by his sweater – slamming him bodily into the wall. Rafe's white face goes a little green and there's blood on the wall now – a smear and a spatter and Dean doesn't fucking care.

"I don't – I d-don't – know, I d-don't –"

"Yes you fucking do!" Dean leans in, fist in the collar of Rafe's sweater, knuckles digging into Rafe's throat. Other fist in the sweater arm, half his weight right there on the wound and Rafe makes this strangled sort of noise, bloody hand clawing at Dean's chest, sweat on his face. "You remembered what you said to me at the diner and you knew Sam was gone –"

"No I didn't, no, n-no, I just – I j-just –"

"Tell me," Dean shouts, his heart beating so hard in his chest it hurts. "Tell me," he repeats, his voice cracking – dropping. "Or I'm gonna make you fucking scream."

Rafe is gasping – short, sharp little pants that barely pull in any air at all. His face is waxen – his skin cold against Dean's knuckles. Going into shock – maybe bleeding out, for all Dean knows. The sweater is sodden and warm, the wound pulsing slightly under Dean's fingers as Rafe bleeds.

"It – it – took something from me, it –"

"I know this already!"

"It took something but it l-left something! It can – it can get in m-me, it can use me, it's like – it's like I'm a g-glove and it's just ss-s-slipping me on and I c-can't – stop it. Can't…ss-stop it." Rafe's teeth are chattering – his knees buckling and Dean lets him go. Watches him slide down the wall, legs crumpling sideways and his left arm dangling. When his hand hits the floor he cries out.

Dean stares down at him – wipes his hand on his already spattered flannel. Panic dinning in him like a klaxon, heart going too fast and his lungs feeling crushed – pit of his belly aching. *Sam's gone, Sam's gone, fuck, gotta think, what's it want? Why Sam? God, please...* "Why's it want him?" he barks, and Rafe looks up at him, his right hand clenched back down onto his arm. His eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide and his lips look too pale.

"Wuh-why do you think? He's like a live wire – like a b-bonfire. You c-can't look away."

"Is that you?" Dean crouches down, roughly pushing back the strings of crow-black hair that lie across Rafe's face. "Who the fuck –"

"No, it's – me. It's…when you came into the w-warehouse he – blinded me. B-burned me…" Rafe's voice fades out – his eyes flutter shut, rolling back white and Dean curses.

*You're not fucking thinking. He dies, you've lost your connection. Save this bastard to save Sammy…God, oh GodohGod -* Dean bites the inside of his lip hard enough to draw blood, stilling the hysterical inner voice that's ratcheting up the panic. Now's not the fucking time. He dives for the sink, grabbing a towel. The first aid kit's on the counter where Sam left it. Rafe is practically lying on the floor, blood a glittering smear on the wall behind him. Dean drops to his knees and hauls Rafe upright, wringing a thin shout of pain from him.

"D-d-dooon't –"

"Shut up," Dean snaps. He grabs the hem of the sweater and wrenches it up and off, ignoring the yelp from Rafe. Jerks open the kit and scrabbles for the Betadine. He flicks the bottle-top open with his thumb – holds the towel up to catch some of the mess and pours. Rafe hisses, jerking away. The bottle is cold in Dean's hand. Blood and Betadine soak the towel, the carpet underneath and Rafe's thigh and Dean wipes roughly with the dry end of the towel, twisting Rafe's arm. Looking for and finding the exit wound on the back.

"It went through, probably in the wall or something… You're damn lucky whatever that was messed with my aim." Rafe makes a sort of disbelieving gasp and Dean grins at him, mirthless and furious. "I was aiming for your fucking head." He turns Rafe's arm again, studying the wound. "I need to stitch this shut…front and back…muscle's torn…it's gonna fucking hurt," Dean mutters, more to get his head straight than to tell Rafe – anything.

Rafe laughs dryly, then coughs. "Hurts already…g-guess it can't get w-wuh-worse."

"Of course it can," Dean says. "Here, hold this tight," he adds, wrapping the towel around Rafe's arm. Then he's digging back into the kit, leaving blood and Betadine smears on everything as he looks for the suture kits. Thank Christ for the internet – you can buy any damn thing under the sun. Rafe watches him, knuckles white, blood under his nails.

When he's done – when Rafe's arm is firmly wrapped in gauze and an Ace bandage, Dean finally sits back with a sigh. "Okay. Now we gotta – get going. We gotta find Sam."

Rafe looks up at him from his half-sprawled position, still pale as milk – still shocky looking. Blood smeared on his ribs and his belly and his jaw. Without the baggy sweater he's bruised and dirty and far too thin, and the bandages Sam wrapped so neatly around his wrists are smudged and unraveling. "You l-look like a crazy p-person," he says, and Dean wonders what that makes Rafe.

Dean blinks – rubs his wrist across his eyes and pushes himself to his feet, looking blankly at the vivid stains. At the wrappers and suture-ends that litter the floor. He holds his hand out and notices, with a detached sort of dullness, that it's shaking. "C'mon. Trail's getting cold, we have to go." Rafe lifts his own hand – takes Dean's and gasps softly as he's pulled to his feet. He sways, eyes squinting shut and his fingers gripping Dean's tight.

"My head's – spinning," he mutters and Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

"It's the blood loss. We've got some orange juice – over there." Dean waves his hand in the general direction of the dresser and mini-fridge. "Go drink some, I'm sure as fuck not gonna carry your ass. I'm gonna get cleaned up." Rafe nods silently and stumbles toward the dresser and Dean goes to the sink. There's a smear of blood on the wall – blood on the counter where Dean put his hand down and he turns the water on and leans there, eyes closed. Breathing – shaking – trying not to let the panic that's just under his breastbone get any higher. Any stronger.

*Can't stay here, not after I shot him – fucking lucky the cops aren't here already… Where would it go? Where would it take him? Back to the warehouse? Fuck, fuck…* Dean takes a hard, hitching breath and then another and just – stills. Crushes the internal panic down and shoves the seething fury away and goes into there. That space. That focused, feral place that's the only place you can be on the hunt. Something Dad never taught him, something he just…knows. It's cold here, and so minutely focused every edge seems to glitter. It's where he needs to be.

He washes his hands – his face. Barely seeing himself in the mirror, just making sure he's clean. Normal-looking because now is not the time for cops or questions or delays. Slicks a handful of water through his hair – strips off his flannel and t-shirt, turning the bloodstains to the inside. Wipes up the sink and counter and dabs at the wall with the sleeve of the flannel. It doesn't do anything but rub off some of the cheap beige paint.

Rafe is standing there, shirtless. Drinking the orange juice in long swallows, his head tipped back. Rags of tangled black hair falling down over his back and that's when Dean sees it. Marks – lines – some kind of fucking design on Rafe's back. Sigil or seal or who the fuck knows but Dean crosses to Rafe in four long strides, fist knotting in the hair and yanking it up, bundle of shirts falling to the floor. Rafe coughs orange juice over the dresser and tries to twist away and Dean grabs his wounded arm and shoves him hard into the cheap ply of the drawers. His cold – his icy resolve – is boiling away fast.

"What is this? What the hell is this on your back?"

"I don't know!" Rafe says, his voice high with tension. Eyes showing white as he tries to look over his own shoulder. "I can't – see it. It h-hurts. I thought –"

"It's some kind of fucking – design. That script, angel script – what the fuck are you trying to pull?"

Rafe shoves at the wall with his free hand, trying to get a little distance between his thighs and the dresser edge and Dean just grinds in closer, shaking him. Squeezing harder at the thin arm that's bruised almost black, swollen and hot from the wound. "I d-didn't know! I don't – don't remember –"

"That's getting way too fucking convenient," Dean snarls and steps back. Jerks Rafe around and slams him back into the dresser again. Twists Rafe's head around by his fistful of hair, facing him toward the mirror nailed to the wall. "Look. Fucking look! What is that?"

Rafe looks, turning his head, pulling the long, greasy strands of hair out of Dean's fingers. Once he finally focuses on whatever's on his back he stills, eyes going wide. "I – I can't…" He twists and squints a little and licks his lips – looks at Dean. "Can you take a p-picture of it?"

Dean huffs out a breath, annoyed and furious. Snatches his phone off the dresser and opens it – tugs Rafe around again by his shoulder, angling him toward the light. That's when he finally notices that the design is cut into Rafe's back. Thin, precise lines, looping and arching – covering him from the tops of his shoulder blades to the bottom of his ribs.

"How in fuck could you not know this is back here?" Dean growls and Rafe hunches a little, the hand holding his hair aside clenching tight.

"It – hurt. I thought…thought I f-fell or it…hit me. I c-can't –"

"Remember. I fucking know." Dean stabs at buttons, emailing the picture to himself. Rafe is twisting in front of the mirror again, squinting at his reflection. The marks are dark with dried blood – bruised purple and sickly green, livid and ugly on Rafe's pale skin. Dean sits down at the table, his fingers flying over the laptop's keyboard, opening up his mail account and then the picture, full-screen. "Here – look."

Rafe crouches down next to Dean's chair, staring at the screen. The edges of the picture have some weird shimmer to them, light reflected oddly off the mirror – something. "That's – angelic script. That's…it's a binding. It's for – locking something up. Forever."

"You mean you," Dean says, and Rafe looks up at him, pale eyes wide and scared – bewildered. Dean hits the 'print' button on the menu and twists in the chair, leaning closer to Rafe. "How the hell do you know what it is?" he says, and Rafe just shakes his head, licking his lips. "Where were you before it grabbed you?"

"I…I was…" Rafe has his bad arm curled around his ribs, his other hand lifting to rub at his forehead. His gaze is distant – shuttered. "There was…someone. A w-woman. I knew her – I was g-glad to…to see her. And then…" Rafe's voice fades away and he stands up slowly, bracing on the edge of the table. Staring down at the rune – the spell that's been carved into his flesh.

"What?" Dean asks – all but whispers, because Rafe… Rafe looks lost. Sad and small and younger than Sammy ever has.

"Then I was falling."

Chapter six.

Tags:

spn,
thou born

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