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Jeez, guys. I'm away for a *day and a half* and i have so many bookmarks and *so much stuff* to catch up on...!!!
Stop being so skeery-prolific! Or, no, *don't* but...gimme more hours!
*reels*
Okay. Here we go here we go. No, i haven't forgotten 'Neverland', i'm just...not quite there in what i want to happen next. Soon!
Previous chapters here.
It takes fifteen minutes to get everything packed up – cleaned up – stowed in the car. Dean ends up taking the blood and Betadine-stained towel, even though there's nothing he can do about the mess on the wall and floor. He shoves one of his own long-sleeved t-shirts at Rafe – digs out the hoodie Sam hasn't worn in a while and they both dress silently. Then they're in the car, driving. Driving away, because there's no towards. Not yet.
"There's a reason you know all this stuff," Dean says, and Rafe plucks at a thread in the torn thigh of his filthy jeans. Huddles against the door and Dean wishes he hadn't told him to sit in the front. *In Sam's seat.* But he couldn't have stood him in the back – behind him. The thought alone makes cold crawl down Dean's spine. "Do you think the binding's why you forgot everything?"
"I don't...know." Rafe says. He straightens up just a little, pushing hair back out of his eyes. "And it's not everything. Just...some things."
"Yeah. But not angelic script. Or binding spells. Maybe you're a demon, too," Dean says, and Rafe twitches away, drawing his coat closer around his skinny ribs.
"No I'm not. I can – can say the Lord's name. The holy water didn't b-burn –"
"I've seen demons who weren't burned by it before," Dean says and Rafe shakes his head hard. Dean's feeling worse and worse about all of this. About the spell, about the failed hunt – about Rafe. Thinking this is a huge fucking mistake – thinking maybe they should have just left him for the police to find. Unless he really is a demon and then that would have been…
Bad.
Dean squeezes the steering wheel and tries not to skid on the corners, punchy from not sleeping and jittery from adrenaline. The snow has turned to something closer to drizzle and the sun is a flat, silver disc behind the clouds, sinking toward the western horizon. The sea off to their left is a dull, slatey grey, crisscrossed with the curling white of the wave-tops. Dean feels cold despite the heat roaring out of the Impala's vents. He doesn't know what to do. There's nothing to trace – nothing to track. Something took Sam – Sam – without a drop of blood or a scuff of dirt. Without a sound, and what the fuck is out there that's good enough – tough enough – to take down Sam?
*Nothing. Fucking…nothing. Now that the demon's gone…there's nothing.* Dean won't admit – even in the privacy of his own head – that this could be the same thing all over again. That they missed something – fucked up. That they're still in it, as deep as they ever were. It's making Dean want to hit something and it's looking like it might be Rafe when Dean's phone rings. Dean fumbles it out of his pocket and looks at the screen and almost drops it.
Sam – Sam's number – and Dean flips the phone open, hope and fury and terror leaping up in him like a shark, all teeth and single-minded intent. "Sammy?"
"Not quite."
Woman's voice – a little hoarse, a lot amused – and Dean feels his gut clench. *Meg* flashing through his mind before he shoves that impossibility away.
"Where's my brother?" he says, trying to make his voice dead-level. Calm. Trying not to scream.
"He's right here, Dean. But you're…not. I think that's a mistake."
"The only mistake is the one you made, fucking with us." Low laughter and sounds – footsteps? Then a sort of groan. Stifled – choked off. But Dean knows. *Fuck. Damnit, Sam – God damnit…*
"The Holy Cross, hunter. Hallowed ground. Better hurry."
"What do you –" Dean asks. Tries to ask. But the line is dead and he snaps the phone shut a little too hard – resists the impulse to hurl it away from him. Rafe is turning around in the seat, leaning over the back. Dragging the laptop bag into the front with a grimace of pain – finding the printout of the thing on his back. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"I think I can…break this. I think I know…"
"Oh, fuck me," Dean mutters, but he pushes down on the gas and goes. Puts some highway between them and the hotel and the bullet hole in the wall. The blood on the carpet. Get going and get out and figure out what Holy Cross is and what the fuck he's going to do from the bolt-hole of the car. Let the sound of tires on asphalt settle his nerves and get his brain working. Ultimately, he's going wherever Sam is and if that means a confrontation with something that thinks it's an angel then…so be it.
It turns out Holy Cross is a church – a cathedral. The oldest one in Boston, and Dean gets onto state highway 3 and drives – as Sam says – like a suicide. The adrenaline buzz is gone, flat gone and Dean knows he's too tired to be doing this. Going to do it, anyway. The snow has slacked off and the sun is gone, faded into nothing behind thick clouds that go from goose-down grey to ash to coal. The highway is clear – mostly deserted and Dean drives with white knuckles.
Rafe is sketching something on the print-out – adding a line, extending another. Working from memory, it seems, and Dean really doesn't get that. As Rafe squints in the glow of the flashlight, Dean sees him freeze suddenly – freeze and then flinch and then drop the flashlight, gasping.
"What – what?"
"Nnn…" Rafe puts his hand on the dash, leaning down, and Dean wants to hit him – wishes he could just open the door and push him out into the black-crested snow of the verge and be fucking done with him.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"N-nothing, I…just a little…light headed. My arm hurts."
"Too bad," Dean mutters, and Rafe pushes himself slowly upright – pushes his ratty hair back from his face and takes a drink of the orange juice he brought from the motel.
"How long?" Rafe asks, and Dean glances at the odometer – at his watch.
"Half hour 'til we hit Boston then – gotta find the fucking church…"
"I marked it on the map," Rafe offers, showing a gas-station map of the Greater Boston area. There's a red circle in the middle of a dense grid of streets, blue water on both sides.
"Fuck – hope there's not much traffic." Dean stretches his legs, pushing against the floorboard – cricks his neck this way and that and then settles again, thinking. Running through weapons, spells, exorcisms. Trying to figure out what the fuck he's going to do. This thing – whatever it is – can stand on hallowed ground. Can take a canny and experienced hunter down in seconds flat. And is trying to pass itself off as an angel. Which makes Dean shake his head because angels, in his experience, are chicks in Victoria's Secret ads or figments of overactive imaginations. He doesn't know a single person who's ever seen one that he'd actually believe.
Dad had sure never mentioned them, and no fucking angel has ever stepped in on the side of good in all the hunts that Dean's been on. Evil makes itself known, gleefully – horrifically. Good seems to think that just the idea is enough and…it's not. Not for Dean, at least.
"If I'm…what if it wanted to make me forget because it knows I can stop it?" Rafe says, and Dean flicks a glance his way. "What if I'm…its enemy?"
"What if you're competition?" Dean asks. "Where are you going with this?"
Rafe picks up the printout again – slides the beam of the flashlight over it. His face is drawn in the light, still smudged with blood high on one cheekbone. "If you – make these new lines, on my back…you'll break the binding. I think… I think you should." Rafe looks up – looks straight at Dean and his eyes seem to smolder in the oblique, yellow glow. Dean feels his heart skip a beat, painful little catch. Then Rafe looks down again – away – and Dean breathes slowly.
"I think that's a really bad idea."
"But what if I can help?" Rafe says softly. Long fingers lying over the printout, ragged nails, bruises across his knuckles.
"What if you get Sam killed? I'm not taking any chances. You don't even know – what you are. No fucking way."
"But what if –"
"No. Now shut up." Dean ignores the scowl – the tension in the bowed shoulders.
"I don't want to be…like this. Not forever."
"I don't actually give a fuck." Dean snaps. He reaches over and takes the printout, crumpling it in his fist – shoving it into his jacket pocket. Pushes the gas down a little further – a little harder. Fifty-three miles to go.
Chapter seven.
Stop being so skeery-prolific! Or, no, *don't* but...gimme more hours!
*reels*
Okay. Here we go here we go. No, i haven't forgotten 'Neverland', i'm just...not quite there in what i want to happen next. Soon!
Previous chapters here.
It takes fifteen minutes to get everything packed up – cleaned up – stowed in the car. Dean ends up taking the blood and Betadine-stained towel, even though there's nothing he can do about the mess on the wall and floor. He shoves one of his own long-sleeved t-shirts at Rafe – digs out the hoodie Sam hasn't worn in a while and they both dress silently. Then they're in the car, driving. Driving away, because there's no towards. Not yet.
"There's a reason you know all this stuff," Dean says, and Rafe plucks at a thread in the torn thigh of his filthy jeans. Huddles against the door and Dean wishes he hadn't told him to sit in the front. *In Sam's seat.* But he couldn't have stood him in the back – behind him. The thought alone makes cold crawl down Dean's spine. "Do you think the binding's why you forgot everything?"
"I don't...know." Rafe says. He straightens up just a little, pushing hair back out of his eyes. "And it's not everything. Just...some things."
"Yeah. But not angelic script. Or binding spells. Maybe you're a demon, too," Dean says, and Rafe twitches away, drawing his coat closer around his skinny ribs.
"No I'm not. I can – can say the Lord's name. The holy water didn't b-burn –"
"I've seen demons who weren't burned by it before," Dean says and Rafe shakes his head hard. Dean's feeling worse and worse about all of this. About the spell, about the failed hunt – about Rafe. Thinking this is a huge fucking mistake – thinking maybe they should have just left him for the police to find. Unless he really is a demon and then that would have been…
Bad.
Dean squeezes the steering wheel and tries not to skid on the corners, punchy from not sleeping and jittery from adrenaline. The snow has turned to something closer to drizzle and the sun is a flat, silver disc behind the clouds, sinking toward the western horizon. The sea off to their left is a dull, slatey grey, crisscrossed with the curling white of the wave-tops. Dean feels cold despite the heat roaring out of the Impala's vents. He doesn't know what to do. There's nothing to trace – nothing to track. Something took Sam – Sam – without a drop of blood or a scuff of dirt. Without a sound, and what the fuck is out there that's good enough – tough enough – to take down Sam?
*Nothing. Fucking…nothing. Now that the demon's gone…there's nothing.* Dean won't admit – even in the privacy of his own head – that this could be the same thing all over again. That they missed something – fucked up. That they're still in it, as deep as they ever were. It's making Dean want to hit something and it's looking like it might be Rafe when Dean's phone rings. Dean fumbles it out of his pocket and looks at the screen and almost drops it.
Sam – Sam's number – and Dean flips the phone open, hope and fury and terror leaping up in him like a shark, all teeth and single-minded intent. "Sammy?"
"Not quite."
Woman's voice – a little hoarse, a lot amused – and Dean feels his gut clench. *Meg* flashing through his mind before he shoves that impossibility away.
"Where's my brother?" he says, trying to make his voice dead-level. Calm. Trying not to scream.
"He's right here, Dean. But you're…not. I think that's a mistake."
"The only mistake is the one you made, fucking with us." Low laughter and sounds – footsteps? Then a sort of groan. Stifled – choked off. But Dean knows. *Fuck. Damnit, Sam – God damnit…*
"The Holy Cross, hunter. Hallowed ground. Better hurry."
"What do you –" Dean asks. Tries to ask. But the line is dead and he snaps the phone shut a little too hard – resists the impulse to hurl it away from him. Rafe is turning around in the seat, leaning over the back. Dragging the laptop bag into the front with a grimace of pain – finding the printout of the thing on his back. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"I think I can…break this. I think I know…"
"Oh, fuck me," Dean mutters, but he pushes down on the gas and goes. Puts some highway between them and the hotel and the bullet hole in the wall. The blood on the carpet. Get going and get out and figure out what Holy Cross is and what the fuck he's going to do from the bolt-hole of the car. Let the sound of tires on asphalt settle his nerves and get his brain working. Ultimately, he's going wherever Sam is and if that means a confrontation with something that thinks it's an angel then…so be it.
It turns out Holy Cross is a church – a cathedral. The oldest one in Boston, and Dean gets onto state highway 3 and drives – as Sam says – like a suicide. The adrenaline buzz is gone, flat gone and Dean knows he's too tired to be doing this. Going to do it, anyway. The snow has slacked off and the sun is gone, faded into nothing behind thick clouds that go from goose-down grey to ash to coal. The highway is clear – mostly deserted and Dean drives with white knuckles.
Rafe is sketching something on the print-out – adding a line, extending another. Working from memory, it seems, and Dean really doesn't get that. As Rafe squints in the glow of the flashlight, Dean sees him freeze suddenly – freeze and then flinch and then drop the flashlight, gasping.
"What – what?"
"Nnn…" Rafe puts his hand on the dash, leaning down, and Dean wants to hit him – wishes he could just open the door and push him out into the black-crested snow of the verge and be fucking done with him.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"N-nothing, I…just a little…light headed. My arm hurts."
"Too bad," Dean mutters, and Rafe pushes himself slowly upright – pushes his ratty hair back from his face and takes a drink of the orange juice he brought from the motel.
"How long?" Rafe asks, and Dean glances at the odometer – at his watch.
"Half hour 'til we hit Boston then – gotta find the fucking church…"
"I marked it on the map," Rafe offers, showing a gas-station map of the Greater Boston area. There's a red circle in the middle of a dense grid of streets, blue water on both sides.
"Fuck – hope there's not much traffic." Dean stretches his legs, pushing against the floorboard – cricks his neck this way and that and then settles again, thinking. Running through weapons, spells, exorcisms. Trying to figure out what the fuck he's going to do. This thing – whatever it is – can stand on hallowed ground. Can take a canny and experienced hunter down in seconds flat. And is trying to pass itself off as an angel. Which makes Dean shake his head because angels, in his experience, are chicks in Victoria's Secret ads or figments of overactive imaginations. He doesn't know a single person who's ever seen one that he'd actually believe.
Dad had sure never mentioned them, and no fucking angel has ever stepped in on the side of good in all the hunts that Dean's been on. Evil makes itself known, gleefully – horrifically. Good seems to think that just the idea is enough and…it's not. Not for Dean, at least.
"If I'm…what if it wanted to make me forget because it knows I can stop it?" Rafe says, and Dean flicks a glance his way. "What if I'm…its enemy?"
"What if you're competition?" Dean asks. "Where are you going with this?"
Rafe picks up the printout again – slides the beam of the flashlight over it. His face is drawn in the light, still smudged with blood high on one cheekbone. "If you – make these new lines, on my back…you'll break the binding. I think… I think you should." Rafe looks up – looks straight at Dean and his eyes seem to smolder in the oblique, yellow glow. Dean feels his heart skip a beat, painful little catch. Then Rafe looks down again – away – and Dean breathes slowly.
"I think that's a really bad idea."
"But what if I can help?" Rafe says softly. Long fingers lying over the printout, ragged nails, bruises across his knuckles.
"What if you get Sam killed? I'm not taking any chances. You don't even know – what you are. No fucking way."
"But what if –"
"No. Now shut up." Dean ignores the scowl – the tension in the bowed shoulders.
"I don't want to be…like this. Not forever."
"I don't actually give a fuck." Dean snaps. He reaches over and takes the printout, crumpling it in his fist – shoving it into his jacket pocket. Pushes the gas down a little further – a little harder. Fifty-three miles to go.
Chapter seven.