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Almost done! Yes, this is the penultimate chapter of my SPN...thingy. Heh. On with the show!
Previous parts are here.
Enjoy!
I know - boring, eh? But i'm a little zoned and i need some breakfast, big time.
"What in fucking hell…?" Dean stops the car about half a block from the barricade. From the blue and red lights, the milling camera crews and the – oh fuck – SWAT team members that are crouching behind plex shields and an armored van. The cathedral is right there, so close Dean can practically taste it. Taste of bile because Holy Cross is the center of all of this, and that means Sam is. *God damnit, Sammy…you got grabbed by some kind of…media-whore demon? Jesus.*
"What are…how can we get in there?" Rafe asks faintly, his fingers knotted in the hem of his shirt. He's tearing it a little and Dean never liked that t-shirt, anyway.
"I dunno. But I'll bet our little friend is gonna tell us." Rafe gives him an odd look but Dean ignores it – gets the car turned around and drives in right angles until he's found parking that looks safe, the bell-tower of the cathedral easily in sight. He gathers weapons and books into a hold-all – slides holy water and salt and fire into his pockets. Iron-bladed knife and silver-bladed one, bullets of every kind, all blessed with myrtle and bay. Anything and everything because something has to work. Something will work. Listening to the radio that's turned on low, excited voices through the speakers set right above the trunk.
"Armed man holding at least ten parishioners and one priest hostage…four dead in the initial assault…seventeen wounded in early evening services…live on the scene…"
"Fuck me," Dean mutters. Civilians only complicate things. Dean slams the trunk shut and pushes the hold-all into Rafe's arms, ignoring the wince when the hold-all hits the bandaged gunshot. Turns off the radio, fists a handful of Rafe's coat and starts walking. They slide through alleys and down shadowed streets, circling to the back of the cathedral. There's SWAT back here, too. More barricades, more tape – more lights. Dean jerks Rafe down into a crouch beside him, behind the salt-crusted bumper of an SUV. Bone-deep in that cold, clear place – cold enough that he doesn't even feel the ice-edged wind, or the frozen metal pressed into his shoulder.
"What do we do now?" Rafe breathes, and Dean turns to him – shifts his hold and pulls Rafe close.
"Now your little puppet-master figures it out. If we try to just walk in there, we'll be shot. So, you – " Dean shakes Rafe ever so slightly, muffled chime of metal from the hold-all. "You get me in there, you hear?"
Rafe just stares at him, bewildered, and Dean's starting to think he's fucking nuts but then it happens. Sudden shift of stance – of Rafe's eyes and whatever it is that's got Sam is grinning at Dean – cutting its glimmering eyes over to the hulk of the cathedral, stained with too many spotlights.
"Pick your moment, hunter," it says, Rafe's voice a silken rasp and its words laced with amusement.
There's noise, suddenly. Voices yelling – radios crackling to life and every hidden officer is suddenly fixated on something – someone – else. There's a scream from the front of the church – gunfire, and Dean jerks Rafe to his feet and into motion. And then they're both running, dodging – skimming through the barricades and up a shallow flight of stairs to a small door set back under a deeply-stepped stone lintel.
"Hey, you! Get the fuck out of there or I'll shoot!"
Dean slams his shoulder into the door, loosing his grip on Rafe – not giving a fuck in that moment if Rafe makes it or doesn't. Focused on one thing, and that's getting inside. He hears running feet – hears more shouting and the doorway gapes suddenly, blackness where there had been wood and glass. Dean uses his momentum and just goes, rolling sharply right as the first of the bullets ping harmlessly off stone or whir away into the darkness beyond. There's a rattle and a thud and then Rafe's slamming bodily into Dean, going down hard.
Dean grabs shirt and coat and heaves them both further into shadow. Just as the actinic white of a spotlight is dazzling over them, the door slams shut.
"Jesus…Christ," Dean pants.
"You wish." Rafe starts untangling himself, making a soft sound of pain as he works his hurt arm free of the hold-all's straps.
"What did it do? Do you know?" Dean gets to his feet – pulls his Glock free and clicks the safety off – chambers a round of blessed, wrought iron. Ready to go.
"I…think… There was a priest. He was mostly dead. It…sent him out with a gun."
Dean curses softly. Mostly dead is surely dead, now, and murdering some poor priest puts one more tick-mark in the 'kill it fucking hard' column in Dean's head. But it's also put every fucking officer out there on hyper-alert, and getting Sam free before they storm the place is getting less and less likely. "You saw it?" he asks, taking in the room. Light coming in through the high windows, splintering the darkness into strips. There is a door-less sort of closet along one wall, hung with the priest's vestments. Sink, crowded shelves – they must be in the sacristy behind the altar.
"I felt its...intent. Felt what it made the p-priest do." Rafe says, and Dean sees him shudder.
"Yeah? Fuck. Keep behind me and don't drop the fucking weapons, okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Rafe mutters, pushing his lank hair back. He takes a long breath – puts out his hand and touches Dean's shoulder, stopping him. "O Maria sine labe concepta, ora pro nobis, qui confugimus ad te…" he whispers, and it takes Dean a moment to translate it.
"O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee…"
It's a prayer for a good death and Dean almost hits him. "Shut up, you fucker," he grates, twitching away from Rafe's hand. "The only thing dying around here is the thing that's got Sam and it's not going to have anything remotely like a good death." Rafe just stares at him, all bruises and bone in the salt-white dazzle, half his face shadowed and his eyes too wide. "If you have to fucking pray, pray something useful, for fuck's sake." Rafe's gaze wavers and then drops and Dean just can't...care.
He heads for the Gospel door, where the priests come in. Deliberately upsetting the order of things – going out through the in door. Change the direction. Change their luck, because they need something, right now. Need anything. They walk silently through the door – edge around the bulk of icons and carvings and whatever the fuck makes up the decorations in the apse. The air is thick with the sweet-musky scent of incense and Dean stands in the shadows for a moment, letting his eyes adjust.
There's a blaze of candles on the altar. Dozens of them, hot wax in long streamers down the dull-green cloth. More of them on the floor – on every flat surface within ten feet of the altar. Circles of fire, overlapping. And there's someone standing there, angled out toward the nave and the pews, back to Dean. Someone not Sam, and not some hapless civilian so Dean lifts the Glock and sights carefully. The air over the alter seems almost alive, shadow and candle-glow twisting and shivering and Dean takes a breath and lets it out – lets his finger slowly squeeze.
And the figure shifts – moves – turns to face him, twisting on the balls of its feet and crouching down beside…Sam. *Oh, fucking hell!* Sam on his knees, bare to the waist. His arms strained back behind him, his face shadowed with bruises – blood on his cheek. His hair fisted in a tight grip, head yanked back and throat bared. Steel glints there, and wet scarlet. Sick rush of fear that Dean shoves brutally into the freezing depths.
"Want to try your luck, hunter?" the things says, and Dean – almost – does. But the thing is too close – half hidden behind Sam and the knife is touching Sam's throat. Has touched, because there are three or four hair-fine lines of red there and blood has streaked down, pooling in the wells of Sam's collarbones. More blood on his chest, convolute design but Dean can't look at that right now. Can't pay attention to Sam because getting him free comes before everything else.
'Let him go!' Dean wants to scream. Knows it won't do any good. So he circles instead, out of the shadows and around. Treading a silent half-circle on the thin carpet. There's a helicopter circling outside somewhere, steady whup-whup of its blades rising and falling as it moves. Light comes in from random angles, setting the stained glass alight in flashes like lightning. Dean has the sense of people – maybe a dozen or so – out on the pews but he concentrates on the thing that's crouching like some obscene guardian angel at Sam's shoulder.
Woman-shaped, with a salt-pale face and hair like ragged black feathers, curling onto angled cheekbones. Mouth like a streak of blood and Dean wonders if it's drunk Sam's blood. Eyes of infinite, flame-bright blue. The face looks too much like Rafe's for coincidence and Dean has a moment of gut-wrenching terror because he can't see Rafe, and what if Rafe's not a victim at all?
But a flickering glance shows Rafe at his left and behind, circling as warily as Dean. Clutching the weapons, lips moving, and that fractured Latin is a plea for mercy – for intervention.
"How about you let all these people go?" Dean says. "We don't need 'em, do we? It's just you and me."
"Oh, not quite. It's you three. Ménage à trois, isn't that what they call it?" The knife trails down Sam's throat – nicks the little hollow where collarbones and sternum meet and Sam doesn't move – doesn't flinch. Doesn't close his eyes, his gaze fixed on Dean. "But you don't share, do you, hunter?" she says. She lifts the knife up – lays it flat over Sam's heart. "You want to be the only one that sullies this soul." She twists her hand and Sam's head is forced to twist with it and Sam's chest lifts up in a hard, gasping breath.
"No, I don't like to share," Dean agrees. Moves again, making her turn. Making her shift on the balls of her booted feet. Ragged jeans and a t-shirt full of holes and a cracked leather jacket and what demon dresses like that? What demon finds churches so easy to invade? Rafe is behind Dean – Dean can all but feel him, back there. Soft little clink from the weapons he holds – shuffle of his feet and the sibilant, sighing prayers that whisper from his lips. Muffled sounds from the hostages in the pews, tiny snuffles and sighs.
A voice booms outside suddenly – amplified and echoing. Startling a cry from the pews – making the skin on Dean's back crawl. He hates that those people are there, behind him. Vulnerable and in danger and a fucking distraction he can't afford. The voice talks about phones – about demands. Asks how many are alive – can't some come out? Typical hostage crisis shit, and Dean wishes they'd shut the fuck up.
She ignores it – shoots a look of pure amusement toward the doors and outside. "They just won't give up, you know?" she says, and Dean nods a little.
"They tend to get excited over dead priests," he says back, and she grins at him. "I don't get excited over much, myself. But I'm about to if you don't step away from him."
Black eyebrows arch and she laughs. Laughs and stands up, hands out to her sides. The knife glints ruddy gold in the light, stained with Sam's blood. "I'd like to see you excited, hunter."
"Hope you enjoy it," Dean says, and pulls the trigger. Onetwothree – fourfive, and she goes down hard. Somewhere behind him is screaming – yelling – and then Rafe's voice, rasping and cracked, shouting at the parishioners.
"Get out! Run out of here, hurry, go!"
Dean assumes they do, because he hears running steps – gasping pants and little cries of distress. A sudden chaos of voices outside as the first of the hostages emerge. Dean crosses the space between himself and Sam in five long strides, stepping over the ring of candles. He goes down on his knees, gun trained on the still figure that's sprawled out between risers and the altar. Hand curling hard over Sam's shoulder, feeling skin slick with sweat. It's hot up here, hot from the flames, the air thick with incense and beeswax. And Sam looks like death warmed over; eyes socketed too deeply into a face pale as paper. "Sam, you okay?" he asks, and Sam laughs, a coughing sort of thing.
"I'm just fine and d-dandy," Sam says, and Dean wants to kiss his bruised mouth – wants to lift him up and take him out of there. But there's something still needs to be done, and Dean's still in that good, cold place, seeing in black-edged brilliance. He passes the Glock to his left hand and draws the iron-bladed knife from its sheath – moves behind Sam. Sam's arms are wound, wrists to elbows, with the long, green-cloth stole of a priest. Dean slices it carefully, watching it fray and coil away from Sam's skin until it's nothing but a heap on the floor and Sam is leaning forward, arms cradled between his thighs. Gasping softly, his back a long, pale-tan curve in the honeyed light. Bruised even there, and Dean resists the urge to reach out and touch – to smooth away. Instead he puts the knife away – shifts the Glock back to his right hand. She's still lying there, and Dean hopes to fucking God they're right and she's an actual demon, not someone like Meg. Not a girl, trapped in her own skull.
"Can you walk?" Dean asks, and Sam straightens, grimacing.
"Leg are asleep. Just – get me up." Dean gets his shoulder under Sam's arm – hauls as Sam pushes and then stands there, bracing him. Waiting the agonizing moments while Sam wobbles and curses and stomps his feet a little, shaky as a new colt. She – it – lies on the floor, arms flung wide. Knife still in her fingers and Dean lifts the gun and aims as she smiles.
"You really think it's that easy, hunter?"
"I can always dream," Dean says, but before he can even squeeze the trigger she's up and on him, slamming him back – knocking him to the ground. Sam reels – hits the floor beside them, his coordination shot. Then Sam's grabbing her – locking an arm around her throat and dragging her off Dean, shaking and clumsy but doing it.
"Rafe, we need the fucking bag!" Dean yells, rolling and scooping up the fallen Glock – dropping the half-empty clip of wrought-iron and slapping in the clip that's silver and lead, marked with crosses and blessed with myrrh and mistletoe. Maybe they'll work better.
Sam's still grappling with her, wrapping his daddy-long legs around her hips and forcing her chin up, grimacing in pain as she claws at his face – manages to drive her head backward into his nose. "Damnit. Dean –!"
"Let her go – move!" Dean shouts, rising up to his knees and Sam pushes her, flinging her away and throwing himself sideways and Dean shoots, full clip straight to the heart. She goes down again, dragging the altar cloth with her. Cascade of candles, wax – fire.
"Here – oh God –" Rafe is shoving the hold-all at Dean, his gaze fixed on the spreading pools of burning wax.
"Give it to Sam - deal with that fucking fire before everything catches!" Dean snaps, and Rafe pivots and pushes the hold-all into Sam's hands. Dean jerks the wax-stiffened altar cloth off her body, letting Rafe take it to smother the fire. She's lying with her eyes wide open, her chest a mass of blood and broken bone. But she's alive, air whistling into her lungs with every hitching, too-wet breath.
Her gaze fixes on Dean. "Not – enough, hu-hunter," she rasps, her hands scrabbling at the floor. Trying to push herself up and Dean fumbles in his pocket for another clip. Finds the crumpled print-out instead and almost tosses it aside. *Oh, man, what if -*
"Sam – hey, look at this," Dean says, turning to Sam just in time to catch the container of salt Sam's tossing him. Dean lobs the print-out to Sam and then catches the Balm of Gilead Sam throws next and turns back to the demon, scattering salt and oil in a hasty circle. She twists in the center, limbs slowly gaining coordination but not fast enough. He adds holy water – douses her with it and she arches up in a silent scream, the mess of the gunshot wounds smoking. "Can we use it on her? Bind her?"
"What is it?"
"It's on Rafe's back. He said it was a binding." Dean feels secure enough to look back over his shoulder at Sam. Sam's eyebrows go up and he studies the print-out – looks down at himself.
"It looks the same as... Dean, she said she was binding me to her. My...soul. Like the children."
"Oh." No fucking way they're binding this bitch to either one of them. And...bound. Not good. "Rafe said he figured out how to break it. See those extra lines? We break it first. Get you free."
"Yeah...maybe," Sam says, slow. Like he's weighing all the pros and cons in his head. His eyes look dead, muddy and not quite tracking right and Dean feels fear twist in his belly like cold, coiling snakes.
"Don't really have time for a discussion, Sam," Dean says, eyeing the thing in the circle. She's managed to get to her knees and she's painfully scraping a gap in the circle, the flesh of her hands sizzling. Glaring at him, teeth bared in a bloody snarl.
*And she's got Sam's soul. Fucking bitch.* Dean unsheathes the knife at his waist – goes down to his knees in front of Sam. Sam glances over Dean's shoulder and nods, taking a deep breath. Dean studies the print-out for a moment and then starts to cut, one hand in a death-grip on Sam's shoulder. Sam tries not to flinch but Dean can feel the little twitches going through him. Dean shrugs his jacket off one arm and wipes at the blood on Sam's chest with his shirt-sleeve – cuts again and again.
Seventh, eighth – ninth cut and Sam's back arches into a rigid bow as something...hits him. Shockwave of moving air and light that passes through Dean like sunlight, warm and sweet. For one moment the air around Dean is full of the scent of bay and mint and the sea and then it's over – done – and Sam's staring at Dean and Dean's staring back, feeling the grin on his face. There's color in Sam's face now – life back in his eyes. "Jesus –"
"Wow. That was -"
"Yeah –" The thing in the circle makes a noise like a scalded cat – pure fury.
"Really don't have time for that," Rafe says, snatching the knife out of Dean's hand. "Do it. Fix mine, too."
"Hey!" Sam's scrambling to his feet, book in hand and Dean pushes himself up, turning to look. She's still scraping at the salt, with fingers that are showing bone on the ends. Blood has soaked the front of her shirt and jeans and Dean swears he can see lung – can see the faltering pump of her heart.
"Dean – here. We can use this." Sam tilts the book toward Dean, the one Bobby gave them – Key of Solomon. "We can seal her into her body – lock up her power."
Dean scans the glyph – the text. "You sure, Sammy?"
Sam glances at her – looks back at Dean, his gaze steady. There are broken capillaries in his left eye, startling bloom of scarlet across the white. "Yeah, I'm sure."
"Okay – let's get this show on the road, then."
"No – come on – please?" Rafe's holding the print-out in one shaking hand – holding the knife. "You have to do this first, please, I don't want to stay – stay like this –"
"It's okay, we can do this first," Sam says, and Dean can't tell if he's lying or not. He's got his 'everything's fine' face on – the one that charms church ladies and paranoid Sheriffs and really – Sam's just that fucking good.
"What he said," Dean says, and he and Sam both turn toward the demon. She's gasping for air now – a froth of blood and bubbles over her lips, her skin ashy and running with sweat. She's raveling at the edges – bits of herself furling away into the shifting air above the altar. And the circle is broken. Inch-wide gap, but that's all it takes. She's trying to get her feet under her, and they're out of time. "So – where?" Dean says, moving fast and Sam tugs the knife out of Rafe's hand.
"Doesn't matter."
"Okay then." Dean leans down and hauls her up by the blood-slick lapels of her jacket. She comes into his arms easily, too light. Snarling like a trapped dog. Dean holds her at arm's length and punches once, solid, and her head snaps back – her scrabbling fingers go limp as she buckles. "You're up, Sam," he says, easing her back down – locking his arms across her collarbones, avoiding the mess the bullets made of her chest.
Sam kneels down over her thighs – pushes up the rags of t-shirt to expose her pale belly and begins. The glyph is deceptively simple but it makes Dean's eyes ache to look at it, and Sam's hands are shaking by the time he's done. Then the last line curves into her flesh and she seems to...shrink. To become somehow more and less all at the same time. The sliver of pupil that Dean can see under her lashes is blue-grey and glazed.
"Okay – that's...it. She's..."
"Dying. And they're coming. D-Dean? They're coming – they're coming in." Rafe is kneeling, too – looking like he's going to be sick. Staring wide-eyed at the near-corpse in Dean's arms, the print-out crumpled under his fist. "Please, they're coming in and –"
"Fuck, okay – okay," Dean says, squirming out from under...her. It. Whatever it is. Her breathing has gone to hoarse little barks, rasping and ugly and Dean wipes his hands on his thighs and looks around. Clip there – knife there – bag and salt and bottle that had the oil in it. Sweeping up everything they've used while Rafe clumsily strips out of coat, hoodie and shirt and Sam smoothes the print-out and lifts the knife again. Last glance at what is surely a corpse, blood pooling out onto the battered carpet.
"You! In the church! You're out of time – we're coming in! Put your weapons down and lie on the floor! We are armed and prepared to shoot!"
"Fuck, fuck - fuck -" Dean shoves the book into the hold-all and zips it shut – sees Sam's shirts and coat wadded under the altar and snatches them up. "Sam – we gotta go, now."
"Hang on, hang on –" Sam mutters, lip between his teeth and the knife moving here, there. Last cut and he sags a little. Absently pats Rafe's bare shoulder. "Okay, I'm done, that's it."
"I don't – feel anything. I don't –" Rafe says. And then...
Light. Heat. Sound that isn't sound, but that rings through Dean's bones as if they're hollow. He can't stand up under it – can't see, can't hear. He knows he's yelling – he can feel his throat working. But – nothing. Clumsily, he gropes forward into light so bright it's blinding him through squeezed-tight lids. Touches something – something warm under rough cloth and it's Sam, Sam's calf – Sam's knee and his hand is an inch or so higher when it all just – stops.
The prayer for a 'happy death' is from here.
Chapter eight.
Previous parts are here.
Enjoy!
I know - boring, eh? But i'm a little zoned and i need some breakfast, big time.
"What in fucking hell…?" Dean stops the car about half a block from the barricade. From the blue and red lights, the milling camera crews and the – oh fuck – SWAT team members that are crouching behind plex shields and an armored van. The cathedral is right there, so close Dean can practically taste it. Taste of bile because Holy Cross is the center of all of this, and that means Sam is. *God damnit, Sammy…you got grabbed by some kind of…media-whore demon? Jesus.*
"What are…how can we get in there?" Rafe asks faintly, his fingers knotted in the hem of his shirt. He's tearing it a little and Dean never liked that t-shirt, anyway.
"I dunno. But I'll bet our little friend is gonna tell us." Rafe gives him an odd look but Dean ignores it – gets the car turned around and drives in right angles until he's found parking that looks safe, the bell-tower of the cathedral easily in sight. He gathers weapons and books into a hold-all – slides holy water and salt and fire into his pockets. Iron-bladed knife and silver-bladed one, bullets of every kind, all blessed with myrtle and bay. Anything and everything because something has to work. Something will work. Listening to the radio that's turned on low, excited voices through the speakers set right above the trunk.
"Armed man holding at least ten parishioners and one priest hostage…four dead in the initial assault…seventeen wounded in early evening services…live on the scene…"
"Fuck me," Dean mutters. Civilians only complicate things. Dean slams the trunk shut and pushes the hold-all into Rafe's arms, ignoring the wince when the hold-all hits the bandaged gunshot. Turns off the radio, fists a handful of Rafe's coat and starts walking. They slide through alleys and down shadowed streets, circling to the back of the cathedral. There's SWAT back here, too. More barricades, more tape – more lights. Dean jerks Rafe down into a crouch beside him, behind the salt-crusted bumper of an SUV. Bone-deep in that cold, clear place – cold enough that he doesn't even feel the ice-edged wind, or the frozen metal pressed into his shoulder.
"What do we do now?" Rafe breathes, and Dean turns to him – shifts his hold and pulls Rafe close.
"Now your little puppet-master figures it out. If we try to just walk in there, we'll be shot. So, you – " Dean shakes Rafe ever so slightly, muffled chime of metal from the hold-all. "You get me in there, you hear?"
Rafe just stares at him, bewildered, and Dean's starting to think he's fucking nuts but then it happens. Sudden shift of stance – of Rafe's eyes and whatever it is that's got Sam is grinning at Dean – cutting its glimmering eyes over to the hulk of the cathedral, stained with too many spotlights.
"Pick your moment, hunter," it says, Rafe's voice a silken rasp and its words laced with amusement.
There's noise, suddenly. Voices yelling – radios crackling to life and every hidden officer is suddenly fixated on something – someone – else. There's a scream from the front of the church – gunfire, and Dean jerks Rafe to his feet and into motion. And then they're both running, dodging – skimming through the barricades and up a shallow flight of stairs to a small door set back under a deeply-stepped stone lintel.
"Hey, you! Get the fuck out of there or I'll shoot!"
Dean slams his shoulder into the door, loosing his grip on Rafe – not giving a fuck in that moment if Rafe makes it or doesn't. Focused on one thing, and that's getting inside. He hears running feet – hears more shouting and the doorway gapes suddenly, blackness where there had been wood and glass. Dean uses his momentum and just goes, rolling sharply right as the first of the bullets ping harmlessly off stone or whir away into the darkness beyond. There's a rattle and a thud and then Rafe's slamming bodily into Dean, going down hard.
Dean grabs shirt and coat and heaves them both further into shadow. Just as the actinic white of a spotlight is dazzling over them, the door slams shut.
"Jesus…Christ," Dean pants.
"You wish." Rafe starts untangling himself, making a soft sound of pain as he works his hurt arm free of the hold-all's straps.
"What did it do? Do you know?" Dean gets to his feet – pulls his Glock free and clicks the safety off – chambers a round of blessed, wrought iron. Ready to go.
"I…think… There was a priest. He was mostly dead. It…sent him out with a gun."
Dean curses softly. Mostly dead is surely dead, now, and murdering some poor priest puts one more tick-mark in the 'kill it fucking hard' column in Dean's head. But it's also put every fucking officer out there on hyper-alert, and getting Sam free before they storm the place is getting less and less likely. "You saw it?" he asks, taking in the room. Light coming in through the high windows, splintering the darkness into strips. There is a door-less sort of closet along one wall, hung with the priest's vestments. Sink, crowded shelves – they must be in the sacristy behind the altar.
"I felt its...intent. Felt what it made the p-priest do." Rafe says, and Dean sees him shudder.
"Yeah? Fuck. Keep behind me and don't drop the fucking weapons, okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Rafe mutters, pushing his lank hair back. He takes a long breath – puts out his hand and touches Dean's shoulder, stopping him. "O Maria sine labe concepta, ora pro nobis, qui confugimus ad te…" he whispers, and it takes Dean a moment to translate it.
"O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee…"
It's a prayer for a good death and Dean almost hits him. "Shut up, you fucker," he grates, twitching away from Rafe's hand. "The only thing dying around here is the thing that's got Sam and it's not going to have anything remotely like a good death." Rafe just stares at him, all bruises and bone in the salt-white dazzle, half his face shadowed and his eyes too wide. "If you have to fucking pray, pray something useful, for fuck's sake." Rafe's gaze wavers and then drops and Dean just can't...care.
He heads for the Gospel door, where the priests come in. Deliberately upsetting the order of things – going out through the in door. Change the direction. Change their luck, because they need something, right now. Need anything. They walk silently through the door – edge around the bulk of icons and carvings and whatever the fuck makes up the decorations in the apse. The air is thick with the sweet-musky scent of incense and Dean stands in the shadows for a moment, letting his eyes adjust.
There's a blaze of candles on the altar. Dozens of them, hot wax in long streamers down the dull-green cloth. More of them on the floor – on every flat surface within ten feet of the altar. Circles of fire, overlapping. And there's someone standing there, angled out toward the nave and the pews, back to Dean. Someone not Sam, and not some hapless civilian so Dean lifts the Glock and sights carefully. The air over the alter seems almost alive, shadow and candle-glow twisting and shivering and Dean takes a breath and lets it out – lets his finger slowly squeeze.
And the figure shifts – moves – turns to face him, twisting on the balls of its feet and crouching down beside…Sam. *Oh, fucking hell!* Sam on his knees, bare to the waist. His arms strained back behind him, his face shadowed with bruises – blood on his cheek. His hair fisted in a tight grip, head yanked back and throat bared. Steel glints there, and wet scarlet. Sick rush of fear that Dean shoves brutally into the freezing depths.
"Want to try your luck, hunter?" the things says, and Dean – almost – does. But the thing is too close – half hidden behind Sam and the knife is touching Sam's throat. Has touched, because there are three or four hair-fine lines of red there and blood has streaked down, pooling in the wells of Sam's collarbones. More blood on his chest, convolute design but Dean can't look at that right now. Can't pay attention to Sam because getting him free comes before everything else.
'Let him go!' Dean wants to scream. Knows it won't do any good. So he circles instead, out of the shadows and around. Treading a silent half-circle on the thin carpet. There's a helicopter circling outside somewhere, steady whup-whup of its blades rising and falling as it moves. Light comes in from random angles, setting the stained glass alight in flashes like lightning. Dean has the sense of people – maybe a dozen or so – out on the pews but he concentrates on the thing that's crouching like some obscene guardian angel at Sam's shoulder.
Woman-shaped, with a salt-pale face and hair like ragged black feathers, curling onto angled cheekbones. Mouth like a streak of blood and Dean wonders if it's drunk Sam's blood. Eyes of infinite, flame-bright blue. The face looks too much like Rafe's for coincidence and Dean has a moment of gut-wrenching terror because he can't see Rafe, and what if Rafe's not a victim at all?
But a flickering glance shows Rafe at his left and behind, circling as warily as Dean. Clutching the weapons, lips moving, and that fractured Latin is a plea for mercy – for intervention.
"How about you let all these people go?" Dean says. "We don't need 'em, do we? It's just you and me."
"Oh, not quite. It's you three. Ménage à trois, isn't that what they call it?" The knife trails down Sam's throat – nicks the little hollow where collarbones and sternum meet and Sam doesn't move – doesn't flinch. Doesn't close his eyes, his gaze fixed on Dean. "But you don't share, do you, hunter?" she says. She lifts the knife up – lays it flat over Sam's heart. "You want to be the only one that sullies this soul." She twists her hand and Sam's head is forced to twist with it and Sam's chest lifts up in a hard, gasping breath.
"No, I don't like to share," Dean agrees. Moves again, making her turn. Making her shift on the balls of her booted feet. Ragged jeans and a t-shirt full of holes and a cracked leather jacket and what demon dresses like that? What demon finds churches so easy to invade? Rafe is behind Dean – Dean can all but feel him, back there. Soft little clink from the weapons he holds – shuffle of his feet and the sibilant, sighing prayers that whisper from his lips. Muffled sounds from the hostages in the pews, tiny snuffles and sighs.
A voice booms outside suddenly – amplified and echoing. Startling a cry from the pews – making the skin on Dean's back crawl. He hates that those people are there, behind him. Vulnerable and in danger and a fucking distraction he can't afford. The voice talks about phones – about demands. Asks how many are alive – can't some come out? Typical hostage crisis shit, and Dean wishes they'd shut the fuck up.
She ignores it – shoots a look of pure amusement toward the doors and outside. "They just won't give up, you know?" she says, and Dean nods a little.
"They tend to get excited over dead priests," he says back, and she grins at him. "I don't get excited over much, myself. But I'm about to if you don't step away from him."
Black eyebrows arch and she laughs. Laughs and stands up, hands out to her sides. The knife glints ruddy gold in the light, stained with Sam's blood. "I'd like to see you excited, hunter."
"Hope you enjoy it," Dean says, and pulls the trigger. Onetwothree – fourfive, and she goes down hard. Somewhere behind him is screaming – yelling – and then Rafe's voice, rasping and cracked, shouting at the parishioners.
"Get out! Run out of here, hurry, go!"
Dean assumes they do, because he hears running steps – gasping pants and little cries of distress. A sudden chaos of voices outside as the first of the hostages emerge. Dean crosses the space between himself and Sam in five long strides, stepping over the ring of candles. He goes down on his knees, gun trained on the still figure that's sprawled out between risers and the altar. Hand curling hard over Sam's shoulder, feeling skin slick with sweat. It's hot up here, hot from the flames, the air thick with incense and beeswax. And Sam looks like death warmed over; eyes socketed too deeply into a face pale as paper. "Sam, you okay?" he asks, and Sam laughs, a coughing sort of thing.
"I'm just fine and d-dandy," Sam says, and Dean wants to kiss his bruised mouth – wants to lift him up and take him out of there. But there's something still needs to be done, and Dean's still in that good, cold place, seeing in black-edged brilliance. He passes the Glock to his left hand and draws the iron-bladed knife from its sheath – moves behind Sam. Sam's arms are wound, wrists to elbows, with the long, green-cloth stole of a priest. Dean slices it carefully, watching it fray and coil away from Sam's skin until it's nothing but a heap on the floor and Sam is leaning forward, arms cradled between his thighs. Gasping softly, his back a long, pale-tan curve in the honeyed light. Bruised even there, and Dean resists the urge to reach out and touch – to smooth away. Instead he puts the knife away – shifts the Glock back to his right hand. She's still lying there, and Dean hopes to fucking God they're right and she's an actual demon, not someone like Meg. Not a girl, trapped in her own skull.
"Can you walk?" Dean asks, and Sam straightens, grimacing.
"Leg are asleep. Just – get me up." Dean gets his shoulder under Sam's arm – hauls as Sam pushes and then stands there, bracing him. Waiting the agonizing moments while Sam wobbles and curses and stomps his feet a little, shaky as a new colt. She – it – lies on the floor, arms flung wide. Knife still in her fingers and Dean lifts the gun and aims as she smiles.
"You really think it's that easy, hunter?"
"I can always dream," Dean says, but before he can even squeeze the trigger she's up and on him, slamming him back – knocking him to the ground. Sam reels – hits the floor beside them, his coordination shot. Then Sam's grabbing her – locking an arm around her throat and dragging her off Dean, shaking and clumsy but doing it.
"Rafe, we need the fucking bag!" Dean yells, rolling and scooping up the fallen Glock – dropping the half-empty clip of wrought-iron and slapping in the clip that's silver and lead, marked with crosses and blessed with myrrh and mistletoe. Maybe they'll work better.
Sam's still grappling with her, wrapping his daddy-long legs around her hips and forcing her chin up, grimacing in pain as she claws at his face – manages to drive her head backward into his nose. "Damnit. Dean –!"
"Let her go – move!" Dean shouts, rising up to his knees and Sam pushes her, flinging her away and throwing himself sideways and Dean shoots, full clip straight to the heart. She goes down again, dragging the altar cloth with her. Cascade of candles, wax – fire.
"Here – oh God –" Rafe is shoving the hold-all at Dean, his gaze fixed on the spreading pools of burning wax.
"Give it to Sam - deal with that fucking fire before everything catches!" Dean snaps, and Rafe pivots and pushes the hold-all into Sam's hands. Dean jerks the wax-stiffened altar cloth off her body, letting Rafe take it to smother the fire. She's lying with her eyes wide open, her chest a mass of blood and broken bone. But she's alive, air whistling into her lungs with every hitching, too-wet breath.
Her gaze fixes on Dean. "Not – enough, hu-hunter," she rasps, her hands scrabbling at the floor. Trying to push herself up and Dean fumbles in his pocket for another clip. Finds the crumpled print-out instead and almost tosses it aside. *Oh, man, what if -*
"Sam – hey, look at this," Dean says, turning to Sam just in time to catch the container of salt Sam's tossing him. Dean lobs the print-out to Sam and then catches the Balm of Gilead Sam throws next and turns back to the demon, scattering salt and oil in a hasty circle. She twists in the center, limbs slowly gaining coordination but not fast enough. He adds holy water – douses her with it and she arches up in a silent scream, the mess of the gunshot wounds smoking. "Can we use it on her? Bind her?"
"What is it?"
"It's on Rafe's back. He said it was a binding." Dean feels secure enough to look back over his shoulder at Sam. Sam's eyebrows go up and he studies the print-out – looks down at himself.
"It looks the same as... Dean, she said she was binding me to her. My...soul. Like the children."
"Oh." No fucking way they're binding this bitch to either one of them. And...bound. Not good. "Rafe said he figured out how to break it. See those extra lines? We break it first. Get you free."
"Yeah...maybe," Sam says, slow. Like he's weighing all the pros and cons in his head. His eyes look dead, muddy and not quite tracking right and Dean feels fear twist in his belly like cold, coiling snakes.
"Don't really have time for a discussion, Sam," Dean says, eyeing the thing in the circle. She's managed to get to her knees and she's painfully scraping a gap in the circle, the flesh of her hands sizzling. Glaring at him, teeth bared in a bloody snarl.
*And she's got Sam's soul. Fucking bitch.* Dean unsheathes the knife at his waist – goes down to his knees in front of Sam. Sam glances over Dean's shoulder and nods, taking a deep breath. Dean studies the print-out for a moment and then starts to cut, one hand in a death-grip on Sam's shoulder. Sam tries not to flinch but Dean can feel the little twitches going through him. Dean shrugs his jacket off one arm and wipes at the blood on Sam's chest with his shirt-sleeve – cuts again and again.
Seventh, eighth – ninth cut and Sam's back arches into a rigid bow as something...hits him. Shockwave of moving air and light that passes through Dean like sunlight, warm and sweet. For one moment the air around Dean is full of the scent of bay and mint and the sea and then it's over – done – and Sam's staring at Dean and Dean's staring back, feeling the grin on his face. There's color in Sam's face now – life back in his eyes. "Jesus –"
"Wow. That was -"
"Yeah –" The thing in the circle makes a noise like a scalded cat – pure fury.
"Really don't have time for that," Rafe says, snatching the knife out of Dean's hand. "Do it. Fix mine, too."
"Hey!" Sam's scrambling to his feet, book in hand and Dean pushes himself up, turning to look. She's still scraping at the salt, with fingers that are showing bone on the ends. Blood has soaked the front of her shirt and jeans and Dean swears he can see lung – can see the faltering pump of her heart.
"Dean – here. We can use this." Sam tilts the book toward Dean, the one Bobby gave them – Key of Solomon. "We can seal her into her body – lock up her power."
Dean scans the glyph – the text. "You sure, Sammy?"
Sam glances at her – looks back at Dean, his gaze steady. There are broken capillaries in his left eye, startling bloom of scarlet across the white. "Yeah, I'm sure."
"Okay – let's get this show on the road, then."
"No – come on – please?" Rafe's holding the print-out in one shaking hand – holding the knife. "You have to do this first, please, I don't want to stay – stay like this –"
"It's okay, we can do this first," Sam says, and Dean can't tell if he's lying or not. He's got his 'everything's fine' face on – the one that charms church ladies and paranoid Sheriffs and really – Sam's just that fucking good.
"What he said," Dean says, and he and Sam both turn toward the demon. She's gasping for air now – a froth of blood and bubbles over her lips, her skin ashy and running with sweat. She's raveling at the edges – bits of herself furling away into the shifting air above the altar. And the circle is broken. Inch-wide gap, but that's all it takes. She's trying to get her feet under her, and they're out of time. "So – where?" Dean says, moving fast and Sam tugs the knife out of Rafe's hand.
"Doesn't matter."
"Okay then." Dean leans down and hauls her up by the blood-slick lapels of her jacket. She comes into his arms easily, too light. Snarling like a trapped dog. Dean holds her at arm's length and punches once, solid, and her head snaps back – her scrabbling fingers go limp as she buckles. "You're up, Sam," he says, easing her back down – locking his arms across her collarbones, avoiding the mess the bullets made of her chest.
Sam kneels down over her thighs – pushes up the rags of t-shirt to expose her pale belly and begins. The glyph is deceptively simple but it makes Dean's eyes ache to look at it, and Sam's hands are shaking by the time he's done. Then the last line curves into her flesh and she seems to...shrink. To become somehow more and less all at the same time. The sliver of pupil that Dean can see under her lashes is blue-grey and glazed.
"Okay – that's...it. She's..."
"Dying. And they're coming. D-Dean? They're coming – they're coming in." Rafe is kneeling, too – looking like he's going to be sick. Staring wide-eyed at the near-corpse in Dean's arms, the print-out crumpled under his fist. "Please, they're coming in and –"
"Fuck, okay – okay," Dean says, squirming out from under...her. It. Whatever it is. Her breathing has gone to hoarse little barks, rasping and ugly and Dean wipes his hands on his thighs and looks around. Clip there – knife there – bag and salt and bottle that had the oil in it. Sweeping up everything they've used while Rafe clumsily strips out of coat, hoodie and shirt and Sam smoothes the print-out and lifts the knife again. Last glance at what is surely a corpse, blood pooling out onto the battered carpet.
"You! In the church! You're out of time – we're coming in! Put your weapons down and lie on the floor! We are armed and prepared to shoot!"
"Fuck, fuck - fuck -" Dean shoves the book into the hold-all and zips it shut – sees Sam's shirts and coat wadded under the altar and snatches them up. "Sam – we gotta go, now."
"Hang on, hang on –" Sam mutters, lip between his teeth and the knife moving here, there. Last cut and he sags a little. Absently pats Rafe's bare shoulder. "Okay, I'm done, that's it."
"I don't – feel anything. I don't –" Rafe says. And then...
Light. Heat. Sound that isn't sound, but that rings through Dean's bones as if they're hollow. He can't stand up under it – can't see, can't hear. He knows he's yelling – he can feel his throat working. But – nothing. Clumsily, he gropes forward into light so bright it's blinding him through squeezed-tight lids. Touches something – something warm under rough cloth and it's Sam, Sam's calf – Sam's knee and his hand is an inch or so higher when it all just – stops.
The prayer for a 'happy death' is from here.
Chapter eight.
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This is completely different and so completely compelling and and and ... I can't breath.
I love this story. I hate that angel/demon. I'm stressing about Rafe and I'm clinging to Dean and Sam is so much stronger than I thought he'd be and you ... You are brilliant.
Dude.
I am in awe.
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Dude.
Thank you thank you thank you.
I'm glad you like the changes! Totally different, isn't it? Heh.
*smooooch*
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The inclusion of angels, more in the Old Testament style, is inspired. And you have to worry for the boys, in that they're being forced to deal in things far beyond their usual ken.
I've always appreciated the fact that, in the "Supernatural" world, it's the old ways, that most people have now forgotten, latin, rituals, etc. which can ultimately defeat many of these creatures that have been around for centuries, or millenia, even.
I'm anxious to see how this plays out. Whether Rafe truly is an angel, and whether he will ultimately fall in the line of ally or nemesis. Thanks for sharing. :)
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I love the mythology of angels. It's all so very strange and compelling. It's also just...*dark*. We've manaed to sanatize things to a remarkable degree, but the oldest legends and stories of *all* cultures and religions are awash with blood and gore and just plain nastiness. I love exploring that and using it.
Thanks again!
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*bounces*
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Yes!
*rubs hands*
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(BTW, I did read the previous chapter but I was feeling so crappy yesterday I couldn't form many coherent thoughts. As you can see, I'm better now.)
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*cough*
Thank you!
I'm glad you're better now!
:)
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Thank you so much!
*encourages you to breathe*
:)
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:)
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Thank you!
*makes you sit down*
Yis, Sam comes first, sorry, uh...universe. :)
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You had me completely under your spell. *shivers* This is sooooo fucking good! What's going to happen??? Don't tell me!! I can't wait!!
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You so rock.
*bounce*
*luffs*
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Whatever this thing is, it likes to put on a show, doesn't it?
"Now your little puppet-master figures it out. If we try to just walk in there, we'll be shot. So, you – " Dean shakes Rafe ever so slightly, muffled chime of metal from the hold-all. "You get me in there, you hear?"
Rafe just stares at him, bewildered, and Dean's starting to think he's fucking nuts but then it happens. Sudden shift of stance – of Rafe's eyes and whatever it is that's got Sam is grinning at Dean – cutting its glimmering eyes over to the hulk of the cathedral, stained with too many spotlights.
So Dean knows that whatever has Sam isn't Rafe, yet he treats Rafe like shit--what's with the animus?
"Hey, you! Get the fuck out of there or I'll shoot!"
Dean slams his shoulder into the door, loosing his grip on Rafe – not giving a fuck in that moment if Rafe makes it or doesn't. Focused on one thing, and that's getting inside.
Yeah, it's like willful hatred. Wanting to get Sam back is one thing, but this is something else, entirely.
Dean grabs shirt and coat and heaves them both further into shadow. Just as the actinic white of a spotlight is dazzling over them, the door slams shut.
"Jesus…Christ," Dean pants.
"You wish." Rafe starts untangling himself, making a soft sound of pain as he works his hurt arm free of the hold-all's straps.
Hah! I like an angel with a sense of humor. Gallows humor, too.
"What did it do? Do you know?" Dean gets to his feet – pulls his Glock free and clicks the safety off – chambers a round of blessed, wrought iron. Ready to go.
"I…think… There was a priest. He was mostly dead. It…sent him out with a gun."
Dean curses softly. Mostly dead is surely dead, now, and murdering some poor priest puts one more tick-mark in the 'kill it fucking hard' column in Dean's head. But it's also put every fucking officer out there on hyper-alert, and getting Sam free before they storm the place is getting less and less likely.
This thing certainly plans its showdowns well, but why all the high-profile mumbo jumbo?
"You saw it?" he asks, taking in the room. Light coming in through the high windows, splintering the darkness into strips. There is a door-less sort of closet along one wall, hung with the priest's vestments. Sink, crowded shelves – they must be in the sacristy behind the altar.
"I felt its...intent. Felt what it made the p-priest do." Rafe says, and Dean sees him shudder.
It has the power to control people with its mind, so why this? What's it planning? Big Bad usually operates in secrecy till it's too late for the good guys to do anything--this thing's all but filming its own docudrama.
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For all Dean knows, he's a demon, too, so - he just can't care.
And this thing? Is powerful, so it really doesn't care what it does or who it attracts.
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"O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee…"
It's a prayer for a good death and Dean almost hits him. "Shut up, you fucker," he grates, twitching away from Rafe's hand.
Man, those Catholics have a prayer for every occasion.
"The only thing dying around here is the thing that's got Sam and it's not going to have anything remotely like a good death." Rafe just stares at him, all bruises and bone in the salt-white dazzle, half his face shadowed and his eyes too wide. "If you have to fucking pray, pray something useful, for fuck's sake." Rafe's gaze wavers and then drops and Dean just can't...care.
Yeah . . . I've been noticing. I'm really thinking Rafe's angel-ness is having some kinda effect on him. Like an unconscious sort of response to the fact that Rafe's not only not human, but never has been.
He heads for the Gospel door, where the priests come in. Deliberately upsetting the order of things – going out through the in door. Change the direction. Change their luck, because they need something, right now. Need anything.
Interesting use of "they". Does Dean mean he and Sam, or he and Rafe? Or all three of them?
But the thing is too close – half hidden behind Sam and the knife is touching Sam's throat. Has touched, because there are three or four hair-fine lines of red there and blood has streaked down, pooling in the wells of Sam's collarbones. More blood on his chest but Dean can't look at that right now. Can't pay attention to Sam because getting him free comes before everything else.
That was beautiful, especially the last line. The perfect phrase at the perfect time.
Woman-shaped, with a salt-pale face and hair like ragged black feathers, curling onto angled cheekbones. Mouth like a streak of blood and Dean wonders if it's drunk Sam's blood. Eyes of infinite, flame-bright blue. The face looks too much like Rafe's for coincidence and Dean has a moment of gut-wrenching terror because he can't see Rafe, and what if Rafe's not a victim at all?
It's another angel! A fallen one, I'm thinking! And that's the reason Dean hates Rafe--one of them, anyway. Whatever vibes this things gives off, Rafe must give off similar vibes, even now--
"But you don't share, do you, hunter?" she says. She lifts the knife up – lays it flat over Sam's heart. "You want to be the only one that sullies this soul."
It wants to sully Sam's soul. Why? It's apretty good soul, granted, but not the only one out there. Why Sam?
Huh . . . maybe it is trying to do a Bartelby-Loki and storm heaven.
Dean wants to kiss his bruised mouth – wants to lift him up and take him out of there. But there's something still needs to be done, and Dean's still in that good, cold place, seeing in black-edged brilliance. He puts the Glock down and draws the iron-bladed knife from its sheath – moves behind Sam. Sam's arms are wound, wrists to elbows, with the long, green-cloth stole of a priest. Dean slices it carefully, watching it fray and coil away from Sam's skin until it's nothing but a heap on the floor and Sam is leaning forward, arms cradled between his thighs. Gasping softly, his back a long, pale-tan curve in the honeyed light. Bruised even there, and Dean resists the urge to reach out and touch – to smooth away. Instead he puts the knife away – shifts the Glock back to his right hand. She's still lying there, and Dean hopes to fucking God they're right and she's an actual demon, not someone like Meg. Not a girl, trapped in her own skull.
He's so compartmentalized--there's clear delineations between hunter!Dean and compassionate!Dean and brother!Dean, lines that he won't cross or straddle. The line between brother!Dean and lover!Dean, however. . . .
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*bounce*
:)
Sam is just...like Rafe said. Bright. He has power, he's *different*. Who *wouldn't* want to take that for themselves?
I think the 'they' is mostly Sam and Dean. Rafe's still an afterthought, here.
Yis, Dean tries so hard to keep things seperate...
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"It's on Rafe's back. He said it was a binding." Dean feels secure enough to look back over his shoulder at Sam. Sam's eyebrows go up and he studies the print-out – looks down at himself.
"It looks the same as... Dean, she said she was binding me to her. My...soul. Like the children."
She's an engine of evil that runs on souls . . . jeebus.
She's managed to get to her knees and she's painfully scraping a gap in the circle, the flesh of her hands sizzling. Glaring at him, teeth bared in a bloody snarl.
*And she's got Sam's soul. Fucking bitch.*
Is she using the souls to keep herself alive and going despite the injuries? Seems like a waste, since, if she laid low, none of this would be happening. She must have a larger angle--
Seventh, eighth – ninth cut and Sam's back arches into a rigid bow as something...hits him. Shockwave of moving air and light that passes through Dean like sunlight, warm and sweet. For one moment the air around Dean is full of the scent of bay and mint and the sea and then it's over – done – and Sam's staring at Dean and Dean's staring back, feeling the grin on his face. There's color in Sam's face now – life back in his eyes. "Jesus –"
That was a beautiful description--I could see it and smell it and--wuh!
::sighs::
"Dean – here. We can use this." Sam tilts the book toward Dean, the one Bobby gave them – Key of Solomon. "We can seal her into her body – lock up her power."
Now, does that mean trapping her spirit into that body, which may or may not be hers? Or merely trapping her powers, keeping her from effecting things with her mind or will?
"Fuck, okay – okay," Dean says, squirming out from under...her. It. Whatever it is. Her breathing has gone to hoarse little barks, rasping and ugly and Dean wipes his hands on his thighs and looks around. Clip there – knife there – bag and salt and bottle that had the oil in it. Sweeping up everything they've used while Rafe clumsily strips out of coat, hoodie and shirt and Sam smoothes the print-out and lifts the knife again. Last glance at what is surely a corpse, blood pooling out onto the battered carpet.
No way--I don't think she's dead. She can't be after all of this. All the death and killing and blood--she has to have had some grand plan, or something, but she's totally not dead.
Light. Heat. Sound that isn't sound, but that rings through Dean's bones as if they're hollow. He can't stand up under it – can't see, can't hear. He knows he's yelling – he can feel his throat working. But – nothing. Clumsily, he gropes forward into light so bright it's blinding him through squeezed-tight lids. Touches something – something warm under rough cloth and it's Sam, Sam's calf – Sam's knee and his hand is an inch or so higher when it all just – stops.
WTF?!!!!!!
I hate you! You suck, with the cliffhangers that I can't read now cuz I'm fried! But she's not dead--not without a super-villainy exposition, or something!
There'd better be explanations in the last chapter, Missy. In-depth ones.
Maybe even in the form of a sequel. . . .
::looks off into the distance::
::whistles innocently::
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The souls of the children were used to bargain for the knowledge of what souls to take and why, and how.
Sam's soul gave her power - Sam and Dean's together would be like a nuclear bomb. Rafe...well... What does an angel have to give, that a fallen angel doesn't have anymore?
Divinity. He's the cloak that will cover her so she can slip in the back way, as it were.
The rune, glyph, whatever, locked up her power. Even fallen angels have a lot of it. And if your power - what makes you not-human - is locked down and taken away... She made herself a 'human' shape to move among the humans. Losing her power meant she was locked into that shape for all time. And that shape was too badly damaged to live.