Evolutions Chapter 33
a489 East 3rd Street
Flora, IN
Saturday
5:30 pm
Dean quietly entered the little third-floor furnished apartment their former landlord George had insisted on leasing for them after the motel tragically burned to the ground. Apparently, the half-empty six unit building belonged to George's late wife's brother-in-law's eighth cousin's something-or-other (by the time George got to the brother-in-law, Dean had mostly stopped listening). George said his insurance on the motel would cover the cost, his cousin-in-law's whatever got rent paid for a month, and George didn't feel so bad for "throwing such nice Agents out on the street". For George and his relation, it was a win-win and Dean couldn't argue with the upgrade in accommodations.
For starters, there were no mystery stains on the floors, walls or ceilings. The windows actually opened (which would've been nice if it hadn't been February in Indiana) and a sliding glass door led out onto a small balcony looking out over the tiny town. And - luxury of luxuries - their apartment had separate bedrooms, each with its own bath.
It wasn't that Dean minded sharing space with his little brother. If he were being honest (although only with himself) he actually preferred sharing a bedroom - it made it easier to keep an eye on the kid, protect him, keep his trouble magnet of a brother safe. Ish. But to not have to share a bathroom…
Dean sighed happily. No waiting for the shower — or arguing about who cleaned off the gunk and guts first. No fighting for counter space when brushing his teeth in the morning. No waiting for the toilet. And, best of all — not having to use the bathroom after Sammy.
He loved that kid, with all his heart and soul, but damn could that boy stink up a bathroom!
The accommodation upgrade didn't stop with protecting his olfactories, either.
Because there was a full, entirely functional kitchen, with stove, oven and microwave, and a coffee machine that promised to brew something that didn't taste like dust and despair, directly into a glass coffee pot you could actually see through.
Dean set down the bags of laundry he'd just finished washing in the free laundry facilities in the basement. For the first time in he didn't know how long all their meager supply of clothing was clean. Well, as clean as hunters' clothing could get, after years of graveyard dirt, blood and ghoul guts.
"Sam?" he called softly and leaned around the half-closed door to what would normally be considered the master bedroom (it wasn't the master now, of course, because whatever room Dean slept in was automatically the master. He was the oldest, that's how that worked, no matter what Sam said about ensuites and walk-in closets and other frou-frou bullshit that might make a difference in a realty listing, but not in actual reality, was Dean's point).
He sighed, frustrated, and pushed the door open, frowning at his brother who was sitting up on the bed, laptop on his knees. "Dude, I thought you were going to get some rest."
"I am resting," Sam said calmly. "Not getting up, still in bed." He pointed over his shoulder at the really impressive pile of bed and decorative pillows supporting him. "Back nicely cushioned."
"You were supposed to sleep, Sammy," Dean groused and sat on the edge of the king-sized bed.
"I wasn't tired, Dean," Sam shot him bitchface # 16 (Stop being overprotective), actually more an indication of vague annoyance than actual bitchiness, which Dean took as a sign that Sammy wasn't in too much pain, so that was another win.
They were on a roll.
"Well, did you find anything, at least?" Dean sighed, giving in just a little.
"Oh, yeah," Sam grinned. "Pazuzu."
"Gesundheit," Dean replied, straight faced, and just barely suppressed a grin at the slightly more severe bitchface (#37 - can you be serious for eight seconds?) he got in response.
"Pazuzu," Sam continued. sliding into the eager, geeky voice he sometimes got when he was explaining things (Dean thought of it as Sammy's college professor voice, and, even though he tended to give Sammy loads of shit for geeking out about stuff, he loved hearing that excited tone, and secretly thought that, in another — better — world, Sammy would've made the kind of teacher even Dean would've enjoyed learning from), "was an Assyro-Babylonian wind demon…"
"Demon?" Dean said sharply.
"Not that kind of demon," Sam corrected. "In ancient times, demon, or more accurately daimon, from the Greek, just meant 'spirit'. Anyway, he was the personification of the southwestern wind…"
"Well, that's specific."
"Mmmhmm. He was basically king of the other wind demons, or wind gods, I guess," Sam shrugged and scrolled a little further on his laptop screen, "and he was definitely feared as being violent and destructive, but he was also seen as a protective spirit."
Dean scoffed. "I wasn't feeling particularly protected when I was stitching up your back, dude," he admitted. "Or when I was torching a perfectly decent one-star motel to get rid of that tar shit that was fuckin' stalkin' you. Does it say anything about that crap?"
"No, it doesn't," Sam admitted, "but get this — while you could pray to Pazuzu to get protection from other wind gods, he's mostly protective of pregnant women and mothers," he continued, his voice heavy with significance.
"….And?" Dean pressed when Sam didn't continue.
"Well, I did some checking. All seven of our victims were men," Sam reminded.
"Uh-huh. And?"
"And all of them were married, dating or otherwise involved with a woman who was pregnant or already had kids."
"Yeah, but families with kids? That's like 47% of the population, dude," Dean countered, earning a brief, surprised look from his brother. "What? I know things."
"I wasn't done," Sam told him. "All seven of the women those dudes were with had been to a hospital or clinic either while they were pregnant, or just after they gave birth, but not for pregnancy-related causes. They were treated for things like bruises; cuts; burns. The occasional broken bone."
Dean's eyes went hard. "So you think we have an ancient wind god who's deliberately taking out douchebags who beat up on moms?"
Sam shrugged. "Looks that way."
"Huh. That's actually…kind of badass. I may hate him slightly less, now," Dean admitted.
"I'm with you," Sam agreed typing rapidly on his laptop again, "but, it looks like at least two of the male victims were also hurt when their wife or girlfriend was," he added. "Either injuries similar to the mom, or defensive wounds," he added and looked over at his brother.
"So maybe not all justified."
"Maybe not. And, face it," Sam shrugged, "even if all the victims were abusive a-holes…"
"We still can't just let some Babylonian wind bag go around killing people," Dean finished.
"Right."
"So, how do we kill, uh—Pazuzu?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why is that name familiar?" Dean wondered softly.
"I don't know how to kill it," Sam admitted with a sigh. "I can't find anything that even talks about trying to kill it. How can you kill a wind?"
Dean shrugged. "We could try dumping a shit ton of Bean-o on it," he suggested and grinned at the glare (bitchface #37 making its second appearance of the night) he got in return.
"There's gotta be some way to trap a wind, at the very least," Sam decided, typing rapidly.
"Yeah, well, we can look at that over the next couple days, little brother," Dean decided.
"HEY!" Sam protested as Dean leaned over and grabbed the laptop, setting it in front of the tv on the chest of drawers across from the bottom of the bed.
"Enough," Dean said firmly. "You need to actually rest, Sammy," he insisted and sat next to Sam near the top of the bed. "And I need to check your stitches."
"Fine," Sam sighed, frustrated, but knowing there was no stopping his brother when Sam was hurt and Dean was feeling protective. Sam quickly unbuttoned his flannel shirt, pulling away with another glare (bitchface #16 Stop being overprotective) when Dean reached out to help. "Dude, I got it! I'm not five, Dean, I can take off my own fucking shirt!"
Dean raised his hands in capitulation.
Sam struggled to get the shirt off the rest of the way. He narrowed his eyes at his brother to keep Dean from reaching to help him (bitchface #16a If you don't stop being overprotective I will punch you in the face), and finally wrestled the shirt off, wincing only a little at the pulling of the stitches down his spine and across his back.
"I think I'm starting to heal it some," Sam said softly while Dean carefully checked the stitches.
"Maybe," Dean admitted quietly, his fingers skating lightly over the threads holding his brother's back together. "There's no blood, anyway," he admitted and poked lightly at a gash that had been particularly deep and wide. "And there's more new skin and less scabbing than I'd expect. Maybe your healing is coming back some," he shrugged and patted Sammy's shoulder lightly.
"Happy, mom?" Sam said dryly. "Can I put my shirt back on, now?"
"You do that, tough guy," Dean smirked. "I'll be right back."
When Sam looked up from rebuttoning his shirt, Dean was standing at the side of the bed, grinning, holding a terracotta planter.
"What…" Sam started and just stared when Dean lowered the pot below his little brother's eyeline, and stood there proudly holding… "Dirt?" Sam frowned and looked between the pot and his brother's slightly stricken expression. "You got me…dirt. Thanks, Dean. Just what I always wanted."
"Well, there was a leaf…" Dean started, then shook his head, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Doesn't matter, not why I got it."
"Why did you get it?" Sam wondered.
"Testing!" Dean beamed and set the pot down on the bed next to Sam's knee.
"Testing…what?"
"You know. We need to find out if you short circuited everything. So. Dirt. Go ahead," Dean encouraged, "touch the dirt, connect to The Force…"
"It's not The Force," Sam rolled his eyes and shot his brother bitchface #33 (Oh, for Fuck's sake) which was — entirely predictably — ignored.
"And tell me how to get to the nearest grocery store," Dean challenged.
"I—I can't…" Sam picked up the pot and put it back into Dean's hands, shooing him away until Dean stood and stepped away from the bed to put the pot down by laptop and tv. "Okay, how would that even work?" Sam challenged. "It's just dirt, Dean," he frowned. "It's not…connected to anything," he added as he threw the covers off and stood. "How can it…"
For a second, Sam swayed and before Dean could reach out to steady him, Sam placed his hand against the wall…
And froze.
His eyes grew wide, and his breathing sped up and he turned to stare at Dean for a moment before speaking again.
"Left out the driveway. Three blocks down, left turn, two blocks right turn twoblocksdownontheleft," he said a little breathlessly, his words coming more quickly as he spoke, then slowly pulled his hand off the plaster to stare at the wall, his breath coming faster and faster until suddenly his knees gave way.
"Sam!" Dean reached out and grabbed his brother before Sam's knees could hit the floor.
Gently, Dean lowered them both to sit on the carpet, so Sam was leaning against the bed and Dean was kneeling across from him, their knees touching.
"Easy, easy," he soothed and put his left hand on Sam's chest, using his right to guide one of Sammy's hands to rest over Dean's heart. "Easy," he repeated. "Breathe, Sammy, slow it down. Breathe with me, now. In…." he said and took a deep, slow breath in. "And out," he continued after Sammy inhaled. "In," he repeated and moved the hand resting on Sammy's chest to the side of his brother's neck, using his palm and thumb to turn his brother's head until they were looking into each other's eyes. "And out. In…..and out," he repeated a few times more until Sammy's breath was less desperate and frightened. "You good?" he asked gently.
Sam nodded and rested their foreheads together, the hand over Dean's heart now clutching his brother's shirt.
Dean just waited until Sammy stopped shaking and pulled slowly back to meet his eyes — although the hand still held tightly to his tee, Dean noted.
"What was that about?" Dean wondered. "I thought you couldn't get anything from…what was it…processed materials?"
"I can't," Sam shook his head. "I couldn't. I don't…I'm not…" He pulled away from Dean and leaned hard back against the bed, staring sightlessly at his brother. "No," he said softly as his breath sped up again. "No. No no no. Nonononono."
"Shh. Shhshhshhhshhshh," Dean shifted around until he was beside his panicking brother. "Sammy, Sammy, hey. Hey. It's okay, it's okay," he tried to reassure him, but the panic in Sammy's pale green eyes just kept building and he pulled his kid into his arms.
Dean picked him up, and settled them on the bed, putting his back to the wall, intending to hold Sammy at his side somewhere that wouldn't make his butt go numb.
Sammy had other ideas, and before Dean knew it, he was gently stroking the too-long hair of the little brother lying with his head in Dean's lap, one long, sasquatch arm wrapped around Dean's thighs, the other around his back, clutching Dean's shirt as he kept trying to find a position that was closer than the plastered-to-his-brother's-side attitude he'd already adopted.
"You're okay, Sammy," Dean reassured over and over and over again. "I'm right here. I've got you little brother. I got you."
"I can't," Sammy kept whispering, "I can't, I can't…"
"It's okay, Sammy," Dean tried to soothe. "Whatever it is, you don't have to. I promise. You don't have to."
On some level, that finally got through to his frightened kid and Sammy huffed a desperate laugh and sat up, finally, wiping his eyes with the heel of one hand. "You don't even know what I'm talking about," he reminded, but he had that look again — like Dean had set the stars in the sky — that said he believed his big brother anyway.
Dean shrugged carelessly. "Doesn't matter. Whatever it is, you don't have to do it. We'll find another way."
"There may not be any stopping it," Sam admitted with a haunted look as he stared at the wall behind Dean.
"We'll find. A way," Dean repeated and put a hand on the back of Sammy's neck. "Okay?"
Slowly, Sam nodded.
"Okay, then," Dean nodded once, satisfied and pulled his hand away. "Now. What're we talkin' about?"
Sammy laughed slightly, shaking his head. "You're amazing," he said, his voice laced with amused affection.
"Of course, I am," Dean agreed. "I'm awesome!"
Sam grinned and leaned forward to rest his head against Dean's shoulder. "You are," he agreed. "You really are," he repeated and wrapped his arms around Dean's back.
Dean pulled his brother into his lap, letting his hands run in gentle, soothing circles over the torn and healing back.
They stayed that way for another few minutes before Sammy pulled slowly away, and shifted to sit beside his brother — after ensuring there was a pillow standing up behind him so that no part of his hair, skin or clothing actually touched the wall itself.
Dean waited, recognizing the beginning stages of Sammy sharing something he'd really rather never say. Pushing would shut his kid down completely, so — as much as he wanted answers for the whys and wherefores of his little brother's freak out — he'd wait.
"Remember when we were kids?" Sam said eventually. "When it was a clear day, and we'd done our chores and finished training, and I'd finished my homework? Remember how we'd find ourselves a field, or maybe we'd have a backyard, or we'd just sit on the car. Just look up at the sky. Look at the clouds, see what shapes we could find."
"I remember," Dean assured him, with a little smile. "You were always finding the girliest shit. Dogs and lambs and, and ships and birds and crap."
Sam grinned and looked at Dean for a second. "Beats what you found. All you ever saw were cars, weapons and women with big breasts."
"What's wrong with that?" Dean wondered, legitimately puzzled. What else would he have found. It's not like he made the clouds into those shapes.
"You were ten, Dean. That ain't normal."
"And little lambs and puppy dogs are?" Dean scoffed.
"Actually, yes," Sammy assured him.
"Right."
"What we found isn't the point," Sam conceded.
"What is the point?"
"When was the last time you saw me do that?" Sammy asked softly.
"We're a little old for that, Sammy."
"Maybe," Sam shrugged. "But when was the last time you saw me lie on the ground, at all? I mean, when something hadn't thrown me there?"
Dean blinked. "Um…I.."
"Years, Dean," Sam provided, and settled against the pillow again, staring at the blank TV across the room. "It's been years since I could just lie on the ground and relax. Or lean against a tree, or sit on a rock. Not if my skin was touching it."
"Sam…"
"I can't," Sam admitted, his voice quiet and sad. "Not any more. It's too loud."
"Too loud? What's…" Dean's gaze settled on the terra cotta pot sitting next to the TV. "Oh, hell."
Sam nodded. "At first, I only got something — only heard something — when I asked, you know? And then it just got stronger. I got stronger, I guess. Now, I hear it all the time. Anytime I touch something natural," he explained, a little disgust in his tone. "I hear it. It's just…not even words, or anything, it's just this…kind of…whispering. But..not even that. Just…sound, you know? Like…rustling, almost, or…a million tiny little feet…or, leaves…I don't even…"
"A susurration," Dean supplied and smiled slightly when Sam turned to look at him, clearly surprised. "It's a good word," he shrugged.
"It is," Sam smiled back. "It's a great word. Yeah. That's it. Just a susurration. And it doesn't stop. Not as long as I'm touching it. It's gotten to the point where, if I sit long enough — and by long enough, we're talking fifteen minutes, maybe. Ten, lately — it happens even through my clothes."
"And when you touched the wall…" Dean realized.
"I heard the same thing," Sam confirmed and his breathing picked up a little.
"Easy," Dean soothed, and wrapped an arm across the broad, bony shoulders. "It's okay."
"It really isn't," Sam laughed a little desperately, but accepted the comfort, dropping his head against the side of Dean's. "Dean, if I start hearing this from processed materials…I mean, the plaster, that's not that far from just natural, really. It's just gypsum and water and sand, but…how long will it be before I starting hearing, I don't know…sheets or iron or plywood, or fuckin' MDF and particle board? Jesus, can you imagine it?" Sam almost sobbed, pulling away. "All the furniture. Bathroom tiles. Clothing! Fucking eating utensils, man! Our weapons. If everything I touch is just…always with the…" Sam pressed his fingers against his eyelids, covering his mouth with his palms. "I'd go insane, man, I know I...I couldn't…I swear to God, I'd eat…"
"HEY!" Dean shifted suddenly, grabbing Sammy's shoulders and turning his brother forcibly to face him. "NO!" he shook Sam roughly, his voice loud enough to make Sammy flinch. "Don't you say that. Don't you ever say that." Dean pulled his kid against his chest, buried his face in the too-long hair. "I won't…it won't get that far," Dean promised. "I swear, Sammy, I won't let it."
"There's nothing…" Sam began, his voice muffled by falling tears and his brother's chest.
"I will find something," Dean vowed, and the violence in his tone made Sam flinch again. "We'll find something," Dean assured softly. "We will, Sammy."
Slowly, Sam pulled back. "You don't know that. Dean, you can't know that."
"Of course, I can."
"How?!"
Dean smiled, slowly, his moss-green eyes shining with determination and something too chick-flick-y to be named. "Because we're us," he said simply. "You and me, Sammy. We can do anything. Long as we're together."
For a moment, Sammy just stared, his eyes glistening, his lips flickering in and out of a soft smile. Finally, he smiled and nodded. "Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah."
"Okay, then," Dean nodded. "When this hunt's over, we'll head back home. Go to Bobby's, do a bit of research."
"Yeah."
"But first, we gotta get ourselves a shit ton of Bean-o, take this bastard out."
"Dean!" Sammy laughed and gave his shoulder a little push.
"Or, he's a demon of some kind, maybe we can exorcise—Exorcist!" Dean cried and clapped a hand against his knee.
"The Catholic Church is not going to loan us…"
"No, no. The name. Pazuzu! That was the name of the demon that possessed Regan in the Exorcist! I knew I'd heard that name before!"
"Still doesn't mean an exorcism will work, Dean."
"Well, no, of course not. But at least it's not bugging me, anymore," Dean shrugged.
"Yeah, well, that's the most important thing," Sam said drily.
"Absolutely," Dean agreed. "You hungry, little brother?" Dean wondered suddenly and practically leapt from the bed.
Sammy chuckled and shrugged. "I could eat."
"I'll make dinner," Dean decided and headed back to the groceries he'd left sitting in the kitchen he wasn't even sure how long ago.
"Not too much grease!" Sam called after him, and Dean could hear bitchface #49a (Would it kill you to eat a vegetable?) forming on his little brother's face.
"You'll eat my grease and you'll like it," Dean yelled back, grinning, as he pulled the makings of an epic salad, a pork roast and little red potatoes out of the bags. Nothing fried in sight. But Sammy didn't need to know that.
"Dean! Ew!" Sam yelled, his voice clearly reflecting either bitchface #19 (That's disgusting) or #19a (You're disgusting).
And for a moment, all was right again in Dean's world.
=======SPN=====SPN=======SPN======SPN=====SPN===
Berkshire-Tarnowski Forest
Carroll County, IN
Wednesday
6:18 pm
"I hate this," Dean said darkly, leaning against the side of the Impala's trunk, staring at the forest that was darkening with the rapidly approaching sunset.
"I know." Sam didn't even look up from whatever he was doing with rocks and string on the lid of the trunk.
"I really hate this."
"I know, Dean," Sam assured him, straightening up and stepping a few feet away to spin the string around his head a few times. "You've made that very clear the other 40 times you've told me since we left the apartment."
Dean pushed himself away from the car and marched up to get right in his brother's face. "Why do I have to stay out of the woods?"
"You're backup, Dean. We know he can't leave the forest…"
"We think he can't leave the forest," Dean corrected.
"..and if anything happens, he won't be able to get to you outside the woods, so you'll be able to come in and pull me out."
"If you're so sure this'll work, why do you need me to hang back for backup, then, huh?"
"Because I'm not an idiot, Dean," Sam glared, bitchface #34 (Stop treating me like a child) making an unwelcome appearance. "All the research shows this should work. Spinning a stone with a hole in the middle, on a string around your head is an ancient method for calming a wind. Blue chalcedony," he added, lifting the light blue stone with the brown and gold striations in front of his brother's face, "is a powerful stone for weather spells. And the spell I wrote should convince Pazuzu to move on and stop trying to protect people."
"SHOULD," Dean challenged. "Should work. But, you could just make it worse. You could just piss it off. You could just get attacked. AGAIN."
"And you could have the tiniest little bit of faith in me, Dean!" Sam snapped.
"I have faith in you! That's not what this is about, Sam."
"Really? Because it sure sounds that way to me, Dean!"
"It's not about you," Dean repeated. "I jus…I don't want to…I don't like usi…I just wish we could just shoot the fucker, that's all," he finally finished, staring at a little furrow his toe was digging into the shoulder at the side of the road. "All this hocus pocus bullshit makes me…" he muttered and trailed off when Sammy flinched. "I—I mean…"
"What you mean," Sammy ground out and forced himself to stare Dean down, "is that you don't like using a spell. What you mean, is you don't like using magic instead of weapons."
"Sam…"
"What you mean," Sam snapped, and pushed hard against Dean's chest, "is that you don't like working with a witch. That's it, isn't it? It ain't my going into the woods alone — you can see the clearing we chose perfectly well from right here. It's a clear shot, not more than 40 feet, you can hit the bastard, easy, if you need to. It's not even that you can't shoot it to kill it, there's tons of shit that can't be shot, or stabbed or even burned to death. Hell, this ain't even the first thing we've had to gank with a spell, is it? What's an exorcism but a spell, huh? Burning the tree that the Scarecrow god was attached to? That's a spell. Destroying a spell, at least. We use magic all the time, Dean. A silver bullet ganking a werewolf? That's a kind of magic all it's own."
"Sammy, that's not…"
"It ain't the hocus pocus that's the problem, though, is it, Dean?" Sam challenged. "It's me. You wouldn't even have a problem with it, if Bobby gave us the spell, would you?"
Sam scoffed when Dean's gaze slid away, back to the deepening groove on the ground.
"Unbelievable," Sam huffed. "So tell me, Dean. What's the bigger issue here: that you don't trust that a spell I wrote will work? Or that I can write a spell at all."
"Sammy, that isn't…"
"Save it!" Sam pushed by him and headed into the woods. "We're losing the light and this has to be finished before the sun is down."
"Sam!"
Sam turned back, his Witch Eyes practically glowing with anger. "Stay. Here," he ordered. "And do NOT interfere, unless or until I ask for it."
"Sammy, you know I wouldn't…"
"I don't know anything right now," Sam said coldly. "I sure as hell don't know how to trust you when you certainly don't fuckin' trust me."
"Sam!"
"Stow it!" Sam snapped. "We got work to do."
And all Dean could do was watch his little brother walk straight into the danger zone.
Dean checked his Colt — with its clip of silver bullets — to be sure it was fully loaded, with one in the chamber, and cocked the single-pump sawed-off shotgun Sam had already filled with iron buckshot and left sitting on the trunk.
He had his breathing under control before he turned around to watch his brother begin twirling the string with the light blue stone tied on the end around and around over his head, chanting as went
"Magne Pazuzu, omnium ventorum rector, nunc me audi. Tu infirmam protexisti matrem et filium. Officium tuum hic agitur. Omnia tuta sunt, bene sunt. Transi hinc in pace. Revertimini ad domum tuam in altissimis montibus, longe, et requiescite. Non labora, tempus opus est tibi. Agimus tibi gratias. Honoramus te. Optamus vobis pacem. Tibi requiem volumus. Opus tuum perfectum est. Revertere domum tuam in altos, montes longe, et requiescere. Revertere ad domum tuam in pace, cum gratia, honore, et devotione. Revertere domum et requiescere. Et Requiem. Et Requiem."
As Sam chanted, Dean could hear a beating of wings, growing every louder, until Pazuzu himself — snarling dog face, snake-dick and all — appeared through the trees and hovered six or seven feet above Sammy's head, just barely out of range of the still-swinging rock.
Slowly, Dean raised his Colt, taking careful aim and sliding his finger towards the trigger.
Cock that thing and I'll beat your ass. Sam's voice — still full of anger and hurt — echoed in his head.
So that was another power not short circuited after the rawhead. Cool, cool.
I'm just getting ready, Dean thought back.
Just keep out of it.
Like that'd happen.
Sure, Sammy, Dean responded and didn't lower the gun a fraction of an inch.
He watched as Sam slowed the circling rock down, and reached up to grab it in his left hand before it hit him in the face.
For a moment, the little clearing in the woods was a frozen tableaux, the only movement the slow, even beating of the wind demon's wings as the creature and his brother stared at each other.
Slowly, so slowly it took Dean a second be sure it was happening at all, Pazuzu sank towards the ground. And Sam.
Every muscle in Dean's body tightened.
Do nothing.
Sammy….
He's not going to hurt me, Sam assured him with a certainty that was honestly remarkable, given that the bastard was hanging with those deadly talons just a few inches in front of Sam's face.
Sam's certainty aside, the only thing that kept Dean from shooting was the fact that they already knew neither silver nor iron rounds killed it, and pissing that thing off was more likely to get Sam's head removed than anything else.
He didn't lower the gun, though.
Pazuzu came to a surprisingly graceful landing not a foot in front of his brother, wings fully outstretched ( and damn him if the kid wasn't right — twenty foot wingspan, easy) and Dean was seriously impressed that Sam just kept chanting and otherwise never moved, holding the thing's gaze even when that snake-headed dick flicked its foot-long tongue out and brushed against Sam's neck.
Sam didn't even twitch.
Dean full on flinched. And then shuddered. Licked by a dick. Blech.
The creature's wrinkled dog-face tilted slightly and he seemed to be studying Sam closely.
Sam finished chanting and studied the thing right back.
Dean nearly did shoot when the thing's left hand reached out and came to rest against Sam's shirt, just over his little brother's heart. (It was pounding, just like Dean's. He knew it, he could see the pulse pounding in Sammy's neck even from forty feet away, he would swear it.)
Don't!
Dean couldn't even make a reply, he was so fucking scared.
There was another frozen moment, then the hand on Sammy's chest patted — pounded, Dean thought — slowly over Sammy's heart, once.
Twice.
Three times.
Sam bowed his head, slowly, then lifted his chin and turned his head to the side, staring at Dean as he fully exposed his throat to the monster.
Dean's heart stuttered and he stopped breathing.
Do nothing. It's okay. I've got this.
Pazuzu nodded at Sam, gave a quick sniff up the exposed neck, and opened his hideous jaws wide…
"NO!" Dean couldn't keep the cry inside, but all he could do watch.
Sammy slipped to his knees, head tilted back, staring at the sky, as something dark started to drip to the ground.
And Pazuzu flew silently away.
=====SPN========SPN========SPN========SPN======
A/N
Assyro-Babylonian means something that originated in ancient Assyria or Babylon, in the area that today is Iraq and parts of Turkey, Iran and Syria.
Pazuzu was a real wind demon, largely as described here. I did take liberties with the tar-substance it attacked Sam with, as well as ideas about capturing or incapacitating him.
Bean-o is an over the counter pill that one can take before ingesting gas-inducing foods, such as beans. It prevents intestinal gas, and the passing of gas — known as breaking wind.
According to the U.S. Census, in 2005, 47% of family households in the United States included children.
The demon that possessed the little girl Regan MacNeil in the Exorcist (both the book and movie) was named Pazuzu. Dean is, of course, remembering from the movie, which was also obliquely referenced in episode The Usual Suspects (02x07), which guest starred Linda Blair, who played Regan MacNeil in both the original Exorcist movie and the first sequel Exorcist II: the Heretic.
The twirling stone thing, and Blue Chalcedony, are used in traditional witchcraft as Sam describes.
As always, the latin is a translation through an app from the original English:
Great Pazuzu, ruler of all winds, hear me now. You have protected the weak, mother and child. Your duty here is done. All is safe, all is well. Move on from here in peace. Return to your home in the high, far mountains, and rest. Toil no more, your time for work is done. We thank you. We honor you. We wish you peace. We wish you rest. Your work is complete. Return to your home in the high, far mountains and rest. Return to your home in peace, with our gratitude, our honor and our devotion. Return home and rest. And Rest. And Rest.
Iran and Iraq (Assyria, basically) are home to the Zagros Mountain range — hence my including "your home in the high, far mountains" (the highest point in the Zagros range is 14,456 ft, which is nowhere near the highest in the world, but is higher than the highest peak in the Rockies in the U.S., where Sam (and I) live, so — high far mountain.
As an aside — halfway through this chapter, my detail-obsessed brain took a break and made an actual list of Sammy's bitchfaces, by number, roughly in the order they appeared in the boys' life. I'm up to #58 now (although several have sub categories, like 16a, above). I'm such a geek lol.