S. WINchester (i_speaklatin) wrote in we_coexist, @ 2009-02-28 22:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | sam winchester |
when winning's not winning; narrative
The man tied to the chair was waking up. Sam looked up from his book, a yellow paperback book labeled Aeneidos. Vergil's Latin was pretentious but poetic, and it had a rhythm Sam found soothing when he read it aloud in his head. It gave him room in his mind. The time and ability to not think was a rare thing in Sam's world.
The man in the chair moaned, tipped his head, and his eyes moved behind their lids. Sam reached over and turned on another light, revealing the rest of the room to be an empty office. The man squinted at the glare and Sam waited while he adjusted to the light--and the situation.
He was secured to the chair with duct tape. His elbows were wrapped several times to the chair arms, as were his wrists. Silver tape went around his waist, making his bare skin sweat, and he found he could barely move his hips. His ankles were secured to the legs of the chair, which were metal. He still had his clothes, a thin white shirt, his tags around his neck, his jeans torn at the knee, and he felt the way one sock bunched under his heel as he woke and shifted his weight.
Sam tried to imagine what the man saw when he looked across the room at his captor, and couldn't. Sam didn't think of himself as imposing and not even his imagination could supply it.
The man, whose name was George Kip Maylor, saw a late-twenties white male over six feet in height. He had on brown running shoes crusted with mud, walked in boot-cut jeans with wear on the seams, and filled out three shirts that were white, plaid, and blue in that order. He had muscle, but not too much, and moved like he was tired. Favored his right side, maybe nursing a hit in the ribs. When Kip (that's what his friends called him, and that's what he called himself) watched his captor pull up another metal folding chair and sit down with his arms over his knees, he wondered how a guy like this had got the jump on him. In fact, what had happened? He'd... been at the grocery store...
"You were possessed," Sam said, preparing himself for a long session of explaining the unexplainable.
"What?"
"You were possessed. By a demon. That's why you can't remember what happened."
Kip tried a laugh that came out sour. "Right. You came up behind me and knocked me out. Who the hell are you? What do you want?" He tested his bonds and rocked the chair.
Sam stretched forward and put a hand on his knee to keep the chair from tumbling over, then pulled his hand back. "Uh huh. And I jumped you and kept you out for... what day is it?"
"Thursday," Kip said defiantly.
"What date?"
"Twenty-fifth."
"It's the tenth. So that's fifteen days?"
"Bullshit," Kip spat.
"Fifteen days since the twenty-fifth," Sam replied calmly, separating his fingers and pulling out his cell phone. He tipped the screen back so Kip could see the glowing digital numbers.
"It's rigged."
Sam shrugged and put the phone away, not willing to argue something so trivial. "So where were you on the twenty-fifth, Maylor?"
"Fuck you. Cut me loose and I'll show you."
It was Sam's turn to have a laugh. "Hell no. You're in the Corps, Sergeant Maylor. I don't know if I could take you."
Kip sneered. "Pussy."
"Call it what you want. So where were you on the twenty-fifth, Maylor?"
Kip ground his teeth down. "What are you going to do if I won't tell you?"
"Keep asking," Sam said, simply. Kip looked past him into the shadows of the room. A modified twelve-gauge semi-automatic shotgun leaned against the window frame an arms-length away from his captor. The glass window had broken blinds and the thick plastic look of shatterproof. They must be pretty high up, and there was enough dust for Kip to think it was an unoccupied office building, maybe in the warehouse district. The door to the room must be behind him; made sense, his captor would want to watch it, keep his back to the wall and the window sight empty. That is, if he knew what he was doing. Seemed like he did. "Who are you?"
"My name's Sam."
"What do you want?"
"To stop the kind of things that take fifteen days of a man's life."
Kip sniffed and grimaced. "What's the stink?"
"Sulfur. Demons leave sulfur behind when they move from body to body. Sometimes they expel it when they're careless about the possession or their abilities."
Sam leaned down and swept his fingers near Kip's feet. Kip looked down and saw a white chalk design that stretched around his chair in a semi-circle crossed with lines. Strange symbols were in at one o'clock, three, five, eleven and nine--as far as he could see. Kip looked up at Sam. "You're fuckin' nuts, man."
Sam raised both eyebrows. "Maybe, but I'm telling the truth, too. Look, Maylor, I just need to know where you were the last thing you remember. I can pick up the demon's trail from there." He reached into his jean pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. Army surplus. Practiced fingers unfolded the knife from its bed. Kip tensed. Sam's hazel eyes came up. "I'll leave the knife on the sill and you can work your way over there once I leave."
Kip stared at him. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
Kip licked his lips. "Okay, man. How do I know you're not going to stick me with that thing once I tell you, then leave?"
"I won't."
"Give me my arms."
Sam looked uncertain.
"Cut my arms free, man. Show of good faith. Cut my arms free and I'll tell you. I was picking up groceries. I'll tell you where it was. Come on."
Sam needed this information. He needed it bad. If demons were in this city, he needed to know how they were getting in and if they had habits, patterns they followed, things that would make it easier for him to find them and stop them. He turned the knife in his hand, pulled Kip's wrist to one side and slid the blade through the tape. He didn't need to carve much, the blade was in good shape. Sam stood to one side for a reaction, but when Kip only rolled his wrist, testing it, he cut through the tape on his other wrist, and then both elbows.
He wasn't prepared for Kip's reaction. Pulling his arm completely free before Sam was ready. He caught Sam's wrist, rolled the hand with the knife in it up, and around. Sam let go of the knife because if he didn't, he'd have a broken wrist. Sam swore and pulled back as Kip expertly reversed the knife and freed his knees, then his ankles, and finally his chest. By the time he was on his feet, Sam was about ten feet away with a black glock pointed at Kip's chest.
Kip got to his feet and tested his legs. Felt okay. Some bruising. He could move just fine. Good thing, because he was going to move on this asshole.
"Don't make me use this, Maylor."
"You're not gonna," Kip said, shrugging. "You believe this demon shit, and you don't want to kill me."
Kip took a step forward out of the devil's trap Sam had drawn on the floor.
Sam looked down the barrel of the gun at Kip's chest, then shut his eyes. "Shit." Sam clicked the safety into place and slid the gun away on the floor as Kip came in hard and fast. Sam had height on him and he closed the distance to cancel Sam's reach. Sam didn't want a prolonged fight with a trained marine; it was fucking suicide. Dean would be pissed, but the soldier was right; he didn't want to shoot him. He didn't deserve it.
Kip's knife cut through the air where Sam had been a moment before. Sam turned to the outside of the strike, catching Kip's wrist and bringing the heel of his hand hard just behind Kip's knuckles. The move forced the muscles of the hand open and sent the knife flying. Kip's reaction was immediate: he pulled his hand sideways through the negative space between Sam's thumb and fingers and came back up with a strike using the outside bones of his wrist in a v-shape. A strike like that could break a nose, or stun when it struck a temple. Sam blocked it with the outside of his forearm.
The two men played an ugly game of chess, anticipating the next moves with blocks, preventing movements with checks and traps, breaking free, striking, counter-striking. Sam had a bruised set of ribs under his right elbow that he had to defend against a trained and brutal opponent, but Kip hadn't used his own legs in fifteen days, and his base was unstable to begin with. Sam executed a lot of short, heel-based kicks, using the outside of his foot and protecting his side at the cost of turning to his right. He could only kick off his left and it limited his movements.
Kip picked up on the pattern quick, so he wasn't prepared when Sam opened up that careful guard and presented his ribs. Kip didn't over-think it when he went in hard with a low punch, feeling a jump of elation as he connected and heard the crack--way too easy. Probably broken before. Kip came up as he heard Sam grunt in pain. He didn't even have time to take a solid breath before Sam hit him hard in the throat with the blade of his palm. That strike never would have gotten through without the sacrifice of a broken rib, but Sam accepted the sacrifice and Kip took the bait.
Kip went down and stayed there as Sam's knee came down over his forearm and into his spine. Both men were panting with the pain. "Where... were you... on the twenty-fifth?" Sam said, through gasps. Kip coughed, choked. "Lemme up."
"Where?" The pressure increased. Kip's lungs protested.
Kip told him. He earned it.
Sam got off him, staggered sideways, and picked up the gun. "Knew it was a good idea to tie you up, you sonuvabitch." He sounded almost admiring, and looked back.
The soldier had rolled over on his back, stared up at the ceiling. "You in the service?"
"My dad taught me. Him and some others."
"Taught you to what?"
"Fight. Hunt." Sam picked up the shotgun. He dragged a toe through the design on the floor, breaking the circle.
"Demons."
"And other things. Ghosts. Werewolves. Wendigo."
"Wen-what?"
"Google it."
Kip sat up. "Hey."
Sam paused in the doorframe, looked back.
"What did I do for fifteen days?"
The hunter wrapped an arm around his side and turned away. "You don't want to know."