[Currently in M01, from hereKurt exhaled loudly and suddenly when Kon sat on him. Jeez, way to knock the wind out of someone! Kurt was barely half Kon's weight, he would be crushed
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And there they were. The tell-tale black eyes of a demon, the surefire sign you were dealing with a bad sonuvabitch who would probably skin you alive and wear whatever was left as a coat just for a laugh. He definitely hadn't been imagining it the other night!
Dean didn't move at first. The room was dark, the lights shot, but he had enough to go by with the flashlight to study Punk-Ass. He seemed to be pretty pissed, judging by the death glares he was trying to shoot out of his little black eyes. The demon looked up at the ceiling. Dean got to his feet, not liking the particular interest it was having in the devil's trap up there: demons knew what it was and they should be more interested in trying to talk their way out or taunt him, not looking up at the very thing that was trapping them here, not unless they thought there was something special about it. He didn't think Punk-Ass could chant his way outta this one, but he had a gut feeling that said he didn't like the way he was looking at the Key of Solomon, all the same. Was it possible for him to just break the lines, without even saying a word?
Sorry, Sammy. Looked like he was gonna have to rough up Punk-Ass a little, if only to shake the demon's concentration. Getting up from the bed, the mattress squeaking under him, Dean left the flashlight angled to give him a good view of the demon. Strolling forward, the hunter seemed almost bored from the way he was unconsciously flipping the bowie knife's handle in his hand, and while it was so damn tempting to just plunge it right up to the hilt into whatever soft bits he could get at, Dean knew the demon would still be walking after it. Without any warning, Dean spun toward the tied up demon and slugged him, hard as he dared without tipping the chair over.
His hand hurt but shit, did it feel good just to hit something and not feel guilty at all about it. Dean knelt back, making a point of meeting Punk-Ass's eyes and letting him get a good long look at his face. He didn't care if he'd meet this damn thing in Hell in a year's end, so long as the demon remembered who was responsible for sending it downstairs.
"Don't think you're the first one who got the genius idea of breakin' the lines," Dean said. His smile was empty. "I know whatever I can possibly think of, it won't hurt you in the long run. Might be fun for me, but let's face it: having fun with you and actually getting anything useful from you are two different things. So just shut up, sit tight, and we'll get right to it."
Soon as Sam got here. But Punk-Ass didn't need any warning ahead of time that Dean wasn't flying solo here, so he "forgot" to mention he was expecting backup.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. There wasn't much finesse required in doing something simple like undoing physical matter, but Reid just... couldn't. Couldn't get it! Like he was thirteen again, being asked to untie a series of knots without laying a hand on them, learning how to control his brute force and turn it into something more refined.
He preferred force. Just not when it was all he had.
He could break the chair, he was sure he could break the chair. But the duct tape, damn it. Fuck! Was he really stuck? Was he really stuck? He squeezed his blackened eyes shut briefly, felt his fingernails bite into his palms.
Of course, it was a little hard to concentrate when someone was punching him in the face, making his head jerk around and everything flare in a hot white burst of disorientation. Time seemed to grind to a halt right then and there. That's it. For a moment, he held completely still, refusing to so much as blink in response, but slowly, he turned his face back while Dean spoke. It could be hard to tell, looking into eyes that had no definition and seemingly no end, but there was a wildness lurking there, the reason why Reid had been the first suspect to call on when bad magic had been about.
He hit the mother fucker in the solar plexus with a burst of Power the size of a volleyball, but that had the momentum of a runaway truck.
Shit, so this was like Meg, where the demon had a few tricks up its sleeve despite being trapped. That or the Key of Solomon wasn't up to full strength because he'd had to draw it in crayon.
Dean went sprawling on his back when Punk-Ass finally did hit him with that TK action. He wheezed, feeling like he'd either been hit by a truck or by Company Man again, and rolled over, gritting his teeth. Far as he could tell, he hadn't had anything broken, but he wasn't about to give Punk-Ass more of a chance for a few potshots. The hunter got to his feet, doing his best to hide his wince and hoping the little bastard hadn't reopened his injuries from the other night, despite being tied up and about to get a hell of a nice tan downstairs tonight. The last thing he needed to be was bleeding all over the place again because it turned out some demons didn't lose all their juice under a shoddy Key of Solomon. Obviously they couldn't just sit tight and wait for Sam - or, at least, Punk-Ass couldn't. Not conscious, anyway.
Dean went for the bowie on the bed again, flipping the hilt in his hands again so he could strike with the butt again. Breathing hurt, moving hurt even more, but he'd had way too many years of the job under his belt to just sit there and cry like a bitch because he'd been knocked on his ass. He could always nurse it once the demon was KOed again. Dean circled out of the spread of the flashlight, moving behind Punk-Ass. His breath hitched a little in his chest and he knew, at the very least, that he'd have some very impressive bruises all over come tomorrow morning. Dean didn't say anything to give the demon more warning than he had to as he struck again with the bowie knife's hilt at the back of Punk-Ass's head.
Before the bastard even hit the floor, the warlock was straining as hard as he could against his restraints, thrashing with all he had. The chair tipped dangerously. He couldn’t think, see, or hear anything beyond the meek reservoir of Power pounding in him, the need to cream the sorry fuck who thought he could get away with getting the drop on him and then thinking he could jerk Reid around when Reid was wide fucking awake.
No, no way, as long as he had the slightest bit of magic, he wasn’t going to “sit tight” and put up with whatever crap the guy had planned.
It was testimony of Reid’s temperament that he could jerk his right arm against the duct tape to the point where his muscles trembled when he was close to passing out all on his own. (Close, but not quite. No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t! If he could just get one arm free…) Red splotches of color exploded and faded in front of his eyes, matching the beat of the thundering blood in his ears. There was a deep pain in his jaw now, too, as he locked the muscle and made no other sound than his harried breaths.
Somehow, he could still tell when the figure moved out of the light entirely. One, two, three… Counting seconds as the tape stretched and every inch of him sang at the flood of fury, adrenaline, and Power.
No chance to pull it together and send out another concentrated blast, but Reid wasn’t thinking about that. He just heaved himself sideways without any concern for what the fuck he was doing, knocking him and the entire chair over. Sweat stung his eyes as he hit the ground. Needless to say, he would’ve been crawling out of there by his fingernails if given half the chance.
Even before Sam reached the door, he could hear the sound of something crashing. Crap. He should've expected as much.
He swung open the door without hesitation, no clue as to what he was expecting the scene inside would look like. Not very good, it turned out. At least Dean was on his feet and the demon was down. And inside the trap, even though evidence of an ongoing scuffle was pretty clear. What?
Damn it. He'd seen this before, though the last time, he was the one tied down. Meg. If the Key wasn't reining the demon in, reciting an exorcism could be completely ineffective, too. Except the demon was still struggling to free itself from the chair. Was it that powerless? This wasn't making much sense; snapping free of that tape should've been no problem if there was nothing holding its full power at bay. So maybe the Key was only...what? Half effective?
His gaze flicked to Dean before going back to the demon. With his brother there, his powers were off the table. He didn't know if they'd work, either, but they had a better chance of doing so than a verbal exorcism. Better chance of the host surviving, as well.
The only thing holding him back from using them was Dean. There wasn't a lot of time to think it over; he knew he wouldn't be able to get Dean away from the action without some serious manhandling and the demon could still break free any second now. Sam took a split second to trip his way to a decision, settled on reciting an exorcism a shot first in the end.
It was easy enough to dredge up the Latin from his memory, but he stumbled over the first few words, rusty from disuse. He hadn't needed it since Ruby. His eyes were on the demon, watching. If it was working, there'd be immediate signs.
This particular demon really didn't want to be here, did it?
Dean staggered, thrown off-balance when his target suddenly was gone, the chair and its prisoner thudding loudly to the floor in the darkness. Seriously, what did this one even think it was doing? It wasn't gonna be able to step out of the devil's traps lines, no matter how much he struggled like a wild cat to get free of the chair. All Dean knew was he was probably gonna want to get more duct tape and extension cord, especially if he was struggling this much and that was before the actual exorcism. He had reached down and roughly hauled up both the chair and the imprisoned demon when Sam suddenly let himself in...
And immediately went for the big guns, busting out the Latin.
Punk-Ass plus the chair wasn't exactly light, but Dean was able to tip the chair back onto its legs as he glanced over his shoulder at Sam.
"Dude," he hissed sharply, "The hell're you doing? We need this joker top-side so we can get some answers from him!"
As he spoke, he grabbed up more of the duct-tape and began wrapping it around Punk-Ass's chest, as an afterthought winding some around his neck and looping it through the chair's back. He was already putting up more of a fight than he would've wanted, but this would just be another thing to slow the bastard down in the off chance he actually did bust loose. Shooting a look at Sam - he could see his brother's tall shadow, just at the edge of his flashlight's spread, but not much else - the hunter suddenly reached out and grabbed Punk-Ass by his chin with a bruising grip, jerking his head back and putting the bowie knife up against his neck, letting him feel the blade's edge. It wouldn't kill him, but he imagined it might be difficult to concentrate when you could be bleeding from a cut jugular. That and it'd be pretty hard to blend in with the rest of the humans bleeding from the throat like that. Sure, all that duct tape was in the way but that? Dean could work around that. Might take some sawing but if the demon didn't like it? Tough.
He was past the point of handwringing over the human the demon was holed up in. These demons had started all this crap, not him, and he wasn't gonna pussyfoot around when they were threatening the only family he had left.
Dean grunted, not yet slicing but leaving the threat very much there for the demon. "Just soften him up. Did you get the rosary?"
He could probably whip up some holy water in less than five minutes, and while Sammy seemed pretty gung-ho about sending Punk-Ass back to hell, he could easily stretch the exorcism to last long enough for Dean to get back and get cracking on this sonuvabitch himself. His whole front hurt, aching in that nauseating way as if Company Man had come back for an encore and kicked him in the friggen kidneys for the round two, but once they got that holy water, the tables would be turned and Dean was pretty sure he could make this demon beg to tell him its life story when he got through with it.
Somewhere, something felt jarred from the fall. Or maybe a lot of somethings. All Reid’s body knew was that there was pain in new places, and it sizzled up and down his nerves, only adding to the rest of it. But Reid wasn’t about to let that stop him; he was acting on instinct, and that’d always been good enough for him. Instinct faltered, though, when there was movement in the dark, and a shifting of stale air--his eyes went to the door where some else seemed to be, and his trembling muscles sagged a bit at the distraction. The warlock couldn’t hear much of anything over the buzzing in his head and the sound of his own hot, laboured panting, but he thought he caught some words.
Which didn’t make sense to the part of Reid’s mind that was still rational, because they sounded like Latin. Real Latin. The Book of Damnation Latin.
Before he knew what was happening, him and the chair were back upright, and over the sick sensation of his stomach crawling into his chest, he realized there was more duct tape going on. He jerked his head, both at the touch of something cold against his throat, and at Asshole #1 grabbing him. Oh no, no, he’d had enough of this, he could hurt them, both of them, and fucking hurt them good. And for a few heartbeats, the warlock didn’t even realize there was a knife blade to his throat, so obvious was that simple truth. When the vague thought did come to him, the only thing he felt was the sharp burn of anger, which helped sear away more of his disorientation and clear his head.
Thoughts coming together again. Just soften him up. Rosary? His black eyes rolled in the direction the Latin was coming from, the words falling like familiar music notes. Familiar. He felt like he should know--the idiot threats, knowing what he was, the lines on the ceiling, breaking the lines, “top-side”…
Later, Reid would wonder why the hell he hadn’t just let loose on the two in that moment, because there hadn’t been anything holding him back from willing another burst of Power, not his shaking and sweating, not the knife, not anything. But the sudden clarity that came to him seemed to hold him in thrall, where there was nothing but the puzzle coming together in one big bang. Oh. Jumped, tied to a chair, kept alive, of course he knew where he’d seen and heard everything before…
Exorcism.
Against all odds, something like a laugh wanted to escape him.
Sam had been ready to ignore Dean outright, seeing as he was kind of very not interested in Dean getting answers of any sort. He just wanted to send the demon packing before something about the deal or any of that spilled past its lips. Dean could yell at him about it later all he wanted.
But the exorcism obviously wasn't working. He stopped abruptly. There was no point in going on. It did leave the issue of where to go from here. They couldn't just leave the demon here forever. Sam juggled the idea of finishing off the exorcism while using his abilities at the same time, cover it up that way, but he wasn't so sure he could split his focus like that.
Too busy trying to sort this out, he didn't answer Dean's question and by the time it registered, the glint of a blade had caught his attention. Never mind where the hell did Dean get his Bowie from in the first place, what was Dean even doing? It was a demon, a slit throat was just gonna kill the host and slow the demon a bit at best. Whatever was going through Dean's head, Sam really didn't want another dead body tacked to his list. Not if he could help it. Which he could, except he needed Dean to not be here.
He also needed Dean to not start questioning the demon. He could tell his brother was building up to it. There was no way for the interrogation to even go remotely well even if Dean miraculously picked the most innocuous questions to ask. The information Dean would be looking for, it was in all likelihood obsolete-about events long passed. And the moment the demon pointed this out, one thing was going to lead to another.
Sam crossed the room, no clue as to how he was gonna stall this or convince Dean to leave, just knowing that he had to do it. If this looked like a bit of a desperate move, it was probably because it was. It was stupid to be trying to deal with this crap while a demon was right in the room, one that wasn't even trapped, but somehow self-preservation felt less important than preventing everything from crashing down. The demon couldn't touch him, anyway, not the way it could regular people. He could tell Dean was in crap shape, too, as he drew closer-he'd learned to tell, no matter how well Dean hid it-and that was only one more reason why he wanted Dean away from the demon, to let Sam take care of this on his own.
His fingers curled around Dean's arm, the one not holding the knife to avoid jarring Dean into causing the weapon to slip. This was the only thing he could address that was both actually a real concern of his and something that Dean might be able to buy coming from him. His voice was low, almost just loud enough for only Dean to catch. "Dude, you can't."
Dean didn't shake off Sam. "Sure I can," he said and moved the knife a little bit lower under the duct tape, pressing the bowie's blade against the exposed skin. It didn't take much to draw a trickle of blood from Punk-Ass. "I get you wanna put this bastard down, but we've still got work to do. Y'gonna let me do my job or what?"
His finger tightened around Punk-Ass's chin as he ignored Sam, turning his attention back on the demon.
"I think we all know this," and Dean pressed the blade a little deeper, "ain't gonna kill you. But I imagine it'd be pretty inconvenient to walk around undetected bloodied up a bit. Everyone in this room knows what you really are, so let's just get past all the bullcrap and get to the point: I want answers, Punk-Ass, and you're gonna give them to me."
This was usually the part where Sam would hand him the rosary or a flask of holy water so he could "encourage" the demon to get chatty. After his little TK show, Dean wasn't too keen on pulling the knife away from their prisoner's throat, even if it wasn't lethal, by far. When Sam didn't hand over either items, Dean shot a look at him - or, well, at his shadow, because he was still standing barely in the flashlight's crappy light - and raised an eyebrow. First he'd busted in here, Latin-blazing, and now he was tip-toeing around roughing up this demon like they were kids again. After Cold Oak, after everything these things had put them through, Dean just didn't get these friggen mood-swings his little brother went through sometimes; you'd think especially after Cold Oak that Sam would want to get straight to the payback and have a chance to get some answers, maybe even some information that could help them track down Yellow-Eyes and Jake. Dean let go of Punk-Ass's chin, reaching around and jerking off the duct-tape across his mouth non-too-gently.
"You start chanting, Princess, and I'll give you more than a little nick," he warned the demon. "How'd we get here? Is this Martin Landel that yellow-eyed sonuvabitch? And how did you find him?"
He didn't point at Sammy. But if this demon was in the loop at all - and they usually were, although the idea of a group of demons chatting it up like a bunch of gossips was enough to make him shudder - then it'd know who Sam was. It seemed to possibly know who he was, already. And the fact it was in a devil's trap and tied up had to be a big blinking sign right there about who and what they really were. Doctor Kisugi had made threats about Sam, seeming to know where he was and while he knew for certain she wasn't a demon, someone (or something, most likely) had been keeping her updated. Maybe this demon knew something about their abductions. Maybe it didn't. Either way, Dean didn't give a shit. Demons were evil, no awkward shades of gray except for the poor kid this one was holed up in. They'd be doing the world a favor by dealing with this demon, whether or not it knew anything useful.
Reid’s eyes stayed riveted on the two figures in the room with him, going back and forth between them as everything just seemed to click together and make sense. At least, sense in warlock terms.
The gut-twisting fury that’d had Reid thrashing around like an feral animal seemed to have cooled to a smoulder in a matter of seconds, and the feel of blood mingling with sweat on his exposed skin barely registered in him. So this was what it was like dealing with the fanatical nobodies. Sure, godlike users of the black arts had been caught and strung up before--the Salem witch mess had been a prime example of that. Lots of ancestors had gotten their jollies off with regular people who thought they were the Antichrist and tried to drown them in a vat of holy water. All in the past, though. Never in the present day, where that sort of shit seemed laughable, what with all the rules and regulations of the covenant.
But hey, it looked like Reid was getting his turn. Exorcised for being demon possessed.
These class act retards really had no idea.
He watched the taller one for a while, trying to pick out features while his vision continued to swim, up until the guy with the salt said answers. Then Reid looked over like he were finally acknowledging he was one wrong twitch away from death. Yeah fucking right. The warlock didn’t flinch when the duct tape was ripped away, gaze dipping to a spot on Dean‘s jacket. Just a little more pain. He could handle pain. Suddenly everything seemed a hell of a lot less urgent now that the warlock had figured out what Dumb and Dumber were up to, and he could handle it.
Chanting… That was a good one. He could will the knife away without so much as a word, and they--Well, no, apparently only Reid knew it.
Now that he could breathe through his mouth again, the air felt cold in his throat; he ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. And then the smile that had been lurking in the back of his mind appeared on his lips, aggravating his bruised face. But it only got bigger. He sniffed first, cleared his throat, then swallowed. Yeah, it was sure going to be nice paying both of them back for this. What Power he had was still coiled like a spring, continuing to make his body tremble slightly. If they happened to think anything he did was out of fear, they were going to be in for a surprise.
“Dude,” he said abruptly, mocking the both of them for their over usage. His gaze was still turned away from their faces. “If you wanted me here, you could’ve just asked.”
Well, that managed to stall off an impressive five seconds. Sam let him go.
Dean was looking at him, obviously expecting the rosary, and Sam wasn't really sure what to say at first. This seemed an awkward moment to launch into an explanation of how he'd almost suffocated under a pile of ghostly hair, therefore preventing his acquisition of the rosary. He ended up shrugging a shoulder and giving a slight shake of his head as apologetically he could manage, indicating that he'd explain later.
Hearing Dean ask about the yellow-eyed demon when Sam precisely who had killed the thing was downright absurd. At least the demon hadn't immediately pointed out that Yellow-Eyes was dead. Actually, why hadn't it pointed that out? Was it possible for a demon to be caught up in the same sense of temporal discrepancy they were?
Probably, come to think of it, though he couldn't imagine why. He'd already had the feeling demons had nothing to do with this; Yellow-Eyes might've had the twisted sense of humour for it, but Lilith was fairly standard evil, creepy little girl persona and all. Bringing on fire and brimstone seemed more like her deal. So, what, if this was a demon, it was here by accident? Because he couldn't think of another reason why there would be a lone demon here, apparently a part of the patient population no less. Who had...locked itself inside the body of someone with an exceptionally limited freedom to move around or do anything? What purpose could that even serve?
Sam glanced back at forth between the shadowy figures of his brother and the demon, frowning, but he didn't have much to go on aside from a hunch. He'd have to let Dean go ahead with the interrogation; if it started to go south, then Sam would...do something. Besides, no holy water and an inability to exorcise meant that there wasn't a lot of hold they had over the demon. Sam was kind of hoping Dean would just give up as a result and knock it out.
Not that he didn't have questions of his own. But those were off the table, too. Considering he used to let Dean take the lead on this kind of stuff, maybe Dean wouldn't question his silence all that much.
Dean could barely make out his brother's face, but he could see enough to get that look. Shit. So he hadn't been able to find a rosary, which meant no holy water, and not a whole lot they could do to inflict real pain on the demon. Then there was the whole messy fact the Key of Solomon was apparently not as strong as it was supposed to be and that what should've been a walk in the park might actually be dangerous, despite the demon being smack in the middle of the trap. Dean knew Sammy had some weirdo immunities to things like demonic viruses, but he wasn't so sure he could just shrug off some demon using telekinesis just because he had powers. He shot Sammy a look of his own, silently motioning for him to get back in case the demon got a second-wind.
If anyone was gonna take the hit, he'd rather it'd be him. Even if he was still recovering from last night, he wasn't the one who'd been stabbed in the back only three days ago.
Dean stood up, then, removing the knife from Punk-Ass's neck and without warning, cuffed him hard against the back of his head with his other hand. His hand stung, knuckles throbbing painfully with the force of the hit. "Real cute. But I've run into your kind before and pulling the smartass routine ain't gonna change the fact you're goin' back to Hell. How soon is up to you."
He slid into the bluff without even really thinking of it, directing what he said next to Sammy.
"Think we're gonna be hanging out with our pal here for awhile. Why don't get you get started on blessing the water?"
Holy water was like acid to demons, but he wasn't too sure how long he could BS his way through this. Without the holy water, there wasn't exactly a lot of clout in his "encouragement" methods, which meant that aside from drawing out what was undoubtedly a long, painful exorcism, there wasn't much they could do to the thing that would have any effect. And the exorcism was gonna happen anyway, no matter what he told Punk-Ass. It didn't really sit well with him to send this joker packing the instant they captured him, but looking at it, it wasn't like he saw a whole lot of other options aside from roughing him up.
He snickered through the slap, even when the duct tape cut into his throat. He let his head loll as much as he was able, anyway, despite the pressure on his Adam’s apple.
“No, you haven’t,” the warlock replied softly, and the surety of this statement was clear in every word. “You really haven’t.” Then he lifted his head, and despite how crappy he’d felt even before being battered, bruised, and beaten, and despite the blood, the sweat, and the shaking, he fixed his inky black eyes on the two of them without blinking. Oh yeah, things were sure making sense now. ‘Really tall guy in his twenties’, wasn’t that right? He licked his lips again and spat to the left of the chair before saying clearly, “Soon, then. Let’s do it, boys. I‘ll sit nice and let you exorcise me.” Reid tipped his head to the side. “But I guess I just got one question before you get to it: how’d you find me?”
Yeah, those were definitely the eyes of a demon. Still didn't quite add up, but that? That was hard to deny. He wasn't sure what it meant by No, you haven't, either, like it knew something.
Sam ignored Dean's gesture and didn't step back. If anyone was more likely to get thrown around, it was Dean.
At the bluff, though, he did shoot Dean a look. Wait, what? He wasn't gonna leave Dean alone with a demon. But Sam wasn't willing to get into an argument in front of the thing, either, and it occurred to him that while he couldn't do much here, maybe he could from outside, hidden from view. A single door couldn't be much of a barrier, could it? Pass it off as the demon escaping on its own; they weren't beyond bailing when they'd had enough.
Sam hesitated, turned to step out of the room. He'd just opened the door when the glowing bob of a flashlight just turning the corner into their hallway caught his eye. And the person was very much heading down here. Damn it.
He could've stopped whoever was coming himself, but there was something else on his mind. He estimated he had about thirty seconds before the figure made it to the room. It'd be cutting it real close, but that was a gamble he was willing to take.
Thinking fast, he peered back inside through the doorway, waving Dean over with enough urgency to suggest that he needed Dean now. "Hey."
Dean wasn't too keen on leaving Punk-Ass to his own devices, especially under a devil's trap that might not one hundred percent demon-proof. But he knew that tone in his brother's voice, the kind that said it wouldn't be a good idea to shrug off his brother this time.
"We'll get to that," was all Dean would say to the demon. He wasn't particularly surprised the demon was tight-lipped about whatever it might know. Even if you slapped around a demon, it'd keep trying to lie through its teeth or be a general pain in the ass until you got the big guns out - sure, they'd laugh off not being scared about going back to Hell, but there had to be a reason they weren't ever so jazzed about going back.
Getting up, leaving Punk-Ass to stew tied up to the chair, Dean joined Sam. Automatically squeezing past Sam, he soon saw what he'd been worried about; someone, most likely a patient, was heading down the hall, and from the way the light was angling toward this door, it was possible they were coming here. For all he knew, it could be Angel, coming back for a second ax stashed in the room he didn't know about. Dean breathed a silent "crap", turning to his little brother.
"I'll go check it out," he said, keeping his voice down so only Sam could hear him. "Should take a minute. Just keep an eye on Sunshine over there: he was able to use some of that TK crap earlier. Knocked me on my ass. If he looks like he's up to something, do whatever you need to break his concentration."
Dean didn't exactly say be careful in so many words, but he didn't need them to get his point across.
He paused and than gave Sam the bowie knife; it was business as usual to let his brother borrow his gear, but it also reminded him that they were gonna have to find Sam a knife sometime after tonight. A bowie wasn't gonna do much against a demon, but it was still better than nothing. Dean toed the bag of salt he'd left earlier near the door, drawing Sam's attention to it. The trap might not be good enough, but the salt should work...although should was really the key word, 'cause he'd tried spilling table salt on Punk-Ass back there a few days ago and he'd had no reaction at all. Still, drawing a circle of salt around Punk-Ass couldn't hurt as insurance coupled with a fault Key of Solomon and Sam could probably rattle off the rest of the exorcism if worst came to worst. Dean's mouth tightened into a line, but instead of saying anything else, he clapped Sammy on the shoulder and headed out into the hall to run interference with the newcomer.
Tweedledee and Tweedledum sure needed to get their act together.
The warlock watched the standing version of musical chairs, curling his hands into fists against the armrests. The half-assed demon exorcism/smiting of evil bit was amusing and all, but who was stupid enough to walk away after he’d already proven the devil’s trap was a no-go? Did they even have any fucking idea what a demon could do to a person, let alone him? Something wasn’t right here, and it wasn’t just that Reid had gotten himself shanghaied by a complete retard.
Neither of them had bothered covering his mouth again. Weren’t worried he’d, oh, go ‘help!’ or what?
Not that Reid would, of course. He was the prime target for a non-magical intervention, being a hell of a lot higher on the list of supernatural beings than things that went bump in the night, and didn’t need to worry about this actually ending badly for him. Like hell he needed help dealing with two chuckleheads, no matter how many occult books they’d checked out of the library.
But that still didn’t change the fact that he was still tied to the chair he was sitting in.
A bead of sweat rolled down his neck, and Reid tossed his head as he watched the two at the door, both to dislodge it and out of aggravation. Any normal guy might’ve been passed out cold right about then, but not Reid. He clenched his fists tighter before relaxing his hands and looking down at his lap. Back to square one. Try and break the tape or go for the chair. He still had Power to spare.
Dean didn't move at first. The room was dark, the lights shot, but he had enough to go by with the flashlight to study Punk-Ass. He seemed to be pretty pissed, judging by the death glares he was trying to shoot out of his little black eyes. The demon looked up at the ceiling. Dean got to his feet, not liking the particular interest it was having in the devil's trap up there: demons knew what it was and they should be more interested in trying to talk their way out or taunt him, not looking up at the very thing that was trapping them here, not unless they thought there was something special about it. He didn't think Punk-Ass could chant his way outta this one, but he had a gut feeling that said he didn't like the way he was looking at the Key of Solomon, all the same. Was it possible for him to just break the lines, without even saying a word?
Sorry, Sammy. Looked like he was gonna have to rough up Punk-Ass a little, if only to shake the demon's concentration. Getting up from the bed, the mattress squeaking under him, Dean left the flashlight angled to give him a good view of the demon. Strolling forward, the hunter seemed almost bored from the way he was unconsciously flipping the bowie knife's handle in his hand, and while it was so damn tempting to just plunge it right up to the hilt into whatever soft bits he could get at, Dean knew the demon would still be walking after it. Without any warning, Dean spun toward the tied up demon and slugged him, hard as he dared without tipping the chair over.
His hand hurt but shit, did it feel good just to hit something and not feel guilty at all about it. Dean knelt back, making a point of meeting Punk-Ass's eyes and letting him get a good long look at his face. He didn't care if he'd meet this damn thing in Hell in a year's end, so long as the demon remembered who was responsible for sending it downstairs.
"Don't think you're the first one who got the genius idea of breakin' the lines," Dean said. His smile was empty. "I know whatever I can possibly think of, it won't hurt you in the long run. Might be fun for me, but let's face it: having fun with you and actually getting anything useful from you are two different things. So just shut up, sit tight, and we'll get right to it."
Soon as Sam got here. But Punk-Ass didn't need any warning ahead of time that Dean wasn't flying solo here, so he "forgot" to mention he was expecting backup.
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He preferred force. Just not when it was all he had.
He could break the chair, he was sure he could break the chair. But the duct tape, damn it. Fuck! Was he really stuck? Was he really stuck? He squeezed his blackened eyes shut briefly, felt his fingernails bite into his palms.
Of course, it was a little hard to concentrate when someone was punching him in the face, making his head jerk around and everything flare in a hot white burst of disorientation. Time seemed to grind to a halt right then and there. That's it. For a moment, he held completely still, refusing to so much as blink in response, but slowly, he turned his face back while Dean spoke. It could be hard to tell, looking into eyes that had no definition and seemingly no end, but there was a wildness lurking there, the reason why Reid had been the first suspect to call on when bad magic had been about.
He hit the mother fucker in the solar plexus with a burst of Power the size of a volleyball, but that had the momentum of a runaway truck.
Yeah, he preferred force.
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Dean went sprawling on his back when Punk-Ass finally did hit him with that TK action. He wheezed, feeling like he'd either been hit by a truck or by Company Man again, and rolled over, gritting his teeth. Far as he could tell, he hadn't had anything broken, but he wasn't about to give Punk-Ass more of a chance for a few potshots. The hunter got to his feet, doing his best to hide his wince and hoping the little bastard hadn't reopened his injuries from the other night, despite being tied up and about to get a hell of a nice tan downstairs tonight. The last thing he needed to be was bleeding all over the place again because it turned out some demons didn't lose all their juice under a shoddy Key of Solomon. Obviously they couldn't just sit tight and wait for Sam - or, at least, Punk-Ass couldn't. Not conscious, anyway.
Dean went for the bowie on the bed again, flipping the hilt in his hands again so he could strike with the butt again. Breathing hurt, moving hurt even more, but he'd had way too many years of the job under his belt to just sit there and cry like a bitch because he'd been knocked on his ass. He could always nurse it once the demon was KOed again. Dean circled out of the spread of the flashlight, moving behind Punk-Ass. His breath hitched a little in his chest and he knew, at the very least, that he'd have some very impressive bruises all over come tomorrow morning. Dean didn't say anything to give the demon more warning than he had to as he struck again with the bowie knife's hilt at the back of Punk-Ass's head.
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No, no way, as long as he had the slightest bit of magic, he wasn’t going to “sit tight” and put up with whatever crap the guy had planned.
It was testimony of Reid’s temperament that he could jerk his right arm against the duct tape to the point where his muscles trembled when he was close to passing out all on his own. (Close, but not quite. No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t! If he could just get one arm free…) Red splotches of color exploded and faded in front of his eyes, matching the beat of the thundering blood in his ears. There was a deep pain in his jaw now, too, as he locked the muscle and made no other sound than his harried breaths.
Somehow, he could still tell when the figure moved out of the light entirely. One, two, three… Counting seconds as the tape stretched and every inch of him sang at the flood of fury, adrenaline, and Power.
No chance to pull it together and send out another concentrated blast, but Reid wasn’t thinking about that. He just heaved himself sideways without any concern for what the fuck he was doing, knocking him and the entire chair over. Sweat stung his eyes as he hit the ground. Needless to say, he would’ve been crawling out of there by his fingernails if given half the chance.
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Even before Sam reached the door, he could hear the sound of something crashing. Crap. He should've expected as much.
He swung open the door without hesitation, no clue as to what he was expecting the scene inside would look like. Not very good, it turned out. At least Dean was on his feet and the demon was down. And inside the trap, even though evidence of an ongoing scuffle was pretty clear. What?
Damn it. He'd seen this before, though the last time, he was the one tied down. Meg. If the Key wasn't reining the demon in, reciting an exorcism could be completely ineffective, too. Except the demon was still struggling to free itself from the chair. Was it that powerless? This wasn't making much sense; snapping free of that tape should've been no problem if there was nothing holding its full power at bay. So maybe the Key was only...what? Half effective?
His gaze flicked to Dean before going back to the demon. With his brother there, his powers were off the table. He didn't know if they'd work, either, but they had a better chance of doing so than a verbal exorcism. Better chance of the host surviving, as well.
The only thing holding him back from using them was Dean. There wasn't a lot of time to think it over; he knew he wouldn't be able to get Dean away from the action without some serious manhandling and the demon could still break free any second now. Sam took a split second to trip his way to a decision, settled on reciting an exorcism a shot first in the end.
It was easy enough to dredge up the Latin from his memory, but he stumbled over the first few words, rusty from disuse. He hadn't needed it since Ruby. His eyes were on the demon, watching. If it was working, there'd be immediate signs.
God, he hoped it worked.
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Dean staggered, thrown off-balance when his target suddenly was gone, the chair and its prisoner thudding loudly to the floor in the darkness. Seriously, what did this one even think it was doing? It wasn't gonna be able to step out of the devil's traps lines, no matter how much he struggled like a wild cat to get free of the chair. All Dean knew was he was probably gonna want to get more duct tape and extension cord, especially if he was struggling this much and that was before the actual exorcism. He had reached down and roughly hauled up both the chair and the imprisoned demon when Sam suddenly let himself in...
And immediately went for the big guns, busting out the Latin.
Punk-Ass plus the chair wasn't exactly light, but Dean was able to tip the chair back onto its legs as he glanced over his shoulder at Sam.
"Dude," he hissed sharply, "The hell're you doing? We need this joker top-side so we can get some answers from him!"
As he spoke, he grabbed up more of the duct-tape and began wrapping it around Punk-Ass's chest, as an afterthought winding some around his neck and looping it through the chair's back. He was already putting up more of a fight than he would've wanted, but this would just be another thing to slow the bastard down in the off chance he actually did bust loose. Shooting a look at Sam - he could see his brother's tall shadow, just at the edge of his flashlight's spread, but not much else - the hunter suddenly reached out and grabbed Punk-Ass by his chin with a bruising grip, jerking his head back and putting the bowie knife up against his neck, letting him feel the blade's edge. It wouldn't kill him, but he imagined it might be difficult to concentrate when you could be bleeding from a cut jugular. That and it'd be pretty hard to blend in with the rest of the humans bleeding from the throat like that. Sure, all that duct tape was in the way but that? Dean could work around that. Might take some sawing but if the demon didn't like it? Tough.
He was past the point of handwringing over the human the demon was holed up in. These demons had started all this crap, not him, and he wasn't gonna pussyfoot around when they were threatening the only family he had left.
Dean grunted, not yet slicing but leaving the threat very much there for the demon. "Just soften him up. Did you get the rosary?"
He could probably whip up some holy water in less than five minutes, and while Sammy seemed pretty gung-ho about sending Punk-Ass back to hell, he could easily stretch the exorcism to last long enough for Dean to get back and get cracking on this sonuvabitch himself. His whole front hurt, aching in that nauseating way as if Company Man had come back for an encore and kicked him in the friggen kidneys for the round two, but once they got that holy water, the tables would be turned and Dean was pretty sure he could make this demon beg to tell him its life story when he got through with it.
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Which didn’t make sense to the part of Reid’s mind that was still rational, because they sounded like Latin. Real Latin. The Book of Damnation Latin.
Before he knew what was happening, him and the chair were back upright, and over the sick sensation of his stomach crawling into his chest, he realized there was more duct tape going on. He jerked his head, both at the touch of something cold against his throat, and at Asshole #1 grabbing him. Oh no, no, he’d had enough of this, he could hurt them, both of them, and fucking hurt them good. And for a few heartbeats, the warlock didn’t even realize there was a knife blade to his throat, so obvious was that simple truth. When the vague thought did come to him, the only thing he felt was the sharp burn of anger, which helped sear away more of his disorientation and clear his head.
Thoughts coming together again. Just soften him up. Rosary? His black eyes rolled in the direction the Latin was coming from, the words falling like familiar music notes. Familiar. He felt like he should know--the idiot threats, knowing what he was, the lines on the ceiling, breaking the lines, “top-side”…
Later, Reid would wonder why the hell he hadn’t just let loose on the two in that moment, because there hadn’t been anything holding him back from willing another burst of Power, not his shaking and sweating, not the knife, not anything. But the sudden clarity that came to him seemed to hold him in thrall, where there was nothing but the puzzle coming together in one big bang. Oh. Jumped, tied to a chair, kept alive, of course he knew where he’d seen and heard everything before…
Exorcism.
Against all odds, something like a laugh wanted to escape him.
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But the exorcism obviously wasn't working. He stopped abruptly. There was no point in going on. It did leave the issue of where to go from here. They couldn't just leave the demon here forever. Sam juggled the idea of finishing off the exorcism while using his abilities at the same time, cover it up that way, but he wasn't so sure he could split his focus like that.
Too busy trying to sort this out, he didn't answer Dean's question and by the time it registered, the glint of a blade had caught his attention. Never mind where the hell did Dean get his Bowie from in the first place, what was Dean even doing? It was a demon, a slit throat was just gonna kill the host and slow the demon a bit at best. Whatever was going through Dean's head, Sam really didn't want another dead body tacked to his list. Not if he could help it. Which he could, except he needed Dean to not be here.
He also needed Dean to not start questioning the demon. He could tell his brother was building up to it. There was no way for the interrogation to even go remotely well even if Dean miraculously picked the most innocuous questions to ask. The information Dean would be looking for, it was in all likelihood obsolete-about events long passed. And the moment the demon pointed this out, one thing was going to lead to another.
Sam crossed the room, no clue as to how he was gonna stall this or convince Dean to leave, just knowing that he had to do it. If this looked like a bit of a desperate move, it was probably because it was. It was stupid to be trying to deal with this crap while a demon was right in the room, one that wasn't even trapped, but somehow self-preservation felt less important than preventing everything from crashing down. The demon couldn't touch him, anyway, not the way it could regular people. He could tell Dean was in crap shape, too, as he drew closer-he'd learned to tell, no matter how well Dean hid it-and that was only one more reason why he wanted Dean away from the demon, to let Sam take care of this on his own.
His fingers curled around Dean's arm, the one not holding the knife to avoid jarring Dean into causing the weapon to slip. This was the only thing he could address that was both actually a real concern of his and something that Dean might be able to buy coming from him. His voice was low, almost just loud enough for only Dean to catch. "Dude, you can't."
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His finger tightened around Punk-Ass's chin as he ignored Sam, turning his attention back on the demon.
"I think we all know this," and Dean pressed the blade a little deeper, "ain't gonna kill you. But I imagine it'd be pretty inconvenient to walk around undetected bloodied up a bit. Everyone in this room knows what you really are, so let's just get past all the bullcrap and get to the point: I want answers, Punk-Ass, and you're gonna give them to me."
This was usually the part where Sam would hand him the rosary or a flask of holy water so he could "encourage" the demon to get chatty. After his little TK show, Dean wasn't too keen on pulling the knife away from their prisoner's throat, even if it wasn't lethal, by far. When Sam didn't hand over either items, Dean shot a look at him - or, well, at his shadow, because he was still standing barely in the flashlight's crappy light - and raised an eyebrow. First he'd busted in here, Latin-blazing, and now he was tip-toeing around roughing up this demon like they were kids again. After Cold Oak, after everything these things had put them through, Dean just didn't get these friggen mood-swings his little brother went through sometimes; you'd think especially after Cold Oak that Sam would want to get straight to the payback and have a chance to get some answers, maybe even some information that could help them track down Yellow-Eyes and Jake. Dean let go of Punk-Ass's chin, reaching around and jerking off the duct-tape across his mouth non-too-gently.
"You start chanting, Princess, and I'll give you more than a little nick," he warned the demon. "How'd we get here? Is this Martin Landel that yellow-eyed sonuvabitch? And how did you find him?"
He didn't point at Sammy. But if this demon was in the loop at all - and they usually were, although the idea of a group of demons chatting it up like a bunch of gossips was enough to make him shudder - then it'd know who Sam was. It seemed to possibly know who he was, already. And the fact it was in a devil's trap and tied up had to be a big blinking sign right there about who and what they really were. Doctor Kisugi had made threats about Sam, seeming to know where he was and while he knew for certain she wasn't a demon, someone (or something, most likely) had been keeping her updated. Maybe this demon knew something about their abductions. Maybe it didn't. Either way, Dean didn't give a shit. Demons were evil, no awkward shades of gray except for the poor kid this one was holed up in. They'd be doing the world a favor by dealing with this demon, whether or not it knew anything useful.
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The gut-twisting fury that’d had Reid thrashing around like an feral animal seemed to have cooled to a smoulder in a matter of seconds, and the feel of blood mingling with sweat on his exposed skin barely registered in him. So this was what it was like dealing with the fanatical nobodies. Sure, godlike users of the black arts had been caught and strung up before--the Salem witch mess had been a prime example of that. Lots of ancestors had gotten their jollies off with regular people who thought they were the Antichrist and tried to drown them in a vat of holy water. All in the past, though. Never in the present day, where that sort of shit seemed laughable, what with all the rules and regulations of the covenant.
But hey, it looked like Reid was getting his turn. Exorcised for being demon possessed.
These class act retards really had no idea.
He watched the taller one for a while, trying to pick out features while his vision continued to swim, up until the guy with the salt said answers. Then Reid looked over like he were finally acknowledging he was one wrong twitch away from death. Yeah fucking right. The warlock didn’t flinch when the duct tape was ripped away, gaze dipping to a spot on Dean‘s jacket. Just a little more pain. He could handle pain. Suddenly everything seemed a hell of a lot less urgent now that the warlock had figured out what Dumb and Dumber were up to, and he could handle it.
Chanting… That was a good one. He could will the knife away without so much as a word, and they--Well, no, apparently only Reid knew it.
Now that he could breathe through his mouth again, the air felt cold in his throat; he ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. And then the smile that had been lurking in the back of his mind appeared on his lips, aggravating his bruised face. But it only got bigger. He sniffed first, cleared his throat, then swallowed. Yeah, it was sure going to be nice paying both of them back for this. What Power he had was still coiled like a spring, continuing to make his body tremble slightly. If they happened to think anything he did was out of fear, they were going to be in for a surprise.
“Dude,” he said abruptly, mocking the both of them for their over usage. His gaze was still turned away from their faces. “If you wanted me here, you could’ve just asked.”
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Dean was looking at him, obviously expecting the rosary, and Sam wasn't really sure what to say at first. This seemed an awkward moment to launch into an explanation of how he'd almost suffocated under a pile of ghostly hair, therefore preventing his acquisition of the rosary. He ended up shrugging a shoulder and giving a slight shake of his head as apologetically he could manage, indicating that he'd explain later.
Hearing Dean ask about the yellow-eyed demon when Sam precisely who had killed the thing was downright absurd. At least the demon hadn't immediately pointed out that Yellow-Eyes was dead. Actually, why hadn't it pointed that out? Was it possible for a demon to be caught up in the same sense of temporal discrepancy they were?
Probably, come to think of it, though he couldn't imagine why. He'd already had the feeling demons had nothing to do with this; Yellow-Eyes might've had the twisted sense of humour for it, but Lilith was fairly standard evil, creepy little girl persona and all. Bringing on fire and brimstone seemed more like her deal. So, what, if this was a demon, it was here by accident? Because he couldn't think of another reason why there would be a lone demon here, apparently a part of the patient population no less. Who had...locked itself inside the body of someone with an exceptionally limited freedom to move around or do anything? What purpose could that even serve?
Sam glanced back at forth between the shadowy figures of his brother and the demon, frowning, but he didn't have much to go on aside from a hunch. He'd have to let Dean go ahead with the interrogation; if it started to go south, then Sam would...do something. Besides, no holy water and an inability to exorcise meant that there wasn't a lot of hold they had over the demon. Sam was kind of hoping Dean would just give up as a result and knock it out.
Not that he didn't have questions of his own. But those were off the table, too. Considering he used to let Dean take the lead on this kind of stuff, maybe Dean wouldn't question his silence all that much.
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If anyone was gonna take the hit, he'd rather it'd be him. Even if he was still recovering from last night, he wasn't the one who'd been stabbed in the back only three days ago.
Dean stood up, then, removing the knife from Punk-Ass's neck and without warning, cuffed him hard against the back of his head with his other hand. His hand stung, knuckles throbbing painfully with the force of the hit. "Real cute. But I've run into your kind before and pulling the smartass routine ain't gonna change the fact you're goin' back to Hell. How soon is up to you."
He slid into the bluff without even really thinking of it, directing what he said next to Sammy.
"Think we're gonna be hanging out with our pal here for awhile. Why don't get you get started on blessing the water?"
Holy water was like acid to demons, but he wasn't too sure how long he could BS his way through this. Without the holy water, there wasn't exactly a lot of clout in his "encouragement" methods, which meant that aside from drawing out what was undoubtedly a long, painful exorcism, there wasn't much they could do to the thing that would have any effect. And the exorcism was gonna happen anyway, no matter what he told Punk-Ass. It didn't really sit well with him to send this joker packing the instant they captured him, but looking at it, it wasn't like he saw a whole lot of other options aside from roughing him up.
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“No, you haven’t,” the warlock replied softly, and the surety of this statement was clear in every word. “You really haven’t.” Then he lifted his head, and despite how crappy he’d felt even before being battered, bruised, and beaten, and despite the blood, the sweat, and the shaking, he fixed his inky black eyes on the two of them without blinking. Oh yeah, things were sure making sense now. ‘Really tall guy in his twenties’, wasn’t that right? He licked his lips again and spat to the left of the chair before saying clearly, “Soon, then. Let’s do it, boys. I‘ll sit nice and let you exorcise me.” Reid tipped his head to the side. “But I guess I just got one question before you get to it: how’d you find me?”
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Sam ignored Dean's gesture and didn't step back. If anyone was more likely to get thrown around, it was Dean.
At the bluff, though, he did shoot Dean a look. Wait, what? He wasn't gonna leave Dean alone with a demon. But Sam wasn't willing to get into an argument in front of the thing, either, and it occurred to him that while he couldn't do much here, maybe he could from outside, hidden from view. A single door couldn't be much of a barrier, could it? Pass it off as the demon escaping on its own; they weren't beyond bailing when they'd had enough.
Sam hesitated, turned to step out of the room. He'd just opened the door when the glowing bob of a flashlight just turning the corner into their hallway caught his eye. And the person was very much heading down here. Damn it.
He could've stopped whoever was coming himself, but there was something else on his mind. He estimated he had about thirty seconds before the figure made it to the room. It'd be cutting it real close, but that was a gamble he was willing to take.
Thinking fast, he peered back inside through the doorway, waving Dean over with enough urgency to suggest that he needed Dean now. "Hey."
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"We'll get to that," was all Dean would say to the demon. He wasn't particularly surprised the demon was tight-lipped about whatever it might know. Even if you slapped around a demon, it'd keep trying to lie through its teeth or be a general pain in the ass until you got the big guns out - sure, they'd laugh off not being scared about going back to Hell, but there had to be a reason they weren't ever so jazzed about going back.
Getting up, leaving Punk-Ass to stew tied up to the chair, Dean joined Sam. Automatically squeezing past Sam, he soon saw what he'd been worried about; someone, most likely a patient, was heading down the hall, and from the way the light was angling toward this door, it was possible they were coming here. For all he knew, it could be Angel, coming back for a second ax stashed in the room he didn't know about. Dean breathed a silent "crap", turning to his little brother.
"I'll go check it out," he said, keeping his voice down so only Sam could hear him. "Should take a minute. Just keep an eye on Sunshine over there: he was able to use some of that TK crap earlier. Knocked me on my ass. If he looks like he's up to something, do whatever you need to break his concentration."
Dean didn't exactly say be careful in so many words, but he didn't need them to get his point across.
He paused and than gave Sam the bowie knife; it was business as usual to let his brother borrow his gear, but it also reminded him that they were gonna have to find Sam a knife sometime after tonight. A bowie wasn't gonna do much against a demon, but it was still better than nothing. Dean toed the bag of salt he'd left earlier near the door, drawing Sam's attention to it. The trap might not be good enough, but the salt should work...although should was really the key word, 'cause he'd tried spilling table salt on Punk-Ass back there a few days ago and he'd had no reaction at all. Still, drawing a circle of salt around Punk-Ass couldn't hurt as insurance coupled with a fault Key of Solomon and Sam could probably rattle off the rest of the exorcism if worst came to worst. Dean's mouth tightened into a line, but instead of saying anything else, he clapped Sammy on the shoulder and headed out into the hall to run interference with the newcomer.
[Dean's heading out to here]
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The warlock watched the standing version of musical chairs, curling his hands into fists against the armrests. The half-assed demon exorcism/smiting of evil bit was amusing and all, but who was stupid enough to walk away after he’d already proven the devil’s trap was a no-go? Did they even have any fucking idea what a demon could do to a person, let alone him? Something wasn’t right here, and it wasn’t just that Reid had gotten himself shanghaied by a complete retard.
Neither of them had bothered covering his mouth again. Weren’t worried he’d, oh, go ‘help!’ or what?
Not that Reid would, of course. He was the prime target for a non-magical intervention, being a hell of a lot higher on the list of supernatural beings than things that went bump in the night, and didn’t need to worry about this actually ending badly for him. Like hell he needed help dealing with two chuckleheads, no matter how many occult books they’d checked out of the library.
But that still didn’t change the fact that he was still tied to the chair he was sitting in.
A bead of sweat rolled down his neck, and Reid tossed his head as he watched the two at the door, both to dislodge it and out of aggravation. Any normal guy might’ve been passed out cold right about then, but not Reid. He clenched his fists tighter before relaxing his hands and looking down at his lap. Back to square one. Try and break the tape or go for the chair. He still had Power to spare.
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