Dean and Crowley's Big Adventure (6/?)
Hey guuuuuuuys! So I've mostly been focussing any fic writing this month on my probable spn_j2_bigbang (topped 25k now! Has almost developed a coherent plot!), but I did manage to scratch out a little bit more of my buddy comedy romp.
So, here, have a little taste of what my head sometimes looks like.
Previous parts, as always, live here.
The long boat slid ponderously through the becalmed, icy sea, the square sail refusing to catch the barest wind. The sun burned small and cold in the northern sky, not far from the horizon, and the crew kept their furs pulled tight over their shoulders against the dry, frigid air, even as they hauled on the oars, dragging themselves ever closer to Markland.
*
The trees towered above him, the forest more magnificent than any he had seen at home. He hefted his axe, resettled his stance, and bellowed as he swung, the first strike on the first tree of his first triumphant voyage. Wood chips flew with the scattering of birds, startled by the sudden noise. The woods smelled damp and fresh, and green.
*
The Skrælings were swift, and they were vicious. He hefted his axe, resettled his stance, and bellowed. The first strike had been theirs, an arrow into the camp on an otherwise quiet meal. Blood sprayed hot across his cheek and forehead, smelling wet and dank and red, as the arrows flew like a scattering of birds.
The last strike would be his.
*
The forest swallowed him while he wasn't looking. He staggered over fallen logs, feet slipping on the moss and his own blood. He stopped by a stream to snap the shaft of the arrow in his calf and wrap the wound. He lost the camp. He couldn't get his bearings. The sun swirled along the horizon on all sides, never dropping away completely and never coming up high enough to warm his skin. He bellowed, his knees going out, and when he could no longer stagger, he crawled.
*
His leg smelled of blood and forest, dank and wet and green. He hefted his axe, resettled his stance, and --
"You really don't want to do that, mate."
-- screamed.
Crowley had hold of both of Dean's wrists. Dean had hold of the viking spirit's axe blade, and despite the decay which had twisted the ancient steel, had already managed to bury it half an inch deep into his thigh.
He'd just tried to amputate his own leg with a 1,000 year old axe.
He was seriously going to kill -- pretty much everyone.
"You back with me, then?" Crowley asked, actually looking concerned instead of smug. "Can we burn this, now?"
Dean growled under his breath. He couldn't yank his arms out of Crowley's grip without twisting the axe blade in his wound, so instead he pressed upwards, further into the hold, carefully pulling the blade out. The thing barely had an edge, tearing and puncturing his skin more than slicing it, and he just knew it was leaving little flakes of dead steel and probably ghost sickness or something in his leg.
Dammit, if he ended up with gangrene, he was going to kill -- yeah, everyone. It was a damn good thing that Sam and Cas and Kevin were safe and sound back in the bunker, because Dean had a serious rampage building up here, and he refused to be held accountable for who got caught in the crossfire.
"Very good," Crowley said, releasing him and stepping back. "I think I'll get out of this crossfire."
And the bastard ducked and ran again. Dean had to hand it to him, he had a better sense of self-preservation than any other demon he'd ever met.
The Lief-mist seemed to have dissipated -- downloading his fucking life story, what little he remembered of it, into Dean's brain seemed to have sucked the juice right out of him. Dean groped for his shotgun before sliding his way up the wall, anyway. His leg throbbed harder every time he so much as twitched, much less tried to put any weight on it, and the last thing he needed was another battle with Mr. "Hefted his axe and bellowed". He managed to limp over to the display case, where he unceremoniously dropped the axe blade on top of the other bits of artefact. Then he dumped about a pound of salt on top and set the whole pedestal on fire.
*
The hallway back to the front door had to be about the length of a football field. Dean was in no hurry to get down it, despite the wail of alarms and the smoke pouring from the great hall. He dragged his foot behind him as he went, grabbing a convenient halberd off the wall to use as a crutch.
Too bad Thorsasshole didn't keep the damned thing sharpened. Sinking it into Crowley's head would be more work than Dean felt up to, any more.
Well, at least the "kill everyone" feeling had started to fade.
"Well done, mate," Crowley waited by the front door, giving Dean a slow clap. "Only two more stops and we'll have that human tablet in our hands."
Dean jammed the blunt end of the halberd into Crowley's foot as he limped past him.
Crowley bellowed.
So, here, have a little taste of what my head sometimes looks like.
Previous parts, as always, live here.
The long boat slid ponderously through the becalmed, icy sea, the square sail refusing to catch the barest wind. The sun burned small and cold in the northern sky, not far from the horizon, and the crew kept their furs pulled tight over their shoulders against the dry, frigid air, even as they hauled on the oars, dragging themselves ever closer to Markland.
*
The trees towered above him, the forest more magnificent than any he had seen at home. He hefted his axe, resettled his stance, and bellowed as he swung, the first strike on the first tree of his first triumphant voyage. Wood chips flew with the scattering of birds, startled by the sudden noise. The woods smelled damp and fresh, and green.
*
The Skrælings were swift, and they were vicious. He hefted his axe, resettled his stance, and bellowed. The first strike had been theirs, an arrow into the camp on an otherwise quiet meal. Blood sprayed hot across his cheek and forehead, smelling wet and dank and red, as the arrows flew like a scattering of birds.
The last strike would be his.
*
The forest swallowed him while he wasn't looking. He staggered over fallen logs, feet slipping on the moss and his own blood. He stopped by a stream to snap the shaft of the arrow in his calf and wrap the wound. He lost the camp. He couldn't get his bearings. The sun swirled along the horizon on all sides, never dropping away completely and never coming up high enough to warm his skin. He bellowed, his knees going out, and when he could no longer stagger, he crawled.
*
His leg smelled of blood and forest, dank and wet and green. He hefted his axe, resettled his stance, and --
"You really don't want to do that, mate."
-- screamed.
Crowley had hold of both of Dean's wrists. Dean had hold of the viking spirit's axe blade, and despite the decay which had twisted the ancient steel, had already managed to bury it half an inch deep into his thigh.
He'd just tried to amputate his own leg with a 1,000 year old axe.
He was seriously going to kill -- pretty much everyone.
"You back with me, then?" Crowley asked, actually looking concerned instead of smug. "Can we burn this, now?"
Dean growled under his breath. He couldn't yank his arms out of Crowley's grip without twisting the axe blade in his wound, so instead he pressed upwards, further into the hold, carefully pulling the blade out. The thing barely had an edge, tearing and puncturing his skin more than slicing it, and he just knew it was leaving little flakes of dead steel and probably ghost sickness or something in his leg.
Dammit, if he ended up with gangrene, he was going to kill -- yeah, everyone. It was a damn good thing that Sam and Cas and Kevin were safe and sound back in the bunker, because Dean had a serious rampage building up here, and he refused to be held accountable for who got caught in the crossfire.
"Very good," Crowley said, releasing him and stepping back. "I think I'll get out of this crossfire."
And the bastard ducked and ran again. Dean had to hand it to him, he had a better sense of self-preservation than any other demon he'd ever met.
The Lief-mist seemed to have dissipated -- downloading his fucking life story, what little he remembered of it, into Dean's brain seemed to have sucked the juice right out of him. Dean groped for his shotgun before sliding his way up the wall, anyway. His leg throbbed harder every time he so much as twitched, much less tried to put any weight on it, and the last thing he needed was another battle with Mr. "Hefted his axe and bellowed". He managed to limp over to the display case, where he unceremoniously dropped the axe blade on top of the other bits of artefact. Then he dumped about a pound of salt on top and set the whole pedestal on fire.
*
The hallway back to the front door had to be about the length of a football field. Dean was in no hurry to get down it, despite the wail of alarms and the smoke pouring from the great hall. He dragged his foot behind him as he went, grabbing a convenient halberd off the wall to use as a crutch.
Too bad Thorsasshole didn't keep the damned thing sharpened. Sinking it into Crowley's head would be more work than Dean felt up to, any more.
Well, at least the "kill everyone" feeling had started to fade.
"Well done, mate," Crowley waited by the front door, giving Dean a slow clap. "Only two more stops and we'll have that human tablet in our hands."
Dean jammed the blunt end of the halberd into Crowley's foot as he limped past him.
Crowley bellowed.