Method 3/4 - Dean, OFC, mentions of John; Stanford-era; heatstroke/blood loss/daddy issues/bait
anonymous
May 4 2014, 15:29:41 UTC
Then there's a crackle of static. No message, no intel, just a beep and static, which has always been John Winchester's way of telling the whole damn story.
Works for Dean. "Finally."
Vanessa approaches again, this time with a bottle of vodka and more than a pocket knife. She uses the drink to sterilize the blade. He could give a shit about sharp things headed his way, but the wasted vodka pools in a dusty dark spot on the floor and all he can think about is what a waste that was. He's so thirsty.
"Listen." Vanessa knocks the blade under his chin. Dean resists the urge to rest the growing weight of his head on it. "We do this right, this can all happen fast. There's a creek out back I wanna drop you in--you want that, right?"
Dean can't say he really does. In fact, he's sure he rarely ever wants that, but he gets what she means. Monster dies quick, then Dean doesn't, period.
"C'mon, ham it up. Scream."
Vanessa swipes a safe--if a little deep, Dean thinks--cut across his collarbone, and Dean forgets to scream.
Fuck screaming. He's just gonna pass out.
Then Vanessa gets rough. Her hands claw at his neck and she palms his throat, locking her leg around his as a counterbalance as she presses hard. Not enough to do any real damage but definitely enough to get his attention. "Scream," she hisses. She slashes at his shoulder like it's a block of cheese, no entourage, and Dean yelps. "Scream. Whole forest needs to hear you, Winchester, so scream."
He tries.
"Scream like you want someone to come and save you!"
Dean tries. Dean screams like he hopes John's tracking the monster at its back, like John nails it before it even gets close to this stupid fucking shed, like the static on that radio comes back and this is all about to goddamn end. "Sell it, Winchester." You're acting like it's over, growls Vanessa. You're acting like you've given up, like there's no one there to save you. Monster don't want that--it wants fight and terror. It wants hope. It wants to scrape that hope right out of your chest so you better goddamn give it what it wants.
She socks him in the stomach, and then the knife starts cutting deeper, faster, freer. At some point the chair goes over and Dean's head hits the floor with a crack, his heart leaps, his legs go numb. Vanessa jabs her elbows into his inner thigh, then his groin. She hacks a quick sketch of his ribs onto the skin of his torso. And he does scream.
He thinks, if only he'd been a better actor. She wouldn't have needed to go so far. The hunt would have gone faster. It would have been cleaner. It would have been easier on everyone. If he were a better actor--
He's still screaming when the thing writhes in through the window, shattering the panes that got in its way. Fuck, it must be huge, Dean thinks, though from his vantage point on the ground all he can see are the spiderwebs on the ceiling, and swimming patches of black. He hears body parts slithering and armored feet clicking, and then the tickle of--antennae?--at his cheek. And--was that a tongue?
Mother of fuck.
Then the thunder of a weapons discharge, too close to his head. He can't see anything, can't hear anything, but an awful lot of exoskeleton slides and bucks across his belly, recoiling from the shot.
Three more bullets. A muted squeal as Dean feels a knife thunk down near his neck. The shudder runs the length of the floorboard. A cool wetness seeps under his head, into his hair. Putting two and eight together, Dean gathers that it's hemolymph.
His vision recovers colors, and then crude outlines, and Vanessa's standing over him, long, twitching ovipositor hanging over her shoulder. She cuts his computer ties with the same knife that did in the--well, whatever it was. Freaky-ass bug thing.
The same knife that did him in, he realizes, as she pulls him upright and his vision rushes black again and the vertigo churns his stomach. There's more of his own blood on him than the bug's.
"This one's the mama," Vanessa's explaining, though for whose benefit Dean's not sure; he definitely doesn't give a shit. "Hard to lure out"--she disentangles him from the chair and tries to pull him to his feet, but Dean's legs crumple under him. "Easy to kill."
Method 4/4 - Dean, OFC, mentions of John; Stanford-era; heatstroke/blood loss/daddy issues/bait
anonymous
May 4 2014, 15:30:21 UTC
She holds the knife out toward him. "Do the honors? You deserve it."
Dean seriously considers this. But he can't get up, and he can't raise his arms, and fuck, there's a lot of blood on the ground. Instead he falls forward and thinks about lapping it up. He's that thirsty.
Vanessa pulls him back upright by his shirt collar. "Come on, baby."
Kill the monster, I know, Dean envisions himself saying.
"Let's get you cooled down," says Vanessa. "We're gonna get you some water, wash you down. Patch you up." She repeats these things at a low croon, in a way that sounds--thoughtful, if not necessarily nurturing or at all reassuring. "Come on, let's get you up."
"We can't--" Dean winces as his ankles try to bear weight. "We can't just leave that here."
"Yeah we can," says Vanessa. She grabs a pitchfork from the back of the shed, dragging Dean, boneless, with her. Then she kicks the two pieces of centipede onto one another and spears it through. "She's not going anywhere."
"Where's my dad?" Dean asks when he realizes they're heading out the door, though it comes out as more of a moan.
"He's coming," Vanessa assures him. "You want we wait?"
Dean doesn't answer. He wants John there. As usual, he wants John there. But he doesn't want him to see him like this, because when it comes down to it, he should have been a better actor. He should have just screamed. Vanessa was just doing what she had to do.
Vanessa puts a hand to his forehead. "We're not gonna wait."
They go find that creek.
When Dean comes to, he's lying in some mud and grass. He hears the creek. He's still wet, but the sun is down. So it's been a while, then.
Vanessa welcomes him back to the land of the living. "You're gonna be okay," she says. Which is great, because otherwise, the way he feels right now would have caused him some serious doubt.
"Had to wait 'til you came back before I started bandaging you up," she continues, pulling strip after strip of cloth out of her pockets. Then she points to her left bicep, which is a mottled expanse of deep purple. "Kicked me when I tried before."
"Oh," says Dean. He should apologize, maybe, but you know what? Tit for tat. And he's not sure he really wants Vanessa's company right now, anyway. No offense.
Vanessa must sense this.
"He's coming, you know," she says. "But he found our girl's brood. You understand."
Re: Method 4/4 - Dean, OFC, mentions of John; Stanford-era; heatstroke/blood loss/daddy issues/baitbiketestMay 4 2014, 23:06:41 UTC
Poor Dean, all tied up! *_* It's so sad that this is 100% believable and probably happened, tbh. I love your Dean characterization, and how many times he find ways to blame himself in this, cuz blaming John isn't an option. :( Great fill!
Re: Method 4/4 - Dean, OFC, mentions of John; Stanford-era; heatstroke/blood loss/daddy issues/bait
anonymous
May 5 2014, 00:08:05 UTC
I'm glad you enjoyed this! Even though I realized afterwards that lololol S9 what S9 where did S9 go? I sort of forgot about tying it more explicitly to 9x19 as per the prompt. XP Thanks so much for your kind words; I'm especially glad that you liked Dean's characterization here. Again, thanks for reading!
Works for Dean. "Finally."
Vanessa approaches again, this time with a bottle of vodka and more than a pocket knife. She uses the drink to sterilize the blade. He could give a shit about sharp things headed his way, but the wasted vodka pools in a dusty dark spot on the floor and all he can think about is what a waste that was. He's so thirsty.
"Listen." Vanessa knocks the blade under his chin. Dean resists the urge to rest the growing weight of his head on it. "We do this right, this can all happen fast. There's a creek out back I wanna drop you in--you want that, right?"
Dean can't say he really does. In fact, he's sure he rarely ever wants that, but he gets what she means. Monster dies quick, then Dean doesn't, period.
"C'mon, ham it up. Scream."
Vanessa swipes a safe--if a little deep, Dean thinks--cut across his collarbone, and Dean forgets to scream.
Fuck screaming. He's just gonna pass out.
Then Vanessa gets rough. Her hands claw at his neck and she palms his throat, locking her leg around his as a counterbalance as she presses hard. Not enough to do any real damage but definitely enough to get his attention. "Scream," she hisses. She slashes at his shoulder like it's a block of cheese, no entourage, and Dean yelps. "Scream. Whole forest needs to hear you, Winchester, so scream."
He tries.
"Scream like you want someone to come and save you!"
Dean tries. Dean screams like he hopes John's tracking the monster at its back, like John nails it before it even gets close to this stupid fucking shed, like the static on that radio comes back and this is all about to goddamn end.
"Sell it, Winchester." You're acting like it's over, growls Vanessa. You're acting like you've given up, like there's no one there to save you. Monster don't want that--it wants fight and terror. It wants hope. It wants to scrape that hope right out of your chest so you better goddamn give it what it wants.
She socks him in the stomach, and then the knife starts cutting deeper, faster, freer. At some point the chair goes over and Dean's head hits the floor with a crack, his heart leaps, his legs go numb. Vanessa jabs her elbows into his inner thigh, then his groin. She hacks a quick sketch of his ribs onto the skin of his torso. And he does scream.
He thinks, if only he'd been a better actor. She wouldn't have needed to go so far. The hunt would have gone faster. It would have been cleaner. It would have been easier on everyone. If he were a better actor--
He's still screaming when the thing writhes in through the window, shattering the panes that got in its way. Fuck, it must be huge, Dean thinks, though from his vantage point on the ground all he can see are the spiderwebs on the ceiling, and swimming patches of black. He hears body parts slithering and armored feet clicking, and then the tickle of--antennae?--at his cheek. And--was that a tongue?
Mother of fuck.
Then the thunder of a weapons discharge, too close to his head. He can't see anything, can't hear anything, but an awful lot of exoskeleton slides and bucks across his belly, recoiling from the shot.
Three more bullets. A muted squeal as Dean feels a knife thunk down near his neck. The shudder runs the length of the floorboard. A cool wetness seeps under his head, into his hair. Putting two and eight together, Dean gathers that it's hemolymph.
His vision recovers colors, and then crude outlines, and Vanessa's standing over him, long, twitching ovipositor hanging over her shoulder. She cuts his computer ties with the same knife that did in the--well, whatever it was. Freaky-ass bug thing.
The same knife that did him in, he realizes, as she pulls him upright and his vision rushes black again and the vertigo churns his stomach. There's more of his own blood on him than the bug's.
"This one's the mama," Vanessa's explaining, though for whose benefit Dean's not sure; he definitely doesn't give a shit. "Hard to lure out"--she disentangles him from the chair and tries to pull him to his feet, but Dean's legs crumple under him. "Easy to kill."
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Dean seriously considers this. But he can't get up, and he can't raise his arms, and fuck, there's a lot of blood on the ground. Instead he falls forward and thinks about lapping it up. He's that thirsty.
Vanessa pulls him back upright by his shirt collar. "Come on, baby."
Kill the monster, I know, Dean envisions himself saying.
"Let's get you cooled down," says Vanessa. "We're gonna get you some water, wash you down. Patch you up." She repeats these things at a low croon, in a way that sounds--thoughtful, if not necessarily nurturing or at all reassuring. "Come on, let's get you up."
"We can't--" Dean winces as his ankles try to bear weight. "We can't just leave that here."
"Yeah we can," says Vanessa. She grabs a pitchfork from the back of the shed, dragging Dean, boneless, with her. Then she kicks the two pieces of centipede onto one another and spears it through. "She's not going anywhere."
"Where's my dad?" Dean asks when he realizes they're heading out the door, though it comes out as more of a moan.
"He's coming," Vanessa assures him. "You want we wait?"
Dean doesn't answer. He wants John there. As usual, he wants John there. But he doesn't want him to see him like this, because when it comes down to it, he should have been a better actor. He should have just screamed. Vanessa was just doing what she had to do.
Vanessa puts a hand to his forehead. "We're not gonna wait."
They go find that creek.
When Dean comes to, he's lying in some mud and grass. He hears the creek. He's still wet, but the sun is down. So it's been a while, then.
Vanessa welcomes him back to the land of the living. "You're gonna be okay," she says. Which is great, because otherwise, the way he feels right now would have caused him some serious doubt.
"Had to wait 'til you came back before I started bandaging you up," she continues, pulling strip after strip of cloth out of her pockets. Then she points to her left bicep, which is a mottled expanse of deep purple. "Kicked me when I tried before."
"Oh," says Dean. He should apologize, maybe, but you know what? Tit for tat. And he's not sure he really wants Vanessa's company right now, anyway. No offense.
Vanessa must sense this.
"He's coming, you know," she says. "But he found our girl's brood. You understand."
Whatever. It's been hours.
"Sure."
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