[For Dean and Jaenelle] Little Red Riding Hood should be here instead of me

[in_summer_leaf]

[Backdated to the night Hisoka was attacked by Morgoth's wolves outside his boat shed in the woods. Continued from this thread.]

Comments

[surfaceshine]

"The one and only, you got it. We're gonna slap a bandaid on you and then head up to the house - how's that sound?" Dean pauses only to hook the edge of the shed door with one foot, pulling it wider somehow without losing balance and sending them both to the ground, before ducking into the relative cover of the interior. He doesn't need anything fancy, never has and usually doesn't get it anyway, so the first empty expanse of floor he can find that is large enough to work in is where he lowers Hisoka as carefully back to his back as he can. "Alright, one second here..."

He's talking more for Hisoka's benefit than his own at this point, keeping contact with his voice when he has to stand and move away. The door is sturdy but not sturdy enough to keep a determined single, let alone pack, of wolves out if they come back; but he closes and locks it anyway, because those moments of warning that it takes for them to get through the door at all could be all that he gets, and the hunter needs whatever he can take in that regard. "Let's see 'em evolve thumbs faster'n I can draw, huh?" Next priority in the dimmer evening light in the building is, of course, being able to see, but there's a kerosene lantern on the workbench and Dean knows exactly what to do with that. Snatching it by the handle, he turns to return to Hisoka's side while digging out one of several lighters on his person.

Soon, but way too slow for the critical timer counting down slowly in the awareness of every sense Dean has at his disposal, the elder Winchester is kneeling back at Hisoka's side. He considers what he can see of the injuries to his friend by the unsteady orange light from the lantern flame turned as high as he can get it to go, his features set in the implacably calm mask that means Professional Mode for those who know him and Asshole Mode for those who don't. Thigh first, then. Dean is already shrugging off his outermost shirt and pulling the long-sleeved henley off under that, leaving them in a pile for easy access. He can't do much for the actual damage at the moment, but he does rip his flannel into two pieces and begin packing it tightly in his hands for a compress.

"Alright - this is gonna hurt, but man up, okay? We don't have time for bedside manner, and mine sucks anyway." Sliding his free hand under Hisoka's leg for more controlled pressure, he sets the makeshift compress in place and then starts slowly but steadily and evenly pressing his weight down on what he can cover of the worst of the injury with his hand.

[in_summer_leaf]

Hisoka turns his head and opens his mouth as though to speak, gasp, or simply take another breath as Dean begins to apply direct pressure to slow or staunch the bleeding. But in fact, he makes no sound at all.

There is not much free floorspace in the shed. The boat, in its still rather skeletal state, is set up on braced posts which are nailed to the floor. Its backbone is built, and Hisoka has begun to steam-bend the framing timbers and nail these rib-like structures into place, starting amidships. The steambox itself, five feet long and two feet high, is laid alongside the boat, a steampipe leading into the box from an old boiler outside, through a hole cut in the back wall.

Dean and Hisoka are occupying the four-and-a-half-foot interval between the workbench and Hisoka's project. The light of the lantern hits the boat's skeleton and casts dark, spooky shadows on the walls and ceiling. There might have been moonlight to work by, but Hisoka shuttered and barred the two high windows when he quit work. The shadows dance and waver when Dean moves the lantern.

No wolves howl, for the moment.

[surfaceshine]

Dean is not encouraged by Hisoka's continued silence, but he's currently preoccupied and so has to make do with getting some kind of response at all; he counts to twenty, slowly and out loud, while visually assessing what his next move should be. He doesn't know what all this equipment is for - okay, yeah, he knows that's a boat,or will be someday - but he knows what it's going to become if that door budges or if the current silence is broken with anything remotely canine. The quarters are cramped, especially for the tall hunter, but Dean is accustomed to being twisted into the back seat of the Impala, staunching blood flow on himself or his brother or, a long time ago, his father while the remaining standing Winchester breaks every applicable traffic law between them and the nearest ER; he doesn't even consciously acknowledge when his shoulders or elbows knock the belly of the boat skeleton, merely bends to accommodate and squints through the lantern light.

"Ugh, man, this is no good. Don't take this the wrong way - I like you and all, but I don't like you, ya know? - but these're gonna have to come off. Mind your manners, yeah?" The wet noise as Dean leans back on his shins to check the bloodflow is not encouraging, the bloodsoaked denim crushed in between hindering the seal with his makeshift bandage; it's alright, Dean has a cure for that, and it's sitting at his hip. The oddly curved blade is not, really, designed to be slipped under the cuff of a pantsleg and drawn up the front to split into a new seam, but the elder Winchester makes short work of it, anyway. Working as carefully as he can but sacrificing gentility for efficiency, Dean peels the shredded remains of Hisoka's pantsleg back from the flesh of the injury and swears under his breath as he reaches for the compress again from its place balanced on his own thigh.

"You are one stupid little shit, you know that?" Dean had been keeping a lighter tone up until now, but Hisoka is too silent, not responding at all to the jokes he's cracking; time to play hardball. "Going after a pack of fucking werewolves or someshit with a goddamn hatchet. Your daddy ever teach you not to poke bears with sticks? Fuck me." Centering the flannel compress, Dean leans his weight down again like he did before and counts to twenty again, his temper singing the edge of the numbers until he takes his own weight back long enough to rip a sleeve off the henley to tie the makeshift bandage in place. It'll have to do. He reaches, now, for the other man's right arm to inspect the damage there.

"

[in_summer_leaf]

Hisoka is hovering somewhere between the boat and the deep green river he has always meant to explore. But he turns from dipping an oar into the water, and replies, "My dad was worse than I am." It is a very faint voice, but clear.

[surfaceshine]

Moving Hisoka's arm, Dean is aware that he should be feeling some queasiness at the unhinged feel and the odd bend where there shouldn't be a bend at all, but he doesn't; the jangle of his nerves is purely emotional, his time spent and remembered below having nearly removed all visceral reaction to the sight of blood, broken bones, and torn flesh. No, that's not the problem - he knows it's broken and he knows how to strap the arm up tight against Hisoka's body to stop it further damaging itself. The problem is that niggling fear, the bite of it still plain in his voice even as he shoves himself to his feet to collect the pile of shoprags he saw when he picked up the lantern.

"Yeah? Offense very much fucking meant, I'm not sure how that's even possible." Hisoka's response is both heartening and discouraging; he's talking, but quietly, detached. Keep him here. Several of the folded towels precede Dean's form back into the orbit around Hisoka's form.

"I mean c'mon. A freaking hatchet. You are in... you know what, I don't even know what the fuck you're in, but we're gonna have a long fucking talk about this. Later." The hunter's hands are moving, steady and warm and sure, while he's verbally earboxing his friend; the puncture wounds are less worrisome than the break of the collar bone, and Dean does not hesitate to forcibly fold Hisoka's elbow and lift his arm over his heart, smoothing the muscles into place where he wants them. In the next moment he's made a cut at the collar of the denim jacket the other man is wearing, pulling the cuff down and over Hisoka's hand like a straightjacket, letting his own clothing act as the brace when he pulls it over the opposite side of Hisoka's neck. He's as careful, but as quick, as he can be when he rolls Hisoka slightly to the side to tie off the remaining half of his own henley with the jacketsleeve, cinching the makeshift sling tight against the waist of Hisoka's pants.

"Alright, junior, almost done. One more and then we're blowin' this popsicle stand. You owe me so fucking much beer..." It's not that the mauled forearms are much better than either the thigh wound or the broken and punctured shoulder; but they are at least, to Dean's experience, much more straightforward, and easier to deal with if not necessarily to recover from. The right arm is ensconced in the denim and cotton sling, and the best he can do for that is wrap it tightly from the outside with the shop towels. The left, though, Dean switches sides to examine, pulling the arm into his lap formed by kneeling on the ground and sitting on his own shins.

[in_summer_leaf]

Hisoka tilts his head, listening to the warm, distressed, scolding voice. Yep, that's Dean. He remembers the tone from when he found his friend again near the end of the battle with the satyrs, in the airship world. He had tumbled into the clearing, worried as to what had become of the mechanic and forgetting that he himself was a little messed up. Dean: "Dude! You were supposed to do that to the other guy!"

Trees overhang the river, and their enticing shadows dance on the water. It's like a long emerald tunnel, winding gently, leading to who knows where. He dips the paddle again, completes the long graceful dig into the flowing liguid with a j-stroke. That way, he doesn't have to rudder the canoe by switching sides. There is some reason why he is a little reluctant to lift that right arm. He lets the boat glide for a moment.

...And yes, he would like to have a long talk with Dean, even if it was about a freaking hatchet. "Adze," he murmers.

[surfaceshine]

If Dean knew about this particular river, he would never let Hisoka forget it - or the fact that apparently he wants to keep stroking himself along its very boring length rather than come back and party with Dean. He would also never admit that this particular opinion makes Dean a big, fat hypocrite, because he's wanted similar things in the very recent past.

"You speaking in tongues now? Because believe me when I say that is a whole different shitstorm, dude, and I'm not gonna deal with it right now. So you just hang onto your pea soup for later, yeah?" Dean's voice is closer than it has been thus far, as the hunter is bent nearly double over his friend's arm, clanging the lantern around as he moves it to find the best light by which to work. He knows there's nothing supernatural at work here - or rather, he hasn't seen any signs of it yet, and he's pretty sure he would notice - but again, the talking is more important than the words.

There's five shittons of blood, and Dean is almost as covered in it as Hisoka by the time he ties off the last of the shop rags around Hisoka's arm, having nearly abandoned all pretense at compresses by this time. There is no time. Wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and leaving a wide, dark crimson streak there for his trouble, he forces himself to take a few moments after it's done and just breathe, calm his own racing pulse, shove down the acid fear and the smoldering anger. He even pushes away his concern for Sam, though it's an impossible enough task to ignore the one thing that is your sole motivation, driving everything you do. It is not the first impossible thing Dean has done, and he fervently hopes it won't be the last.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It is not a prayer, to most, but it is to Dean, as sacred and desperate and heartfelt as any hymn. He folds Hisoka's arm over his own torso and reaches to collect his Colt from his own waistband, forcing his fingertips still and his hands steady as he clicks the safety off and finds the familiar, comforting worn places in the grip.

"Alright. You with me?" The hunter stands, unlocks the door; takes a moment to crack it and scan the visible area with the sight of his gun before closing but not latching it again. He takes the one step back to Hisoka's side and crouches, laying his gun next to Hisoka's best hand, though more to have easy access to it himself than with any real hope that Hisoka will be able to help cover their progress if necessary. He wipes the blade of the khukri off on one of the rags before sliding it away, and it's the last of the preparations he can think of to make.

"Let's do this. Stick with me, dude, just a little bit longer. Up on three - one, two..." Dean slides one arm under Hisoka's knees and the other around his shoulders, and lifts with Hisoka's broken arm against his chest; the other man may be dead weight, but he's considerably smaller than Dean, who has the advantage of determination on his side. He doesn't hesitate at the door - instead, kicking it open, he strides with false confidence back out into the falling night and sets his course for the Mansion.

[in_summer_leaf]

Hisoka looks down the deep green alley of the river with its bending trees, and feels a great longing to keep going. He wouldn't even need to paddle. The current would carry him. And he doesn't fool himself about what river this is.

He has made it through two lifetimes on pure heart, and to tell the truth, he is exhausted. He knows he has reached a crossroads (or a cross-stream, to keep his metaphors unmixed), and that he needs once again to find a deeper reason to proceed. He has done this three times already, and he wonders if there may in fact be no final revelation as regards what ties him to life. Only, for him, it has to do with...

He leans over and dips up a handful of the light-filled water, and drinks. It is cool, and sweet. And pure as glass. It fills his mouth. It fills his heart.

He glances up, hearing Dean's voice again. A sense of his body as existing in a different place than the river begins to return. That his human frame is a lattice of pain, that he can live with. That Dean's frantic voice should go without an answer, that he cannot.

He opens his eyes, feels his palm wrapped around the trigger-guard of a firearm which is definitely not his. It is cradled between his body and Dean's. The safety is on. There is a sudden bump as Dean shifts his burden in order to open the kitchen door. Hisoka can see the familiar lintel above Dean's shoulder and head. "Dean...?"

[surfaceshine]

The trip through the woods is quick, all things considered; Dean's senses are on hyper-alert, wide green eyes scanning in trained grids and patterns for any sign of threat, ears straining, boots solid over the uneven terrain, and he never thinks of slowing even when the drag of Hisoka's weight on his arms begins to demand conscious attention. He ignores it, concentrating instead on the seconds ticking by and turning into minutes - time that Hisoka's blood turns into a warm line down the underside of Dean's arm below his knees, time that Sam might be being torn apart somewhere out of Dean's sight, time that Dean doesn't freaking have to be spending on such unimportant things as walking through distance.

But one of the only things that has held true over the course of both Winchesters' lives is that their main goal has always been to help people; when it comes right down to it, Dean has to trust that Sam can take care of himself long enough for Dean to arrive to help. He's done it before. Taking the last three steps up to the porch in one long, lurching stride, he knows he'll have to do it again now; the unacknowledged realization only makes him more agitated, shoving his leading shoulder hard enough into the door of the Mansion that he wouldn't have heard Hisoka's voice at all except for how he's been listening for it this entire time, silent himself to avoid drawing undue attention to their progress.

"Still here, Hisoka. C'mon man, we're close..." Booting the door back closed behind him for the same reason he closed it back at the shed, Dean starts twisting through the obstacle course of the kitchen, directly for the space on the floor in front of the Plothole. It's not the best idea he's ever had but the first aid kit he and Sam have been naturally compiling is in no way, shape, or form up to the task that is Hisoka's injuries, and there's no hospital, and Dean doesn't know anyone else that would be more useful than the hunter himself anyway (except maybe his brother).

Fuck.

[in_summer_leaf]

As Dean lays Hisoka down on the floor, Hisoka tries to lift his left hand to touch the hunter's forehead, where there is a liberal smear of Hisoka's blood. Which of course he doesn't recognize as his own. Aw fuck, he got hurt, he thinks. He can't feel his fingers, so he doesn't know if they get where he was trying to send them. And if they do, they probably leave another smear.

The effort drains him. His eyes, tender and unfocused, begin to close again.

[surfaceshine]

"Hey, hey, grabby hands down, dude, c'mon..." The admonishment is half-hearted, though, and Dean spares a moment to crane his neck to take his face out of Hisoka's reach - more because the other man's fingers nearly landed in his eyes than anything, but also a natural reaction to anyone reaching at his face. Nonetheless, when Hisoka's eyes begin to close, Dean's heart does an interesting little tapdance in his chest. His own hands freed by settling their precious cargo on the floor, he checks instinctively for a pulse, uses the contact to shake the other man a bit.

"Hey, don't do that. Don't do that. Open your eyes and stick with me, man." It's difficult to focus, but Dean does his best, sending a barrage of thoughts and wishes and threats at the cabinet directly above them. When he stands and wrenches the door open, gauze and disinfectant tumbling out nearly onto the hunter's head, he turns back to find Hisoka's eyes completely closed. "No, no, no, c'mon..."

Crashing back to his knees, pulling the manifested supplies back into a pile next to him, it occurs to Dean for the first time since starting this whole endeavor that he is not alone, here; just because Sam isn't here doesn't mean no one is. The thought sparks a chain reaction, and in the next moment even as Dean is drawing his khukri to make short work of his efforts from the shed - he has to see where the blood is coming from, dammit, has to get eyes on the threat or he can't stop it - he's twisting his head to face the door into the rest of the building, so when he shouts, hopefully he can be heard as far as possible.

"Hello!" As far as bellows go, this one is fairly impressive, deep and booming and urgent; the edges of the syllables are brittle with fear, but he's got a firm hold on it and does not let the panic leak through. "Hey, someone! Anyone! We need some help in here! Now's good!"

He'll keep it up as long as he has to, stopping only to breathe, badger the prone figure beside him - "Fucking open your eyes and stick with me, god fucking dammit!" - and look at what his hands are doing as he unscrews the top on a bottle of disinfectant in preparation to use it to clean the wound on Hisoka's thigh.

ETA: Jaenelle-Hisoka-Dean order good for everyone?

[Jaenelle - Hisoka - Dean]

[in_summer_leaf]

[Fine with me! Jaenelle's up next. And thank you, Lise. ~♥]

[ebonyjaenelle72]

Jaenelle has felt the darkness all tonight, and has until now been reinforcing defenses, but she simultaneously feels the distress radiating from Dean and hears someone calling for help, and that has her running down the hallway, letting the web she was working on finish spinning, and bursts into the kitchen seconds later.

She takes only a moment to take in Dean and Hisoka before she shoves her sleeves up and wades in. "I'm here," she says, and there's something in her voice that's dark and vibrating and angry. Not at you, Dean, no. She drops to her knees next to Hisoka and reaches out to lay a hand on his chest, trying to anchor him to life and slow the bleeding to start with.

You're welcome! Happy to help, both of us. <3!

[in_summer_leaf]

Hisoka unseals his eyes again, hearing that I mean business tone in Dean's voice. But there is suddenly an energy in the room other than Dean's; he can feel it through the touch to his chest. A blurry vision of Jaenelle's face swims into view. His lips move. "Ms. Angelline...?"

He can feel that anchor. It stretches from his heart to his toes and down into the river itself. And the flow of blood begins to slow. Just a small change, but an important one.

[Hope its ok for Hisoka to be able to pick up Jaenelle's energy? And Jaenelle is free to pick up whatever from Hisoka.]

[surfaceshine]

If Dean notices the angry quality to her voice, he gives no indication; he's too ridiculously relieved to see her to do anything other than breathe, "Thank god," on an dragging inhale when she appears in his line of sight. Dean is unhurt, at this moment, but he's been stripped of his normally layered clothing down to a t-shirt that was once grey and jeans, and is almost more smeared with more of Hisoka's blood than Hisoka himself - it's all over his hands, anyway, and he's been shoving at the sweat on his face and carrying the smaller man. He has no clue what she may or may not be able to do - merely not being alone with this kind of responsibility is enough to bolster his previously failing calm, and he moves over to make room.

"He was out in the woods - those wolves I been hearin' about? They're pretty pissed. I don't even... they ain't normal." He's talking to Jaenelle now, his eyes on his hands and what they're doing as he douses the wound with antiseptic again, then following it with a swipe of gauze to try to get a visual on what he's dealing with. He already knows it's bad - not, necessarily, life threatening bad if he can get the bleeding stopped, but he knows that bad means time and that's not something either of them have a lot of. He frowns, glances over his supplies again, and reaches to tear the wrapping off a large gauze pad sitting on the floor near his knee. "I didn't get 'em all but I got a few - the rest fucked off to god knows where."

[ebonyjaenelle72]

Jaenelle is nodding along with his explanations, her frown deepening slightly both between him and Hisoka. "It's me," she says to the latter, before lifting her eyes and noting the gauze. Keeping her palm pressed down, working on closing some of the major blood vessels, she watches Dean's movements with approval, her own work less physically visible, but Hisoka should feel the difference.

And at the same time does a quick check over with Craft of Dean, just to make sure he's not hiding any injuries. Just in case. "They're not really wolves," she says, after a moment. "They're...something else. Creatures of hatred and evil. Their master is out there as well, if not present then doing...something else." She presses her lips together. "If I weren't watching this place..."

She glances down at Hisoka again and gives him a bit of a smile. "You'll be all right," she assures him, and then to Dean, "I expect I can't say anything to keep you from going back out there."