fic: Set the Fire to the third bar Episode 8
Fic: Set the fire to the third bar = episode 8
itle: Set the fire to the third bar
Author: Seraphim Grace
Fandom = Supernatural
Pairing = Castiel x Dean (god is love in all it's forms)
Rating = NC17
spoilers = yes for season 4, set between Great pumpkin and the one after that I've forgotten the name of
AUish - set in the world of american gods and sandman but also the spn universe, I just stretched it a little
prompts - Dean wonders how much is too much when you've already past that line and just how changed he is from being in hell.
suggested by keire_ke
betaed by bellajayd
Previous chapters
Not enough coffee in the world
In the hotel dusk
tea with thrones
The House of Five aspects
The Banshee in the Bathroom
Time is never time enough
let the bodies hit the floor
Episode 8
In which Dean finds himself on the slow bus to Tucson without even an angel to pass the time.
Soundtrack:
Dandy Warhols - Sleep
WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MEDICINE THAT SHOULD NOT BE REPEATED OUTSIDE OF COMBAT SITUATIONS. IF YOU FIND YOURSELF IN A SIMILAR SITUATION BUNKER IN AND WAIT FOR HELP! DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. DEAN IS A TRAINED FIELD MEDIC WITH NO TRUST FOR HOSPITALS AND IS USED TO MAKING DO! THAT SAID NEVER EVER TRY THIS AT HOME
--------------------------
Dean Winchester was not designed for technology.
He can strip most weapons down and rebuild them blindfold.
He can make his own ammo from the strangest things.
He has stripped the Impala’s engine, making her work when time wears her down. She is over forty after all.
But the white music stick has him totally baffled.
There is a young girl in the next seat who is killing herself laughing at his attempts to cow the beast. She has one of them too but hers is black and Dean considers swapping because hers clearly works.
She’s at most fifteen, her responsible adult in the seat in front of her of her, snoring to wake the damned. Her stuff is crammed into an open backpack with band patches and tippex promises. She has a green stripe in her hair.
He decides to just bite his tongue and ask her for her help, so he turns to her and gives her his best shit-eating grin. “You know how to work these, kid?” He asks. “Mine’s a birthday present from someone with a sick sense of humor.”
She gets up from her own seat and sits next to him, smelling of warm sandalwood and patchouli because she is that age. “It’s real easy," she says, taking the machine from him. She’s flirting a little. “Like this," and she starts pushing the big button.
It likes her more than it liked Dean because it does something.
Obviously, the LCD means something to her because it's all gibberish to Dean. “Oh wow, this is really cool. You’ve got some great music here, Mister, and some books too, look - the whole Lord of the Rings, I bet that just eats memory.”
“That's all well and good, kid," Dean answers, “but where do I put the tape?”
She bats him on the arm and he notices that her fingernails are powder blue. She’s taking advantage of the thanksgiving holiday to be a little wild. “You’re not that old,” her attempts at flirtation are clumsy and heavy-handed, but Dean takes as a compliment because it sure as hell aint going to be more than that.
“You put these in your ears and choose the song here,” she pushes a button, “then push it again to turn it off.” So, after a brief flash of promising drums it goes back to bus noise. “You’ve got some slamming tracks on here though, look.” She presses up against him perhaps a little too much to just show him his track list, but Dean’s too uncomfortable to actually look. “It’s a pity we can’t just link them together so I can steal some of these.”
“Look, kid,” Dean begins.
“Duffy," she corrects him.
“Duffy,” he continues, “It aint gonna happen. I mean first of all we’re on this bus for days, your designated grown up is just there, and of all the things I want to be damned for this aint it.”
“I know," she leaves a gap for him to give her his name so he does, “the plan, Dean, is that I get to take your photo with my cell so that I can show all the stuck up bitches in school that you were my holiday boyfriend and they’ll all go green with envy, because you’re gorgeous.” Dean laughs and wonders where girls like her were when he was fifteen, probably mooning over older guys he realizes.
She takes his photo with her cell, it's a bright blue thing with all manner of dangling charms. “I love your bracelet," she exclaims grabbing his wrist so she can see it better. “This is so cool,” she taps her powder blue nail over the charms, the lump of black stone taken from the dog's heart, the tiny golden feather, the spear tip, the tear and a shining white stone Dean hasn’t seen before but assumes Bridhe added when she made it.
“A friend made it for me.” Dean tells her. “It’s one of a kind.”
“Pity, it's gorgeous,” she pouts knowing he's not going to just give in and give it to her. He knows that the torque is important, just not why.
She brightens up, “Here you go, Dean," she says, “just push this button to make it play, and thanks Dean.”
Dean gives her a new grin, more genuine than the last because she’s a good kid. “Thank you, Duffy,” he corrects her, “but I still haven't figured out the radio.”
Duffy just laughs as if it's a really good joke, chuckling to herself as she goes back to her own seat and her own music player by the window.
Dean pretends that that was it, and pushes the button.
------------
Dean is dreaming.
He is in a great field of fire and there is a path through the flames, so he takes it.
He walks under a set of arches made entirely out of the tusks of great animals.
There is the sound of hands on drums and the very air smells of cinders.
At the end of the path is a large hall made of bones, but there is nothing grotesque about the place, it feels warm and loving.
The doors open as he approaches, made from the fingernails of dead men, bound together with their hair. There is no ominous creak to their movement though Dean expects one.
Inside, the hall is deceptively large.
Fire burns in bowls on stands giving off sweetly scented smoke.
The air is thick with frankincense.
There is a dais at the end of the hall and upon the dais, also made of bone, is a chaise and a mirror.
She rises from the chaise in a sea of fire that swarms around sand colored nakedness and coils around her neck. “You have come to me," and she does not walk as much as glide, “all things of the dead belong to me and I would have your worship.”
Even in dreams Dean cannot simply submit. “Look, lady, this is all very impressive but no,” he turns to go.
“You would turn your back to me?” Her voice raised an octave and the flames billow with it’s force. “Do you know who I am?”
He looks her up and down before finally he says, “Nope, sorry, lady, not a clue.”
“I am Ereshkigal, Queen of all things that have died.”
“Good for you,” he smiles at her, “now I’ll just be going.”
“You belong to me, hunter, only I can allow people to leave death's sweet embrace, you will give me your worship.”
“Look, Queenie,” Dean is American and they have never responded well to the demands of authority. “I might put out on the first date, but even I want dinner or a drink first.”
“Do not seek to anger me, hunter. My wrath is a terrible thing." She steps forward, her skirt of flames parting to show perfect legs the color of open desert sands. “But my favors are sweet. Worship me, hunter, and I will move the very stars for you.” Her hair is slithering around her, shifting from one style to another like liquid ink. Her eyes are dancing licks of fire.
“Flattering, but no,” he goes to turn again, but her hand, ice cold and dry, on his arm pulls him back.
“Do you know who I am?” She roars, the very ends of her hair catching flame and twisting about her face like fireflies.
“Yeah,” he drawls, “you’re Festival,” Dean mangles her name, “of dead things, and you can take your David Bowie tight trousers routine and shove it.”
The goddess clearly does not know what he means.
"I will give you the world if you will only worship me. A hundred thousand maidens for your every whim. Just says the words, hunter, say ‘I worship you.’ ” She turns around as if there is a noise but he doesn't hear it. “As a sign of my veracity I give you this,” she takes his wrist, the one with the torque, and hangs a gem, her token, a red stone, on the twists of gold. “Now wake up.”
He wakes up just in time to see the bus crash.
-------------
The pain is dizzying and there is blood dripping in his eyes from somewhere. His left arm is clearly broken and his leg gored, his pant leg flapping open over his boot. It hurts to breathe. The air is brittle cold.
He can hear whimpering as he tries to shake the impact and pain off him, like a wet dog. It doesn't help.
Duffy is lying in the aisle and there is a long piece of metal pinning her to the side of the seat. Even pain addled and broken Dean can see that it's serious. It’s close to her lung, just below her collarbone.
He’s moving although he’s not quite sure how.
Hands on the wound.
Soothing words. “You’re going to be okay, it's all going to be okay, you’re a good girl, I’m going to do magic.”
Dean's a soldier.
Dean's a field medic.
Because that’s what John trained him to be.
He’s coping because his training doesn’t leave him room for anything else.
He braces for the scream as he pulls the metal out. He thinks it was a window frame. The sudden rush of blood is nauseating but Dean knows what to do.
Stop the blood.
Cover the wound.
Keep her awake.
Deal.
He puts Duffy’s hands on the wound, powder blue nails and all. “Hold them there for me, Duffy, you’re doing great, you're doing so well.” He wedges her bag between his knees and using his one good hand starts rooting around through it.
Girls always carry the best things for this.
The carrier still has a book in it, but it's plastic, so he tips it out, babbling to the kid as she sobs and whimpers and there’s so much blood.
A cheap white tee she probably sleeps in.
A box of tampons, open - half of them gone.
He tears open the tampon's wrapper with his teeth, pulling out the end of the applicator. “You need to be brave for me, Duffy, open your eyes and be brave for me. This is going to hurt, but I need to stop the bleeding.” She cries out as he lines up the applicator, and then pushes on the end and drives it straight in.
Duffy screams.
The tampon will catch the blood and expand putting pressure on the wound. It’s not a perfect fix but it's sterile and it’ll have to do. The tee wipes away the worst of the blood so he can see what’s happening. The carrier bag, torn between his hand and his teeth is pressed to what’s left of the blood to form a makeshift seal.
It’s not pretty but it stops the bleeding.
“I need you to be still for me, Duffy, and stay awake, we’re going to get out of this and then I’m going to go with you to your school and I’m going to introduce myself as the guy who saved your life, which is much cooler than being a holiday fling, you understand,” she nods, “there’s my good girl.”
Duffy’s scarf is on the seat where she was. It's a cheap synthetic thing in a horrid shade of brown. He wraps it around his leg as best he can with one hand.
“Are you cold?” he asks her as the large fat snowflakes start to fall. Wherever they are it's chilly and with the snow it’ll just get colder. He takes the scarf from around his neck, the one Magda made him, thick and very long, wrapping it around her neck and bundling her as best he can in his jacket.
“I need you to stay quiet and wait for me,” he tells her, “because you’re a brave girl and I know you can.” She nods.
Her grandfather has a pulse, but he is bleeding from his ear so Dean just closes his eyes and shifts him into something resembling the recovery position so he won't swallow his own tongue.
The driver is gone. There’s nothing Dean can do.
A black lady who was sitting up front is clearly hurt, pinned in place, but there’s no blood so there is nothing Dean can do. He just tells her that help is on the way, and she’s to keep warm and to stay brave, that help is coming. That it has to be.
He’s very lucky that it was the slow bus to Arizona on the night before Thanksgiving, so there’s only the four of them on the coach. He was sure that more people got on so there must have been a stop when he was asleep.
There are fires dotted about, but the snow is getting heavier, settling against the sides of the bus in drifts.
His head is spinning.
He’s trying to think through the pain.
Dean is functioning on training and adrenaline and he knows it. He also knows that when he crashes it aint going to be pretty.
There is no reception on the fancy cell that Magda gave him. He’s not really surprised.
“Duffy,” he says, pulling his hat down over the girl’s head, “I have to go, I have to find help. I have to go get help,” he’s repeating himself to make sure he’s saying the words. “There’s another lady on the bus and she’s hurt real bad, I have to get help.”
A whimpering Duffy agrees. “You look after her, okay, there’s my brave girl, and I’ll get help." Duffy nods, biting her lip, “good girl,” Dean tells her, “there's my beautiful brave girl.”
As he walks into the snow, he wonders why the goddess in the hall of fire and bones and nails and hair did this and if he can get away from the Hounds he can hear yipping in the distance.
---------------
In his head, as he walks through the snow, Dean hates himself for lying to Duffy. He’s drawing the bad things away. He has to lead them away. It has nothing to do with Duffy or her grandfather or the black lady at the front, the hounds are for him. He is sure he can hear them.
He can barely see, even if it wasn't snowing so very heavily.
His head is ringing and he has his broken arm up against his chest with his leg dragging behind.
His throat is tight and he aches.
The tune of good king Wenceslas is in his head.
And he's walking because he knows that otherwise he’ll fall.
He’s not sure he can get back up again if he does.
When he sees the firefly dancing about his head, he knows that he is hallucinating.
For no other reason than it is there he follows it through the snow as it falls heavier until it is deep about his ankles.
---------------
The house is almost derelict and the furniture is rotten. There has been a fire. It’s got some roof left, and is shelter, if not much. It’d be just his luck that it’s haunted.
He huddles against the fireplace, everything here is too sodden to burn. He just shivers into his coat, not regretting that he gave his coat to Duffy. She needed it more. He hunkers down to wait out the storm.
He wakes to the firefly buzzing about his head, batting into his face. He uses his good hand to wave it away.
He’s cold. So very cold.
He’s so cold it doesn't hurt anymore.
He thinks that it is a bad thing but he can't remember why.
He just lets his eyes close, he's so very tired.
---------------
Wake up!
It's a tinny voice in his ear.
Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup
He can’t keep his eyes open.
He just wants to sleep.
So he does.
------------------------
He wakes to a woman’s voice and she’s pissed. “Call the dog or you will die.” She grabs his face but Dean doesn’t know her and it's so hard to focus, he's so cold and so tired. The snow is packed up around his legs. “There is help coming, child, but call the dog or you will die.”
He’s so cold.
He’s taken off his coat but he doesn't remember where he left it.
He feels hot and clammy and awkward.
He wants to move.
But he can’t.
He says the words because it will make her go away. “Here boy.”
She slaps him, hard across the face. “Dean," her voice is a whip crack. “Say the words.”
“Here boy, here boy," his throat is so dry.
“Say the words, Dean, say ‘I call you Eoighn of the Hunt.’ ”
So he says them because there’s no reason not to, and she’ll go away and he can sleep.
A hot heavy warmth settles in behind him and he dissolves into it.
Next episode
itle: Set the fire to the third bar
Author: Seraphim Grace
Fandom = Supernatural
Pairing = Castiel x Dean (god is love in all it's forms)
Rating = NC17
spoilers = yes for season 4, set between Great pumpkin and the one after that I've forgotten the name of
AUish - set in the world of american gods and sandman but also the spn universe, I just stretched it a little
prompts - Dean wonders how much is too much when you've already past that line and just how changed he is from being in hell.
suggested by keire_ke
betaed by bellajayd
Previous chapters
Not enough coffee in the world
In the hotel dusk
tea with thrones
The House of Five aspects
The Banshee in the Bathroom
Time is never time enough
let the bodies hit the floor
Episode 8
In which Dean finds himself on the slow bus to Tucson without even an angel to pass the time.
Soundtrack:
Dandy Warhols - Sleep
WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MEDICINE THAT SHOULD NOT BE REPEATED OUTSIDE OF COMBAT SITUATIONS. IF YOU FIND YOURSELF IN A SIMILAR SITUATION BUNKER IN AND WAIT FOR HELP! DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. DEAN IS A TRAINED FIELD MEDIC WITH NO TRUST FOR HOSPITALS AND IS USED TO MAKING DO! THAT SAID NEVER EVER TRY THIS AT HOME
--------------------------
Dean Winchester was not designed for technology.
He can strip most weapons down and rebuild them blindfold.
He can make his own ammo from the strangest things.
He has stripped the Impala’s engine, making her work when time wears her down. She is over forty after all.
But the white music stick has him totally baffled.
There is a young girl in the next seat who is killing herself laughing at his attempts to cow the beast. She has one of them too but hers is black and Dean considers swapping because hers clearly works.
She’s at most fifteen, her responsible adult in the seat in front of her of her, snoring to wake the damned. Her stuff is crammed into an open backpack with band patches and tippex promises. She has a green stripe in her hair.
He decides to just bite his tongue and ask her for her help, so he turns to her and gives her his best shit-eating grin. “You know how to work these, kid?” He asks. “Mine’s a birthday present from someone with a sick sense of humor.”
She gets up from her own seat and sits next to him, smelling of warm sandalwood and patchouli because she is that age. “It’s real easy," she says, taking the machine from him. She’s flirting a little. “Like this," and she starts pushing the big button.
It likes her more than it liked Dean because it does something.
Obviously, the LCD means something to her because it's all gibberish to Dean. “Oh wow, this is really cool. You’ve got some great music here, Mister, and some books too, look - the whole Lord of the Rings, I bet that just eats memory.”
“That's all well and good, kid," Dean answers, “but where do I put the tape?”
She bats him on the arm and he notices that her fingernails are powder blue. She’s taking advantage of the thanksgiving holiday to be a little wild. “You’re not that old,” her attempts at flirtation are clumsy and heavy-handed, but Dean takes as a compliment because it sure as hell aint going to be more than that.
“You put these in your ears and choose the song here,” she pushes a button, “then push it again to turn it off.” So, after a brief flash of promising drums it goes back to bus noise. “You’ve got some slamming tracks on here though, look.” She presses up against him perhaps a little too much to just show him his track list, but Dean’s too uncomfortable to actually look. “It’s a pity we can’t just link them together so I can steal some of these.”
“Look, kid,” Dean begins.
“Duffy," she corrects him.
“Duffy,” he continues, “It aint gonna happen. I mean first of all we’re on this bus for days, your designated grown up is just there, and of all the things I want to be damned for this aint it.”
“I know," she leaves a gap for him to give her his name so he does, “the plan, Dean, is that I get to take your photo with my cell so that I can show all the stuck up bitches in school that you were my holiday boyfriend and they’ll all go green with envy, because you’re gorgeous.” Dean laughs and wonders where girls like her were when he was fifteen, probably mooning over older guys he realizes.
She takes his photo with her cell, it's a bright blue thing with all manner of dangling charms. “I love your bracelet," she exclaims grabbing his wrist so she can see it better. “This is so cool,” she taps her powder blue nail over the charms, the lump of black stone taken from the dog's heart, the tiny golden feather, the spear tip, the tear and a shining white stone Dean hasn’t seen before but assumes Bridhe added when she made it.
“A friend made it for me.” Dean tells her. “It’s one of a kind.”
“Pity, it's gorgeous,” she pouts knowing he's not going to just give in and give it to her. He knows that the torque is important, just not why.
She brightens up, “Here you go, Dean," she says, “just push this button to make it play, and thanks Dean.”
Dean gives her a new grin, more genuine than the last because she’s a good kid. “Thank you, Duffy,” he corrects her, “but I still haven't figured out the radio.”
Duffy just laughs as if it's a really good joke, chuckling to herself as she goes back to her own seat and her own music player by the window.
Dean pretends that that was it, and pushes the button.
------------
Dean is dreaming.
He is in a great field of fire and there is a path through the flames, so he takes it.
He walks under a set of arches made entirely out of the tusks of great animals.
There is the sound of hands on drums and the very air smells of cinders.
At the end of the path is a large hall made of bones, but there is nothing grotesque about the place, it feels warm and loving.
The doors open as he approaches, made from the fingernails of dead men, bound together with their hair. There is no ominous creak to their movement though Dean expects one.
Inside, the hall is deceptively large.
Fire burns in bowls on stands giving off sweetly scented smoke.
The air is thick with frankincense.
There is a dais at the end of the hall and upon the dais, also made of bone, is a chaise and a mirror.
She rises from the chaise in a sea of fire that swarms around sand colored nakedness and coils around her neck. “You have come to me," and she does not walk as much as glide, “all things of the dead belong to me and I would have your worship.”
Even in dreams Dean cannot simply submit. “Look, lady, this is all very impressive but no,” he turns to go.
“You would turn your back to me?” Her voice raised an octave and the flames billow with it’s force. “Do you know who I am?”
He looks her up and down before finally he says, “Nope, sorry, lady, not a clue.”
“I am Ereshkigal, Queen of all things that have died.”
“Good for you,” he smiles at her, “now I’ll just be going.”
“You belong to me, hunter, only I can allow people to leave death's sweet embrace, you will give me your worship.”
“Look, Queenie,” Dean is American and they have never responded well to the demands of authority. “I might put out on the first date, but even I want dinner or a drink first.”
“Do not seek to anger me, hunter. My wrath is a terrible thing." She steps forward, her skirt of flames parting to show perfect legs the color of open desert sands. “But my favors are sweet. Worship me, hunter, and I will move the very stars for you.” Her hair is slithering around her, shifting from one style to another like liquid ink. Her eyes are dancing licks of fire.
“Flattering, but no,” he goes to turn again, but her hand, ice cold and dry, on his arm pulls him back.
“Do you know who I am?” She roars, the very ends of her hair catching flame and twisting about her face like fireflies.
“Yeah,” he drawls, “you’re Festival,” Dean mangles her name, “of dead things, and you can take your David Bowie tight trousers routine and shove it.”
The goddess clearly does not know what he means.
"I will give you the world if you will only worship me. A hundred thousand maidens for your every whim. Just says the words, hunter, say ‘I worship you.’ ” She turns around as if there is a noise but he doesn't hear it. “As a sign of my veracity I give you this,” she takes his wrist, the one with the torque, and hangs a gem, her token, a red stone, on the twists of gold. “Now wake up.”
He wakes up just in time to see the bus crash.
-------------
The pain is dizzying and there is blood dripping in his eyes from somewhere. His left arm is clearly broken and his leg gored, his pant leg flapping open over his boot. It hurts to breathe. The air is brittle cold.
He can hear whimpering as he tries to shake the impact and pain off him, like a wet dog. It doesn't help.
Duffy is lying in the aisle and there is a long piece of metal pinning her to the side of the seat. Even pain addled and broken Dean can see that it's serious. It’s close to her lung, just below her collarbone.
He’s moving although he’s not quite sure how.
Hands on the wound.
Soothing words. “You’re going to be okay, it's all going to be okay, you’re a good girl, I’m going to do magic.”
Dean's a soldier.
Dean's a field medic.
Because that’s what John trained him to be.
He’s coping because his training doesn’t leave him room for anything else.
He braces for the scream as he pulls the metal out. He thinks it was a window frame. The sudden rush of blood is nauseating but Dean knows what to do.
Stop the blood.
Cover the wound.
Keep her awake.
Deal.
He puts Duffy’s hands on the wound, powder blue nails and all. “Hold them there for me, Duffy, you’re doing great, you're doing so well.” He wedges her bag between his knees and using his one good hand starts rooting around through it.
Girls always carry the best things for this.
The carrier still has a book in it, but it's plastic, so he tips it out, babbling to the kid as she sobs and whimpers and there’s so much blood.
A cheap white tee she probably sleeps in.
A box of tampons, open - half of them gone.
He tears open the tampon's wrapper with his teeth, pulling out the end of the applicator. “You need to be brave for me, Duffy, open your eyes and be brave for me. This is going to hurt, but I need to stop the bleeding.” She cries out as he lines up the applicator, and then pushes on the end and drives it straight in.
Duffy screams.
The tampon will catch the blood and expand putting pressure on the wound. It’s not a perfect fix but it's sterile and it’ll have to do. The tee wipes away the worst of the blood so he can see what’s happening. The carrier bag, torn between his hand and his teeth is pressed to what’s left of the blood to form a makeshift seal.
It’s not pretty but it stops the bleeding.
“I need you to be still for me, Duffy, and stay awake, we’re going to get out of this and then I’m going to go with you to your school and I’m going to introduce myself as the guy who saved your life, which is much cooler than being a holiday fling, you understand,” she nods, “there’s my good girl.”
Duffy’s scarf is on the seat where she was. It's a cheap synthetic thing in a horrid shade of brown. He wraps it around his leg as best he can with one hand.
“Are you cold?” he asks her as the large fat snowflakes start to fall. Wherever they are it's chilly and with the snow it’ll just get colder. He takes the scarf from around his neck, the one Magda made him, thick and very long, wrapping it around her neck and bundling her as best he can in his jacket.
“I need you to stay quiet and wait for me,” he tells her, “because you’re a brave girl and I know you can.” She nods.
Her grandfather has a pulse, but he is bleeding from his ear so Dean just closes his eyes and shifts him into something resembling the recovery position so he won't swallow his own tongue.
The driver is gone. There’s nothing Dean can do.
A black lady who was sitting up front is clearly hurt, pinned in place, but there’s no blood so there is nothing Dean can do. He just tells her that help is on the way, and she’s to keep warm and to stay brave, that help is coming. That it has to be.
He’s very lucky that it was the slow bus to Arizona on the night before Thanksgiving, so there’s only the four of them on the coach. He was sure that more people got on so there must have been a stop when he was asleep.
There are fires dotted about, but the snow is getting heavier, settling against the sides of the bus in drifts.
His head is spinning.
He’s trying to think through the pain.
Dean is functioning on training and adrenaline and he knows it. He also knows that when he crashes it aint going to be pretty.
There is no reception on the fancy cell that Magda gave him. He’s not really surprised.
“Duffy,” he says, pulling his hat down over the girl’s head, “I have to go, I have to find help. I have to go get help,” he’s repeating himself to make sure he’s saying the words. “There’s another lady on the bus and she’s hurt real bad, I have to get help.”
A whimpering Duffy agrees. “You look after her, okay, there’s my brave girl, and I’ll get help." Duffy nods, biting her lip, “good girl,” Dean tells her, “there's my beautiful brave girl.”
As he walks into the snow, he wonders why the goddess in the hall of fire and bones and nails and hair did this and if he can get away from the Hounds he can hear yipping in the distance.
---------------
In his head, as he walks through the snow, Dean hates himself for lying to Duffy. He’s drawing the bad things away. He has to lead them away. It has nothing to do with Duffy or her grandfather or the black lady at the front, the hounds are for him. He is sure he can hear them.
He can barely see, even if it wasn't snowing so very heavily.
His head is ringing and he has his broken arm up against his chest with his leg dragging behind.
His throat is tight and he aches.
The tune of good king Wenceslas is in his head.
And he's walking because he knows that otherwise he’ll fall.
He’s not sure he can get back up again if he does.
When he sees the firefly dancing about his head, he knows that he is hallucinating.
For no other reason than it is there he follows it through the snow as it falls heavier until it is deep about his ankles.
---------------
The house is almost derelict and the furniture is rotten. There has been a fire. It’s got some roof left, and is shelter, if not much. It’d be just his luck that it’s haunted.
He huddles against the fireplace, everything here is too sodden to burn. He just shivers into his coat, not regretting that he gave his coat to Duffy. She needed it more. He hunkers down to wait out the storm.
He wakes to the firefly buzzing about his head, batting into his face. He uses his good hand to wave it away.
He’s cold. So very cold.
He’s so cold it doesn't hurt anymore.
He thinks that it is a bad thing but he can't remember why.
He just lets his eyes close, he's so very tired.
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Wake up!
It's a tinny voice in his ear.
Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup
He can’t keep his eyes open.
He just wants to sleep.
So he does.
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He wakes to a woman’s voice and she’s pissed. “Call the dog or you will die.” She grabs his face but Dean doesn’t know her and it's so hard to focus, he's so cold and so tired. The snow is packed up around his legs. “There is help coming, child, but call the dog or you will die.”
He’s so cold.
He’s taken off his coat but he doesn't remember where he left it.
He feels hot and clammy and awkward.
He wants to move.
But he can’t.
He says the words because it will make her go away. “Here boy.”
She slaps him, hard across the face. “Dean," her voice is a whip crack. “Say the words.”
“Here boy, here boy," his throat is so dry.
“Say the words, Dean, say ‘I call you Eoighn of the Hunt.’ ”
So he says them because there’s no reason not to, and she’ll go away and he can sleep.
A hot heavy warmth settles in behind him and he dissolves into it.
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