( Sometimes, it feels like the only time Dean gets any real sleep is after a hunt. The only time he manages more than four or five hours is when his body is exhausted, when his brain is satisfied that he's done what's expected of him, he has met his purpose and he's given permission to finally rest. On those nights, it doesn't matter that he's sleeping on a bedroll on the ground in the middle of the goddamn desert, it doesn't matter that there's still matted blood on his arms and drying into his clothes. It doesn't matter that there isn't a roof over his head. When they finally bed down, he's out like a god damn light and softly snoring in under seven minutes.
And then comes the world's worst alarm, and he goes from the beginnings of a very interesting dream about Darth Vader and air hockey to upright, sword in hand, adrenaline pounding before his mind has even processed the words Jaskier's saying. He's on his feet with speed rivaling Geralt, and he manages two entire strides forward before the words fully process — and he stops abruptly in his puzzlement.
I pissed on a corpse it is alive now.
Wait- )
What? ( A sharp look's shot Geralt's direction, seeking clarification that the other man can't possibly give him. ) Did he just say he pissed a corpse to life?
( Neither Geralt nor Jaskier need bother answer — the pissed corpse does it for them. It lurches into the firelight one limb at a time — what Dean notices first is the musculature of a thigh, the lines stark and unhealthy, too-defined, the way they can only be in something that has been dehydrated a long time. The rusted metal restraints and jagged nails protruding from it look like tetanus, they look like the movie Hostel feels.
Next comes the sway of an arm, clubbed at the fist, with a length of wrought-iron bar like a stinger jutting from where fingers ought to have been.
And then the face. The teeth, the grimace, the lips peeled back, the halo of straps and hellish pain that remind him of the Rack — or the movie Hellraiser (which, by the way, astounding how much that series got right). It is a mechanical nightmare. It is an abomination in the eyes of God. It's a pitiful and terrible creature that cannot be called human anymore. It is...
Wearing a gas mask on its dick.
Why? )
Hey, so... ( He starts slowly, raising his sword to the ready, but hesitating — just to be sure: ) What are the odds this thing's, like, a sentient... torture victim escapee?
( As if to answer his question, those gingivitis nightmare teeth part what few centimeters its hardware allows, and it unleashes a rusty, piercing shriek before clumsily sprinting toward them, spike-fist raised. )
no subject
And then comes the world's worst alarm, and he goes from the beginnings of a very interesting dream about Darth Vader and air hockey to upright, sword in hand, adrenaline pounding before his mind has even processed the words Jaskier's saying. He's on his feet with speed rivaling Geralt, and he manages two entire strides forward before the words fully process — and he stops abruptly in his puzzlement.
I pissed on a corpse it is alive now.
Wait- )
What? ( A sharp look's shot Geralt's direction, seeking clarification that the other man can't possibly give him. ) Did he just say he pissed a corpse to life?
( Neither Geralt nor Jaskier need bother answer — the pissed corpse does it for them. It lurches into the firelight one limb at a time — what Dean notices first is the musculature of a thigh, the lines stark and unhealthy, too-defined, the way they can only be in something that has been dehydrated a long time. The rusted metal restraints and jagged nails protruding from it look like tetanus, they look like the movie Hostel feels.
Next comes the sway of an arm, clubbed at the fist, with a length of wrought-iron bar like a stinger jutting from where fingers ought to have been.
And then the face. The teeth, the grimace, the lips peeled back, the halo of straps and hellish pain that remind him of the Rack — or the movie Hellraiser (which, by the way, astounding how much that series got right). It is a mechanical nightmare. It is an abomination in the eyes of God. It's a pitiful and terrible creature that cannot be called human anymore. It is...
Wearing a gas mask on its dick.
Why? )
Hey, so... ( He starts slowly, raising his sword to the ready, but hesitating — just to be sure: ) What are the odds this thing's, like, a sentient... torture victim escapee?
( As if to answer his question, those gingivitis nightmare teeth part what few centimeters its hardware allows, and it unleashes a rusty, piercing shriek before clumsily sprinting toward them, spike-fist raised. )
Nevermind.