abraxaslogs | Wᴇʟʟ, I'ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜɴ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ғʀᴏᴍ ʜɪᴅɪɴ'

( He's screwed.

It's one of those massive houses, probably some merchant or politician or something. Too many bedrooms — or at least there used to be, before the whole damn thing went up in flames. It started out as just the stupid goddamn wings that got him pinned, one splintery shard of something that went clean through into the floor doorframe. He doesn't know how to bamf them back in yet, so he went with the coyote leg in the bear trap method — pulled out his sword, braced himself, and hacked a god damn line clean through it so he could rip it off of the stake.

Just in time for the rest of the doorway to come crashing down on top of him. The wings disappear from existence then, because of course they do, and then it becomes smoldering support beams collapsed on his hips, too heavy for him to heave off of himself no matter how hard he bares his teeth and shoves. Flames start to lick their way up one of his legs, cooking the fabric and skin in equal measure. The smoke's getting to be too much; having his shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth isn't doing a god damn thing to keep him from inhaling it, from coughing, from starting to get light-headed.

At least he got her out. There's no point trying to send anyone a message, who the hell's gonna make it in time? What are they gonna do, put out the whole friggin' fire? The only alternative is to run balls first into total conflagration, and there's no way in hell he's saving one person from it just to turn around and get another to run back in and get them both killed.

It is what it is. It was gonna happen sooner or later anyway.

And you know what?

Hell, maybe it's appropriate. After all, he's hardly the first Winchester to bite the dust in a housefire. Maybe it's apt that he's going the same way as his mom.

If he's completely honest with himself, maybe a small part of him is relieved. That mark on his arm can't do a goddamn thing if he's dead, right? He won't have to worry about what it might do to him anymore. Purification by fire.

Good. )

Edited 2022-09-12 23:43 (UTC)

[ As Geralt's stepping over a newly removed wall section, Ciri's hasty words scrawl across the broken stone. A pause. He knows the place. He's been by the manor, seen it in passing before the city fell to pieces. She tells him little of the situation; she doesn't have to. If she's asking for his help, it's serious.

Naturally, Dean somehow finds the one fucking building completely consumed by living flames to be crushed beneath.

He moves quickly, navigating over cracked walls and piles of debris. The thick smoke fills the sky from miles away. He can feel the heat as he approaches. The fire's undoubtedly drawn attention, though with half the city's roads collapsed, he can't wait for soldiers who may or may not arrive in time. Ciri leaves quickly for more help, and he lets her—glad he's taught her better than to dive into the inferno—while he circles the building. Time is of the essence, but he knows not to go in blind.

The near-invisible shield that flares to life is a touch more than his usual. Larger—covering more of him, keeping the flames at bay. It's still scorching, the smoke thick, but at least he can move through the fire. He drops to his knees. ]

Dean. [ Fuck. He lets the shield fall. Forces his hand under the beam to push it off. His palm sizzles, wood splinters embedding in his palm. ]

( Fun fact, a pretty high percentage of deaths by house fire aren't caused by the fire itself, but rather the smoke inhalation. Thankfully, there's about two hundred percent less asbestos and lead paint floating around out here in Middle Earth, but it's still doing a number on him. He's a little drunk on it, his head's throbbing. Eyes stinging and watering, chest aching from it, and it'd be nice if things could just hurry along here because he's straight up not having a good time right now. He'd rather pass out before that flame starts creeping up his leg to territory thus far uncharted by fire.

He's excluding Hell from that track record, obviously.

He's just about teetering on the brink by the time Geralt makes it inside, and it takes him about two seconds longer than normal to process it. It's just a blurry face and blonde hair shadowed by a writhing, flickering chiaroscuro thanks to the flames making one hell of a backdrop to this photo. He thinks, for one alarmed moment, that it's Ciri and he didn't actually get her out.

Thankfully, he manages to focus before that stomach-dropping dread can hit. In its place, a sluggish, agitated confusion. As Geralt works to heft that burning beam off of him, his reward is a mumbled: )

The hell are you doing, man? Get outta here.

( The house is burning down, dumbass. )

[ What's he doing? What does it look as though he's doing?

Geralt gives the beam a hard shove. It shifts an inch, two. He glances upwards—makes sure he isn't disturbing anything that'll bring even more of the damn place caving down. The flames are spitting, the smoke so thick he can't so much see Dean as hear him. He ignores the heat scorching his hands—just pushes until the beam cracks through the wood atop and he forces it off. Bits of wood clinging to the roof begin to fall, crashing around them.

(It's funny. Fire's never bothered him. But hearing the way pillars and beams crumble into ash under the crackling flames digs up old wounds.)

He reaches through the gap in the flames. Grabs Dean by the arm. Can he walk? They'll find out—but Geralt won't hesitate to throw Dean over his shoulder if he must.

His stare is hard, leaves no room for argument. Let's go. ]

( He's not gonna fight it. Not once the beam is off of him, not once there's a hand reaching out to pull him from the flames. He's self-sacrificial, but he's not outright suicidal, at least not enough to turn down help once it's already there.

It's a theme, isn't it? Kind of a trend. Weird thing to happen twice, something greater than himself plunging into the fire and chaos to reach out a hand and pull him free. Help he didn't ask for, help he wouldn't have drug into something that felt like a foregone conclusion.

He's disoriented, but not enough that it keeps him from reaching back and gripping Geralt by the forearm to help haul himself up.

Holy crap does that give him the spins. It's like standing up after you've had too much to drink, and it all hits you at once as soon as you're vertical. Doesn't help that one of his legs is screwed up — but he can still walk on it, though the pain combines with the vertigo and has him staggering.

As much time as he's spent hunting with a partner, with Sam, it's a natural instinct to fling an arm over Geralt's shoulder to use him as a crutch. To hang on a little too tightly. Something stable, to help guide his lame ass out somewhere he can't even see.

Debris falls from the ceiling in increasingly larger chunks — plaster, wood, some of it seems to aim toward crashing down directly on Geralt. Crumbling rapidly behind them in hefty, fatal (to a human, anyway) weight.

Impeccable timing, there, Gerald. Twenty or thirty seconds would've made all the difference, and it would've been another body recovery mission. )

[ There's a second where Geralt isn't certain Dean will get up in time before the whole fucking place crumples in flames. He's debating what in the hell to do then—he sure as fuck isn't abandoning Dean—but then Dean stumbles to his feet. Geralt pulls him out, away, as the roof caves in. The explosion of sparks and ash and splinters showers behind them.

With most of Dean's weight leaning on him, one arm supporting, he can't channel a Sign the same way. Which makes the wall of flames a problem. It's grown higher in the minute it took for him to reach Dean.

His eyes scan for some kind of opening. He can feel the fire lick; even for him, it's becoming hard to breathe. Debris falls, but if anything strikes him, he pays no attention. (He'll notice it afterwards.) He spins on his heel—hauls Dean along. No time to be gentle; if Dean's leg worsens, they can fix it when they've escaped. They can't fix a corpse burnt to a crisp. He shoves a door with his shoulder. Not into the open air, but at least this room is marginally less ablaze. It allows him, at least, to press his palm against the cracking heated wall: a burst, once, twice, that shatters the surface. The wall breaks apart, crumbling.

Geralt half-drags, half-shoves Dean through the opening. Zero delicacy—they stagger out, and he only just keeps Dean from hitting the ground. ]

( He's not good at being a victim. It's not in his nature, but god damn it if it doesn't seem to keep happening lately. This isn't what he does, he's supposed to be on the other side of this equation. He's supposed to be the one protecting people, and that sense of failure will inevitably set in once this whole thing is over. It'll uncurl in the background of his mind, take root, and slowly grow.

For now, he can barely think with the surface level brain, let alone anything deeper. It's taking just about all he's got to keep moving, one hundred percent of his trust going to the guy navigating him — enough so that he doesn't even look, question, try to take the wheel, devote what little of his operating power he's got right now to anything but moving — and trying to breathe.

Never mind his leg or his head, fuck if his chest doesn't burn right now.

For the second time tonight, an explosion rings through his ears. They go stumbling out onto the lawn, onto cool grass and open air. The flood of oxygen is a curse and a blessing — it sends a vibrant rush of alertness to his foggy brain, but it also sends him into a coughing fit.

He peels himself away from Geralt's side, so he can half-collapse on his knees, spasming his way through chest-rattling hacking so violent it leaves him gagging, choking, heaving, one strong breeze away from flat-out vomiting up nothing.

For a pathetically long minute, that's straight-up all he's capable of. )

[ He sucks in a breath, blinking hard to clear his vision. His left palm is scorched, skin bubbling, but he doesn't think twice about it. He heals easily. Instead, he reaches for Dean, holding him up while he coughs up a lung or two. Waits for it to pass before he makes an attempt to sit Dean up.

He can practically taste the ashes in his mouth.

He holds his hand out—not an offer, but a command. Urgent. ] Come on.

[ He doesn't mean to drag Dean off again, but they aren't free from danger. What's left of the home, its blackened bones, is about to come down. Smoke is still billowing out in thick clouds. They need to be further.

Then he can take a look at Dean's leg. Ask him what the fuck even happened beyond crushed under a wooden rafter, house set ablaze.

(Something happened with Ciri. He can already guess that, can't he?) ]

( Every breath burns, but at least he's breathing. It's enough, but it feels like it isn't. It feels like there's a band wrapped around his ribs, squeezing, cutting off how full he can fill his lungs. Closest thing he could compare it to is when he was in his early twenties, roaming alone, getting drunk as hell at sorority parties he wasn't invited to and then chain-smoking cigarettes — fun at the time, but the next morning? Not so much.

This has gotta be ten times worse.

On the other hand, once you've been tortured in hell for thirty god damn years your tolerance for pain goes through the friggin roof — so when Geralt offers that hand out, Dean takes it. Despite the fact that he's still coughing, despite the way moving his leg seems to rip at burnt skin. He makes it to his feet, and he goes where he's lead.

The first thing he manages to say is a hoarse, crackling, barely-discernible: )

Son of a bitch.

( Annnnd then he's coughing again. Jesus fucking Christ. )

[ Geralt gives a snap glance over his shoulder—wants to make sure soldiers'll not interrupt—then helps move Dean several paces away. Enough to be clear of the choking fumes and heat.

He crouches in front of Dean. A squint. That cough sounds like shit. He can hear the difference between a cough that comes from needing air and one that says Dean's inhaled something dangerous. He tips Dean's chin up, stares him in the eyes to check his pupils. Glassy. Red. ]

Ciri's bringing a healer.

[ She'll be here soon. In the meantime, Geralt unhooks a flask of water and passes it over expectantly. Drink. He has a dozen questions, none of which he's asking yet. He'll wait until Dean isn't struggling to take a breath.

He indicates Dean's leg. His instinct is to say the injury isn't too severe seeing as he's pulled the man a good distance, but the fact that Dean's willing to move around on it doesn't tell him much. He knows the type. (He's the same.) ] Is it fractured?

( It takes him two full blinks to focus properly on Geralt's eyes while he's being given the once-over, and frankly, it's a testament to how many miles they have under their belt that they're instinctively a little reassuring rather than uncomfortable, no stutter-start in cognition. Go back in time a year and tell him he'd feel that way after seeing yellow eyes in a house fire, and watch him laugh himself straight back into the flames.

He takes the flask. Chugs a mouthful, but uses some of that unfortunate restraint to swish it around and spit it out onto the ground first — taking with it ash, dirt, and blood. Barely a beat later, it's back on his lips, and he chugs half the damn thing before he's got to reel it away to keep from choking on it through another cough.

He shakes his leg at the question. Swallows twice, then croaks out an annoyed-sounding: )

Burnt.

( What he means is, just burnt, I'm fine.

Another glug of water, and then he finally fixes a properly attentive look at Geralt. )

How the hell'd you even get here?

[ Once he's certain Dean is focused enough—all things considered—he drops his hand. Could've been worse, then. Burns will heal. Nothing to be done about burnt except wait for Ciri to return with Jayce, either. Fuck. Between Yennefer and Jaskier and Sam only weeks ago, he's tired of everyone around him brushing up against death.

(No. He isn't counting his multiple brushes in the past months alone. That isn't the point.)

He sits himself down on the dusty ground amidst the debris and streaks of blood that have become common decor for the streets of Libertas. The sting and ache of his own pains are beginning to sink in. It shows in the way he flexes his fingers, red and blistering. ]

I walked. [ Flatly, before he sighs, absently spitting out a lock of hair stuck between his lips. ] Ciri. She said you were trapped.

[ He lifts an eyebrow. Want to tell him how you wound up in a burning building buried under some timber? ]

( He shakes his head slowly — not in denial, just an automatic gesture of fatigue. Frustration, maybe, at the explanation he's about to give. He settles his bad leg out long, lifts the other knee, and rests his flask-holding elbow on it. Apparently he's temporarily claimed it, sorry Geralt. He can still taste ashes, his throat still burns. Not that the water's gonna do much to fix it at his point. )

Couple of douchebags pulled one over on us.

( He rasps, gesturing vaguely with the flask. )

Killed half, then one of 'em chucked in a bomb. Blasted her out right before it went off and brought part of the damn building down.

( Which is glossing over, like, fifty percent of the details — but they don't really matter. That's the summary, and it's punctuated by a conservative drink, to try and space out what's left of the contents. )

[ His gaze flickers. Not hard to read between the lines, to fill in the blanks that Dean has left unspoken.

A brief pause. Geralt doesn't say thank you, in part because he's learned Dean isn't keen on hearing those words. He nods instead—yes. He knows. He understands what Dean did. It isn't the first time, is it? That Dean's put his life on the line for Ciri?

Later, he will reflect on it some more. ]

She'll be along with Jayce. [ Yes. The blacksmith. Geralt had not asked how or since when the fuck their local weaponsmith became their local healer, but Nadine is out of reach. Ciri believes Jayce can help. That suffices.

He sits for some minutes in silence until the familiar flash of ashen hair catches his gaze. Jayce's broad silhouette crests the sloping path. Then he's on his feet. His attention's off Dean in an instant, turned to Ciri.

He takes in the bruises, the scrapes. ] You're all right?

[ Jayce and Ciri hurried on their way there and he had seen Dean not that long ago before all of this happened, so he was still in the area. He sees that Dean is out of the rubble so he does not have to worry about the crowbar and shovel strapped to his back, the tools he brought to dig people out or get heavy objects off them. He sets them down and pulls out the deceptively small satchel which is a giant pack on the inside. ]

Dean, you step away from your local healers for fifteen minutes.

[ Jayce's medical expertise is only a few months behind Nadine, but his healing magic is extremely strong, both Horizon given and trained by a healing master. He's been keeping Viktor alive for months but that is known to only a few people, Ciri included. He isn't going to ask for an invitation now that he's there though so he goes right up to Dean and kneels next to him. Gold-brown eyes do a quick once-over of what he sees, the leg being the most obvious injury.

If they were on a long path looking for multiple injuries, he would be more careful with his magic, but this is Dean and that makes him an exception. Jayce touches his leg and he can feel the heat of the magic as it ripples through him almost like a flame in itself. ]

Look at me. Follow my finger.

[ This is the most important part. Exterior wounds, not as concerning. He moves his finger in Dean's sightline. ]

How does your chest feel? Where did it come down on you?

( Magical healing is by now a familiar sensation -- since long before he showed up here. It reminds him of Cas, the way the flesh soothes and knits and closes on fast-forward. The relief of it has him scrunching eyes shut and grunting out a soft mm that, counterintuitively, probably sounds pained.

A second later and he forces his eyes open again, following that finger back and forth once or twice before absently swatting at it. )

I'm- ( A rasp, a swallow, a wheezed inhale. ) I'm fine, damn it, I just-

( He devolves into a cough or three, and absently gestures to his sternum as if to demonstrate. )

Feel like I- ( cough. ) Chains- ( cough ) -moked about a thousand-

( Another few hacking rattles, and he doesn't bother finishing the sentence. They get the point, whatever. )

[ Jayce is immediately off to tend to Dean, who looks-- well, terrible, but not as terrible as he could be. Not entirely scorched, and his limbs don't look completely flattened. Ciri breathes a sigh of relief, meeting Geralt when he turns to her.

She nods, pushing messy hair out of her face. A little shaken, but no worse off than after falling off the Pendulum a few times. She'll be fine. ]

I'm all right.

Dean--

[ She looks to Dean. ]

He used something like Aard. Magic, I think. Pushed me out of the way.

Mm. [ He knows the spell. He's seen Dean use it before. Was there, in fact, when Dean first discovered it throwing a monster off of him. ] Dean told me what happened.

[ The broad strokes, in any case. That's all he needs to know. A few bastards taking advantage is to be expected; they'll run afoul of the soldiers eventually.

He gives Ciri another once-over. As soon as Dean's put together, he's taking them back to Cadens. They need a damn break. ]

Fortune timing. [ He returns to Dean's side, squatting back down. Stays out of the way while Jayce works. He hovers on the perimeter instead—one eye on Dean, one eye still on Ciri. ] Any earlier, you'd have caught me trapped in the other end of the city.

[ He'd have found a way to get to Dean even so, but. Minutes count. He was almost too late even as quick as he'd arrived. ]

[ Jayce is completely ignoring the other conversation because he is paying close attention to Dean's coughing. It's the wheeze that concerns him and the way he struggles forming words. He puts his hand up close to Dean's face, right by his mouth, which may seem strange but he is checking on something. He is dead serious all of a sudden and glances over his shoulder to Geralt and Ciri only then. ]

I may need your help in a minute.

[ They should be able to tell from his tone and concerned glance that something is up. His eyes go right back to Dean. He sets his hand on Dean's chest and Dean can feel his chest tightness grow rather than get better. Jayce is checking on how severe it is and he tries to keep calm.]

Dean, I need you to listen to me. This is very important. You've inhaled too much smoke, your lungs are going to fail. They're not taking in enough oxygen. I'm going to heal the damage and strengthen your lungs so you can take in air, but it is going to be intense, and your body is going to panic.

[ Which is the worst thing someone can do in this situation. The more he gasps and struggles to breathe, the quicker his throat is going to close up. If Jayce was just a medic, he would have to incubate or put something into his lungs to feed oxygen straight to it. Luckily Ciri happens to know that Jayce is an expert in lung mending. ]

Do not talk, nod to show me you understand. If he starts to panic, I'm going to need you two to hold him.

( Well, there's a way to get a guy's attention. Been shot, stabbed, beaten, given stage four stomach cancer for a minute by an angel, but he can't say he's ever had lung failure before. That's a new one, and the look he shoots Jayce is absolutely goddamn baffled. He'd love to say something along the lines of what the hell are you talking about, except whatever the guy did with that hand on his chest feels like it's making balloon animals out of his lungs.

Don't panic, but your lungs are going to fail.

He's not panicking already. He's not. He's just... concerned. Disgruntled. Alarmed. There's totally a difference.

Okay. Alright. Okay, fine. Bite the bullet, let's get it over with, let's do this.

He does the only thing he can think to do aside from just nodding -- he flashes Jayce a trepidatious thumbs up. )

[ Of course he had. When he should probably have been saving his breath. Ciri only nods; they can discuss the details later. (She doesn't, for example, mention the weird-ass bird wings, like some giant snowy owl.) If Geralt needs further reassurances that she's all right, he'll have to wait.

Jayce is calling them. Ciri only shares one further glance with Geralt before walking back over. She settles on her knees in the grass, though until Jayce gives the signal, she doesn't do anything else.

Geralt's right; despite the damage done, it is lucky. That he was nearby. The Jayce was too.

Lucky, too, for the bastard with the explosive that Ciri had more pressing matters to attend to rather than chasing him down to bash his knees in, personally. ]

Ready. [ She says, to Jayce. In case he needs a confirmation. ]

[ If she does mention the wings later, she'll realize Geralt's aware of those, as well. One's nearly hit him in the face.

He's listening to Jayce speak even while talking to Ciri—habit—but it isn't until he's addressed that he turns around.

Concerning. Geralt's eyes shift to Jayce, then to the sky, as though he's had a very long fucking day and senses it's soon to get longer.

He moves around Dean. If it were up to him, he'd lay Dean on the ground and pinned him down before they started. In the most practical sense, it's simpler than waiting to grab some thrashing limbs. But Jayce is the one who knows what he's doing with his healing magic, and the one who runs the greatest risk of being struck in the face. So Geralt offers no input.

He can hear Dean's heartbeat, at any rate. Which is racing at the moment, uneven. Ciri offers confirmation; Geralt only waits, silent. ]

I've done this a lot of times, Dean, you're in good hands.

[ Jayce hopes that even a small amount of reassurance may help here. It's true that this is exactly, or similar to, what he does with Viktor regularly. He normally can be a lot gentler about it so it only feels good, but they don't have the time for that with how tight Dean's chest is. The only reason he told them to wait to see if Dean panics is because sometimes people react without being able to stop themselves to being held down. As soon as Dean starts to struggle, he's going to do everything that will make it worse.

Jayce puts both of his hands on Dean's chest and focuses. The leg had a rush of heat but this is an intense amount of it all at once. He knows the lungs well so his magic pours into Dean's chest and touches not only them but everything connected to them, particularly the two major veins attached to the lungs. It will feel not only hot but actively burning, the pressure intense since he has to go fast and deep.

Dean might not realize until now how weak his breathing had started to get and the convulsion internally. Jayce is first healing the damage to them, repairing the weakness. Luckily he has only been suffering for a short time, if it was hours later, they would be in serious trouble. ]

Okay, what I'm going to do next is give extra strength to your lungs so they can suck down more air. I'm going to need you to take very deep breaths and blow them out. The smoke will come with it but you'll want to breathe too fast and make it a struggle. We're almost there.

( Probably would've been a good idea to go ahead and pin him. There's a brief, flickering glance at Geralt that might bely the fact that he's considering mentioning that too, but ultimately decides not to. Hell, maybe it won't be that bad. He's been through some shit, maybe he'll be fine, how bad could it possibly-

It's bad. Jesus god damn motherfucking Christ on a hotplate, it sucks dick. If he thought his lungs were burning before, now it feels like they're literally on fire. The reaction's entirely physiological, instant, knee-jerk reflex. Instinct drives him to try and throw himself away, backward, down onto the ground, teeth bared into a snarl, flailing as the muscles convulse and protest. As they try to suck in air to yell, but can't. The sensation of drowning as his throat closes, as he tries desperately to drag oxygen in that just won't come.

And then the constriction eases all at once, and he audibly gasps it in like he's breaching the surface after diving too deep. The tension in his muscles eases, the flailing slows to a stop. His eyes go momentarily wide, and when he exhales, it's with a dark curl of ashen smoke on his breath like a friggin' dragon or something.

At the tail end of the exhale, in a whisper-hoarse flurry of rapid fire words: )

Goddamnyouandyourhandsomereassuringfaceyousonuvabitch-

( Deep, deep inhale. )

[ His expression is wary as he watches the entire thing, eyes flicking to Ciri for a second. He trusts Jayce. He's been subjected to healing through magic and potions alike. That's why he's wary. One never fucking knows how it might go.

Mm. Should've done it from the start. Geralt is lightning quick—grabbing Dean by the arms and holding him down. Keeping him pinned isn't the difficulty; it's doing it without injuring him—and there's a moment where Geralt almost thinks he hears a crack, one he doesn't think is more than a popping joint but he can't be certain. It's impossible to fully temper his grip, though. He doesn't let up until Dean stops struggling and Jayce has moved back.

He peers closely at Dean, a furrow etched into his brows. Looks over at Ciri to make sure she's fine in all of this, too, before he glances back. At least Dean's breathing normally again. Relatively. ]

You're okay?

Wᴇʟʟ, I'ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜɴ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ғʀᴏᴍ ʜɪᴅɪɴ'

Mᴀᴍᴀ, ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs ʙᴀᴅɢᴇ ᴏғғ ᴏғ ᴍᴇ → (ɢᴇʀᴀʟᴛ)

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