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nextinlineJames Stark:
It's been almost fifteen hours straight on the road, switching off naps in the backseat, with brief pauses for gas, snacks, and once, when they started to get into colder territory, to get Dean some clothes aside from what he came back from Hell in. Now it's nearly sundown again, and Stark is driving, and they're nearly to the border where Wyoming meets South Dakota. And since he's driving, Stark totally took advantage of the driver-picks-the-tunes rule, finally getting away from the damned classic rock and listening to a Bad Religion CD he might, maybe, have swiped from a store in the same shopping mall where Dean purchased warmer clothes.
The white lines are getting tedious again, and there's nothing but big trees around, and Stark's debating whether switching the music is a fair exchange for making Winchester drive. He checks the clock and sighs a little to himself, but continues driving doggedly, because he hasn't even heard Los Angeles Is Burning, yet.
Dean Winchester:
The warmer clothes are a blessing now that they were heading further into the mountains, getting colder at night now, much colder. Currently he's bundled up against the door with the heater on and the vent facing him to keep warm. He's always hated the cold, would rather be warmer. It's easier to cool off than it is to get warm anyway. He's nearly asleep, the rumble of the engine not quite what he's used to when in the car but it's lulling enough, when he happens to glance up and sees the faint outline of a figure in the road.
He's not sure if he's seeing anything but it gets more and more clear the closer they get, arms waving back and forth frantically and it doesn't look like James is slowing down. Sitting up, Dean reaches out and smacks the man's arm, "Dude, the fuck, watch out!" Dean shouts, pointing to the figure in the middle of the road just up ahead and reaching for the wheel to to try and swerve.
James Stark:
Stark is, was, looking for his pack of cigarettes, which seem to have slipped from their alloted place in the center console, but to where, he cannot find. When Dean smacks him, he straightens up with that unusual speed of reflexes, and is already jerking the wheel to the right when Dean reaches to do the same thing. Of course, this is overcompensation, and the long car fishtails over the pavement for a few seconds before plowing off the road, through a short fence, and coming to an abrupt, complete stop against a stand of very solid oak trees. Though tense, Stark has the sense (and experience of car accidents) to throw his forearms up, protecting his face from getting slammed into the steering wheel. His arms are fairly unhappy about this. Again, he recovers speedily from the shock of the wreck, and looks over to Winchester. "Okay?" A quick glance out the rear view mirror, to see the figure they'd swerved to avoid is now running, in a shambling sort of way, towards the car.
Dean Winchester:
Dean braces himself for the impact and thank god he's got his belt on as it keeps him from flying through the wind shield. His arms up over his face keeps the glass from hitting him though he's certainly sore from the sudden jerk forward and he's sure he'll have bruises from the seat belt across his chest. But he's alive and that's fine with him. Grunting, he pushes himself back and looks around a bit owlishly. He's got only a tiny cut on his forehead from the edge of the buttons on his sleeve of the coat he's wearing but he's otherwise uninjured. "Shit, yeah, m'good. You?" He asks, looking over at the man, then to the rear view to see the person ambling toward them.
"Middle of the fuckin' street, what were they thinkin'," he mutters to himself as he pushes and shoves the door open with his foot after undoing his seat belt. Getting out, Dean stalks up the bank toward the road and meets the young man half way. "The hell kid, you don't just stand in the middle of the road like that!" But the kid doesn't hear him, just starts babbling. "Ohmygod you're car. We're so fucked. I'm so fucked. It's going to get me and eat me and we're so fucked." Dean's trying to follow what the kid's saying, frowning. "Dude, calm down, what's going on? Hey," Dean snaps his fingers in the kid's face and it seems to get his attention. "What happened."
"My friends, we were camping and this... this thing just.. took them. One by one and I saw it. It looked evil and disgusting and human but it wasn't human and I could hear them screaming. We have to get out of here before it comes back for me! I ran and ran." "Okay kid, calm down. It's alright, nothin's gonna hurt you, okay?" What the hell, a monster out here? The hell could it be? It sounds familiar, that's for damn sure. Dean snaps his fingers as it comes to him. Wendigo! Man, its been years since he's heard about them. It made sense tho, this deep in the mountains. It was probably hibernating until the kid and his friends showed up.
James Stark:
The last wreck Stark recalls being in (he may have forgotten one, or five), he had to pull Lucifer out of a still-moving car while he had a bullet wound in his side. So, comparitively..."I'm good." Unlatching the tautened seatbelt, Stark looks to the mirror again, briefly, wondering if he needs a gun for this encounter. From the look of the kid, likely not. "Fuckin' hillbillies don't even know how to hitch-hike."
Still, he snags his duffelbag, which if it has a gun, also has many other useful things, before getting out of the car. His mood improves quite a lot when he spots his cigarettes, the pack now in the floorboard and happily uncrushed. He picks that up, as well, lighting a cigarette before ambling towards Winchester and the kid, who seems inordinately freaked out about something. And Winchester's wearing a Serious Face, though not a Serious Fuck-You-Up Face, so James assumes it isn't about the car wreck. Stark hangs back, never being a good one for public relations, and smokes his cigarette.
Dean Winchester:
"Okay kid, okay. When were they taken?" He asks, because if it was recent there's a good chance they're all still alive. The Wendigo would keep them for the winter while they hibernate to feed off of through winter and seeing as how it's edging into spring now, it'll be waking up soon and will be mighty hungry. If it's not still out here collecting, that is.
"I don't... a day or two maybe? We were only gonna be out here for five or so days. It's been two, three already. Then this thing attacked and- ". Dean stops him and just nods, claps the kid on the shoulder and squeezes. "It'll be okay, don't worry. Just give me a minute." Then he walks away and heads over to James. There's a little grin on his face when he approaches. This is what he needs. A hunt. Something to get him back in the saddle. "Feel like goin' on a hunt?" He asks. "There's a Wendigo up in these parts. Took the kid's friend. A few days probably. They should still be alive, we can save them, get them out of here, maybe hitch a ride to the next town with them."
James Stark:
Stark continues just hanging around, singing Do What You Want under his breath, looking around boredly like a particularly ADHD five year-old, not focusing in on anything until Dean returns. The obvious excitement that Stark can read confuses him a little, and he listens to Winchester's proposal with increasing bewilderment. "A what? Are you-- weren't we just on our way to avert the Apocalypse? Now we're saving retarded high school kids who never even learned to hitch on the side of the road instead of the center?" He doesn't sound altogether disapproving of the plan, because shit, he's mostly along for the ride anyway. What he does sound is confused, probably confused about why Dean gives a shit.
Dean Winchester:
"They were camping," he says, like it'll make a difference. "I'm not gonna let some innocent kids, however dumbass they might be, become Wendigo chow. So you can sit here and wait for me and babysit the kid or you can come with me, we can hunt this fucker and burn it to the ground, save some innocent kids and be on our merry way. Either way, I'm going." He didn't just get out of hell so he could let innocent people die. That was the whole reason they were hunting. Saving people and killing the big bads in the world. It's what he did and he's eager to get back to it.
He then stalks back to the car and roots around in the bag he'd taken from the hotel and finds the huge cleaver-knife thing. Good enough. It won't kill it, but it'll hurt it. He then goes back to the kid. "Where's your camp at? It'll likely circle back around looking for you." And the camp will probably have some gas or something light a fire with.
James Stark:
Stark gives another of those overexaggerrated sighs when Dean finishes his motivational speech. If he lets Winchester go alone, and something happens to the guy, the angel will be pissed. And anyway, the car is not going anywhere. So..."Lead the way then, Superman." He waves a hand before hoisting his bag again and making his way closer to the kid. The kid startles a little when Stark steps into the full moonlight and can be seen clearly, but Stark barely notices, focusing instead on the blade in Winchester's hand. "Hey, asshole, that's mine."
Dean Winchester:
Dean looks over and down at the blade, then grins. "I know, s'why I took it," he says, then turns and ushers the kid forward to lead them to their camp. Thank god he's dressed warmly for this or he'd probably freeze to death out here. It wasn't dark yet, thankfully but the sun would be setting in a few hours, so they needed to hustle. When they make it to the camp it's empty and torn apart, spatters of blood here and there. Either they were hurt in the process or not all of them will be coming back.
He rummages around and finds a mini flame thrower thing, around the size of a small bottle. There's no gas though to use as an accelerant so he'll have to pray there's enough in the can to light it up. "We need to find some caves, it'll be nesting there, were it hibernates and the kid's friends will likely be there, tied up or something." And hopefully still intact.
James Stark:
Stark snorts his displeasure for that response, but follows along behind Dean and his stray kid, keeping an eye (and a supernaturally-attuned ear) on the woods around them, only pausing once to dig his leather duster out of his bag and put it on, stuffing the collapsed na'at into a pocket. By the time they hike to the campsite, Stark's wishing fervently to be back in LA, where one drives to crime scenes, but the blood and scattered camping gear draw his interest enough to stop thinking about it.
He drops his bag near the empty firepit and, drawing the .45 from an improvised hip holster (he'd prefer Wild Bill's Colt, and where the fuck is that, Dean?), starts a slow circle of the campsite, searching for any signs that a normal human might miss. Unfortunately, there's nothing, and he stops when he's circled around to Winchester again. "Nothing here. What sort of autophagist are we looking for? I've never heard of this wind-ego before."
Dean Winchester:
"It's Native American. Long story short, it's supposedly made from long ago cannibals, hence why it eats people and the only way to kill it is literally with fire." That will never not amuse him. "They're nasty fuckers, pretty quick too, smart. They're not your average dumbass bigfoot type. They're crafty, can trick people, which is probably why the others were so easy to catch."
Gun? What gun? He has no idea what he's talking about.
"We should head for the mountains, there's caves along the low lying areas, I think. Should be anyway, it won't want to wander up too far away from any food."
James Stark:
Stark actually listens intently to that, for once, making a noise of consideration in his throat. "Well, I don't know about smart, but dollars-to-donuts I'm just as quick, and arson is my specialty." He keeps the .45 out, anyway, because it might help in slowing it down. "What's it look like? And what are we doing with this?" 'This' appears to be the kid they picked up, who is looking increasingly concerned by this conversation, crouched shivering and hugging himself among the remains of the camp, at whom Stark motions offhandedly with the barrel of the gun.
Dean Winchester:
"Pretty grody looking. Bigger than a human, claws of some sort, Nosferatu-lookin face. Trust me, you'll know it when you see it," Dean says, then looks over at the kid. "Take him back to the car, the Wendigo won't venture too far from it's nest, so he'll be safe there. I'll head out to find the caves, just... do whatever it is you do to find me." Dean says, then with one last look around he nods and heads off further into the woods, toward the base of the mountain closest to them.
James Stark:
Eyes widening, jaw setting, for a second or two it looks like Stark is going to contest being given a stupid protection detail while Winchester, the human, the important human, goes trekking into the woods after this smart, quick, crafty cannibal. But then, he actually thinks about it, and it makes sense. Dean's hunted one of these things before, and James can make the trip to the car and back much faster, anyway. So he nods, grudgingly, even though Winchester doesn't actually wait for the assent. Stalking over to the petrified teen, Stark grabs an arm to yank him to his feet, and starts walking. He's just about to start in on the 'hold on to me, close your eyes, and don't ask any questions' speech, when he realizes that thanks to the fullness of the moon, none of the wood's numerous shadows are dark enough to allow him entrance to the Room. Grumbling something vaguely threatening under his breath, Stark resigns himself to another hike.
Once he reaches the wrecked car, he lets the kid use his cellphone to call for an ambulance. The kid wants to wait until his friends are back, but Stark manages to convince him to not wait without outright stating his own assumption that the said friends are probably being digested right about now. When the ambulance is on its way, Stark leaves the kid locked in the car and gripping a little .9 mm with a laser sight, and starts his ascent back into the woods. He can move much faster now, without a civilian in tow, and does so, seeking through the old growth for tell-tale signs of Dean's human presence.
Dean Winchester:
Dean finds a few alcoves and small caves along the base of the mountain, frowning when none of them are deep enough for a Wendigo to nest in. He walks a little further and finds a small trail. Ducking down, he fingers the matted undergrowth. Drag marks. He follows the path through a thatch of trees and bushes, pushing through them and when he comes out here's a rocky cave not ten feet from him. He can smell it from here. Yep, this is where the fucker lives. With the knife in one hand and flame thrower in the other, he heads carefully inside.
He can't hear it but the further in he gets the ranker it is, causing him to scrunch up his nose. The cave is more straight forward than the mine shaft the last one they fought had been in and it doesn't take him long to find the kids. They're not strung up this time, nothing to tie them up with, but they are tied up on the ground and gagged. He checks their pulses, all three of them are alive, one's wounded. A cut to the leg it looks like. It's deep but it doesn't seem to be bleeding right now. They wake up, startled, when he starts cutting the ropes with the blade and he shushes them. "You're friend made it, he's fine, told me where you were. Gonna get you outta here, okay?" He whispers, watching them nod. "You get free you run like hell. Follow the path out and head along the base of the mountain, then go south all the way, it'll take you to the edge of the forest and onto the main road. Don't stop until you get there, got it?" They all nod and once he's got the ropes sheered through he helps the wounded kid to her feet.
There's noise behind him, deeper down in the cave and he knows it can hear them, his prey is getting away "Go! Go, go, now"! Dean hisses. One of them screams as they run and Dean swings out as he turns and manages to slice into it's arm as it swipes at him, making it scream a high pitched sound. He tries for the flame thrower but he can't get it started as he backs up toward the mouth of the cave. It rushes him and he dodges to the side and lashes out with the blade, catching it along it's back but it swings back in an arch and hits Dean in the side, making him grunt and hit the wall, head smacking the rock. The flame thrower drops and rolls away, out of reach.
James Stark:
It doesn't take long for Stark to reach the base of the nearest foothills, where Dean had indicated searching, and once he's there, it's fairly easy to focus in on the humans in the area. Everything else, all the other fauna, is quietly going about its business, but the humans stand out - heartbeats all over the place, breathing mostly erratic; he's pretty sure there's at least three of them, maybe four, and only one doesn't seem to be pissing-your-pants terrified. Winchester. Following the sense to a deeper cave, Stark has barely scoped out the opening when three battered-looking teens rush by him. None of them seem to notice him.
"Fucking rubes," Stark mutters to himself, because he can't stand how completely ignorant most civilians are, right up to where they're hanging from the ceiling by their own intestines.
But he's distracted from that line of thought when the remaining pulse he can hear suddenly does spike, and a sense of something other is added to it. Sounds like Dean found his monster. Stark heads into the cave, trying to go quickly but cannily at the same time. Luckily, the cave doesn't seem to have any navigable forks, and isn't too deep underground.
It is fairly dark, though, especially after the moon-bright forest. Also, maybe Stark isn't watching the ground. The small bottle of accelerant on the flamethrower is suddenly underfoot, and he's doing a comedic soft-shoe routine in an attempt to stay upright, when he belatedly notices the...the THING, which is stalking menacingly towards Dean, who seems dazed. Giving up on finding his footing, Stark lets himself drop, getting off a couple of decent fall-away shots as he goes down. It does at least catch the wendigo's attention, but the creature seems to sense that Stark's something different. Instead of going straight at him, it turns, and seems to debate the wisdom of attack before deciding to run away.
Winchester was right, it is fast. Stark curses, hauls himself to his feet, and starts after it. He hardly gets two yards deeper into the cave before he loses sight of it, though; freezing where he is, he looks around, head turning rapidly. "Where the fuck-- " Almost absently, it seems, he digs the na'at from his coat with his left hand - the right still gripping the .45.
Dean Winchester:
Dean shakes his head and gets up, grabs the flame thrower and takes off after them, glad for once that James is there. He finally gets the flame thrower to start but doesn't waste the gas inside, though he's got a finger on the trigger. His eyes adjust to the dark but it's still too pitch black to see anything. "Mother fucker, where the hell are you." He hisses to himself, a sound off to his right causes him to turn and seeing the thing coming at him he lights up the flame thrower but it jerks back and to the side, rushing forward before Dean can swing the flames back on it again.
It grabs his throat and lifts him up off the ground, choking him. He coughs and tries to kick out, tries to angle the flame thrower at the damn thing but it grabs his arm and bends it back until he drops it, the flame sputtering out. Then it throws him off of to the side. Dean hits the wall hard and when he falls it's into a stream of ice cold water. It shocks the air right out of him, chest tight and lungs aching as he sinks. It takes him a moment to surface, spluttering and when he does the Wendigo snarls at him from above.
James Stark:
Unfortunately, in this shifting, uncertain light, Stark doesn't see the damn thing any sooner than Dean does; later, actually, not until it has Dean by the throat. Then he reacts without thought. In a practiced movement, a flick and twist of the wrist, he extends the na'at to its full length and swings it low into the wendigo, taking it behind the knees. The creature is as tough as it looks, though - the razor-thin blade doesn't penetrate more than a couple of inches into its skin, and the pain only seems to make it more pissed off. It doesn't even glance at Stark this time. It has clearly decided Winchester is the easier target and remains where it is hovering over the other man.
There is one advantage to the darkness of the cave. Marking the wendigo's position quickly, Stark steps back and through the shadow, stepping back out a split second later on the opposite side of the small stream. The na'at flashes again, malleable this time so that it wraps once around the creature's waist and, as Stark steps back and pulls on the handle of the weapon, the retreating whip-blade strips off a couple layers of skin. Now, it's pissed enough to come after him, and Stark backs up more as the thing leaps the stream easily. It rushes him, and he's firing, shot after shot straight into the torso, but even with the Spiritus Dei-dipped bullets, the shots only barely slow it down. "Fucking die already, Gollum!" The gun's out of bullets, so now Stark's resorting to arena mode, the na'at spinning and flashing almost too quickly to see, but not doing much more good than the bullets were.
Dean Winchester:
Relieved when it finally turns it's attention away, Dean wades as quickly as he can over to the edge of the stream. The flame thrower is too far away from him to get to it in time, but he's sure James has some sort of fucking fire, he smokes enough his lighter should do the trick if they can get close enough.
"Jesus, fuck," he gasps out, shivering violently. "Fire!" Dean yells, "Kill it with fire!" And he almost laughs at the absurdity of that statement but it's so fucking true. Fire is the only thing that can kill it. When he manages to pull himself from the stream, he's leaning against the wall, sopping wet, new clothes drenched and muddy.
James Stark:
Even while tossing the hell-weapon around like a pro, Stark's eyes widen with realization, but never leave the monster in front of him. He'd forgotten arson, of course. His voice is steady, if tense, as he shouts back at Dean. "Get down, hold your breath."
He scarcely gives Dean enough time to follow the command before he drops, himself, simultaneously swinging the na'at out again to try to tangle up the wendigo's legs (the monster keeps trying to slash at the blade, like it thinks it can tear through it). He barks a short, gutteral burst of Hellion. It's nearly impossible to say anything in Hellion that doesn't sound vicious, so naturally this sounds even worse. Stark rolls away from the monster and sucks in a breath as the spell takes hold. All the oxygen in the cave is sucked up towards the ceiling, then ignites in a glorious blast of flame, yellow-hot tinged with blue, blowing out and frying anything that's more than a couple feet from the ground. It makes a surprisingly loud thunderclap noise, too.
A moment later, his eyes manage to adjust to the darkness again (as much as is possible). He searches around, finally spotting the crispy remains of their foe a few feet away. Rolling onto his hands and knees, Stark crawls over to check it out, but is disappointed when it ashes out into nothingness. Never managed to get a good look at it.
Pulling himself to his feet, he heads in the direction that Winchester was last seen, blinking and blinking in an attempt to find his vision. "Never done that inside, before. It wasn't so loud in the arena." Tired of fumbling around like a blind man, Stark digs Mason's lighter from the pocket of his jeans, and fires it up. "Winchester? Oh. What the fuck happened to you?"
Dean Winchester:
Dean has seconds after the warning to suck in a sharp breath and dive into the water again before the explosion hits, and even underwater he can feel the heat of it, the light as it spreads out over the ceiling of the cave and he can barely hear the thing screeching as it goes up in flames. He waits a few seconds more before he surfaces, gasping for air and wiping the water from his face.
Wading over to the edge again he climbs back out, a second time, this time just crawling to the wall and leaning against it. He huffs a laugh and flips the man off. A shudder wracks through him and he coughs and sputters a little, then wipes down his face again. It's dark now, can see it with the once fading light gone. He doesn't think they'll be able to make it back to the car now. Wonderful, he gets out of hell only to die from hypothermia.
James Stark:
Stark raises a sharply creased eyebrow for that lack-luster response, and now that he's closer, he can see just how soaked Winchester is. Completely. "Ahh." He crouches down, holding the flame closer. "Your head's bleeding. Are you dizzy? Can you walk?"
Probably not all the way back to the car, and Stark's not sure if it would be better to remain here. The wind was getting pretty vicious on his way up here, and the sky was covered with a thin layer of clouds. Small patches of snow here and there had given away that, in this zip code, winter starts in September. At least here, they are out of that wind, and sheltered from any snowfall that might start, although the place smells pretty unpalatable.
There is, of course, the option of going through the Room of Thirteen Doors, but even if Stark weren't reluctant to give that information away - Winchester would ask questions, Winchester always asks questions - he's not sure that walking a soaked, injured, possibly concussed human through the center of the universe is a good idea. It seems as easy as passing from one room to the next, for Stark, but he instinctively knows it's not that simple.
Dean Winchester:
"Huh?" He asks, reaching up to touch his head and winces when he draws his hand away, seeing blood there in the dim light provided by the lighter. "Little bit, should be able to. Think we can make it to the car?" He asks, words a little slower than usual as he fights the urge to stammer because of the cold. Now that he's out of the water and the adrenaline is starting to fade, he can feel how cold he is, shivering almost constantly.
James Stark:
The confusion in Winchester's tone doesn't bode hopeful for the head wound being merely a head wound, and Stark sneers a bit, just to himself, but his tone is as expressionless as it gets. "No, I don't think you can, not now. Even if you could, that car's not going anywhere; one of the trees pulverized the radiator fan. Better to wait for morning."
He stands up again, with a leather creak of boots and duster, and inexplicably walks away, closing the Zippo as he does. It probably appears that he's just abandoning Dean, but he merely goes out of eyesight to step back into the Room and grab the duffel bag he'd left inside. There isn't much useful in it; the one with dry clothes, snacks, and drinkables, he left in the car, and this one only holds most of his magical paraphenalia and some weapons. Still, something may be of use. Returning to the cave through the ironically-named Door of Ice, Stark paces over to drop the bag near Winchester and crouch again, unzipping it, and ordering absently, "You need to start stripping."
Dean Winchester:
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he mutters, then watches, surprised when James gets up and just... leaves. He lets out a bitter sort of laugh as he sits there, runs a hand down his face. Figures. Well, he did want the little asshole gone, after all. He tries to push himself up but a wave of dizziness washes over him and he just crumbles to the ground instead. By the time he tries to do it again, he's surprised to see James again and just sits there, watching s the man drops a bag.
"What?" Logically he knows what James means, because his clothes can't dry - he can't dry - if he's still in them, but for the moment it takes his brain a few seconds to wrap his head around it. Scowling, he sits forward and unzips his coat, pulling it off and tossing it off to the side, then does the same with the sweater and two shirts he has on. He shivers hard, teeth chattering a little as his hands go for his jeans, fingers trembling as he works the belt off and then gets his jeans open. He kicks off his boots and shoves his jeans off, then his thick socks. He leaves his boxers on though, despite the thin material also being wet.
James Stark:
Stark couldn't say he wasn't halfway expecting Dean to be a little confused; even if that isn't a concussion he's sporting, being literally freezing cold tends to make one incapable of focusing. He's just grateful that the order is followed without him having to explain that waterlogged clothing wicks heat away from the body, and therefore does more harm than good.
Emptying the pockets of his coat, Stark re-ignites the lighter and sets it carefully on the ground for some tiny source of light, before standing up and pulling the duster off. The leather might be slightly beaded with moisture, from the humidity in the atmosphere settling with the cold, but it's been well-treated and the lining is completely dry. He drops the coat over Winchester's head, like someone dropping a blanket over a birdcage. Not that Winchester's exhuding much body heat, in his state, but at least this way he won't be totally exposed to the elements while Stark searches his bag for useful items.
Which, as suspected, aren't really in evidence. "Motherfucker." He paws through completely useless pouches and vials and miscellaneous arcana. Would it be worth it, going back to the car to fetch the other bag? He throws a look at Winchester, who is still shuddering under the long coat, but with decreasing frequency, another bad sign. If he gets too cold for his body's natural defense mechanism of shivering to keep working, he'll only be losing more body heat. "You need to move, Winchester. Don't stay still, and for fuck's sake, don't fall asleep, because I do not want to go back to Hell to drag your frost-bitten ass out again." No, absolutely not safe to take the fifteen minute hike to and from the car.
Dean Winchester:
Dean doesn't say anything when the coat is dropped on him, just pulls it tight around him and soaks up the left over warmth. He's still shivering, teeth chattering a little as he watches dazedly as James roots through his bag. He scowls at the thought of moving right now, limbs achy and slow. "Screw you, you t-try getting dunked twice in f-freezing water in the cold and you get up and m-move around."
But despite his bitching he does try to get up. He makes it up but leans against the wall as a wave of dizziness rushes over him and he has to close his eyes and rub at his head for it to pass. What was it with shit throwing him into walls? He's surprised he doesn't have actual brain damage from all the times it's happened.
James Stark:
"Oh, oh, insults? And here I am saving you from your own stupidity again." He's intentionally taunting now, because if Winchester gets annoyed, he'll be more likely to stay awake from pure stubbornness. Stark inches away along the wall, and starts gouging at the packed dirt floor with his knife, carving out a quick but effective protection circle, about five feet in diameter. Once done, he goes back to the bag for some goofer dust, just to be safe - a surprise demon visit would not be just the thing, right now. But he pauses when he notices that Dean has moved.
"I didn't mean to stand up, jackass, you'll fall and hit your head again." And Stark completely ignores how mother-hen he might sound when he says that, rising himself to grab Winchester by the shoulders and guide him into the center of the circle he just drew. "Sit. Just move your hands, or your feet, if you can feel them at all. When you expend energy, it creates heat."
What is it about him that he has to have a fight or a massacre or a crisis to be able to think straight? Probably this is a serious character defect. Unearthing the pouch of graveyard dirt, he walks around the circle, sprinkling it lavishly. Then he drags his bag over, steps behind Winchester, and sits down on his haunches before wrapping an arm around the other man to pull him back against his chest.
Dean Winchester: Dean scowls as he's moved but with as cold as he is he's hard pressed to complain about it. He sits down in the middle of the circle and pulls the coat tighter around him, shivering. The hunter tries moving his arms and legs, feet too and grimaces as he realizes how sore he is from being thrown around and dunked into ice cold water. Twice. But he does it because he knows James is right, as much as he's loathed to admit it.
He watches, distractedly, as the man sprinkles dirt all around the circle. He'd really like to sleep, honestly. And be warm, a hot shower and a warm, soft bed. Dean jolts a little as he feels arms wrapping around his middle, body tilting back. "the fuck're you doin?" Dean mutters, trying to pull away, but between getting thrown around like a rag doll, developing hypothermia and, oh right, being resurrected, Dean's not really all that strong enough to break away from the other man's hold.
James Stark: Supernatural creature that he is, it only takes Stark a tiny bit of exertion to keep Winchester from eeling out of his grasp, then settles himself as comfortably as possible on the packed earth floor. Stark is pretty cold, himself, and this cave smells like a Hellion butchershop's offal pile, and if it weren't for Winchester, he could easily be finding himself a more pleasing place to spend the night. In short, he isn't in a mood to be bitched at. "Taking advantage of your weakened state to ravish your silky body. What else?" He sounds perfectly matter-of-fact, it's also off-hand. He secures his arms around Dean's waist, sets his chin on the other man's shoulder, and stares into the darkness as he searches his mental lexicon of half-ass hoodoo for anything else that might be useful in this situation.
Dean Winchester: The thing Dean hates the most is that it's actually kind of warm, having James at his back and his arm around him, feeling the heat radiating from it. It's not much, but it's more than he had to begin with and he snaps his mouth shut with a click from where he'd been about to bitch and complain again. It doesn't help that he can feel warm breath ghosting over his neck and shoulder, making him shiver at the contrast between how hot it feels and how cold he actually is. "If I die I am coming back to haunt your half-breed ass," Dean mumbles half-heartedly.
James Stark: "If you die, princess, I'm finding you in Hell again and making you my eternal bitch." This is punctuated with an insituating poke in the side, but it's half-hearted; Stark's still trying to concentrate. He's having trouble coming up with anything, and a moment later, his concentration is entirely broken by the damp seeping into his own pants near the knees. He leans back a bit before he realizes where the icy-cold water is originating from. "You're dripping, Winchester. And oozing. If you insist on wearing sopping panties, none of this is going to do any good - you'll just lose any body heat you manage to create, especially sitting on this freezing ground."
So said, Stark scoots back - careful not to disturb the dust circle nor the one gouged into the earth - to give the guy some space to finish unclothing, not without indulging in a little eye-rolling. It's darker in this cave than Obyzuth's twat, at the moment (not to mention nearly as pungent), and the hunter's worried about his modesty.
Dean Winchester: He squirms away at the poke but doesn't move far then huffs out in an annoyed, and loud, fashion before hesitating in shimmying out of his boxers. It's mostly embarrassing because he feels weak and hey it's not like he knows this guy all that well or anything. Normally he'd have no trouble droppin' trou in front of people, especially the pretty ones, but this wasn't exactly a normal situation either.
"Fine, there. Happy now?" Dean groused as he pulled his knees up to his chest in an effort to get warmer, then thought better of it as the cool air in the cave wafted between his legs, so he then just settles on crossing them.
James Stark: In the meantime, Stark reaches one arm behind his head to somewhat reluctantly remove his own shirt. This he utilizes once Dean has stilled again, dropping it over the other man's head and scrubbing at his scalp with both hands, like someone drying their kid's hair after a bath, to stop the dripping as well. "Happy? Spending my free time saving ungrateful assholes in return for absolutely nothing isn't my favorite thing to do. What kind of a fucking retard would be happy with that?"
Done with drying Dean's hair, Stark sets the now-dampened shirt aside, and drags the hunter back to his previous place with that inexorable grip of his. "Keep moving. I'm trying to think of a spell that creates heat without blowing anything up." Which is probably a losing battle.
Dean Winchester: Dean makes a sound of protest and bats at the shirt over his head which really just amounts to being batted at by a three week old kitten, he's that weak right now. The hunter rolls his eyes and lets out a loud, put out sigh. "Thanks for saving my ass back there." Happy? Is implied but not said, and really he's only doing that just to be an ass. But he is, actually, thankful even if he doesn't say it. It's not like he wants to die again or anything.
"What? No, no way, you are not using any more of that magic of yours anywhere near me," Dean stated firmly. Him or his naked bits, thank you. He'd very much like to not have his dick explode. He needs that.
James Stark: "De nada, you're completely welcome, anytime." Stark sounds nearly as insincere and grudging as Winchester's expression of gratitude did. The smaller man shifts about, sitting back on his heels and setting his knees to either side of Winchester's hips, reaching forward to readjust the long leather trench so that it covers as much area as possible.
The following protest makes him sigh sharply, breath deflecting against Winchester's nape. Now that they're settled, Stark reaches both lanky arms around the other man's chest, over the leather. "Even if you were in a position to stop me - " his voice is still low, half-distracted, and he's clasping his hands together, almost like a prayer. " - which you aren't - don't you think it's time you accept that magic can be pretty fucking useful in times of crisis?" But of course, Stark doesn't leave any time for a reply. "I know what I'm doing." Most of the time, at least; and when he doesn't, he fakes it well.
Eyelids dropping to half-mast, he focuses, feeling the weird fluttering in his chest that he's come to associate with magical energy concentrating. In a matter of seconds, it expands, and Stark presses his palms together, twisting and rubbing like he's merely trying to create friction between them. The spell is yet another he used in the arena, but he's careful to use quiet, harmless English and Latin instead of the guttural Hellion that keeps trying to sneak out. The words are murmured, half-nonsense, but rhythmic and soothing.
His arms tighten around the other man, to keep Winchester from trying to squirm away when he realizes that Stark is 'using more of that magic of his', and simultaneously a pale glow starts to emerge between his palms, as if he has a firefly trapped there. The dim light strengthens, pulsing in time with the beat of his words. It's not a flame; it looks more like putting a hand over the end of a flashlight. All the fingers, bones, vessels, and multiple scars on Stark's hands are outlined every time the glow pulses, and a noticeable heat begins to emanate from them.
Dean Winchester: Well that doesn't make him feel any better, he thinks as he looks down at James' hands, frowning. He's seen what those hands are capable of and it makes him a little nervous. "No," he says resolutely. Magic has never done any of them any good. The only good thing it did do tho was save his brother, even if it meant giving up his own life for it. It was something he's willing to do again if he has to, though he hopes he doesn't. He didn't want to die the first time and he doesn't want to again.
He also knows he's being a little petulant. But he'd been brought up that magic was bad, demons and monsters were bad, the whole nine. It's going to take a lot more than one person telling him to accept magic like he were some evangelist telling him to accept Jesus into his heart or some other bullshit.
The faint light catches his attention at the same time as the muttered Latin, words he doesn't recognize. He does squirm, then, even though it's futile with as weak as he feels right now. "The fuck are you doing? What did I say about using that shit around me," he seethes, despite the heat he can feel radiating from the glow in the man's hands.
James Stark: Stark narrows his eyes, peering intently at his oddly-glowing hands and gritting his teeth through the words of the spell. Strangely, it seems to take more effort to keep the moderate heat from becoming the flesh-melting sort of heat that he used when fighting Hellions - nothing he can't handle, of course, and probably just another pleasant side effect of spending over a third of his life going Wild Bunch all over Hell. He doesn't know how to take baby-steps anymore.
For Dean's continued blather, the magician just shrugs a little, interrupting the flow of Latin to respond (though the words come out in the same half-rhythmical way that the spell was, sounding sort of staccato). "I don't know, I wasn't listening." He pulls his hands apart, releasing a quick-fading flash of light, though the appendages themselves still emanate that dim glow. Those appendages head straight for Dean's face - Stark knows Dean couldn't move away, even if he weren't being restrained, so why not get a little payback for the constant bitching? - and narrow fingertips press against Dean's hairline, then smooth back until Stark's cupping the top of his skull with both hands, spreading a very lovely heat over the near-frozen flesh and possibly releasing a little steam as the hair dries.
Dean Winchester: Dean watches, both enthralled and horrified at the light and the warmth coming from the other's hands, the way it seems to expand and when it flashes he has to close his eyes against it. "Jesus fuck, what the hell!" He exclaims and when those hands, glowing, reach for him he tries to move away even if it's not that far to begin with. He tries to get out of reach but can't.
A hard shudder rocks through him at the heat that spreads over him, causing him to suck in a sharp breath, eyes widening. "Holy shit," he murmurs, hearing more than seeing the hiss of steam from the heat hitting the cold air of the cave. "The fuck did you just do?" And, okay, he has to admit that that? That kind of helps a little.
James Stark: There's a grin that Stark doesn't even try to deny for the mingled reactions he's getting. He hasn't met anyone so easily affected by magic shows since Alice; her reactions were typically more joyful than condemnatory, but just as energetic. "I warmed my hands."
After holding onto the top of Dean's head for a moment, long enough for his hair to dry, Stark draws one back to grip the nape of the man's neck. The other moves to Dean's chest, the heat spreading through the thick leather covering it. It's easier, now that his hands are at the right, not-burning temperature, to keep them there, but still requires enough concentration for his words to come out stilted. "It's a spell I learned for the arena - can't remember who taught me. The idea is to emanate so much heat that your enemy's flesh practically melts off." Because that's a reassuring comment to make right now. "The downside is that you burn the shit out of your hands when you use it that way, so no one much uses it." Not that self-injury ever stopped Stark from a showy battle move.
Dean Winchester: "Yeah I can see that, asshole," Dean replies, rolling his eyes. When the hands press against his neck and his chest over the coat, he shudders again, full-bodied and can't help but press into it despite himself. He was practically freezing to death before but now the heat coming from James is helping him keep warm. He doesn't even know why he's doing it, either, with all the shit Dean's given him.
"Well that's fucking reassuring, thanks," he mutters, leaning away from the hands before thinking better of it and just stilling to let the heat do it's work to warm him up. "Neat trick but suck ass after affects, huh? Sounds shitty." He wonders idly if that means that James is burning his hands to help keep Dean warm. He feels like he should ask if he's okay, but the heat is starting to lull him into a slight doze.
James Stark: "You do know that 'thanks' is supposed to be an expression of gratitude, right? Not just an emphasis for your more bitchy comments?" He doesn't sound like he expects an answer. He shifts in place a little, not entirely comfortable with the situation or location or, well, anything, but doesn't try too hard to remedy that since it wouldn't work. The hand on Winchester's chest stays in place, while the other slips, slow and barely-noticeable, around the side of his neck to hover over the carotid artery and warm the blood. "There wasn't really any avoiding nightly injuries. Getting them from kicking the other guy's ass seemed like the best I could do. But I guess you know that."
There's a hesitance to that last sentence, an odd tone. It's easy to forget sometimes that Dean, too, was a denizen of Hell for a relatively short while - to see him as just another complaining civilian that Stark (for whatever reasons) has to deal with. The guy's only been back on Earth a few days, and he hasn't had an easy time of those few days, not to mention the sort of things Stark is sure went on Downtown. Probably Dean has every right and reason to be as short-tempered and suspicious as he is. Not that Stark intends to wear kid gloves to handle him, but it is something to keep in mind.
Dean Winchester: Dean quiets after that, listening to James' voice as he speaks and frowns some at the mentions of Hell. Despite what he'd said Dean remembers almost everything. Mostly the fighting, in the ring. Certainly not what he'd thought Hell would be like. Less fire and brimstone and more endless Fight Club.
"Yeah," he murmurs in response, not wanting to talk about it. He doesn't /want/ to remember, honestly. He wants to forget everything from the moment he died and was dragged to Hell until now. Without meaning to, Dean slumps back against James, body relaxed and exhausted, the warmth curling through him from the other man's hands making him tired. He's not really one to trust right off the bat, or let his guard down like he is now, but right now he doesn't really have much of a choice in the matter.
James Stark: Between the monosyllabic reply and Dean suddenly going all boneless against him, Stark feels a little prick of anxiety. Replacing both feverish hands on Winchester's shoulders, he lightly shakes him. "Don't fall asleep. Odds are on you having a concussion." With the hunter's occupation, he's bound to have run into head injuries before, and Stark is sure he needn't explain why falling asleep with a concussion is a bad idea. Those hands move away from the man's biceps, shifting to rest atop his shoulders instead, still emanating heat.
Dean Winchester: "M'not asleep," Dean mutters, scowling a little as he blinks slowly. Ugh, he does feel like he wants to sleep but he's not stupid and knows he can't. He's warmer now for sure even if he does kind of hate that magic is the reason why. He still think it's shit but is grudgingly able to admit that it has it's perks. Like keeping him alive. He does sigh, though, sounding put out. "Thanks, though. For helping me. Sorry for ditching you," he says, even if he's really not. Sort of, anyway.
James Stark: Stark rolls his nickel-grey eyes for that peace offering, vocalizing the action with a derisive snort. "Just stop trying to be polite. You're doing it wrong." His shoulders, though healing rapidly, are still a bit sore from the car crash, and he rolls them absently. "So this is what you do? Seek out monsters and slaughter them for the good of humanity?" Though sounding cynical, the tone is curious, too.
Dean Winchester: "Something like that, yeah. Family business. Dad started it when I was little, didn't think he meant it to become a thing, been doing it my whole life. Sammy went off to college, though, for awhile." Until Dean dragged him back into it cause he couldn't - didn't want to - do it alone. It's his fault and he knows it. "Someone's gotta do it, right?"
James Stark: "Killing monsters is the family business." This is not really a question, just a flat statement. "I guess it's better than used car sales. Doesn't seem like it would pay much, though." As for someone having to do it, Stark stays silent; his entirely cynical outlook says that if people are too stupid to defend themselves, then probably they deserve what they get. Hell might have instilled in him a twisted code of honor and obligation.
Dean Winchester: Dean snorts at that. "Doesn't pay fuck all. Not even a thanks." Not that it bothers him, really. Most people are too freaked out to thank them and half the time they're running from the law anyway. No need to stick around after. "Definitely better than used cars, though," he says, amusement in his voice, lips tilted in a slight smirk.
James Stark: Stark makes a lazy noise of consideration. "Guess I shouldn't complain so much about the Vigil taking Social Security outta my checks." Though he will, he so will. Since when do dead men have to pay taxes? Still trying to get comfortable, he shifts his shoulders against the rough wall behind him and takes a deep breath - which he very quickly exhales with a sort of cough. "Fuck. Stuck in a dark, wet, cold cave that smells worse than a charnel house, with the ashes of a flash-fried Lurker and an oozing hole in my leg. Almost feels like -- is it just me, or does this bring back memories?"
Dean Winchester: He lets out a small laugh at that and shakes his head a little. The guy sure has a sense of humor. He stills a moment later at the sharp inhale and exhale when James moves behind him. "You're hurt," he says and he doesn't mean the hole in the leg he mentions. He knows that sound, has had enough bum shoulders to know. "Arm? Shoulder? Why didn' you say somethin'?" Dean asks, though he knows why and knows Dean likely wouldn't have given a shit. But... hell, he doesn't know. Maybe it's cause this is the second - third? - time the guy's saved his life now.
James Stark: Stark's glad he didn't finish that sentence as he meant to - 'almost feels like home' - because he doubts it would appease Winchester's undying suspicion any at all. Probably bolster it, actually. The sudden show of concern, or whatever that is, catches him off guard. "No. Your carnivorous friend tagged me in the leg, but not too deep." Truthfully, it was fairly deep - an inch or two - but Stark is sure that it's nearly done clotting by now. As for the other... "That James Dean stunt with the Lincoln didn't do my back any favors, though. Maybe a compressed disk, maybe whiplash, maybe cracked a rib, I'm not sure." He sounds entirely flippant about it. "My arms are an interesting mottle of colors, too. Didn't damage you, did it? That tree hit us pretty hard." Yes, it was the tree's fault.
It's been almost fifteen hours straight on the road, switching off naps in the backseat, with brief pauses for gas, snacks, and once, when they started to get into colder territory, to get Dean some clothes aside from what he came back from Hell in. Now it's nearly sundown again, and Stark is driving, and they're nearly to the border where Wyoming meets South Dakota. And since he's driving, Stark totally took advantage of the driver-picks-the-tunes rule, finally getting away from the damned classic rock and listening to a Bad Religion CD he might, maybe, have swiped from a store in the same shopping mall where Dean purchased warmer clothes.
The white lines are getting tedious again, and there's nothing but big trees around, and Stark's debating whether switching the music is a fair exchange for making Winchester drive. He checks the clock and sighs a little to himself, but continues driving doggedly, because he hasn't even heard Los Angeles Is Burning, yet.
Dean Winchester:
The warmer clothes are a blessing now that they were heading further into the mountains, getting colder at night now, much colder. Currently he's bundled up against the door with the heater on and the vent facing him to keep warm. He's always hated the cold, would rather be warmer. It's easier to cool off than it is to get warm anyway. He's nearly asleep, the rumble of the engine not quite what he's used to when in the car but it's lulling enough, when he happens to glance up and sees the faint outline of a figure in the road.
He's not sure if he's seeing anything but it gets more and more clear the closer they get, arms waving back and forth frantically and it doesn't look like James is slowing down. Sitting up, Dean reaches out and smacks the man's arm, "Dude, the fuck, watch out!" Dean shouts, pointing to the figure in the middle of the road just up ahead and reaching for the wheel to to try and swerve.
James Stark:
Stark is, was, looking for his pack of cigarettes, which seem to have slipped from their alloted place in the center console, but to where, he cannot find. When Dean smacks him, he straightens up with that unusual speed of reflexes, and is already jerking the wheel to the right when Dean reaches to do the same thing. Of course, this is overcompensation, and the long car fishtails over the pavement for a few seconds before plowing off the road, through a short fence, and coming to an abrupt, complete stop against a stand of very solid oak trees. Though tense, Stark has the sense (and experience of car accidents) to throw his forearms up, protecting his face from getting slammed into the steering wheel. His arms are fairly unhappy about this. Again, he recovers speedily from the shock of the wreck, and looks over to Winchester. "Okay?" A quick glance out the rear view mirror, to see the figure they'd swerved to avoid is now running, in a shambling sort of way, towards the car.
Dean Winchester:
Dean braces himself for the impact and thank god he's got his belt on as it keeps him from flying through the wind shield. His arms up over his face keeps the glass from hitting him though he's certainly sore from the sudden jerk forward and he's sure he'll have bruises from the seat belt across his chest. But he's alive and that's fine with him. Grunting, he pushes himself back and looks around a bit owlishly. He's got only a tiny cut on his forehead from the edge of the buttons on his sleeve of the coat he's wearing but he's otherwise uninjured. "Shit, yeah, m'good. You?" He asks, looking over at the man, then to the rear view to see the person ambling toward them.
"Middle of the fuckin' street, what were they thinkin'," he mutters to himself as he pushes and shoves the door open with his foot after undoing his seat belt. Getting out, Dean stalks up the bank toward the road and meets the young man half way. "The hell kid, you don't just stand in the middle of the road like that!" But the kid doesn't hear him, just starts babbling. "Ohmygod you're car. We're so fucked. I'm so fucked. It's going to get me and eat me and we're so fucked." Dean's trying to follow what the kid's saying, frowning. "Dude, calm down, what's going on? Hey," Dean snaps his fingers in the kid's face and it seems to get his attention. "What happened."
"My friends, we were camping and this... this thing just.. took them. One by one and I saw it. It looked evil and disgusting and human but it wasn't human and I could hear them screaming. We have to get out of here before it comes back for me! I ran and ran." "Okay kid, calm down. It's alright, nothin's gonna hurt you, okay?" What the hell, a monster out here? The hell could it be? It sounds familiar, that's for damn sure. Dean snaps his fingers as it comes to him. Wendigo! Man, its been years since he's heard about them. It made sense tho, this deep in the mountains. It was probably hibernating until the kid and his friends showed up.
James Stark:
The last wreck Stark recalls being in (he may have forgotten one, or five), he had to pull Lucifer out of a still-moving car while he had a bullet wound in his side. So, comparitively..."I'm good." Unlatching the tautened seatbelt, Stark looks to the mirror again, briefly, wondering if he needs a gun for this encounter. From the look of the kid, likely not. "Fuckin' hillbillies don't even know how to hitch-hike."
Still, he snags his duffelbag, which if it has a gun, also has many other useful things, before getting out of the car. His mood improves quite a lot when he spots his cigarettes, the pack now in the floorboard and happily uncrushed. He picks that up, as well, lighting a cigarette before ambling towards Winchester and the kid, who seems inordinately freaked out about something. And Winchester's wearing a Serious Face, though not a Serious Fuck-You-Up Face, so James assumes it isn't about the car wreck. Stark hangs back, never being a good one for public relations, and smokes his cigarette.
Dean Winchester:
"Okay kid, okay. When were they taken?" He asks, because if it was recent there's a good chance they're all still alive. The Wendigo would keep them for the winter while they hibernate to feed off of through winter and seeing as how it's edging into spring now, it'll be waking up soon and will be mighty hungry. If it's not still out here collecting, that is.
"I don't... a day or two maybe? We were only gonna be out here for five or so days. It's been two, three already. Then this thing attacked and- ". Dean stops him and just nods, claps the kid on the shoulder and squeezes. "It'll be okay, don't worry. Just give me a minute." Then he walks away and heads over to James. There's a little grin on his face when he approaches. This is what he needs. A hunt. Something to get him back in the saddle. "Feel like goin' on a hunt?" He asks. "There's a Wendigo up in these parts. Took the kid's friend. A few days probably. They should still be alive, we can save them, get them out of here, maybe hitch a ride to the next town with them."
James Stark:
Stark continues just hanging around, singing Do What You Want under his breath, looking around boredly like a particularly ADHD five year-old, not focusing in on anything until Dean returns. The obvious excitement that Stark can read confuses him a little, and he listens to Winchester's proposal with increasing bewilderment. "A what? Are you-- weren't we just on our way to avert the Apocalypse? Now we're saving retarded high school kids who never even learned to hitch on the side of the road instead of the center?" He doesn't sound altogether disapproving of the plan, because shit, he's mostly along for the ride anyway. What he does sound is confused, probably confused about why Dean gives a shit.
Dean Winchester:
"They were camping," he says, like it'll make a difference. "I'm not gonna let some innocent kids, however dumbass they might be, become Wendigo chow. So you can sit here and wait for me and babysit the kid or you can come with me, we can hunt this fucker and burn it to the ground, save some innocent kids and be on our merry way. Either way, I'm going." He didn't just get out of hell so he could let innocent people die. That was the whole reason they were hunting. Saving people and killing the big bads in the world. It's what he did and he's eager to get back to it.
He then stalks back to the car and roots around in the bag he'd taken from the hotel and finds the huge cleaver-knife thing. Good enough. It won't kill it, but it'll hurt it. He then goes back to the kid. "Where's your camp at? It'll likely circle back around looking for you." And the camp will probably have some gas or something light a fire with.
James Stark:
Stark gives another of those overexaggerrated sighs when Dean finishes his motivational speech. If he lets Winchester go alone, and something happens to the guy, the angel will be pissed. And anyway, the car is not going anywhere. So..."Lead the way then, Superman." He waves a hand before hoisting his bag again and making his way closer to the kid. The kid startles a little when Stark steps into the full moonlight and can be seen clearly, but Stark barely notices, focusing instead on the blade in Winchester's hand. "Hey, asshole, that's mine."
Dean Winchester:
Dean looks over and down at the blade, then grins. "I know, s'why I took it," he says, then turns and ushers the kid forward to lead them to their camp. Thank god he's dressed warmly for this or he'd probably freeze to death out here. It wasn't dark yet, thankfully but the sun would be setting in a few hours, so they needed to hustle. When they make it to the camp it's empty and torn apart, spatters of blood here and there. Either they were hurt in the process or not all of them will be coming back.
He rummages around and finds a mini flame thrower thing, around the size of a small bottle. There's no gas though to use as an accelerant so he'll have to pray there's enough in the can to light it up. "We need to find some caves, it'll be nesting there, were it hibernates and the kid's friends will likely be there, tied up or something." And hopefully still intact.
James Stark:
Stark snorts his displeasure for that response, but follows along behind Dean and his stray kid, keeping an eye (and a supernaturally-attuned ear) on the woods around them, only pausing once to dig his leather duster out of his bag and put it on, stuffing the collapsed na'at into a pocket. By the time they hike to the campsite, Stark's wishing fervently to be back in LA, where one drives to crime scenes, but the blood and scattered camping gear draw his interest enough to stop thinking about it.
He drops his bag near the empty firepit and, drawing the .45 from an improvised hip holster (he'd prefer Wild Bill's Colt, and where the fuck is that, Dean?), starts a slow circle of the campsite, searching for any signs that a normal human might miss. Unfortunately, there's nothing, and he stops when he's circled around to Winchester again. "Nothing here. What sort of autophagist are we looking for? I've never heard of this wind-ego before."
Dean Winchester:
"It's Native American. Long story short, it's supposedly made from long ago cannibals, hence why it eats people and the only way to kill it is literally with fire." That will never not amuse him. "They're nasty fuckers, pretty quick too, smart. They're not your average dumbass bigfoot type. They're crafty, can trick people, which is probably why the others were so easy to catch."
Gun? What gun? He has no idea what he's talking about.
"We should head for the mountains, there's caves along the low lying areas, I think. Should be anyway, it won't want to wander up too far away from any food."
James Stark:
Stark actually listens intently to that, for once, making a noise of consideration in his throat. "Well, I don't know about smart, but dollars-to-donuts I'm just as quick, and arson is my specialty." He keeps the .45 out, anyway, because it might help in slowing it down. "What's it look like? And what are we doing with this?" 'This' appears to be the kid they picked up, who is looking increasingly concerned by this conversation, crouched shivering and hugging himself among the remains of the camp, at whom Stark motions offhandedly with the barrel of the gun.
Dean Winchester:
"Pretty grody looking. Bigger than a human, claws of some sort, Nosferatu-lookin face. Trust me, you'll know it when you see it," Dean says, then looks over at the kid. "Take him back to the car, the Wendigo won't venture too far from it's nest, so he'll be safe there. I'll head out to find the caves, just... do whatever it is you do to find me." Dean says, then with one last look around he nods and heads off further into the woods, toward the base of the mountain closest to them.
James Stark:
Eyes widening, jaw setting, for a second or two it looks like Stark is going to contest being given a stupid protection detail while Winchester, the human, the important human, goes trekking into the woods after this smart, quick, crafty cannibal. But then, he actually thinks about it, and it makes sense. Dean's hunted one of these things before, and James can make the trip to the car and back much faster, anyway. So he nods, grudgingly, even though Winchester doesn't actually wait for the assent. Stalking over to the petrified teen, Stark grabs an arm to yank him to his feet, and starts walking. He's just about to start in on the 'hold on to me, close your eyes, and don't ask any questions' speech, when he realizes that thanks to the fullness of the moon, none of the wood's numerous shadows are dark enough to allow him entrance to the Room. Grumbling something vaguely threatening under his breath, Stark resigns himself to another hike.
Once he reaches the wrecked car, he lets the kid use his cellphone to call for an ambulance. The kid wants to wait until his friends are back, but Stark manages to convince him to not wait without outright stating his own assumption that the said friends are probably being digested right about now. When the ambulance is on its way, Stark leaves the kid locked in the car and gripping a little .9 mm with a laser sight, and starts his ascent back into the woods. He can move much faster now, without a civilian in tow, and does so, seeking through the old growth for tell-tale signs of Dean's human presence.
Dean Winchester:
Dean finds a few alcoves and small caves along the base of the mountain, frowning when none of them are deep enough for a Wendigo to nest in. He walks a little further and finds a small trail. Ducking down, he fingers the matted undergrowth. Drag marks. He follows the path through a thatch of trees and bushes, pushing through them and when he comes out here's a rocky cave not ten feet from him. He can smell it from here. Yep, this is where the fucker lives. With the knife in one hand and flame thrower in the other, he heads carefully inside.
He can't hear it but the further in he gets the ranker it is, causing him to scrunch up his nose. The cave is more straight forward than the mine shaft the last one they fought had been in and it doesn't take him long to find the kids. They're not strung up this time, nothing to tie them up with, but they are tied up on the ground and gagged. He checks their pulses, all three of them are alive, one's wounded. A cut to the leg it looks like. It's deep but it doesn't seem to be bleeding right now. They wake up, startled, when he starts cutting the ropes with the blade and he shushes them. "You're friend made it, he's fine, told me where you were. Gonna get you outta here, okay?" He whispers, watching them nod. "You get free you run like hell. Follow the path out and head along the base of the mountain, then go south all the way, it'll take you to the edge of the forest and onto the main road. Don't stop until you get there, got it?" They all nod and once he's got the ropes sheered through he helps the wounded kid to her feet.
There's noise behind him, deeper down in the cave and he knows it can hear them, his prey is getting away "Go! Go, go, now"! Dean hisses. One of them screams as they run and Dean swings out as he turns and manages to slice into it's arm as it swipes at him, making it scream a high pitched sound. He tries for the flame thrower but he can't get it started as he backs up toward the mouth of the cave. It rushes him and he dodges to the side and lashes out with the blade, catching it along it's back but it swings back in an arch and hits Dean in the side, making him grunt and hit the wall, head smacking the rock. The flame thrower drops and rolls away, out of reach.
James Stark:
It doesn't take long for Stark to reach the base of the nearest foothills, where Dean had indicated searching, and once he's there, it's fairly easy to focus in on the humans in the area. Everything else, all the other fauna, is quietly going about its business, but the humans stand out - heartbeats all over the place, breathing mostly erratic; he's pretty sure there's at least three of them, maybe four, and only one doesn't seem to be pissing-your-pants terrified. Winchester. Following the sense to a deeper cave, Stark has barely scoped out the opening when three battered-looking teens rush by him. None of them seem to notice him.
"Fucking rubes," Stark mutters to himself, because he can't stand how completely ignorant most civilians are, right up to where they're hanging from the ceiling by their own intestines.
But he's distracted from that line of thought when the remaining pulse he can hear suddenly does spike, and a sense of something other is added to it. Sounds like Dean found his monster. Stark heads into the cave, trying to go quickly but cannily at the same time. Luckily, the cave doesn't seem to have any navigable forks, and isn't too deep underground.
It is fairly dark, though, especially after the moon-bright forest. Also, maybe Stark isn't watching the ground. The small bottle of accelerant on the flamethrower is suddenly underfoot, and he's doing a comedic soft-shoe routine in an attempt to stay upright, when he belatedly notices the...the THING, which is stalking menacingly towards Dean, who seems dazed. Giving up on finding his footing, Stark lets himself drop, getting off a couple of decent fall-away shots as he goes down. It does at least catch the wendigo's attention, but the creature seems to sense that Stark's something different. Instead of going straight at him, it turns, and seems to debate the wisdom of attack before deciding to run away.
Winchester was right, it is fast. Stark curses, hauls himself to his feet, and starts after it. He hardly gets two yards deeper into the cave before he loses sight of it, though; freezing where he is, he looks around, head turning rapidly. "Where the fuck-- " Almost absently, it seems, he digs the na'at from his coat with his left hand - the right still gripping the .45.
Dean Winchester:
Dean shakes his head and gets up, grabs the flame thrower and takes off after them, glad for once that James is there. He finally gets the flame thrower to start but doesn't waste the gas inside, though he's got a finger on the trigger. His eyes adjust to the dark but it's still too pitch black to see anything. "Mother fucker, where the hell are you." He hisses to himself, a sound off to his right causes him to turn and seeing the thing coming at him he lights up the flame thrower but it jerks back and to the side, rushing forward before Dean can swing the flames back on it again.
It grabs his throat and lifts him up off the ground, choking him. He coughs and tries to kick out, tries to angle the flame thrower at the damn thing but it grabs his arm and bends it back until he drops it, the flame sputtering out. Then it throws him off of to the side. Dean hits the wall hard and when he falls it's into a stream of ice cold water. It shocks the air right out of him, chest tight and lungs aching as he sinks. It takes him a moment to surface, spluttering and when he does the Wendigo snarls at him from above.
James Stark:
Unfortunately, in this shifting, uncertain light, Stark doesn't see the damn thing any sooner than Dean does; later, actually, not until it has Dean by the throat. Then he reacts without thought. In a practiced movement, a flick and twist of the wrist, he extends the na'at to its full length and swings it low into the wendigo, taking it behind the knees. The creature is as tough as it looks, though - the razor-thin blade doesn't penetrate more than a couple of inches into its skin, and the pain only seems to make it more pissed off. It doesn't even glance at Stark this time. It has clearly decided Winchester is the easier target and remains where it is hovering over the other man.
There is one advantage to the darkness of the cave. Marking the wendigo's position quickly, Stark steps back and through the shadow, stepping back out a split second later on the opposite side of the small stream. The na'at flashes again, malleable this time so that it wraps once around the creature's waist and, as Stark steps back and pulls on the handle of the weapon, the retreating whip-blade strips off a couple layers of skin. Now, it's pissed enough to come after him, and Stark backs up more as the thing leaps the stream easily. It rushes him, and he's firing, shot after shot straight into the torso, but even with the Spiritus Dei-dipped bullets, the shots only barely slow it down. "Fucking die already, Gollum!" The gun's out of bullets, so now Stark's resorting to arena mode, the na'at spinning and flashing almost too quickly to see, but not doing much more good than the bullets were.
Dean Winchester:
Relieved when it finally turns it's attention away, Dean wades as quickly as he can over to the edge of the stream. The flame thrower is too far away from him to get to it in time, but he's sure James has some sort of fucking fire, he smokes enough his lighter should do the trick if they can get close enough.
"Jesus, fuck," he gasps out, shivering violently. "Fire!" Dean yells, "Kill it with fire!" And he almost laughs at the absurdity of that statement but it's so fucking true. Fire is the only thing that can kill it. When he manages to pull himself from the stream, he's leaning against the wall, sopping wet, new clothes drenched and muddy.
James Stark:
Even while tossing the hell-weapon around like a pro, Stark's eyes widen with realization, but never leave the monster in front of him. He'd forgotten arson, of course. His voice is steady, if tense, as he shouts back at Dean. "Get down, hold your breath."
He scarcely gives Dean enough time to follow the command before he drops, himself, simultaneously swinging the na'at out again to try to tangle up the wendigo's legs (the monster keeps trying to slash at the blade, like it thinks it can tear through it). He barks a short, gutteral burst of Hellion. It's nearly impossible to say anything in Hellion that doesn't sound vicious, so naturally this sounds even worse. Stark rolls away from the monster and sucks in a breath as the spell takes hold. All the oxygen in the cave is sucked up towards the ceiling, then ignites in a glorious blast of flame, yellow-hot tinged with blue, blowing out and frying anything that's more than a couple feet from the ground. It makes a surprisingly loud thunderclap noise, too.
A moment later, his eyes manage to adjust to the darkness again (as much as is possible). He searches around, finally spotting the crispy remains of their foe a few feet away. Rolling onto his hands and knees, Stark crawls over to check it out, but is disappointed when it ashes out into nothingness. Never managed to get a good look at it.
Pulling himself to his feet, he heads in the direction that Winchester was last seen, blinking and blinking in an attempt to find his vision. "Never done that inside, before. It wasn't so loud in the arena." Tired of fumbling around like a blind man, Stark digs Mason's lighter from the pocket of his jeans, and fires it up. "Winchester? Oh. What the fuck happened to you?"
Dean Winchester:
Dean has seconds after the warning to suck in a sharp breath and dive into the water again before the explosion hits, and even underwater he can feel the heat of it, the light as it spreads out over the ceiling of the cave and he can barely hear the thing screeching as it goes up in flames. He waits a few seconds more before he surfaces, gasping for air and wiping the water from his face.
Wading over to the edge again he climbs back out, a second time, this time just crawling to the wall and leaning against it. He huffs a laugh and flips the man off. A shudder wracks through him and he coughs and sputters a little, then wipes down his face again. It's dark now, can see it with the once fading light gone. He doesn't think they'll be able to make it back to the car now. Wonderful, he gets out of hell only to die from hypothermia.
James Stark:
Stark raises a sharply creased eyebrow for that lack-luster response, and now that he's closer, he can see just how soaked Winchester is. Completely. "Ahh." He crouches down, holding the flame closer. "Your head's bleeding. Are you dizzy? Can you walk?"
Probably not all the way back to the car, and Stark's not sure if it would be better to remain here. The wind was getting pretty vicious on his way up here, and the sky was covered with a thin layer of clouds. Small patches of snow here and there had given away that, in this zip code, winter starts in September. At least here, they are out of that wind, and sheltered from any snowfall that might start, although the place smells pretty unpalatable.
There is, of course, the option of going through the Room of Thirteen Doors, but even if Stark weren't reluctant to give that information away - Winchester would ask questions, Winchester always asks questions - he's not sure that walking a soaked, injured, possibly concussed human through the center of the universe is a good idea. It seems as easy as passing from one room to the next, for Stark, but he instinctively knows it's not that simple.
Dean Winchester:
"Huh?" He asks, reaching up to touch his head and winces when he draws his hand away, seeing blood there in the dim light provided by the lighter. "Little bit, should be able to. Think we can make it to the car?" He asks, words a little slower than usual as he fights the urge to stammer because of the cold. Now that he's out of the water and the adrenaline is starting to fade, he can feel how cold he is, shivering almost constantly.
James Stark:
The confusion in Winchester's tone doesn't bode hopeful for the head wound being merely a head wound, and Stark sneers a bit, just to himself, but his tone is as expressionless as it gets. "No, I don't think you can, not now. Even if you could, that car's not going anywhere; one of the trees pulverized the radiator fan. Better to wait for morning."
He stands up again, with a leather creak of boots and duster, and inexplicably walks away, closing the Zippo as he does. It probably appears that he's just abandoning Dean, but he merely goes out of eyesight to step back into the Room and grab the duffel bag he'd left inside. There isn't much useful in it; the one with dry clothes, snacks, and drinkables, he left in the car, and this one only holds most of his magical paraphenalia and some weapons. Still, something may be of use. Returning to the cave through the ironically-named Door of Ice, Stark paces over to drop the bag near Winchester and crouch again, unzipping it, and ordering absently, "You need to start stripping."
Dean Winchester:
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he mutters, then watches, surprised when James gets up and just... leaves. He lets out a bitter sort of laugh as he sits there, runs a hand down his face. Figures. Well, he did want the little asshole gone, after all. He tries to push himself up but a wave of dizziness washes over him and he just crumbles to the ground instead. By the time he tries to do it again, he's surprised to see James again and just sits there, watching s the man drops a bag.
"What?" Logically he knows what James means, because his clothes can't dry - he can't dry - if he's still in them, but for the moment it takes his brain a few seconds to wrap his head around it. Scowling, he sits forward and unzips his coat, pulling it off and tossing it off to the side, then does the same with the sweater and two shirts he has on. He shivers hard, teeth chattering a little as his hands go for his jeans, fingers trembling as he works the belt off and then gets his jeans open. He kicks off his boots and shoves his jeans off, then his thick socks. He leaves his boxers on though, despite the thin material also being wet.
James Stark:
Stark couldn't say he wasn't halfway expecting Dean to be a little confused; even if that isn't a concussion he's sporting, being literally freezing cold tends to make one incapable of focusing. He's just grateful that the order is followed without him having to explain that waterlogged clothing wicks heat away from the body, and therefore does more harm than good.
Emptying the pockets of his coat, Stark re-ignites the lighter and sets it carefully on the ground for some tiny source of light, before standing up and pulling the duster off. The leather might be slightly beaded with moisture, from the humidity in the atmosphere settling with the cold, but it's been well-treated and the lining is completely dry. He drops the coat over Winchester's head, like someone dropping a blanket over a birdcage. Not that Winchester's exhuding much body heat, in his state, but at least this way he won't be totally exposed to the elements while Stark searches his bag for useful items.
Which, as suspected, aren't really in evidence. "Motherfucker." He paws through completely useless pouches and vials and miscellaneous arcana. Would it be worth it, going back to the car to fetch the other bag? He throws a look at Winchester, who is still shuddering under the long coat, but with decreasing frequency, another bad sign. If he gets too cold for his body's natural defense mechanism of shivering to keep working, he'll only be losing more body heat. "You need to move, Winchester. Don't stay still, and for fuck's sake, don't fall asleep, because I do not want to go back to Hell to drag your frost-bitten ass out again." No, absolutely not safe to take the fifteen minute hike to and from the car.
Dean Winchester:
Dean doesn't say anything when the coat is dropped on him, just pulls it tight around him and soaks up the left over warmth. He's still shivering, teeth chattering a little as he watches dazedly as James roots through his bag. He scowls at the thought of moving right now, limbs achy and slow. "Screw you, you t-try getting dunked twice in f-freezing water in the cold and you get up and m-move around."
But despite his bitching he does try to get up. He makes it up but leans against the wall as a wave of dizziness rushes over him and he has to close his eyes and rub at his head for it to pass. What was it with shit throwing him into walls? He's surprised he doesn't have actual brain damage from all the times it's happened.
James Stark:
"Oh, oh, insults? And here I am saving you from your own stupidity again." He's intentionally taunting now, because if Winchester gets annoyed, he'll be more likely to stay awake from pure stubbornness. Stark inches away along the wall, and starts gouging at the packed dirt floor with his knife, carving out a quick but effective protection circle, about five feet in diameter. Once done, he goes back to the bag for some goofer dust, just to be safe - a surprise demon visit would not be just the thing, right now. But he pauses when he notices that Dean has moved.
"I didn't mean to stand up, jackass, you'll fall and hit your head again." And Stark completely ignores how mother-hen he might sound when he says that, rising himself to grab Winchester by the shoulders and guide him into the center of the circle he just drew. "Sit. Just move your hands, or your feet, if you can feel them at all. When you expend energy, it creates heat."
What is it about him that he has to have a fight or a massacre or a crisis to be able to think straight? Probably this is a serious character defect. Unearthing the pouch of graveyard dirt, he walks around the circle, sprinkling it lavishly. Then he drags his bag over, steps behind Winchester, and sits down on his haunches before wrapping an arm around the other man to pull him back against his chest.
Dean Winchester: Dean scowls as he's moved but with as cold as he is he's hard pressed to complain about it. He sits down in the middle of the circle and pulls the coat tighter around him, shivering. The hunter tries moving his arms and legs, feet too and grimaces as he realizes how sore he is from being thrown around and dunked into ice cold water. Twice. But he does it because he knows James is right, as much as he's loathed to admit it.
He watches, distractedly, as the man sprinkles dirt all around the circle. He'd really like to sleep, honestly. And be warm, a hot shower and a warm, soft bed. Dean jolts a little as he feels arms wrapping around his middle, body tilting back. "the fuck're you doin?" Dean mutters, trying to pull away, but between getting thrown around like a rag doll, developing hypothermia and, oh right, being resurrected, Dean's not really all that strong enough to break away from the other man's hold.
James Stark: Supernatural creature that he is, it only takes Stark a tiny bit of exertion to keep Winchester from eeling out of his grasp, then settles himself as comfortably as possible on the packed earth floor. Stark is pretty cold, himself, and this cave smells like a Hellion butchershop's offal pile, and if it weren't for Winchester, he could easily be finding himself a more pleasing place to spend the night. In short, he isn't in a mood to be bitched at. "Taking advantage of your weakened state to ravish your silky body. What else?" He sounds perfectly matter-of-fact, it's also off-hand. He secures his arms around Dean's waist, sets his chin on the other man's shoulder, and stares into the darkness as he searches his mental lexicon of half-ass hoodoo for anything else that might be useful in this situation.
Dean Winchester: The thing Dean hates the most is that it's actually kind of warm, having James at his back and his arm around him, feeling the heat radiating from it. It's not much, but it's more than he had to begin with and he snaps his mouth shut with a click from where he'd been about to bitch and complain again. It doesn't help that he can feel warm breath ghosting over his neck and shoulder, making him shiver at the contrast between how hot it feels and how cold he actually is. "If I die I am coming back to haunt your half-breed ass," Dean mumbles half-heartedly.
James Stark: "If you die, princess, I'm finding you in Hell again and making you my eternal bitch." This is punctuated with an insituating poke in the side, but it's half-hearted; Stark's still trying to concentrate. He's having trouble coming up with anything, and a moment later, his concentration is entirely broken by the damp seeping into his own pants near the knees. He leans back a bit before he realizes where the icy-cold water is originating from. "You're dripping, Winchester. And oozing. If you insist on wearing sopping panties, none of this is going to do any good - you'll just lose any body heat you manage to create, especially sitting on this freezing ground."
So said, Stark scoots back - careful not to disturb the dust circle nor the one gouged into the earth - to give the guy some space to finish unclothing, not without indulging in a little eye-rolling. It's darker in this cave than Obyzuth's twat, at the moment (not to mention nearly as pungent), and the hunter's worried about his modesty.
Dean Winchester: He squirms away at the poke but doesn't move far then huffs out in an annoyed, and loud, fashion before hesitating in shimmying out of his boxers. It's mostly embarrassing because he feels weak and hey it's not like he knows this guy all that well or anything. Normally he'd have no trouble droppin' trou in front of people, especially the pretty ones, but this wasn't exactly a normal situation either.
"Fine, there. Happy now?" Dean groused as he pulled his knees up to his chest in an effort to get warmer, then thought better of it as the cool air in the cave wafted between his legs, so he then just settles on crossing them.
James Stark: In the meantime, Stark reaches one arm behind his head to somewhat reluctantly remove his own shirt. This he utilizes once Dean has stilled again, dropping it over the other man's head and scrubbing at his scalp with both hands, like someone drying their kid's hair after a bath, to stop the dripping as well. "Happy? Spending my free time saving ungrateful assholes in return for absolutely nothing isn't my favorite thing to do. What kind of a fucking retard would be happy with that?"
Done with drying Dean's hair, Stark sets the now-dampened shirt aside, and drags the hunter back to his previous place with that inexorable grip of his. "Keep moving. I'm trying to think of a spell that creates heat without blowing anything up." Which is probably a losing battle.
Dean Winchester: Dean makes a sound of protest and bats at the shirt over his head which really just amounts to being batted at by a three week old kitten, he's that weak right now. The hunter rolls his eyes and lets out a loud, put out sigh. "Thanks for saving my ass back there." Happy? Is implied but not said, and really he's only doing that just to be an ass. But he is, actually, thankful even if he doesn't say it. It's not like he wants to die again or anything.
"What? No, no way, you are not using any more of that magic of yours anywhere near me," Dean stated firmly. Him or his naked bits, thank you. He'd very much like to not have his dick explode. He needs that.
James Stark: "De nada, you're completely welcome, anytime." Stark sounds nearly as insincere and grudging as Winchester's expression of gratitude did. The smaller man shifts about, sitting back on his heels and setting his knees to either side of Winchester's hips, reaching forward to readjust the long leather trench so that it covers as much area as possible.
The following protest makes him sigh sharply, breath deflecting against Winchester's nape. Now that they're settled, Stark reaches both lanky arms around the other man's chest, over the leather. "Even if you were in a position to stop me - " his voice is still low, half-distracted, and he's clasping his hands together, almost like a prayer. " - which you aren't - don't you think it's time you accept that magic can be pretty fucking useful in times of crisis?" But of course, Stark doesn't leave any time for a reply. "I know what I'm doing." Most of the time, at least; and when he doesn't, he fakes it well.
Eyelids dropping to half-mast, he focuses, feeling the weird fluttering in his chest that he's come to associate with magical energy concentrating. In a matter of seconds, it expands, and Stark presses his palms together, twisting and rubbing like he's merely trying to create friction between them. The spell is yet another he used in the arena, but he's careful to use quiet, harmless English and Latin instead of the guttural Hellion that keeps trying to sneak out. The words are murmured, half-nonsense, but rhythmic and soothing.
His arms tighten around the other man, to keep Winchester from trying to squirm away when he realizes that Stark is 'using more of that magic of his', and simultaneously a pale glow starts to emerge between his palms, as if he has a firefly trapped there. The dim light strengthens, pulsing in time with the beat of his words. It's not a flame; it looks more like putting a hand over the end of a flashlight. All the fingers, bones, vessels, and multiple scars on Stark's hands are outlined every time the glow pulses, and a noticeable heat begins to emanate from them.
Dean Winchester: Well that doesn't make him feel any better, he thinks as he looks down at James' hands, frowning. He's seen what those hands are capable of and it makes him a little nervous. "No," he says resolutely. Magic has never done any of them any good. The only good thing it did do tho was save his brother, even if it meant giving up his own life for it. It was something he's willing to do again if he has to, though he hopes he doesn't. He didn't want to die the first time and he doesn't want to again.
He also knows he's being a little petulant. But he'd been brought up that magic was bad, demons and monsters were bad, the whole nine. It's going to take a lot more than one person telling him to accept magic like he were some evangelist telling him to accept Jesus into his heart or some other bullshit.
The faint light catches his attention at the same time as the muttered Latin, words he doesn't recognize. He does squirm, then, even though it's futile with as weak as he feels right now. "The fuck are you doing? What did I say about using that shit around me," he seethes, despite the heat he can feel radiating from the glow in the man's hands.
James Stark: Stark narrows his eyes, peering intently at his oddly-glowing hands and gritting his teeth through the words of the spell. Strangely, it seems to take more effort to keep the moderate heat from becoming the flesh-melting sort of heat that he used when fighting Hellions - nothing he can't handle, of course, and probably just another pleasant side effect of spending over a third of his life going Wild Bunch all over Hell. He doesn't know how to take baby-steps anymore.
For Dean's continued blather, the magician just shrugs a little, interrupting the flow of Latin to respond (though the words come out in the same half-rhythmical way that the spell was, sounding sort of staccato). "I don't know, I wasn't listening." He pulls his hands apart, releasing a quick-fading flash of light, though the appendages themselves still emanate that dim glow. Those appendages head straight for Dean's face - Stark knows Dean couldn't move away, even if he weren't being restrained, so why not get a little payback for the constant bitching? - and narrow fingertips press against Dean's hairline, then smooth back until Stark's cupping the top of his skull with both hands, spreading a very lovely heat over the near-frozen flesh and possibly releasing a little steam as the hair dries.
Dean Winchester: Dean watches, both enthralled and horrified at the light and the warmth coming from the other's hands, the way it seems to expand and when it flashes he has to close his eyes against it. "Jesus fuck, what the hell!" He exclaims and when those hands, glowing, reach for him he tries to move away even if it's not that far to begin with. He tries to get out of reach but can't.
A hard shudder rocks through him at the heat that spreads over him, causing him to suck in a sharp breath, eyes widening. "Holy shit," he murmurs, hearing more than seeing the hiss of steam from the heat hitting the cold air of the cave. "The fuck did you just do?" And, okay, he has to admit that that? That kind of helps a little.
James Stark: There's a grin that Stark doesn't even try to deny for the mingled reactions he's getting. He hasn't met anyone so easily affected by magic shows since Alice; her reactions were typically more joyful than condemnatory, but just as energetic. "I warmed my hands."
After holding onto the top of Dean's head for a moment, long enough for his hair to dry, Stark draws one back to grip the nape of the man's neck. The other moves to Dean's chest, the heat spreading through the thick leather covering it. It's easier, now that his hands are at the right, not-burning temperature, to keep them there, but still requires enough concentration for his words to come out stilted. "It's a spell I learned for the arena - can't remember who taught me. The idea is to emanate so much heat that your enemy's flesh practically melts off." Because that's a reassuring comment to make right now. "The downside is that you burn the shit out of your hands when you use it that way, so no one much uses it." Not that self-injury ever stopped Stark from a showy battle move.
Dean Winchester: "Yeah I can see that, asshole," Dean replies, rolling his eyes. When the hands press against his neck and his chest over the coat, he shudders again, full-bodied and can't help but press into it despite himself. He was practically freezing to death before but now the heat coming from James is helping him keep warm. He doesn't even know why he's doing it, either, with all the shit Dean's given him.
"Well that's fucking reassuring, thanks," he mutters, leaning away from the hands before thinking better of it and just stilling to let the heat do it's work to warm him up. "Neat trick but suck ass after affects, huh? Sounds shitty." He wonders idly if that means that James is burning his hands to help keep Dean warm. He feels like he should ask if he's okay, but the heat is starting to lull him into a slight doze.
James Stark: "You do know that 'thanks' is supposed to be an expression of gratitude, right? Not just an emphasis for your more bitchy comments?" He doesn't sound like he expects an answer. He shifts in place a little, not entirely comfortable with the situation or location or, well, anything, but doesn't try too hard to remedy that since it wouldn't work. The hand on Winchester's chest stays in place, while the other slips, slow and barely-noticeable, around the side of his neck to hover over the carotid artery and warm the blood. "There wasn't really any avoiding nightly injuries. Getting them from kicking the other guy's ass seemed like the best I could do. But I guess you know that."
There's a hesitance to that last sentence, an odd tone. It's easy to forget sometimes that Dean, too, was a denizen of Hell for a relatively short while - to see him as just another complaining civilian that Stark (for whatever reasons) has to deal with. The guy's only been back on Earth a few days, and he hasn't had an easy time of those few days, not to mention the sort of things Stark is sure went on Downtown. Probably Dean has every right and reason to be as short-tempered and suspicious as he is. Not that Stark intends to wear kid gloves to handle him, but it is something to keep in mind.
Dean Winchester: Dean quiets after that, listening to James' voice as he speaks and frowns some at the mentions of Hell. Despite what he'd said Dean remembers almost everything. Mostly the fighting, in the ring. Certainly not what he'd thought Hell would be like. Less fire and brimstone and more endless Fight Club.
"Yeah," he murmurs in response, not wanting to talk about it. He doesn't /want/ to remember, honestly. He wants to forget everything from the moment he died and was dragged to Hell until now. Without meaning to, Dean slumps back against James, body relaxed and exhausted, the warmth curling through him from the other man's hands making him tired. He's not really one to trust right off the bat, or let his guard down like he is now, but right now he doesn't really have much of a choice in the matter.
James Stark: Between the monosyllabic reply and Dean suddenly going all boneless against him, Stark feels a little prick of anxiety. Replacing both feverish hands on Winchester's shoulders, he lightly shakes him. "Don't fall asleep. Odds are on you having a concussion." With the hunter's occupation, he's bound to have run into head injuries before, and Stark is sure he needn't explain why falling asleep with a concussion is a bad idea. Those hands move away from the man's biceps, shifting to rest atop his shoulders instead, still emanating heat.
Dean Winchester: "M'not asleep," Dean mutters, scowling a little as he blinks slowly. Ugh, he does feel like he wants to sleep but he's not stupid and knows he can't. He's warmer now for sure even if he does kind of hate that magic is the reason why. He still think it's shit but is grudgingly able to admit that it has it's perks. Like keeping him alive. He does sigh, though, sounding put out. "Thanks, though. For helping me. Sorry for ditching you," he says, even if he's really not. Sort of, anyway.
James Stark: Stark rolls his nickel-grey eyes for that peace offering, vocalizing the action with a derisive snort. "Just stop trying to be polite. You're doing it wrong." His shoulders, though healing rapidly, are still a bit sore from the car crash, and he rolls them absently. "So this is what you do? Seek out monsters and slaughter them for the good of humanity?" Though sounding cynical, the tone is curious, too.
Dean Winchester: "Something like that, yeah. Family business. Dad started it when I was little, didn't think he meant it to become a thing, been doing it my whole life. Sammy went off to college, though, for awhile." Until Dean dragged him back into it cause he couldn't - didn't want to - do it alone. It's his fault and he knows it. "Someone's gotta do it, right?"
James Stark: "Killing monsters is the family business." This is not really a question, just a flat statement. "I guess it's better than used car sales. Doesn't seem like it would pay much, though." As for someone having to do it, Stark stays silent; his entirely cynical outlook says that if people are too stupid to defend themselves, then probably they deserve what they get. Hell might have instilled in him a twisted code of honor and obligation.
Dean Winchester: Dean snorts at that. "Doesn't pay fuck all. Not even a thanks." Not that it bothers him, really. Most people are too freaked out to thank them and half the time they're running from the law anyway. No need to stick around after. "Definitely better than used cars, though," he says, amusement in his voice, lips tilted in a slight smirk.
James Stark: Stark makes a lazy noise of consideration. "Guess I shouldn't complain so much about the Vigil taking Social Security outta my checks." Though he will, he so will. Since when do dead men have to pay taxes? Still trying to get comfortable, he shifts his shoulders against the rough wall behind him and takes a deep breath - which he very quickly exhales with a sort of cough. "Fuck. Stuck in a dark, wet, cold cave that smells worse than a charnel house, with the ashes of a flash-fried Lurker and an oozing hole in my leg. Almost feels like -- is it just me, or does this bring back memories?"
Dean Winchester: He lets out a small laugh at that and shakes his head a little. The guy sure has a sense of humor. He stills a moment later at the sharp inhale and exhale when James moves behind him. "You're hurt," he says and he doesn't mean the hole in the leg he mentions. He knows that sound, has had enough bum shoulders to know. "Arm? Shoulder? Why didn' you say somethin'?" Dean asks, though he knows why and knows Dean likely wouldn't have given a shit. But... hell, he doesn't know. Maybe it's cause this is the second - third? - time the guy's saved his life now.
James Stark: Stark's glad he didn't finish that sentence as he meant to - 'almost feels like home' - because he doubts it would appease Winchester's undying suspicion any at all. Probably bolster it, actually. The sudden show of concern, or whatever that is, catches him off guard. "No. Your carnivorous friend tagged me in the leg, but not too deep." Truthfully, it was fairly deep - an inch or two - but Stark is sure that it's nearly done clotting by now. As for the other... "That James Dean stunt with the Lincoln didn't do my back any favors, though. Maybe a compressed disk, maybe whiplash, maybe cracked a rib, I'm not sure." He sounds entirely flippant about it. "My arms are an interesting mottle of colors, too. Didn't damage you, did it? That tree hit us pretty hard." Yes, it was the tree's fault.
