#no15

Dean’s been doing this job far too long to not recognize a dreamscape for what it is . 

Everything about this feels off from the moment Dean wakes up on a king-size memory foam mattress instead of his single bed in the Bunker. The world around him seems too soft, too cozy and peaceful to be his reality, like he’s experiencing it through a thin veil that might tear if he looks at it too closely. The most random sounds are amplified to an almost obnoxious level—the twittering of the birds in the trees, the rustling of the leaves in the wind, the sound of bacon sizzling somewhere below him. It feels every bit like Dean imagines waking up as the female lead in a chick-flick would feel like. Too perfect, too immaculate, too clean. 

Though the biggest red flag is the fact that when Dean wanders downstairs to investigate the smells of breakfast, he’s greeted by the sight of Cas flipping pancakes over the stove, wearing a blush blue apron that only sets off the brilliance of his eyes more. The sight sends a pang of want through Dean, slowly replaced by something dangerously close to anger or grief. These two emotions have been raging inside his head for so long, long before the Empty claimed his Cas, that Dean struggles to differentiate them. But then this Cas, Dreamland Cas, turns around and smiles at Dean with so much warmth and softness that all rational thought leaves the hunter’s mind within seconds. 

Dean knows then that he’s trapped in the dreamscape of the djinn he and Sammy have been hunting for the past couple of weeks. He knows he should be doing something about that. He would have done something about it, were it not for Cas reaching out for him and pulling him close, their lips meeting in a loving kiss that has Dean feeling weak in the knees. 

“Morning, handsome. Just in time for breakfast,” Cas whispers in the air pocket between them, as if Dean isn’t blinking back overwhelmed tears. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the table. I’ll be through in a moment.”

And really, what harm is there in indulging just a little bit longer? 

A loud noise dragged Jack from the safety of sleep. He blinked a couple of times, trying to make sense of where he was. The dim lighting of the barracks provided just enough detail for him to recognize it. The sound came again, a low growl that echoed through the space around him. Rolling to the side, Jack thumped his feet onto the floor and stumbled toward the other side of the room.

Six months ago, when Jack had first joined the Soldier Enhancement Program, there had been six men in the room. Now, there were only two. SEP had no room for weakness; it had winnowed the candidates down to a handful. Jack didn’t know if his former roommates had died or failed. He’d stopped asking what happened to them when the second didn’t return from his injections, and he tried not to think about what that meant.

“Get the fuck away from me.” A voice growled from the darkness. Jack’s remaining roommate twisted beneath his thin blanket, swatting at nothing.

Sweat stood on Reyes’s brow, running down his cheeks to soak the pillow and sheet beneath him. He’d dragged his shirt off at some point during the night to try and get cooler, but it hadn’t worked. Jack sighed. Reyes had taken his fourth dose of SEP serum today, so the reaction wasn’t totally unexpected. The medication affected everyone differently.

“It’s just a nightmare,” Jack yawned, trying to shake the last remnant of sleep away so he could focus. “Wake up.”

Brown eyes flashed open without seeing. Gabe clutched Jack’s shirt. “Did you see the bees? Little bastards are aggressive. They’ve gotten me a dozen times.”

As if to accentuate the words, Reyes scrubbed at his right shoulder. Jack noted the hives forming around the injection site. That wasn’t a good sign. He brushed a hand over Reyes’s forehead and felt the flush of fever. It would dissipate by morning, or it would rise higher and kill him overnight. Jack wasn’t a doctor, so he had no idea which it would be. The doctors probably didn’t even know.

A bottle of half empty water sat on the floor by the bed. Jack unscrewed the lid and held it to Reyes’s lips. Most of it splashed down the side, but he swallowed some of it. “Are you allergic,” Jack asked, lowering himself to the floor. He would undergo another injection tomorrow, his third,and he needed whatever sleep he could get. Jack leaned against the edge of the bunk and closed his eyes.

“Allergic to what?” Reyes’s voice didn’t sound quite as confused as it had, and his frantic movements had slowed.

Snorting under his breath, Jack frown at the man. “The bees.”

“Have you been drinking?” Reyes arched one eyebrow and pushed up onto his elbow. The man shook his head, then glanced around him with a groan. “Why is it so fucking hot in here?”

And yet, despite his words, Geralt would always help him and make sure nothing bad happened to him until their paths separated for the winter, when Geralt would go back to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier would once again breathe in the chaos of the Fae court until it was time to find Geralt again.

“Jaskier” a barely noticeable smile tugged at the witcher’s lips, as Jaskier finally caught up to him. “How is it that we keep running into each other?”

Jaskier let out a bright laugh. “A strange coincidence, really.”

Except it was as far from a coincidence as could be. It wasn’t hard for someone who had lived with the Fae to find who they were looking for as long as they knew their name. “It’s good to see you again, my friend.”

Geralt hummed and Jaskier’s smile brightened. So they have finally reached a stage where Geralt wasn’t denying their friendship any longer.

“So where are you going?”

“Hunting.”

“What? I never would have guessed.” Jaskier huffed and bumped into Geralt’s shoulder good-naturedly as he walked alongside of his friend. “But it is very convenient. I desperately need new inspiration.”

“You’re not coming with me” Geralt grunted, but this time it lacked the bite Jaskier had learned to accept in the earlier years of their travels. “It’s too dangerous.”

A sly smirk stole onto Jaskier’s face. “You care about me.”

The grunt was answer enough.

Jaskier didn’t have a problem staying back while Geralt hunted. In fact, he much preferred it. While Jaskier knew that what Geralt did was important work, he still couldn’t find it in him to watch creatures get hurt, no matter how much time had passed.

So no, he didn’t have a problem not having to witness a fight.

He did however have a problem with the boredom. Jaskier had hoped that he could at least spend an evening drinking and exchanging stories with Geralt, before his friend would need to get back to work. He had looked forward to it.

Instead he watched Geralt disappear from his sight to chase some monster.

Jaskier sighed. It was just so boring without him around. What was Jaskier supposed to do while he waited? He had already sung so much that flowers had started to blossom around him.

It was nice to see that he still held some of that chaos he from the Feywilds within him. It wasn’t nearly as much as a born Fae held, but it was a part from the home Jaskier had found.

If only he could share the wonderful things he could do with Geralt. He wanted to show him how his songs could summon sunshine and how flowers could bloom where he danced. He imagined the wonder in Geralt’s eyes when he showed him all he could do.

In his heart of hearts, he knew it was an improbable fantasy. Geralt had no use for flowers and magic songs. Jaskier didn’t need to show him those things for Geralt to like him. The witcher might not ever say it, might even deny that they were friends, but Jaskier knew the witcher liked him as he was.

He sighed once more and stood up. Surely, Geralt must be done with the fighting by now. He should go after him and see if there was anything Geralt needed.

A screech behind him, made him pause. He turned around, a smile parting his lips as he saw the beast. The creature was magnificent. Sharp talons, even sharper teeth and wings that blocked out the sun. Jaskier had never seen such a creature, but he recognised it from Geralt’s descriptions. A forktail.

And it was headed straight for Jaskier.

What had Geralt always told him? If he ever saw a beast that seemed even in the slightest threatening, he should run and call for Geralt.

Now, Jaskier had neither a problem with running, nor with calling for Geralt. But absolutely nothing about this creature seemed threatening. In the Feywilds, children played with draconids, so surely this forktail wasn’t a threat.

“My, you are a beautiful creature!” Jaskier called out with a brilliant smile.

The forktail landed, squashing the flowers Jaskier had summoned before and bared its teeth. Its tail whipped to the side, like a cat readying itself to pounce on a mouse.

Jaskier furrowed his brow.

“That is no way to greet a friend.” If there was a certain power to his voice that no human should be able to possess than that was no one’s business but his own.

The creature let out a deep growl, but it hid its teeth away again and relaxed slightly.

Slowly Jaskier approached, hand outstretched and a soothing melody on his lips. With every step he took, the folktail seemed to calm more, until finally, he was touching the creature’s muzzle.

Jaskier’s smile could brighten the darkest night, as the forktail pressed gently against his touch.

“There you go. There is nothing frightening about you, is there?”

The creature’s belly rumbled with a sound that could almost be mistaken for a purr.

“Jaskier, get away!”

Violently, he flinched at the shout and whirled around. His heart skipped a beat.

Geralt was running towards him, the remnants of his last kill still on his armour and sword, which he held ready to strike.

“Geralt, stop!” There was no power behind his words. It would have been so easy. He knew Geralt’s name. If he wanted to, he could use the little chaos he had to make him do anything he wanted. He couldn’t. Not with Geralt. Not with his friend.

Something untameable flashed in Geralt’s eyes and he bared his teeth, eyes locked onto the creature.

The creature which had snapped away from Jaskier’s touch. The gust of wind that made Jaskier stumble was the only warning Jaskier got, before the forktail swung itself up in the air, ready to attack the witcher.

With growing terror Jaskier watched as the beast swooped down on his friend, claws outstretched.

“NO!”  

He reacted without thinking. His feet carried him across the grass faster than a human should be able to run, the wind giving his heels wings.

The hard impact as he pushed Geralt out of the way left him breathless, but Geralt was safe. He wasn’t lying on the ground, speared by the forktails talons.  

Pain. Why was there pain? It didn’t make sense, but it was unmistakable. It felt like fire racing up his side and something wet made his doublet cling uncomfortably against his skin.

He frowned down at himself. He had been sure that his doublet had been purely blue when he had bought it. So why was there so much red? He didn’t understand.

Panic gripped at Jaskier’s heart, making him unable to breath. Dark splotches blocked his view and his heart was racing.

Through the opal glass that Jaskier seemed to be looking through, he saw a blurry figure, clad in black wielding a sword, fighting a mighty beast.

Jaskier grounded himself in the view. Geralt was safe. Jaskier had protected him, now he only needed to make sure that he himself was alright.  

He just needed to breath. He could do this; he could heal himself, he had done it before. Granted, it had always been minor injuries, scratches at the most, but he had healed them.

An unbidden voice fought its way into Jaskier’s mind. Did you though? Did you ever truly heal yourself?

The words sounded suspiciously like the mockery of one of the Fae who had never truly accepted Jaskier in their midst. You are not a real Fae. You are weak. Without the magic given to you by my sibling, you would be dead or still out there living a pathetic mortal life.

Jaskier clenched his teeth, willing the voice to go away.

He wasn’t weak. He had knit his own skin back together numerous times and he would do so again.

Still, the doubt lingered, couldn’t pushed away, try as he might.

He gritted his teeth and pressed his hands tightly against the gashes in his skin. Ever so slowly, a tingle spread across his side, replaced the fire that had been raging there before. He gasped as he felt the edges of the wound begin to close.

His vision swam, the colours of his surrounding blurring together. The sounds of the fight were drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears and the hammers pounding in his head from the inside. Any moment now, his head would split in half or Jaskier would burst from the unbearable exertion it took to grasp at the chaos.

It was too much. He couldn’t do this.

He panted as he felt his hands slip away from the wound.

The treacherous voice in his head had been right. He was weak. He was unable to do anything meaningful without the gifts of the Fae. Whenever he had called upon the Fae powers before, he had been in the Feywilds, where chaos reigned and Jaskier was free to take as much of it as he needed. He had never truly on his own.

Not as he was now.

No, that wasn’t true. He wasn’t on his own. He had a friend here, one who always made sure that Jaskier was safe. He just needed to call for help. That’s what Geralt had told him. He needed to run and to call for help.

“Geralt…” The sound barely made it past his lips. The word was drowned out in the sounds of the fight. They were faint, far away, but Jaskier could make out a voice, calling for… for something. He couldn’t understand. It didn’t matter.

He needed to run. He tried to put one foot forward, but before it had even left the ground, his knees buckled.

Jaskier went to the floor with a strangled gasp, that went unheard. There he was again, that confused three-year old he had once been, crying and not knowing why no one came to comfort him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, as though not seeing the world could protect him from it. As though the exhaustion and pain in his head and side weren’t killing him.

A hand touched his face. Warm. Comforting. Geralt.

With the strength of a hundred men Jaskier pried his eyes back open. His comfort was looking down at him, fear written all over his face. There was something fundamentally wrong about it. It was too open, too vulnerable. Geralt should never have to look so afraid.

Geralt’s lips moved, but the rushing of blood in Jaskier’s ears was too loud to understand him. He concentrated, put all the focus he had on his friend hovering over him.

Slowly, as though through a mist the words gained in clarity.

“You idiot! Why did you do it?” The almost unnoticeable tremble in Geralt’s voice was enough to shake Jaskier fully awake. “I told you to run.”

Jaskier cracked a weak smile. “I did run, didn’t I?”

“You were supposed to run away from the danger.”  

Jaskier tried to shrug nonchalantly to ease Geralt’s mind, but it ripped at his wounds, eliciting a gasp from him.

He blinked to vanish the dark spots that came back with a vengeance, obscuring his view of Geralt. Panic once again seized Jaskier’s heart. Seeing Geralt had grounded him, had made the pain slightly more bearable. Seeing him now disappear behind a wall of black turned Jaskier’s blood into ice. Blindly, he reached out for him. He needed to know that Geralt was still there.

Gerlat’s hand found his.

“Am I dying?”

“No.” Geralt’s tone left no room for argument or doubt. “Not while I’m here. I got you, Jaskier. Trust me.”

Something warm settled in Jaskier’s chest at the words, gave him the strength to fight against the darkness and slowly regain his sight. “You know I always trust you, Geralt.”

“Good.” A pause. “I need to look at your injury. It might hurt.”

“I trust you,” Jaskier repeated and squeezed Geralt’s hand. He needed him to know that he meant it.

Carefully, Geralt loosened his fingers from Jaskier’s. Jaskier held his breath as Geralt opened his doublet and lifted his shirt underneath. The fabric was stuck to the gash and ripped the partially dried blood away.

Jaskier couldn’t repress the startled outcry. The little healing he had managed hadn’t been nearly enough to ease the pain away.

“How bad is it?” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

“It’s bad.” Geralt gave a small sigh. Cold, steady fingers prodded at Jaskier’s skin and made him hiss. “But not as bad as I had thought. The wound isn’t that deep, actually. It shouldn’t have bleed as it did. How is there so much blood from such a small wound?”

“It’s for dramatic effect.”

Geralt grunted the way he always did, when Jaskier said or did something that some might consider stupid. The sound held fond exasperation. But more than anything, it sounded relieved.

Despite the sharp pain, Jaskier held still as Geralt cleaned and bandaged his wound, talking softly to him to distract him from the pain.

Jaskier might be far away from home, he might not have as much power, as he had gotten used to over the years, but he had Geralt. He had a friend that would take care of him.