The Lord of Misrule - spn_genbigbang fic Part 3a/4

[amberdreams]

The Lord of Misrule Part 3a
Back to Part 2

Dean woke to the soft touch of daylight feathering his unshaven cheek.  It was nice.  Soothing.  For a few blessed moments he rested there and simply enjoyed the warmth, before the memories came crashing back in full glorious Technicolor.

He had no idea where he was, or what was going on, where Gabriel and Kali were or, more importantly, where Sam was.  The former were irritants, niggly worries, but the latter?  That was a situation where Dean Winchester could not tolerate staying ignorant.

That was when he noticed that although his head felt much better, his mouth tasted like ass, he had a raging hunger and thirst like you wouldn’t believe, and more urgently, a full bladder begging for relief.

He sat up carefully, remembering the nausea from the night before, but apart from a noisy clamouring to be fed, his stomach behaved itself.  Geeze, but pie-deprivation was so debilitating.  The sitting up having gone so well, Dean thought he could risk standing.  A brief moment of wooziness soon passed, and though his legs were a little wobbly, he thought this was as much from hunger as from any lingering effects from the concussion.

A quick scan of the interior of the tepee (a fucking tepee, Sammy!) rewarded him with his boot knife, swiftly slipped back into its sheath, and the pearl-handled colt, which he tucked into the waistband of his jeans as usual, though it felt weird without any shirts to cover it up.  There was no sign of his t shirt and button-down, and he discovered the reason for that absence when he eventually ducked out of the tepee to find his still damp missing items of clothing spread over a bush drying in the early morning sunlight.

It was a brave new world, but just how brave and how new took Dean a little while longer than it had taken Sam to work out.  Later Dean would blame his lack of speed on the uptake on his concussion and the urgency of his need to piss, a natural imperative that was currently overriding just about everything.  He didn’t take in much of his surroundings on the first pass as his priority was finding the nearest toilet facility, and failing to spot anything recognisable in that category, he wavered his way to the closest patch of trees and bushes that seemed to offer the most privacy, and quickly relieved himself.

Primary requirements met, he could pay a bit more attention to his surroundings as he returned to the heart of the settlement.  It was evident that Kali or Gabriel, or maybe both of them? had really done a number on the Winchesters this time.  That was assuming that Sam was here too, and really, his brother damn well better be somewhere nearby or there would be hell to pay…and you could take that as literally as you liked, given the circumstances the Winchesters were facing, with the Apocalypse looming and all.

Outside the tepee he’d emerged from earlier, a chubby toddler was sitting on the beaten earth, playing with an equally chubby puppy. Nearby, keeping half an eye on the child, were two women dressed in pale buckskin tunic dresses, decorated with fringing and shell-beads, who were busy with domestic chores.  Their bare arms and faces were painted with the same red ochre patterns as the girl who’d tended him.  One of the women seemed to be heating water in a birch-bark container by placing hot stones in it, the other was scraping at the hide of some dead animal, possibly a small deer if the four hooves still attached to its skin were anything to go by.  Dean thought that the tool she was using was a sharp stone.  Christ.  What kind of place was this that it didn’t even have metal tools?

The settlement, camp, whatever, was small but bustling with activity, mostly women and children from what Dean could see.  Perhaps the menfolk were out hunting or something.  How would Dean know?  Sam was the one with the fancy anthropological leanings after all. Though none of the women seemed overtly interested in the half naked stranger standing like a dork in their midst, he could feel their surreptitious scrutiny.  He flushed and dragged his clothes off their improvised drier and pulled the t-shirt back on, even though it was still damp.

Jesus H Christ indeed.  No way was this a group of wannabe hippy re-enactors. He’d time travelled too often now not to recognise the real deal when faced with it again.  This, however, was shaping up to be even more terrifying and strange than either of his previous experiences. 

The quiet that surrounded the settlement spoke of a remoteness from everything modern that was worrying the hell out of Dean.   The flint scraper, the lack of any sign of worked metal in either tools or jewellery, that absence of distant traffic noise or aircraft trails in the cloudless blue of the sky, the crystal clarity of the air he was breathing – all spoke of a world untouched by any man-made pollution other than the burning of campfires for far longer than Dean was comfortable contemplating. He tried to tell himself that he could be mistaken; it could be that Kali had merely translated them to some place miles from the nearest civilisation, but his heart was telling him that he’d come a lot farther than that.

It made finding Sam even more important.  Dean’s head might be feeling a bit more together in terms of his cracked cranium knitting itself back into one piece, but the implications of being stranded back in time by centuries rather than mere decades was making his brain ache.

For a few moments he contemplated that maybe this was a good thing, to have that amount of distance between the Winchesters and Lucifer and his minions, to be this remote from Michael and his machinations. 

But then he thought of Adam, and the poor sap Lucifer was wearing as his meat suit (and wearing out), and of the damage those self centred angel dicks would cause to countless innocent humans while fighting out their (possibly) scaled down apocalypse.  No.  Whether the Winchesters were fated to be angel condoms or not, Dean knew deep down, they had to try to stop this madness, and finding the remaining two rings of the Horsemen was therefore the only game in town. 

None of which could be achieved while they were stuck here.  Wherever and whenever here was.  One thing seemed clear – if Sam had travelled with him this time, he hadn’t ended up in the same place, so Dean needed to get out of here.  Having made his decision, Dean headed back towards the central tepee to retrieve his jacket, shrugging into his slightly soggy plaid shirt as he walked.

Focused on his goal, Dean practically fell over the young girl who’d been looking after him when she emerged from the dark interior of the tent.

“Sorry,” he said, grasping a slender shoulder to steady her.  She said something that sounded friendly enough, and her smile seemed to confirm that, though he had absolutely no idea what her words meant.

“Um.  I don’t know what you are talking about, and I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done for me, but I need to get out of here and find my brother, so…,” he gestured at her in an aimless fashion, wondering how he was going to move her out of his way as she was blocking his path to his jacket.

She didn’t shift but started talking again, a meaningless babble of words and hand gestures.  Dean wished even harder that Sam was there.  His freaky giant brother seemed to have a knack of making himself understood even when language was a barrier, a talent that Dean just didn’t possess. He was fine with the sweet-talking but you needed words for that.

“Sweetheart, this is great, just like first contact and all that, but I really gotta go.  I bet Sam would be able to understand you; my little brother, he’s the brains of the family, studied all sorts of languages and crap at Stanford, but I have no clue what you are sayin’ and times a tickin’.”

He made to step round her then started as a hand came from behind him and grasped his shoulder.

“Holy crap!” he exclaimed, spinning round.  “You folk around here need to make more noise when you walk, you’re scaring the life out of me creeping round all silent and shit.”

The person responsible for his racing heartbeat was scarcely taller than the child now behind him in the tepee, and left Dean wondering how the tiny wizened man had actually reached his shoulder.  The girl moved to Dean’s side and nodded her head respectfully at the old man.

“Heya, Nonosabawsut,” she said.

“Heya, Kiim.” The man replied.

The girl started talking to the old man then, resting her hand on Dean’s arm in an unconscious gesture that anchored him to the spot.

Dean might have given all the credit to Sam for being the linguist and scholar, but he wasn’t stupid. Already he was tuning into the pattern of speech of these people, and assumed that the first words used here was a greeting of some sort, and therefore the second of the words being used was most likely a name. Well, being polite couldn’t hurt.

He waited until there was a pause in the flow and cleared his throat.

“Heya, Nonoh-sab-awsut and…erm, Keem?”

He flushed under the weight of their stares at his probably very poor mimicking skills, but persevered regardless. He pointed at his chest, “Dean” then at the girl.

“Keem?”

The girl giggled and the old man mad a grunting noise that could have been construed as a chuckle.

“Kiim!” She exclaimed, then, grabbing Dean’s hand, she placed it on the old man’s chest, so Dean could feel the heartbeat beneath the thin leather tunic.

“Nonosabawsut.” She said.

The old man, Nonosabawsut, reached up and placed his gnarled hand onto Dean’s chest, over the anti-possession tattoo.  “Dean.”

“Great.  So now we’re all acquainted, I really have to go find Sam.” He made to move away but Nonosabawsut didn’t remove his hand, and somehow Dean couldn’t find the strength of will to brush the old man out of his way.

Kiim said something, then tugged on his arm when he didn’t respond.  Faced with twin determined expressions, Dean gave up the struggle.  Perhaps if he went along with whatever it was these people wanted, they would be able to help him find out whether Sam was here too, and help them find a way home, if that was even possible.

He could be patient.  If he had to be.

There was a murmur from the gathering of Vikings when they heard Sam mention Loki’s name.  There had been no reaction to the rest of their conversation, so Sam had assumed that the crowd were not understanding any of the exchange.  He was proved correct moments later, when Loki turned to address the tallest of the group, a broad shouldered middle-aged blonde guy with an amiable looking face that was currently frowning at Sam.

The man’s frown only deepened at Loki’s words, and Sam thought that couldn’t mean anything good, especially as the grip of the men who had been holding him but loosely since he had arrived in the settlement had suddenly tightened, so that he could feel their fingers biting into his biceps hard enough to bruise.

Loki turned back to Sam, smiling.

“In case you were wondering, I just told them that you are a warrior without honour, that you have been insulting me and all the men here in your foreign tongue, impugning their women’s virtue and mocking their gods.  They are not very happy with you.”

“You…why are you lying to these people like this?  I never did anything to you - we only just met. I don’t even know you!”

“Ah but I know you, Sam Winchester.  I stole you and your brother's names and other pertinent details from Kali before she flung us all into this pox ridden Hel hole.  And you want to know why I’m doing this?”  Loki leant in and yanked viciously on a handful of Sam’s hair to pull his head closer. He hissed into Sam’s ear, even though no one else there could understand the language they were speaking unless the capricious god wished it.

“Because you and your brother knew Gabriel. You were his friends and you carry his gift, together with the mark of his cursed angel kin.  I owe that thieving, mangy, black-winged crow a myriad of tortures, but he is dead and a thousand years out of my reach, while you – you are here.”

Sam felt Loki’s spittle hit his cheek and it burnt like acid. He shivered.  A crazy pagan god with a grudge, ready to stir up a group of armed men sounded like a recipe for disaster, as if being trapped in the distant past with no way home wasn’t bad enough.

Loki moved over to the Vikings and spoke again to the tall one who appeared to be their leader, who then turned to his comrades and started to speak – a long impassioned speech that had the ring of a formal declaration.

“Givr maþr oquæþins orð manni, þu ær æi mans maki oc eig maþr i brysti. Ek ær maþr sum þv, þeir skvlv møtaz a þriggia vægha motum. Cumbr þan orð havr giuit oc þan cumbr eig þer orð havr lutit, þa mvn han vara svm han heitir, ær eig eiðgangr oc eig vitnisbær huarti firi man ælla kvnv. Cumbr oc þan orð havr lutit oc eig þan orð havr giuit, þa opar han þry niþingx op oc markar han a iarþv, þa se han maþr þæss værri þet talaþi han eig halla þorþi. Nv møtaz þeir baþir mz fullum vapnvm. Faldr þan orð havr lutit, gildr mz haluum gialdum. Faldr þan orð havr giuit. Gløpr orða værstr. Tunga houuðbani. Liggi i vgildum acri.”

Loki materialised at Sam’s side again.  The creature might be in a human form, but he seemed to move fluidly, like quicksilver, and it was creeping Sam out.  Loki helpfully whispered a summarised translation into Sam’s ear.  “Basically he says that if a man speaks insults, the man he has insulted will meet him fully armed, and will kill or incapacitate him.  Weregild will be paid, one way or another, Sam Winchester.”

The tall blonde man stepped forward and spat at Sam’s feet.

“Niðingr!”  The man exclaimed, his hand clenched on his sword hilt.  That was one word Sam remembered, and he understood the significance of the insult.  Sam held his ground and stared into the Viking’s blue-grey eyes.  He’d be damned if he would show any fear in the face of a mere human, not after facing down the Devil himself.

“Normally we’d wait three days after the challenge is offered to stage the hólmganga, but we are not in Iceland now, so I’ve persuaded the êengill Karlsfeni here that tomorrow would be a good day for a fight. Oh, and by the way, since clearly I am no match for such a fierce huge warrior as yourself, Karlsefni will fight you on my behalf.”

Loki’s grin was so feral, Sam wondered how he had ever thought for one second that this was Gabriel. It wasn’t that he had many warm feelings for the Archangel.  Even after Gabriel’s change of heart, it was hard for Sam to shake off the trauma of Dean’s manifold deaths, but at least Gabriel had always had a certain charm about him, that was utterly lacking in the Norse god.

Before the Vikings could drag Sam away, there was a disturbance at the back of the gathering.  A young woman with a toddler balanced on her hip interrupted the proceedings, pushing her way through the men to tug at the leader’s sleeve.  Karlsefni, Sam reminded himself.  She was talking rapidly and urgently, and Sam could tell she was not happy with the answers Karlsefni was giving her.

Loki’s sigh was loud and exaggerated.

“That is Gudrid, the êengill Karlsefni’s wife. Typical woman.  She isn’t happy he’s agreed to the

hólmganga. Personally, I think she is over-estimating your abilities, no doubt based on your freakish height.  Are you sure you are not related to the ice giants? No?  Well, never mind.  Gudrid’s Karlsefni is very proficient with that axe of his, oh, and the sword of course. Hmmm. I wonder which weapon he will chose to chop those long legs of yours down to size?”

Sam thought about Dean, lost somewhere, unconscious and vulnerable in the depths of the forest. He wondered exactly how much information Loki had stolen from Kali, and whether the pagan god knew about the lethal qualities of the Taurus still tucked into his waistband, and said nothing.

Nonosabawsut led a reluctant Dean to a low domed structure at the edge of the Beothuk camp, constructed of bent-over branches and covered in what looked like mud and grass.  The old man gestured to a small dark opening and after a few seconds, Dean realised the gestures were indicating that this rabbit hole was actually a doorway, and he should somehow fold himself up to crawl inside.

He glanced pleadingly at Kiim, hoping for a get out, but she merely nodded and smiled encouragingly, so Dean got onto his hands and knees with some reluctance, and squeezed through the tiny entrance that was clearly designed for freaking midgets.

Inside the structure was larger than Dean had expected, and he could kneel upright, at least in the centre of the dome.  It was dark and smelled of earth and wood-smoke and dead leaves. His eyes were slowly adjusting so that he could see when Nonosabawsut followed him inside.  Kiim did not appear, so Dean assumed this was considered to be a man-thing.  He hoped this wasn’t a lead-in to some sort of Man Named Horse proof of manhood initiation ceremony. He absently ran a hand over his chest.  He kind of liked his perky nipples where they were, thanks very much.

Clearly Nonosabawsut was a man of few words, as he worked in silence to get a small fire going, lighting up the interior with a flickering orange ambience that made it look almost homely.  Kind of like the inside of a badger’s set, maybe.  Or that beaver-house thing from those Narnia movies (not that he was admitting that he’d watched them, of course).  Dean suppressed a giggle at the thought of a talking beaver squeezing in there with him and the ancient shaman.  He hoped he wasn’t getting hysterical, that would be embarrassing.

The old man seemed to be making a brew of some sort; he was boiling water in a clay pot, and periodically throwing in handfuls of a dull greenish-brown flaky powder from a leather pouch.  Dean guessed it was too much to hope that this would contain alcohol.  He’d kill for a shot or two of whiskey right now but he guessed this was just going to be some sort of herbal tea.  The old man broke his silence to sing, a low rhythmic chant that in spite of Dean’s impatience to be out of there and actively searching for Sam, he was starting to find soothing.  The small space was getting a bit smoky so Dean hoped that the fire was just for the cooking part and the hut thing wasn’t supposed to be a sweat lodge.  He thought they might end up choking more than sweating at this rate.

After a few more minutes of chanting and stirring, it seemed that the potion was done.  Nonosabawsut poured a couple of fingers of the murky liquid into another smaller clay pot, and after blowing on it a few times (Dean wasn’t sure if this was part of the magic or just an unhygienic kind of courtesy) handed the drink to Dean.  He scuffed earth onto the small fire, mostly extinguishing it, which at least cut down on the generation of smoke.

The old man mimed drinking and nodded encouragingly at Dean who was contemplating the opaque depths of his cup with some trepidation.  It smelt pretty funky, as well as still being boiling hot.  Dean pointed at the old man, then at the dubious drink and mimicked the same drinking gesture that had just been aimed at him.

“No offence buddy, but what about you joining me?”

Nonosabawsut shook his head emphatically, pointed two fingers at his own eyes then at Dean, a universal “watching you” sign.  He waited a few seconds for Dean to get with the programme, then when Dean was slow to react he said something that sounded imperative.

“Oh fuck it.” Dean closed his eyes and tipped the entire contents of the cup down his throat, figuring knocking it back like a shot of rot-gut was his best bet.  He swallowed and coughed a little – that stuff tasted as awful as it had smelled.  Nonosabawsut chuckled at the look of disgust that twisted Dean’s face.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, chuckles. I don’t see you rushing to take a swig of this stuff, and I can tell you it tastes like ass.”  The hunter leaned back against the concave wall and waited.  Nonosabawsut was as good as his word (or in this case his gesture) and sat cross legged, staring at Dean until Dean started to think that this was what the old shaman had brought him here for – some sort of bizarre staring contest.

That was when the walls started to melt.


Continued in Part 3b