I thought of angels
Choking on their halos
Get them drunk on rose water
See how dirty I can get them
Pulling out their fragile teeth
And clip their tiny wings
Dean didn't like the dark.
He never did. As a kid, he would always insist on having his mother put in a nightlight, or if she didn't, sometime sooner rather than later she'd find him clutching his favourite teddy bear and meekly asking if he could sleep with her that night.
But this, this was much worse.
There was no chance of him getting a night light in there; the dirty cell with old blood clotting the seams of the floor, like a dried up red river. There were four walls, one small dark metal-covered door, and the scorched red river. Dean hated it. Cold, dark, unwelcoming, and worst of all, everything was unknown.
He shivered underneath his thin t-shirt and one hoodie, and tried to curl up comfortably against the wall. He didn't know what time of day it was. He didn't know how long he had been in there, since the people wearing black robes and white masks bombed his base and took him back with them. He didn't know if anyone else was still alive.
He cursed himself for his uselessness, but the uneasy feeling of being oppressed and forgotten wormed its way into his heart.
Dean fell into an uneasy sleep.
He woke up to the door slamming open and something heavy, soft, and alive was thrown into the cell near him. Dean watched with wide eyes as the person stood up as quickly as he could and started shouting at their captors with a thick and thoroughly pissed off Irish accent. "When I get a hold of ye wankers, ooh I'm gonna-!"
They shut the door on his screams and it was dark once again, and Dean would only stare at the other with wide eyes as he panted out curse words. Obviously the other was much more hurt then he let on. Dean moved towards the middle of the room slowly, avoiding the dried blood trails, and crouched down next to the man, who was looking at him with curious and suspicious eyes.
"Where are you hurt?" Dean asked.
The man relaxed a tiny bit, and motioned towards his legs. "Bruises, sprains, blood. The usual. I'll be alright."
Dean nodded. "…If you're sure."
They sat in silence for a few moments, the man pulling himself up to a sitting position next to Dean.
"I'm Seamus Finnegan." He introduced himself, and Dean eyed his hand with suspicion (before remembering that people introduced themselves that way, and he wondered briefly again how long had he been in the cell) before he took it.
"Dean Thomas."
"A pleasure to meet you."
Dean shook his head. "No, trust me, it's all mine."
The door was slammed open once again and one of the robed men dropped their food on the floor. Dean stared at him with blank eyes as the prison guard mocked Seamus- who had immediately started to fight with him- before roughly shoving Seamus to the floor and shutting the door. Dean grabbed the food and the water and helped the Irishman up. "You shouldn't fight them," he told the other. "They'll just keep bugging you."
Seamus scowled. "And if we let 'em make fun of us, and we don't respond, they'll just spend more time pestering us to try and get a reaction out o' us. Fuckin' hate double-standards."
Dean nodded and handed Seamus one half of the small dry sandwich. "So do I. But what other choices do we have? Don't fight them, conserve your energy. And don't eat all of that, we never know when we'll get food next."
They took Dean for another one of their 'tests' that day and he didn't come back for a while. That was all he could say- a while. He had no clue what time it was, how long he had been in there. It could have been hours, or days, or only five minutes, but all he could do was try and staunch his bleeding (no more red lines were needed on the floors) as he was thrown roughly back into the cell. Seamus immediately crowded over him with a concerned look on his face.
"Are ye alright?" Seamus pulled away Dean's hands which were covering the small wounds on his stomach, and tried to divert his attention away from that and onto Seamus. "They didn't do anything too bad right?"
Dean shook his head, but quickly stopped as that caused a migraine to flare up. He groaned and pressed his head to the cold stones of the floor. Seamus took off his own jacket and started ripping up the sleeves of his shirt, wrapping them around Dean's injuries.
"You don't have to do that," Dean slurred, but Seamus just smiled.
"You should rest."
Dean did.
They weren't taken for a while afterwards, and Dean found himself relaxing around Seamus.
"I went to art school for a while, before I drafted into the war." Dean admitted, his eyes watching Seamus carefully.
The sandy haired man seemed impressed. "Art school? Man, I couldn't do that. Me Mam always wanted me to do something sciency, like study Ancient Runes, but I didn't like it." He paused for a few seconds. "That's really neat. I got drafted right after I turned eighteen, I was ecstatic then, went to Morocco, America, Iraq… Then I got sent back to England and got captured." Seamus gave a rueful grin. "I did alright I suppose."
Dean yawned. "That's great actually, going out, seeing the world. I've always wanted to do that."
"Why didn't you?"
"To afraid. I'm a coward."
Seamus shook his head. "Nonsense. Yer the bravest person I've met."
Dean raised his eyebrows. "You must be joking."
"Not at all. You've must have been here for years and you haven't cracked yet, and yer helping me survive since I'd probably get meself killed on the first day, it's really inspiring. I'm happy to have met you."
Dean let out a small smile. "I don't believe you, but thanks. I'm happy to have met you too."
"Of course! Who couldn't be happy to meet me?" Seamus grinned, and Dean let out the first laugh ever since he was captured. It was cracked, rusty, and sounded far too shaky, but Seamus couldn't help but enjoy hearing it.
Seamus was taken next.
He came back with a black eye, blood smeared against his cheek. His leg hung behind him in an awkward way, and his fingers were sloppily bandaged.
"I'mmalright." He tried to reassure Dean, but the other just carefully laid down the other prisoner on his own jacket and tried to clean up his wounds as best as he could.
"Drink." The artist demanded, and Seamus gulped down all the water Dean had offered him.
"Thankyou." Seamus muttered, and Dean responded by placing a cool hand on his forehead and told him to sleep.
Seamus gradually healed, as did Dean, but Seamus was anxious. He was tapping his fingers against the stones, counting the blood trails, whispering to Dean 'how do we get out of here?', and for the first time in a long while Dean felt his calm mask shake as Seamus deteriorated. Seamus liked to be outside; he didn't like to be confined. He couldn't move with his leg that had healed the wrong way and there was nothing to do but wait, be tortured, and pray for some kind of release.
Dean curled up in his corner and pressed his fingers to the side of his head, where fresh blood was running down his skin.
He looked at the blood coating his fingers and pressed it to the stones, drawing swirls with the rusty red.
Dean didn't know what to do.
Fire.
That's what Dean was drawing.
Fire.
He didn't realize it at first, but now he could see it. He hungered for the warmth, the destruction, the burns of the fire, and the red trails that dripped down the walls and the floor showed that. Seamus eyed the flames with a tired eye- the eye of someone who was starting to give up, and Dean felt something in his heart constrict at the thought- and said dully, "We need fire."
Dean agreed.
"But how? Even if we did have fire, what would we do? Burn this place to the ground?"
Dean like the idea, but had to admit defeat. They had no way of getting it, so what was the point?
The door was opened sometime far later, when Seamus spent most of his time sleeping and Dean had covered over three of the walls with his own blood drawn pictures, and they saw two men (no robes, no masks, horrified looks on their faces, and Dean felt himself start to cry with relief) who immediately came over to pick them up and shove them into an ambulance to bring them to the hospital. At least, that's what they told them, and Dean didn't care if they were going to put them in another torture chamber because he was outside and there was sun and Seamus was going to be okay, they said, and Dean was happy then.
He passed out sometime on the way to the hospital.
Seamus woke up to bright lights and needles sticking in him, an oxygen mask over his face, and Dean sleeping peacefully (not tense, no, he looked well cared for, clean, happy, and that was all he cared about) next to him.
"D-Dean?" his voice sounded unused, and he wondered what happened, but right now all he needed was for Dean to wake up.
"Dean?"
Dean shifted and opened his dark eyes, which had far more life in them then Seamus remembered. They widened. "Seamus- you're okay."
Seamus smiled from behind the mask. "I seem ta be." He grabbed Dean's hand, and gripped it with all the strength he had. "We're going to be alright?"
He nodded. "Full recovery for both of us, and they said they'll let us go free as long as we stay together." Dean stopped. "I mean, as long as that's alright with you-"
"Couldn't think of anything better."
Dean smiled the brightest Seamus had ever seen him. "Good."
"Good."
Written for Hunger Games: ecstatic, divert, Seamus/Dean, ancient runes, fire, 1785.
I don't own hp or just one yesterday, which that super awesome first paragraph up there is from.
Also sorry if shitty done between breaks today.