Dean Winchester (
hasperkynipples) wrote2013-08-25 09:09 pm
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Entry tags:
civil war au } { please leave the light on for me
He doesn't see it coming.
He should have. He's a soldier, he's trained for these things. He should have expected that after so long of being occupied, the citizens of New Orleans would start striking back. There's no reason why they wouldn't pick off Union soldiers seen on their own. Dean had gotten complacent. Gotten sloppy. And now he was probably going to die before he could even make it back to his unit.
His hand stays pressed to his side as he continues to stumble up the street, trying to keep himself mobile as best he can. He hurts, everywhere from the beating he had taken and the blood is still leaking through his fingers. He's not going to make it. His parents, brother, they may be prepared for him to die in the heat of battle. He doesn't think they would appreciate hearing that he was killed by being jumped on the street.
He trips on a crack in the pathway, pitching forward into a nearby fence post with a pained groan. He tries to push himself back to his feet again, but he can't. His body drops to the ground, slumping against the fence as he does, trying to catch his breath. Things are starting to get hazy around the edges, but he still thinks that he can make out the faint sound of footsteps.
"Help me," he manages to whisper, unsure if he's talking to anyone at all. "Please."
He should have. He's a soldier, he's trained for these things. He should have expected that after so long of being occupied, the citizens of New Orleans would start striking back. There's no reason why they wouldn't pick off Union soldiers seen on their own. Dean had gotten complacent. Gotten sloppy. And now he was probably going to die before he could even make it back to his unit.
His hand stays pressed to his side as he continues to stumble up the street, trying to keep himself mobile as best he can. He hurts, everywhere from the beating he had taken and the blood is still leaking through his fingers. He's not going to make it. His parents, brother, they may be prepared for him to die in the heat of battle. He doesn't think they would appreciate hearing that he was killed by being jumped on the street.
He trips on a crack in the pathway, pitching forward into a nearby fence post with a pained groan. He tries to push himself back to his feet again, but he can't. His body drops to the ground, slumping against the fence as he does, trying to catch his breath. Things are starting to get hazy around the edges, but he still thinks that he can make out the faint sound of footsteps.
"Help me," he manages to whisper, unsure if he's talking to anyone at all. "Please."
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"Still fine, Private?" she asks lightly, moving to fold the paper up in the other with Captain Singer's name on it to serve as an envelope.
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"We'll hire you a carriage to drop you off a street or two away from your base as soon as you feel better. And we'll put you in civilian clothes so no one suspects anything. It was the only way I could get Papa to agree."
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"I hope you'll be comfortable down here. I'll get you a blanket for tonight and if you need more pillows, I'd be happy to fetch more. Or, well, do anything you need me to do, really. If you'd like to send word home, I could write out what you say and mail it for you. Or I'm sure I can find you a set of playing cards around here if you'd like to play. Anything."
Because she's just so desperate to both be a good host and to prove herself capable of handling a very stressful situation.
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"Here we are. I will just move a chair closer and we can use this end table."
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He'll even shift a bit to try and sit up more, that way he could reach the table better.
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"There now, is this close enough?" Her hands rest on the tabletop, willing to move it closer to him before she takes her own seat.
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He then starts shuffling the cards. "Have you ever played this before?"
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He pauses with the deck in his hand, ready do deal. "Did I go too fast?"
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"I'm afraid so. I do not know what the, ah, the winning hands are? I do know a pair or set of three are all the same number, but I do not know any of the rest. Or what a pot is either." She flashes him an embarrassed smile, fiddling with her fingers in her lap.
"Would you explain it? I promise you I can understand quickly."
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He turns the deck over in his hand before sorting through the cards and pulling out a set of hearts, eight to queen. "A straight is five cards of the same suit that are in the right numbered order. You can't skip numbers in between or have a club or a spade in there instead."
He then adds the cards back into the deck and reshuffles them, before starting to deal a hand. "Now, once we both have our cards, I'll place the deck here, and flip the top card." He does so, revealing the top card on the deck, before pointing to it with his finger. "This is the pot. You have to pick up a card at the beginning of each turn, but you can never have more than five cards in your hand at a time. So, at the end of your turn, you discard one card into the pot."
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"I've got it now, I'm sure. Thank you."
She begins moving the cards around in her hand, reordering them and staring critically at two of them, knowing she'll have to get rid of them.
"Who goes first?"
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"My, this can be frustrating, can't it?"
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She peeks up at him through her lashes, looking a little intrigued.
"Would you like to talk to me, Private Winchester?"
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