[Having been here for two years now, Skye has learned to pay close attention to the Delivery Dogs and how they act with each passing month. The fact that they’re skittish this month as her worried enough that she starts following one after getting a caffeine fix. Only backing off when one poofs out of sight right in front of her.
That probably wasn’t good. Skye realizes she’s in an area she never really visits, mostly because of how abandoned it seems and because she’s never known anyone who lives here. She’s turning around to leave when she spots a familiar, and this time, unpleasant face.
Dean.
Considering how awful their last meeting went, Skye isn’t sure what to do other than to freeze in place. He had warned her after all. Ever since that warning, she’s been looking over her shoulder a lot more. Did he follow her here? Wait for her to be alone so he could—
Well, she doesn’t want to think about what he could or would do to her.]
[ There's a certain level of familiarity Dean allows himself at his choice of residence in Deerington. It's run-down, abandoned looking. Home away from home, even if at the start of the world going sideways they'd at least tried to make things as good as they could at the camp. But other people's comfort had quickly fallen out of his priorities. He wasn't there to to make people comfortable. He was there to them and kill Lucifer. This place? It had been a tactical decision.
It hadn't taken him long to make the kinds of changes to the house that are basic levels of fortification. It's more habit than anything else, a deeply ingrained knowledge that making sure he can defend himself when the shit hits the fan? It's the difference between life and death.
So when he spots a figure out of a grimy window pane he has no intention of cleaning, he's already reaching for the stash of weapons Sam has given him. And when he finally makes it outside, using his knowledge of the area to sneak up more than well enough on the intruder, he's got a pistol that's definitely not the Colt trained on her this time.
Whatever E.T.'s freaking lovechild is here for, he figures it's not for anything good. ]
What? You thought you could get the drop on me with that kinda approach? Sloppy.
[ Mornings after shouldn't happen in the dark, but well. Here they are. He's gonna assume it's morning, just because he's not having a good time right now, and, well. That seems par for the course for mornings.
Mornings after, as far as Cas has learned, really suck. For one, humans have morning breath, and it's horrible. Second, if people don't know to leave his cabin, it gets awkward. Third, he tends to feel off kilter, head hurting, body protesting, mind buckling from trying to remember dreams of flight, or forgetting dreams of falling.
Mornings suck, in short.
Mornings in which angel radio makes his teeth vibrate out of his skull, while his trueform remains a hollow cadaver and he's barely angel enough to withstand the true voice kin?
Yeah... yeah those are gonna rank high up there on mornings that suck.
Once the first spike of adrenaline and panic wears off, Cas rubs his hands down his face. It's too dark to see if Dean has any Enochian wards on the walls of this house, in the dim light of a burnt down fire and a few candles, but Cas stumbles his way through the living room anyway, shooting the liger a look as he moves past, and willing a short flash of a smile onto his face. ]
Yeah I like you too, buddy.
[ He can barely see the stairs as he climbs them - and what's with the incense?
Too many questions. That has to slot further down in his priorities. Cas stops halfway up the stairs, puts a hand on the sutures and winces, before pushing on. Priorities, priorities. And well, Dean did give him a roof and patch him up - more than he could have asked of the guy who sent him to his death, quite frankly. The least Cas can do to repay that is to warn him.
So he waltzes into the first room he sees without knocking - and ah. Bingo. One fearless leader: Check. ]
There's an angel in this world, and I may or may not have given our location away.
[ Living alone after getting used to a camp full of twitchy trauma survivors has been a learning curve he thinks he's got a decent enough handle on. Community spirit hasn't ever exactly been important to him. Even when he was younger, all he'd needed was his family, and the hunting life is a lonely one sometimes. Dependency on other people had died the moment him and Sam went their separate ways and whatever friendship had existed between him and Cas had rotted away just like the rest of the world. Buried under a pile of crap Lucifer dumped on all of them.
So when the door of the room he's using as a bedroom opens, he looks up and the expression on his face isn't a kind one. He wouldn't go so far to say he's been good living on his own, but he definitely didn't have anybody invite themselves in without knocking first.
Tired beyond what anybody can reasonably cope with, the hand he's got on the pistol set on the beat up looking nightstand - decorated with a candle so he can see in this permanent darkness - only relaxes once he realizes it's just Cas. And that's still going to take time to get used to. ]
Oh you just right on come on in, Cas. Make yourself at home.
[ His tone is steeped in sarcasm and an edge that might have been there even if he wasn't this tired. Sleep just won't come, and he's feeling it now, heavy in every corner of his body and mind. ]
You went out?
[ How else would Cas know about what else is out there? ]
[ For a while after Skye's visit, Cas just... sits inside that house. The one Dean claimed for himself here in Deerington, with the fixed up staircase and the derelict everything else. Just... Sits there and breathes, and exists, and listens to the silence within it.
He feels, perhaps, that just like himself, the house without Dean is just an empty body with little point to it.
How long he sits there in the dark, with nothing but the wine and the company of his own white noise thoughts, until finally he moves. Grabs his bag, grabs some weapons, and is outside before he even knows, properly, what he's doing.
For once, the siren call of the orange plastic bottle is driving him away rather than luring him in. Same for the blood. He can't drown himself in it now, not when...
It's not hard to find, and not far from the house. Cas quietly stalks the streets, weapon ready, senses... far from sharp. He's not been sleeping - no one has.
The Impala is a mess, but he can hardly focus on it. Instead, he watches. He witnesses. Over and over again. It feels like he's violating the privacy of a corpse to steal this moment away, and for once something he does in clear defiance of Dean's comfort levels doesn't bring him twisted satisfaction. It just makes his jaw clench, too blue eyes as still as the rest of him.
Cas moves, eventually, methodically, eyes peeled on the surrounding landscape - or what little he can see, in the blood red darkness. He's smart enough to know the outcome before he tries, but... he has to.
Can't quite help it, like an itch he needs to scratch. So he slides into the driver's seat of the wreck. The car means nothing to him, but... she's Dean's. And if here, in this place, she's not left to rot, then Cas has to at least make an attempt to salvage her. He turns the key in the ignition. In his peripheral, the hound bites down on Dean's neck, snuffing him out. Over and over and over again. Ignition. Death.
The Impala won't even give him so much as a desperate, stuttering gurgle. She's silent like her master, and... oh.
Cas freezes, hands white-knuckling around the steering wheel. There's a strange burn in his eyes, a clench in his chest that he can't quite categorize. His breath hitches and his vision swims, and Cas wonders if he's about to just... pass out, body and mind long past their respective limits. His lip trembles, and he doesn't... doesn't understand, the way it feels like something's trying to crawl up his chest and spill forth.
Not until something wet trails over his cheek.
Cas hasn't shed a tear in all his billions of years of existence. Not when he lost countless siblings, not when he went through re-education, not when Dean pushed and pushed until Cas shed his allegiances, a choice that sent him into spiralling freefall, a choice he would make over and over again if given the chance to change things. Not when Heaven slammed shut and his wings fell limp, uselessly dragging in the muck where no one can see but he can still feel something. Not when it all hurt so much, too much, and all he had left were painkillers to numb it all, and orgies to make him feel less alone, to drown out the silence and the horror of feeling, of existing the way he does, now, of the carcass of his trueform he can still feel, locked inside a prison of flesh and bone that was never meant to be his body.
It pales, all of it, in light of losing Dean, and his spiralling mind doesn't care that he'll have him back in a week, because right now he's gone, and Cas hadn't expected it to hit this hard... and yet, it does. Here, in the wreck of the Impala, unable to even do this much for the man who gave him freedom to die in the dirt rather than continued existence under Heaven's yoke, it feels like Cas has lost the last thing he had left to lose.
The haunting image of an ever repeating death and the silent emptiness of the Impala are the only witnesses here, in the dark, as for the first time since he was created, this broken, fallen angel cries. ]
Any chance you're able to track down my spider bait brother?
( He sees you on the Fluid, like him. It's a lot to get used to being able to see message streams, but knowing the other Dean is there, and - working? He's doing something.
Sam would go, but going half cocked into the forest as the sun sets is just asking for a spider to get the jump on Sam. And Jack can't be down two Winchesters. Now that Dean is his Winchester right now. )
[ Honestly, Dean's not even gonna ask how Spider-Man-- Peter, knows which room is his. He doesn't care because one the one hand? It's Spider-Man. On the other? The Impala is sitting half-fixed up in the garage and Spider-Man answered Cas' call.
Taking both sets of stairs two at a time - he's been in the sauna... not using it, obviously (not yet, anyway), just puzzled that they have one - the light flicks on in his room and he's moving towards the window at lightspeed. This is all sorts of childhood dream come true, so when he pushes the window open, he sticks his head out and almost headbutts the guy.
Oops. ]
Whoa! You literally meant-- uh, come in?
[ Stepping back from the window, he can't help but wait for Peter to make a cool entrance. Maybe he'll flip in or shoot some webs inside to swing in or-- ]
[ Some time before they embark on their trip down into the worst of the sinkholes, Dean might notice that some of the tools in his workshop have been messed around with. They're all back in place, but some hang a little crooked and look like they've been used. He might also notice a few charms dotted around the house, some looking quite simple, others like mobiles and some more like macabre dream catchers. They've been etched with Enochian symbols that Dean will recognize as similar to the sorts of generic protective wards Cas and him once set up around Camp Chitaqua.
On his bedside table, he will find two items and a small note. One is a bone bracelet with similar Enochian symbols carefully etched in, the bone worked smooth and comfortable sitting on an adjustable leather cord, the other is a bone dagger, the handle wrapped in leather, the edge wickedly sharp with small, nasty looking edges and notches. It has some Enochian etchings in the blade itself, too, though different than the ones in the bracelet and charms around the house.
The note reads: ] Sam and I spent the day on arts and crafts. I will vehemently deny any and all abduction and misuse of your tools. Thought you might appreciate the results - we made three bracelets, three daggers, charms for the house. Some leftover bones stored in the garage. Good for ritual sacrifices and against local monsters acc. to our fearful friends. The etchings are washed in angel blood, which may or may not have happened on purpose. Enjoy your new toys! ~ Cas
[ It's been a long shift, longer for how tired he still feels by default. The flu has eased a lot since the first week he's had it, but it still makes him feel deflated and exhausted at the end of the day.
He almost misses the gifts on the nightstand as he collapses into bed post-shower, but it's only where he's trying to slide his Fluid onto that nightstand that he knocks the dagger and it lands spiked into the carpet.
Whoops.
He reads over the note a couple times, feels the bracelet with warm, sleepy fingers and then yanks the dagger out of the carpet to inspect.
It's a damn good weapon. Better still that it was made by two people who mean a lot to him. Everything, if he's honest. ]
I'll pretend I never noticed the tools were missing. these are awesome cas. not even gonna judge you if you and sam ended up braiding each others hair too while you were at it
but seriously. thank you. for more than just the bracelet and blade
text. | dated to a day after their dramatic talk in the basement
[It's about a day later, after that horrible, wonderful conversation full of snot and tears and tense promises to be better — do better — from both sides. Sam doesn't emerge, doesn't so much as make a peep, though any check-ins on him will find he's either sleeping or reading through the network with grimly set brows.
But then, with so much less fanfare:]
I have to pee.
[...]
I can't leave the weird fire circle without help.
[That's code for 'he's ready to come up and be a person in the house instead of an animal.
... But it's also code for 'I really do need to pee'.]
[ Honestly, he can't recall a time he ever read 'I have to pee' and smiled to himself. But that's what's happening right now. His Fluid is tossed onto the island counter in the kitchen and he wanders out the front to grab the hose.
This is a big moment and hell yes he's going to lighten the mood by a little hose down. For the fire, obviously. But if he gets Sam a little too? Well, that's what big brothers are for. Skating past the obvious momentous occasion not wanting to make a big deal about it in favor of being the jackass holding the hose.
It only just reaches down into the basement, though not quite far enough inside of the panic room. Pushing the door open he catches Sam's eye before returning to the hose head and squeezing the trigger. Water jets out and collides with the nearest side of the fire circle, and it takes way more than he thought it would to actually put it out enough for Sam to step through. ]
Thought I'd offer a shower service free of charge.
[ His expression is outwardly a shit-eating grin, but inside he's still nervous. What if he's not good enough to make sure that Sam's good? ]
(Eddie hasn't spoken to anyone about what's happened except for the guy who helped him out. He's been too drained, too dead inside, yada yada - your typical post-possession stuff. He doesn't really want to talk to anyone is the thing. Except Dean's name winds up being one of the easiest names to come up with when the loneliness gets too much and when he realizes he needed a little bit of help.
Eddie doesn't even know the last time he actually bothered to reach out to an adult before like this. Had he ever? Without being anxious the whole time? Without feeling like he was going to be in massive trouble?
Okay, so Eddie actually does have to work up to it. Trauma was trauma and the idea of going to an adult about a problem still terrified him. Especially this problem. Part of him wondered if Dean would throw him in the loony bin like his momma would have. He has to fight with himself for an hour or two before he actually gets over himself. Dean's not your mother, dipshit.
So stop being so afraid.
Besides, it wasn't like Eddie was asking the guy to come to rescue him out of a sewer. Eddie had already been rescued. He just needed...)
hi. you know about weird cosmic shit right
(He's pretty positive given their various conversations and also Cas's entire fucking existence.)
[ It's been a month, and honestly Dean's not sure how he should feel about the fact that he's starting to expect all the bullshit that comes with being here. After the carnage of October, November's been just as hard, but not in the same way.
Hell, hanging out in a fleshy sinkhole has probably been the least emotionally taxing thing he's done all month, and that had been a pukeshow from start to finish.
Hanging out on the back porch of his new, not falling apart house over in Clarke Acres, the Fluid lights up mid-gulp of his beer, drawing his eyes from a blurry beer bottle to somewhere level with his wrist. Beer sloshes back into the bottle as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and for a second he's squinting at the message.
Yeah, he knows about weird cosmic shit. ]
you could say it's in the job description. you're gonna have to be more specific though. weird comes in a lot of different flavors. you ok?
[he isn't expecting a response. not now that he knows the reason why dean hasn't gotten back to him about those lessons. but he needs to send the message anyway. still needs to try and make one thing clear-]
I'm Lucifer's son. But he isn't my father. Castiel is.
I want to get Lucifer out of Sam. He doesn't deserve to be hurt like that. So if I can help you do it, I want to.
Heads up, since I don't know what's different between us, but, there are at least two people here who've seen the show our lives are based on. In our world, there's a book series, and in another, alternate world, there's a TV series.
Also, he ships you and Cas. Apparently, you give each other longing looks.
[ Oh he's stared at his Fluid for a longass time before even trying to respond. He knows about the books. Chuck had ended up in their camp, with them until the end. But the rest of it? ]
[Deposited on a table is one neatly folded pair of shirts and a cassette player set up and ready to go, beside a small arsenal of old cassettes; the note attached reads:
Who says you only have to listen to tunes in the Impala?]
[Left outside the house is a dark blue basket. Inside is an associate of tea, chocolates, a box of lemon drops, a bottle of wine and a copy of Charles Dickens, Christmas Carol. A blue Tardis-shaped card attached to the basket says, 'Santa' in silver marker.]
On the eve of the 24th, a brightly colored dreamguide vested in black and yellow comes marching into your space. A golden hue surrounds it, shimmering with every flicker of its wings creating a venerable light show. Hanging from its short limbs is a ziplock bag with a few tablespoons of honey and no note attached. Freshly collected, the little buzz maker circles around you once, twice, and on the third drops the bag above you - hope you catch it. Once it's made its delivery it will go on its merry way.
[it's during one of their impromptu meetings, after their burgers have been eaten and they're about to head off in different directions, that jack hands over the box. inside, there's a set of three bags, along with the request not to let cas' bag tip over. each bag has a name written on it in marker, and is clearly the work of someone whose never celebrated christmas before.
inside dean's bag sits a toy impala along with a note apologizing for not being able to find one the right color. in sam's, sits a bear, complete with a name tag on him. and in cas', a new friend for him.
look, he's a kid with no income. he's done the best he can with what he has. don't judge him.]
[ It happens within the span of hours. Dean leaves for work, perhaps, or is out on an errand, perhaps. Either way, when he returns home, nothing seems amiss... at first. Until he steps inside.
It looks like someone bought a sack of christmas decorations and upended them all over the place, with little understanding of where things should go. There's even a small, scrappy looking christmas tree, lopsided and sad and not at all a glorious christmas tree sight to behold, yet lovingly drowned in baubles and tinsel, with a star precariously wobbling on its tip. There's a stack of board games, unearthed at some second hand store or another. A crate of various christmas flavoured beers, with a glittering bow on top. Two bottles of eggnog - no labels. Homemade, perhaps. The fireplace is crackling. There's a beat up looking record player, and a box of vinyls, both with a gift tag that reads 'Dean'. Next to it sits a stack of leather bound books with a gift tag reading 'Sam'. Judging by the overflowing trash can, an attempt at wrapping both was made and given up on.
Later, he will find sitting on top of his pillow single, black feather, smooth and silky, and too large to have come from Charis, even though it has the same very subtle iridescence. Touching it feels strange, a little. Like the slight tingling in the air when a storm is gathering in the skies. And a note, that just reads:
[ There's a small box outside of Dean's house, with a note attached. It says 'For Dean from El' in struggling handwriting.
The box contains a blue and green friendship bracelet and a note, penned in the same poor handwriting that looks like Eleven's struggling a lot more than someone her age should: ]
I'm not good at making friends, but I'm good at finding them. You're my friend. I'll take care of you.
PS: The lake is ice. Stones don't skip great on that. I still haven't found the turtle
PS again, am I allowed to do more than one?
PS again again: The bracelet means we're friends, it's a rule.
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That probably wasn’t good. Skye realizes she’s in an area she never really visits, mostly because of how abandoned it seems and because she’s never known anyone who lives here. She’s turning around to leave when she spots a familiar, and this time, unpleasant face.
Dean.
Considering how awful their last meeting went, Skye isn’t sure what to do other than to freeze in place. He had warned her after all. Ever since that warning, she’s been looking over her shoulder a lot more. Did he follow her here? Wait for her to be alone so he could—
Well, she doesn’t want to think about what he could or would do to her.]
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It hadn't taken him long to make the kinds of changes to the house that are basic levels of fortification. It's more habit than anything else, a deeply ingrained knowledge that making sure he can defend himself when the shit hits the fan? It's the difference between life and death.
So when he spots a figure out of a grimy window pane he has no intention of cleaning, he's already reaching for the stash of weapons Sam has given him. And when he finally makes it outside, using his knowledge of the area to sneak up more than well enough on the intruder, he's got a pistol that's definitely not the Colt trained on her this time.
Whatever E.T.'s freaking lovechild is here for, he figures it's not for anything good. ]
What? You thought you could get the drop on me with that kinda approach? Sloppy.
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[action] | The morning after TDM Thread
Mornings after, as far as Cas has learned, really suck. For one, humans have morning breath, and it's horrible. Second, if people don't know to leave his cabin, it gets awkward. Third, he tends to feel off kilter, head hurting, body protesting, mind buckling from trying to remember dreams of flight, or forgetting dreams of falling.
Mornings suck, in short.
Mornings in which angel radio makes his teeth vibrate out of his skull, while his trueform remains a hollow cadaver and he's barely angel enough to withstand the true voice kin?
Yeah... yeah those are gonna rank high up there on mornings that suck.
Once the first spike of adrenaline and panic wears off, Cas rubs his hands down his face. It's too dark to see if Dean has any Enochian wards on the walls of this house, in the dim light of a burnt down fire and a few candles, but Cas stumbles his way through the living room anyway, shooting the liger a look as he moves past, and willing a short flash of a smile onto his face. ]
Yeah I like you too, buddy.
[ He can barely see the stairs as he climbs them - and what's with the incense?
Too many questions. That has to slot further down in his priorities. Cas stops halfway up the stairs, puts a hand on the sutures and winces, before pushing on. Priorities, priorities. And well, Dean did give him a roof and patch him up - more than he could have asked of the guy who sent him to his death, quite frankly. The least Cas can do to repay that is to warn him.
So he waltzes into the first room he sees without knocking - and ah. Bingo. One fearless leader: Check. ]
There's an angel in this world, and I may or may not have given our location away.
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So when the door of the room he's using as a bedroom opens, he looks up and the expression on his face isn't a kind one. He wouldn't go so far to say he's been good living on his own, but he definitely didn't have anybody invite themselves in without knocking first.
Tired beyond what anybody can reasonably cope with, the hand he's got on the pistol set on the beat up looking nightstand - decorated with a candle so he can see in this permanent darkness - only relaxes once he realizes it's just Cas. And that's still going to take time to get used to. ]
Oh you just right on come on in, Cas. Make yourself at home.
[ His tone is steeped in sarcasm and an edge that might have been there even if he wasn't this tired. Sleep just won't come, and he's feeling it now, heavy in every corner of his body and mind. ]
You went out?
[ How else would Cas know about what else is out there? ]
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cw: nihilism, lack of self-worth, mention of death
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[action] | October 25th, the Impala | cws: grief, mentions of death, substance abuse
He feels, perhaps, that just like himself, the house without Dean is just an empty body with little point to it.
How long he sits there in the dark, with nothing but the wine and the company of his own white noise thoughts, until finally he moves. Grabs his bag, grabs some weapons, and is outside before he even knows, properly, what he's doing.
For once, the siren call of the orange plastic bottle is driving him away rather than luring him in. Same for the blood. He can't drown himself in it now, not when...
It's not hard to find, and not far from the house. Cas quietly stalks the streets, weapon ready, senses... far from sharp. He's not been sleeping - no one has.
The Impala is a mess, but he can hardly focus on it. Instead, he watches. He witnesses. Over and over again. It feels like he's violating the privacy of a corpse to steal this moment away, and for once something he does in clear defiance of Dean's comfort levels doesn't bring him twisted satisfaction. It just makes his jaw clench, too blue eyes as still as the rest of him.
Cas moves, eventually, methodically, eyes peeled on the surrounding landscape - or what little he can see, in the blood red darkness. He's smart enough to know the outcome before he tries, but... he has to.
Can't quite help it, like an itch he needs to scratch. So he slides into the driver's seat of the wreck. The car means nothing to him, but... she's Dean's. And if here, in this place, she's not left to rot, then Cas has to at least make an attempt to salvage her. He turns the key in the ignition. In his peripheral, the hound bites down on Dean's neck, snuffing him out. Over and over and over again. Ignition. Death.
The Impala won't even give him so much as a desperate, stuttering gurgle. She's silent like her master, and... oh.
Cas freezes, hands white-knuckling around the steering wheel. There's a strange burn in his eyes, a clench in his chest that he can't quite categorize. His breath hitches and his vision swims, and Cas wonders if he's about to just... pass out, body and mind long past their respective limits. His lip trembles, and he doesn't... doesn't understand, the way it feels like something's trying to crawl up his chest and spill forth.
Not until something wet trails over his cheek.
Cas hasn't shed a tear in all his billions of years of existence. Not when he lost countless siblings, not when he went through re-education, not when Dean pushed and pushed until Cas shed his allegiances, a choice that sent him into spiralling freefall, a choice he would make over and over again if given the chance to change things. Not when Heaven slammed shut and his wings fell limp, uselessly dragging in the muck where no one can see but he can still feel something. Not when it all hurt so much, too much, and all he had left were painkillers to numb it all, and orgies to make him feel less alone, to drown out the silence and the horror of feeling, of existing the way he does, now, of the carcass of his trueform he can still feel, locked inside a prison of flesh and bone that was never meant to be his body.
It pales, all of it, in light of losing Dean, and his spiralling mind doesn't care that he'll have him back in a week, because right now he's gone, and Cas hadn't expected it to hit this hard... and yet, it does. Here, in the wreck of the Impala, unable to even do this much for the man who gave him freedom to die in the dirt rather than continued existence under Heaven's yoke, it feels like Cas has lost the last thing he had left to lose.
The haunting image of an ever repeating death and the silent emptiness of the Impala are the only witnesses here, in the dark, as for the first time since he was created, this broken, fallen angel cries. ]
text | alto reed
( He sees you on the Fluid, like him. It's a lot to get used to being able to see message streams, but knowing the other Dean is there, and - working? He's doing something.
Sam would go, but going half cocked into the forest as the sun sets is just asking for a spider to get the jump on Sam. And Jack can't be down two Winchesters. Now that Dean is his Winchester right now. )
text; dw79
[ In other words, yeah. ]
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text. un: jack (i do what i want!!!)
Dean. How do I cook a frozen burrito?
Why is there a pineapple on the wall?
What does trigonometry mean?
The police are cats. They look like they're possessed. But they're not. What's wrong with them?
text; un: dw79
rogaine sam finally let you out of his sight for more than 2 seconds? I'm impressed. why the 20 questions kid? sam busy washing what's left?
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This is Spider-Man calling.
Are you home?
I'm gonna knock on your window.
Hope you're not changing or something, that'd be awkward.
I'm not intentionally trying to be a pervert.
I'm gonna knock.
I'm knocking!
[.......................... There's someone knocking outside his window.
A man in a red and blue superhero suit, hanging upside down.]
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Taking both sets of stairs two at a time - he's been in the sauna... not using it, obviously (not yet, anyway), just puzzled that they have one - the light flicks on in his room and he's moving towards the window at lightspeed. This is all sorts of childhood dream come true, so when he pushes the window open, he sticks his head out and almost headbutts the guy.
Oops. ]
Whoa! You literally meant-- uh, come in?
[ Stepping back from the window, he can't help but wait for Peter to make a cool entrance. Maybe he'll flip in or shoot some webs inside to swing in or-- ]
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Bones
On his bedside table, he will find two items and a small note. One is a bone bracelet with similar Enochian symbols carefully etched in, the bone worked smooth and comfortable sitting on an adjustable leather cord, the other is a bone dagger, the handle wrapped in leather, the edge wickedly sharp with small, nasty looking edges and notches. It has some Enochian etchings in the blade itself, too, though different than the ones in the bracelet and charms around the house.
The note reads: ]
Sam and I spent the day on arts and crafts. I will vehemently deny any and all abduction and misuse of your tools. Thought you might appreciate the results - we made three bracelets, three daggers, charms for the house. Some leftover bones stored in the garage. Good for ritual sacrifices and against local monsters acc. to our fearful friends. The etchings are washed in angel blood, which may or may not have happened on purpose. Enjoy your new toys!
~ Cas
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He almost misses the gifts on the nightstand as he collapses into bed post-shower, but it's only where he's trying to slide his Fluid onto that nightstand that he knocks the dagger and it lands spiked into the carpet.
Whoops.
He reads over the note a couple times, feels the bracelet with warm, sleepy fingers and then yanks the dagger out of the carpet to inspect.
It's a damn good weapon. Better still that it was made by two people who mean a lot to him. Everything, if he's honest. ]
I'll pretend I never noticed the tools were missing. these are awesome cas. not even gonna judge you if you and sam ended up braiding each others hair too while you were at it
but seriously. thank you. for more than just the bracelet and blade
text. | dated to a day after their dramatic talk in the basement
But then, with so much less fanfare:]
I have to pee.
[...]
I can't leave the weird fire circle without help.
[That's code for 'he's ready to come up and be a person in the house instead of an animal.
... But it's also code for 'I really do need to pee'.]
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This is a big moment and hell yes he's going to lighten the mood by a little hose down. For the fire, obviously. But if he gets Sam a little too? Well, that's what big brothers are for. Skating past the obvious momentous occasion not wanting to make a big deal about it in favor of being the jackass holding the hose.
It only just reaches down into the basement, though not quite far enough inside of the panic room. Pushing the door open he catches Sam's eye before returning to the hose head and squeezing the trigger. Water jets out and collides with the nearest side of the fire circle, and it takes way more than he thought it would to actually put it out enough for Sam to step through. ]
Thought I'd offer a shower service free of charge.
[ His expression is outwardly a shit-eating grin, but inside he's still nervous. What if he's not good enough to make sure that Sam's good? ]
You reek, by the way.
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cw: dissociation
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cw: animal hunting
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prob at the VERY END of nov like..more like dec1st or something (cw: child abuse/trauma/possession)
Eddie doesn't even know the last time he actually bothered to reach out to an adult before like this. Had he ever? Without being anxious the whole time? Without feeling like he was going to be in massive trouble?
Okay, so Eddie actually does have to work up to it. Trauma was trauma and the idea of going to an adult about a problem still terrified him. Especially this problem. Part of him wondered if Dean would throw him in the loony bin like his momma would have. He has to fight with himself for an hour or two before he actually gets over himself. Dean's not your mother, dipshit.
So stop being so afraid.
Besides, it wasn't like Eddie was asking the guy to come to rescue him out of a sewer. Eddie had already been rescued. He just needed...)
hi. you know about weird cosmic shit right
(He's pretty positive given their various conversations and also Cas's entire fucking existence.)
EDDIE D: D: D:
Hell, hanging out in a fleshy sinkhole has probably been the least emotionally taxing thing he's done all month, and that had been a pukeshow from start to finish.
Hanging out on the back porch of his new, not falling apart house over in Clarke Acres, the Fluid lights up mid-gulp of his beer, drawing his eyes from a blurry beer bottle to somewhere level with his wrist. Beer sloshes back into the bottle as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and for a second he's squinting at the message.
Yeah, he knows about weird cosmic shit. ]
you could say it's in the job description. you're gonna have to be more specific though. weird comes in a lot of different flavors. you ok?
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now that i kno the full scene here i am lmao
<3 I'm being glacial slow rn anyways I'M SORRY
no apologies
text > action
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text. un: jack
I'm Lucifer's son. But he isn't my father. Castiel is.
I want to get Lucifer out of Sam. He doesn't deserve to be hurt like that. So if I can help you do it, I want to.
Please let me help.
text | @alto reed
Also, he ships you and Cas. Apparently, you give each other longing looks.
You're welcome.
text; un: dw79
what?
am I supposed to know what the hell that means?
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text; un: castiel
text; un: dw79
yeah we do
gonna assume you know who and what he is
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[Sometime Around Christmas]
Who says you only have to listen to tunes in the Impala?]
[Merry Christmas, and all that jazz.]
Action; no reply; December 24th
24th of December
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inside dean's bag sits a toy impala along with a note apologizing for not being able to find one the right color. in sam's, sits a bear, complete with a name tag on him. and in cas', a new friend for him.
look, he's a kid with no income. he's done the best he can with what he has. don't judge him.]
on the 24th
It looks like someone bought a sack of christmas decorations and upended them all over the place, with little understanding of where things should go. There's even a small, scrappy looking christmas tree, lopsided and sad and not at all a glorious christmas tree sight to behold, yet lovingly drowned in baubles and tinsel, with a star precariously wobbling on its tip. There's a stack of board games, unearthed at some second hand store or another. A crate of various christmas flavoured beers, with a glittering bow on top. Two bottles of eggnog - no labels. Homemade, perhaps. The fireplace is crackling. There's a beat up looking record player, and a box of vinyls, both with a gift tag that reads 'Dean'. Next to it sits a stack of leather bound books with a gift tag reading 'Sam'. Judging by the overflowing trash can, an attempt at wrapping both was made and given up on.
Later, he will find sitting on top of his pillow single, black feather, smooth and silky, and too large to have come from Charis, even though it has the same very subtle iridescence. Touching it feels strange, a little. Like the slight tingling in the air when a storm is gathering in the skies. And a note, that just reads:
'You're still worth it all.' ]
On the 25th
The box contains a blue and green friendship bracelet and a note, penned in the same poor handwriting that looks like Eleven's struggling a lot more than someone her age should: ]
I'm not good at making friends, but I'm good at finding them. You're my friend. I'll take care of you.
PS: The lake is ice. Stones don't skip great on that. I still haven't found the turtle
PS again, am I allowed to do more than one?
PS again again: The bracelet means we're friends, it's a rule.