[ Cas leaves, and Dean suddenly feels cold and alone; his skin feels shivery, fingers numb, body unable to move. He stays sitting on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the mess they made, at the empty space where Cas had just been.
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth. For your love is better than wine; your anointing oils are fragrant; your name is oil poured out.
Dean reaches out, curls his fingers into still warm sheets, twisting them in his fingers, pulling the rapidly cooling material to his face and breathing in long, deep, heart wrenching in his chest. He doesn't feel good about any of this; a black pit of anxiety settles deep in his stomach, churning his guts, bile in his throat. Movements are slow; Dean's brain is thick and foggy as he replays their night, the words they said, promises both unspoken and spoken. Methodically, and with all the meticulous precision of a hunter used to cleaning up messes, Dean strips the bed down, caps the lube and shoves it into his duffle, calls for a set of clean sheets.
Sam will eventually come back from whatever fuckery he was up to, and Dean will tell him an extremely shortened and PG version of Cas' visit, his mission and where he is, and demand that they wait here for him, because Cas said he'd be back.
It's a little silly to Sam, because they can just shoot Cas a message with their new location and he can come there instead, but Dean steadfastly refuses, and insists they wait here.
It has to be here.
The job is done, Sam will say the next morning when Cas doesn't show, though not unkindly, we should move on.
We stay here, is all Dean says. Sam, being on tenterhooks anyway, acquiesces, because what else can he say? Dean says they stay, so they will stay.
Bobby calls later that night, says there's no movement on the apocalypse front, but there's a job a couple hours away. Dean tells him no.
They have to stay here.
It triggers an argument between Sam and Dean, but the brothers had split once, and Dean knows precisely how that scenario ends - badly, endgame, death, disease - so they stay together, cooped up in this motel room. Bobby thinks they're idjits, but Dean has given his word, so they will camp out for another day. There is little to talk about, the tension hanging heavy in the room, thick and nearly tangible.
Dean is more frantic day 2, which confuses Sam, because Cas has gone weeks with no contact before, why this is different is a little odd to him - though Dean had said Cas thought he may die. Sam thinks maybe that was a little dramatic on Cas' part, and he's a little annoyed because you really can't tell Dean shit like that - he freaks out, when it's people he cares about, when it's people he loves.
He tries again, because they're the closest hunters to the job Bobby told them about, and Dean shouts at him that he's staying right here, because he told Cas he would, and he's not friggin' leaving, so just drop it already--
Sam drops it.
He doesn't like it, though - and he's fidgety, because there's some monster a few hours away killing innocents and their whole deal is saving people, and Sam is desperate for redemption, for justice. Eventually, Dean snaps at him that if it's so important, to just go, Dean will catch up with him when Cas comes. It's not like they're separating permanently, it's just covering more bases, isn't it? Sam sighs, because Dean is dramatic, but he nods - he'll hotwire a car, go check it out. They'll talk tonight, after Sam's done the first round of q&a with the locals, get a feel for what's happening.
Dean stays in the motel, alone, a full glass of whiskey that he spends most of that night nursing, trying not to panic, checking his phone every so often. Eventually, he will fall asleep sitting up in the bed, arms folded, ankles crossed, empty glass on the bedside table, next to his phone.
The morning of the third day comes, and Cas shows up, startling Dean out of sleep, bleary eyed but instantly on alert, launching himself to his feet, though he's groggy, it's inelegant, and he trips over his shoes that he left at the end of the bed, but Cas is back Cas is back Cas is back--
And injured, beaten to hell, and bleeding. ]
Shit, Cas--
[ He's instantly there, reaching to take the oil and set it out of the way before it's dropped and all of this was in vain. He'll catch him, if he stumbles, because that's what you do for friends, for people you love - you catch them when they fall, when they're hurt, you take care of your family. ]
[ In all likelihood, Dean's business in this town was finished, and he and Sam should have already moved on. Castiel is expecting to find an empty motel room, but with the Winchester's locations hidden from Heaven and their penchants for using aliases, it should be safe enough, even if they've left. Castiel expects Dean to have gone.
But there Dean is, and Castiel's knees go weaker to see Dean in front of him, alive and only just awoken but beautifully whole as Castiel had left him.... however long ago that night was. He'd lost track of time. More than a day. Dean takes the oil and Castiel releases his tight grip of it gladly. The shift of weight does make him stumble, but Dean is there to steady him. Dean shouldn't be there; Sam isn't, likely gone on another case. They've probably fought, and they can't be separated right now, when it's so dire that they support one another. It's another guilt on Castiel's shoulders, and he sinks a little heavier against Dean's hands, his eyes falling closed. ]
I'd said tomorrow. I'm sorry... I couldn't be on time.
[ He's dizzy, exhausted. He was weakened by the loss of Heaven's powers and now he's been injured further. His grace is dangerously dim. The room, even for the slant of pre-dawn light cutting through the curtains' edges, seems dark. But Castiel takes comfort in the strength of Dean's support and the knowledge that his mission, though gone horribly wrong, was still accomplished, and that oil should be more than what the Winchesters need for their next faceoff with the archangels. ]
from here (and we're just leaving out the Toni Bevell garbage because season 12 was trash and i make the rules)
[ There was no other way to kill Amara. It had to be Dean, and after his arrangement with Lucifer, Castiel was in no position to convince Dean otherwise or to accompany him to certain death, though he tried. The sun is in the sky again, radiant and warming, but Castiel feels numb. He knows his place now is with Sam, to comfort and console him, but... If there's anything left of Dean, the ashes he had expected, or any sign at all left where his soul was expunged, Castiel has to find it. He accompanies Sam to the bunker, and then he leaves with a promise to return. He doesn't say why, and he's grateful when Sam doesn't ask. Retrieving his brother's ashes shouldn't be Sam's burden to bear.
He leaves the bunker's garage in his '78 Lincoln Continental and begins driving towards Lebanon's city proper. He'll get gas there, and then begin the investigation. There's no telling where exactly Dean's confrontation with Amara took place, but there were sure to be witnesses, and he's confident in his ability to track the location down.
As he's driving, he sees a man walking along side of the road. Castiel slows down. He's sure that he's mistaken, but as the man comes into view, Castiel clearly recognizes him. He stops the car in the middle of the road and immediately gets out, but he hesitates, full of doubt, as he stands on the driver's side. ]
Dean?
[ It seems too good to be true, impossible given Amara's immense power. But Dean, if this is him, has come back from death before. Castiel approaches him, cautious but overwhelmingly hopeful. ]
The sun is hot on his face, burning his skin, and he's glad he wakes up when he does.
No one really seems to care about the hobo sleeping on the bench, people walking by without really sparing him a second glance. He's grateful, he supposes, because if anyone had stopped and asked him anything, he isn't sure he could have answered.
Carefully, he pushes himself to sitting, rubbing his eyes, squinting into the bright light as he tries to get his bearings, pluck out a memory, something.
Anything.
His heart hammers in his chest, fear is a powerful thing, and to wake up and not know who you are is disorienting at best, terrifying at worst. He's disheveled, his hair a mess, sweat dripping down and leaving streaks on his dirty face.
Why is he here, what happened? He can't answer it, and a quick check of his pockets doesn't really reveal anything, either. No wallet, no identification.
Sitting here won't do anything, though - so he pulls himself to his feet, though he has to sit back down for a moment or two, his legs are wobbly, everything aches in the way it does when you sit or lay down too long. Slowly, then. Bit by bit, he'll ease to his feet, start walking, form a plan. Find out where he is, when he is.
The first couple he asks look at him like he's insane, they shake their heads and walk away. The second is an ancient old broad heading into a shop, and she pats his hand tells him he's in Lebanon, Kansas which...doesn't really help much but it's a start. When he asks her what year it is, she gives him a confused look, but eventually gives him the date.
That doesn't really help, either. When you don't know who you are or anything about yourself, what difference does the date make? It's like a blank slate in his brain, and he'd probably panic if it wasn't.
Not that he isn't panicking now. He has nowhere to go, no one to call, and no phone to do it if he wanted to. He's started to get worked up as he walks, which is when someone stops in the middle of the road (not dangerous, the town is miniscule, there's no traffic), and addresses him.
Or..he guesses they're talking to him. ]
You know me? [ He's afraid to be hopeful, but he can't help it. ]
[ Castiel is formulating a theory related to gravity, not only between heavenly bodies as related by their masses, but of the intrinsic pull between angelic grace and the nearest human soul as related by that soul's likeliness to belong to Dean Winchester. He ponders this with his hands loosely linked between his knees as he sits in yet another motel chair with yet another glass of whiskey on the table beside him, staring at the man in possession of the soul Castiel is so inescapably drawn to. ]
Truth.
[ herewegoagain.gif ]
i was real tempted to link you to that but didn't wanna overwhelm
[Terry resents the notion that he needs a bodyguard. Like, really fucking resents it. And yeah maybe it's not Dean's fault, but Terry's still, well. Not giving him shit, but certainly giving him an attitude about it. He's got his training under his belt, and he can reach into anyone's head and pull out their deepest, darkest fears. What's he got to worry about from anyone else?]
[(A lot. He knows that. Especially when he traces that barely visible scar on his torso, remembers the way his sweat stank of formaldehyde for days, the way--)]
[Truthfully he thinks this glorified escort is to make sure he doesn't try to run more than it is to keep him safe. Why else would they employ a-- what did Melati call him? A demon hunter? Why else hire one if not to keep him in line while they make sure he gets to that Initiative base across the country.]
[So maybe that's more accurately why he's mad at everything to do with Dean.]
[But it's still not Dean's fault, so that is why Terry is extending something of an olive branch in the form of a case of beer that he deposits on what passes for a table in this motel room before wordlessly going back to toss himself back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. Is it any good? He has no idea, he doesn't drink. But he's trying.]
[ Dean isn't anymore wild about this than Terry is. Dean's not a damn babysitter, and this isn't his normal MO. Guarding demons? Yeah, no. Dean is a demon killer thanks, and he's got better things to do with his time than ferry this kid across the country.
Still, he's here and he's doing it, because the money's good and they need it.
The room is small and clean enough; they've been here a day or two so far while Dean surveys their route and plots the next course of action, because shaking demons off his tail is what he does now, he guesses.
The Leandros brothers were not new to monster hunting. If you couldn't run from them, join them, right? They lived in New York City, right alongside a booming population of supernatural creatures and their human prey. Their business for odd jobs - item fetch, clearing someone's apartment of pixies, investigating disappearances - had gotten good traction, and sometimes they got more far-flung jobs. Cal didn't mind road trips now that they had a home and weren't on the run from his monster relatives.
So, somewhere rural, something's been disappearing people, haunting the farm, revenge, yadda yadda. Cal figured out in the first sniff that it was not a ghost and it was eating the disappeared people: human decay had a different scent at first than animal decay. He didn't like things that ate people. He was half-people.
Cal had no idea what it was, he'd never smelled it before, but that wasn't new. There were so many creatures of myth and legend (and none of hem were exactly like myth said, they were usually worse) but fortunately they were usually easily disposed of by hot lead.
Or a sword, as Niko preferred.
Niko - older, olive-skinned, blonde - was searching the house for clues while Cal poked around in the barn. Grumbling to himself about the smell of old bird shit, his voice was a low peat whiskey rumble. Jet black hair streaked with stark Auphe white, dandelion fine, iron grey irises flecked with Auphe crimson, Cal was pale-skinned and greyhound lean, and glad for his black leather jacket and jeans. It was chilly and damp out here. Glock in hand, he eased past the last stall and out into the barnyard.
Human, gunpowder, cologne. Cal's head snapped around as the scent came to him, his long ponytail swaying. "Hello?"
It's not an unusual kind of hunt for Dean. Monsters disappear people all the time, and Dean does his damn best to make sure he stops too many people from dying. Saving people, it's kind of his whole...
Thing. Gives a guy purpose.
Sam's on a hunt somewhere further out west, leaving Dean to his own devices for the time being. There's a lull in whatever friggin' apocalypse they're dealing with at the moment (take your pick, seriously, it's just one crisis after another in the lives of Sam and Dean Winchester), so they've split up to cover more ground, gank some demons, that kind of thing.
Dean's colt is gripped in his hands as he picks his way through the yard, looking for something, anything that'll tell him just what, exactly, he's dealing with.
What he doesn't expect is for someone else to be out there poking around with him.
"Who's there?" He says, grip tightening, rounding the corner of the barn.
[ Knowing Dean is, uh. Honestly surprisingly... Actually it's not as weird as it should be, maybe. He gets a text asking if he's home and Terry knows immediately that something is probably some shade of wrong and he should be prepared to try and help. ]
[ So he's making himself some strong coffee while he waits for whatever chaos Dean is bringing with him. ]
[ It's bound to be a wild ride of some sort, so Terry at least has a head start on that. Knowing and letting Dean into your life is inviting chaos, and when Dean finally knocks on the door, this time is no exception.
He's leaned against the doorframe, head bowed, an arm curved around his middle. It's stained with blood - both his and not, and it's smeared over his shirt and jeans, and is pooling at the floor by his feet. ]
[ Constantine blindly grabs for the buzzing noise near his head. He dimly thinks it might be a ward going off for a moment but the movement of it reminds him that it is, in fact, the stupid bloody phone he was forced to get. He says forced. He agreed to it. Only for the sake of the few people that care what might happen to him.
He finally grabs hold of it and groans as he hits "accept" before reading the caller id. John slumps back on the sofa, limbs askew and puts an arm over his face. ]
Whoever it is you'd better have a good sodding reason for waking me up at this hour.
[ that's a reason, right? he thinks it is. he's starving and he hates it and this and you and himself and everyone and why the hell hasn't someone sawed off his head ]
[ dean steps through a door and into a warzone, so honestly, he'd be forgiven for not exactly being prepared for suddenly being in the middle of a jungle. blaster fire pits the dirt around him, sending it spraying up in showers, and overhead, something huge and mechanical groans, barely missing him as an AT-ST steps past him toward--
... are those stormtroopers?
before he even gets the chance to react to it all--and honestly, it could be just another trick.. right?--there's a small warcry, and an honest-to-god ewok leaps out in front of him.. and promptly pelts him right in the middle of the forehead with a slingshot. it's just his luck, honestly.
but he doesn't wake up back at home, or any other semi-familiar place he's dealt with in recent years. instead, when he finally opens his eyes, it's to the roof of a hut, and another ewok leaning over him. the little creature perks up excitedly when he realizes dean's eyes are open, chattering at him, and across the small room, a gloved hand pulls a curtain aside, and luke skywalker steps into the room. ]
Hi, [ he greets with a small smile, flesh hand passing briefly over the ewok's head as he settles at dean's side. he reaches, peeling back a small bacta patch on dean's brow, leaning in to inspect the healed bump. ] Looks like you're healing up fine. You remember what happened?
One minute he's in some podunk motel with birthday streamer-esque toilet paper and the next he's in a friggin' jungle in the middle of what appears to be a war zone. He's immediately covered in dirt and mud from blaster fire kicking it up all around him, and he's trying to scramble behind a fallen tree when a damn ewok appears in front of him and everything goes black.
It absolutely smacks of the Trickster-Loki-Gabriel whatever the hell he's calling himself these days, and Dean is is in a pisspoor mood when he wants up and comes face to face with Luke friggin' Skywalker.
This is a dream, a hallucination, something. ]
What the hell is this, some kind of joke? Where am I?
[ But it kinda is like that, isn't it. Dean can't figure out what his damn problem is, why he's irritated and hurt, something in him smarting like he's been struck, a wounded animal. ]
[ What Dean says sounds somehow like a confession. There's double-speak here, Castiel believes but can't be sure. Human nuance is so often beyond him. Is he misreading Dean's intentions?
Inhaling, and squaring his shoulders, Castiel steels his resolve. Courage, Castiel. You've commanded soldiers, fought wars, rained down Heaven's fury on man and demon alike through millennia and survived all. You'll survive Dean Winchester. ...Or so he tells himself, and then speaks steadily, with care. ]
In a way, I did.
Edited (i hate word repetitionnnnn) 2022-06-12 01:33 (UTC)
[ Klaus' skin is warm under Dean's hand; it makes him shiver, the contact, the press of a body so close, someone willing and pliant and maybe as starved as he is. If he could just, if they could just-- ]
I kinda thought so.
[ What was that about having a very concupiscent umbrella on his hands? Something something, Dean's going to drag him back to his room, one way or another. A hand drops to tug the waistband of Klaus' jeans, knee pressing in, grinding between his legs. The other stays there on his face, smoothing over stubble and down, thumb sweeping over the hollow of his neck. ]
[ dean makes it so goddamn easy to melt in his hands, every tug and grind, every drag of rough hands has his body on fire, moving him in ways he's sure that dean only does on purpose. klaus grins, all too pleased with that little invitation. ]
Don't mind if I do, [ his smile only fades into something a little more lax, carefree, playful as he tips his head back, leaning into the touch at his neck. suggestive in nature. ] Again and again and... maybe one more time for good measure.
[ klaus hums a little laugh, then draws his hands back around, palms grazing a path, and nudging as he pushes himself off the wall to follow dean's lead. don't mind him if he snatches an unattended bottle on the way, and shoves it inside his jacket. sticky little fingers, this one. ]
[ A coven of witches wasn't anything to sneer at, no matter how much Ethan might want to. Damnable bitches, all of them, throwing hexes and spells with the easy familiarity of those well-familiar with the dark arts. Breaking their ring of power hadn't been pleasant, or easy; leaving them all alive to regret their choices hadn't been easy, either. The killer in him had wanted blood for their transgressions: the Laws he'd followed all of his remembered existence were crystal clear. No quarter, no parole, no reprieve.
But now, thanks to some strange twist of fate, he had to learn a new way: a new way to hunt, a new way to live. Because his old way just...didn't work here. Not even the angel could explain it (and wasn't that the mother of all shocks, bandying words with a fucking angel of the Lord). Regardless, here he was and here he'd remain, at least for the near future, and a vampire was nothing if not adaptable. Survival mechanism, that.
After this hunt, however, the human with whom he'd been working was quite the worse for wear; the man's mortal body susceptible to any and all sorts of ailments; broken bones, contusions, gashes, punctures, the works. And the Winchester had taken quite a beating, charging right into the coven as he had. Ethan had learned over the past months that patience and observation weren't exactly high on Dean's hunting list.
He'd managed to get the man stuffed into the backseat of the precious Impala, then down the road about thirty miles - well out of range of pursuit - and a C-note at some backwater, roadside motel bought privacy and a relative safe place to get out of sight. (Thank whatever gods existed in this realm that the younger Winchester was off on his own little soiree, and not here to bluster, hover, or fret.)
Hardly a nursemaid, but still a decent field medic, Ethan dumped Dean a little unceremoniously on one of the beds, sharp eyebrow lifted as he took in the mess. Bruised, bloody, but not completely broken. The vampire rolled the hunter over, pointedly ignoring the small trails of scarlet that stained the human's skin. ]
Dean. [ A brief shake of the undamaged shoulder. ] Open your eyes. Wake up. I need to reset that dislocated shoulder.
[ Fucking witches. Dean hates them, hates their hex bags and their spells, hates their friggin' bodily fluids spraying everywhere, hates everything about it. It's disgusting, all of it is just disgusting.
He hates vamps too, for the most part - nasty bastards, leaving as much goo (blood) around as much as the witches sometimes, but he's helpful in a pinch, at least. Especially when he gets reckless - which...is frequently. He's kind of a shoot now, ask questions later kinda guy, which is all well and good in some situations, like...wendigos, demons, shit like that. But when you're dealing with pissed witches, they like to throw you around before they kill you, and it doesn't take much to end up pretty busted, shoulder fucked, head ringing, bloodied, unconcious.
Awesome.
He doesn't want to wake up; he's probably freakin' concussed (for...the umpteenth time, thank god for angels with superpowers, he'd have brain damage otherwise), and when Ethan shakes him he plays dead for a few moments before cracking an eye with a groan. ]
[ Blake's a little surprised himself, although for entirely different reasons. In passing Dean, he foists off the bottle with a press of it against the hunter's chest before eyeing the entranceway as a whole. ]
You spendin' Christmas alone?
[ A veiled question that translates to whether or not there's anyone else around to disturb with their obvious shenanigans. ]
[Technically, technically, Dr. Casper Darling is not a field agent. He's been cleared for the field, of course, but it's been years since he's actually left the lab for a case. But he's ready so much about all the odd happenings in this little town, and he's quite curious. The files on Bright Falls, Washington are starting to stack up so high they'd opened a remote location there a few years back.
So when activity had started up again, this time in the form of a potentially haunted cabin, he'd decided to fly out and see for himself. Only when he'd arrived, there was a car parked outside and the door was already open.
So Darling turns his flashlight on, keeping a hand on his messenger bag of supplies as he steps into the cabin and calls out.]
Hello? This is Dr. Casper Darling of the Federal Bureau of Control. This cabin is currently under investigation, please show yourself and state your business.
[ Dean's doing what Dean does - locating a case, working it like a dog, hunting down whatever the hell it is that's causing a problem. Hours spent in the local library point him in the direction of a cabin in the woods (great), so that's where he'd gone. Sam is off Samming somewhere, so he's on his own this time, but what's a little haunting in the grand scheme of the overarching bullshit of apocalypse after apocalypse? Nothing, that's what.
So he's investigating with his own flashlight, gun in hand as he sweeps the house military style, freezing briefly when he hears someone speak and especially when he hears the words Federal Bureau, but it doesn't end with investigation so muscles relax and his finger eases off the trigger. Dean doesn't know if this person is armed, so he steps out from where he'd been in the kitchen to appear in the door, hands up, fingers clearly off the trigger of his 1911 colt. ]
Please God don't be a friggin' Ghostfacer, [ he groans, squinting into the light of the man's light. ] I can't take their bullshit right now.
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tfln;
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what do you need, Cas?
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drama queen icon
LOLOL
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[ Cas leaves, and Dean suddenly feels cold and alone; his skin feels shivery, fingers numb, body unable to move. He stays sitting on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the mess they made, at the empty space where Cas had just been.
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth. For your love is better than wine; your anointing oils are fragrant; your name is oil poured out.
Dean reaches out, curls his fingers into still warm sheets, twisting them in his fingers, pulling the rapidly cooling material to his face and breathing in long, deep, heart wrenching in his chest. He doesn't feel good about any of this; a black pit of anxiety settles deep in his stomach, churning his guts, bile in his throat. Movements are slow; Dean's brain is thick and foggy as he replays their night, the words they said, promises both unspoken and spoken. Methodically, and with all the meticulous precision of a hunter used to cleaning up messes, Dean strips the bed down, caps the lube and shoves it into his duffle, calls for a set of clean sheets.
Sam will eventually come back from whatever fuckery he was up to, and Dean will tell him an extremely shortened and PG version of Cas' visit, his mission and where he is, and demand that they wait here for him, because Cas said he'd be back.
It's a little silly to Sam, because they can just shoot Cas a message with their new location and he can come there instead, but Dean steadfastly refuses, and insists they wait here.
It has to be here.
The job is done, Sam will say the next morning when Cas doesn't show, though not unkindly, we should move on.
We stay here, is all Dean says. Sam, being on tenterhooks anyway, acquiesces, because what else can he say? Dean says they stay, so they will stay.
Bobby calls later that night, says there's no movement on the apocalypse front, but there's a job a couple hours away. Dean tells him no.
They have to stay here.
It triggers an argument between Sam and Dean, but the brothers had split once, and Dean knows precisely how that scenario ends - badly, endgame, death, disease - so they stay together, cooped up in this motel room. Bobby thinks they're idjits, but Dean has given his word, so they will camp out for another day. There is little to talk about, the tension hanging heavy in the room, thick and nearly tangible.
Dean is more frantic day 2, which confuses Sam, because Cas has gone weeks with no contact before, why this is different is a little odd to him - though Dean had said Cas thought he may die. Sam thinks maybe that was a little dramatic on Cas' part, and he's a little annoyed because you really can't tell Dean shit like that - he freaks out, when it's people he cares about, when it's people he loves.
He tries again, because they're the closest hunters to the job Bobby told them about, and Dean shouts at him that he's staying right here, because he told Cas he would, and he's not friggin' leaving, so just drop it already--
Sam drops it.
He doesn't like it, though - and he's fidgety, because there's some monster a few hours away killing innocents and their whole deal is saving people, and Sam is desperate for redemption, for justice. Eventually, Dean snaps at him that if it's so important, to just go, Dean will catch up with him when Cas comes. It's not like they're separating permanently, it's just covering more bases, isn't it? Sam sighs, because Dean is dramatic, but he nods - he'll hotwire a car, go check it out. They'll talk tonight, after Sam's done the first round of q&a with the locals, get a feel for what's happening.
Dean stays in the motel, alone, a full glass of whiskey that he spends most of that night nursing, trying not to panic, checking his phone every so often. Eventually, he will fall asleep sitting up in the bed, arms folded, ankles crossed, empty glass on the bedside table, next to his phone.
The morning of the third day comes, and Cas shows up, startling Dean out of sleep, bleary eyed but instantly on alert, launching himself to his feet, though he's groggy, it's inelegant, and he trips over his shoes that he left at the end of the bed, but Cas is back Cas is back Cas is back--
And injured, beaten to hell, and bleeding. ]
Shit, Cas--
[ He's instantly there, reaching to take the oil and set it out of the way before it's dropped and all of this was in vain. He'll catch him, if he stumbles, because that's what you do for friends, for people you love - you catch them when they fall, when they're hurt, you take care of your family. ]
thank you i love it here in psl land
But there Dean is, and Castiel's knees go weaker to see Dean in front of him, alive and only just awoken but beautifully whole as Castiel had left him.... however long ago that night was. He'd lost track of time. More than a day. Dean takes the oil and Castiel releases his tight grip of it gladly. The shift of weight does make him stumble, but Dean is there to steady him. Dean shouldn't be there; Sam isn't, likely gone on another case. They've probably fought, and they can't be separated right now, when it's so dire that they support one another. It's another guilt on Castiel's shoulders, and he sinks a little heavier against Dean's hands, his eyes falling closed. ]
I'd said tomorrow. I'm sorry... I couldn't be on time.
[ He's dizzy, exhausted. He was weakened by the loss of Heaven's powers and now he's been injured further. His grace is dangerously dim. The room, even for the slant of pre-dawn light cutting through the curtains' edges, seems dark. But Castiel takes comfort in the strength of Dean's support and the knowledge that his mission, though gone horribly wrong, was still accomplished, and that oil should be more than what the Winchesters need for their next faceoff with the archangels. ]
8) yes good, welcome to the land of debauchery, we have cookies
throw in coffee and i'm never leaving
i got u covered
i'm in heaven~
8}
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just word vomiting all over this
wait how did you know that word vomit is my kink
just a lucky guess >8)
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spoilers for seasons 1-11 probably
[ There was no other way to kill Amara. It had to be Dean, and after his arrangement with Lucifer, Castiel was in no position to convince Dean otherwise or to accompany him to certain death, though he tried. The sun is in the sky again, radiant and warming, but Castiel feels numb. He knows his place now is with Sam, to comfort and console him, but... If there's anything left of Dean, the ashes he had expected, or any sign at all left where his soul was expunged, Castiel has to find it. He accompanies Sam to the bunker, and then he leaves with a promise to return. He doesn't say why, and he's grateful when Sam doesn't ask. Retrieving his brother's ashes shouldn't be Sam's burden to bear.
He leaves the bunker's garage in his '78 Lincoln Continental and begins driving towards Lebanon's city proper. He'll get gas there, and then begin the investigation. There's no telling where exactly Dean's confrontation with Amara took place, but there were sure to be witnesses, and he's confident in his ability to track the location down.
As he's driving, he sees a man walking along side of the road. Castiel slows down. He's sure that he's mistaken, but as the man comes into view, Castiel clearly recognizes him. He stops the car in the middle of the road and immediately gets out, but he hesitates, full of doubt, as he stands on the driver's side. ]
Dean?
[ It seems too good to be true, impossible given Amara's immense power. But Dean, if this is him, has come back from death before. Castiel approaches him, cautious but overwhelmingly hopeful. ]
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The sun is hot on his face, burning his skin, and he's glad he wakes up when he does.
No one really seems to care about the hobo sleeping on the bench, people walking by without really sparing him a second glance. He's grateful, he supposes, because if anyone had stopped and asked him anything, he isn't sure he could have answered.
Carefully, he pushes himself to sitting, rubbing his eyes, squinting into the bright light as he tries to get his bearings, pluck out a memory, something.
Anything.
His heart hammers in his chest, fear is a powerful thing, and to wake up and not know who you are is disorienting at best, terrifying at worst. He's disheveled, his hair a mess, sweat dripping down and leaving streaks on his dirty face.
Why is he here, what happened? He can't answer it, and a quick check of his pockets doesn't really reveal anything, either. No wallet, no identification.
Sitting here won't do anything, though - so he pulls himself to his feet, though he has to sit back down for a moment or two, his legs are wobbly, everything aches in the way it does when you sit or lay down too long. Slowly, then. Bit by bit, he'll ease to his feet, start walking, form a plan. Find out where he is, when he is.
The first couple he asks look at him like he's insane, they shake their heads and walk away. The second is an ancient old broad heading into a shop, and she pats his hand tells him he's in Lebanon, Kansas which...doesn't really help much but it's a start. When he asks her what year it is, she gives him a confused look, but eventually gives him the date.
That doesn't really help, either. When you don't know who you are or anything about yourself, what difference does the date make? It's like a blank slate in his brain, and he'd probably panic if it wasn't.
Not that he isn't panicking now. He has nowhere to go, no one to call, and no phone to do it if he wanted to. He's started to get worked up as he walks, which is when someone stops in the middle of the road (not dangerous, the town is miniscule, there's no traffic), and addresses him.
Or..he guesses they're talking to him. ]
You know me? [ He's afraid to be hopeful, but he can't help it. ]
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I already knew that about you, Dean. You're very fond of meat.
[ Guess who either didn't understand Dean when he explained this game or instantly forgot he was playing it? It's this angel. ]
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Cas, you're supposed to drink if you've done it. And then you say something you've never done, and if I've done the thing, then I drink.
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F A I L
shh nobody saw anything
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did someone say truth or dare meme
Truth.
[ herewegoagain.gif ]
i was real tempted to link you to that but didn't wanna overwhelm
Dean takes a sip, thinks, then asks-- ]
What is something you wish you could change about yourself?
😌 dsjhdkld and miss out on quality tags like that one???
i give you my best, it's true
#blessed
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hey jerk guard this body
[(A lot. He knows that. Especially when he traces that barely visible scar on his torso, remembers the way his sweat stank of formaldehyde for days, the way--)]
[Truthfully he thinks this glorified escort is to make sure he doesn't try to run more than it is to keep him safe. Why else would they employ a-- what did Melati call him? A demon hunter? Why else hire one if not to keep him in line while they make sure he gets to that Initiative base across the country.]
[So maybe that's more accurately why he's mad at everything to do with Dean.]
[But it's still not Dean's fault, so that is why Terry is extending something of an olive branch in the form of a case of beer that he deposits on what passes for a table in this motel room before wordlessly going back to toss himself back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. Is it any good? He has no idea, he doesn't drink. But he's trying.]
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Still, he's here and he's doing it, because the money's good and they need it.
The room is small and clean enough; they've been here a day or two so far while Dean surveys their route and plots the next course of action, because shaking demons off his tail is what he does now, he guesses.
Beer, though. That's appreciated. ]
Where'd you get this?
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So, somewhere rural, something's been disappearing people, haunting the farm, revenge, yadda yadda. Cal figured out in the first sniff that it was not a ghost and it was eating the disappeared people: human decay had a different scent at first than animal decay. He didn't like things that ate people. He was half-people.
Cal had no idea what it was, he'd never smelled it before, but that wasn't new. There were so many creatures of myth and legend (and none of hem were exactly like myth said, they were usually worse) but fortunately they were usually easily disposed of by hot lead.
Or a sword, as Niko preferred.
Niko - older, olive-skinned, blonde - was searching the house for clues while Cal poked around in the barn. Grumbling to himself about the smell of old bird shit, his voice was a low peat whiskey rumble. Jet black hair streaked with stark Auphe white, dandelion fine, iron grey irises flecked with Auphe crimson, Cal was pale-skinned and greyhound lean, and glad for his black leather jacket and jeans. It was chilly and damp out here. Glock in hand, he eased past the last stall and out into the barnyard.
Human, gunpowder, cologne. Cal's head snapped around as the scent came to him, his long ponytail swaying. "Hello?"
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Thing. Gives a guy purpose.
Sam's on a hunt somewhere further out west, leaving Dean to his own devices for the time being. There's a lull in whatever friggin' apocalypse they're dealing with at the moment (take your pick, seriously, it's just one crisis after another in the lives of Sam and Dean Winchester), so they've split up to cover more ground, gank some demons, that kind of thing.
Dean's colt is gripped in his hands as he picks his way through the yard, looking for something, anything that'll tell him just what, exactly, he's dealing with.
What he doesn't expect is for someone else to be out there poking around with him.
"Who's there?" He says, grip tightening, rounding the corner of the barn.
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[ So he's making himself some strong coffee while he waits for whatever chaos Dean is bringing with him. ]
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He's leaned against the doorframe, head bowed, an arm curved around his middle. It's stained with blood - both his and not, and it's smeared over his shirt and jeans, and is pooling at the floor by his feet. ]
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spooky trash train incoming.
He finally grabs hold of it and groans as he hits "accept" before reading the caller id. John slumps back on the sofa, limbs askew and puts an arm over his face. ]
Whoever it is you'd better have a good sodding reason for waking me up at this hour.
[ Of the afternoon. ]
SPOOP
I'm hungry.
[ that's a reason, right? he thinks it is. he's starving and he hates it and this and you and himself and everyone and why the hell hasn't someone sawed off his head ]
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tfln until this develops into something else
as per the usual
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points to eyes, points to u
... are those stormtroopers?
before he even gets the chance to react to it all--and honestly, it could be just another trick.. right?--there's a small warcry, and an honest-to-god ewok leaps out in front of him.. and promptly pelts him right in the middle of the forehead with a slingshot. it's just his luck, honestly.
but he doesn't wake up back at home, or any other semi-familiar place he's dealt with in recent years. instead, when he finally opens his eyes, it's to the roof of a hut, and another ewok leaning over him. the little creature perks up excitedly when he realizes dean's eyes are open, chattering at him, and across the small room, a gloved hand pulls a curtain aside, and luke skywalker steps into the room. ]
Hi, [ he greets with a small smile, flesh hand passing briefly over the ewok's head as he settles at dean's side. he reaches, peeling back a small bacta patch on dean's brow, leaning in to inspect the healed bump. ] Looks like you're healing up fine. You remember what happened?
👀
One minute he's in some podunk motel with birthday streamer-esque toilet paper and the next he's in a friggin' jungle in the middle of what appears to be a war zone. He's immediately covered in dirt and mud from blaster fire kicking it up all around him, and he's trying to scramble behind a fallen tree when a damn ewok appears in front of him and everything goes black.
It absolutely smacks of the Trickster-Loki-Gabriel whatever the hell he's calling himself these days, and Dean is is in a pisspoor mood when he wants up and comes face to face with Luke friggin' Skywalker.
This is a dream, a hallucination, something. ]
What the hell is this, some kind of joke? Where am I?
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You didn't -- it's not--
[ But it kinda is like that, isn't it. Dean can't figure out what his damn problem is, why he's irritated and hurt, something in him smarting like he's been struck, a wounded animal. ]
You should've, then. Spent it with me.
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Inhaling, and squaring his shoulders, Castiel steels his resolve. Courage, Castiel. You've commanded soldiers, fought wars, rained down Heaven's fury on man and demon alike through millennia and survived all. You'll survive Dean Winchester. ...Or so he tells himself, and then speaks steadily, with care. ]
In a way, I did.
this face ^
shmngbjks i laughed
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U7CZcd-UYmU
https://youtu.be/rGKfrgqWcv0?t=86
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@sexytrashed
I kinda thought so.
[ What was that about having a very concupiscent umbrella on his hands? Something something, Dean's going to drag him back to his room, one way or another. A hand drops to tug the waistband of Klaus' jeans, knee pressing in, grinding between his legs. The other stays there on his face, smoothing over stubble and down, thumb sweeping over the hollow of his neck. ]
Come on.
rubs hands together
Don't mind if I do, [ his smile only fades into something a little more lax, carefree, playful as he tips his head back, leaning into the touch at his neck. suggestive in nature. ] Again and again and... maybe one more time for good measure.
[ klaus hums a little laugh, then draws his hands back around, palms grazing a path, and nudging as he pushes himself off the wall to follow dean's lead. don't mind him if he snatches an unattended bottle on the way, and shoves it inside his jacket. sticky little fingers, this one. ]
insert elmo fire emoji
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deffo lost this? what the fuck
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But now, thanks to some strange twist of fate, he had to learn a new way: a new way to hunt, a new way to live. Because his old way just...didn't work here. Not even the angel could explain it (and wasn't that the mother of all shocks, bandying words with a fucking angel of the Lord). Regardless, here he was and here he'd remain, at least for the near future, and a vampire was nothing if not adaptable. Survival mechanism, that.
After this hunt, however, the human with whom he'd been working was quite the worse for wear; the man's mortal body susceptible to any and all sorts of ailments; broken bones, contusions, gashes, punctures, the works. And the Winchester had taken quite a beating, charging right into the coven as he had. Ethan had learned over the past months that patience and observation weren't exactly high on Dean's hunting list.
He'd managed to get the man stuffed into the backseat of the precious Impala, then down the road about thirty miles - well out of range of pursuit - and a C-note at some backwater, roadside motel bought privacy and a relative safe place to get out of sight. (Thank whatever gods existed in this realm that the younger Winchester was off on his own little soiree, and not here to bluster, hover, or fret.)
Hardly a nursemaid, but still a decent field medic, Ethan dumped Dean a little unceremoniously on one of the beds, sharp eyebrow lifted as he took in the mess. Bruised, bloody, but not completely broken. The vampire rolled the hunter over, pointedly ignoring the small trails of scarlet that stained the human's skin. ]
Dean. [ A brief shake of the undamaged shoulder. ] Open your eyes. Wake up. I need to reset that dislocated shoulder.
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He hates vamps too, for the most part - nasty bastards, leaving as much goo (blood) around as much as the witches sometimes, but he's helpful in a pinch, at least. Especially when he gets reckless - which...is frequently. He's kind of a shoot now, ask questions later kinda guy, which is all well and good in some situations, like...wendigos, demons, shit like that. But when you're dealing with pissed witches, they like to throw you around before they kill you, and it doesn't take much to end up pretty busted, shoulder fucked, head ringing, bloodied, unconcious.
Awesome.
He doesn't want to wake up; he's probably freakin' concussed (for...the umpteenth time, thank god for angels with superpowers, he'd have brain damage otherwise), and when Ethan shakes him he plays dead for a few moments before cracking an eye with a groan. ]
No.
apologies; i am the slowest granola during the week, ugh ><
DONT BE LMAO im about to be REALLY slow, going out of the country for 2.5 weeks
for @oversight
Well, color him surprised. His brows pin high and he laughs, moving to open the door a little wider. ]
Welcome to the bunker, man.
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You spendin' Christmas alone?
[ A veiled question that translates to whether or not there's anyone else around to disturb with their obvious shenanigans. ]
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Don't judge my late typo edits!!!
I SHANT
🥰
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wow those drunk typos
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i'm here to deliver the holiday spirit
we just might cure your allergy yet.
you mean there won't be a robe with my initials waiting for me?
i might have to rethink my offer. and donation of cookies
this is everything I wanted for Christmas 🥹
more of an over bleached motel towel but I’ve used it so it’s a little softer, does that count?
everything i didn't realize i needed with a bow on it
🎄 🎄
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if you'll still indulge me!! the holidays were a Lot.
YES PLS and yeah the holidays were a hot fuckin mess
bless your patience!! lets live vicariously in these two's holiday instead ok
i think that's an excellent idea tbh
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a haunting in washington
So when activity had started up again, this time in the form of a potentially haunted cabin, he'd decided to fly out and see for himself. Only when he'd arrived, there was a car parked outside and the door was already open.
So Darling turns his flashlight on, keeping a hand on his messenger bag of supplies as he steps into the cabin and calls out.]
Hello? This is Dr. Casper Darling of the Federal Bureau of Control. This cabin is currently under investigation, please show yourself and state your business.
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So he's investigating with his own flashlight, gun in hand as he sweeps the house military style, freezing briefly when he hears someone speak and especially when he hears the words Federal Bureau, but it doesn't end with investigation so muscles relax and his finger eases off the trigger. Dean doesn't know if this person is armed, so he steps out from where he'd been in the kitchen to appear in the door, hands up, fingers clearly off the trigger of his 1911 colt. ]
Please God don't be a friggin' Ghostfacer, [ he groans, squinting into the light of the man's light. ] I can't take their bullshit right now.
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