OCTOBER 2020 TEST DRIVE MEME

[sodder]

OCTOBER 2020 TEST DRIVE MEME

Welcome to October's Test Drive Meme! This month's Test Drive's theme is: MONSTER HORROR.

All Test Drive Memes contain at least one clue to the Deerington's upcoming in-game events for the month! Keep your eyes peeled! But...not literally.

Characters may die during TDMs, but you do not need to count it towards a game-canonical death unless you want to. Consider it a freebie. All TDMs can be considered game canon as TDMs introduce minor aspects about the world of Deerington that can be revisited by characters later on in the game. You may also use TDMs for your application writing sample as well as AC.

CW: ... Monsters..., excessive blood, possible death via monster or drowning, violence, being trapped in tight spaces, bloody GIF, dead body parts
Don't forget to tag content whenever necessary. Have fun!

Prompt One
Prompt Two
Character Arrival
Master Navigation

curse the fiends

Waking up groggy and confused on the floor of what seems to be a large metal warehouse is never anyone's idea of a good time, but here you are. You may not have even known Deerington had warehouses (except for those who have been to the real Hair of the Dog) let alone how to get to one of them. It's clear you've been placed here against your will, but for what reason?

You aren't alone. There may be one, two, or even three people there with you. You're all in this together, so you may as well work as a team to see if there's a way out. The room isn't very large and it's completely empty, save for a single flashlight in the center of the floor. The only way out (or maybe it's a way in) is a long, narrow, and very dark corridor. That's gotta be completely safe. Despite hesitations, what choice do you really have?

The flashlight won't give off an abundance of light, but it at least makes it so you aren't stumbling around blindly. As you move through the corridors, you'll start to hear the sickening screech like nails on a chalkboard, but there's something worse about it. Something that makes you feel like a bucket of ice has just been dropped down your back. Something dangerous. There are different corridors that branch off of the main one you're walking down and your team will have to decide whether to stick together an choose one path or split up and explore multiple to find away out. Given that you've only got one source of light, you'll want to choose carefully.

Whether you stay together or split up, the corridors all look the same. The same sound follows you wherever you go. Eventually you'll start to notice it sounds close. Too close. Like it's right... above you?

Looking up, you'll see a large monster which jumps down in front of your team within seconds of having the light turned on it. The beast takes up the majority of the space in the corridor and there's no getting around it. Time to double back and try out one of those other passages, it seems. Hopefully you can run quickly. It's not the only thing that's jumping out of the shadows to try and hunt you, either. The large creature is working with a smaller set of monsters who seem to appear out of nowhere, their footsteps impossible to hear, but the screeches they give are almost deafening. If you split up earlier, maybe you'll run into each other now; it seems like the monsters are herding you together, trying to make you easier to hunt.

The small monsters can be killed easily. Any weapons you have will work against them, no more than a couple of shots from a gun or a good hard swing of a blade will be needed to take them down. The big beast you first ran into is another story. Nothing seems to work to slow this guy down. It'll bleed, sure, the injuries are more than apparent, but it doesn't seem to make the monster any weaker. If anything, it just makes it more irate. The only chance of living is getting out.

If you're lucky, you'll eventually turn enough corridors to see cracks of light at the end of one. Light that seems to be coming through a door. If you can outrun the monster down this long, straight stretch, it seems to actually be your exit. The door is heavy and the lock is a little rusty, but with a little team effort, you should be able to get the thing shoved open. Slam it closed before the monster can get out and you'll find yourself safe again.

fear the old blood

It's just the month for getting stuck in tiny rooms. This time, walking through any door in Deerington could land you inside this cramped closet with far too tall ceilings. Again, it seems you aren't alone; the wall on the opposite side of the closet seems to have brought in someone the same as you. The doors behind you both disappear and it seems like you're completely trapped. There's shelves all around you, completely empty, but they've got to hold a purpose, right? You may take some time to look them over, see if there is some kind of switch or hidden compartment they might be blocking.

While you're observing the cramped space around you, trying to find a way out, you might hear the sound of air rushing from above you, almost like the sounds of an elevator shaft. There's a ding, a click, the sound of doors opening— all from the ceiling up above. It's a way out! But nothing ever comes so easily in Deerington. Within seconds of the doors cracking open, blood will start to fill the room, pouring in from your only exit.

Working together and using the shelves as leverage, you might just be able to reach the ceiling to pull yourself up (and hopefully your partner), but you'll have to push against the downpour of blood in the process. It's far from easy, definitely slippery, and you'll have to move quickly if you don't want to end up drowning. Waiting it out for the room to fill so you can reach the top easier will prove to be a horrible idea; the moment the blood reaches the top of those bookshelves, rotting hands will begin to reach from the walls, dragging you down and keeping you from getting to the top.

Once you have both made it into the exit above, the doors will close, and the elevator will right itself. There's no blood anywhere to be found and there also isn't a button to press to choose any floors. You'll simply hear the sound of the elevator climbing the shaft before the doors open again, and you'll be let out into the lobby of the Grady Hotel.

Time to head home and take a shower, I guess.

Character Arrival

You can read how all characters arrive in Deerington here.

There is not a collective "all these characters showed up at the exact same moment" occurrence in Deerington. Since characters fall asleep, die, or pass out at various times throughout all their worlds, it wouldn't make too much sense if they arrived in game all at the exact same time. There should be some discrepancy between character arrival, whether by a couple minutes, hours, or even days up to a week.

The players are entirely in control of how/when they want to play their characters arriving in Deerington. For TDMs, you can play it like your character has just arrived and that can be maintained as your game canon, or you can wait until game events for that moment. Or you don't need to acknowledge it at all. The flexibility for character allows a bit more of an organic feel to the character arrival situation, so please play it to whatever feels right for you.

If you are interested in having an "arrival" introduction for one of your TDM prompts, you are more than welcome to explore that option.

Comments

I. arrival

[ruined]

[ Whatever he thought he knew about this town? It just keeps rolling on in the surprises like the worst fourth of July parade. In October. Three months in and even he's still having to work hard to adjust to the way Deerington shifts in the most horrific ways, and he's been running on uneven ground for a long time. No part of him cared how other people dealt with it until recently, and that's still something he's trying to grasp even if it's taking a while.

Sleep-deprived is nothing new to him. Too many days where it just wasn't safe enough to make himself vulnerable like that. Croats don't run a schedule, so it's not like he could have ever picked a few hours consistently and dropped into unconsciousness. But he's been awake for a week now and he's feeling more than a little strung out. Stretched too thin and transparent in places he doesn't want to be. In places he can't afford to be.

It's why, when he sees somebody he can't mistake for a single other person in the entire universe, even in the freaky, bloody darkness, he knows he's finally lost it. What little sanity he still had has left the building, flipping him off on the way out. What he's come to expect from this town is trauma. It's rage-inducing. It's soul-destroying. It's like it knows exactly what to show him to sink that blade as deep as it possibly can into him.

Knowing he's being fucked with takes the edge off, but it's not enough. Last time the Cas from his world had been visible in this town? It had been as a guilt shadow, trailing him wherever he went. A visual representation of his guilt. The heavy, immovable boulder that somehow he had managed to break through to the other side of and come to terms with that particular choice he'd made. Even as he's lifting up the Colt to aim at this ghost from his past, he can feel a swell of too many things rising with it, and he doesn't have the luxury right now of picking it all apart. He's already fought through a hoard of assholes that wanted to get more up close and personal than he'd have picked. He's just not into that. ]

Original. Nobody ever tell you re-runs suck? So what're you supposed to be? Ghost of Christmas I'm-not-sorry-enough?

[perfectantidote]

[ That...

Yeah, not the voice Cas expected to hear in this acid trip of a dreamscape-afterlife-pocket dimension, with it's dark sky and blood red eyes and just... so many things Cas feels entirely too sober for despite the painkillers slowly swirling in his system.

He sits up a little too fast, immediately dizzy and...

... stares down the barrel of the Colt.

Something inside of him slowly grows very cold, and for a moment Cas just sits there, very still, as his eyes lift from the Colt slowly up to familiar, hardened features.

Ah. He'd almost forgotten what it's like to be on the receiving end of that familiar righteous fury and contempt. Good times, good times. It's not like he'd ever make the mistake of thinking Dean would be glad to see him.

Good to see they've upgraded to Dean having the guts to take the shot himself, rather than just send Cas to die at other creature's hands. Feels more personal. It's nice to know when people care enough to throw you away personally.

Cas smiles. Turns a little more, slowly and deliberately so Dean can see the way his clothes have been shredded, the patchwork of bandages and stitches underneath. Also, really, so Dean has a more clean shot. Really, Cas would just hate for Dean to have to waste two bullets instead of one. ]

And what... what am I not sorry enough for?

[ruined]

[ Not what he meant, but it doesn't matter either way. Eyes dropping down to take a good look at the frankly Halloween-getup-shredded clothes, they flick up again and fix whatever the hell this is with as close as he can get to an unaffected stare. The tiredness tinging around the edges maybe adds to that disinterested look he's trying to pull off. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't. But what does work is the question.

He snorts in dark amusement and his lips draw down and eyebrows raise into a derisive sort of semi-smirk. There's nothing he's enjoying about this, but his tank is empty, and he's never run high on patience. ]

No. I'm not sorry enough. That the lesson here? 'cause I gotta be honest, education was never for me. Unruly. Best damn school report I ever got.

[ Smalltalk with whatever monster this was dressed up as Cas? Yeah he'll run with that. Like this is just another day. A milk run. A walk in the goddamn park. ]

Some advice, free of charge. You survive this? Maybe next time choose somebody who's not pushing daisies. What are you?

[perfectantidote]

[ He'd done... everything Dean asked. And this is what Dean gives to him.

He's only half-listening to what Dean is saying, pushing the rifle off his lap and onto the cobblestones between them. He assumes Dean's gonna find that worth picking up - it is infinitely more useful than Cas on his own.

Cas snorts in amusement to himself as his mind merrily skips down a side path of its own jagged edges and into nostalgia. This is almost reminiscent of Dean stabbing him, all those years ago in a dark barn. Sparks flew, and Dean tried to kill Cas. Nothing much has changed, it seems. Except for everything in between, of course.

Lips still quirked up, Cas digs into the pockets of his jacket, finally breaking eye contact, because if there's one thing he doesn't need to keep seeing, it's that familiar empty, cold contempt directed his way. He puts the spare ammo on the gun, too. Easier than looting his body, after.

Fuck.

Trembling fingers hook into the beaded bracelets Cas wears, tugging on them a little bit. It does nothing to quell the onslaught of feelings he can't identify, has no names for. ]

You're unusually loquacious about this. And, uh. What I am is... done, I think. Yeah. Yeah...

cw: ref to suicide

[ruined]

[ All of this is like watching somebody who's carefully - thoughtfully, almost - laying out everything useful before blowing his own brains out. All this is missing is a suicide note, and that's enough to push up a bubble of doubt in his otherwise molten irritation. Lack of sleep has left him feeling cold, irritable - more than usual. But this? This is just weird.

Icy expression breaking into something that's got confusion tangled around the edges, he's starting to feel like he's two steps behind in this conversation. He doesn't like it. ]

What? I asked you a question. What are you?

[ And are there more, is what he hasn't asked yet. How many of these shifter freaks is he going to have to put down? ]

[perfectantidote]

[ How's this something he never talked about when playing the spiritual guru? Acceptance of the inevitable. Knowing your own lack of worth and just letting life erode you until you wash away completely.

Probably because that's not exactly... stimulating conversation. Orgies aren't exactly ascetic.

He turns his head, eyes flicking up to Dean. There's something bottomless in the way he looks at the man. ]

What I am is... mostly mortal. But, uh. You knew that.

[ He gestures at the rifle and ammo, then pulls his knees up to his chest - slight wince there - and wraps his arms loosely around his legs. Waits. ]

Here, take it. Save your shots with the Colt for when it matters. Are we... are we done here? You don't... owe me a speech just to put me down, y'know.

[ruined]

[ Confusion and irritation twist around each other as they lace their way through his posture. It doesn't take him more than two seconds to realize that this might not be what he thought it was. The town drags new people in at random intervals. This is just the first time it might have dragged somebody in he knows is dead already.

His stare drops to that assault rifle and it's familiar. He knows it. It's the one Cas always picked, a minor detail that's hard to ignore. This is either a shifter from the major leagues or...

With the Colt still trained very precisely at the maybe-shifter's head, he slips a hand into the concealed, inside pocket of his green jacket. An antler whistle with a stag skull carved into it appears in his fingers from the confines of that fabric, and he doesn't pause before he's blowing on it. The roar that emanates from it is loud, snarling, terrifying for anybody who doesn't know what exactly it does.

Eventually the back of his neck tingles like it always does when he does this, and out of the all-consuming darkness, light starts to swirl until it takes the shape of a large liger - not quite lion, not quite tiger. Something in between. He's said nothing, but he doesn't need to. His dream guide slowly materializes into its solid form, padding the distance between them at a speed likely to feel aggressive, like an attack. It stops short and Dean just watches on as it circles the shifter sitting on the curb, dwarfing the shape of the man and only stopping when it's placed itself between the two of them. One giant paw rests on the assault rifle, making it look like a toy, and with a snarl of warning, it eventually leans in, hot breath rolling from its lungs as it smells the monster. What are you. ]

[perfectantidote]

[ Cas doesn't have a flight or fight instinct as most humans do - not that animal instinct scratching at the back of his mind, a leftover from evolution that can't quite fade away fully. Still, he startles at the roar emanating from Dean, blinks up at him in shocked confusion - not from Dean, he realizes, but from a strange... whistle...?

What... the fuck?

And then the beast emerges, and Cas is glad he's already sitting down, or he might have reconsidered developing a flight instinct on the spot just for the novelty of it. As it is, he feels frozen, unable to look away from the creature as it circles him. If ever there was a needlessly sobering moment.

As it is... if Dean's intent was to intimidate, to frighten, to get a reaction... he's almost successful.

Cas doesn't do terror. He doesn't shake in his boots, not even now, not even with this. But where his muscles were loose and resigned, they're now rigid, and there's something sharp in his eyes as he tracks the creature's movement.

Liger, the part of his mind that's still sharp as a razor supplies. Hybrid offspring of a male lion and a female tiger Bigger than either of their parent species. Cas' eyes slowly rise to meet Dean's, and he holds very, very still as he's sniffed. ]

Fuck you.

[ Directed at the man, not the beast. Because Cas doesn't know what is going on, and right now this looks like he's been downgraded from being executed to being fed to a liger.

And as for his scent... well. Almost human. Almost. There's sweat there, the scent of skin and dirt and dried blood. Something herbal from his cabin.

And ever so faintly, so faint that no human would be able to pick it up, the echoes of a scent that should have long since faded; petrichor and ozone and wild honey, from a being made of light and energy that flew through stormclouds and liked to wander the earth in great strides. ]

[ruined]

[ The cursing goes unheard. He's not listening anymore because he's paying attention to what he can feel, that unbreakable, indescribable bond between him and the liger drawing in the different notes of scent rolling off the figure now sat rigid on the curb. And it doesn't take long, that giant beast's head dropping just enough to press its forehead against the nape of Cas' neck.

Lowering his arm, and the Colt with it, Dean's lips part in what probably looks like two parts shock to one part unshakeable horror. Actual, honest to god horror. The liger - the parts of himself he keeps hidden away under lock and key - nuzzles that almost human like an overgrown cat and he has no idea what the hell to say about that. Nothing at all. Instead, he's leading with the obvious-- ]

Cas? You're--

[ Dead? Alive? Temporary? Real enough here. His tone is incredulous and complicated. How's he supposed to feel about this? ]

[perfectantidote]

[ It's a saving grace for Dean - pun intended - that Cas doesn't know what the deal is with the liger. He assumes it to be... well, not quite natural, no. Because this is strange, and he doesn't need to be fully powered up angel to realize that. The fact that it's nuzzling against him is...

Well.

Disconcerting is one word for it, and Cas flips through a few synonyms that don't feel right.

Strangely comforting, perhaps. ]

Not dead. Well. I, uh. I was. I died, as per the design, and then, uh...

[ Cas gestures at their surroundings. Pauses. Drops his hand and turns his head slightly to keep the liger in his peripheral. He's still not entirely convinced he's not food being toyed with. ]

Don't worry. I understand your... apparent raging disappointment and need to, uh... course correct, as it were.

[ruined]

[ One last headbutt from the liger and it's lifting its head up again, golden eyes shimmering even in the darkness and unaffected by the bloody red glow of everything else. Less quick as it stands, apparently satisfied that this isn't a monster to be torn to pieces, it pads back across to Dean, rests on its haunches to watch the back of the human its bonded with.

Dean, though. He's just staring, trying to process the words, trying to actually apply some goddamn meaning to the fact that Cas is here. Actually here. And then it hits him. The Cas who's already here - the angel - who'd said something along the lines of... Cas knew he was being sent to his death, was right.

Something to think about privately, because as much as this reunion was always going to be fucked up, it's got a real edge of danger here in Deerington. ]

Thought you were a shifter. Or a ghost.

[ He's not saying a damn thing about what he's feeling though. Every second he spent as a teenager with so many feelings and the aching need to help people hasn't been forgotten. But this town is crawling with things that could actually take the two of them out. So he gestures down towards that abandoned assault rifle and then starts to turn away. ]

It's not safe out here. Pick that up and follow me.

[ Falling back onto commands, like he's any kind of leader here. He's not. He has no idea what he is now, but this is the safest way to get them somewhere to... he doesn't know what. Talk? He feels like he hasn't really talked to Cas in years. And honestly? He doesn't think he deserves to. ]

[perfectantidote]

[ Cas' eyes are trailing after the liger, tension bleeding out of him slightly. He's... not sure how to feel about anything right now, how to feel about that great cat that seemed to want to eat him, then seemed to want to cuddle up to him, and his now strolling along with Dean who seems to find this... horrifically normal.

Cas licks his lips. HIs hands are trembling. He pulls on the breaded bracelet so hard it almost snaps, but digs into his skin uncomfortably.

By the time the next active thought filters through the white noise of his overwhelmed psyche, he's already got the rifle slung back over him, the ammo stored, and has fallen into step behind Dean, except...

Except Dean pointed the Colt at him.

Cas can feel the patchwork stitches pull on his torso as he moves. Can feel the cool night air seep through the thin, slashed shirt and the tears in his jeans. His hands tremble, and he deliberately flexes them against the cool weight of the rifle, feels the way the strap pulls along his shoulder with the motion.

Cas stops walking. Looks at the ground. Smiles at it, shakes his head. Remembers Dean can't see that, never sees Cas, barely ever hears him.

Dean... sent him to his death, and he went gladly for both their sakes, to give Dean his shot, to remove a useless, broken thing from the board, something expendable, and they both know he is. But more than that... because Dean wasn't satisfied with that, and the first thing he did was point the Colt right into Cas' face, and the only thing that made him not kill Cas right there was... whatever happened with the liger.

So Cas stands there, takes a breath, weighs the word on his tongue, tastes bile at the back of his throat at the very thought, but he's tired, he is oh so tired, and everything is too much - more so than usual. And then he says the one thing he never thought he'd ever say to Dean. ]

No.

[ And he knows it's a lie. Knows he'll fold like a leaf in the wind, but just for a moment, just for a second, he has to pretend that he could ever not choose Dean, that he could ever walk away. But they both know he'll let Dean lead him to the next slaughter. Like the guru act, it is just that, a mirage, an attempt to seem like something he's not while he no longer knows what he is, and to whom it matters. ]

[ruined]

[ Under the assumption that Cas is following, just like always, Dean's gathered up whatever stray thoughts want to drag his whole consciousness to meaning over survival. Only thing that matters right now is surviving this for long enough to get somewhere safe. The 'no' from behind him interrupts the way his eyes sweep the area, like he's sure he can feel things that mean them harm just out of view.

The liger stops before he does, and his brain just won't process the singular, solo word of disagreement in a way that makes sense. It doesn't make sense. A throaty, deep growl is what does it, and though he already knows that Cas has stopped - he doesn't need to see for himself, already got the message from his dream guide - it takes an extra few steps for him to do the same. ]

No?

[ He doesn't turn around, doesn't twist his head to look over his shoulder because his eyes are still sharp and focused elsewhere. ]

Cas, there's literally no time to screw around.

[ Slowly he does turn, throws a look over his shoulder that's frustration bordering on something more wild. Okay, maybe Cas is pissed about what happened. He's not going to deny the guy that. Not here, not today. ]

Okay, yeah, this is a trip, even for you-- [ It doesn't take long for old habits to slide back into place, harsh but... regretful. He does regret the words as soon as they're out of his mouth. ]

Look. This is messed up. I know it is. But if we stay out here we're both dead. And in this place? Dead doesn't mean dead. It means comin' back, again and again. And every time you come back it gets worse. So whatever you gotta say to me, stow it. You get first swing when we're somewhere that's got four walls and a door.

[perfectantidote]

[ Sometimes, when wave after wave after wave slaps against you, it's easier to just... give in to erosion. It's only natural to be washed away, bit by bit.

Until one day, blissfully, nothing remains, nothing at all.

He hangs on to his defiance for a moment, to a straight spine and a raised chin that he almost looks righteous and holy again, even in the face of the oncoming storm that is a pissed off, annoyed Dean who levels his frustration at the ever-present source of many of his woes.

it doesn't last, of course. The moment Dean takes a potshot at Cas' "trips" is the moment something shuts down in him. It's a visible change. His shoulders slump, his posture relaxes. The sharpness goes out of his eyes, and something just... dims right there. His lips twitch into that trademark humourless smile, and Cas ducks his head. ]

Yeah. Sure.

[ Cas gestures, and moves. Follows.

Falls in line. Good soldiers march onwards. ]

After you, my uh... fearless leader.

[ruined]

[ Something folds in on itself inside of Cas and he sees it. Watches it happen like a stack of cards taken out from the bottom row, collapsing inward until it's nothing but a flat and jagged pile. And all it took was one word. Dean doesn't feel powerful at that realization, he just feels sick. Guilty. But their situation hasn't changed. They're in no less danger now than they were before, he's just knocked the wind out of Cas' sails so maybe they're worse off.

A single second, just one for an apology, is all it would take to steer the dude into slightly better waters, but he doesn't take it. Can't. He's been in Deerington for three months now and he's not going to pretend like he hasn't been changed by it. But there's so much history between them, so much dirt and blood and darkness that his brain just short-circuited straight back to the status quo. The smile he's never liked seeing is pinned back in place on a face that's complicated in so many ways, and it takes every shred of restraint not to react to that stupid title.

Silent as he turns away and follows the path up towards Flatwoods Point, the liger doesn't catch up to him again, seems to opt to stay closer to Cas instead. Whatever it is Dean's not able to say, his dream guide seems to be the silent messenger for that sentiment.

They somehow manage to avoid anything too serious on their way back to Dean's house, only stopping once when the liger's nose lifts into the air, as though he's caught the scent of something. But eventually they're drawing up to the ramshackle house Dean's been living in since he arrived. Only when he's pushed the front door open and looked around - he's still pissed the stained-glass windows are even a thing - does he wait for Cas to step in so he can close the door behind him. ]

It's safer here.

[ Not safe. But safer. The interior is sparse enough that anybody not from a world like theirs would struggle to figure out whether anybody actually lives here. Not this it's all that easy to see with only a handful of candles lit in the hallway and everything else shaded in the eerie red from outside. It really is a miracle this house is still standing and not burnt to the ground. In fact, only thing that looks anywhere near like it belongs in this century is the flight of freshly build stairs, the wood much lighter than the rest of the house even in the red shade darkness.

There's a threadbare couch with three throw pillows on it in what might have once been a living room to the right, and he gestures for Cas to head on in while he disappears towards the back of the house with one of those candles. The liger, apparently familiar enough with the floorplan, decides to stalk away and throw itself down bodily, stretching out in front of an old fireplace that's got the remains of a fire still dusting the bottom. ]

[perfectantidote]

[ There are questions arching through his mind like lighning in a bottle. Clipped and rapid-fire, the ancient mind of an eons old soldier trying to process through the hazy fog Cas prefers to let his mind float into these days.

He doesn't voice them.

Dean will tell him in his own time, or he won't.

And in the meantime, Cas observes. Street layouts. The things lurking in the dark. Where Dean's eyes slide, where attention needs to go. The path from where they were to the house. The state of it. The new wood. Safer, not safe. Squatter home with personal touches. Ashes in the fireplace that the liger sprawls in front of comfortably. Cas' fingertips trail the outline of a turtle, but his gaze flicks to the window, can't stop scanning his surroundings.

Dean has been here a while.

Cas doesn't know how to feel about that. He shoves his hand into the depths of his pocket, curls his fingers around the smooth plastic of a bottle whose lable has long since worn off. No idea yet how and where he'll get to refill his stash. Cas sighs, lets the bottle rest where it is for now. ]

Nice home.

[ He says it before Dean steps into the room, keeps his back to the man, but lets his gaze drop to the pillows, fingers moving on to the fluffy texture of a green flower. ]

Nice cat.

[ruined]

[ The questionable kitchen is where Dean's taken himself off to, leaving Cas behind to... do whatever it is he's gonna do. For the first time since September rolled into October, he's actually grateful for the darkness. It shrouds more than just danger. Expressions. Lines of tension. The way he's been frowning the whole walk back to the point where he's got a headache now. Bracing himself against a counter, he drops his head and lets out a slow, mostly steady breath. What the hell?

Half a minute passes and he finally straightens up because that's all he'll allow himself, and when he's eventually putting in an appearance again, he's got a bag of military grade medical supplies under his arm. ]

You know this isn't home.

[ Home. The camp. Lucifer. They should probably talk about that. But first he's glancing down at the liger and raising his eyebrows. ]

He's uh... they're called dream guides. Sounded like bullshit to me when I first heard of 'em but-- [ Here he gestures at the big cat that looks stupidly oversized in front of that fireplace. One that he's got full intention of lighting before he even tries to figure out where to start with Cas. ]

[perfectantidote]

[ Fair enough. Finally rid of the angel on his shoulders, Dean's gotten himself settled with a spiritual guide of a different persuasion. Infinitely more useful, too, from the looks of it. Figures.

Figures, too, that he'd get stuck in this position again, of knowing the smart thing would be to walk away from a man who doesn't want him here, and yet he can't bring himself to do so - because what does he have left in this pitiful excuse for an existence except being a festering disappointment to one Dean Winchester? ]

I, uhm... assumed you were feeding me to him.

[ Not the first thing Dean's fed him to. ]

So, fearless leader. What's the plan?

[ Dean brought him here. Didn't let him vanish into the darkness - even when Cas tried. And Cas let it happen. Let himself become that cannon fodder soldier again right away. He knows it - Dean knows it. Why not break some eggs and make... make... Cas doesn't actually remember how that one goes. ]

[ruined]

Sit.

[ Dropping the bag on one end of the couch, Dean's already walking away again. The candle he's set on top of a low table that's haphazardly not quite parallel to the couch. If Cas chooses to look in the bag, there's fresh bandages, medical tape, antiseptic, a suture kit and an assortment of other things that definitely don't look like they're for the average civilian. But this isn't the average town.

Burning incense isn't something he's suddenly decided he's going to do for fun. The incense is one of the only things that keeps the monsters out, and when it comes to hunting these monsters? Dean definitely doesn't want them to come to him right now. The snap of his zippo lighter is strangely loud through the otherwise eerily quiet house. Eventually the liger, apparently of its own volition, gets up again, stretches, and pads away with no indication that Dean's asked it to do anything. Telepathic links. With a liger. That's how not average this town is. ]

And you can stop callin' me that. I'm not leading a damn thing here.

[ Even he has no idea if that's a suggestion or an order. Whatever it is or it isn't, he's very purposely looking anywhere but at Cas. Now that they're here, and without the distraction of immediate danger, there's things that he knows he needs to address. And explain. Time to pull the band-aid off. He's digging through that bag of medical supplies rather than looking up when he asks. ]

What's the last thing you remember before you got here?

cw: mentions of death, gore

[perfectantidote]

You're leading me.

[ Cas looked - specifically for something to palm, no matter how poorly that would go. He doesn't... but it feels better looking through the supplies than at Dean.

Not leading a damn thing here? Well... ]

Same difference.

[ He likes that one, and how it folds in on itself. Likes it more than were the topic's headed. But what can he say... he might have been accused of many things and failures during their time at Champ Chitaqua, but he's always debriefed. ]

Well... let's see. You, uh. Sent us die, of course. So we did, to make sure you could take your shot. [ There's not resentment in his voice. Cas knows tactics, knows strategy... he gets it. He does. Cannon fodder has its place in a war. ] I, uhm. I killed Risa. And... Andy and Mark, I think. When they were swarmed. And then... well. Then I died.

[ Claws tearing at him, digging, pieces of himself ripping, tearing, breaking, sundering, cracking. There's nothing fast about a proper death via Croats. Nothing fast at all, and he's not human. He was conscious for most of it. ]

Woke up here, like this. Went outside. Met you, and... well, you were there for that. It's... been a day.

[ A long, long day. He'd earned his exit, bled for it. And now... well. ]

cw: suicide ideation

[ruined]

[ Whatever he is and whatever he's done, when Cas starts explaining - after he's topped up on that self-deprecation - he looks up. He'd sent Cas to his death, and he owns that. Takes responsibility for it. Back then it had been the only plan he'd got to work the situation into something that they might actually win.

He knows that doesn't happen now.

So what he's looking at is confirmation that he's not fit to lead. His jaw tightens, and for once he doesn't know what to say. Where to start. Maybe once upon a time he'd just tell Cas that they'd failed. But the truth is he knows the only person to blame is himself. Cas hadn't failed anything. Ever. But he'd stopped asking for anything from Cas a long time ago. Stopped letting anybody in because that was a distraction. And when had letting people in ever ended up in anything other than being left alone or the people around him dying? In the end, he'd stopped caring about anything beyond keeping the people in the camp alive and killing Lucifer. Maybe then he'd find a way out too. Peace. Something like it. Not that he deserved it.

There's no part of him that's surprised that Cas took out their people quick. Spared them the suffering that Dean couldn't. Or wouldn't. ]

You did what you had to do. [ What I made you do. ]

How bad are they? Your wounds.

[perfectantidote]

Letahl, but sufficiently patched. No, uh. Not lethal anymore, I'd assume. They're... I'm fine.

[ Cas glances down and tugs at on of the slashes in his shirt. Fixable. Just like his vessel is, apparently.

And then, slowly, he lowers his hand ad looks back at Dean. The fake humour has faded from his face as something... something seems to have slotted into place regarding his own state, this strange realm, Dean's presence. ]

Did... Dean, did you die?

[ And there's a strained edge to his voice, there, because that's... not... it's always been a possibility, a strong one given Dean's plans regarding the Colt, but...

Knowing he's died and come here is one thing. The thought that Dean died and has been pulled here, denied the rest he deserves after everything he's gone through.

That rankles Cas. ]

[ruined]

No. I didn't die.

[ Not yet. And he's not lying. Last time he died he went to Hell and both of them know how that toasty vacation went. Flaring his nostrils he finally pulls out clean bandages, the tape, and lifts his chin towards a small cabinet set under a stained-glass window that-- well, it's a charming depiction of what he got up to in Hell. ]

Whiskey's in there. We're gonna need it. Then take your shirt off.

[ This is what penance is, right? That he's about to offer to take a look at those wounds and do what he can with what he has. A closeup of every single injury he'd sent Cas to suffer without blinking. ]

cw for blood

[perfectantidote]

[ Cas stares at the stained glass for a moment. He remembers it - how could he not? Tries not to think about it - less for Dean's sake, more for his own. That memory comes with being bound to no vessel, being righteous light and a being of pure divinity and celestial intent, descending upon Hell to save Dean Winchester.

He'd... rather not recall.

Cas tears his eyes awayand moves towards the cabinet. His hand trembles when it closes around the bottle. ]

You, uh. You know I don't do pain... well.

[ He remembers his first broken bone well. Cas still struggles with sensation overload, with feeling too much of things he was never meant to experience the sensation of, and his learning curve turned out to be way too steep.

It's how he got onto the painkillers in the first place, needing two pills where humans would need one, just to dull the ache of existing.

Still, he takes the bottle and returns to the couch, puts the bottle on the table and drops his jacket unceremoniously.

The shirt... he pulls over his head, it doesn't button in the front, and there's a sharp intake of breath that flares out his nostrils and his ribcage for a moment, the movement painful on the medical attention he did apparently receive.

The motion also receives something along his back. Curving along sharply defined shoulder blades... antlers, that almost look like stumps of wings lone gone. Those... are currently bleeding, rivulets down Cas' back like feathers plucked.

The pain hasn't even registered to the point where he'd have mentioned it - he does tend to be bad at identifying severe pain beyond a general 'everything hurts', though. And given the way he died so very recently, he's just assumed his back hurts because of what happened to his body before arriving here, not after. ]

[ruined]

[ Whoever tried patching Cas up needs their medical license revoked. Dean's leveling heavy judgement on them even as he's stepping closer, brows drawn down until there's a deep line set between them. It's like a bad Halloween costume where the mummy got drunk and the bandages sagged. He could do better than this with his eyes closed.

The wounds underneath are peeking through enough for Dean to get that Cas' death wasn't quick and it wasn't pretty. And he doesn't need to be told that this isn't the worst pain he's inflicted on the guy. Keeping that thought to himself, he forces a hand up to Cas' shoulder, turning him just enough to check out the damage on his back and-- ]

Fuck. The hell happened to your tattoo? They just-- did they do this to you before you got let out?

[ It's the only explanation. Except why's it still bleeding, like it's only just been done? Fresher than an hour ago.

He doesn't wait for an answer, just shrugs off his own jacket, rolls up his shirt sleeves and leans back across to the bag to pull out the sterilized gauze he saw in sealed packets. Turns out this is easier than talking. A task to do that needs focus and attention. This isn't the first time he's patched Cas up, but this is the first time he's done it in a while. He'd stopped doing it the moment he got too busy. The moment he decided Cas should be doing it himself. The moment he washed his hands of the guy because he'd convinced himself that caring about anybody deeply was only going to end in disappointment and betrayal. ]