soddersays | OCTOBER 2020 TEST DRIVE MEME

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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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 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. ]

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?

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. ]

[ 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.

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. ]

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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Cas throws a mildly irriated glance over his shoulder at Dean. ]

I know it's.. uhm. Been a while since you walked in on me in any state of undress, but... I assure you I've only decorated myself in... debauchery and scars.

[ Which is his roundabout way of saying that he's never gotten any tattoos, voluntary or otherwise. ]

Someone did offer, once, with uh... a hot needle. I declined. Didn't, hm. See the appeal, really.

[ Debauchery and scars. That's what Cas got out of the human experience. For a second, Dean thinks that's not all that far off how he'd been living his life. But that's not anywhere near close to what he knows are the things that he really remembers as being important. ]

Everybody gets one. It's not a voluntary thing.

[ Which still pisses him off now, but it's a freaking tattoo. Nothing he can do about it now. Fishing his Fluid out from his pocket, it takes a while for the screen to light up. Even when it does, the screen only appears slowly, in slivers of pixels until it's fully loaded. Taking a photo of that bleeding tattoo, he offers that device up and, leaving Cas with it, turns away to build a fire he forgot he was going to. ]

Take 'em off. The bandages. Clean up what you can reach and... I'll get the rest.

[ Huh. Cas takes the... device and looks at the picture of his own back on it.

Artistically pleasing, he supposes, except he's... not sure he appreciates the visual.

He still feels them sometimes, like a phantom sensation. Like he could just beat them and take flight again. For a moment, Cas just stands there and looks at the picture, forlorn.

Well. They gave him antlers that look like wing stumps, and there's stained glass depicting Dean in Hell.

Cheerful place. Cas sets the phone down, then snorts. ]

Buy a guy dinner first, Dean.

[ Barbs and needles and deflections and defenses too high.

Trying to keep his wincing to a minimum, Cas makes short work of the bandages. If there's one thing he's learned in the apocalypse alongside Dean, it's efficiency when handling wounds and their treatment. He's no stranger to stitching up a wound on himself. ]

Didn't hear you ask anybody at the camp to buy you dinner first.

[ The response is his only way to lash out, tone dipped in aggressive, defensive notes that feel like old friends. Ones that he'd lost sight of last month. Those old friends are the ones who he thought would protect him, in the end, but even that wasn't completely true. He's set every connection he had on fire and didn't bother looking back at the wreckage left behind.

He's still building that fire in front of him, but now he's doing it with stiff, uncomfortable motions, like he's trying to hold on to too much and his skin feels too tight for everything to fit. ]

You want help when I'm done or not?

[ Ah yes. He's missed this, in the all of five minutes between his death and resurrection, a brief respite from the digs at how far he's fallen. ]

Yeah, well...

[ And Cas coats himself in venomen and wraps barbed wire tight around himself, digs the barbs into himself hard so he can give as good as Dean makes him take. ]

We mostly ate out.

[ Bitter resignation. There's no winning or losing in this brutality that has become of their once oh so profound bond, lying tattered between them, shambles no one wants to make the effort to repair, and no one wants to let go of either.

So they cut each other up, and Cas hates himself for it, because he used to be so much more than what he is, and if he still were, perhaps he could fix this. Perhaps he could do anything at all. ]

Don't trouble yourself on my account. I'm, uh... I'm good.

[ Liar, liar... something about pants. Cas barely hears Dean moving around on the other side of the room over the white noise in his ears. If his eyes prickle, no one ever needs to know - blink three times and they're dry, shiny only because they're clouded over with pain and self-medication.

Dean wasn't dead when he came here.

Dean's been here a while. He has throw pillows, and built a staircase.

No wonder he's angry. Cas is the last thing he needed to have here, a festering reminder of the ruin of a life he got to leave behind for... well, certainly not better shores. But shores without the burdens he'd shouldered before.

No wonder he was ready to shoot Cas on sight.

No wonder his resentment against Cas is hitting hard and fast. ]

[ Staring intensely at the unlit wood and tinder arranged in that fireplace, Dean honestly wouldn't be all that surprised if it did spontaneously combust. Only person who knows how to get under his skin like this is standing in his poor excuse for a living room and he's already feeling like this was a bad idea.

The town's unfriendly at the best of times - not the other sleepers, so much, but the monsters that come in waves - and never before has he felt so hemmed in. So stuck here. He just knows now that the only thing waiting for him back in his world is failure and death. And it's suffocating to think about, worse that he already knows he's set the two of them down this path both back there and here.

It's not the first time he's been forced to look at the ways he'd changed in his world since he arrived here, but it's the first time he's had to do it with somebody who suffered because of it.

Silent against that continued needling, eventually that fire gets going, and the liger that had appeared again at the door, ready to defend him if needed, pads away again to resume its watch over the back of the house. It always draws closer when he's feeling at his worst. ]

Oh, you're good?

[ He's upright again, the light from the fire at least partially bathing the room in flickering orange. Good is a relative term, he gets that. But Cas ain't good, and that's on him. He watches on from where he stands, eyes finally drop to the mess of badly patched up wounds littered across Cas' torso. There's a moment where he thinks he's probably not going to get the words rolling around his head out, like there's a wall there between them that he built himself that he can't demolish again. Except it's already started to crumble and this town, this place and everything that happens in it, is part of that reason. ]

Cas, you're not good. And I know that's on me. So just-- [ Baby steps. Confessions that aren't inviting discussion just yet. The muscles at his jaw ripple with how tight he's squeezing his molars together. Like he's trying to contain something. ] look, if we don't patch that up we're just askin' for more trouble from outside...

[ A pause, heavy and yet strangely filled with a nervous energy that he'd deadened himself to in his world. ]

And I [ need, desperately ] want your help. [ Clearing his throat roughly, the frown loosens slightly. ] So we're gonna get you patched up. Understand?

[ Cas' head spins with how much whiplash he's receiving here, and he just... openly stares at Dean in utter disbelief.

Here's the thing. This is... this is what they do. They push at each other, push until they find what gives under relentless attacks. They trade pain, because Cas knows he's the only one left who knows Dean in a world gone dark, and if he doesn't take Dean's swings, if he doesn't swallow his charge's vitriol and lashes and barbs, if he doesn't roll with figurative punches and holds back against them with low blows of his own, then Dean's swings will eventually hit someone else, and for that Dean will not be able to forgive himself.

Cas believes with certainty that to shoulder Dean's resentment is to prevent it from turning inwards more so than it already has.

They do this. They wrestle with each other, they deal their blows, they push against each other, and they keep pushing, and then they live to fight another day.

And when instead of pushing, Dean... pivots. Cas pitches forwards, stumbles, and finds himself off balance.

What... just happened?

He was expecting a swing, and it never came, and for a moment it shows, the way he shifts from one foot to the other. The way his face is angled away, but his eyes linger on Dean. It's not quite the long, silent stares and non-verbal communication they used to be able to do. But it's also not Dean barking something over his shoulder and Cas staring into nothing with a chuckle.

Cas licks his lips, and it takes him a moment, to loosen the barbed wire wrapped around his tongue and swallow down the sharpness that he was prepared to fling right back.

And for a moment, this feels worse, because he doesn't know how this Dean operates, who has so obviously existed in this space for some time, and it's... affected him. How, Cas doesn't quite know just yet, and it's a bitter pill to swallow to realize that he's a stained remnant from a life Dean got to leave behind.

Is he the one dragging Dean into the muck, now? ]

Yeah, uhm. Yeah. Understood.

[ He doesn't snap the words as he intended to originally.

The instinct to swing the other way immediately is strong, to quip that it's not on Dean - inaction isn't quite the same as action. But they both know that would be a cruel thing to say, too, and note... quite fair. Not when Dean Winchester is trying to hold out a gnarled olive branch and so very obviously struggling not to fumble it.

Will wonders never cease. Perhaps, for now, instead of wrestling each other down into the mud and drowning in it, they can just... lie in the dirt next to each other.

Toddler steps, or however that one goes. ]

You're better at, uh. This, than I am. [ Steadier hands. Cas gestures at his wounds. Something in his posture... it doesn't deflate, but there's a subtle tension that bleeds out of his lean frame, as he fishes for the whiskey and takes a good swing from it, wincing at the burn and welcoming it. ]

So, uh. You have a liger and the Colt. I still have the, uh. The rifle. Some ammo. The handgun and knife are gone. [ He sits, so Dean can have better access. ] You wanna, uh. Walk me through our assets? [ Our, not yours. If Dean can manage to hold that gnarled olive branch without bursting into flames or breaking it, then Cas can indicate the same. They used to be good at this, once upon a time - at fighting back to back, running their shit together. Cas is a soldier, a tactician, and can be as ruthless as Dean himself. So... with monsters on the prowl outside, what does Dean...

... what do they have in their corner? ]

[ Breaking things has always been a specialty. Not on purpose, for the most part, but he's destroyed more than he's created. At some point in his past he just accepted the fact that that's who he is. Breaking hearts. Breaking destiny. Breaking the world.

Breaking Cas had never figured into the equation. He hadn't meant to. Cas was supposed to be indestructible. Cas was an angel. Bulletproof to most things. And maybe bulletproof against him too. But he'd done what he always does. He'd asked Cas to rebel. To do the right thing. He'd asked for the world, he'd asked for himself, and he'd asked for Cas too. Pinned under the heel of Heaven wasn't any place he wanted a friend of his.

But things change. They always do. The angel, Castiel, became Cas. He fell and suddenly the bulletproof vest dropped and Dean, too deep in his own grief and drowning in the responsibility that had fallen to him, had let that friend fend for himself. At first it wasn't so bad. He'd taught Cas all the things that were practical; things that would be useful. How drive. How to shoot. How to self-medicate. Yeah, he'd been the guy to introduce Cas to painkillers. How to patch himself up after a hunt or mission gone wrong. How to make some of the other hurt go away with alcohol. How to use external coping mechanisms rather than build internal ones. How was he supposed to teach Cas something he'd never been taught himself?

Somewhere along the way, Cas had become fragile. Too fragile. And Dean broke him and never looked back long enough to realize how bad until it felt too late. It had gone too far. With the mission - his obsession - pulling at him every waking hour, even in his dreams, he just never picked Cas up again. For all that Cas gave up for him, he gave nothing in return.

Cas could have picked apart what he said just then. Could have agreed that yeah it is on Dean to take ownership for what happened, but he hasn't. There's no barbed words or a swing taken when his defenses are clearly lowered. He has no idea what to say to that, or how to even process it, but he's grateful. Grateful for the moment to be allowed to breathe.

Eventually he's crossing back over towards Cas sat on the couch, and even though he's always automatically going to go for the whiskey as disinfectant, he doesn't have to right now because somebody had given enough of a shit about him to bring him medical supplies. That's still something he hasn't gotten his head around yet either, but he's quiet as he gets to work, green eyes focused on categorizing what needs the most attention and first. Cas' bleeding tattoo definitely isn't a party for anyone, but there are worse injuries on his chest and stomach, and that's where Dean starts, careful as he cleans them. When he starts answering Cas' question, he actually sounds calmer than he has up until this point. With something practical to do with his hands and a question about inventory, he can pull himself together enough for that. ]

Got some weapons over in the other room. Usual crap. Shotgun. Pistol. Bear traps. ...don't ask. Hunting knife. Had an angel blade but uh... it's a long story. But I also got access to the best armory in town. So whatever we want, they'll probably have it.

Huh... spoiled for choice, I see.

[ Which... well, that is actually a strange sort of comfort. Cas used to be a weapon just on his own, but he has since learned how dangerous it can be to run out of spare ammo, to have weapons fall apart and no replacements being at hand.

Bear traps, though...

Oh, but he wants to ask. If only because sex, drugs and getting on Dean's bad side are the three pillars of his human experience.

He flinches with a hiss through clenched teeth as Dean works, looking almost more annoyed at his reaction than the pain and discomfort briefly experienced. ]

Wait... angel blade? Haven't seen many of those around.

[ There's a noticable but entirely subconscious movement of his hand, fingers stretching. He used to summon his blade from underneath his sleeve, but...

Well, things change, don't they. ]

Yeah.

[ An agreement. Maybe it sounds like he's cutting the conversation off there, but he's not. He's concentrating, careful with how he's dabbing around the edges of wounds that he's forcing himself to look at. Taking responsibility for this feels like the first step in trying to... make things less awful, maybe. Never right, he doesn't think that's even possible, but Cas just never deserved what he got. ]

Gonna have to suture this.

[ How it's been left open like it has is beyond him, like clearly whoever had patched him up hadn't even cared about doing a semi-okay job. It rankles, irritates him, and eventually he's standing to lean over and dig his hand into that bag again. Suturing is something he's been doing for a long time now, and he's got enough practise to know he can do a better job. At least until maybe he gets Cas over to see Eddie. ]

You uh... might want some more of that.

[ He nods towards the bottle of whiskey, a suggestion more than anything. And while he knows that Cas probably wants something else out of the bag of medical supplies, he's not planning on offering that up just yet. So for a while he's just pausing at the base of the couch by Cas' feet to give him a moment to knock back more of that alcohol. ]

Another long story. Probably some things you should know about this town.

Well... shit. Storytime and, uh... stitches.

[ Cas doesn't hesitate, just grabs the bottle and takes another hefty swig before fishing for his jacket.

He used to be a soldier of heaven, a being of light and energy held together by divine will. On a metaphysical level, he's absolutely had worse over the eons of his existence. But now... now he feels, and there is no pain greater than that.

Cas feels his fingers close around the plastic bottle, opening the cap and shaking two pills into his palm before he can rethink his life choices. By the time Dean turns around, Cas is popping them into his mouth and raising the whiskey to wash them down with.

Bottoms up. ]

[ It takes a second, then another, a third as his brain remembers what that sound means. Pills in a bottle. He hates that freaking sound, and he hasn't heard it for months. But there hasn't been enough time between the last time he heard it and now to not turn sharply and make a grab for Cas' wrist. That's a combination that isn't going to end well, and despite the fact he was the guy sending Cas to his death last time, that's not a choice he's going to make here and now. ]

What the hell?

[ His fingers are firm around that wrist, firm enough that some of that whiskey sloshes out of the bottle and down Cas' front. That's probably going to sting, but Dean doesn't care. Literally couldn't care less because the alternative is worse. The alternative is Cas dies. ]

Tell me that's not Vicodin.

[ Cas grits his teeth through the pain, the sting, and for a moment there is a righteous fury in those blue eyes, because he died, less than an hour ago it feels like, and here is Dean acting like there is a shit to be given about whether or not Cas blows his brains away a little further.

Like.

It.

Matters.

Does Castiel know this is a dangerous combination? Sure. Does he have anything else at hand to go numb? Nope. Does he care? Probably not, he's not sure what his feelings on the matter are.

He twists his wrist, trying to pull free, nostrils flaring when he finds Dean's grip firm, stark reminder that he's weaker than Dean in every sense, and has been for years now.

And then his lips curl, and the tension in him... goes out. He slouches a little, cants his hips a touch, and looks at Dean. ]

What... would you like it to be?

[ And there is still a bit of an edge there, under the innocent question, because Cas can smell where this conversation is gonna go, and he's not in the mood to talk about the reckless abandon with which he hurls himself along the steady decay of all things mortal. ]

Oh, I don't know, man. Somethin' that's not gonna kill you?

[ There's no moderation in his tone, or his expression. He looks pissed, like Cas has done something to offend him. And he's aware that makes him the kind of asshole who would send a guy off to his death one month but refuse to watch him mix drugs and alcohol like this three later. At least, it's been three months for him. For Cas? Not so much, he's guessing.

He has no idea if Cas knows - or if he cares - that popping those pills and washing them down with whiskey is likely going to get him dead. Intervention after years of looking the other way spikes the kind of guilt in him he hasn't felt for a long time, and it's all because of that he eventually yanks the bottle out of Cas' hand and marches out of the room without a backward glance. ]

[ Like that would change anything.

Like that would matter.

Cas snorts, the sound devoid of humour. Kill him. Right. Like that's something he needs to avoid. You die and come back, and it gets worse every time? That's been his existence so far. Two deaths, and both have gotten him worse. Though even now he can't quite regret death number one. Appropriately dramatic, hopelessly pointless.

He stands still, staring off into space until Dean comes back. ]

Tell me it meant something.

[ His life. His death.

Him.

But they already know the answer to that, don't they.

Appropriately dramatic, hopelessly pointless. ]

[ Stopping at Cas' feet again, Dean says nothing at all. He knows the truth. He knows he's headed back home to die at the hands of Lucifer. He knows he doesn't succeed and he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Cas? Cas died for nothing. It hurts so deeply that he doesn't trust his voice to work, doesn't want to even try speaking because his throat is tight and his chest aches in a way that it hasn't since Sam died all those years ago and he made that goddamn deal.

After everything they've given. After everything he's given up. After Cas giving his life for their mission... it all came to nothing. And he'd tried to work past it, had gotten to a point where maybe he thought he'd found a purpose here, something he could do that wouldn't leave him in the darkness of that reality. But here? Right now? He's drowning in it.

Silence reins, heavy and thick, and all he can do is push the glass of water he went to get for the painkillers into Cas' hands and drops to a crouch again, systematically picking up the suture kit where he'd left off. His teeth are aching from how hard he's got them clenched, how tight he's having to keep his mouth shut to avoid making a sound at all. ]

[ He'd been convinced, once, that it was God who brought him back from the dead and burdened him with great purpose. That his resurrection was an endorsement of the path he'd been on. That his Father's distant love was true. Of course, he'd later learned better, had realized that God didn't care - or else, they were not good enough to make him.

Everything he'd ever believed in had been a lie... and the sweetest lie had been to believe that Dean would lead him true. That even if Cas didn't matter, his death would.

At least Dean has the decency not to pretend.

Cas takes the pills and swallows them down with water before straightening, giving Dean access.

What's a little more pain.

What's a little less meaning. ]

So. Bear traps...

[ And then the only thing left is to march on and on and on, because despite it all, Dean is here, and that means something even if Cas doesn't. ]

OCTOBER 2020 TEST DRIVE MEME

curse the fiends

fear the old blood

Character Arrival

no subject

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cw: mentions of death, gore

cw: suicide ideation

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cw for blood

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cw: alcohol abuse/substance abuse

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cw: substance abuse / very unhealthy mixing of medication

cw: ref to mixing substances and mention of death

cw: suicidal ideation

cw: substance abuse/suicide ref

cw: death/suicidal ideation/nihilism

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