[ Grady's as good as his word: the door to his apartment is unlocked, as much as that matters in a town where people can drift through walls and knock down entire buildings if they want to.
Cas won't find the apartment itself to be particularly welcoming. It's mostly wreathed in darkness, though a few determined bunches of incense letting off thin ribbons of smoke in the corners mean that at least the walls aren't bleeding. Not that the lack of blood really improves the state of the place: after being partially destroyed in the spring, Grady's never really had the time or the inclination to patch it up, spending most of his time these days living over in the cabin by the lake. The outside wall in the living room-slash-open kitchen is taken up by a tarp that's been roughly repaired a few times; it twitches and ripples every so often in the cold blood-soaked wind off the mountains. Sprays of blood are overlaid across each other on the floor, some old and a few more recent. Only a few pieces of furniture survived the fight that wrecked the place.
Grady himself is sat on one of these, taking up the middle of a couch that's definitely seen better days. Candles are dotted around him on the floor and the coffee table, enough to illuminate the handgun he's in the middle of taking apart and carefully cleaning. The smell of gun oil cuts through the funk of the incense.
Like the apartment itself, he's a wreck, though he at least doesn't have anything so obvious as a weather-thinned tarp to give it away. The grief from losing Wes is recent enough that he's still moving around it like an injury, like his heart has been replaced by a hole that's raw and burning. Strangely enough, there's something clarifying about it as well, the pain setting aside the madness and exhaustion that's built up in his head like heavy bricks. He feels like he's thinking clearly for the first time in weeks, though all that's left to think about is the grim determination not to think at all. Just to survive, to act. And to seek out the closest and quickest source of oblivion he can find while he counts down the days for his husband to be brought back to him.
Speaking of which. He'll look up as Cas enters, sparing him a quick glance from his left eye -- the right covered by a leather-tooled eyepatch -- before reaching over for a rag to wipe the oil and cleaning fluids off his fingers. ]
action - forward dated to the 26th
[ Grady's as good as his word: the door to his apartment is unlocked, as much as that matters in a town where people can drift through walls and knock down entire buildings if they want to.
Cas won't find the apartment itself to be particularly welcoming. It's mostly wreathed in darkness, though a few determined bunches of incense letting off thin ribbons of smoke in the corners mean that at least the walls aren't bleeding. Not that the lack of blood really improves the state of the place: after being partially destroyed in the spring, Grady's never really had the time or the inclination to patch it up, spending most of his time these days living over in the cabin by the lake. The outside wall in the living room-slash-open kitchen is taken up by a tarp that's been roughly repaired a few times; it twitches and ripples every so often in the cold blood-soaked wind off the mountains. Sprays of blood are overlaid across each other on the floor, some old and a few more recent. Only a few pieces of furniture survived the fight that wrecked the place.
Grady himself is sat on one of these, taking up the middle of a couch that's definitely seen better days. Candles are dotted around him on the floor and the coffee table, enough to illuminate the handgun he's in the middle of taking apart and carefully cleaning. The smell of gun oil cuts through the funk of the incense.
Like the apartment itself, he's a wreck, though he at least doesn't have anything so obvious as a weather-thinned tarp to give it away. The grief from losing Wes is recent enough that he's still moving around it like an injury, like his heart has been replaced by a hole that's raw and burning. Strangely enough, there's something clarifying about it as well, the pain setting aside the madness and exhaustion that's built up in his head like heavy bricks. He feels like he's thinking clearly for the first time in weeks, though all that's left to think about is the grim determination not to think at all. Just to survive, to act. And to seek out the closest and quickest source of oblivion he can find while he counts down the days for his husband to be brought back to him.
Speaking of which. He'll look up as Cas enters, sparing him a quick glance from his left eye -- the right covered by a leather-tooled eyepatch -- before reaching over for a rag to wipe the oil and cleaning fluids off his fingers. ]
Hey, man. You want something to drink?