[ It's painfully familiar, and for a moment Cas wonders if he should regret his choice. The rundown ruin of a house, the smell of gun oil, the wreck of a man working on his weapons.
And Cas himself, well. He doesn't fare better exactly. His fingers tremble slightly on the semi-automatic he carries, deftly pulling the strap over his head and putting the weapon down. ]
If you want to share your poison of choice.
[ Cas doesn't have any of his angelic senses left, cannot see this man's soul or his measure. All that remins is the faintest... slightly too sharp intuition. Just small things he picks up on a little more easily than others might. To him, grief drips from Grady like oil, and it's... a relief, morbidly.
He can be of some use here. His existence can have a point, for a moment in time, to provide whatever it is Grady needs. Cas has no illusions about this being profound - but he can take being used, when he does little else himself. The fact that he'll get to forget about that aching empty hole in his chest is an added bonus.
Cas has the look of a man from a life of strife about him - mid-thirties, perhaps, at least physically speaking, with blue eyes that can at times feel too blue and too old. Sharp angles and rough edges with a soft mouth wrapped around sharp words,. He fits right into the aesthetic of the place, and isn't that just lovely.
He doesn't ask about the tarp. Doesn't ask about the blood. Some stories tell themselves, and Cas isn't used to fucking people or getting fucked by people who aren't damaged and broken and need something to slap into the cracks. He's good for that. He can be good for that, and he does not resent it either. ]
cw for unhealthy coping mechanisms, sex, depression, grief
And Cas himself, well. He doesn't fare better exactly. His fingers tremble slightly on the semi-automatic he carries, deftly pulling the strap over his head and putting the weapon down. ]
If you want to share your poison of choice.
[ Cas doesn't have any of his angelic senses left, cannot see this man's soul or his measure. All that remins is the faintest... slightly too sharp intuition. Just small things he picks up on a little more easily than others might. To him, grief drips from Grady like oil, and it's... a relief, morbidly.
He can be of some use here. His existence can have a point, for a moment in time, to provide whatever it is Grady needs. Cas has no illusions about this being profound - but he can take being used, when he does little else himself. The fact that he'll get to forget about that aching empty hole in his chest is an added bonus.
Cas has the look of a man from a life of strife about him - mid-thirties, perhaps, at least physically speaking, with blue eyes that can at times feel too blue and too old. Sharp angles and rough edges with a soft mouth wrapped around sharp words,. He fits right into the aesthetic of the place, and isn't that just lovely.
He doesn't ask about the tarp. Doesn't ask about the blood. Some stories tell themselves, and Cas isn't used to fucking people or getting fucked by people who aren't damaged and broken and need something to slap into the cracks. He's good for that. He can be good for that, and he does not resent it either. ]
Wanna tell me what you need?