[Skye really shouldn’t be up and walking right now, but there’s no way she could get rest without telling Dean’s roommate what happened. They never really delved into either of their personal lives, but Dean had mentioned that someone back from his home was staying at his house.
Banged up from the car accident and eyes raw and red from crying, Skye knocks on the front door of the run down home. Hopefully they were home because she has no idea how to reach them otherwise, and leaving a note just seems too impersonal.]
[ There's a knock on the door, and for the longest time, Cas can only squint into the darkness thinking... 'why'.
Dean doesn't knock. It's his house.
Castiel could certainly just drop in if he cared to.
Cas sure isn't capable of making friends and therefore doesn't expect anyone to show up. Well, plus, he's more used to not having a door to begin with.
Does this mean Dean's made friends?
huh.
He makes his way to the door, blue eyes glassy. He's wearing frayed jeans and some bandages around his torso, covering wounds and stitches he carried over from his death back home that are still healing, but nothing else. His feet are bare, and make little noise as he pads to the front door. There is a gun in his hand, because he has the distinct impression that Dean's gonna be really pissed if Cas manages to get himself killed by opening the door to some monster without a means of defense.
Do the monsters here knock? Well, no time like the present to find out.
Already forgetting about the existence of peepholes, Cas opens the door to... find a small distressed woman.
Huh... well, this is Dean's house, so that checks out. He blinks, slowly. She looks young for Dean, but then, who is he to judge. He's several billions of years older than anyone he chooses to sleep with.
[As if Skye wasn't already a wreck, his words are like a punch to the gut. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but she doesn't even know where to begin. If it weren't for the fact that she's been sobbing for hours, she probably would be crying again right now.]
That's why I'm here. Dean, he--
[She knows she has to tell him, but she really wishes she didn't have to. Just because he would be back in a week didn't make this hurt any less.]
He died.
[She breaks eye contact with him as soon as the words escape her and looks to the ground instead. She can't handle seeing the look on his face right now.]
[ Cas knows what falling feels like, in more ways than one.
He's fallen from grace, a freefall plummet towards the muck and dirt of mortality. He's fallen out of favour and fallen into debauchery, falling from the high of painkillers and alcohol, fallen from the easy floating that he grasps for in sexual relations. Fallen on his face, too, breaking bones and scraping skin.
Cas knows what falling feels like.
His tilts his head back slightly, stares into the middle distance. Understands now that the flood of bodies was merely a fucked up joke, a portent, a warning he willfully ignored.
His gaze drops. Toes curl against the hardwood floor. Eyes wide open and burning. He's tired. He's so tired. There isn't sensation enough to tether him anymore, and he doesn't understand anything in the flood that drowns out everything else.
Cas knows what falling feels like.
And now he knows what it's like to hit the ground.
There's nothing in him but the sensation of a long drop and sudden stop, the noose of freedom and rebellion drawing taut and snapping something in him.
Nothing works, for a moment, his thoughts, his breathing, his heart, they all just come to a stop.
Please, no.
He doesn't say it.
Please take it back.
He doesn't say it.
Dean...
He didn't even feel it. ]
I have wine.
[ Because all that's left to do, for now, is wash his own corpse down the drain. ]
[People deal with bad news in different ways, and Skye is the last person to judge about how chooses to handle it. But when he invites her in so she can tell him about it, she's not sure what to say.
She's been replaying the whole thing in her mind since it happened. Thinking about how maybe there was some way she could've changed things. Maybe she could've saved him. If she only reacted faster. If she didn't let him drive.
None of it changes what's actually happened though. He's dead and the guilt she feels is eating away at her.]
I don't know if that's--
[It was gruesome and she really doesn't want to relay the details to him.]
He'll be back.
[She should probably tell him that now.]
People don't stay dead here.
[It's the only thing she knows that's keeping her from going over the edge, and even then she's struggling.]
[ 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?
cw for unhealthy coping mechanisms, sex, depression, grief
[ 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. ]
Wanna tell me what you need?
cw for unhealthy coping mechanisms, sex, depression, grief
[ Grady doesn't have the benefit of magical intuition to tip him off, just a couple of decades of experience in watching people, studying their body language, when they're lying or not, whether they're really going to give up the money when asked or if they're just going to pass out the minute they start really feeling some pain. Even through the haze of semi-drunken exhaustion, that knowledge is enough to tell him that the man in front of him is either used to being in situations like this or he's a damn good actor. Either way, Grady's glad that he doesn't have to dissemble or deal with someone too scared to give up what they offered.
He shrugs slightly at the question and finishes cleaning most of the oil off his hands. Getting to his feet takes a few moments, the aches and pains of the fights he's ended up in during the month exacerbated by the lack of sleep and decent food. But he manages it, and walks over to the kitchenette, taking his time to find a glass and pick up one of the cheap bottles of Hart Mart scotch that hasn't been emptied yet.
Pouring out a generous measure, he slides the glass along the counter in Cas' direction. ]
I can suck your dick. Or you can fuck me. And I'll return the favor if you want.
[ Well aware that he's likely overestimating the amount of energy either of them can offer, he lifts a shoulder again to indicate it doesn't make much difference to him either way and takes a pull on the scotch bottle. Wincing at the burn of the liquor into an already acidic system, he sets it down again and pushes off the counter to move around Cas and towards the bedroom. ]
It sits at the tip of his tongue, and somehow that just makes him... sad. For times when quips were easier, for times he doesn't want to think about now. So he downs the scotch, follows Grady. Doesn't ask about Romeo, but reaches for the poison anyway.
He feels dead on his feet.
He feels dead.
Cas doesn't look around - doesn't care about the details of Grady's life in this moment. They're making use of each other, and that's something he's grown absolutely fine with over the past few years. Cas doesn't need to know the name and shape of Grady's grief, just that it's there, and he can help take it away for a moment or two.
They're through the door when he reaches out, curls an easy hand around Grady's arm and slots himself into the man's personal space. Up close Cas is all too blue eyes and full lips and stubble. ]
Let's not, uh... over-estimate what we can wring out of ourselves. Anything you don't want me to do?
[ Because that has import. Cas sets out to use and be used - but not to hurt. There's no space for giving something bad when the purpose is making everything bad not matter for a brief moment. ]
[ Grady lets himself be tugged back into Cas' orbit without protest, his one-eyed gaze drifting down to the other man's mouth as he contemplates, as if from a distance, the irreversible thing they're about to do. Cas is only a little taller than he is and he doesn't mind that, it makes it harder to mistake him for someone else. Easier to make him anonymous.
Grady blinks slowly and reaches out to settle his hands on Cas' hips as he thinks about his answer, taking stock of the warm, living weight of him. Anonymous maybe and probably a mistake, but not just a dream, it would probably be a good idea to try to remember that. ]
No. [ He grates out the response, glancing back up to meet those depthless blue eyes, glittering with the light of the few candles in the room guttering down to puddles of useless wax. It's not a lie and he doesn't care what the other man thinks, to be given such freedom over someone else's body.
Lifting his hand, he brushes his thumb along the line of Cas' jaw, then settles his palm around the back of his neck. ]
[ Cas draws closer at that, holding that gaze. If he could still see souls, he wonders what he would see in Grady, and if he would despair over it, or if he's already grown too cold in the caverns of all the once was to still feel one human's aches, so insignificant to the universe that Castiel once was, and such a familiar, painful, insurmountable titan to that which Cas has become. ]
You hurt yourself worse than I'd ever dare.
[ His hands reach, one curling in the fabric of Grady's shirt right above his heartbeat, the other lets fingertips moved through the scrape of beard and upwards, tangling into Grady's hair. Cas doesn't tug. He's close enough that he thinks he almost sees the light beyond Grady's eye. Close enough that their lips almost touch. ]
I'm no one's salvation - but I'm not your punishment, either.
[ Cas can make him feel good for a while. Or less bad, at the very least.
He won't make him hurt. Not like that, at any rate. If Grady needs a regret, that's what Cas can be. If Grady needs a warm body, that's as much as Cas already is. But he won't be a barbed wire around anyone's neck. His cruelty is reserved for himself. ]
[ Grady huffs the words out against Cas' mouth, but there's not much feeling behind them, just saying them because it feels like the right thing to do when someone throws a dart straight into the bullseye of your grief.
That touch to his chest feels all too familiar and belies the other man's promise not to hurt him, reminding him too much of Wes' predilection to covering that place with his palm so he can feel the effect he has on Grady's pulse.
The pain of it rises up Grady's throat, threatening to choke him. Instead of letting it come, he leans forward and closes the tiny gap between them, meeting the other man's mouth with a hard, desperate vulnerability that he didn't anticipate as he grips handfuls of Cas' shirt like he needs to hold on to something or collapse. ]
[ It's not the first time he's sensed its presence. Nor second. Or even the third. On the fourth, Castiel confronts the little dinosaur with a well-placed squint of his eyes as he spots it hiding away within the trees. ]
Why are you following me?
[ He asks, as if it's perfectly natural to talk to animals, or in this case, birds. A dream guide to be precise. He didn't mind it when it hopped nearby when he was setting out more honey for the bees. So long as it didn't attack the hive, Castiel was perfectly fine being watched. The only reason he confronts it now is he knows who it belongs to. There's no mistaking the pull he feels every time its little hollow bones hopped just a little closer to him. When the bird - a crow - doesn't respond, Castiel decides to take the matter to its leader. ]
[ Cas is sitting cross legged on a beautifully pattered carpet in his room. The scent of sandalwood hangs in the air. There's a new plant in the corner, too.
Finally, something alive in this house.
At the ding of a message, Cas cracks open and eye, and allows the lure of interaction to pull him from meditation. The message itself makes his lips quirk. He's aware of what Charis gets up to. Thing has a mind of her own - but then, that is the purpose of her existence, he supposes. A part of him that is more free to act. ][ un: winchester ] i'm not. but i assume you refer to the crow?
[ The answer does little to dissuade him and he looks up at the crow still perched on a branch near the bees. Like the times before, it doesn't try to attack them giving the angel reason enough to trust him. For now. ]
If you're not tracking me, then why are you here?
[ Still no answer. But then again, what should one expect from an angel who spends his days talking to the bees about the flowers they visit? ]
[ Charis caws, as if that answers anything. She flaps her wings, and tilts her head. ][ un: winchester ] her name's charis. she likes checking in on people I know.
[ He's onto you brother. Angels didn't lie so he guesses their dream guides didn't either. ]
text; un: castiel
Dream guides follow orders. Yours, in this case.
[ Or so he believes. The last time he summoned his Dream Guide he was in the Great Sleep. Without his powers to fight he'd summoned it in order to defend himself againt a giant worm in the desert and it had done exactly what he wanted it to. The fact that he never summoned it again, let alone gave it free reign gives him only that experience to base his assumptions off of. ]
orders? i've never given her an order since she came to me.
[ She seems to know what to do. When Dean and Sam have nightmares, Cas will often find Charis in their rooms, watching over them. When he himself has nightmares, she wakes him. On missions, she flies high above him. When Dean's out on a mission without Cas, he knows she does the same for his human. ]
what does yours do, when you just have it with you? no orders, just freedom.
[Left outside the house is a dark blue basket. Inside is an associate of tea, chocolates, a box of lemon drops, a bottle of wine and a copy of Charles Dickens, Christmas Carol. A blue Tardis-shaped card attached to the basket says, 'Santa' in silver marker.]
On the eve of the 24th, a brightly colored dreamguide vested in black and yellow comes marching into your space. A golden hue surrounds it, shimmering with every flicker of its wings creating a venerable light show. Hanging from its short limbs is a ziplock bag with a few tablespoons of honey and no note attached. Freshly collected, the little buzz maker circles around you once, twice, and on the third drops the bag above you - hope you catch it. Once it's made its delivery it will go on its merry way.
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perfectantidote) wrote2020-10-07 03:45 am
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deerington
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Banged up from the car accident and eyes raw and red from crying, Skye knocks on the front door of the run down home. Hopefully they were home because she has no idea how to reach them otherwise, and leaving a note just seems too impersonal.]
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Dean doesn't knock. It's his house.
Castiel could certainly just drop in if he cared to.
Cas sure isn't capable of making friends and therefore doesn't expect anyone to show up. Well, plus, he's more used to not having a door to begin with.
Does this mean Dean's made friends?
huh.
He makes his way to the door, blue eyes glassy. He's wearing frayed jeans and some bandages around his torso, covering wounds and stitches he carried over from his death back home that are still healing, but nothing else. His feet are bare, and make little noise as he pads to the front door. There is a gun in his hand, because he has the distinct impression that Dean's gonna be really pissed if Cas manages to get himself killed by opening the door to some monster without a means of defense.
Do the monsters here knock? Well, no time like the present to find out.
Already forgetting about the existence of peepholes, Cas opens the door to... find a small distressed woman.
Huh... well, this is Dean's house, so that checks out. He blinks, slowly. She looks young for Dean, but then, who is he to judge. He's several billions of years older than anyone he chooses to sleep with.
Cas' lips twitch up into a humourless smile. ]
Ah... you, uh. He's not here. Dean, that is.
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That's why I'm here. Dean, he--
[She knows she has to tell him, but she really wishes she didn't have to. Just because he would be back in a week didn't make this hurt any less.]
He died.
[She breaks eye contact with him as soon as the words escape her and looks to the ground instead. She can't handle seeing the look on his face right now.]
cw: mentions of sex, substance abuse, hangings
He's fallen from grace, a freefall plummet towards the muck and dirt of mortality. He's fallen out of favour and fallen into debauchery, falling from the high of painkillers and alcohol, fallen from the easy floating that he grasps for in sexual relations. Fallen on his face, too, breaking bones and scraping skin.
Cas knows what falling feels like.
His tilts his head back slightly, stares into the middle distance. Understands now that the flood of bodies was merely a fucked up joke, a portent, a warning he willfully ignored.
His gaze drops. Toes curl against the hardwood floor. Eyes wide open and burning. He's tired. He's so tired. There isn't sensation enough to tether him anymore, and he doesn't understand anything in the flood that drowns out everything else.
Cas knows what falling feels like.
And now he knows what it's like to hit the ground.
There's nothing in him but the sensation of a long drop and sudden stop, the noose of freedom and rebellion drawing taut and snapping something in him.
Nothing works, for a moment, his thoughts, his breathing, his heart, they all just come to a stop.
Please, no.
He doesn't say it.
Please take it back.
He doesn't say it.
Dean...
He didn't even feel it. ]
I have wine.
[ Because all that's left to do, for now, is wash his own corpse down the drain. ]
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That wasn't it.
Skye looks back up at him, eyes still very swollen from crying.]
What?
[He heard what she said, right?]
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I'm, uh...
[ It wasn't supposed to be like this. Cas was supposed to die, letting Dean outlive him and take his shot.
All of this is backwards. ]
I... don't know how... hm.
[ He makes a vague gesture at himself. ]
I'll... drink. Now. Because he's... [ please no, nonono ] ... gone. You... can drink or not, I don't really, uh... care. But. You're gonna tell me. About... [ nonono ] it.
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She's been replaying the whole thing in her mind since it happened. Thinking about how maybe there was some way she could've changed things. Maybe she could've saved him. If she only reacted faster. If she didn't let him drive.
None of it changes what's actually happened though. He's dead and the guilt she feels is eating away at her.]
I don't know if that's--
[It was gruesome and she really doesn't want to relay the details to him.]
He'll be back.
[She should probably tell him that now.]
People don't stay dead here.
[It's the only thing she knows that's keeping her from going over the edge, and even then she's struggling.]
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cw: mentions of death and virus based post apocalypse
CW: Gunshot wound
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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?
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?
cw for unhealthy coping mechanisms, sex, depression, grief
He shrugs slightly at the question and finishes cleaning most of the oil off his hands. Getting to his feet takes a few moments, the aches and pains of the fights he's ended up in during the month exacerbated by the lack of sleep and decent food. But he manages it, and walks over to the kitchenette, taking his time to find a glass and pick up one of the cheap bottles of Hart Mart scotch that hasn't been emptied yet.
Pouring out a generous measure, he slides the glass along the counter in Cas' direction. ]
I can suck your dick. Or you can fuck me. And I'll return the favor if you want.
[ Well aware that he's likely overestimating the amount of energy either of them can offer, he lifts a shoulder again to indicate it doesn't make much difference to him either way and takes a pull on the scotch bottle. Wincing at the burn of the liquor into an already acidic system, he sets it down again and pushes off the counter to move around Cas and towards the bedroom. ]
C'mon, Romeo.
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It sits at the tip of his tongue, and somehow that just makes him... sad. For times when quips were easier, for times he doesn't want to think about now. So he downs the scotch, follows Grady. Doesn't ask about Romeo, but reaches for the poison anyway.
He feels dead on his feet.
He feels dead.
Cas doesn't look around - doesn't care about the details of Grady's life in this moment. They're making use of each other, and that's something he's grown absolutely fine with over the past few years. Cas doesn't need to know the name and shape of Grady's grief, just that it's there, and he can help take it away for a moment or two.
They're through the door when he reaches out, curls an easy hand around Grady's arm and slots himself into the man's personal space. Up close Cas is all too blue eyes and full lips and stubble. ]
Let's not, uh... over-estimate what we can wring out of ourselves. Anything you don't want me to do?
[ Because that has import. Cas sets out to use and be used - but not to hurt. There's no space for giving something bad when the purpose is making everything bad not matter for a brief moment. ]
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Grady blinks slowly and reaches out to settle his hands on Cas' hips as he thinks about his answer, taking stock of the warm, living weight of him. Anonymous maybe and probably a mistake, but not just a dream, it would probably be a good idea to try to remember that. ]
No. [ He grates out the response, glancing back up to meet those depthless blue eyes, glittering with the light of the few candles in the room guttering down to puddles of useless wax. It's not a lie and he doesn't care what the other man thinks, to be given such freedom over someone else's body.
Lifting his hand, he brushes his thumb along the line of Cas' jaw, then settles his palm around the back of his neck. ]
Make it hurt if you want.
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You hurt yourself worse than I'd ever dare.
[ His hands reach, one curling in the fabric of Grady's shirt right above his heartbeat, the other lets fingertips moved through the scrape of beard and upwards, tangling into Grady's hair. Cas doesn't tug. He's close enough that he thinks he almost sees the light beyond Grady's eye. Close enough that their lips almost touch. ]
I'm no one's salvation - but I'm not your punishment, either.
[ Cas can make him feel good for a while. Or less bad, at the very least.
He won't make him hurt. Not like that, at any rate. If Grady needs a regret, that's what Cas can be. If Grady needs a warm body, that's as much as Cas already is. But he won't be a barbed wire around anyone's neck. His cruelty is reserved for himself. ]
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[ Grady huffs the words out against Cas' mouth, but there's not much feeling behind them, just saying them because it feels like the right thing to do when someone throws a dart straight into the bullseye of your grief.
That touch to his chest feels all too familiar and belies the other man's promise not to hurt him, reminding him too much of Wes' predilection to covering that place with his palm so he can feel the effect he has on Grady's pulse.
The pain of it rises up Grady's throat, threatening to choke him. Instead of letting it come, he leans forward and closes the tiny gap between them, meeting the other man's mouth with a hard, desperate vulnerability that he didn't anticipate as he grips handfuls of Cas' shirt like he needs to hold on to something or collapse. ]
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text; un: castiel
Why are you following me?
[ He asks, as if it's perfectly natural to talk to animals, or in this case, birds. A dream guide to be precise. He didn't mind it when it hopped nearby when he was setting out more honey for the bees. So long as it didn't attack the hive, Castiel was perfectly fine being watched. The only reason he confronts it now is he knows who it belongs to. There's no mistaking the pull he feels every time its little hollow bones hopped just a little closer to him. When the bird - a crow - doesn't respond, Castiel decides to take the matter to its leader. ]
text; un; castiel
Why are you tracking me?
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Finally, something alive in this house.
At the ding of a message, Cas cracks open and eye, and allows the lure of interaction to pull him from meditation. The message itself makes his lips quirk. He's aware of what Charis gets up to. Thing has a mind of her own - but then, that is the purpose of her existence, he supposes. A part of him that is more free to act. ]
[ un: winchester ]
i'm not. but i assume you refer to the crow?
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If you're not tracking me, then why are you here?
[ Still no answer. But then again, what should one expect from an angel who spends his days talking to the bees about the flowers they visit? ]
text; un: castiel
It's been following me.
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[ un: winchester ]
her name's charis. she likes checking in on people I know.
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[ He's onto you brother. Angels didn't lie so he guesses their dream guides didn't either. ]
text; un: castiel
Dream guides follow orders. Yours, in this case.
[ Or so he believes. The last time he summoned his Dream Guide he was in the Great Sleep. Without his powers to fight he'd summoned it in order to defend himself againt a giant worm in the desert and it had done exactly what he wanted it to. The fact that he never summoned it again, let alone gave it free reign gives him only that experience to base his assumptions off of. ]
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[ She seems to know what to do. When Dean and Sam have nightmares, Cas will often find Charis in their rooms, watching over them. When he himself has nightmares, she wakes him. On missions, she flies high above him. When Dean's out on a mission without Cas, he knows she does the same for his human. ]
what does yours do, when you just have it with you? no orders, just freedom.
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text; un: castiel
It protected us in the Great Sleep.
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text. un: jack
Are you busy?
[Sometime Around Christmas]
An incense waterfall, but also a large fermenting kid, so that Cas can properly jar as many goods as his heart desires. The note attached reads:
New project for us to try out? Fail spectacularly at? Not sure.
Hope the incense thing is soothing, I thought it was kind of neat.
Merry Christmas, DIY buddy.]
Action; no reply; December 24th
24th of December