driftfleet | first one to make that doctor who joke loses

[ cas is quiet while he waits the few moments it takes his partner to lunge into action.

you can tell a lot about a guy by the way that he fights, how aggressive he is, how willing he is to throw the first punch, and cas can tell right away that this guy's been trained. he's fit, of course, but a lot of people are fit and still don't know how to fight. this guy? he's all fluid, all confidence.

but so is cas.

so he bunches himself up for the hit, and it makes contact, but his stance is wide and his weight is all forward, making it all to difficult to lift him, and cas is quick to twist, and aim an elbow right for fds's gut.

what, that's not allowed? ]

[The guy certainly knows how to throw his weight around, and it's obvious that this isn't going to be a quick match to the floor where the real fun starts. But before he can back up and try again, the asshole is elbowing him in the gut, and of course it hits, because he's got no reason to expect it.

But it's there, sure enough, and intentional by the way it knocks his breath out. And just like that the switch flips. This isn't a wrestling match. It's a fight. And he has no problem with that. So the way he straightens back up to knock his opponent in the chin with the top of his head? Yeah, that intentional too.

Game on bitch.]

[ oh hell yes.

cas doesn't understand wrestling, anyway, he's never seen wwe, knows what the word vaguely means and that it was some kind of sport, but a fight is a fight is a fight. knock the other guy down, beat him up, that's the point, right? it makes his blood sing.

sharp pain bursts through him when that hard skull connects with his chin, making his teeth rattle and he bites his tongue hard, hisses through the pain, backpedals a few steps and spits a mouthful of saliva and blood onto the floor of the ring.

he's grinning.

and then he's lunging, surging, knocking hard into his opponent, using whatever he can - fists, knees, shoving with his shoulder, it's a brutal dance, and exhilarating. ]

[No, dude, no. It is not a fight is a fight is a fight. This is wrestling. Where there are pins and flips and holds where the point is to hold people down in super gay looking positions.

This. Is definitely not wrestling. Not that he really cares. FDR isn't one to ever back down from a fight. He's not scared of pain. And he's confident enough in his fists. Though this isn't exactly the way he prefers to fight. He's lean, body more toned than it is muscular because flexibility, slinking, speed are all an important part of his game. And while he can throw a solid punch, he prefers to have a little help. The butt of a gun. A telephone wire. A serving tray. He's really not picky, he can turn anything into a weapon-another aspect of his training. But right now there's nothing but his body.

Whatever. He's still ahead by his count. Dude's bleeding, he's just winded. But the guy is also smiling, and he can tell by that stance, but that masochistic grin, that he's not done yet.

So he straightens his shoulders, steels his chest for the lunge he knows is coming, even if the referee is blowing a whistle the moment that Cas is spitting blood. Apparently they're ignoring that.

So he takes that hit straight on, surprised by the force of it, but he's prepared for it, brings his entwined fist down hard on Cas's back when they collide, and hooks his arms around him when the force of the knock has him landing hard on the back, dragging his new friend down with him.

After that it's a grapple, it's a flurry of fists and knees in opportune places and elbows, adrenaline flowing so hard that he can't even keep stock of just where punches have landed on his own body, it just blends into one driving ache, a blossom of pain after blossom that gets pushed to the back of his mind for as long as the moment lasts.

But soon enough they're being ripped apart, whistles blowing angrily, strong arms holding them from one another. And the referee is bitching about something, but he can't hear, his ears are filled with the sound of rushing adrenaline, of heavy breathing. And all he tunes into is that last part.

...Mud pit? Seriously? This is quickly turning pornographic...]

[ it's good. for a few brief, too-short minutes it's good, really good, because much as cas might be a proponent for peace he's a creature of war, whether he likes it or not, and after spending so long cramped and tight and dealing with way too much heavy shit, there's nothing more cathartic than trying to beat the snot out of someone.

so he's high on endorphins by the time they're torn apart, and cas curses and complains even though he knows he's broken the rules. this is actually, uh, the third time he's ended up in the pits today but hey, that's not surprising is it, buddy.

the foam bats though, they're lame as hell. cas glances at it for a moment, grins, then tosses it down before he's surging right back in again, slamming hard into his opponent to tackle him right into the mud. ]

[FDR is still casually looking at his own foam bat when his opponent is throwing his aside and charging at him.

God damn it.

He goes down with the bat still in his hand, right into the fucking mud, and suddenly he's furious. It had been fun in the ring, but now he can feel the mud sinking through his shirt, feel the wet against his pants, feel the ooze in his hair. He's two seconds in with this asshole and he's already filthy. And he's not even sure they have the facilities on the ship to clean mud out of clothing properly. And the fashion here sucks.

So yeah, consider him invested in this fight. Like the way he scoops up mud on the handle of the bat and slaps the guy in the face with it, before he's tossing the bat aside and trying to take the moment of mud in the eye to flip their positions over. Like hell he's going to be the only dirty one here.]

[ a shame for fdr though, that cas doesn't mind being dirty. he's used to it. back home, running water wasn't a thing, and fresh water was a precious commodity, so showers weren't exactly popular.

mud is his friend.

still, the sudden shift in demeanor makes it obvious, and cas breaks into a grin, even as he's knocked breathless onto his back. cas purrs. ]

Don't like getting dirty, eh?

[His brows pinch together in confusion, which bleeds into slight aggravation. He's made a career out of reading people, he knows tics and tells, sizes a person up the first moment he meets them, and he thought he had a pretty decent grasp on the guy below him. At least enough of one. But the purr? Or the lack of an instant violent reaction? He wasn't expecting it.]

You are a weird dude.

[Just. Putting that out there. Because if they're going to have a conversation in the mud, why the hell not? He's not a fan getting dirty when he doesn't have to, cringes at the idea when they don't exactly have dry cleaning on board, but there's always something a little appealing about pinning someone down. Doesn't hurt that now that he's up close and personal the guy under him is decent looking. And while he doesn't like being dirty, he certainly finds the attraction in over people being so.]

You know- [And he leans in a little closer, presses his hands down a little harder on Cas's shoulders.] If we were wrestling like we were supposed to be doing? I'd have just scored on you right now.

Aww, that's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me.

[ cas says, through a grin, but you know, it takes one to know one, buddy. for all this guy doesn't seem to like the mud, cas isn't the only one here enjoying himself; there's violence in this man's blood, swift and hot and good, and cas can see it reflected in his own, clear as day.

he'll just take a moment to catch his breath here though, if they're chatting. ]

Good thing then that I don't know shit about wrestling.

[ he remarks, both brows lifted high. but even if he doesn't know anything about wrestling, he knows how to fight, so in the next breath cas is heaving his weight hard, bucking fdr up and aiming a hard knee right for the gut. ]

Yeah? Well, then that's just sad. You need better friends.

[But at least there's one thing to be said for all the loops this guy has already thrown him, he takes the goading the way he expects. Nothing like a very blatant reminder that this is a competition and he's in the lead to get a reaction. So he expects the surge, the response.

But knowing it's about to happen doesn't prepare for that surge of power that has him losing his hold on his opponent's shoulders, and his footing would probably be just fine if they weren't in the middle of the god damn mud, and he's got no traction to move away. Because for all he likes violence, for all he's been trained in hand to hand combat, he's an assassin at heart, and he prefers his distance. He prefers to avoid than hit straight on. But this is not a conductive environment for that type of fighting. So he takes the knee, bends so it won't be able to do as much damage, and hooks his arms around it, clings to it as he squirms, shifts, until they're in opposite directions, and he brings his mud covered foot up toward Cas's jaw.]

The fuck were you doing in a wresting ring then?

[Cus it's still cool to have a conversation, right? Even if his diaphragm is aching something awful at the moment.]

You're probably not wrong about that.

[ dean's kind of an asshole, after all, and sam said yes to the devil.

but you know, he's made some pretty great friends since he'd arrived on the fleet, so cas really can't complain in that arena. he definitely doesn't deserve them, but they're not going anywhere, so, might as well enjoy 'em.

at any rate, he takes the hit to the jaw with an oof but seems more or less unfazed, just takes the chance to snag his leg and twist it painfully back into the mud. ]

I wanted to fight someone. Didn't matter how.

[Look, buddy, you're not the only one with a hostage limb here, so the second Cas is playing cruel and twisting his own sharp and unnatural, even as he's shouting a curse about it, he's slamming the palm of his hand hard into the Lateral Femoral pressure point, a point located on the outside of his upper thigh, and honestly, it's horizontal to those balls, so be thankful he's not playing that unfair. It's a momentary attack, nothing permanent, nothing dangerous, but in a sober person, it'd certainly make their leg numb after the pain settles.

FDR doesn't particularly care what kind of reaction it gets him, so long as it's enough of a distraction to shuffle away, to regain a little bit of distance, to massage his damn ankle for a brief second.]

Well next time, maybe you just say that. I'm game.

[Just as soon as he's back up on his legs, which he's shuffling to do right now.]

Can we do it standing, though?

[ while it doesn't have quite the intended effect, it distracts him long enough for fdr to be able to twist away at least, and cas climbs back up too, taking a moment to get himself all together again while fdr recovers himself.

wiping mud from his chin, he grins. ]

I did. I just, you know, said it with my fists.

[ and a quick eyeroll. ]

But fiiine, have it your way.

[ your clothes are already muddied beyond repair bruh, but okay okay, no tackling, cas surges back in with a flurry of punches and kicks instead, lighting quick and well-honed. ]

[Well, at least he got away but his eyes do narrow slightly at the man in front of him. That's not often the reaction he gets when he smacks someone dead on in a pressure point. And his first thought is the guy must be drunk or high. But then he's reminding himself that not everybody he comes across is normal or human. Either way, it pretty much means any advantage he had has just been lost.

Damn.]

Yeah you did. [And he chuckles.] I got the message pretty quick. [Amazing what can be said with a fist to the gut.

And don't you judge him. He knows his clothes are ruined and the back of his hair is a total disaster. But no need to make it worse, okay!

But he's actually kind of regretting the decision because holy shit this guy is fast. He's good in a way he didn't exactly appreciate when they were on their backs and playing king of the mountain. Now there's actual skill. And those kicks are muddy to boot! A lot of time is spent just trying to dodge, to block, it's got him on the defensive in the most obnoxious of ways. But even then it's hard to keep up, to block everything. So. To hell with it all. He throws himself into it, downright determined to get a few of his own hits in, regardless of the consequence. And it feels good with a fist or a foot connects, because there's something to be proud of when fighting someone good, and he hasn't had a good fight since the last time him and Tuck got pissed at each other. And even then, they had the same training, they were on the same level. This is...well it's exciting. As much as it is painful. And he's sure he'll ache like a son of a bitch once the adrenaline fades and he's left to assess the damage. But for now it's fun as hell.

At least until the referees decide they're getting a little too violent and before he's ready to throw in the flag, they're yanking them apart again. Muttering about needing time to cool their heads.

And then they wind up in a goddamn holding cell. In the same one. And how does that make any sense? Now there's bars they can beat eachother senseless against. But to be honest, the adrenaline is fading and he'd rather just sit his ass down for a bit after he's done bitching through the bars about the lack of a shower. Jerks!

So he's a little huffy when he flops down onto a spot on the floor and starts trying to wipe the mud off his arms and face.] Where the hell did you learn to fight?

[ cas isn't too terribly surprised when they're yanked apart; honestly, it's pretty amazing that they've gotten as far as they have, considering the both of them are pretty banged up by the time they're peeled away from one another.

but cas is feeling good. adrenaline is high, endorphins singing, all that sweet pain radiating in his bones and over scraped and bruised and muddied skin, split lip and bleeding knuckles. it's nice. it's fun. fdr is a good match.

he's satisfied by what they got, though, and by the time they're tossed into a cell cas is content to drop down onto the floor with a long, gratified sigh, leaning his bare, muddy back against the bars. stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle, he holds a hand out to survey the damage to his knuckles, before he's grinning and lifting his eyes to fdr's face. ]

Heaven. You?

[He frowns at the speckling of bruises he finds under muddied skin, even on spots where he had just been blocking the bastard. But he can't really complain, since he doesn't have too many injuries on his face. Just one spot above his eyebrow that's been busted open by a fist, bleeding profusely, as head wounds are want to do, but that hardly means it's in bad shape.

He glances back up at that answer though and pauses in his surveying and cleaning. His brows scrunch together and he makes a bit of a face.]

Either I get hit one too many times or you did, but...did you just say heaven?

[Which. Well. Maybe that is what he heard. He has met a dude claiming to be the demon that slithered his way into paradise and made a couple of humans sin. So, of course there'd be...angels? too right? Or maybe the asshole is really just that drunk.

It also works as a great freaking diversion from explaining his own training. Sometimes....he kind of forgets that he's got a cover story he's trying to keep up.]

[ man that's always the way, isn't it? people are never surprised by demons, but angels are harder to wrap their heads around. it's funny. but it makes sense for a bunch of philosophical reasons we don't really care about right now.

all cas cares about is the fact that the tension in him has quieted, that he's vented his frustrations on a willing and able target, and they're both satisfied for it. or, well, at least fdr seems satisfied. cas chuckles, stretching out his back against the bars behind him until it pops, and he sighs. ]

Sure did.

[ he'd worries about it before, about telling people who and what he is, but there's.. really no reason to hide it, not anymore. he doesn't gain anything by keeping his cover, and people don't even believe him half the time anyway, so it doesn't really matter. ]

[Right. Thanks for clearing that up, there. Good thing he's the kind of guy who's use to filling in the pieces of the puzzle himself.]

...Oh. Alright then. So-so I just... [And he makes a vague hand gesture.] I just got in a fight with an angel. That'll look great on my permanent record.

[A sigh. Because this is his fucking life now where he's not immediately questioning someone's sanity when they claim to be anything less than human, and he flicks a piece of mud off his arm and hits Cas with it.]

Which one are you? I only really know Gabriel. And Donner. Blitzen...

Can't say I remember Blitzen..

[ cas says, with a thoughtful squint and an easy grin shot his cellmate's way. leaning his head back against the bars, cas laces his hands comfortably across his belly. ]

Name's Castiel.

Ah well, probably for the best. I've heard he's kind of an asshole.

[That's the kind of grin that's almost too easy to return, a knee-jerk reaction almost, and he sighs as he brings his hand up to hair, winces at the clumps of mud he feels there.]

FDR. So, be an angel and help get all this mud out of my hair, will you?

first one to make that doctor who joke loses

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