driftfleet | OTA || BELLYFLOPS INTO THE TOXIC SMOG

Entry tags:

OTA || BELLYFLOPS INTO THE TOXIC SMOG

Who: Sam and you!
Broadcast: N/A
Action: The smoggy area!
When: The night of the party!
Warnings: Sam's getting shot by a drunk bro so that's a warning I guess if that concerns you. That's gonna be MATURE!!!!

(Feel free to find him at any point in this post, and don't sweat any timeline botching. ;))

Sam goes out to look at the smoggy tides, because he's an idiot who is curious about everything; it's always been sort of a problem for him, even before he was brought into the family business. Curiosity kills the giant lanky cat. Only nah, he's fine. He's got his mask with him, he's got his warm tuxedo and coat, he's not at all minding the mud he's getting on his really nice shoes. How often's he gonna wear those anyway? He's gonna hang out with certain spacegals-turned-grounders, of course. Looking for the patches of fog that exist out there, taking notes and overall just being completely reckless. What, they're allowed the luxury when they're already from reckless professions back home, right?

It's all pretty interesting. Sam'll be on the look-out for anyone lingering out here, though, tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck.

He can be found observing the toxic clouds, looking (un)surprisingly melancholy. Mostly because the clouds he sees? They're forming the issues most heavily weighing on Sam's mind as of late — it's himself he's looking at, of course. Him, who is growing devil horns and sprouting a tail, so utterly ridiculous and cartoony that Sam chuckles darkly and wonders if the toxic smog has a sense of dark, dark humor. It almost seems to crackle with the weight of Lucifer's cloud presence alone, but Sam knows better. It's just his own head, messing with him. The Lucifer-shaped mist laughs in his head alone, a memory from his own painful dealings.

Fuck you, buddy, he thinks. He eventually moves to cross through the smog sometime later, into the other side of the embankment.

Good to see what's out there, right?

Good to keep up to date on this world. Plus, there could be some spooky monsters out here that nobody's talking about, causing these toxic smog clouds. You just never know. The last world he was in had evil death clouds, so this isn't a crazy idea, he swears.

THE MORNING AFTER:

Feel free to run into Sam as he prepares himself some coffee; he looks a bit like he drank way too damn much the night before. But really, he kinda just got shot in the arm the night before and his forearm is hurting something fierce. Crushing pain pills and antibiotics into tea is totally acceptable methods of medicating yourself, right? Cool. He'll be discreet as he can be about it, but it's kinda a fool's game to try and hide something that hurts and will continue being a pain for a few weeks.

Let him know how your masquerade went, since he left early.

He really wants to know, okay! It's important to keep up on the latest news and gossip. Obviously.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's not like Dean is made of good decisions - he's never been, never will be. Though, he's fairly sure it was a damn good decision to not even remotely involve himself with the party, and an even better one to drink about as heavily as he's done since his arrival.

It should be getting simpler. It's not.

And so he's wandering because that's what you do when you're plastered, right? You skulk, and Dean is doing exactly that, heading towards the opposite end of the moon that the party is on because avoiding it just seems like the right thing to do. Keeping away from people, the hazards of it all, refusing to be a part of the things that make other people so... people-y. But by god, he can't even think straight enough to navigate this in any sane way and the smog? The smog is quickly starting to become a problem. Because being drunk off his ass means it's by far more easy to believe that the images of the Croats are a thing made of reality. When they're not.

And so Dean runs. Books it until he can work his gun free and aim it into the emptiness. Waiting.

Oh, man, that'd be a shame if someone popped up in the middle of your drunken freak-out sessions, huh? Sam hears some shuffling up ahead, sounding suspiciously like running. Now, to be fair to him, he's always been taught not to go drawing attention to yourself in case it's something that needs hunting going bump in the night. On the other hand, it's probably just... someone out here who's nervous? He'll have to follow the sound, see if he can get an eye on them to wave them down. They're probably damn well over the hill ahead if they're booking it like he thought he heard.

The scent of brimstone flares in his nostrils, and he remembers the natives telling him about that. How the clouds are just shady figures mostly, aren't tangible or anything like that, but sometimes they remind you of distinct smells — phantom ones. It's damn weird.

Speaking of phantoms, Sam's form solidifies in the cloud, moving toward Dean, a dark mass cutting through the heavy fog. His eyes glance at the rush of fog around him, his peripheral contaminated with Dean's own visions of Croat. He knows it's not real as he nears the end of the clouds. It's weirdly quiet, actually, and he feels the hairs stand on the back of his neck with the instinct that something's waiting, watching.

He squints and nearly makes out a figure as he moves toward it, his own silhouette square-shouldered in his suit, tall, elongated by the shadows that play through the trees.

"Dean—?"

The hell is he...

It's hard to remember what his intentions were to begin with. If they'd been to get so drunk he couldn't see straight, to try and not think too hard about the fact that he doesn't know how to celebrate jack shit anymore, or if he was just trying to drown everything else out. Maybe he hadn't had any intentions to begin with, he doesn't know. All he knows is that he's here now and he keeps seeing the creeping remnants of Croats curling around the edges of his line of sight. It's infuriating and they're not supposed to be here. He's not supposed to see them anymore.

He'd heard the whispers, sure, but he can't think anymore and god- why can't little brothers just occupy themselves somewhere else? Why do they have to find themselves getting in the way all the time. Little brothers, man, who needs 'em.

Which is to say, it's a really big goddamn problem when they're wearing suits (even if they're not white suits), stepping out from the fog, and cutting a shadowy image of memories Dean has every other second of the day.

Dean's gun goes off before he's aware he's even shot it. It's a rookie move and he knows it, a terrified response to something that had been removed from his control before he arrived here. He'd tried to shoot Lucifer before and dammit all if it hadn't worked in the slightest and all he can think is that he has to try again before the moment slips through his fingers. Dean doesn't even truly aim, just decides to take down Lucifer while he's been given the second chance, and before he knows it, he's shaking from the sound of the shot, the ringing in his ears so sudden he isn't entirely sure what the fuck to do.

And that pretty much ends with Sam jerking backwards, a shot traveling through the muscle of one arm — through and through, clean on the plus side. At first he's not really sure how to react, because he's too busy feeling a hell of a lot of pain radiating through his shoulder. He hunches in protectively on it and the hand cupped around it, blood running through his fingers. A hiss, a curse, a tangle of hair falling into his eyes as he struggles to recollection.

He lets go only long enough to put out a bloody palm, nearly bent in half in the darkness, ushering Dean to stop. He just needs a moment to, you know. Work himself back up to standing and assessing the damage. First he needs to make sure his brother isn't going to aim for the face next or anything. His eyes peer out from under his wild locks.

"Dean, Dean, jesus — stop. You're okay."

How do they keep meeting like this, that's the question.

Excuse you, when was the last time he was even remotely okay.

But that's hardly the point. Dean's almost tempted to fire off another round, almost, but not enough so to actually do it. The mechanism involved in his brain that let off the first is almost addicted to the feel, to the temptation to do it again just... for the sake of doing it again, not even for the direct threat of it, but thankfully for everyone involved here, he doesn't. He's got enough resounding sense to keep a minute sense of chill, and yet- not exactly.

Not when it takes him another second to realize what he's done, and then it sort of comes back home and he stills. He hadn't even remotely meant to do that, not in the sense of actually going through with shooting Sam. Maybe he would've punched him in the head again, but this? This was never really at the forefront of his intentions. He's upset, of course he is, but gunning for murder just for the sake of it?

Lucifer is still a valid excuse. But he still knows better and he's come to that conclusion already. So why they hell did he do it, and why can't he put the gun down when he has no intention of firing off again. Why are there always so many why's.

Sam sucks in a breath. He flexes his arm with grit teeth, the burn radiating like firecrackers. Puts his palm back over it. Blood drips freely from the sharp of his elbow. But when he looks back at Dean, he's mostly just concerned — his expression is just that. Pained and concerned. Because what the fuck, man? He can tell right off the bat you're not level, not steady. He knows his Dean well enough; he's been drinking. The Dean back home has had his demons with alcohol, too, and god only knows Sam's been there to witness it.

... Not usually shot, though.

He breathes out, stands up straight, applies pressure.

Steps forward, cautious, looking ready to be shot again if it came down to it, wincing and keeping his hand up enough in front of his face that he may get lucky and not get hit in the face if Dean fires again. He didn't think Dean would do it, but - he is still aiming the gun at him.

"Dean... you — you alright? Just — put down the gun. You just... drank too much. It's fine."

I'm fine, it's fine, everything's fine.

Dean really doesn't want to be looked at with any level of concern. If he were a better man he might push it aside in a normal way, might even be reciprocating with some manner of chaotic worry over what the fuck he's just done, but he isn't. He hasn't been a better man in a long time, and so he stands, looking vaguely horrified about far too many things. At the very least, both of them know how to deal with gunshot wounds a little too well, and maybe it lessens a touch of what might be panic anyone else would feel, but Dean mostly just does not know what to do.

But it's done, isn't it? Yes? No? Dean's just not sure, but he knows he won't fire again at least. And that's something. Even if it isn't hardly anything at all.

Still, mustering up something to say is still some manner of an impossibility, especially when he's only just getting to letting the gun drop. It isn't fine, Sam's full of shit - that much he knows for sure - but he can't figure out a way to say that out loud. And so slowly, ever so slowly, he finally lets the gun hang down by his side, and then he's suddenly scrambling to stuff it anywhere at all, to stash the thing away where he doesn't even have to look at it but at least will still know it's there.

It's still a comfort, even when it's all wrong, but now what? Now what does he do? There's still a distance between them and Dean glances around, squinting into the smog, waiting for some other reckless moment to come barrelling out of nowhere.

Sam breathes a relieved sigh through his nose. Good. The gun's gone, so in Sam's mind, that means everything's just fine now; he'll just stitch himself up, slap on a bandage, call it a night as much as he would if he drank too much. Which... Dean already did. He supposes they're square now. He tries to not think of the fact that both interactions with Dean so far has been him trying to get a swing or shot in by accident. It just figures they'd run into each other so often without remotely trying to.

He swallows hard, ignoring the flaring pain.

"We gotta stop meeting like this," he says with a strained smile.

It's okay, Dean, it's gonna be okay. This isn't the first time you've tried to kill him, you know. In fact, the last time was just a few months ago, back home. Sam copes well with that. Copes well with the whole trying to smash his brains in with a hammer issue, too. Water under the bridge. Don't talk about it, never bring it up, it's a dead subject. Sam can't bring himself to ever look back on it — except in times like these.

He moves toward Dean.

"You're just drunk, okay? You just need to sleep this off. This fog can screw with people. Especially in our lives."

He's not mad. Not remotely. Sam's not one to hold a grudge over a good ol' accidental shooting, you know. Hell, in some weird otherworld way, he kind of had it coming. Both in this Dean's world and — Nami'd kill him to even think it — in his own. He knows he makes mistakes. Maybe this is just one of those reminders he does. His tone is painfully casual about all this. Maybe because he sees the panic in Dean's eyes, and it bothers him incredibly. Gotta fix it. Gotta be light.

"Let's get out of here, huh? I'll get you back to a bed to catch some z's."

Edited 2016-04-27 00:35 (UTC)

Dean still can't figure out why Sam's treating this as if it's no big deal. Granted, he's fully aware of the fact that they both tolerate pain, the chaos in their lives, a little too well, but that shouldn't factor into a frantic gunshot out of the blue. Not that Dean wants to be punished for it either, but he's certainly not alright with what he's just done. And acting as if everything is perfectly fine isn't exactly making him feel better.

Snapping his attention back to Sam, Dean cants his head - yeah, they need to stop meeting like this. Dean needs to stop making it worse, needs to figure out a better way to react that isn't this.

He'd been trying though, and look where he ended up.

But that shouldn't be his concern right now, and Dean narrows his gaze, trying to think through the situation with some manner of intelligence. Wallowing in his own emotions on the matter isn't going to do much of anything right now, even if he odd threat of swirling Croats keeps niggling at the back of his mind. He knows they aren't there, he knows that, but god if it isn't frustrating to see something he thought had been somehow left behind. That still doesn't change the facts laid out in front of him and so he tries to focus, honing his attention in on Sam and the damage he's just caused.

"How about--" Cool it with the asshole tone, isn't that what Sam had said? It's just really goddamn hard when he can't think clearly enough to try to direct Sam to where he should be going. "You need to get back to your ship."

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fuck ur prose

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Respects ur prose in the morning

RUDE

B)

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the morning after

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