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

Sam shakes his head, pulling off his jacket — then pulling off his tie, wrapping it like a tourniquet around the wound. The jacket'll staunch it just fine. He's had worse. They both have, haven't they? Such is the life of a Winchester. He says, the signature Sam response to anything that hurts: "I'm fine."

He says as his inner workings go on and on, run-on sentences of pain masked under years of experience: (ow ow ow ow ba-bump fuck ow why ba-bump godfriggindammit ba-bump fuCK OW OW)

But no, he's not, not exactly. He knows he's got to get back somewhere and close this bad boy up before he bleeds too much, and like hell is he going to take too long and pass out in the middle of coaxing what appears to be a quietly frantic brother from creepy fog. So much for the nice crap other people saw in it; they just have a lot of craptastic feelings about their lives, he guesses.

(jesus christ ba-bump ow i cant focus ba-bump fucking hellfire ow)

"I got a jeep not far from here, I can drive us both back. Get you to the fleet. You shouldn't be out here alone, okay?" Because when Cas wandered off, he had a fucking overwhelmingly bad bender and Sam's lucky the bastard didn't give himself alcohol poisoning, and really he should be checking to make sure Cas is still okay with all this booze passing hands, and — shit, he didn't think of that before.

(ba-bump —

Your arm hates your guts.)

He'll check on him after he gets this arm cleaned up, because he is so not interested in getting this infected.

You're not fine, he shot you. He shot you.

Given half the chance, he still wouldn't have shot Sam willingly. And while.. yes, alright, he did choose to do it, Dean had still figured it was Lucifer. Lucifer who wouldn't have been taken down with any ol' gun anyway, but that's hardly the point when half of all that Dean still thinks about is why he couldn't kill Lucifer to begin with. That moment had slipped so profoundly through his fingers that it steals every other waking breath, leaves him profoundly guilt ridden.

This just adds to it incrementally, notches up his remorse to near unspeakable levels because logically, he knows that Sam did not deserve to be shot. It still happened, Sam is still here with all the possibility in the world of bleeding out if he doesn't cooperate, and Dean isn't exactly in the best position to try and force him to go where he wants him to go.

Just leave him here. It's what Dean wants to say, that petulant bullheaded part of him that wants to shove Sam in any direction that will get him to go. To deal with himself. Let Dean linger in his own bullshit- why? Because maybe he can suss it all out, he doesn't know.

"You're not listening."

Who here isn't listening, Dean? Who. Scrubbing a hand over his face Dean throws an arm out wide, absently pointing in any direction whatsoever with the direct intention of.. trying to get Sam to go somewhere. Back. Anyhere. But then his mind veers back around and he pauses, finally catching up with specific words. "You have a jeep."

"Yeah, well, you're not doing a whole lot of talking," he replies back, unfazed by the (mostly) grouchy demeanor. He rubs a hand over his face and nods, his head throbbing painfully in tune with his beat up limb. "Borrowed it from someone I met in town; I can't keep it or anything, but it pays to have some transport on a moon."

He drops his hand back to his injury; the black tux is hiding away the fresh blood well.

"I'm not gonna leave you out here by yourself."

Boy does it ever pay to have transport.

Still, he thinks he shouldn't have to do a whole lot of talking to impress upon the point that Sam needs to go take care of his bullet wound and not take care of him. It's a simple thing: just get the hell out of here and deal with it and don't make him come with you. Easy. The literal one-two punch of easiness. But of course Sam has to overcomplicate it, like asking too many questions and pushing too hard and doing all the annoying things Sam always does.

And if getting in the jeep is the only way to solve his fuck up--

"If I get in the car will you go back to your damn ship?"

"As long as you get back to yours and don't wander around out here."

He motions to the direction of the jeep, trying to keep pain lines from etching his brow and around his eyes. He's semi-successful. It's fine, Dean. It's all good. We'll work this out, huh?

"Then I'll be aces." A pause, as he glances at his arm. "It's not bad."

Dean is really trying his hardest to keep from getting searingly annoyed. He doesn't want to be babied or coaxed or pushed along and yet he's the one who fucked this up by lingering out here. The excuse could be made that he'd been trying to evacuate the situation, but it'd be a shitty one and so he isn't even gonna try it, instead staring at Sam with some level of frustration.

"Except it's still not good."

But the longer they hang out here the more nervous Dean is going to get, and so he finally tries to usher the movement along, beckoning Sam in any direction. "You wanna get a move on, then?"

Sam nods, turning on foot to move around the now rather intimidating fog — really, it's relatively harmless, this toxic smog issue, but he's not taking any chances now that it's proven to be a metaphorical Winchester allergy. He thinks it's good enough, frankly. At least Dean and Cas are here, able to live outside of the apocalypse. What they can get from it, he's not entirely sure just yet, but he knows there's hope here yet. For something.

"Sure, yeah. Let's move."

There's a silence that falls over them, but Sam keeps in pace beside Dean, his good arm closest to his brother. Even with the time between them and the terrible memories, they fall into a sync. He's got Dean in his peripheral, though, just to make sure he's okay on his feet. He hasn't forgotten how freaked he was just a moment before (well, he shot him, that's kind of proof enough).

He considers offering Dean to stay at the Red Fish to sleep it all off.

But not yet. He doesn't want to have him running off on him.

"Just a little further... as long as you don't do a somersault tripping over all these tree roots."

The stench of blood entraps him, hand clasped roughly over his forearm. The jacket is getting bloodier, smearing off on his white shirt; it's just a bleeder, is all, and it always looks worse than it actually is. Blood does that. No big deal.

Thankfully, they start up with the walking and while Dean's worries don't exact lessen, at least it means Sam is on his way to some kind of help. The fact that his focus is elsewhere (mainly rooted inside his own head) still means he doesn't even remotely notice when their footsteps fall into pace with each other. Instead, he attempts to hone his gaze anywhere else, only sparing occasionally paranoid shooting glances to remnants of fog.

At the mention of tree roots though, Dean's attention immediately goes forward - he really doesn't need to fall all over himself right now. Not just for his own benefit but weirdly for Sam's as well.

Even so, he still braces himself against nearby trees, his own brilliant example of just how much booze he consumed. Which he'd really claim isn't entirely his fault - the apocalypse hardly provides enough to get wasted on and temptation is an ever present thing. Doesn't mean he wants to fall on his ass, especially when Sam needs to get himself to safety.

"Where'd you park this thing?" He's mighty concerned, and already attempting to convince himself he has the capacity to drive. Because that only seems fair.

"Right around here. Kinda made sure nobody could see it from the road; old habits."

He thinks Dean never lost that habit, to be sure. Secrecy is prized for hunters -- and for survivors of an apocalypse, he imagines the same is more true than ever for his brother. He tries not to linger on that fact. Really tries. He squeezes his arm instead to send a thrum of pain through it, enough to make his thoughts scramble and his vision get a temporary flash of stars.

Much better.

When they reach said jeep, Sam is quick to slip into the driver's seat. He gives Dean a casual glance -- yeah, no, he's not going to let you drive. Don't even ask, because you're shotgun whether you like it or not, Mr. Wobbly Knees.

"... Don't barf in the car. It's a rental."

Dean hesitates for a hot second, watching Sam practically scurry around to hop into the drivers seat, which is an unfair thing unto itself. But apart from that, Sam is the one who's bleeding out - he shouldn't have to drive. Even if Dean is well aware that the possibility he could drive into a tree is at least minimally plausible, he still thinks he should be the one behind the wheel.

But he starts up again after a moment, dropping into the passenger seat with a quiet exhalation.

"Shut up."

You wanted witty retorts, you've got 'em.

Hunkering down low, Dean's arms are immediately folded over his chest with just a lingering hint of frustration, waiting for Sam to hit the road where he can attempt to not let his drunkenness speak more words for him.

Sam shakes his head, smiling slightly despite himself. Better. Getting shot isn't the ideal situation by fucking miles, but this is better than Dean getting pissed off and acting on second thoughts, or staying behind to deal with his own demons. This was the point before, when Dean sought him out years ago. When he offered him the demon-killing knife. Better together than apart. We keep each other human. Through all their bullshit, Sam's held onto those words. He repeated them like a mantra when Dean went black-eyed on him, when he was calling Sam a leech on his life, blaming him for Mom's death.

We keep each other human.

He sighs, mildly relieved as the car starts, stretching his legs just a little. He's sweating in the cool air, but it's not like anyone would be able to tell he's a fraction paler in the dark. The wound isn't pumping blood anymore, so it should be fine. No big arteries or anything.

"Kind of weird having a car that I can actually fit in without making out with my own knees."

He starts driving, focusing intently. His bad arm is sitting loosely on his thigh, but he's gripping the bottom of the wheel with it, too. Just in case.

Dean's pretty damn sure this isn't ideal in any way. He wasn't supposed to run into Sam while he was drunk in the first place - the propensity to say something he shouldn't is right there, and if he lets himself go, he'll end up spilling something he doesn't really want to. But he's almost used to this, even if he hasn't been quite this drunk in a long ass time - the fact of the matter is he knows himself when he's wasted, and it should be enough to keep him somewhat in line.

But there's still something to be said for the weird comfort of it. Being near Sam, being in a car with him. Together. A fact he is not going to acknowledge. Because having Sam back again is.. just something he still doesn't know what to do with. How to process. And now is either the best or the worst time to be doing it.

Rubbing at his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose before stuffing his arms back around himself, Dean shoots Sam an assessing look, taking stock of his wound and his position while he drives.

"Jeeps don't actually suck."

Sam glances at Dean as the silence is breached again. It's funny to hear Dean defend any car without adding in some jab about how none of them'll outgun Baby; but then, this isn't that Dean entirely, and he's actually kind of scared to ask about who and what outlived the end of the world. Considering everyone from back then is dead and gone now anyway... Hell, he supposes it can't be much worse in terms of dead friends, but...

He focuses elsewhere. Something other than pain or mental gymnastics about timelines.

With a slight smile:

"How about a Toyota Prius? A... patel blue compact Toyota Prius. With a nice flowery smell the moment you open the door. And a copy of N'Sync's first album blaring in the speakers."

He glances over.

"Just wondering in case I ever find one."

He might no longer have Baby, and he might have (sort of) gotten over that fact for the sake of cars that are actually useful in the end of days, but that still doesn't mean he can't appreciate what he once had... though, if he truly appreciated it, he wouldn't have been letting the Impala rot.

Even so, there's no sense ruminating on it now - the car is gone entirely, and it's not coming back. Doesn't mean he is ever going to appreciate a Prius. Just for the sake of it being a Prius. Dean's gaze slides over sideways, souring ever so slightly at the idea that he might even have to go near one.

Especially one playing N'Sync.

Good lord how did this go so wrong so quickly.

"You can keep it." That seems the reasonable response, doesn't it? No, wait, except he's forgotten something- "Asshole."

Score one for Sam. Sure he feels like his arm is getting ripped off, but. You know. Little things. He counts his blessings pretty much every day at this point of his life (because hey, you never know when the devil is gonna resurrect himself, possess your friend's body, and then potentially rip you to pieces in your own home). His smile softens at the insult, and man... he really missed even a fraction of his. It's kind of all he's got back home now, with the exception of the occasional visit to Jody. Mostly just Jody.

This Dean won't know Jody like he does. He'll know her as that cop that gave Bobby a hard time, maybe...? Or did Jody end up saddled with their herd during the apocalypse...?

Focus, Sam. You got plenty of blood in you.

"Fine, fine... Brittney Spears, then. You know you secretly liked her early stuff."

Rambling, mostly. Filling the quiet, getting them from point a to point b.

A nice focus.

Dean is fully aware that somehow, Sam is winning this. Whatever this is, this internal fight Dean is having with himself to shut up and remove himself from the situation entirely. He's starting to regret not staying back to wander instead of sitting here, trying not to nod off as Sam drives, suckered into a conversation he doesn't want to have. There's even some distant reminder that comes with that, obscure memories he can't control wafting to the surface and settling on the forefront of his mind, times where things between them weren't tied up in all the shit he has to muddle through every time he tries to speak to Sam.

Rolling his eyes quietly, Dean gives his head an absent shake, refusing to believe that there's some kind of significance in the teasing and his response to it. It doesn't help that he's guilt ridden, feels like he should put up with it for Sam's sake instead of sulking altogether.

"That's stretching it."

Dean's not even sure he could recognize Britney's voice at this point, but whatever, doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. "It's still a Prius. Wouldn't work for shit." Not during the apocalypse, no. Or ever.

"Oh, come on, you just hate the people who drive them."

But he's light-hearted, if not maybe a little bit light-headed. It's hardly as bad as it's been before. He lets Dean settle in whatever silence is preferable, because at this point it actually doesn't feel nearly as awkward as it did when he ~~shot him~~ first ran into him. He masks his grimaces with every turn of the wheel, the only sign of discomfort in the crinkle of his eyes. Flexing the damaged limb isn't doing any favors. But they'll be there in plenty enough time.

After a while:

"You should crash in Cas' room. I think he's still out at the party."

... Not shockingly, if that's the case.

But hey, he prefers Cas be there than at questionable bars on space stations.

"Or -- I mean... we have an empty room, if you want to sleep it off there..."

Oh, Sam.

Dean is avidly trying to avoid all those pained expressions, and not just because every single one spikes guilt in his head. But because he hadn't meant to, and Sam doesn't truly deserve it. He knows that, in his own fucked up way, and even if he had punched Sam upon first arrival, he hadn't ever exactly wanted to shoot him. Despite having more than enough rage to go around, death to Sam was not something he ever really wanted to cause. Or even try to. But here he is, proving himself wrong, even if he'd aimed at what he thought was Lucifer.

Adjusting himself in his seat, trying to keep focused on anything at all that isn't thoughts rumbling around in his mind, Dean automatically starts shaking his head the second Sam ties to convince him to come back to the Red Fish. He's got no clue as to why Sam even wants him there, but he's not coming. Not on his goddamn life.

"I'm going back to the Caprine."

And that's a decision he's standing by. Because there's only so much awkward he can take, only so much guilt, and just withstanding this is already difficult enough.

"Dean..." He trails, a sigh in the word. "It's fine. Seriously -- you want to transfer over anyway, right? And I won't bug you while you're there. You won't hear a peep out of me."

He's not sure this is a fight he can win, but he'll at least try a little bit, dammit.

"It's your ship."

Which is a not-so-fancy way of saying that you deserve the space right about now. Combined with the fact that as soon as everyone finds out, he'll be toast, Dean would much prefer his, uh, nonexistent privacy upon the Caprine. Yup, that's totally right. He would definitely take that over anything else.

Not.

But there's still some measure of safety to be found in holing himself up properly.

Without a beat between responses:

"Aaand I'm inviting you to it. Besides -- if you're worried I'm telling anyone about tonight, don't. I'll figure up a story; you're good. It was an accident anyway."

There. There it is. It was an accident. You're free of sin, man.

For that one, anyway.

Dean's fairly sure he can't come up with a bucketload of good excuses as to why he should say no to this. He's been spending the night on the Red Fish for the most part anyway, so to back out now just seems... cowardly. Which it is. Apart from simply saying no, you can't make me neener neener, there aren't a whole lot of other options here.

Still, Dean rolls his eyes sideways, utterly disbelieving on that front.

"Cas won't believe you." That's not his way of saying yes, he's simply pointing it out.

Sam shrugs, shaking his head as he stares ahead.

"Cas doesn't need to believe me. He's my friend and I'd take a hit for him, but... I know he'd pick you in a heartbeat. He's your Cas, and he'll understand. He'll cover you." And he's sure of this. As much as Sam loves Cas — and he does, because he's family, and he's the only one who's ever stuck around as long as he has save for, perhaps, Jody, and he'd die for Cas if it came down to it — he just knows that this Cas would chose Dean. Hell, he thinks his Cas would chose Dean, too.

And that's okay.

It's not like Sam did anything special to deserve that kind of intensity. Sam's always just figured Cas was like Bobby: he loved him, sure, but Sam wasn't his favorite kid. Sam always was the odd one out, always was apart from the crowd in some way, so it's nothing new. Sam's frankly just thankful Cas is here and tolerates him enough to be his friend, especially with the apocalypse as a grim reminder at every turn of their daily lives. He's not picky, alright? He just wants the people in his life to stop dying off. Any level of companionship is a godsend.

Or... maybe not so much a godsend, since god rarely sends jack shit to them.

He smiles.

"It'll be okay. Sleep it off at the Red Fish. Then you can sneak out in the morning if you still feel like it, huh?"

Except Dean hadn't said anything about who was who's favorite.

Dean knows that at the end of the day, Cas would choose him. He's not stupid, nor is he oblivious to the startling bond between them, but he's not trying to play that game either right now. All he'd meant was that, well, Cas wouldn't believe him. And he won't, because Cas knows him a little too well, knows that what's between them is an absolute mess and he'll be able to sniff it out in an instant.

Which just means that were he not drunk off his ass, he'd be more capable of taking being told off. As it stands, really, his own personal guilt is more than enough to see him through for the time being. But he's already fully aware that he's going to be taken down a notch by someone.

And Cas will likely be at the forefront of that particular line.

But god if he ever just does not want to argue about this. He should be more than capable of standing his ground but it requires too much effort and somehow winning this argument seems wrong right now, especially after he's screwed this all up.

"Yeah, fine. Doesn't matter where I stay, anyway."

You make things to hard for yourself, man.

... Not that Sam isn't aware he does the same shit.

He lets it stay at that, mostly because he's worried Dean'll have second thoughts should their conversation go sideways between here and the teleports to the fleet. The quiet's fine. Let Dean sit and rest, get this thoughts in order. Sam'll do the same, hands gripping firmly on the wheel. By the time they finally get to the teleport, Sam's exhausted just from the fact that he's been oozing blood steadily. He leaves the jeep behind, checks to see if Dean's steady on his feet (to ignore the fact that he's not as steady on his own), and then they're off. Zapping away, back to the fleet. He wonders if Dean still has issues with flying.

Ha.

Once they're aboard the Red Fish, Sam relaxes pretty quickly, using the wall under his hand in case he feels light-headed. He motions toward the crew rooms while carrying a hefty first aid kit under arm into the kitchen area. He'll have the bloody crap cleaned up before anyone gets back. No prob. And he can easily attribute his slightly cool, slightly paled face to a night of immeasurable wine drinking. He always was a lightweight.

Ah -- he's got it. He'll just say the truth, only he'll not mention Dean. It was just some guy, wigged out over the toxic smog. That's it. Then he won't feel quite so bad about lying... and, y'know. If they see his arm, it'll explain it better than something stupid like 'oh, I feel on it'.

"You tired yet?"

Because you can sleep, if you want. He'll be okay.

OTA || BELLYFLOPS INTO THE TOXIC SMOG

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)