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.

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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.

Dean can at least appreciate the silence, the fact that he isn't being expected to say more than he usually would. Though it does make it by far easier to lodge himself in his own head, at least he doesn't have to worry about saying things he wouldn't while sober, slipping out some sort of information he wouldn't give under usual duress. Not to mention, he can make the excuse that it makes it by far easier to concentrate on getting around with tipping over and making sure that Sam doesn't do the same.

Not that he'd be that great at stopping him if he did.

And while Dean still has issues with flying, teleportation isn't exactly the same. So. Y'know.

While Dean knows his way fairly well around the Red Fish by now (or, well, he knows his way around to what's important) and even though he's eying Cas' room with some level of potential comfort, he still can't deny the fact that leaving Sam by himself to tend to his wound only makes him feel worse. So instead he just sort of stands there dimly, caught between the crew's rooms and kitchen as if he's been frozen to the spot. It's not as if this situation isn't complicated in a million different ways and so trying to find an easier way through it is definitely the obvious choice. But staying? The hell's he gonna do if he stays.

Which is why he avoids Sam's question altogether- "You need a hand?"

Sam is popping open the kit and wiping his sleeve across his forehead when Dean speaks up, and he glances over — considering the offer. He is a little shaky from the pain and lightheaded-ness, but Dean's also drunk, and he's not sure how well this Dean stitches compared to his own Dean, who drinks like a goddamn fish. How much booze is in the apocalypse, again?

But hell, Sam's torn. He'd love for Dean to help. Love something to feel familiar about them. But if it's done out of guilt, that's crappy too, isn't it...? Eventually, he settles on: "If you want to, yeah. Is your hand steady?"

Because as much as he loves you with all his heart --

He doesn't want you poking holes in him, mkay.

He's not looking to be Sam "Pin Cushion" Winchester (even if he already kinda is).

The amount of booze depends on the day, really. And on Cas' stores of absinthe.

But that's a conversation for another day, to the extent that while Dean is trashed, he's still capable. He's spent too many years of his life on the brink of being drunk at any moment to not be nearly at full capacity despite how much alcohol he may have imbibed. That doesn't mean the question isn't entirely reasonable and Dean really should just hightail it, go sleep and let Sam deal with the mess that he, Dean, made.

But guilt is still a key player in all this and so Dean remains silent, his answer to the question given by refusing to answer it altogether, instead making his way back over to the kitchen and dropping down heavily next to Sam, dragging over the med kit beside him instead and rifling around in it. He might even manage to look somewhat impressed by the fact that he has a med kit to be working with in the first place.

You're going to have to endure his quiet grumpy help, whether or not you fear it. At least his hands aren't shaking, though, already pulling out needles before immediately digging around in his pocket for a lighter. Old habits.

Sam melts a little with Dean's help, the exhaustion suddenly a heavy cloud around him. He's been trying to make it not a big deal — really it's fine, I'm fine, it's just a small injury, it's not a big deal — but he's fried. A lot of people think something like this can be walked off, but that all just depends on how much blood you're parting with, doesn't it? He relaxes considerably and offers Dean his arm, no longer bothering to hide how relieved he is that someone's getting to it for him.

He wasn't looking forward to stitching with his non-dominant hand, at this angle, already shaky and tired and in pain. This from Dean? It wasn't expected per se, but it was a thought in mind he was hoping for.

The wound itself is a bit messy. It's lucky the bullet was the type it was, to not the kind that totally blows your limbs apart. Shotguns, man. You don't screw with those. As it is, it's just an in-n'-out injury, on the outmost area of his arm. No bone involved, but it's gonna be a bitch to work with in the upcoming weeks. Maybe he'll ask someone for a little magic, a little healing.

He rubs his eyes and pops some pain killers, letting Dean have at it.

With a wince through his teeth:

"How am I, doctor? Will I make it?"

Bullet wounds are always a big deal, hell any open wound tends to be, but Dean comes from a world where infection of all kind runs rampant, where sepsis is your second worst enemy. Which is why, even when he finds his lighter, the alcohol already in the medical kit gains all his attention. The fact that it's even in here is worthy of some manner of amazement - modern marvels and all that, appreciate what you have yadda yadda. It's just almost too damn convenient, but Dean doesn't say any of that, just carries on to the best of his ability.

Messy or not, it can't be said that Dean doesn't know what he's doing - he's done this too many times, tried to stitch up too many wounds, watched too many people die anyway. And while it doesn't take all his focus - finishing up with the alcohol, sterilizing the end of the needle, carrying on with the actual sutures - Dean is lost for a few moments in concentration, thinking too hard about too many things.

Apparently he isn't drunk enough.

Sam's words, ridiculous as they are, manage to tug him out of his head just as he lines up one of the last sutures and pulls it through. His gaze flashes upwards for a moment, staring, before returning to the problem at hand, mostly inclined to stay silent despite the fact that he doesn't anyway.

"You'll sleep it off."

Which is to say, he's seen you go through worse and come out the other end. And even though he fucked this one up big time, at least he won't have to watch you die by his own hand.

Edited (ENTER KEY FU) 2016-04-29 16:02 (UTC)

"What medical school did you attend," he says with a roll of his eyes, but he looks pleased enough with the answer. Fair enough, though. He'll sleep it off -- as soon as he gets rid of this bloody jacket and button-up, which looks like a horror show, frankly. This is why Winchesters don't wear white.

Anyway, he's not gonna leave any blood to wig his crewmates out with.

Once the sutures are done, Sam gives his fist a clench, tests the stitches very minutely. The pain is slowly numbing with the pain killers, and the stitches look good. He nods, adding, "Thanks." before he starts to clean up the area.

If it's ridiculous to thank the person who did the shooting, Sam ain't addressing it.

"I'll shoot Cas a call, make sure he's not -- y'know. Doing anything the natives'll ban us for. Though I'm guessing they're totally game for anything non-violent." He wrinkles his nose, but doesn't expand on this. Running a hand through his shaggy hair, longer than Dean would remember, he huffs a breath he must've been holding for a while. "Then I'll sleep until someone kicks me."

Remaining ever the silent type, as soon as Sam's all finished, Dean figures his own portion of the show is over. Sam gets to cleaning up before he can even begin to put the rest of the supplies away and well- not a whole lot left for him to deal with except whatever's rattling around in his head, and he's certainly not about to start divulging that just for fun.

He doesn't even address the entirely weird, unwarranted 'thanks', because there's no reason for it. It doesn't belong in this situation, no matter which way Dean looks at it, despite the fact that he has yet to apologize for his own hand in this. And so he finally stands, looking down towards the crew's quarters, offering up a noncommittal nod of sorts because he has no idea what to say. He's guessing Cas is fine - he seemed more than happy enough about all this, he doubts he'll be getting up to anything past his usual sort of trouble.

And so--

"I'll be out in the morning."

It's the best he's got to offer, like some strange promise that he won't shoot Sam again upon awakening, as he heads back to Cas' room and promptly makes with his own personal disappearing act.

Sam sighs softly to himself, but he doesn't fight Dean on it. No, he's not quite as bullheaded about forcing his brother to hang around any longer than a night; as far as he's concerned, this is a win. So he sits in the quiet of the kitchen, makes a few calls to make sure everyone's doing alright, and then moves to go lay down in his bed a few hours later.

He finds he has a hard time sleeping, but it's not like a few sleeping pills ever did him any harm lately. He slips into a relatively peaceful fit of sleep, tonight, and if he had nightmares — well, he sure the fuck wont't remember them.

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OTA || BELLYFLOPS INTO THE TOXIC SMOG

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