driftfleet | OTA || BELLYFLOPS INTO THE TOXIC SMOG

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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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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.

[They'd met during the dancing at the tail end of a song. Octavia managed to get him to dance with her once in addition to him spilling his plans about exploring. The idea was tempting for her, but the start of a slow song next was what cemented it. It didn't take long for her to grab her leather jacket, gloves, boots (because screw walking in dance shoes), and sword before stepping outside to join him. Her gas mask was present too.

About half way to their destination, she'd stopped and hiked her skirt up, tying it to one side, just above her knees. The dress is nice, but she really doubts she'll ever wear it again.]

Hey, Sam, do you expect to find anything specific out here, or are you just that bored?

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.

[Amen for Octavia's boldness. He needs more reckless buds.]

More like interested in this way too much — this whole culture surrounding toxic air. Did you hear about the myths and backstory behind all of this...?

[Sam glances back, his tie already loose around his neck and shoes no longer sporting the shine of a party lavished with costume. Speaking of which... He trails off just because of her sad struggle with that dress.]

You gonna be okay getting around with all that?

Let's say no. It'll give you something to talk about. [The masks make it impossible to see, but he can probably hear the grin in her voice. She's humoring him.]

And don't bother worrying about the dress. I've spent my fair share of time hiking through worse terrain. If I have to, I'll just make it shorter. [She reaches back and pats the hilt of her sword which is slung over her back.]

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."

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."

[Well, he'll trust you to that. As he uses one of the handy dandy machetes he's picked up over the months to hack away some wayward tree branches, he starts to do his usual nerdy ramble about this world and whatnot.]

It's apparently a sort of right of passage for the younger natives here. They go to them and I guess they have specific rituals they perform to see their future; things to come, images that guide them. There's a lot of mysticism to it — the idea that you see your true self, or at least a fraction of your soul there.

[Yeahhh Nami's turning up on the Red Fish the next day complete with tea supposedly good for hangovers. It is, in fact, mostly not for Sam-- she figured with a party Cas might be a total wreck again this morning-- but you know what, you guys can divide it between you as needed.

Sam's probably fine. He left early anyway. Still. She raps on his door with the back of her hand at a respectable time, leaning against the wall.]

You decent in there, or should I come back later when all your alien lady friends have gone home?

[Yeah guess who's never letting you forget that.]

"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.

[Sam's surprisingly still knocked out in his room when she comes by, and even barely stirs; be proud, Nami, it means you don't trip his emergency hunter alarms. He peels his face off his pillow, blinking blearily at her. And of course, it looks more like he had a crazy night partying than actually bleeding a lot and being kind of gross from that. His head is killing him, and he's a bit pale in the face, but otherwise he's all good.

Aaaall gooooood. He sits up with his good arm, trying to look a bit less like he just slept for way too long. Right. Last night was friggin' something, alright.]

Nami, hey.

[He gives a bit of a lopsided grin.]

No alien lady friends, promise.

Can't guarantee anything for Cas, though.

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.

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OTA || BELLYFLOPS INTO THE TOXIC SMOG

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fuck ur prose

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Respects ur prose in the morning

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RUDE

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