driftfleet | text/action. we aaaall are living in a dreaaam but life ain't what it seeems

Entry tags:

text/action. we aaaall are living in a dreaaam but life ain't what it seeems

Who: Sam Winchester
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: Red Fish / Iskaulit Bar
When: November 2nd (or somewhere abouts, if you need a different day)

Warnings: post might deal with mental illness-related talk, potential darker themes like conversations regarding non-consensual icky hallucinations, memory/mention of torture, etc. It's possible that it'll be a pretty light post and none of this comes up depending on how threads go, but I wanted to put out a blanket warning in case I forget. This is a heavier post from Sam! No happy augment glitches today or alien chicks with pancakes, sorry buddies. :(

[ACTION]

Sometimes augment updates happen in pretty unextraordinary ways. Sam laid down to sleep on the 30th, and woke up the 31st to find that he had a vast array of new memories and scars — but not quite so simple. He remembers being bound by his ankles and wrists to the chair in a sodden, dark basement. He remembers the hallucinations, vivid and painful. He remembers the knife cutting skin, the smell of his own flesh seared by a blowtorch. When he wakes up on the ship, he does so disoriented and pale with shock, sweat drenching his pillow.

It almost all feels like a dream.

Almost.

The image of Toni Bevell feels impossible to scrub from his mind. But this... This place — the fleet... he hasn't seen it in many months. It's as he remembers, but with the augment update, there's a sensation of falseness. Is this even real? How is he supposed to know? Not too long ago, he had wholeheartedly believed that he and Toni were lovers, confidants, not at all strangers, and certainly not one being a torturer. He had put so much faith in that hallucination — and it had felt so vivid — that there was a horrible shame and disgust and emptiness when he realizes he'd been played like a golden fiddle.

Toni had just smiled, proud of her savagery.

And here lies Sam's great dilemma: he doesn't trust any of this.

Sure, his foot is scarred, and he's got freshly pink and shiny marks where he'd been shot, sliced. But there's a strange emptiness he feels when he gets out of bed, showers, and redresses for the day. It's Halloween. Strange. He checks the roster on the ship. There's someone named Carl. He remembers noting their arrival before and making a note to meet with them properly; a kid, right? Right. He puts on a smile and goes to work at the bar aboard the Iskaulit, but everything feels robotic in gesture, like he's just going through the motions. He's a decent actor, but this augment shift is really making him misstep.

Dean's dead, Sam's alone, he's in a basement, she wants information.

Is he even really here?

Would he even remember the basement, if this were just another hallucination? His mind is working in circles, trying to figure it out. What's he told her? What does he not remember? What has she tricked out of him? He has to be careful. He has to keep his mouth shut about anything she'd want to know. Just... go through the motions. She'd said his brain'd melt, if she did the mind tricks too often. Maybe it will. Or maybe it already is. He sure has a headache.

It doesn't help that the echoes that plagued him before his update persist even still. Images full of glamour, wrapped around many people he's come to know. He hasn't felt this uneasy from his own mind since the expulsion of Gadreel. Swallowing hard, he turns on anonymity and tries to make sense of it all at last, days later, on the 2nd of November.

The day Mom and Jessica had died. Go figure, right?

[ANONYMOUS TEXT | ENCRYPTED 60%]

Has anyone woken up here and felt like — nothing's really... real?

Like you're going to wake up and find yourself somewhere worst, and that it's all just a cruel trick someone's playing on you?

I've just been having a hard time... accepting, I guess.

And if this is another trick and the person doing it is listening —

Go fuck yourself.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I'd really hope my bar doesn't smell like a basement. [It's automatic snark-- she's processing. Nami isn't horrified as much as she would normally be-- well, no, she's horrified. But Sam's been through two centuries of torture already, so. Glitch. Right? He thinks he's in Hell? Is it horrible to hope it's just a glitch when the other alternatives she can think of are worse?

--no. If he were glitching like that, he wouldn't just be at the bar working as normal and he'd have no clue who she was.]

...okay. Okay.

[She has such a sinking feeling. Nami walks away from the bar, sliding into a chair at one of the tables instead.]

All right. Just... work with me here, Sam. I mean-- sure, don't give me any information you don't want to. Just...how is this torture? Who did you think I was?

[Work with her? That's kind of where his conundrum lies, Nami.

But alright. It wouldn't hurt to tell her just why this is all so confusing, would it? Even if it makes him uneasy, to divulge that kind of information to her. He hesitates but inevitably sits down across from her, frowning slightly.]

Someone from another country. Um. They don't like how we do things.

She — showed up in the bunker, shot me, and then took me to some — [He waves a hand, unsure.] place in the middle of nowhere. She wants to know the names of all of our hunters; any that I know, anyway. They'd been keeping tabs on me and Dean.

[He snorts, shaking his head.]

She's been trying to get information out of me, but as it just so happens, I don't like to talk to people who shoot and kidnap me.

I wouldn't imagine anybody does. [Her confused look only grows, because she has no context. When did this happen?] What kind of--

[Wait. She leans back in her chair.] Sam? Did you go home?

[How long ago? If that's the case, she's been writing off his twitchiness to entirely the wrong thing and that makes her twitch, but that's the only thing that makes sense. She thinks.]

[He looks away, but nods with a compulsive swallow.]

I was home. Yeah.

Lot happened since I've seen this place. I mean... not a long time, exactly, but a lot happens back home in a few months. [He clears his throat.] She's been using hallucinatory drugs on me. Spells, too. I wasn't responding to physical pain.

[And he's still not looking at her.

He doesn't... want to let his guard down. Nami's his best friend, pretty much; if he sees her worried, or... anything, really, then he could crack enough. Toni knew about Ruby, she knew about a lot. What if he had told her about the fleet? What if he's talking to her again right now? The uncertainty is a little draining, but he has no plans to buckle right now.]

[I was home makes a lot of puzzle pieces slide into place. Nami winces, because wow, do you ever come back from these home jaunts with any kind of good news. Her fingers curl on the table and she worries her lip as what he says sinks in. Hallucinations. Drugs. Spells. Physical pain.

Honestly, you shouldn't ever go home. That's what she's hearing.]

So you're worried that you're still under the effect of whatever this is. [She keeps her voice admirably even, though she can't help the soft note of hope that curls in as she continues-- it's not to do with this, but she has to ask.]

I guess Lucifer didn't kill you. [Thank fuck.] Did... Dean get home safely?

[He bites his lip.

If this is Toni, this is really unfair. She knows Dean's gone.

If she's trying to get another answer out of him, well... She's out of luck.]

Dean's gone. It's just me.

[He's a bit numb when he says it, because processing it has been... a trial. With what's happening with Toni and how God's just gone and he's all alone, he really hasn't had the time to process any of it. He's just sort of holding onto the rails and waiting to die or live in the moment.]

He sacrificed himself. To save the world.

... He did what a lot of people never could've.

[He answers as if he's trying to re-affirm it, looking ahead like he might as well be at an interrogation table. Like Nami (Toni) would try to tell him otherwise. Now Dean's likely in the Empty, unless Billie's had a drastic change of heart. Just because she aided in stopping the Darkness doesn't mean she is willing to be hunky dorky with them. She'd always said it like a promise, iron-willed and devil-eyed.]

[If he's still not looking at her, he'll miss the look on her face. She'd hoped. It wasn't even a vain hope, given how many times things have gotten miraculously better after the worst in Sam's world. It's an expression that slides from hope to disbelief and then...

Shit, Sam. She doesn't say anything for a long moment, shoulders curving forward, hand over her face. It's not her grief. What's there to say? He doesn't even think it's her, he's hardly gonna accept it.]

[Well, no. Fuck this. This is a gross situation and some random female torturer deserves one hell of a punch to the face, but she's not going to roll over and leave things be. Because there are options.]

Okay.

...okay.

[She leans back in her chair, voice quiet.] Let's logic this.

[He blinks, unsure.]

Okay, uh... Logic.

[His voice cracks on the logic, because he's a well of emotion and weariness, but then he clears his voice and lets the exhaustion get pushed back, for the meantime.]

You mean... trying to figure out what's real or not?

I used to have a method, but, uh. I don't know.

Well, let's try this. [She hears the weariness. She ignores it. She wants this dealt with.] She used some kind of magic on you, right? Made you see stuff. So you currently think this is maybe something she concocted somehow.

So, question.

Did you keep your memories when you went home this time? Until you woke up back here, did you even remember this place?

[He sits both vulnerable and more guarded than ever, arms crossed on the table top and shoulders a bit more bunched than usual. He bites his lip and thinks through the events that have transpired — ]

... I don't —

I don't think so.

[His mind is whirling, because he's had a hard time keeping things straight in general. Just trying to remember the events of the kidnapping leave him sickly and tired. He sighs.]

I don't remember... remembering the fleet.

Edited 2016-11-29 10:03 (UTC)

[Not as definitive an answer as she would have liked, but it's something.]

Okay, so I've got two things I want you to think about. If you didn't remember the Fleet when you went home, it'd be kind of hard for this woman to create some kind of illusion for you in the first place, let alone have you suddenly remember everything that went on here.

And second, if she wants information from you, this is incredibly a wrong way to go about it. What the hell could I ever want to know from you that you haven't already told me? I don't need to know any of the small details from your home. You already told me most of the big ones. Anything else that's left... that's all you. Your discretion. I'm not gonna ask about it. All I ever wanna know is if you'll be okay.

[Or okay-ish. That's about as good as can be hoped for.]

--though I'd love the name of this bitch that's messing with you, if you don't mind.

[He isn't sure. He isn't sure of anything, because there are always ways that things that don't make sense suddenly do — that logic may very well become illogical. But it does makes sense. Even if he fears she'd somehow wiped his memories before; after all, he conveniently forgot he had been tortured by her until after the creepy molesting spell.

He rubs his arm, feeling the tickle across his shoulders, across skin.

And he doesn't look at Nami.]

... Maybe. Maybe.

[It's not complete faith, but it's at least doubt. And at least in this situation, for Nami, doubt is good. Even if Sam isn't so sure it is from his perspective. He wants to answer her question — but he's surprised to find he doesn't say her name, but what immediately springs from his lips.]

I'm not okay.

[He hates to say it, but they've come to a mutual understanding.

Lying doesn't work.

If it's Nami, it just doesn't.]

[Oh, Sam. She reaches over the table-- thinks better of it, lets her hands rest on the hard surface instead. She can't fight your mind for you. But sowing the doubt there... maybe it's enough. That and time.]

I know.

Is there anything I can-- of course there isn't. [Never mind. If she were some kind of magic spell illusion, answering that question wouldn't help, would it?] Would you prefer to avoid this place for a while?

[This place. Her. Whatever, really. She's not happy making that offer, but. He has to know it's on the table.]

[He's quick to shake his head, with that typical worried arch in his brow.]

No, no. I... I don't exactly want to be alone. I mean...

[He sucks in a breath, rubbing his scarred-up palm.]

It's not like I have to talk about anything serious, right? So I can just... be me. And eventually, this place will either fall apart, or it'll keep going, and then I'll just know. You know? I just can't afford to fall apart myself.

[He tries for a little smile, lips thinned.]

Just keep going. Or Dean'll... curse me from afar... or something.

[His attempt at pleasantness washes away, a pained expression taking over, and he looks down and lets his bangs attempt to hide the grief that flickers in his eyes. The last few days have not been kind to him. Between losing Dean and fracturing his faith and being tormented by some asshole in a pantsuit, he could really use some good news.]

I just... really hope you're real. I could use you right about now.

[There's a small frustrated huff of air-- fuck it. It's not fair that either of them have to second guess how much she can actually just, y'know, be there for a friend. This time her fingers do latch onto his, curling around them to give warmth. She'd really prefer to hug him, but how much would that creep him out if he's not sure?]

I'm very real. You can't fabricate me, I'm one of a kind. [Which is bravado, but she says it like she's challenging Sam's mystery woman to prove her wrong.] And you shouldn't be alone with this. But you navigate, Sam. I'll back off when you need me to, all right? I could-- sit here and try and distract you by telling you all kinds of stupid stuff if you want.

[He snorts, squeezing her hand back tightly.]

... Well, you're right. If she's trying to pull a fast one on me all over again, she picked the wrong lady to try and charm me. [Sam smiles a bit, and it's difficult, but — But Nami's right. One of a kind. There's nothing she'll get from him this way.] Thank you.

The way you say that it's almost like you think I'm not charming. So rude. [But given the mild voice and crooked smile, she's just joking.

It fades after a moment.]

I'm sorry, Sam.

[About more than Dean. But mostly Dean.]

[Apologizing.

He can't even drag up a smile.

Instead he clasps her hand between his and bows his head against their hands like it's supporting him, trying to keep everything together. Apologizing, because his life is fucked up, sure. But also, it sounds like condolences, and he hasn't allowed himself to think it's over. Winchester's don't really have funerals, not like normal people. Jess had a normal one, and it wasn't a beautiful one, not like older folks who've lived a long life. There is a deep, ugly wound on the death of someone young. Dean, was he young? It's hard to tell anymore.

Sam certainly isn't young, no matter how many elders look at him like he's a fresh-faced kid.

He feels really fucking old, right now.

Apologies are few and far between, and this one hurts a lot more than he thought.

Please be real.

His chin trembles.]

... I know.

[He's sorry for a lot of stuff, himself.]

[The chin trembling tips it over the line. She's trying to give space, he's not sure she is who she is-- and here he is curling around their hands like it's the last piece of life left to the world. She can't just play it safe.

Deep down, she thinks, Sam will know it's her. Once his nerves and his mind settle, reorient themselves. No questions. No questions, she can certainly do. It doesn't take any kind of words at all to scoot around the table, extricating one of her hands gently, letting it rest on his for just a moment before she curls a warm arm around his neck instead.

If he stiffens and throws her off, well. She won't take offence. Just this once. But if you're going to curl inward like that, Sam, it's... more comfortable, maybe, more warm, to have a shoulder to curl against instead.

It's all she can do.]

[It's too much, enough that he gives up and lets go of the immediate repulsion, of the desire to run far, far away and lock himself away from friends, family, everyone. If this is Toni, she's not going to get an ounce of information about the hunters from him — but he's given up trying to piece it together. This is Nami. It's got to be, and if it's not, he's lost enough to pretend it is.

It's Nami, though. Right? It has to be. It sounds like her, it smells like her, and when she hugs him, it's just the way Nami would hug. It's got to be. It can't be Toni, it can't be all a big lie to loosen up his facts. He wraps his arms around her and buries his face, sniffling, trying not to let himself fall apart completely. Toni would want that, and even if he's grieving and it's not for her, he can't bear the thought.

But it's hard, so hard. And if some tears slip through to dampen Nami's shirt, he hopes she won't point them out — laugh and break the illusion, send him tailspinning back into that damp, dark basement. Please.]

I'm — sorry.

[It's croaked and small, muffled.]

M'just tired, I'm sorry, I'm just — tired. I'll — adapt. I will.

Don't be sorry. And don't try and reassure me, Sam. Your brother is dead. [She says it deliberately and quietly, and it feels like all four words are like taking a knife in her hands and carving it deep. But. Her grip tightens, hand carding briefly through his hair.

It's also the truth.]

You don't have to adapt, or not be tired. Nobody has a right to demand that of you. You do whatever you have to. We'll deal.

[It's okay to not be okay. Anyone who says otherwise'll get kicked through a wall if need be.]

[He nods, and there seems to be a sag in his shoulders he hadn't had before — before he admitted what happened back home. Before, he'd been all hard angles and stiff shoulders, and now he's at least relaxed into something more forgiving, more vulnerable. He nods into her shirt.]

I know. We always do.

[It's something Dean would say. He's so worried about him. Being dead, it's one thing. Being... wherever, alone, that's another. And could he really afford to let his brother down again? It tears at him every moment, and sometimes he just wants to scream and throw something, break something. But he's not Dean; he lets it all fester, build up until he's an emotional grenade.]

I just... want to work.

[But.

He's really in no shape to today, and he knows it.

Any customer coming in to this would hardly want a beer.]

If you want to work, work. I won't tell you not to come in. [Because she knows Sam. Days it's been where he's come in with that guarded look and mechanical going through the motions-- a night of sleep and she suspects he'll return for his next shift doing much the same.

Unless this conversation changes things. But there are ways around that.] If you don't feel up to serving drinks, Vash or Remy could always trade in kitchen duties. And if you'd really rather not work at all and just... take some time, just message me.

Although-- [Her smile crooks a little.] Do it too often and I'll probably have to come loom in your doorway or something.

[She can give him space, but there's such a thing as too much of it, y'know?]

You told anyone on your ship about Dean?

[She figures the answer to that is no.]

text/action. we aaaall are living in a dreaaam but life ain't what it seeems

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