in this story,

I LIKE TO CALL MYSELF WOUND, BUT I WILL ANSWER TO KNIFE.

[godsgun]

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¹ information. ² characterization sideblog. ³ pinterest.

[godsgun]

@churchbled

[xseemefight]

[godsgun]

feeling vaguely odd about things here if i’m honest, so: i’m going to be wiping the slate clean dynamic wise and, for the most part, starting fresh. if you’d like to rework or maintain our dynamic (if we’ve established one) please like this — or, if we’ve haven’t established one, feel free to like to start something up.

[godsgun]

something i often think about is mari’s presentation of gender. she’s a beautiful, beautiful person with very feminine physical traits— she’s five foot nothing, she’s got extremely long hair, she’s slender and does fit the mold (mostly) for conventional female attractiveness. however, her outward presentation of traditional femininity kind of stops there. she wears boxers that often peek up over her jeans. she never wears makeup, unless it’s for some kind of scam or a particularly special occasion. she doesn’t wear bras, and if she does, they’re sports bras. god forbid someone try to make her wear a heel. her nails are never painted, she doesn’t really wear perfume, the list goes on. however, on the other hand, she engages pretty regularly in what a lot of culture deems to be masculine. she drives a vintage muscle car, she smokes and drinks regularly, she swears like a sailor and manspreads like it’s her day job. she’s avoidant, not visibly emotional (for the most part), and embodies the persona of what we’d typically deem a masculine action hero. she’s violent, she’s angry, she starts bar fights for fun and she wins. she shoots pool and regularly goes to dive bars. she looks down on beer and loves her liquor, she smokes marlboro reds and nothing else, she kicks her feet up on tables and disrespects personal space on the daily. if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s feminine presenting, who mari is (and who she presents herself to be) is closer to a hypermasculine character rather than even a gender neutral one. and yes, a lot of it comes down to mari just being mari, but there is an element of overcompensating for the fact that she is feminine presenting and wants to dominate space as well.

so on that note, it’s compelling to me that often times who ends up being paired with her [both romantically and not] are men who are matched in her hypermasculinity (for the lack of a better term) and often need a space to allow themselves to either a) be the more dominant / controlling force (which mari allows on the basis that at her core, she’s tired of being her own protector) or b) relax their expression of masculinity and allow themselves the room to feel. or both.

i’ve said this plenty of times in plotting and in dynamic creation that mari becomes a safe space for people, despite how her character may lead you to believe otherwise. she draws out the innermost feelings and more than that, she doesn’t judge them or pry. she just allows things to exist, which makes that safe environment even more encouraging, and even down to her gender expression this is still present. she offers male counterparts a place for their masculinity to either thrive and feel sated, or a place for them to put that down and ease it away. and either way, because of who mari is and how she functions, it never becomes a problem. she either steps up where she needs to, or relinquishes control where the other (trusted) person needs. her (culturally) femininity comes back into the picture through this method of empathy and understanding, as well as — in a way — caretaking.

[absolmemes]

☾ tension action prompts.

hostility, provocation, you name it. featuring both actions and scenarios where tension can fester; add +reverse to reverse the roles.

✧ sender grips receiver's wrist long enough to make a point. ✧ sender laughs in receiver's face. ✧ sender grabs receiver by the collar. ✧ sender refuses to break eye contact with receiver. ✧ sender "accidentally" bumps into receiver and doesn't apologize. ✧ sender grips receiver's jaw. ✧ sender pulls receiver back by the waistband. ✧ sender shoves receiver into a surface. ✧ sender clenches their fists at receiver. ✧ sender tilts their head condescendingly at receiver. ✧ sender straightens to their full height in front of receiver. ✧ sender follows receiver outside after a blow-up. ✧ sender gets in receiver's face and won't back off. ✧ sender cracks their knuckles while holding eye contact with receiver. ✧ sender lowers their voice when receiver raises theirs. ✧ sender blatantly sizes receiver up. ✧ sender stares silently at receiver. ✧ sender presses on receiver's bruises. ✧ sender shoulder-checks receiver hard enough to knock them off balance. ✧ sender bumps receiver's cue while lining up a shot at a pool table. ✧ sender knocks receiver's phone out of their hand. ✧ sender kicks receiver under the table. ✧ sender wipes something off receiver's face. ✧ sender corners receiver and refuses to give them space. ✧ sender drags receiver into a bathroom to talk privately. ✧ sender pins receiver while roughhousing. ✧ sender deliberately spills their drink onto receiver. ✧ sender begrudgingly tends to receiver's injury. ✧ sender challenges receiver to a drinking game. ✧ sender steps closer every time receiver tries to disengage. ✧ sender is stuck sharing a bed with receiver when the motel overbooks. ✧ sender has to work overnight watch duty with receiver. ✧ sender challenges receiver's story and makes them prove it. ✧ sender competes with receiver at a shooting range. ✧ sender argues with receiver while trying to put up a tent. ✧ sender is trapped with receiver in a stopped elevator. ✧ sender challenges receiver to arm-wrestle. ✧ sender and receiver are snowed in overnight together. ✧ sender is stuck with receiver on a stalled ferris wheel. ✧ sender tries to one-up receiver at carnival games.

[griefdaddy]

once upon a time, john stood up for a small feral kitten he'd mistaken for a girl. he's damn near regretted it ever since. her face haunting him in every other little girl in the crowd or on the street or pressed up against a passing car's window, all while he chases an entirely different ghost. already has his fill of demonic possessions and phantom memories yet still she plagues him, an alarmingly unique entity all her own.

remembers her daddy laying hands on her like it was yesterday, the dry mouth shock of witnessing it, the way he hasn't gone too far down that road with his own boys since. ( if john couldn't undo leaving her behind, she'd at least become a lesson learned. )

now she's older, curling fists instead of taking them. it's a relief. it's reassurance. and it's overstimulating his preference for alone time. he's all over the only small table in the room, journal open on one side, laptop yawning its glowing mouth in front of him. "warning. don't need to talk about much more than the hunt." but that's a half-truth. he rubs his chin where it already rests against his hand. resists the urge to rub at eyes gone bloodshot with too much computer straining as it is. "when was the last time you slept? look like shit. we're no good to each other out there half-conscious."

[godsgun]

when was the last time she slept? (nightmares, phantom images, limbs sewn to the edges of her bed. waking up in cold sweats and night terrors and a sore jaw that'd told her she'd slept, screaming.) so, maybe a day. maybe two. mari's been on the road for long enough for every motel room to feel the same— encased in late night research and liquor bottles by her feet. doesn't matter. john's been enough of a change as is, haunting the edges of her vision and tingeing the corners of her view. if she was honest, she'd say she dreamed about him. if she was honest, she'd tell him it wasn't a nightmare.

some small-limbed, sick in the head version of her still believes he might braid her hair and take her shooting. some older, angrier part of her knows that he won't. mari weathers her teeth against the inside of her cheek, forces her features into something presentable, and flings sarcasm his way rather than sentiment. it's better that way. always will be.

"i look like shit?" a scoff, and she pulls a hair tie off from her wrist. positions it in her fingers, and then slingshots it directly at the side of his head. bullseye. "if y — you stood up i'm ninety percent sure i could hear your knees creak. don't flatter yourself— that old-man look only gets you in with two kinds of people: milfs, and men who need therapy." a beat, before her words turn muttered. "don't worry. i could do this shit in my sleep."

[godsgun]

"i'm having what you could call a rough day." — @griefdaddy, as john winchester.

when mari was small enough to still feel like prey, the name winchester wrung a halo around her neck and choked it. a guardian angel, a saving grace of a hand ... (you don't put hands on your daughter.) a father who was not her father had towered like a tree and stepped forward like a soldier, all armed to the teeth and ready to bite if her dad moved an inch more. kenji dai hadn't let that name out his mouth for weeks. that goddamn bastard, how dare he tell me how to raise my kids— mari bore the brunt of it. yet, still, she'd kept a name in her throat like a prayer, dreaming of scenes where he'd burst through the door like superman. carry her off to a different world.

now, he returns. older, gruffer, rough around the edges like sandpaper on her skin— irritating injuries she'd papered over years ago. she wants to hate him. even more: she wants to kill him. but only in the way that she wants to kill everything she doesn't understand, and john winchester was a man she, still, can't pick apart enough to get.

john, like a name in the bible, john, like gospel on the road. john, like grace, or gratitude, or god-gave-you-to-me— god-took-you-away. john, like a father. john, like a wound.

fuck him. mari shoots back a shot of tequila, spins the shot glass back onto the top of the motel room fridge, and itches to punch him in the face. instead, she plops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling. watches the stains until it subsides. "okay." she says, plain, and lays there a moment longer. counts to a total of ten, and then sits up. "are you trying to t — talk about it, or is that a warning?"

[waylays]

@lieability

arkham never changes, not really. not in its bones.

a year gone, torn to the other side of reality, and it's still the same thing when he gets back. wet, crowded, not quite as cosmopolitan as new york, but most of all, haunted. they've spent the same time of day yesterday on stakeout, watching the small townhouse as rain drummed down against the roof of the car—which is to say they've both been on stakeout, as was the deal. not that arthur can see any of it, but that doesn't matter to john, who just seems to want to describe every inch of the street in near-painful detail.

they walked the exterior earlier of the townhouse two days ago. dug through the trash, the unglamorous work of a private investigator at its least clean. one of the cops at the precinct by the office left them the tip. something about public disturbances that no one with a badge wanted to look into. so that left it to those less inclined to legality.

the glass wasn't warped that john could tell. but there was something in the air. like something's clinging on with its teeth, john said, which was more poetic than helpful, but it got the point across. public records showed that the last person to die in 32 west garrison street was one devlin maitland, he died suddenly and brutally, along with his wife. a whole mess with his brother, who had since fled arkham altogether and moved further down the east coast. dead now, too, in a confrontation with police.

a neat answer, in that way, to the question of what spirit would be vengeful enough to stay within this home's walls.

their goal, as per usual, is to see if the ghost can be convinced to peacefully depart this plane.

so they've gotten in through a side window with only some minor negotiation with an old lock, and are now moving slowly around the living room. john's in the midst of describing the photographs on the mantle when something creaks.

arthur, behind you—

they pivot on the spot, the cane in arthur's hand held a little more like someone's going to swing.

in the doorway. someone. not a… spirit, obviously, from the fact we heard anything at all. she must've come in through the back door. short. long dark hair down to her waist. a… severe stare. she's looking right at us, in the eyes. not a police officer, that's for fucking sure.

often times the eyes throw people off. too bright of a yellow, an animal glint there in low light. someone not looking away either says they're very brave, or very nonplussed.

arthur straightens slightly. "… i'd ask why you're here, but as far as i'm aware, there's only one reason anyone's come here over the past ten years." his fingers fold a little tighter on the cane. "who are you? who hired you?"

[godsgun]

it wasn't her idea to begin with.

she'd gotten tossed the case, really. something dug up and gifted to her like a day-old cadaver to a mortician. it's a routine salt and burn, they'd said, but mari knows the drill— do your own digging, then decide. every hunter's been both surprised and wrong before.

she'd gone through the motions. things she's learned and done since she was eight years old. 32 west garrison street has had its fair share of spooks, years of dead bodies and trails of brutal killings long enough to lend the walls to a spirit, rather than anything living. it's been a while since she's dealt with anything kicking beyond a grave, now that she thinks about it. kind of makes her itch for a change of pace, but the reality of hunting is that most of it is monotonous— the rest of it is life-threatening.

the house itself is nothing special. she's seen a million like it across the country. in another life, some white-picket fence couple could shape up, shack up, and pop out a few kids before anything near death even touched their doorstep. but not here. not this place.

getting in is easy when you're not the first face there. she'd seen the open window before she'd tried the front door, shimmying herself through the small space and letting feet silently fall against the floorboards. a gun cradles in her palm, locked and loaded with bullets that are less for the already-dead and more for the somewhat-living.

she watches the stranger in the house for a moment, talking to himself as if someone's listening. as if he's narrating for her. but even she knows that's far-fetched, so she takes the first move to press against a loose floorboard, shoulder sidling up to the doorway as she stares. the gun sits loose against her palm. casual. as if they're invading on her space, rather than someone else's.

his eyes are yellow. almost catlike. it makes her want to tense— but she doesn't. refuses to give him the satisfaction. mari's brow raises, and she tilts her head.

"hired me?" her voice is almost a scoff. as if anyone would pay for this shit. even the hunter who'd given her the info hadn't paid for more than a shot, and that was generous— they all live off credit card schemes and hustles, anyway. she knows the score. "jesus. are you t — telling me that you're getting paid for this shit?" she gestures vaguely with the gun, then goes back to the lax stance. a shake of her head, and a low whistle. "lucky you."

[m0tel]

too hard to narrow down which version of himself needs to deliver here. he's very good at getting it wrong. she's very good at tripping him up.

better still, at flaying him open. they rarely say these things clothed or sober, and the times they have are boxed neatly off in the corners of his memory that he doesn't like to look at too closely. here in the dark, gut rot on his breath, it's close to feeling right, but this isn't the kind of pay off he's ever gone for. twenty years weaved with childish idealism all swings back to bite him in the eleventh hour. what's one more person to let down? he's told her before: he couldn't move on if he tried.

goddamn was he trying.

he breathes something shaky, almost a laugh. it's not at her expense.

"yeah." softer. in some ways, more honest. the vinyl creaks under the shift of his shoulder blades, eyes pinching to slits. it takes a different kind of concentration to string the right shit together. this used to be easier. his fingers curl on his thigh, a subconscious search for tangible control. "yeah, course, mar, we -- i mean, we can talk."

he'd much rather listen. the sense she knows more than she's supposed to looms, but he can recenter. she sounds as many miles away as he feels. that takes priority.

"you okay?"

[godsgun]

maybe it's the years apart that make it feel like this.

strange and familiar, foreign and the same. his voice reaching through the phone far enough to stretch halfway across the states— assuming he isn't down the street. that's the thing about dean that always got her. he was everywhere and nowhere, two centimeters away and thousands of kilometers deep, tracking through the wilderness to find some savage thing that he'd kill, rather than come home to.

she was the only thing he ever caught that he let go. his wild-child companion, his untamed girl. fluctuating between killer and lover in the blink of an eye. one minute she was brass knuckles and bullet casings, the next she was soft kisses and sunday mornings. somewhere along the way, she lost the latter. somewhere in the past few days, she's been trying to get it back.

is she okay? that's the question of the hour, the question of all time. people have asked her that plenty over the years, but none of them mean it the way he does. maybe that's why she goes to lie, (i'm always okay, dean) and ends up spitting out truth instead. or maybe it's all those years coming to fruition— she still can't shake the obligation of honesty, when it comes to him.

"no." she laughs, quiet, but nothing's funny. it shakes at the end and trembles when she speaks, as if there's an earthquake somewhere in the depths of her heart and it's only shattering whatever comes out in the end. "are you?" there's another question in there, somewhere. have you ever been? will you be? can we be? "you sound—" a beat. "tired."

[pinkman]

it’s a notable upgrade from the dirt-cheap motels they used to hunker down in. no waterlogged ceilings and condom wrappers on the floor. no spiders scuttling across the bathroom tiles while jesse made a valiant attempt to dry himself off with the world’s nastiest towel. no neighbors who’d run into them in the corridor, belch out a gust of whiskey breath, and ask if they’ve met before. (oh yeah, he’d bite back, abandoning any semblance of self-restraint — two weeks ago at your mom’s place.)

that shit can’t hold a candle to the suite they’re staying at. the velvet armchairs and oak-framed oil paintings are straight out of an interior designer’s wet dream. jesse isn’t too fussed about the cost. since it’s the last stop on their tumultuous road trip, he’s hoping for a grand finale.

hotel.  the sender and receiver rent a room for the evening. — @lieability as mari dai.

mari’s got the same idea. she lounges at the foot of the bed with the indulgent languor of an empress on her throne. spreads her legs, belt buckle glinting in the waning light, and gives him a spellbinding once-over. ever-diligent, ever-needy, he rushes to kneel between her thighs.

“damn, baby. that’s wassup.” jesse leans in, mouthing at the exposed sliver of skin above her waistband. he wants to kiss her senseless. he wants to spoil her rotten. he wants to be beside her in sickness and in health, wake her up with buttermilk pancakes and mind-blowing head— “you think they’re gonna complain if we, uh, make some noise?” 

[godsgun]

somewhere in the depths of a duffle bag is a one way ticket to a future she couldn't have predicted. somewhere in the glove compartment is a memento of every past she's ever lived. in the next forty-eight hours, mari will reacquaint herself with resurrection— remind herself of what it means to revive. she'll submit bank statements, lease agreements, sign a name as if it's always been her own; she'll move in and pack up and pretend that their trunk doesn't house all of her (remaining) belongings. she'll find a humble beginning. shed her methods to survive.

no more shotgun shells or knife-bright glimmers. no more weaponized stares or motel stays. mari will go shopping for throw pillows, pick up groceries, and come home to a man who gave her the out she gave to him all that time ago— except this time, it's permanent. this time, it's home.

tonight, however, he gives her a finale. the closing curtain to a long era of longer roads. he kneels between her knees, kisses along her hipbone, and reminds her that the future — their future — is nothing to be afraid of.

so, she soaks up every second. "mm." mari hums, her palm drifting over the fuzz of his freshly-shaved head. "doubt it." her fingers trail down to the side of his throat, tracing an 'm' alongside his neck. faintly, his skin flushes pink. her gaze drifts back up to his, a flicker of a grin tugging at her cheek. "can always put it to the test and see— besides, the last th — thing i'm worried about is a noise complaint."

[m0tel]

@chyremn

bobby's kitchen is prime ground for jump-scare central. dean keeps his wits for once, flanked by the fridge and knife block, and finds it in himself not to chastise the angel for yet another unannounced and uninvited pull-up. it's always a new goddamn cast of characters with this guy. dean'll need to start keeping an address book. better yet, his gun a permanent fix in-hand. he doesn't like being cornered, least of all by strangers.

she looks like she bites.

it's cool. just add it to the growing list of crap he doesn't need. greater insult to potential injury, they're blocking the path back to his lunch on the other counter. their collective bad mood grows deeper roots.

he takes the early defeat: stands by with his arms perched akimbo, shifting impatient looks between castiel and his shadow. better to pretend she's not even there.

"cas." for a rough translation: the fuck? "what's with the hostage?"

[chyremn]

@lieability

' she is not a hostage. she came here voluntarily. ' sounds less reassuring somehow when castiel says it. the angel regards dean with that steady, slightly perplexed look he often wears when he says something he considers irrational. mari's grip flexes against fabric, still positioned partially behind his frame. neither the hold on his sleeve nor the fact that she's chosen him as a shield escape his notice. a slow glance sideways toward the young woman, before he introduces her. bluntly. ' this is mari. ' as though that explains everything. naturally it doesn't. but he continues, anyway. blue eyes shifting back to the increasingly peeved man before them. ' she is a hunter under my protection. ' because in some ways, she is.

dean is staring, castiel ignores it, looks down at her again instead ─ voice dropping to a private, low register meant only for her despite dean standing only a few feet away. ' you don't have to hide behind me. ' not criticism. just a fact. ' although i suspect you will continue doing so. ' because mari has already decided she dislikes him. and dean has already decided he dislikes her. or at least the situation. the both of them could be very predictable. castiel looks at the man again, slants his head.

' . . . as i understand it this is usually where you exchange pleasantries. '

[godsgun]

she's no hostage, but mari's decided to keep herself leashed. tethered to castiel's sleeve, her silence becomes some sort of submission— an obedience to manners and fair-play. so, while dean passes over her existence as a third party, mari levels her stare to nothing more than a looks-can-kill glare. (it could be worse. she could make it literal.) and while cas introduces her, she picks his words apart. it's a carcass of speculation, a beak-boned pluck away of feathers; no girl or friend, just a hunter-under-his-protection ... and here, she thought she was more.

her jaw clicks. only last night cas was buried between her thighs, fucking her raw into the bed frame, kissing prayer up her spine until she cried— protection, her ass. if he wants to play it safe, mari will play dirty, and he should know that by now. "i'm his g — girlfriend."

she untangles her hand from castiel's sleeve. crosses her arms over her chest. juts a hip out in protest, and settles her weight to the side. a look is shot cas' way — "i'm not hiding," muttered, — and then turns back to dean. her tone strains against any idea of pleasantries. "nice to meet you."

[eterknows]

you could almost pass as human.

' oh—is it—is this because i said ‘alien planet’? '    totally his bad. to avoid confusion, he should have used the proper term: exoplanet.    ' eternia exists outside of your solar system. that’s what makes it alien, not the people who live there. quite a few of us are human, actually. my parents, for example: both of them. and me. human. '

he took a long, long sip of his drink. the straw was clear, which adam considered an unnecessary invasion of privacy. because of its transparency, mari could see when he stopped sipping but continued to sit there, straw in mouth, saying and drinking nothing. 

around them, glasses thumped on tables, silverware scraped against plates. it was the same sound fairies made whenever they rearranged their furniture.

adam smiled, the straw still pinned between his lips. the lighting was bad in here. whenever he wanted to get a good look at her, he had to squint. he thought she had the prettiest eyes on earth—literally—but it was sort of hard to tell.

' you pass for human, too. '    he said finally, pushing his drink—and the straw—away.    ' you look nice. '

he took his hands off the table and folded them politely in his lap.    ' what about you? are you from around here? '

[godsgun]

the best thing about a bad date is usually the drinks, but sometimes the stories make it worthwhile. typically, it goes like this: a sob story, a macho-man boast, the beginnings of a lie spun between a mouth that assumes (for whatever goddamn reason) it'll get laid later. but this? ... now, this was one for the books.

for once, she lets adam talk more than she does. her lies are fun — she's six-foot three, she's dying of a rare disease, she's only on this date to spite her husband, et cetera — but nothing in comparison to his delusion. eternia: alien planet, born and raised, something about a sword that's apparently magic ... it just keeps getting better. mari's lips loop around the rim of her glass and sip, a truly-attentive poker face staring back at him in return.

in the dim lighting of a perfectly-fine restaurant, mari's small inch of a smile glimmers. a peak of her teeth shine for only a moment, before she exhales a soft laugh— not unkind, really, as much as understanding. or, falsely so, because: does this guy do this on every date he goes on? jesus.

"thank you." she says, sweet as pie and curious as a cat. for a delusional man, (and by that she means truly insane, not your garden-variety delusion) he does have his moments. "oh, y — you know." a wave of her hand after her drink sets back down. "i've been around." a contemplative pause, rolling words between her cheeks before she allows them to croon their way out. "has dating been alright for you? with all the— .. magic, i'd imagine some girls get intimidated."

[godsgun]

@chyremn as castiel, + @m0tel as dean winchester.

there's something tense and sticky strung through the air. it sticks to the roof of her mouth like something to spit out, but she doesn't. she could, if she wanted— all sickly sweet and does-your-hair-always-look-like-that, slapped with a smile that bites more than it barks, but if she did then she's sure she'd be graced with that patented disappointment castiel knows how to wedge into her heart just the right way. whatever. for now, she figures hesitance is the best medium. peering a half-glared gaze around the corner of cas' shoulder, fist clenched around the fabric of his sleeve, jaw set like she's already decided dean is someone she can't stand ... and maybe she can't. maybe there's something solid in him that's as wrong as she feels, maybe there's something shaky in him that she can break apart, maybe there's some sort of clockwork mechanism that'll peel right out of his jawline for her to break. or maybe she just doesn't like change, and dean's a little too different in her routine to bear.

again: whatever. that's a thought for a different day, when castiel's less attentive and mari's more alone and the only thing she's focused on is the reload of her gun and shotgun shells filled with salt. today, she'll bite it all back. swallow it down. manage to lessen her glare by twenty percent, and say: "hi."

[m0tel]

a couple twisted dirt road miles off the 281, dean's slunk low in the driver's seat, encased in a neutral-geared casket, the only bequest of his last will and testament. he killed the headlights on the way in, once gravel turned to grass, turned to sticks, to now, underbrush, shrouded by trees on un-staked land. if there's anyone left to fuck over in all this, he hopes it's some government lackey on an expropriation survey, not an unlucky turkey hunter in this last stretch of the season, that finds what's left behind of this going away party.

his last chance at spirit-hood was revoked a half dozen deaths ago -- he's pretty sure, but there's no direct line to heaven left to check -- and his last tether to the earth's urned up in the glove compartment, out of sight, and eternally, entirely well in mind. that's almost all six foot something of sam, squashed down to fit into forty metal cubic inches. for all he knows, it's mostly ashes from the bed sheet. dean hasn't seen shit straight in months.

his other biggest failures line the rest of the bench: a series of brown and orange bottles, a single load in his 1911, a censored copy of the letter he sent claire on bunker upkeep, in case there's a mix up with the snail mail. it's unnecessary here -- if she's as cold and smart as she's supposed to be, she wouldn't be in the position to identify his body -- but it almost feels like talking to someone. he didn't want to chance someone real talking back.

all that noble preparation wasted, while wasted, just to blind himself with the too-bright blue light of his phone screen. mari's voice, familiar and not, smothered by the sparse connection of a single bar, is unavoidable. the sound's too big in his pyre on wheels, a tug too many paces backward for what he wants to handle. scratch: needed to have handled, if the dash clock reads right. he's well behind schedule. she's only ever supposed to see him from his good side.

"mari." finally, hollowly. it might come out a question. fuck if he knows what to say. he didn't mean to pick up in the first place, but he's at the mercy of the screen's crack, thick and splintering over the end call button. if there is something divine still kicking around, it's only sitting up there to mock him. " .. this isn't really a good time."

[godsgun]

he sounds older, but not wiser — more tired, but not dead.

still, there’s something set in his voice. rough and hard like the back end of a gravel driveway, crackling against the wheels of his tires. (as if he’s peeling out of one hell of a hunt. as if he’s half-concrete with only a stain of blood.) or maybe it’s just the white noise of the receiver, blanketing his tone like snow. creating imaginary sounds. magic-tricking her vision. becoming something that isn’t there.

in their days, with her dean — the dean with half a smile and three-fourths of a mile behind his breath, — he’d packed his bags with the practice of a soldier and the breeze of a sailor. he’d shipped up and shaped out to be somewhere between two states of self: beautifully careless— gorily divine. he was an open wound of open roads with less opportunity than he’d said, and because mari’s neither blind or dumb, not impulsive nor stupid, she’d taken dean winchester’s secrets and kept them in the back of her mouth. (which is to say: only to be pulled out when he’d kissed her.)

now, there’s no use. everything’s in the air.

yet— she runs silent. like the hum of his impala, the soft rumble of an engine, her thoughts race and her mind scatters and everything chokes up between her back molars. bleeds between her gums. it takes thirty, forty, maybe sixty seconds for her to stop bleeding and start breathing and find some better way to speak to him than she’d done before.

“is it ever?” mari exhales out, and runs a hand through the tangled strands of her hair. her cheek catches between her teeth, weathering down in an anxious habit, before she tries again. “i need you.” her words turn small or delicate, half-broken in the back of her neck, sitting somewhere beside her vertebrae like something she can’t crack out. regardless, she pushes. “or— i miss you.” her bottom lip shivers. she swallows it down. “i don’t know. c — can we talk?”

[killerdame]

MARI DAI. INTERACTION CALL.

WHAT SHE SEES FIRST IS THE WING OF A BUTTERFLY.

that's how her mind makes sense of the sharp cut of a shoulder blade in the dark: that trancelike back and forth of curved bone, not unlike the patterns of flight, pale skin eating up the slant of moonlight.

she understands it only for what it is only for the sound. the smell. dove has done so much for so long to no longer resemble a prey animal, but the instincts are still there — the ability to sense danger even before her eyes have adjusted enough to identify it.

the blood spreading across the floor is dark, almost black in the dim light. like this it better resembles her own displaced blood, the way it pools in a bruise at her cheek, the joint of a hip. the whole of the office staining the way she already is.

in the way that the bodies are arranged, she'd thought @lieability was a man knelt over mathis, braced at the knees for brutal work. it's only as she steps back — shoulders rolling, recoiling, the second-skin of her dress falling off her shoulder, shuddering the way the layer under it is — and the face whips to her that she understands. it isn't another man. this is violence compacted into a smaller form.

[godsgun]

she is wing-boned and clandestine, precise in every move made. she has a surgeon's touch, a killer's rhythm, the exactness of a pulse against her fingers. the blade is only an extension: a latticework of wound, the dying light of a plea, an abrupt halt to inhale— interrupted before ever reaching his lungs. through tears, the glint of her knife almost illuminates. (as if gracious, as if relieving, as if sympathetic to the circumstances at hand.) but this is no mercy killing. the hour has thinned, stretched out through the practice of vengeance. the reclamation of fate. leaving nothing but blood and warning in its wake.

the stench of death doesn't bother her, anymore. who knows if it ever has. sometime, somewhere, when she was still small and fixed in place, mari learned the scent of blood— never quite learned to let it go. even after, when the red washes from her palms and scrubs out of all the divots, everything will remain. (iron-tinged and bitter inside her nose. clung to the insides of her stomach. intermingled with whatever tears she can shed.) see, violence is a language she speaks in fluidity. a second tongue that slithers out from inside her chest. and a witness, no matter how innocent, comes with a cost— what it is, is to be determined.

her head tilts. "he a friend of yours?" her gaze sinks its teeth into the other's skin, but her words are only gentle. a soft caress, in the midst of massacre. "answer carefully." cautionary, yet strict. "i'd h — hate to leave two messes, rather than one."

[schmonyschmawk]

"yo, do you think scorpions can like, kill you? i've got this idea for a shot for the show an' i'm gonna get the boys to put scorpions on my face an' see if they bite."

@lieability one liner.

[godsgun]

"depends on what kind of scorpion." her gaze flickers over to the other, peering through a half-tilted stare. ash flutters down from a flick of her fingers, then props a cigarette between her lips for a draw inward. "a — all scorpions are venomous. not all of them are deadly."