Jul 22, 2017
Best piece of advice ever! Thanks Mr. Rhythm! #dontletyourdickrunyourlife #savedyourass #dccab
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Best piece of advice ever! Thanks Mr. Rhythm! #dontletyourdickrunyourlife #savedyourass #dccab
It's such a load of crap and he knows it. "And a whole lot more are gonna die if we don't take care of those guys right now." It's insistent, half exasperated and half pleading for him to come to his senses. He was too stuck on keeping everyone else out of the line of fire and putting himself in it that he was being unreasonable. That should probably be his middle name. "I can do this, Chief. It's my job." To fight, to protect, to help her family. "Just work with me here."
Sam merely pointed at the other, his tone more stern, more on edge. "Stay there." His jaw set, he moved to stand, this time managing it, and moving carefully across the room. "It's my fault this shit is happening, Rox. They're knocking on my door, calling my name, and taking down whoever else answers it. Your job is to survive, not fight my battles for me. None of you need to fight my battles for me, you've seen what happens when it happens." He stopped a little short of her, arms crossing. "They're doing it to get to me, to dig away at me, and if you haven't noticed, it's working. I'm having trouble fighting back when I know that they have plans, and when I know that if I walk out there, if they finally get their hands on me, this ends. I'm the threat, kid, not you. I'm the hunter that's supposed to be gone. If I choose to start fighting full force again, they know I know more about heaven, hell, purgatory, than almost any other hunter. They know I know more about Lucifer and MIchael and enochian than they want anyone to know." He gave a weak laugh. "They know that MIchael and Lucifer fought in hell, and I know things that cause me to take those damn pills none of you can touch, because no mortal is supposed to know or can handle them. So when I say stand down, Roxanne, stand the fuck down, because I'm not just some old hunter that limps into the bar that's fought a few wendigo and feels he earned his stripes. I'm the Winchester that spent brought down Lucifer himself, and that's what terrifies them."
He took a deep breath, his jaw set as he looked towards the door. "And it should. If I go down in this at any point, I'm bringing them down with me. If I'm going to die? I'm digging out the old spells, and I'm closing hell."
There's a huff, a look of near amazement shot his way. "/You/ look like you lost a fight with an oversized rock-em-sock-em robot. Tage the tag in while you can." What was with with old hunters trying to jump right into their graves. "I'll be fine. I can outrun it. Get it in line and get you a clear shot."
"Yeah, well they found me first, firefly," Sam grumbled, rolling his shoulders, feeling the twinge of pain go through him. "I'm not using you as bait. We've lost families, Rox. I'm not adding you to that mix. It's enough bullshit that I'm the goal here." He stood, wincing and having to sit back down, his knee popping as he did. "If I can get out of here." He finished, sounding almost defeated for a moment.
How amazing and inspirational you are in and out of character.
PLEASE FUEL MY EGO AND TELL ME WHAT YOUR FAVORITE THING ABOUT ME IS
I... literally am speechless by this. Good job, Mari. Now I'm having feelings and I want to squish your face. <3333333333333
[casually raids the nephilim's closet, puts her toiletries in his bathroom, throw pillows on his bed and leaves him a littler fern on the counter with a note]
Something is definitely not right here.
He feels it when he walks in the door, before he even sees the stupid Love Fern on the table, before he walks in on some of his clothes missing and a lot of them discarded on the bed. There’s only one person that Vagisil in the bathroom belongs to, and he finally circles back to sigh in frustration at a poorly written note.
[ text; jail bait ] What did you do to my house?
And the silence returns like a harsh and unforgiving winter. She slumps against him, a long sigh drawn from lungs that no longer need to fill. "Dean." There's already the faintest disapproval there. "You can't sit here forever. The quicker you start working with me, the easier I can make this on you." The hand slips from carding through his hair to ghosting over his spine. "I hate seeing you so upset." He's no doubt less agreeable because he needs a good meal. One she'll have to drag back again.
She's like a damn cat with the way she lays on him. It speaks of a familiarity that is forced upon the unwilling, on the unwanting. She knows him better than he will ever know her, and all of it is stolen knowledge.
He might have liked her. Grown to like her more than a one night stand. She was beautiful and smart. Funny when she wanted to be and thoughtful. Nurturing, if nothing else.
Such a shame she proved to be a soulless monster who'd taken his life and raised a puppet in place of a man. A painfully self aware puppet.
" Then maybe y' should have kept y' fangs to yourself. "
A weighted sight bleeds into the air.
" You go. I'll catch up. "
Or not.
Either way.
"A few." Was there ever a question? She has no shame in admitting it. Just as little in committing the deeds. "Honestly, I've only got the munchies." He, on the other hand, is a fledgling. A fledgling still so resistant to the instinct. All that effort to stay in control makes the hunger worse. Makes the control weak. It's a sad cycle really. "Would you feel better if I let you pick who?" Like a child getting to make their own choice for lunch. Yet the freedom was often what made him shy away.
The answer is no. It's always no. As it always should be.
He wonders if this would have been easier if he had been a killer to begin with. If he had been a soldier, or a policeman, or a serial killer.
As it stands, he had been a mechanic. And that made it no easier.
The only death he's ever known had been the loss of his parents. A pale and distant notion compared to waking from a stupor, with his teeth in some poor bastard's neck.
He opts for silence, his expression tormented even as he turns his head away from her. She might purr and plead as she likes, but he can hold his tongue.
Like a petulant child denied that which he truly desires, he guards his want with jealous hatred - memories of a stolen life seeping like tears from a fractured existence.
He still finds himself wondering when he will wake up from this nightmare.
The talking, that's progress. It's sad to see he's still in that bad hunor. It only draws her closer, mindlessly so, setting the point of her chin on his shoulder as she twists and ruffles his hair. "I was thinking dinner and a movie." It's like his tone doesn't faze her. "There's one of those nice old theaters on the edge of town. Or a bar, snice you're fond of those. Beer won't do much for you, but getting wasted isn't out of the question."
He wants to tell her where she can stick it. He wants to jerk away, scramble to the other side of the room. Hell, he'd settle for taking her goddamn throat out.
But he can't. He doesn't know how to even begin to fight the subservient compulsion that swims in his very veins now. It's all he can do to sit and wallow in his melancholy.
" And how many people gotta pay for your dinner? For your movie? "
The edge of his tone where once may have proven sharp as a knife is dull. Rusted. Words drag across gravel, his throat tight and his tongue heavy.
God, is he h u n g r y.
" How many people are going t'die tonight? "