He doesn't know where we are. Doesn't seem like he's full strength, either. He's definitely from some time after we shoved him back into the cage.
He's in Thorne.
I told Geralt about him, I figure we could use the hands if something happens, but the way I figure it... the second we go announcing his deal to the world at large is the second he doesn't have any reason to keep a low profile. We're gonna have to play it careful.
Alright, fine. Tell Sam, but make sure he knows to keep it hush-hush. I don't want this thing spreading like wildfire, or we're gonna get burned.
I'll start laying down some warding around the inn at least. You see if Sam wants any help sticking some up in his domain in the horizon on the off chance. We'll go from there.
I'll take the necessary precautions. Eventually, warding will be a non-issue. Especially not knowing what he's capable of considering the scope of my own ability.
[It's disconcerting, to say the least when he's contacted abruptly by Dean following the festivities. He'd gone out of his way to hide the truth of his departure or "dream," but ultimately given that they shared a room he was waiting for Dean to catch on. To have noticed the wrinkle in his bed or his absence that was more prolonged than normal. He no longer fluttered around the inn like a moth to a flame, little changes, insignificant to most but not to them. Not to a hunter who he'd spent the better part of a decade with.
Castiel appears abruptly after Dean's last message. No sign the door had even opened beyond a gust of air, the flutter of some wings. His usual tunic and trousers don't hang as slack on him as they used to. He looks around, for some kind of assailant, assessing the room for any threats.]
( He hasn't cottoned on yet. Give him a little time and he will. For better or worse, the Singularity does favors to people who dream of their futures. The lines, the wrinkles, the aging, they don't come through with the dream. Only small things. Scars. Weight, perhaps. Castiel's vessel doesn't tip him off just yet, and he hasn't had enough exposure to the changes in personality growth to pick up on it.
He's also, you know, a little distracted. )
Watch.
( He says urgently, and stands there with his hands up, eyes squeezing shut. Expectant.
Nothing happens. For, like, an awkwardly long time.
He cracks an eye open. Scowls. )
Just- wait. Hang on.
( He mutters under his breath something along the lines of come on, you son of a bitch. Eyes squeeze shut harder, concentrating.
And then it happens.
They fold out from behind his shoulder blades as though they've always been there, rustling, large. An unwieldy fifteen foot wingspan that stretches out automatically because he doesn't have great impulse control with them. It sends whiskey bottles and books careening off of the table, clattering messily to the floor. The other one thunks against the wall.
[Castiel's not sure what to make of Dean and his frankly bizarre behavior in the moments between screwing his face up and the unfurling of his impressive wingspan. He has to step back to have the sweeping ends of the feathers narrowly miss him and even then they brush past his brow, blow back the edges of his hair and ruffle the tunic he'd spent time trying to press that very morning.
None of that registers. Castiel's taken aback by the full vision of them, sturdy, proportionate everything where it should be. A real work of art. If Castiel's own wings weren't metaphysical the length and width of Dean's would come close to rivaling his own in stature.
He's grateful it's this, another peculiarity of Abraxas and not something worse. Not something so pressing it put them in danger.]
Interesting.
[It's probably not the words that Dean is looking to hear, but Castiel's still processing what he's seeing with his lips firm and his brow fixed firmly over his nose.
He pushes one hand into the place where Dean's feathers meet what would be the radius of a common bird and pushes the tips of his fingers into the very real, very responsive feathers there.]
( So far, he hasn't had what you might call gentle handling with these wings. The first time they popped out, they got slammed into a tree and Lucifer rammed a spear through them. In the short space of time since then, whenever they've manifested it's been like this — bursting into the environment, slamming into crap, generally being unpleasant.
Cas slipping a hand in there is probably the first non-awful touch he's felt through them, and... it's freakin' weird. Uncomfortably weird. Way easier to handle this when they suck and he hates them. The feathers twitch, ruffling beneath his hand, but with a consternated face he manages to stifle their movements again. )
Hell no, what do I look like, a bird? ( In the same breath, without missing a beat: ) Don't answer that.
[Castiel hasn't made note of the wound yet if it's still there to be surveyed. He's much too preoccupied with the sheer physical size of them and the natural progression toward what they might be capable of. He can feel tendons and ligatures in his massaging sweep of the area. They were for much more than show.]
No. You don't. More like ... Hermes? Maybe. I'm out of touch with the pagan deities. You'd have better luck finding a point of comparison from someone else.
You might not think you can fly, but it looks like - [Castiel grips the area behind the scapular feathers, not too roughly, but firmly enough to get a sense of weight.] you might be anatomically capable of it.
( Shockingly, he doesn't take Hermes as much of an improvement over bird. Go friggin' figure. Safe to assume he's not gonna go hunting down anybody for better neat pagan deity trivia.
Cas grips at muscle and cartilage, firm but not painful, and the feathers rustle beneath his hand. Twitching, a kind of involuntary, animalistic shiver. He pulls a disgruntled face, fighting back the temptation to yoink his wing back in so he doesn't have to acknowledge how much it... doesn't... suck. )
Seriously?
( Granted, yeah, it's not exactly a mind-blowing concept, but it's just... bizarre, trying to conceptualize it. )
You know what, doesn't matter. Tell me you got some kind of... spell or angel hoodoo that can make these go away and stay gone.
[Castiel removes his hands after the assessment and leaves them at his sides. It's a magnificent view, to be truthful, and while he'd always found beauty in Dean for all the very human reasons he admired him this took that beauty to an ethereal level. The wings themselves might not be angelic in nature, but they were robust and powerful all the same and meant to be revered. His blue eyes move from his wingspan to his face, brows still furrowed.]
It certainly looks like it. [The follow-up throws Castiel for a moment and his lips part, trying to find the words or some inkling of an idea that never comes.] My healing, as you know, is limited here. I'm not certain it would work. It might abate them, but I'm not sure it would rid you of them altogether.
[ Jo spots him at the end of the bar and makes her way down, taking in his posture and focus. It's a quiet thing. Habit. From the Roadhouse, and other midway bartender stints on the road, and now back here, again, in the ghost of her house Dean built for himself.
She put a hand on her side of the bar lightly. ]
You know, losing yourself at a bar is usually better with a beer, right?
[Dean's horizon was far preferable to the idea of creating his own. Even if he were to replicate the bunker the details wouldn't be as vivid or as warm without Sam present, or for that matter Jack.
Castiel's aware of her presence before he acknowledges it before she speaks, and the palm that had been lying beside an open book curls into the wood of the counter when she addresses him. He meets her gaze with softness in his eyes, he liked Jo and her mother, in the brief time he spent in their company. That was before he'd come to realize a lot of things, and having the wisdom of experience on his side now he would have preferred a reality where they didn't have to martyr themselves.]
I'm not lost, but I'll take a beer if you're offering.
[ It says something, whether Cas knows it or not, that she doesn't hesitate, doesn't balk, doesn't tell him he can get it himself, there's no one to stop him. She rounds that bar she doesn't often right now, and goes to get him a beer. She adds a bottle of whiskey and glass into the hold of her hands when she frowns absently down at the counter. There's a gash there. Revarnished sliver in the wrong color, smoothed down so that a finger can't tell the difference. But she remembers. A crate smashed into that spot. Small things keep sliding in. Things Dean was never there long enough to know, no less be unable to forget.
She doesn't know what to do with the thought each of these is another fingerprint on the proof they're sharing, and what she knows deeper than breathing around this place is starting to bleed out even though she's not thinking about making it happen. It just keeps shifting to what it was, what she'd always know. With a shake of her head, Jo walks away from the bottle wall. Everything gets set down in front of him, and she reaches for a bottle opener, popping it before holding it out. ]
[Castiel's face screws up around the words and the olive branch that he has to offer Jo. It's not much, but it's something. He would have said reflective in the company of someone else, but Jo being someone he enjoyed being around and a casualty of a fight that she shouldn't have had to be a part of made him more open in contrast.]
Thank you. [After being given the bottle Castiel raises it to her in a small show of gratitude before bringing it to his lips. He preferred the white alcohols, the stuff like Rum, Vodka, and Tequila but he didn't mind beer. A mainstay in the bunker, something always on hand especially when around Dean.]
[ It's a soft acknowledgment of his thanks and maybe the words before it, and Jo takes her time unscrewing the cap and pouring herself two fingers into the glass. She leaves the bottle to their side open. There might be more, and it might be an invitation if the needs is greater than her first offer. She doesn't lift the glass just yet, leaving it between her hands, even as its scent starts to filter into the air.
It's a little strange to find herself slipping back into old shoes. (Even when she knows it's not. It's not the same. Her home is still gone. Her family. Her. This is just a dream made solid around her, and she keeps finding herself briefly slipping into being part of it). ]
So. [ Jo tilted her cup at him, rim only barely touching the counter still. ]
[The small acknowledgment isn't one that goes unnoticed by Castiel, his experience with Jo being somewhat limited but valuable all the same. He admired her spirit, and her resolve, something she shared in common with Dean. The hunter's life rarely made exceptions for less. To live in such a way that person had to be resilient and clever by nature.
He lifts his beer to her, after a short inspection of the label. Vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough to comment on.]
The latter, but they aren't of import. Not here. Not in this singularity.
[ Something complicated wasn't any kind of a surprise. Not given he's here at the bar, at the end, on his own. No Dean or anyone else around him, just seeing whatever this was through to already. Jo doesn't mind, though, either. This used to be so much of what she did; she's still navigating whether it still can be. She took a drink, savoring the sharp burn down her throat. ]
That more like 'not here in the Horizon' or more like, not here on this weird new world?
[Being on his own doesn't make much of a difference for Castiel, he's been alone in one way or another much of his life. Heard all the ways that he was isolated, and different, and how those things alienated him.
Now, moments of solitude brought him solace. In the absence of Jack, of everything he'd known when he'd first set foot in the Free Cities he sought it out on purpose never expecting he'd have company despite it.]
[ Jo knows there's still more there, where he said not here, but she's also good at knowing when to push for more and when not to push at all. There was a lot about this bar, and all the people who sat on the stools on the other side of it for decades that came down to know which of those to do at the right moment.
Which isn't this one, so Jo nods. Easy smooth. It slides just as smoothly as anything with it. ]
And what do you make of this 'weird little world' we've all fallen into?
[What's unsaid always hangs heavy in the air around him. He's been dealing with his own truth, the future no one else had experienced quite yet and in many ways, it brought him peace, not grief.
A lie by omission was still a lie, but informing anyone of the years missed and the constant suffering within them was a burden, not a blessing. Castiel knew all too well the cost of telling someone their 'destiny.']
Like any other. It has its rules and its risks. I should be asking you that though. You seem to have settled in nicely.
Give me a door, and I'll be gone before you can say "hey."
[ Which sounds flippant and off cuff maybe—and Jo knows Dean would try to bolt her feet to the floor—but that doesn't stop it not being a lie. She knows she's supposed to die, and it's not that chasing that death; it's that this place? This isn't what she signed up for. This isn't what she walked out for. This isn't the job she wanted in every fiber of her body to be doing any sacrifice had become acceptable for the continuation of holding back a drop of the endless dark. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a few days before the event
I'll give you a hint: you're not gonna love the family reunion
no subject
Family is as vague as hints come. I have a lot of brothers and sisters.
no subject
no subject
How much does he know?
no subject
He's in Thorne.
I told Geralt about him, I figure we could use the hands if something happens, but the way I figure it... the second we go announcing his deal to the world at large is the second he doesn't have any reason to keep a low profile. We're gonna have to play it careful.
no subject
I think we should inform Sam, as well, but I can handle that. We may need to reinforce some of the wardings that are already in place.
I'm not eager to give him any more attention than necessary but none at all will herald the same end result.
no subject
I'll start laying down some warding around the inn at least. You see if Sam wants any help sticking some up in his domain in the horizon on the off chance. We'll go from there.
no subject
Eventually, warding will be a non-issue. Especially not knowing what he's capable of considering the scope of my own ability.
post nocwich
buddy
I need you
I need you to tell me what I'm looking at here, I'm freaking out
no subject
Can you give me a description?
no subject
no subject
no subject
action;
Castiel appears abruptly after Dean's last message. No sign the door had even opened beyond a gust of air, the flutter of some wings. His usual tunic and trousers don't hang as slack on him as they used to. He looks around, for some kind of assailant, assessing the room for any threats.]
Dean. What is it?
no subject
He's also, you know, a little distracted. )
Watch.
( He says urgently, and stands there with his hands up, eyes squeezing shut. Expectant.
Nothing happens. For, like, an awkwardly long time.
He cracks an eye open. Scowls. )
Just- wait. Hang on.
( He mutters under his breath something along the lines of come on, you son of a bitch. Eyes squeeze shut harder, concentrating.
And then it happens.
They fold out from behind his shoulder blades as though they've always been there, rustling, large. An unwieldy fifteen foot wingspan that stretches out automatically because he doesn't have great impulse control with them. It sends whiskey bottles and books careening off of the table, clattering messily to the floor. The other one thunks against the wall.
It is
not.
graceful. )
no subject
None of that registers. Castiel's taken aback by the full vision of them, sturdy, proportionate everything where it should be. A real work of art. If Castiel's own wings weren't metaphysical the length and width of Dean's would come close to rivaling his own in stature.
He's grateful it's this, another peculiarity of Abraxas and not something worse. Not something so pressing it put them in danger.]
Interesting.
[It's probably not the words that Dean is looking to hear, but Castiel's still processing what he's seeing with his lips firm and his brow fixed firmly over his nose.
He pushes one hand into the place where Dean's feathers meet what would be the radius of a common bird and pushes the tips of his fingers into the very real, very responsive feathers there.]
And you can fly?
no subject
Cas slipping a hand in there is probably the first non-awful touch he's felt through them, and... it's freakin' weird. Uncomfortably weird. Way easier to handle this when they suck and he hates them. The feathers twitch, ruffling beneath his hand, but with a consternated face he manages to stifle their movements again. )
Hell no, what do I look like, a bird? ( In the same breath, without missing a beat: ) Don't answer that.
no subject
No. You don't. More like ... Hermes? Maybe. I'm out of touch with the pagan deities. You'd have better luck finding a point of comparison from someone else.
You might not think you can fly, but it looks like - [Castiel grips the area behind the scapular feathers, not too roughly, but firmly enough to get a sense of weight.] you might be anatomically capable of it.
no subject
Cas grips at muscle and cartilage, firm but not painful, and the feathers rustle beneath his hand. Twitching, a kind of involuntary, animalistic shiver. He pulls a disgruntled face, fighting back the temptation to yoink his wing back in so he doesn't have to acknowledge how much it... doesn't... suck. )
Seriously?
( Granted, yeah, it's not exactly a mind-blowing concept, but it's just... bizarre, trying to conceptualize it. )
You know what, doesn't matter. Tell me you got some kind of... spell or angel hoodoo that can make these go away and stay gone.
no subject
It certainly looks like it. [The follow-up throws Castiel for a moment and his lips part, trying to find the words or some inkling of an idea that never comes.] My healing, as you know, is limited here. I'm not certain it would work. It might abate them, but I'm not sure it would rid you of them altogether.
{ ι'м gσηηα ƒιη∂ мє, α нσℓє ιη тнє ωαℓℓ
She put a hand on her side of the bar lightly. ]
You know, losing yourself at a bar is usually better with a beer, right?
no subject
Castiel's aware of her presence before he acknowledges it before she speaks, and the palm that had been lying beside an open book curls into the wood of the counter when she addresses him. He meets her gaze with softness in his eyes, he liked Jo and her mother, in the brief time he spent in their company. That was before he'd come to realize a lot of things, and having the wisdom of experience on his side now he would have preferred a reality where they didn't have to martyr themselves.]
I'm not lost, but I'll take a beer if you're offering.
no subject
[ It says something, whether Cas knows it or not, that she doesn't hesitate, doesn't balk, doesn't tell him he can get it himself, there's no one to stop him. She rounds that bar she doesn't often right now, and goes to get him a beer. She adds a bottle of whiskey and glass into the hold of her hands when she frowns absently down at the counter. There's a gash there. Revarnished sliver in the wrong color, smoothed down so that a finger can't tell the difference. But she remembers. A crate smashed into that spot. Small things keep sliding in. Things Dean was never there long enough to know, no less be unable to forget.
She doesn't know what to do with the thought each of these is another fingerprint on the proof they're sharing, and what she knows deeper than breathing around this place is starting to bleed out even though she's not thinking about making it happen. It just keeps shifting to what it was, what she'd always know. With a shake of her head, Jo walks away from the bottle wall. Everything gets set down in front of him, and she reaches for a bottle opener, popping it before holding it out. ]
So, if this look isn't getting lost, what is it?
no subject
[Castiel's face screws up around the words and the olive branch that he has to offer Jo. It's not much, but it's something. He would have said reflective in the company of someone else, but Jo being someone he enjoyed being around and a casualty of a fight that she shouldn't have had to be a part of made him more open in contrast.]
Thank you. [After being given the bottle Castiel raises it to her in a small show of gratitude before bringing it to his lips. He preferred the white alcohols, the stuff like Rum, Vodka, and Tequila but he didn't mind beer. A mainstay in the bunker, something always on hand especially when around Dean.]
no subject
[ It's a soft acknowledgment of his thanks and maybe the words before it, and Jo takes her time unscrewing the cap and pouring herself two fingers into the glass. She leaves the bottle to their side open. There might be more, and it might be an invitation if the needs is greater than her first offer. She doesn't lift the glass just yet, leaving it between her hands, even as its scent starts to filter into the air.
It's a little strange to find herself slipping back into old shoes. (Even when she knows it's not. It's not the same. Her home is still gone. Her family. Her. This is just a dream made solid around her, and she keeps finding herself briefly slipping into being part of it). ]
So. [ Jo tilted her cup at him, rim only barely touching the counter still. ]
And are these good thoughts? Or bad thoughts?
Or complicated in the middle ones?
no subject
He lifts his beer to her, after a short inspection of the label. Vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough to comment on.]
The latter, but they aren't of import. Not here. Not in this singularity.
no subject
no subject
Now, moments of solitude brought him solace. In the absence of Jack, of everything he'd known when he'd first set foot in the Free Cities he sought it out on purpose never expecting he'd have company despite it.]
This weird new world, as you put it.
no subject
no subject
A lie by omission was still a lie, but informing anyone of the years missed and the constant suffering within them was a burden, not a blessing. Castiel knew all too well the cost of telling someone their 'destiny.']
Like any other. It has its rules and its risks. I should be asking you that though. You seem to have settled in nicely.
no subject