𝐼𝑛 𝐻𝑒𝑙𝑙, 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑦 ( open )

[righteously]

Who: Dean Winchester & Open.
When: April 1 - early May.
Where: Aquila; Cadens; The Horizon;
What: Demon shenanigans part 1 — featuring hobo'ing through the Horizon, hiding out in Aquila, and then returning to the Free Cities.
Warnings: Rated R for sexual content, demonic violence, psychological abuse, and suicidal ideation.

𝐻𝑒𝑙𝑙'𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑠, 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠-𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑠, 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑠 𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑠
𝐼𝑡 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑡, 𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑟𝑡, 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑟𝑡, 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑡, ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒
𝐴𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑠, 𝑖𝑛 𝐻𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑦
𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑔𝑜 𝑛𝑜 𝑓𝑢𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟
𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑑 𝑜𝑓, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑔𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑟
𝑃𝑢𝑠ℎ, 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑣𝑒, 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑
𝑂ℎ 𝐿𝑜𝑟𝑑, 𝐼 𝑎𝑖𝑛'𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢
𝑀𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒'𝑠 𝑎 𝑏𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟
𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟
𝐵𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑠 𝑘𝑛𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑦 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟
𝑂ℎ 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑒, 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼'𝑚 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑑𝑜

Comments

𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 ( 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛 )

[righteously]

( Well over a week after the survivors are pulled from the pit, after the hospital in Nocwich closes, after things begin to return to normal, a body washes up on the shores of the Aquila coast. It lies limp in the sand for hours, lifeless, until a sea bird gets curious enough to investigate. Shortly after its sharp beak begins to prod at flesh, the body moves.

With a cough, a choke, a splutter, salt water is forced out of his lungs. Not that he needs to breathe anymore, exactly.

One limb at a time, he rises. Tattered, water-logged, but utterly healed, Dean Winchester walks to the city of Aquila. He's there for nearly another week recovering, thinking, strategizing.

Also, drinking, fucking, and fighting.

Eventually, curiosity and the compulsion for chaos have him returning to the Horizon for the first time since he's been back. He does not go to the Roadhouse. He does not go to Kaer Morhen, or to any of the other places he might be welcome. As a matter of fact, the more recognizable a domain is to somebody he knows well, the more likely he is to avoid it.

Instead, he wanders through new places. New temples, new landscapes.

It's there you're likely to find him, visiting unannounced and without permission, exploring the outskirts, or wandering carefully deeper if he thinks he can get away with it. He won't apologize if he's caught. Instead, he'll just smirk, and nod. )

Nice place ya got here.

( If it seems like he isn't completely unwelcome — or if it seems like he is, but it could be interesting — he'll likely be a repeat visit that surfaces up again later in the week. )

[magicalarchaeologist]

( Where Dean finds himself is a tower of books, flors and shelves of them, and the front room looks not unlike a typical library. A large table, books on top of it that need to be shelved, and a tall man quietly but quickly writing down notes in an open book. It's beautiful in a way, but only to people who would find it so. Istredd is focused on what he's doing, he has been trying to make certain he gets down every detail he can about the Pit and the acolytes before trauma shuts parts of his mind down.

That is why he is actually startled when Dean speaks, glancing up with wide vivid blue eyes. Somewhere, all five of the ravens who live in there turn to look at Dean with cold eyes from different parts of the library. They slowly start to make their way down, eyes on him, but still at a distance.

Istredd is oblivious to that as he didn't actually create them and stands. He looks the way he always does in here, the changes in the Pit did not cross over into here. He has better mental control than that. He feels like he vaguely remembers the face, possibly from the escape, but Istredd passed out not long after he was on the turtle and was in and out of consciousness. He doesn't remember most of his saviors, outside of the blonde woman who was sitting next to him and deeply sad. )

Thank you. I consider it more of a public domain, it fills in with books anyone who walks in remembers. You're more than welcome to, uh, do the same, if you want.

[righteously]

( His eyes — green, for the moment — ping around the room. From the man to the ravens, to the shelves, then back to the man himself. A subtle smirk plays around his lips, like he's amused by something only he's privy to.

He ambles closer, lazy, loping like a house cat, trailing fingers along the shelves as he goes. )

Oh, I don't think you'd want the kinda books I read, but uh... I appreciate the aesthetic.

[magicalarchaeologist]

[ The hilarious part is that he reminds him of Lucifer in that moment. It's the smirk, the feline behavior, Lucifer's done that exact thing before when he goes past the shelves. Strange, but nothing important. Some people just have that sort of energy. The ravens are only two floors above them now, still all watching, but Istredd doesn't notice. They aren't his. ]

There aren't any books I don't want, but it's voluntary, obviously.

[ Not everyone wants to add, and that is fine. They can wander the shelves themselves if they want to. He smiles hesitantly at the man. A leosylph appears by their feet and curls around Istredd's legs, far more friendly and interested in Dean in a feline way, a pure black coloring with red eyes. The coloring isn't normal, but it's an inside joke. ]

I'm Istredd, from Thorne.

[righteously]

( The tragic reality of the situation is Dean and Lucifer have more in common than either of them would ever admit to, even if you had a gun to their heads. Never has it been more true than now, though arguably Lucifer would be more offended by the insinuation than normal — the son of a bitch hates demons. Screwed up, considering he created them.

Between the ravens and whatever the hell's curled up at this guy's feet, he's starting to wonder whether this is a library or a zoo.

A moment's debate passes, and then he slinks over to offer out a hand. )

Robert Plant.

( Faction unnamed. For now. )

[supersoldier]

[He's found himself, perhaps bafflingly (or perhaps not), in the sleek yet rather barren lobby of large, steel-colored building that reaches upwards towards a hazy nighttime sky. It is corporate clean, this place, perfectly designed to draw the eyes upwards to the set of stairs on either side that lead to the floor above.

Though, other than its somewhat futuristic (or at least, ambient-lit) ambiance, there is nothing notable to be seen here. Just a reception desk. Red banners bearing a foreign logo, strung up above. Shiny, shiny surfaces. The squeaking of leather boots on perfectly polished floors as the owner of this domain strides forward.

Brow furrowed, gaze rather placid. He's considering the other in a beat of silence, and then-]

There isn't much to see.

[righteously]

( Well, now. This is a change of pace from the normal fare he's been wandering through lately. There's a rather insidious sort of interest playing about his features, in the lines of his body, in the curve of his lips. )

Oh, now, don't sell yourself short.

( Don't mind him casually, slowly sauntering in the direction of one of those staircases. )

It's very Trek. I don't hate it.

[supersoldier]

[He's quiet again. Still. He stands too much at a distance to catch the minutiae of this man's expression to caution him, but perhaps Sephiroth is the sort of person who would entertain any stranger in a cool, vaguely distant manner.

His brows do knit together dimly, though.]

Trek?

[tfw you're a final fantasy and don't get these references]

It doesn't matter what you think. It isn't suited for visitors. And I'm not much of a host. Did you need something?

[righteously]

( Of course the guy doesn't know Trek. He'd be tempted to sigh, if he were still human. Now, like this, he's a little bit less invested in pop culture. The knowledge is there, but the passion is missing.

What he does have a passion for right now?

Chaos.

He's tempted as all hell to needle, to push — and he does so by draping himself lazily upon the stairs, legs sprawled out, elbow posted up on a higher step. Settling in, no intention of going anywhere. )

Just getting to know the neighbors. Don't think I caught your name?

i'm assuming that dean has visited the club at least once before bc they've both been here so long

[princessvegas]

[ The first time Dean drops in on Julie's club, she's not there. There's so much going on, she has to make time. But her club is jumping whether she's there or not -- there are more than enough people living there to constantly keep the party going. The music and lights don't stop, the liquor flows freely and endlessly. And Julie's people might be much more detailed and conscious than other Horizon creations, but they still aren't deep enough to remember Dean or question his presence. In fact, they love nothing more than dancing and taking selfies with him.

Steven, ever-present and omniscient within the club walls, greets him with a drink, as normal. But not by name.

It's not until later in the week, on a repeat visit, that Julie herself is present in the Horizon. She's in a booth at the back, scrolling through an iPad as her third, invisible hand takes notes on paper; she's loosely planning a party for next month, at least for those who were kidnapped. After once again delivering a drink, Steven appears next to her to inform her that Dean has arrived.

They share a concerned look. Dean has been declared dead. Half the Summoned are moping around over him, although Julie herself has not been particularly upset. The Roadhouse and his car remain, and though it's been pointed out to her that apparently forty people or something are all sharing that domain, she does not believe it would remain entirely intact without Dean's continued connection to the Singularity.

Disappearance affect domains, end of story. Her own domain used to technically be shared, connected by a doorway to Lloyd's Inferno. The space behind the bar, where there used to be a door, remains blank and empty. Something would be marking the Roadhouse like a scar if Dean were gone, in her opinion.

But he's still been missing. Not talking to anyone. Julie and Dean have never been close outside of the general orbit of their friend group, so she is... surprised to hear that he's come to her domain in this situation.

There's a stitch in her brow when she approaches, all shimmering gold and glittering crystals. ] Dean? What are you doin' here?

he has! he grilled at it on 4th of july

[righteously]

( Julie's club? Is exactly his scene right now. It's a risk, he knows, considering her proximity to Geralt — but the more time passes, the more summoned that spot him, the less he's starting to care about keeping the cat in the bag. He's bored, there's an inky black instinct in him that craves chaos, that craves indulgence, that craves the kind of depravity that's hard to find in this medieval magical setting.

Julie's club comes close.

He's dressed differently than his usual Horizon attire of flannel and jeans. Now, he wears something a little more fitting of the setting — a three-piece suit, but lacking a tie, and with the top button undone. A little more ruffled, like somebody you'd see doing coke off a mirror in a five star motel bar.

He doesn't seem upset to see her. In fact, his lips quirk up on one side, and he offers a hand out to her — an offer to dance. )

Same as everybody else.

( With a pointed nod at the NPCs currently ignoring their presence. )

Having a good time.

[princessvegas]

[ Julie has never seen Dean in nice clothing. That's the part that she's hung up on, even more than his supposed death. It's just jarring, like seeing your fifth grade teacher on a date -- unexpected. And she is smart enough to know that something is going on here, but she can't really tell what.

(If he would like to do cocaine, there are copious amounts of it being passed around the club. There always are.)

Her head tilts with lingering confusion, but she takes his hand. Almost like an instinct, something automatic. In the back of her head, unbidden, there's a flicker, an awakening. She doesn't realize it. ]

Okay, but you haven't been talkin' to anyone. [ Far be it from Julie to judge the act of sinking into hedonism to block out a near-death experience. But it's still a courtesy to make sure people know it was near-death. ] You're all right?

[righteously]

( She takes his hand; he reels her in swiftly and confidently, tucking one of her hands in his shoulders and settling the other nice and low on her waist. The music playing now ain't hardly a slow dancing song, but he eases them into a lazy rhythm regardless. It's a little jarring, the contrast between what they're doing and the music that's playing. Unsettling, intimate. )

Better, now. ( He tilts his head, considering. Nods it at her. ) I'm talking to you, aren't I? Who gives a shit about anybody else?

[ushiri]

Kahlil's temple is always open to familiar faces and strangers alike, for the most part. Anyone is free to wander the outer grounds to pick fruit or enjoy the sound of the gentle stream that circles the structure. They can enter the massive, open doors and gaze up at the iron tree or the glass dome into a daylight or starry sky. They can drink tea or peruse books on the shelves, though almost all of them are blank.

It's later in the month that Kahlil spends more time here, when he can be found - when fate decides that he's meant to meet whoever has wandered in today. Dressed in a grey cassock he's kneeling by the base of the tree when he hears and feels someone enter. Recognizes the voice too, though he can't completely place it until he stands and turns to face him. Dean. The one who runs the bar. The cursed man. He hasn't thought about him in the past month, not with everything else demanding his attention.

"If you're looking for the gas station it's next door," he says casually, cocking his head to the side. There's no immediate tension or anything to give away that he knows there's something not quite right with this man. There's nothing Kahlil has to fear from him in his domain. Dean doesn't even know his connection to Lucifer, as far as he knows. It's even possible Dean doesn't remember him, it's been a long while since he's stopped by the Roadhouse - but he imagines he's the type of man with a sharp memory.

"Long time no see."

[righteously]

Look, could anyone really blame him? Could they? Isn't it just — obvious? Low-hanging fruit? The guy's dressed like a priest. Dean's a demon. This is practically a penthouse forum letter waiting to happen. It's imperative, he knows it as soon as he sets eyes on the guy.

It's an obligation in the eyes of whichever god this dude worships. He has to fuck this guy, for the blasphemy, for the irony, for the vine.

"Howdy, stranger," he greets pleasantly. In one hand, a crystal fruit taken from Kyle's tree. He brings it to his lips. Takes a bite as he ambles closer. He gestures vaguely at Kyle with what remains of it. "Hope I'm not interrupting?"

If something seems particularly predatory about his Vibe, well, that's probably all in Kyle's imagination.

consolidating with cas' network post

[ushiri]

His gaze follows the fruit to his lips to his gaze. There's something off. It nags at his memory until -

"Your friend was looking for you."

Castiel. His brow furrows slightly. He thought Dean had been drowned by a beast in the ocean. Or, rather, he saw Dean get pulled under the water, but believed beyond hope that he was still alive. And, apparently is. He hasn't heard or seen of Castiel since - he must already know by now.

[vixening]

[ what he wanders into doesn't feel like much at all. it is a countryside, or at least part of one, until it shifts to something else. the grass all around him starts to turn, curl, and somehow both seamlessly and suddenly it is a cliff facing an ocean, and then desert sands. whether or not dean (or whoever it is that's strolled into this domain) realizes, he is getting a very succinct, summarized version of 'the continent' from where yennefer is from. most of it will definitely be unfamiliar to him, settings and locations and places that yennefer has spent her eight decades of life, but it is possible he might catch a view of a mountainside. something that could, perhaps, hold within it a glimpse of kaer morhen, if he looks hard enough.

or, perhaps, he doesn't look that closely at all. perhaps he will just wait for the rolling hills and growing mountains and filling and then emptying lakes to settle. it won't take long before it all calms down to a field, ankle-high grass, blue skies.

yennefer is there - because of course she is. the moment she felt someone enter she locked the door to her classroom and sat back. what the intruder will see now is a woman, long black dress catching the gentle breeze, and violet eyes somewhere between annoyed, curious, and exhausted. ]

And you weren't invited. Leave.

[righteously]

( It is, in a word, trippy. The real, human, flesh-and-blood version of the creature stalking her lands might have colorful commentary about it. Might be thrown by it, even. Probably would've cut his losses sometime around the ocean-facing cliff.

This version of the man doesn't. He wanders, a slow and curious amble, extra-human senses alight like they're seeing more colors on the visible spectrum than the naked eye should be able to perceive.

Magic and mountains.

Powerful and pretty.

A few of those words apply to the woman rather than the landscape. Her lack of welcome earns her nothing but a smirk, and between one blink and the next, green eyes shutter over to a consuming, encompassing black. )

Or.... what? Where's your hospitality, gorgeous?

[vixening]

[ some part of yennefer can respect the fact he continues to wander. that he is not dissuaded by the constant shift, that the extreme change in landscape does not scare him aware. there may even be a part of her that sees it for what it is - bravery, edging on stupidity. then again, perhaps, that part of her won't recognize it at all, and will instead simply feel invaded.

no one stays in this place for long. it's built that way. created to be as such. and in the fact of that, his easy wander and his curled smirk earns him an equal response - a curious tilt of her head, a wondering lift of her brow. has she seen him before? the summoned are few in number in comparison to the rest of the continent, and yet... ]

I don't care for guests where they are unwanted. So unless you have some purpose here, I would continue walking.

[ because that's the thing, isn't it? any limitation she may have in thorne, anything that the singularity may or may not allow her access to, it does not matter in the singularity. she is a master of this domain, and as such, the are around them responds - the gently flowing breeze picking up, the sky above them darkening in that slow, ominous sort of way.

a threat, in every way but verbal. ]

[thedevilwhorose]

[It's almost like he's done something(s) wrong in his life for this to happen to him.] News of your death was greatly exaggerated.

[Lucifer is sitting cross-legged on a patch of ice that connects back to the beach, pockets of snow over sand. The red lake is currently half frozen, but below where he sits instead of more red there is a weaving pattern of colors almost like an aurora. Lucifer has a hand pressed close to the ice, carving nonsense with a fingernail, almost looking like he's painting because with every curve and coil of a symbol the contained color changes.

He's working, thanks. Go away.] Predictable, really. I told Geralt you couldn't die. So strange that people don't believe me when I tell them the truth! [Almost like he's the Deceiver.

He does not shift around to face Dean despite how much he very much needs to.

Because whatever that is behind him? Oh, that is not currently human. Shouldn't be a demon either though so that's. Real damn fascinating.] How's it going, Dean?

[righteously]

( Dean, when flesh and blood and soul properly, fears Lucifer almost as much as he hates the guy. Provoking him, drawing his attention, willingly existing in his space? Completely unthinkable.

That man is dead, and something else stands in his place: a little shit. A fucking chaos gremlin.

A bored chaos gremlin, jonesing for entertainment and coming up short. His brilliant idea? Poke the bear. Tickle the sleeping dragon. Screw with Satan. Shits and giggles, thy name is-

Go away; nah. He ambles closer, one deliberately slow step after another. )

Oh, you know. ( He shrugs one casual, absent shoulder. ) Can't complain. Easy, breezy, beautiful, Covergirl.

( He slows to a stop just a foot or two from Lucifer's side, head cocked, staring down at the colors as they change and shift.

Cute work, Van Gogh. )

You got it a little wrong, though, sweetheart. I definitely died. ( He tips his head to one side, a short concession — and as he does, his eyes flicker black. ) I got better.

[thedevilwhorose]

I hope it was excessively painful. [Dying.

Please, give him that much at least.

Not that he expects Dean to tell him.]

That's disgusting, Dean. [He genuinely looks disgusted, too. It isn't just words. Lucifer despises demon kind and this just waltzed into his domain? Screw you, man.] I feel unclean just looking at you.

[takeatrip]

[Jayden's domain is calm today, the skies partially cloudy, and so the doors to the hotel are propped open. And while Jayden hardly ever actually expects anyone to visit his domain, leaving the doors open means it's always possible, and so he isn't bothered when he senses Dean's presence.

He's lurking in the lounge, sitting at the piano but not playing it, attention having shifted when he sensed a stranger in his domain, but he doesn't make any particular move just yet. Instead he lets Dean explore a little, at least until he's noticed and Dean makes his comment about the place being nice.]

Thanks.

[The response to the compliment is polite enough, but distracted; Dean looks very, very vaguely familiar, like Jayden might've seen his face before, but he can't place where.]

I don't think we've met?

[righteously]

( Maybe this'll wind up being a lesson for Jayden — open doors invite trouble. You never know what could wander in.

In this instance, it's a denim-wrapped flannel-clad fuckboy. As it just so happens, aforementioned bored fuckboy is drawn to things like hotel lounges. They usually have bars, and they're attached to a place with beds. It's convenient.

When he ambles Jayden's direction, it's with a nice, full glass of whiskey in one hand and a curious quirk to one eyebrow. )

Probably not.

( He muses, giving Jayden a too-thorough once-over. The feeling's mutual, he thinks he's maybe seen this face before, but nowhere in his mind does he have a name to pair with it. He doesn't immediately ask for one, either. Instead, he nods his head at the piano. )

You just gonna sit there, or you gonna play that thing, Billie Joel?

( Get it? Because... piano man. )

[takeatrip]

[To be fair, Jayden already tends to regrets being open to any sort of social interaction, so this might just end up being par for the course.

And the main reason for that is usually that he often has trouble navigating conversations if they don't have to do with his work, especially if the person he's talking with acts in some way he isn't expecting. Both are the case here, and while the profiler side of Jayden notes things--presumptuousness, the avoidance giving a name, the appraising look--he much prefers to analyze those sorts of things from a distance rather than in the midst of a conversation.

The Billie Joel thing gets a briefly unimpressed look, but his response is neutral and polite.]

I'm nowhere near good enough to be playin' for an audience.

[It's not really true--he's no master pianist, but he's perfectly competent at songs he's practiced--but it's an easy way to refuse without sounding petulant, and thankfully he's used the excuse before so it's easy to bring to mind. As if to punctuate the refusal, he stands up and makes his way to the bar for a drink himself; he could just summon one, but this gives him something to do with his hands while he navigates the conversation.]

Explorin' the Horizon?