ᴀʟʟ I ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ ɪs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʟɪғᴇ's ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ (open.)

[righteously]

Who: Dean Winchester & Others.
When: Post-Event.
Where: Cadens, the Horizon, Nocwich.
What: A catch-all of open & closed starters.
Warnings: A little grief, a little alcoholism, probably canon-typical violence and suicidal ideation. Mentions of fruit turbo-hell.

I ᴀɪɴ'ᴛ sᴇᴇᴋɪɴɢ sᴀʟᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
Nᴏᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴡᴏʀʀɪᴇᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴅᴀᴍɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
I ɢᴏᴛ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀs sᴜᴄʜ I ᴀɪɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴀsɪʟʏ ʟᴇᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ
Aʟʟ I ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴅᴏ ɪs ʙᴇ ᴄʟᴏsᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ
ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴡᴇ'ʀᴇ sᴛɪʟʟ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ.

Comments

[furibund]

Alternate reality.

[ She supplies helpfully, cutting through any other possibility. Perhaps, because she refuses to believe it's anything else. A hallucination seems a hell of a lot worse. ]

[ The drink becomes abandoned - perhaps only drank enough to be polite. Perhaps so she can stew on the response for a while longer. Attention drawn to the counter rather than him as she breathes out, offers half a shrug: ]

So all of this is for her then.

[ A statement, not a question. ]

[righteously]

( It only takes him a second of considering the question before he shakes his head. )

No, no, uh- not... not really.

( It feels a little vulnerable, exposing this the way he is. Talking about it. Kind of a Hallmark moment that he wouldn't normally have with a stranger, except she doesn't feel like a stranger, and he's... older, now. Older than he'd been when he thought this kind of honesty was uncomfortable. It's easier to give something away now.

So he settles on his stool across the bar from her, thumbs at his glass, and explains. )

The way I was raised... me and my brother, we didn't exactly have a normal upbringing. We didn't really have a home. We were always on the road, always moving from one fight to the next, and this place... Well, this place wasn't home either, but for a while it felt like it could have been.

( He laughs softly at himself, and murmurs: ) Probably doesn't make any sense.

[furibund]

[ The woman cocks her head in consideration. To her merit, she listens, even if she holds back a huff of a laugh. "Didn't exactly have a normal upbringing," is common fare around here. She doesn't say it, even if part of her still believes that no one was raised like she was. ]

[ She offers half a nod, mouth mirthful: ] Makes enough sense to me.

[ Matched with a shrug, she adds. ]

Hell if I knew what a home was. [ Was, she thinks she knows a little more now. ]

[righteously]

( They have something in common, then. A key point of relatability, outside of just being warriors. He remembers that about her, remembers that she was a figher, remember that she struggled with some of the same things he struggled with, but he doesn't remember much about her history. About her story. About her past.

And so, gently, he probes: )

You never did tell me much about it. Where you're from.

[furibund]

[ There's a pause, the empty sound of someone deciding if they wanted to say anything at all. She's not exactly been one to steer clear of her trauma if asked - or if not asked. She's a little better now, but that doesn't stop her from a lengthy breath: ]

Not much to tell.

[ Plantiffly: ] My home world and its people were destroyed when I was a child. I was too young to remember much about it.

[righteously]

( He stares for a pregnant, incredulous moment — and then promptly breaks the silence with an emphatic: )

Not much to tell?! Are you kidding me, that's like- that's huge much to tell. That's- everything to tell. Your home world was destroyed? By- what- a Death Star?

( Wrong franchise, Dean.

Still. That's a Big Freakin Deal. That's a whole ass traumatic backstory. Come on. )

[furibund]

Don't be stupid there's no such thing as a Death Star.

[ Immediate, clipped, clearly the focus of her thoughts for the moment. Her mouth a thin line. ]

You asked about my home, I didn't have one. The man who raised me was the same one who helped slaughter them. And his idea of a home wasn't one.

[ Clearly. ]

[righteously]

( Dean, having met Obi Wan Kenobi in this very bar nigh on a year ago, only offers a noncommittal mmmm at the insistence Death Stars aren't real. Look, he played the Cantina Song for a week straight to celebrate the occasion. Death Stars are as real as anything.

But that's not the point right now, and he refuses to let himself be sidetracked from the Lore Drop unfolding here.

The man who raised me-

His brow knits in a deep furrow. )

Wait, hang on, so- this guy... blows up your planet and your people, and then adopts you? That's-

( A lot, and it's a struggle not to say something insensitive as hell. )

[furibund]

[ Her mouth twitches wordlessly, like she stays her tongue in a way she might not once have. She takes a long drink, not for the taste of it or the effect but for the want of something to do. ]

He wasn't a good one, if that's what you mean.

[ Father. She hisses out low and solid, ] I was nothing more than a tool and he'd tell you I wasn't a good one. That he tried perfecting me for my benefit.

[ There is no mirth in her think bladed smile. ]
It was nothing more than torture.

[righteously]

( She takes a long drink, and nearily drains the contents — so he makes her a fresh drink while she talks. Something that might taste good, since the alcohol content itself doesn't seem to do much for her. Some tequila, some orange juice, some grenadine — a very pretty color gradient that ought to taste sweet, with just a little bit of bite. He garnishes it with an orange slice, and a fresh red drink umbrella. For pizzazz.

His love language is acts of service, shut up. )

I, uh... I get what you mean. Believe it or not. For a long time, that's- that's all I was. Daddy's blunt instrument.

( Those last three words he rattles off dryly, just a little toneless — it's clear he's quoting somebody else.

The smile he offers is small, and sad, and slightly pained. )

It's hard. Figuring out you get to be more than that. Realizing you get to choose who you are.

[furibund]

[ You can't keep giving her drinks maybe she was drinking it to be polite and make a swift escape!! Which is to say, she doesn't appear particularly eager to go for that other drink even if she watched him with a careful eye- acknowledges it even with a grunt. ]

[ There was a time where her immediate response would be a snarl: No one can get what she mean. Not even Gamora. Some part of her still feels it, though the anger no longer tinges everything the pain still does. The awareness of how little of her is left if she glimpses in a mirror. ]

[ No, people rarely knew the extent of it - understood it - unless she said. The closest one would be Rocket. That thought makes the lump in her throat hard and maybe she does need another drink. But she nods, a simple and short understanding thing. ]

[ The more evolved side of her says it doesn't matter; Declaring hers was worse is childish and lacks something... She knows all too well now the world is full of cruelty. Besides, she feels the desire to answer in another direction, low and deliberate: ]

I know who I am. [ Now, she means. ] If I'm to be a knife or a guardian, I will always choose being a guardian.

[ She does not go for the drink. Even if some part of her wants to take its contents now too - what was she? The Guardian of the Reassembled - something in the title of a life unlived makes her feel bitter. ]

[righteously]

( Objectively, distantly, he knows he has no right to feel proud of her. She's not really his little sister, they don't really have that dynamic — no matter how much those blurry impressions linger, no matter how much some weird, animal part of his hind-brain is half-convinced she is.

They're strangers. He's not entitled to feel anything in particular.

But he does, and he can't quite bite back the wide, approving smile that blooms over his features. )

Good. That's- that's good. That's great, actually. I'll drink to that.

( He raises his glass in a toast, and does exactly that - knocking back the contents, and then putting away the glass. One and done, and the right thing to spend it on, he thinks.

Choosing to be a shield instead of a blade is always, always the right call. )

[furibund]

[ It's not a life-changing statement. It's not an affirmation she hadn't felt in her heart for a while - she has. Even if her destination when she returns to her own galaxy is different (and she will return home, to all those children). Making a home for those who didn't have one was something etched in her heart now, a determination she wouldn't give up. ]

[ She drinks quietly before asking: ]

And what about you?

[righteously]

( Dean, never quite accustomed to being under the spotlight or the center of anyone's attention, shifts awkwardly at the question. Takes to wiping out glasses as a mild form of redirection, just for something to do. )

What about me?

[furibund]

[ The drink - or the cup, as it were - lies abandoned. She lets him deflect, wordlessly, and inclines her head with a shrug: ]

You asked me a question, I'm returning the favor.

[righteously]

( He's asked her a few questions, is the thing — mostly because he's good at deflecting, and the longer he keeps people talking about themselves, the less he has to share back. A quick recap of the last few he asked her play back in his mind, and he figures maybe she means the most recent: choosing who he is, whether he's a knife or a guardian.

The greater question of who he is, and what he stands for.

He scrubs a hand over his face, and turns his eyes distantly toward the Knife Chess board pinned to the far wall. )

I think... I think for a long time, people kept trying to make me a knife, and for a long time I believed them, but... I got to find out, recently. I got the chance to make that choice for myself, and... that's not me. I'm not a knife.

( Dean Winchester, the ultimate killer; no. God didn't get to decide that for him, and Castiel's words still ring through his mind; everything you've ever done, you've done for love.

He turns his eyes back to her, his lips pull up wryly, and he settles on: )

I'm a brother.