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

[righteously]

He doesn't deserve this — that's his first thought as Blake winds his arms around Dean in an embrace. For a guilty moment, all he can do is just sit there, receiving absolution and acceptance that he hasn't earned, hating himself for finding comfort in it because a good man wouldn't. And then the toxic patterns of his brain give way just a little, a product of the meager amount of growth he's allowed himself in his nearly two years of developing personal relationships in this place.

And slowly, he winds his arms around Blake back, reciprocating — but still hesitant. It hasn't been that much growth.

With his hands gently on Blake's biceps, with his mouth somewhere against the fabric of Blake's shoulder, he murmurs, "I was gonna kill you. That day in Aquila."

Rip the bandage off. Just say it. The most honest way to do it is like that, and then let the explanation follow.

"I was cursed. It was a- a mark, that followed me from back home, I was corrupted. I wasn't me. I was somethin' else, and I would have killed every single person I could have gotten away with, if Geralt and Ciri hadn't cured me. That day, it was gonna be you."

[oversight]

Blake doesn't move, his form like a simple but secure scaffold for Dean's outpouring of regrets. It's another familiar sensation, like a curdled stomach, that spawns upon understanding the magnitude of the confession.

"That day? I might've let you," he admits, his voice laden with guilt. "I wasn't— me, either." What had returned from that pit was a husk of a man. And the person who had formed a life with Dean wasn't him, either. To that thought, has Blake ever been his true self? What came out of that portal, naked and confused, could be a slug with a magical personality implant designed to think it's John Blake.

(Is it worth even wondering? 800 years says, This is just another bump in a very long road. And it's not bad advice, really.)

"But we're both here. Still here," he points out, pulling back to look Dean in the eyes. A ferocity of will lives behind his tired gaze and the gentlest of twitches solidifies into a sliver of a smile. He rests a hand against Dean's head, fingers gathered at his nape and thumb briefly scrubbing at his hair. "That means a lot. It's not nothin', okay? I'm here 'cause I wanna be, and I— I can't not be a—" He huffs. "—a shelter from the storm."

And that's maybe the end of that. Proof positive that Blake sees this — whatever they want to categorize it as, be it a relationship, or a matter of convenience and desperation wrapped in a shell of friendship — as worth the risks posed by their chaotic environment.

[righteously]

But we're both here. Still here.

It feels hollow, a little. He appreciates the sentiment, he understands it, he knows Blake is right — but at the same time, he also remembers the vivid pain of being thrust backward onto that rebar spike. He remembers the life leaving his body. He remembers the edges of his vision going dark. He remembers dying. He shouldn't be here.

He's not sure if he wants to still be here. But that's too big a sentiment to bring up here and now, in front of Blake. He swallows it, and lets it disappear back into his own bloodstream instead.

At least one of them has a ferocity of will; it can't be Dean right now. All he can offer is a tight, sad smile made up mostly of quiet gratitude.

"You're crazy, you know that?" He muses, a little hoarse — but it sounds fond. If you listen closely.