hadriel_logs | the taste of blood

Entry tags:

the taste of blood

Who: Dean & YOU
What: The Mark of Cain Compels You. as in it compels dean. to kill things.
Where: the caves & around the caves & heading back to the spires (dean lives in spire 1, room 501 so feel free to bump into him around there, too)
When: right now!
Warnings: gore, violence, blood, dean being dean.

There was only so much Dean could take of the constant screaming in his mind. Only so much he could withstand when it came to the compulsions he faced on a second by second basis, the ones that forced him to question his every move, his every breath. Every face he passed was an opportunity to kill and every moment was one he wasted not handling the needs that lay crawling under his skin. It was something he told Sammy nothing about because he was fully aware that it was wrong, that all he would do was worry and mull and try to come up with a solution that didn't exist. Because if there was something that Dean knew, it was that there was none. And the only solution, the only one that meant he would stay alive, was to find something to kill.

He'd heard about the caves, brief explanations of the monsters that crawled within. And so he finally decided, after being here for too long without reprieve, left to flickering memories of Leviathan and Purgatory, to take care of what needed to be taken care of.

Making his way to the edge of Hadriel, it took nothing to dip inside the caves and begin to hunt. It wasn't a rare thing for him to go looking for monsters; there was no inkling of the fear that should likely have existed riding the pulse found in his throat. But it was the first one he stumbled upon that made the world around him vanish, that made nothing but the beast in front of him stark and real and necessary to demolish. His demon blade made in appearance in seconds flat and as the cat like creature pounced, he was quick to jam it into its underbelly, wrenching his fist and slicing through skin and muscle, blood immediately pouring over his fingers, down his wrist, soaking beneath his jacket.

It was only the beginning.

Anything he couldn't kill straight off, couldn't demolish with a blade took a shot to the head, blood spattering across the cave walls, a fine most of it hanging in the air. The rest he gored, struck through, tore open - any flesh he could sink into was decimated to the best of his ability. It was a constant rush, his heart crammed up somewhere into the back of his throat as he killed until he could find nothing else. He reeked of death, of remnants and innards and his boots stuck to the floor with sticky, congealed messes. He was soaked with his own need to kill and finally, by the end of it, he felt sated. Numb would have been another word for it, his being finally tamed for, how long? He didn't know.

But it would do for now.

Making his way back out of the caves, Dean wasn't quite sure what to do now. He had to clean up, had to get back to the Spires without making a scene and that wasn't going to happen. And so he did exactly that: just began to walk. Because what else could he do? He'd done what he had to and now he had to face the music. It was the only thing left.

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Night after night of sleep plagued with intensely uncomfortable dreams has already worked a heavy toll on Nick, and she doesn't much relish the idea of many more nights of the same to come. Even the dreams that had been pleasant in the moment were too close to something painful to truly be enjoyed, and Nick woke every time with a lingering sour aftertaste that she couldn't shake.

So today, she's out walking. She doesn't typically go near the caves, because that's where the monsters live, and that would be stupid, but she also tends to fall on self-destructive habits in times of emotional turmoil. Maybe she's looking for Kamina, holding on to a tiny glimmer of hope that he'll show up again like he did before after an extended stint in the caves. Maybe she's looking for trouble. Maybe she's simply looking for a distraction.

What she finds, though, is Dean - bloody, disgusting, but on his feet all the same. They've only spoken once in the waking world, and she was fairly drunk at the time, but she remembers him, and she remembers his name, and she can't help feeling overwhelmed with panic at the sight he presents.

"Christ," she says, wide-eyed, "what the fuck happened to you?"

The one thing Dean was hoping for - to get out of this easy - slips away in an instant. He was only walking his way back and of course it'd be too much to ask to keep from running into anyone he's met iin the process. In Purgatory, there was no one there to see, not to mention being covered in gunk? Kind of obligatory. But like this, here with reasonable people, being in a state this severe is anything but normal and while he's aware of that, there is little he can do.

Knowing he's been caught red handed, Dean makes quick work of shoving his colt into his back pocket. He's failing at being nondescript simply because he wasn't thinking, and then he clears his throat and manages to make a face that's meant to say that he's not entirely sure, but hey- he's still alive, right?

"I got bored." He even tries to keep it from sounding sarcastic, as if it's about as honest as he can possibly get with this. But he already knows that questions are going to be asked and ones he has no way to answer without sounding like his own personal freak show. But saying he had to do it is just something he can't manage, not with anyone.

Chris usually doesn't have much reason to be on the outskirts of the city, but he's basically been going back and forth between the house to the bar and nowhere else all week. So he's just gone for a walk, a bit, still keeping a careful distance from the caves, though he happens to be close enough at the right time to catch sight of Dean.

He recognizes Dean from the network, but even if he hadn't the sight of him is so shocking he would've approached in concern anyway.

"A-Are you okay? What happened?"

Is Dean hurt? He can't tell, but he looks... Really not great. Something had to have happened.

"You got bored? Seriously?"

Just like that, the feeling of trepidation drops away, replaced by irritation and an exaggerated rolling of her eyes. What is wrong with people in this place?

"Is there some kind of merit badge in the Macho Scouts for fighting cave monsters or something? Fuck." Nick turns half away, throwing up her hand in aggravation and disgust. "You know what, I'm sorry I asked."

"It's got fuckall to do with trying to be some kinda head honcho." It's meant to be a joke but he snaps it back, loud and frustrated and altogether stung by the accusation. It's not her fault that she doesn't know, that he hasn't explained why he's here. But he's here because he's trying not to hurt anyone, trying to take his own compulsions away - doing everything he can to save a life when he knows he'll snap at any second.

He's exasperated himself, runs dirty fingers through his hair and all but growls as he drops his head, shaking it slow with annoyance. "Not looking to make into the next Lord of the Rings."

He's just trying to make it back without problem, but Dean isn't clueless to the fact that he looks a mess. He can feel blood congealing, sticky between his fingers and the layers of his clothes. He'll have to throw these away, there's no saving them from the destruction he's caused, not that he needs to be worrying about his clothes right now. All he knows is that he feels better, but for how long? How long is this going to honestly fix anything?

It's the voice that catches him off guard, one he heard over the network and had a simple enough chat with and he looks up, blinks a few times as if he's been caught in the middle of doing something he wasn't supposed to.

Which, well, you could make the argument that he totally was.

"I'm good- it's not mine." Oh yes, because that just goes and makes everything so much better and he cringes, trying again, not wanting to make it sound as if he just slaughtered a whole herd of humans. "Isn't anyone else's either."

It was fortunate for Dean that Castiel was looking out the window--had been looking out the window almost from the moment Dean had left. He was just enjoying the height, the safety, the simulated light, his cheek pressed against the window frame and his eyes open, sitting very still as he stared out into the city.

And then he caught it, the smell of blood and death lifting from below, and the angel sat forward, staring down into the courtyard below as the bloodied, messy man approached. It took him a moment to recognize Dean, under all of it, and when he did, Castiel took wing, landing lightly ahead of him, between Dean and the door.

He wasn't coming in looking like that, covered with all that mess, but moreover he wasn't coming in as troubled mentally, internally, as Castiel could feel from him now. Yes, Castiel had sensed the writhing rage building for some time now, but this was another thing entirely.

He held his ground, troubled and wary.

Dean really should have been anticipating Castiel's style of approach. He didn't know quite what he was thinking in that regard, as if he'd be able to sneak past Cas without him noticing or freaking out or whatever it is he'd do. If there's one thing he should've considered it was how Cas was going to react to this, as Dean was trying so damn hard to keep from upsetting him.

But this had to happen sooner or later. Something had to break. Not so it could get better, but because breaking was what they did. Breaking was the only thing Dean could do to keep from breaking something else. And when he snapped, it would've been something far more important.

Castiel dropped in front of him from nowhere and Dean's gaze immediately slid sidewards, staring off at nothing in particular just to hold himself together for the barest of moments, trying to think of something to say. But there was no easy explanation to give, nothing he could spill over with some simple explanation as to why he'd done what he'd done and why, exactly, he wanted more.

"You gonna let me in?" The answer to that was an obvious one considering Cas stood rather obviously in his way, but he had to spit out something. And that seemed the easiest, no matter how dull his tone had become.

"If you had the sense of smell that I have, you wouldn't let you in either," he answered, blandly. It was cover, really, to avoid taking on the actual topic head on. The mark on Dean's arm, that was all but purring with contentment in the wake of Dean's gorefest--how did he even begin to discuss it?

Discussing how dirty Dean was? That was easier. So, so much easier. He lifted his chin defiantly, trying to look Dean in the eye. Honestly, it surprised him to find him evading his gaze. That? That was guilt. Shame. It was muted, slightly, perhaps, maybe dulled by the euphoria that Dean had settled into when he'd killed all those monsters. Castiel couldn't decide if he was more or less afraid of him now than he had been before he'd left. Less on a knife edge, maybe, but... Was this really the man he knew?

"Where did you get that mark, Dean? How?"

"Yeah, well i've smelled worse."

It was sheer avoidance and an excellent attempt at that. He was happy to talk about the fact that he smelled like crap for the rest of time, until Cas sprayed him down with a hose maybe and let him back inside. It would've been so much easier that way, to ignore the whole thing altogether until he had to do this again. And again. And again. And no matter how many times it took until he couldn't stand it anymore and the real cravings began to kick in because that's what he was most terrified of, the fact that this wouldn't be good enough. That he would crave again within hours, that this wouldn't be what the Mark actually wanted.

But Cas' words finally had Dean's gaze rolling back, not so much defiant as it was hurt, sheer corrupted agony that he wanted to refuse so desperately but knew was now his burden to bare. He was ashamed of himself, sure, but he was equally as invested in the fact that this was better than the alternative.

"I didn't have a choice, Cas."

"Then explain it to me," he whispered, and he crept closer. Oh, he was scared, but he could feel the pain lifting away from him. The agony and fear that Dean was feeling lifted off him in waves, and Castiel wanted to fix it, even though it terrified him in equal measure. Dean was the flame, and if he got too close he was going to burn his wings--but when was that ever new?

He took just one step at a time, and hesitated just in front of him, lifting his hand up toward the gore coating one shoulder. He could just tap it, and remove it all, but it seemed like Dean needed it for a little longer, and so he withdrew his hand again. They both wore shrouds of their own making. The healing had to go on under them, before they could accept it, before they could return to what they really were. It was why Cas was still wearing his hospital clothes underneath his coat.

"Tell me what happened."

He didn't want to explain it, didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to deal with it beyond what he'd just done. Which was a thing he was now eager to push aside just to keep on living. It seemed by far easier to simply approach it in a way that meant it wasn't there at all and was his own problem to deal with. Considering he didn't speak of just how unbearably difficult it was to stand the thing, it made it easier to act as if it wasn't a bother, a constant insistent niggling in the back of his mind. Because like everything else Dean was good at repressing, it was so much easier to stand by making it all go away.

Though right now, he wasn't sure if he wanted to be touched. Castiel came closer and Dean nearly instinctively leaned away out of reach. He was still worried, still unsure of just how strong of a reign he had on himself, the adrenaline only just starting to die down from what he'd done. His pulse was no longer racing, his heart back to where it belonged but he was sure he'd destroyed some part of himself in the process.

But if Cas was unwilling to let him go without an explanation than what choice did he have? "Abaddon, Cas- she, we had to stop her. There wasn't any other way, and look, we tried. We did everything we could but the First Blade was the only way out. It was the only thing we had left and the only way I could use it was take the Mark."

Castiel listened, wrapping his arms around himself as he stared at Dean, as the other man told his story. Abaddon, the First Blade, the Mark. He'd seen that blade wielded, once upon a time. He knew its power. And Dean had taken that mark, and that blade? No wonder he felt the way that he did. No wonder his soul was so tarnished. Castiel grimaced, and lowered his eyes, feeling miserable about it.

"I haven't heard that name in a long time," he finally said.

He didn't know, really, how to approach the rest of it, and when he raised his eyes as though to look for answers, there was nothing forthcoming.

"Nothing ever is simple for you, is it?" he carried on, after almost thirty full seconds of further silence. "Abaddon, Cain, the First Blade, the Mark of Cain--" Even just saying the words filled him with unhappiness. They weren't things he wanted to talk about, but here he was, talking about them. "You couldn't have just gone on vacation."

"Yeah, because the Caribbean is next on my to do list, i'll get right on it, Cas."

Dean snapped before he meant to, in a way he knew was going to happen eventually. He cursed himself inside his head, swore his own words off and wished he could find a way to try again but this wasn't easy. If anything, it was all wrong and he'd fucked it all up. And had likely just made it a hundred times worse. Because if Cas was going to run away from this, it would be because of that, because Dean had turned this into a fight. And yet there was nothing else he could do.

He was struggling, fighting with himself furiously. And that was something he didn't know how to protect Cas from.

Castiel faltered, visibly, his eyes going wider, somehow bluer. He stared at him for a few frightened seconds, and then with a whisk of his wings he was gone.

Back to safety, back to their room, where he curled up quietly near the top end of Dean's bed, with his arms wrapped around himself. Dean was on his way home, so he'd come up here, but perhaps the time that it took between his snapping and his reaching Castiel would be enough for him to catch his own breath.

It couldn't be said that Dean wasn't trying. He'd been trying his ass off ever since Cas had arrived, playing the nice guy routine until his head spun. But Dean was still, well, Dean. And while he wasn't throwing game boards across the room while Cas sat silently and watched, he was still entirely himself. A man who gave in to his anger too often and right now, was fueled by nothing but an undercurrent of fury that he tried so hard to repress.

Too bad that he was a mess, though. And too bad that he didn't give enough of a shit to clean off before he took a breath and headed up towards his floor in the spire.

He hadn't eased off by the time he made it into the little apartment thing and he wasn't even sure Cas was here, so he left it alone, not expecting to need to go hunt for him. If anything he figured he was back in the park and might as well give him the space he so rightly deserved. He'd either come back eventually or Dean would have to go looking again. Kicking off his boots before he even stepped through the door, he set them off to the side, not caring about the rest of himself. At least he was graceful enough when it came to not touching anything and he headed towards his room, stilling entirely when he found Cas curled into himself at the head of his bed. He'd been wrong, apparently, and hadn't spent any time deciding on what he was supposed to say now that he was once again afforded the opportunity to give this another shot.

"I'm trying here, Cas. You know that, right?"

Castiel cared about the mess, sure, but he could always fill his time cleaning the apartment that he rarely left. He would sort it out later, certainly, after they'd dealt with this. After they'd spoken. It wasn't for nothing that Castiel had come here, and Dean had to recognize that, had to see that this was his safe place, and that was why he'd come this way, instead of heading out into the city instead.

He didn't open himself up, per se, but he did raise his head and prop his chin on top of his knee, staring across at Dean quietly. He was partially safe, partially protected here, which meant that he could face the question again.

"I know that," he agreed. "And I know that... That I make it incredibly difficult. It's..." What was it that Lucifer had said? "Demeaning and unworthy of you." No, that wasn't it. "Of your affection for me."

He closed his eyes, just for a few seconds, and tried to gather his strength, finally lifting his gaze again.

"I'm trying as well," he told him, softly. And he was.

He wasn't clueless- he recognized the fact that Castiel was here and not where he expected him to be. The park had been the first place Cas had run to and while Dean had figured he would do it all over again... instead he was curled into the protectiveness of his own bed? A safe place. And while it was safe place Dean could easily keep an eye on him, it meant a whole hell of a lot more than that.

"Don't think I don't know you are." Because he did, he knew Cas was trying in his own way, a way that was inherently incredibly different from Dean's own struggle. Cas was rooted in the safety of his own mind, the peculiarities of anything he could escape into. And things hadn't been as bad as they'd been the first time around, but Dean wasn't shouting at him either, making demands the angel couldn't fulfill.

But Cas' words still made Dean shake his head, pushing grimy fingers back through his hair, not caring in the slightest that he was doing nothing to help his own situation. Other things were by far more important than taking a shower and doing something about the destruction he'd caused.

"And look, don't even try with that- it isn't demeaning of anything. I get it, you're unhappy, it's hard, I know. But i'm still here, right? I haven't... left you to deal with it again. "

That it isn't Dean's blood is reassuring but it just kind of raises more questions, though Dean answers one of those soon enough as well.

"Was it um... Monsters, then?" Because that's... Kind of crazy, for a different reason; it's definitely the best of the three explanations, but geez. Dean would've had to kill a lot of monsters and those things are dangerous, though there's also a really practical reason Chris is asking.

If anyone was going to be demeaning, it turned out, Dean was the one. As though there wasn't enough guilt to go around. Castiel sighed to himself. He was trying very hard, it was true, and quite honestly, the fact that he delivered so much in his words went some way toward redeeming his efforts. The fact was, Dean had coped very well, considering. But what choice did he have?

"It isn't as though you have anywhere to go," he answered, looking up. "If anything, you stay in the same place even less often than I do. It's not something that I would expect from you under any circumstances."

He took another steadying breath. Accusing Dean of being trapped here, and therefore only helping because he had no other choice? That wasn't the way he wanted to move this. It wasn't Dean's fault, and considering he had the Mark he was showing a great deal of restraint. Castiel knew he was being every kind of frustrating.

"I'm not unhappy, Dean. I'm... I'm afraid." There you go. But. Details. "I'm afraid of something I can't escape, just like this cave; something that I can't run away from."

"We already are in the next Lord of the Rings," she says, sighing heavily, hands propped on her hips. "Haven't you noticed? I mean, I know you're new here, but you're not that new." He's been here long enough to know that fighting monsters is dangerous - that's such a given Nick can't believe anyone here is actually stupid enough to go looking for that kind of a fight voluntarily.

"So - what? If it's not some macho bullshit, what is it? They started it first?"

Afraid of something he couldn't escape.

Well, didn't that just cut through everything, considering how terrified Dean was of himself. The way he'd felt when he'd held the First Blade, the power that rang through his body, his mind in such a way that was unimaginable. He'd never known it before, that unending pull that was meant to drag him down into the pits of everything the Mark stood for and oh, how he wanted it. It had been there from the start of it all and in a way; it felt as he'd felt in Purgatory once more. The purity of the fight, the drive he always needed to plunge forth with brutal violence because he knew nothing else.

And that, unto itself, was a terrifying thing. What kind of monster had he become that this was now his life. That this was the person he was, wanting to destroy the things that lay in front of him just to survive. Because he knew as much: that if he didn't do this, he would die. That at the end of the line, the one where he suppressed everything until he was split open himself, it meant there would be none of him left to save except for the Mark itself. Cain had warned him and he hadn't listened, he'd been told that there was a curse that would soil his very blood and he hadn't done a single thing when desperation had taken hold.

And now look where he stood, his chest heavy and his body fallen prey to death and destruction, a need so out of his control that he had to wonder what it would take for him to ever be a man under his own steam. Because he'd always been this, been something that followed the beat of a drum played by everything else and the beat this time struck so deep it was nauseating. But he wanted. He wanted. And that wanting was something he craved so deep he knew of nothing else.

"So you think i'd what- run off? Leave you here because i've got better shit to do? Cas, it's different this time. I'm not- i'm not trying to make you fix it." Because he'd been last time, he'd depended on an angel who was incapable of leaving the safety of his mind. And for that, he was sorry - sorry for being demanding and unable to see through Cas' own needs. He'd been selfish, wrong, terrified that they wouldn't be able to do it alone. And Cas had been scared of being broken that much more.

His words only proved it.

"But maybe you're not supposed to run from it. For once, maybe none of us are." Dean's shoulders sunk, glancing over his shoulder, looking for his own way out to escape through the gore he wanted to run back to. "I don't know how to fix it for you and I didn't know last time. I couldn't make it any better, I couldn't bring you back. And that's on me. But dammit, Cas, you're not in this alone."

A jabberjay drops from the top of a building, wings over Dean's head and calls "hey sugar! " in Sam's voice. Amos can't help but snort with amusement as the bird lands on his shoulder. He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a handful of breadcrumbs for the bird, even as he comments to Dean: "You look like you've had a rough night."

No horror, no shock, simply acceptance and vague spectulation. Coming from a world where every myth and legend told lives alongside humanity in the flesh, Amos has seen wierder and more violent sights. Working for one of the largest yakuza branches in Japan, he's ended up with gore on him as well. He doesn't enjoy violence, but it's part of life and he doesn't even blink at Dean's state.

This was--oh, this was a whole hell of a lot of the conversation that Castiel didn't want to have. Discussing how broken he was, and how he needed to be fixed. No, no, he didn't need to be fixed. He didn't need to be made better. There was nothing wrong with him, nothing except the fact that he had to hide from all of it.

And yet Dean had gone through this all before, and he'd... He'd what? What had he done the last time that he'd found Castiel in this state? What hadn't he done, more importantly?

No, neither of them were going to run from it; there was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from this. Dean's problems and Castiel's guilt? There was no escape. They were trapped here to deal with them, and they had to find a way to do just that, a way to approach the quagmire that was their lives. A way to say sorry, even if Castiel didn't know where to even begin apologizing for what he'd done.

"But what I did to you--what I'd do to you again. Do you understand, Dean? I can't..." He took a steadying breath, and raised his eyes. "There's a box, and it contains everything that I've done wrong, everything that I can't fix, and I can't get close enough to close it. I'd rather not look its way at all.

"Your Mark is the same thing. It's controlling everything. The further you try and escape from it, the more power it has over you."

It wasn't how Dean wanted to frame it.

Castiel the broken one, Castiel the one who needed to be saved from his own mind. Dean hadn't meant it to be the insult it sure as hell came off as, and he ducked his face, the desperation of it all passing by overhead, a cloud Dean just couldn't come down from. He was always so damn set on saving everything, everyone, and he knew that in the palm of his hands were not the answers to this. Try as he might, far as his reach could go, he could not drag Cas out of this thing he had fallen into.

It was with heavy handed breath that he tried to find a way to reply, attempting to come up with kind and gentle words, answers that were meant for both of them in this dire time of need. But instead he came up empty and soured, pushing grimy fingers back through his hair and plunging into the depths of his frustration because there was nowhere else for him to go.

Once again, same as the first time they'd tripped into this, he felt as if he was the wrong one to be Cas' savior. He wasn't capable, could not manage the things that were needed, was lost in all the ways that meant he couldn't be the thing that Castiel needed most. And while this had become Castiel's safe place, perhap he had chosen poorly. Dean didn't want to usher him away but he knew he was wrong for this, figured he couldn't be the hand that Cas needed most because what could he give when he always got it wrong?

Castiel had a box he couldn't come close to? Couldn't close? Dean was more than willing to try to do it for him but it wasn't his job. It was Castiel's and whatever words he needed to provide to help him along were words that Dean were sure were not in a vocabulary he'd ever possessed.

"Then don't, Cas." His words were tired, not exasperated or frustrated, just hollowed out, lost, finding himself utterly inept in ways he'd never known he could be. He wanted so badly to help, wanted to be the one that Cas found relief in, but he was convinced he was simply not enough for the job. "I dunno what you want me to tell you. I'm here for you, you know that- but it's all I got."

But the Mark? The Mark was something he was unwilling to discuss. He was coated in its aftermath besides; wasn't that enough?

"And you? You've got us. Box or not. You've got me."

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the taste of blood

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