17: [Action] Don't Fear the Reaper

[dashboardlite]

[ooc; This is just gonna be reserved for The Operator, Dean, and Castiel to write in. But if you enjoy disembowelment, feel free to read~]

There are a lot worse things that Dean Winchester could be doing with his time than hunting down something that he isn't completely, one-hundred percent knowledgeable about.

Vampires are easy.  Cut the head off.

Werewolves shot with a silver bullet.

Ghosts?  Salt and burn the remains.

But reapers...the last time Dean's seen a reaper, he was hanging in limbo, waiting to die in a hospital.  It wasn't so bad, then.  It had taken the form of a young woman named Tessa, startlingly pretty and unfailingly sympathetic to the mortality of humans.  Infinitely wise.  His first experience had been less pleasant.  Dean's first real brush with death was a little over a year ago: heart attack thanks to a fuck-up with a 10,000 Volt stun-gun trying to kill something on the job, and he landed an all-expenses-paid trip to the Great Beyond.  Prognosis wasn't good: Six weeks, at best.  But a local faith healer had cured him, at the price of someone else's life.  Someone controlled a reaper.

Someone was playing God.

In those last moments of consciousness when Faith Healer Roy Le Grange had laid hands upon him, Dean saw a tall, pale man in a dark suit.

The Operator obviously isn't going to play nice.  Dean can't reason with it, like he did with Tessa.  There's the chance that it could be controlled by someone, the way Le Grange's reaper was, but everyone in this godforsaken place is scared of the damn thing, so that's outta the cards.  Maybe it just went rogue.

"Aaaaand I don't even know how the Hell I'm s'posed to kill it," Dean mutters to himself, snapping his father's journal shut and tucking it into his duffel bag.  He's armed with a decent amount of weapons, ranging from salt-rounded shotguns to silver knives - because you can't take any chances with Death - and an angel.

Dean takes a deep breath, staring up at the forbidding woods with a tight frown on his face.

"You ready, Cas?"

Comments

[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

Okay, cool point number one: The angel-knife could come in handy. Not that Dean knows what it's fully-capable of, but if it can kill a damn angel, he's sure it could do some damage to a reaper.

"Uh. Guns."

Dean answers anti-climactically, rubbing the back of his neck. He takes another awkward moment before shoving one hand in the duffel bag and pulling out his portable-arsenal. "And stakes...bag of rock-salt, bottle of holy water, silver and iron bullets. Can't take any chances."

Not like this whole thing isn't one big stupid chance.

Dean laughs suddenly, warm and almost-out-of-place in the middle of the woods, and pulls out a bag of peanut M&Ms.

"And provisions."

[out-of-minutes.livejournal.com]

Dean's list sounds fairly comprehensive; he didn't mention any blades, but Cas has his own, so he doesn't mention the omission. Besides, Sam is the one who seems to prefer knives, while Dean likes weapons of the projectile sort. Cas doesn't mention that either, suspecting Dean misses his brother more than he talks about.

When Dean laughs, Castiel's attention is drawn to the bag he holds. "Provisions?" Cas asks, head tilting. He doesn't recognize whatever sort of food this is.

[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

In all honesty, it's probably for the best that Castiel doesn't mention Sam. Dean tends to stay quiet on the subject, but it's getting harder for him to function without his brother - one of the main reasons he went on this possible-suicide mission is to use it as a distraction from his teeming thoughts.

"Peanut M&Ms, man," Dean chuckles, ripping the top off the bag and popping a few in his mouth, chewing noisily. He holds it out to Cas, speaking around his mouthful. "Try 'em."

[out-of-minutes.livejournal.com]

Cas reaches in the bag and pulls out a handful of the candies. He looks at them in his hand for a moment, not eating any yet.

"Do the different colors signify different flavors?" he asks, expression perplexed. Without waiting for a reply, he eats one, sucking on it for a moment, before biting through the chocolate to the nut inside and crunching on it. His expression turns to pleased, and he eats another, a different color to test his question. Hmm, no different. Still good, though.

The rest of the handful disappears in the course of a couple minutes, and when he is finished, Castiel's palm is speckled with sticky spots of color. He looks at it for a moment, frowning a little, then licks the sweetness off, tongue stained with color as well, taking his time to make sure he's gotten all of it.

[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

Introducing Castiel to new things has to be one of Dean's favorite past-times now. Admittedly, sometimes, talking to the angel is like communicating with a particularly frustrating toddler, but he eases up and adapts. Cas is a startlingly quick learner. And seeing the delighted expression on his face as he bites into his first M&M is like when Dean persuaded the Medicine Seller to try pie.

So worth it.

Except...for the part where he's licking his palm. Like a cat. Meticulously. There can't be that much sugar left, Cas, His mind whines in desperation. Dean isn't supposed to be watching this. This shouldn't be interesting. He's supposed to be arming himself with guns to gank a rogue reaper.

Clearing his throat loudly and turning back to his duffel, the hunter pulls out another firearm - his usual Desert Eagle - and tucks it into the back of his pants before withdrawing a bag of salt. He occupies himself by leaving a large circle of the stuff around them, then crumples the empty packaging and shoves it back where it came from.

...Dean thinks he's better now.

Finally turning back to Cas (the angel's lower lip is stained a little blue, he notices, from an M&M), Dean strains a smile and offers him the rest of the candy bag.

"Last meal?"

[out-of-minutes.livejournal.com]

"I hope not," Cas answers gravely. "I do not think these contain everything required for proper nutrition of a body." His comment doesn't hold enough weight to stop him from taking the offered bag though, setting himself to the task of finishing it. Very serious business. "Though they are... flavorful."

When he's finished, he adds the empty bag to the crumpled salt package in the duffel, brushes his hands together, and sets himself to watch the woods again. He lets his senses extend into the space around them, looking and listening and feeling. With the exception of where he can sense Dean's warmth and life near him (if the low off-key humming wasn't enough to give him away on its own), everything is still and quiet, no presences beyond their own.

[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

Ever the effective, logical buzzkill, Castiel shuts down his 'last meal' suggestion and Dean snorts in response, "Thank you, Mr. Spock." The hunter rolls his eyes, crouching and resting his elbows on his knees as he waits in the silence. Idly, he fingers the amulet around his neck.

As time drags on, and he switches positions from crouching, to standing, to sitting, to standing again, Dean feels the nauseating sense of paranoia creep into the back of his mind like a sponge slowly soaking up water.

"...Cas?" Dean murmurs quietly, suddenly, twisting to look around behind him. It's past midday now, and shadows are growing longer. It's darker in the woods, and he can't shake his unease.

"I feel like something is watching us."

[seesyou.livejournal.com]

If you feel that, it is for a reason. Perhaps it was some perverse impulse that led the Operator to hunt his hunter only in his own good time, or perhaps there's no significance to it at all. Still, there he is, just on the edge of vision, still a ways off.

It might not even be him. It might not be anything at all. It's just a suggestion of darkness amongst the branches, a gleam of pale that could be faceless face or stripped birchwood.

[out-of-minutes.livejournal.com]

Cas has never understood the human expression about having a 'sixth sense.' As an angel, he has many more than six senses, and none of them are informing him that there is anything out in the woods. He almost tells Dean as much.

But... somehow, he has no idea how, he just has a feeling, an itch at the edge of his awareness, and casts his gaze yet again in a full arc around their small clearing. At first his eyes skip over it, but then track back: a spot of deeper darkness, almost indistinct against the gloom at the very limit of sight. He swallows, not sure if he should say anything to Dean yet.

He looks over to Dean, to see if his expression indicates he's seen anything, but Dean is looking in a different direction entirely. When Cas looks back out to the trees, the spot is gone, or perhaps was never there. He shakes himself, adjusting and settling back into his surveillance.

[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

Cas doesn't answer him.

Somehow, this bothers Dean more than it probably should.

After narrowing his eyes speculatively into the growing darkness, Dean clenches his jaw and starts to think that maybe this was a bad idea after all. It's getting late. The sun is far past its peak and, most of all - No one knows they're out here. He'd refused to tell any of the teenagers for safety's sake, and Dean's already lied to Mark about going into the woods in the first place.

They're alone.

Cut off.

Just where it wants us. He mentally groans, reaching slowly into his duffel bag and pulling out a flashlight. Dean's taken enough chances for one day, and getting caught off-guard isn't one of them, particularly at night. It ought to be another hour or so before the sun really starts setting, but until then he's going to stay prepared.

If only the back of Dean's neck would stop prickling like someone's walking back and forth over his damn grave. "I don't like this," He states quietly, but it sounds near-deafening; there is nothing else around. No birds, no crickets, no Rocky Raccoon clamoring through the underbrush. Just silence, and it makes the short hairs on his nape stand up.

"Not one friggin' bit."