Demon Rehab

Jun. 13th, 2014 10:35 am
nevermindgeneva: (yeah i don't think so)
When he opens his eyes this time, the light still isn't right. It's too bright and too—light. It causes a dull aching pain in the center of his vision, or just behind it, like an exorcism trying to tug him out of his meatsuit. Not that that's possible. He's not your run of the mill demon, after all. You don't simply exorcise a knight of Hell.

The pain's still there, though, and so are other discomforts: a disgusting taste in his mouth; a clumsy, achey feeling in his swollen hands and fingers; soaked fabric sticking to his too-hot, too-sticky skin. And there's a smell, a sharp aroma penetrating his sinuses and making his stomach contract abruptly.

He hasn't been this aware of his body in what's probably about a lifetime. It's strange and alien and definitely unpleasant, and he'd like it to stop.

He makes a sound, inarticulate and unwilling, and shoves at the blanket weighing heavy on his chest. He wants the man with the dark hair and the blue eyes to do something about the clammy moisture sticking to his crotch and thighs. The guy's been around, appearing now and again in his field of vision and—doing things. Bringing things, taking things away, sometimes talking in a low voice. Usually he feels better when the man is here. He would like to feel better right now.

Pushing himself up, he slides his feet over the edge of the bed he's been lying on, startling as his bare soles touch the cold floor. It shouldn't feel like this. Nothing should really feel like it does right now, or like it has for quite a while now. It's particularly unpleasant right now, so he makes another sound, louder this time. "Hey. Hey!"

Maybe the guy with the hair and the eyes has a name. He should ask about that.
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I'm Nesting, Shut Up

Nov. 15th, 2013 11:00 am
nevermindgeneva: (team looney tunes)
"This corridor is all living quarters."

Dean's in the bunker, just off the main room in one of the corridors leading deeper into the complex. The hallway is lined left and right with doors, all of them leading to rooms which in shape and size are very similar to his own. He doesn't know if the men of letters actually used them as "living quarters"; for all he knows, these were their offices or smoking rooms or whatever else kind of rooms men from the 1950s thought were necessary. In the Winchester-era of bunker usage, they're the living quarters.

Dean heads down the corridor, pointing at the first door to the right and glancing over at Cas. "This is mine, that one over there—" —he points again— "—is Sam's. Kev's all the way at the end to the right." He gives Cas a smile. "All the other ones are empty. Just pick one."

He watches Cas expectantly, curious to see if he's going to choose a room close to the front or close to the back. Close to Dean's own room, or far away from it. It's one of those thoughts he's been having ever since he met up with Cas up in Detroit that are both exciting and unsettling. Spending the night with Cas—not in a romantic sense, except that's not quite true since they did share a bed—has made him notice things about Cas, and when Cas is around, that he never paid attention to before. The way the corners of Cas' eyes crinkle when he smiles. The fact that for a skinny-to-normal-sized dude, Cas' shoulders are actually fairly broad. The fact that Cas seems to smile a lot more when he's talking to Dean than when he's keeping busy on his own. The fact that at times, Dean regrets it very much that he can't just—touch Cas. Not in a weird way. Just in a way you touch someone you like very much.

Dean never lets himself get any further than that in his contemplation of the Cas situation. Right now, he interrupts his own train of thought and focuses on Cas, then follows him when Cas chooses a room.

"We're gonna have to get you some stuff to put in the room. But we need to go buy you some clothes, anyway."
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