❝ r i g h t e o u s.

    THE DEEP WOODS : @estdevium.

         AMONG THE IMITATED GENESIS THEY WALK, AS A SCHOLAR WHO READS A BOOK. Embracing studiously each treeform ; each little motive shape, curvature; the prone, the flitting ; the marks of prolonged hesitation, an unintended mar due to essaying hand. Humanity’s; nature’s—all’s—wits direct : its fallible attempts at creation. Castiel thinks : they are glory. Of earth and sun they are wise, and they nourish their broods—weave, build, hive, and contend ; take harmony and discord, fortifying mental bulwarks against an unjust world—passioned pleas armed against life’s bruises or caresses. They cannot hear their prayers just yet ( the speech of them, informal or precise : renewed, vying for faith, and they move to learn, never to pursue ; to teach ).

         So, they press on, luminous-eyed, celestial-shining ; catching their reflection on more of the riverview masterstrokes of craft, aglow. Castiel is not the pureness mirrored : they are not filtered crystal-clear, sweet-silvery, or sparkle dripping argentine. They are not without a fall of their own and, simultaneously, they are without self-forgiveness with all the intricacies aloft maintained. Fascination with soul-light’s excess, many lessons and counsels given, they are exiled for expressing wisdom of human elaborateness, of firm angel-speak expelling prophetic tellings, of the zeal of love they’ve acquired, and how it persists in the center of everything—spherical. They yearn to be humanity’s physician and sage.

         —and, for that, it’s no sense of astonishment when they realize the discordance whole : HE in a whirl of voluble assertiveness, his burdens decreed. The atmosphere is suddenly hollow tones of wondering roared.

         ❛    Dean.    ❜   

         Unlike most of their ilk, they do not expect froth-wrath, contention, or tumult of deluded holiness. Like a thundercloud swinging on the moon : forth, free of deluge, a deliberate warcry. Like their grace-pitted warrior’s shields after battle, bade all believe that they are no other than wrathfullest God’s own. Of steel breathed over, glowing cold, unearthly, they reveal :

         ❛    I surmised you would eventually track me here.    ❜   

it’s gentle, the twisting cadence of death beneath the soles of his boots. the almost imperceptible steps falling on dried leaves, around the decaying pieces of wood   (   the colorful bursts of rot, fungus but its own blooming life   ).   habit is what causes the hunter to carry himself with a graceful silence in the forest; light footed   &   goal oriented. fingers brushing across the rough bark amongst the millions of silhouettes. with eyes closed dean can almost feel it    —    the way everything here could be uprooted so easily   (   the ways in which he could burn it, stifle the life to the drum pounding in his veins   ).   in the same moment, though, does gaze open to filtered sunlight, the songs on the wind. another step forward.

still falling to the goading voice of the hunt. to the way it was thrilled to track their prey   (   their friend, something such vile moments could touch    —    heaving expanse of memory filled vision flashed red   ).   to even see heaven standing but a few lengths away.

❝     cas.     ❞     hesitancy a barely perceptible note in his voice, matched frown marring his face. a caution not unwarranted. gaze caught on the slight unfamiliarity of the angels face   (   oh, not again. please not again   ).

few steps more bringing dean all the more closer. huffed laughter a mark of incredulity     ❝     you’re not difficult to find…     ❞     to me   (   the constant ache burning at his arm just one piece of the puzzle   ).     ❝     not a whole world for you to flutter off to here, anyway.     ❞     arms crossed; fallback to a façade of annoyance easy enough. how else does one ignore all the ways their life continually falls short   ?   goes wrong   ?   hands them this. the ways dean himself has caused castiel’s fall from grace.

@estdevium.

Rui’s – admittedly, gotten a little lucky with familiar faces. Hanako being his Hanako had been luck only, Rui thinks, and he’d pushed it by assuming Nene was the same one he knew (even if she was). Rui had… Rui had been forgotten before, so even though he recognizes Dean, he makes no attempt to insinuate that he does.

It’s easier that way, admittedly, in case Rui has been forgotten about again. While he hadn’t been particularly attached, it’s less than… ideal, to know someone else doesn’t know who he is anymore. He knew how badly it had hurt him once upon a time when Hanako didn’t know who he was.

So as he gazes out at the fog, one hand flexing out at his side to resist the instinctive want to play with his threads even if there’s no threat at hand, Rui doesn’t admit that he knows the face nearby.

“Are you meaning to take care of some of the statues yourself?”

Rui glances over his shoulder; the attempt to repress his threads doesn’t work very well, because after only a few more seconds his hands have both raised, and he stretches a web idly out in front of him.

“You’d better be prepared before taking a step outside. Those things are relentless.”

a mixed history of night haunts; a shovel taken to dirt in the stillness, the low creak of rotting wood beneath old worn boots. moon long hidden behind clouds as the distant sound of chanting that once reverberated in his sternum. there wasn’t a fear in the night   (   the things that bite   &   hiss   &   melt away into shadows   ).   no, that had been long trained out in his youth    —    between the sweat slick grip of a knife   &   the sharp snap of a gun. this fog   ?   oh, it was reminiscent of many a childhood memory; many an adult memory. it was not hesitancy in his actions but known caution to how flimsy a humans senses were against those who called such conditions home. 

then, of course, was the familiar face of the   (   not kid, a reminder   )   perched on the precipice as well. eyes glinting in the dark, the hunter releasing a soft sigh    —    the bitter scent of blood in a flash of memory.     ❝     I was at least going to see. where’s the harm in trying at this point   ?   it’s either do it or sit around   &   lord knows I’ve never been to good at just twiddling my thumbs.     ❞

If he knew any better while living in this city is that every one of the resident were stubborn as a damn mule. One look at his features they’ll come barking up a storm, as if he was going to stab them and let them out to rot. It was infuriating at best. So Bones gave a scowling frown their way with a death glare to match his current emotion; most he wanted to throttle, lecture folks who are damn crazy enough to try to kill themselves. Was he the only sane person in god forsaken city? Or was everyone out to give him a headache? Maybe even pulling his hair out, he was only in his late thirties, he really didn’t needed to remind everyone to be careful. “Y’think this shit is some kinda joke, buddy?” He snapped, not resisting on speaking his mind out; he held the arm with delicateness, with hand soft as feather. “Did y’went to medical school ‘n earned your degree? No? So how ‘bout y’let me do my damn job??” He was going to make sure they’ll learn one way or another,  “Y’outta yer goddamn mind walkin’ around with wound like this??? Disinfection could lose a damn arm, y’stubborn bastard.” Damn it, it was like talking with Jim, damn he missed that kid, wondering if he was fine without his CMO. “Secondly, wha’ in gods name happened? y’goin’ around pickin’ fights with random strangers?” 

voice a hard line, underlying growl to his words all to present these days. flicker of anger alight in his eyes   (   better then the pain, at least. the burning touch of his own flesh knitting back together both faster then humanly possible   &   the slow, slow drag of discomfort   ).     ❝     I’m not here for a piece of paper you got from a fancy little school, I’m here because you are incredibly frustrating   &   last time I thought to stitch up my own arm it took way to long.     ❞     low hiss breathed out through clenched teeth; smell of fresh blood alighting something dangerous.   (   the whole room pulsing with it    —    how in the grappled moments of silence the stagnant sound of it on the floor kept drawing his attention   ).     ❝     it ‘ain’t like I’m gonna die of some infection or bloodloss asshole. at this rate I’m thinking ditching the arm; might just be fucking easier.     ❞

He did see it, even from where he was trying to hide, that brief flicker of relief, or something – it was gone in the same moment that Rui realized he’d clearly done a godawful job of keeping himself hidden. Even under the guise of night, a mess of blood upon shining diamonds wasn’t exactly something he could hope stayed hidden, huh. ‘Good riddance’, some part of him chided himself in the back of his mind. ‘For what?’, another quieter part of him asked back.

“I’m –” And well, he wasn’t, so ‘I am fine’ was a lie. Rui fell silent, not moving his hand away from his stomach just yet. They both knew it was a silly question to ask, anyway. “I’m not some stupid child. We don’t have to act like there’s nothing there.”

A funny thing to say when he definitely was a child, and definitely believed that he was stupid, but it was one thing to believe it in himself and another to let someone talk down to him over them believing it. Rui sighed. He had asked if Rui was alright, but he sort of doubts that he really… cares about that? He would be fine, though. As soon as his body let itself heal, he’d be just fine. Even as weak as he was here, it wasn’t fatal. Painful. Irritating. But not fatal. Far from it.

“I was hungry.” Rui still didn’t like to talk about it, but most people would have freaked out more by now. Some humans were curious things. And Rui wasn’t exactly in any place to avoid the obvious, or leave, or…

“Nothing about those diamond creatures to do with it, other than making things harder for me. So don’t talk to me about ‘pretending’, would you? It’s annoying.”

eyebrows raising on their own at the others tone of voice, soft breath of laughter as the hunter settled back on his heels. directing a more thoughtful look to the disaster besides them   (   blood slowly coagulating across the ground in dark streaks    —    leftover chunks of flesh almost forgotten. the stark white snapped bone a harsh sight in the moonlight   ).     ❝     you don’t need to be a child to look the other way, you know. but hey   !   we can do it your way.     ❞     rocking up in a   (   slightly painful, honestly. when did he start actually feeling so old   ?   )   rise. mentally turning over the situation as a whole. it was almost tragic, in a way. this was so disgustingly tame dean wanted to clock himself upside the head for.... not caring   ?   no. that wasn’t necessarily right. then again was it him or was it the mark that got a sick thrill out of the mangled body    —    cutting off those thoughts there, actually. better a rumination left for later.     ❝     well kid, I will agree that red meat is plenty good but maybe don’t wear it on your face. I’ve been told that’s rude.     ❞    turning away from the other with leftover caution, even if he wasn’t to concerned per say at the moment   (   always watch your back   ).

gaze rising to take in the crystal formations   (   again   )   with a more critical eye; while he had wondered about the abilities of the creatures this was enough of a giveaway as anything. they weren’t going to be easy to handle if unavoided. god he was tired of this hunted bullshit.

         THEY ARE TO PERUSE : FROM REASON NOT DISJOINED. On them, their principal expression, their great word of life, exhibits they. Twi-minded of them ; dated, ancient. Their retellings of the above, and their indubitable readings of the SWORD and SHIELD. Hell detested and Heaven adored—the malignity and the lauded.

         Unfaith clamouring to be coined as faith by insincere attestations : if they’re aloft for aid whilst imploring storms, his essence is the spur.

         ❛    I have resided here prior to your arrival. I would have recognized their ill-intended ministrations by now, Dean, by mere intellect and telepathic transference alone.   ❜   

         —and what he whose senses seem to have been usurped of his issue mind ; he, who has burst from the chrysalis as an AN INFIDEL OF THE SCORNED. He who has been singularly doomed to what he execrates and writhes to shun. When conflagration has passed him vapor to the sun-flare : shall his horrid pall be lifted, and routinely presented with grace nigh divine ; the truest sun relumed.

         ( ‘i have always had faith in you’ reanimates. a declaration which bids him wash foul sins. )

         Prophesied, this : the commandeering aura as they confront Dean head-on ; the purposeful firm grip on wrist, thumb pressing into the lightning-spark network of skin, eyes in their severity ( an implacable sky ) never leaving his haggard quarry-features and heavyset frown where effluvial darkness has dared to reign. His cry to Heaven is a cry to them they would never intentionally evade.

         ❛    And where do you get off proclaiming faith ? Where was this pledge when I needed to hear it ? Where was your unwavering faith in me when I intended to acquire souls from Purgatory to defeat Raphael and regain Heaven ? Unfathomable doubt became fathomable. And yet, here you are, brandishing…   ❜   —it’s scriptural : thereof, it’s a firm roadway between proofs of slaughtered nature ( a shepherd slain ! ) and himself from extinction clutched, by virtue of his self-disdain, contrasting much with brutes and pacifists. From soul-dust, of him abhorred ; their fingers tighten on his wrist as if snatched by grace discovering worth. As if to sever him from the hollowness of it.    ❛    …brandishing something primordial. Encased in sin. Something from bloody ground, and from that old devil of the thousand lures. Through a dense hood of malevolence. Through terror ; through distrust. Soon, it will make you lie like a blood-red sunset. Dean—   ❜   

         Mortal seems the touch, yet makes immortal the hand that takes : they linger, deepen their glower, while in new astonishment ; high rise the lashes in wonder of a newfound alternate. Raise Dean’s arm momentarily, they do ; then it drops, the vice-grip never faltering yet the faults of feature begin to pervade them, cerebrally. His soul is in their name.

         ❛    You do not have the competence to maintain faith.   ❜   

it was common    (    wrapped in the guise of hope, always desperate for something    —    someone    —    to reach back    )    that the faces foggy in the haze to play tricks. games with those familiar    (    &,    on occasion, some not. toying with his sympathies    )    as if the dark had been but a daydream; those same faces turning into tormentors just as fast. an anthem to his own weakness. it was, in hindsight, a game hell had probably learned from heaven    —    warped    &    ruined pieces of himself so easily tarnished. the possibilities of this being but another mind game all to possible in the wake of colder eyes, figure still a touch to inhuman    (    but hadn’t the angel always been    ?    even in their fall, even in their shattered grace    ).    frown marring a scarred    &    weary face, posture easily fallen into his own fathers beaten soldier    —    for this    ?    this he would weather like the rest    (    it was an apt punishment, was it not    ?    ).    dredging up the worst of them. it was with those words the eerie visage before him made so much more sense.

message of faith feeling all to rotten in response.

❝     as if you have ever sought me for proper answers. it’s a two way street cas    —    either you ask for my help or you don't, but you do not get to condemn me for your secrets. the souls    ?    raphael    ?    you lied cas. you lied over    &    over again while watching me    &    shacking up with your new best pal crowley    —     ❞     a grimace, gaze darting off to the side to match the torrent of emotions below a well crafted façade    (    for now who was he to comment on the bodies taking up residence in crowley’s bed    ).    he had always been good at punishing himself, huh    ?     ❝     the souls were never what you thought    !    would think the apocalypse part one was enough to show you that what's written    &    promised isn't necessarily what's true.     ❞

perhaps before, back when dean had been more human then other    (    wrath its own strength, burning through his veins with that touch    —    addictive the electricity sizzling across their joined skin with the rush of sheer power. flashes of memory, castiel’s piecemeal celestial form a glimpse through brimstone charred eyes    )    the angel’s grip would have been more robust. castiel a solid, incomprehendable expanse fit to decimate all that in their path. but oh    !    how now the remnants of cain’s finest rose within his own being; a brush of curse born strength in an attempt to pull away. it was the acidic burn of vitriol pouring out with bright seared clarity     ❝     I already heard this spiel    &    I will not repeat myself.     ❞

hallucination or something other    (    he knew what he was, what he had been since the start    —    the very touch of you corrupts    ),    born of twisted lessons from immortal intervention. the mark wouldn’t allow the whip quick twist of anger to do anything but bite back.