#brokenloyalties

There's a moment of...pause. Because the instinct, gods know why she still has it, to say no. There's the moment to shut this conversation down because they both know how this will lead and end since their 'revivals' though one is still human and the other is not anymore.

“You sure about this kid?”

He wasn’t convinced, kid seemed a bit young to be able to communicate with ghosts. But then again Dean needed all the help he needed to get to the bottom of this case.

Research had lead him here to the other. That they held some sort of connection or something that could be of help to him.

“You don’t have to do this you know. Not going to make you, but I could use with your help..”

Finn nodded at the question as he set up his supplies- well, supply of one; he wasn't the most experienced with this sort of thing as the hunter clearly was, and his stock reflected that. A handheld radio with a snapped-off antenna, clearly rescued from some kind of junkyard and crudely painted black. Everything else was from Dean.

"I do have to help," he responded simply. "It's like you. You can't just- refuse a case, can you?" Hands fiddle with the dials and buttons, turning it on and off and adjusting the tuning.

Being approached wasn't something he had ever had in mind. Being approached for himself and not Gwen was even more foreign; but here he was, two towns away from his sister watching as a complete stranger set up things like salt circles and candles and god-knows-what-elses to help out with a ghost case. Former kidnapping victim, of course. Of course it was that. He kept those thoughts to himself because frankly, it wasn't anyone's business just why exactly he did what he did and how he figured all this shit out an an early age. What mattered was him being here, and helping.

"They don't always remember their names," Finn explained. "The longer they're stuck, the more they forget, and the more scared they are." Pointing to a spot next to him (inside the salt, which he still thought was just a little bit for show), he instructed, "Stay close. Shut up and let me talk first. I'm not- it's not easy to keep the line open at first with interruptions."

"sure sonic, what's on your mind?"

his gaze narrowed in contemplation at the question. everything, sonic wanted to say - that tightness in his chest. that shaking of his heart. the worry in his mind; but he struggled to voice this. to ask for help. it was taking everything in sonic to even begin to speak about this with dean. oh, sonic trusted dean, to be sure. wouldn't be sat here in the impala if sonic didn't. it was just - old fears. terrors of being judged, or looked at differently.

"....how can y'tell if someone has feelin's for ya? i mean." he adjusted in the passenger's seat, elbow leaned against the sill of the passenger window, gloved hand pressed into his cheek as sonic exhaled, "there's someone that i've known. since i was a kid. n'we sorta grew up together. well, not sorta, we did. s'just. lot changed over the years, yanno? n'i just- he's not the easiest guy to talk to, doesn't do feelings or emotions or talks. neither do i, usually, but.... lately, v'just been wonderin'."

The lightest of chuckles leaves Dean's lips as he tugs his jacket a little closer and tighter to himself now. It was certainly that time of the year when it was getting chilly. Though personally Dean loved it; it meant it was getting ever closer to his favourite holiday. "You can say that again, certainly is that time of year to wrap up again."

"Definitely is," Farryn says with a bright smile.

Farryn is wearing a jacket themself, of course. Have to keep up appearances. They can't let on that the cold doesn't bother them. Because they're not human, but an immortal being, the personification of Adventure. That is their true name and calling. Though they quite like the name Farryn as well. They had chosen it, after all.

( @brokenloyalties )

Wanda’s crimson gaze softened as she tilted her head, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. Her arms wrapped around herself, a protective gesture more than anything.“I thought I had,” she said quietly, her Sokovian accent wrapping around the words like a whisper. “For a while, I even believed it. I kept telling myself that all the pain, all the loss… it made me stronger. Wiser.” She let out a shaky laugh, though there was no humor in it. “But some ghosts don’t stay buried, no matter how deep you try to hide them. They… linger. And sometimes, they whisper louder than the present.”

Her eyes flickered with something darker, the faintest hum of scarlet energy sparking at her fingertips before she clenched her fists and forced it away. “I’ve learned from my past, yes. But moving on? That’s… harder. It’s like trying to heal a wound that keeps tearing open every time you think it’s finally closed.”

The docks breathed slow tonight — salt, rust, and river water thick in the air. Beneath it all, Daredevil caught a rhythm that didn’t belong: boots on concrete, deliberate, confident. Someone who moved like they knew what they were doing.

He followed the sound along the catwalk, each breath mapping the warehouse around him — stacked crates, a hollow drum, the low hum of bad wiring overhead. The scent of gun oil and whiskey carried faintly through the air, mixed with old leather and road dust.

Daredevil dropped soundlessly from the catwalk, landing on concrete that vibrated faintly beneath his boots. He straightened, head tilting toward the stranger’s steady heartbeat — calm, watchful, unafraid.

“You’re not one of Fisk’s,” he said quietly, voice low but steady. “You move like you’ve done this before.”

The vigilante took a step closer, the edge of warning in his tone unmistakable. “So tell me what you’re hunting in my city… or I’ll find out the hard way.”

Uncertainty followed the echidna's footfall during his inspection of this supposed base of operations. Naturally he's wary of any such empty gathering place since it had the spatial means to hold more than one present human, and so he couldn't dismiss the odds of facing a sudden ambush, especially not after that brief, but brutalizing romp with a rogue G.U.N defensive drone's neutralizer... otherwise known as a zappy stick, in his professional opinion.

Limbs still stiff from the encounter, he takes to stretching them out while patrolling the parlor and silently judging each detectable weak point to the base's structure when the scent of something savory wafting through piques his curiosity. Or rather, his gut. With a grumble to match a stirring stomach's, he eventually takes a lengthy notice of a swinging door that keeps closing back after he pushes it, promoting him to barge through before it can swing back in his face. Yet another booby trap bested.

Squinting at the notice Dean takes, he sidles over to inspect what he can make out of the counter top edge from below, a sharp sniff confirming the source of the scent. "What is this 'one' you speak of, and what concentration of poison have you used to create it?" A valiant attempt to appear aloof...soon thwarted by another stomach gurgle.