#holmesdepot

It is, indeed, a shitshow. Whatever this thing is, it seems to have had no trouble dispatching most of the demons Dean had intended to—what, negotiate with?—and presumably scaring off the rest. There’s black blood everywhere. Each corpse is missing its eyes, save the one the creature is still working on, straddling it, knife in hand.

“I’m doing what you wanted.” An unpleasant squelching sound. The knife holstered away. It holds the eyes up to the light, pinched gently between thumb and forefinger in each hand. There isn’t a drop of blood on him, and the dingy diner light turns his hair gold. “Getting information.”

It is perhaps a mercy that Dean is standing in the doorway behind him, and not in front, when he pops the eyeballs into the little sockets his sunglasses usually hide.

“Demons are liars, Dean. They’ll say whatever you want to hear if it helps them survive. This way, well… you’ll know it’s the truth.”

Jonathan wandered the bar, getting a few snapshots of the layout of the place just to get a feel for where might be best spots to line up his shots of the band while they performed. He’d been sent by the Hawkins Post to photograph a local band called Corroded Coffin while they performed live tonight for an article advertising The Hideouts live music nights.

Truthfully, Jonathan was a bit anxious. He wasn’t a big fan of photographing chaotic live events or groups. He much preferred candid shots of individuals in their elements, or shots of nature and animals. But a job was a job, and if he did well enough here, he might be able to convince Tom to hire him on a more permanent basis.

He needed the money. His mom’s birthday was coming up, and between the usual bills and the work he needed to have done on his car, money was tight, to say the least. He wanted to get her something nice, something she’d really love, or at least get a lot of use out of; which meant he had to do a good job here, even if he hated the idea of being around a bunch of drunk people while his ears bled at whatever awful music was local to Hawkins, Indiana.

Spotting someone with carrying in a guitar case and music equipment, he wandered over, quietly waiting a respectful distance until the person set down their things, before walking over. “H… hey,” he called in a greeting, still clutching the camera that hung from a strap around his neck. The other looked up, his long shaggy hair framing a pale face with wide dark eyes.

“Uh. Hi," he greeted, somewhat awkwardly. "I’m from the Hawkins Post? I’m gonna be photographing the band tonight,” Jon explained. “Um. Are- are you in the band?” He asked, nodding towards the equipment. After a beat, he held out his hand, remembering his manners. “My name’s Jonathan. Uh- Jonathan Byers,” he specified, remembering the way Tom had scolded him in the last meeting.

Barb was alive.

He heard it from Nancy who had cried and hugged him, relieved that both of their people had come home alive. Jonathan has hugged her back, relief washing over him that was unexpectedly heavy. He sighed into her curls as she cried into his jacket, the mental image of the girl on the diving board playing again and again in his mind.

I have to tell her, he realized, guilt twisting low in his belly. Candid shots were one thing, but snapping a picture of someone that vulnerable from the bushes? Only to then have her go missing? Not only that, but from the way Nancy made it sound, Barb had probably been stuck in the Upside-Down, too. He shuddered at the thought of being stuck down there for any length of time.

Suddenly uncertain of whether or not it would be a good idea to share what he did with Barb, he stood in the hallway, chewing on his cheek as his eyes nervously moved between the linoleum and the faces in the crowd. Spotting a familiar shock of red hair and wide glasses, Jonathan pushed off the wall, clinging to the strap of his bag. “H-hey, Barb?” he called out, sounding about as uncomfortable as he felt.

As soon as eyes fell on him, he stopped. Even after hanging out with Nancy these past few months, he still wasn’t used to people looking at him. Last time he’d seen Barb, it was through the lens of his camera, printed on glossy photo paper, and printed on scratchy newspaper. In person, those eyes on him, Jonathan felt exposed in a way that… probably wasn’t fair for him to feel, considering.

“H… hi, um. I’m Jonathan,” he greeted. “I’m Nancy’s fr-” Could they really be called friends? She was certainly the closest he’d ever had to one, but… maybe it was presumptuous to think that she’d see him the same way. “Um… I hang out with Nancy sometimes? I don’t know if she’s… ever mentioned me, but…” Okay, this wasn’t going well, he needed to reframe. “I’m- I’m Will Byers older brother?” Hopefully that at least would help make the connection.

somewhere through the sonorous ringing of bending steel and exploding, buckling concrete that still seemed to reverberate through her skull, joyce was vaguely aware of the half - congealed blood matted in her hairline and streaking down to her temple; the scrapes that still marred her hands, her clothed elbows — the taste of metal in her mouth that not even the water offered to her could fully clear.

in the sharp contrast between the dark of night and the blaze of untended flame licking up from the rubble, it was almost impossible to focus on the sharpness of reality, or take in the words steve sounded out. all that consumed her in the moment was the smoke in the air, and the oscillating flash of red - and - blue lights in her periphery; the still vivid memory of how the control room, numerous stories below the ground, had shuddered and destabilized under the boots she'd commandeered, three sizes too large and spattered in gore — and how hopper, dirt smeared and blue - eyed and resigned, had disappeared from her tear - blurred field of vision in a blistering, vision - splitting flash.

shellshock, murray had murmured to her, before he'd vanished too. you're in shock.

"Ah--he ran into my knife three times, thank you," Astarion sniffs, as if offended by the idea that he'd ever need more than a few swift thrusts to cut someone down. He shifts his weight just slightly, eyeing the figure in the doorway. Dean isn't a large man, not really, but he's blocking the only exit from this wretched little half-flooded basement, and Astarion worries immensely that he might decide this kill is one too many - self defense or not. "I didn't even realise there was anyone down here. I can't smell anything past the--ugh, the stench."

It's only then that he realises Dean is almost smiling. Not with his mouth: his eyes. How did he not realise that sooner? Fuck. Even if he'd understood whatever the Hell the boy is referencing (Astarion has learned, to his endless irritation, that this man loves referencing things he's never heard of - which is almost everything, considering how he's spent the last two hundred years) it's too late now to banter back about it. Ugh.

"Before you ask, no, I didn't bite him. You can check his neck, if you like," he says airily, toeing the corpse onto its back with studied nonchalance. "Even if I could, I wouldn't have bothered. He probably tastes like a sewer."

Hunger gnaws at him, insistent, relentless, but even this far from his master, some of Cazador's rules still have a hold on him that he cannot break. Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.

(Not to mention that staying on good terms with his new, ah, monster hunter friend relies upon him proving that he's one of the good ones.)

↯ .ᐟ the question lodges behind ribs. 𝚜̲𝚊̲𝚏̲𝚎͢ sounds foreign to him. the mention of it draws an instinct to scan the room, automatic in nature now. he's pulled his shoulders tight before even recognizing it. 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧. ❛ i don't . . . ❜ his voice runs thin, quiet – he clears it to try again. ❛ i don't think my body knows what that means anymore. ❜ steve knows better than to bullshit robin. with anyone else, he would've masked it off as a ridiculous question. he knows she won't take that as an answer.

ever since the mall, he thinks, something had switched & had yet to turn off. his pulse maintains at a high rate, eventual collapse anticipated in his bones. hands shake and he rewrites it as 'too much coffee today.' heart feels like he's about to run even when sitting still. loud, abrupt noises split him open. sometimes he's absent completely from the physical moment. the worst part of it being that there doesn't need to be a threat anymore. it's worse when it exists without. 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒎𝒚.

❛ i sleep like i'm bracing for impact, even when nothing's happening. ❜ his heart picks up the pace now as he admits to his reality. ❛ i think i forgot to how to . . . come down. like my body thinks the moment i relax, disaster will strike. ❜ he doesn't bring up the gaps in his head, missing frames with empty settings. how he forgets what he's saying mid-sentence, the thought running away from him. 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞. and everyone chalks it up to his intellect, how he's 'never been the brightest' – but this is different. this is scaring him.

he presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. 𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟. now, he loses words mid-sentence. safety as a concept feels laughable. because as much as he can remember, safety accepted stillness. now, he lives with the constant whir of his ears and constantly calculating costs.

↯ .ᐟ he lets out a short, incredulous exhale, like she's called him out on something never before recognized. ❛ dramatic? please. ❜ a verbal wave at her claims, lifting a hand to gesture at himself. ❛ i mean yeah, sometimes things just happen to escalate around me –- that's not the same thing. ❜

❛ am i okay? ❜ he snaps, voice pitched high. ❛ oh, yeah dustin i'm fantastic. this is –- e​̲x​̲a​̲c​̲t​̲l​̲y​̲ how i like my nights going! ❜ he doesn't look at his younger friend, busy scanning the darkness. one hand pulls through his hair with everything but ease. fingers curl at his side into fists that turn his knuckles white.

❛ we shouldn't be standing here talking about my feelings henderson WE NEED TO MOVE. now. ❜