volunteertomatoes | deerington inbox;

Okay. Okay--hey, listen, that's good. Your brother's there.

[ There's a scramble of things as he starts the preparations--sand in a bowl, box of matches ready--and he listens as he works.

Demon blood.

That's a lot. That's--yeah, that's a lot, and Quentin's once more in uncharted territory. Maybe, he thinks, it's like Ember's seed--Alice had guzzled that down and basically became unstoppable.

Addiction, though. That's something Quentin's familiar with. Probably too familiar, given the company he keeps. He debates on getting Eliot to come before he figures it'd be a little too crowded. ]

And you kept doing it?

No judgement, I just--I mean, is it easy to find here?

[ Quentin's been learning more about his side of things, Sam's been trying to teach him just in case he had to deal with these things himself, but he couldn't possibly understand the ramifications when it comes to demon blood. Hell, he doesn't completely understand it, and he's probably the expert.

It doesn't take supernatural knowledge to know that drinking demon blood is bad. It doesn't take an expert to put the pieces together and realize that he's suffering from the worst kind of withdrawal.

He makes a choked noise that might have started as a mirthless laugh. How does anyone hear that their friend is sucking down demon blood and not judge? ]

Yeah. When you've got a willing demon, it's not hard.

[ He has no idea what Quentin's doing. But he doesn't doubt that he's got a plan. ]

D'you remember when powers were all weird? It cranked everything up to eleven. I knew I shouldn't, but I... wasn't thinking straight. And once I started...

[ He's not trying to excuse himself. He's not even blaming Ruby. ]

It's okay. It's okay-- [ It's decidedly not okay, because Sam has a willing demon, and Quentin has a right mind to learn how to kick demon's asses just for letting it get like this, but the flames light up once he ignites the spell, cold and blue. He picks up the bowl with both hands, still talking on the fluid--it's a bit of a juggling feat. ]

This place fucks with everyone, right? Me, too.

[ He's setting off using both the spell and his wolf senses to try to narrow down where Sam is. The combined efforts should be just enough to reach him if he's got anything up and cloaked. ]

Maybe not your whole deal, but... Are there any dangers of withdrawal? To yourself, to others?

[ He already knows the answer, he thinks. ]

It's not okay, Quentin.

[ He's too exasperated in the moment to be anything but honest, it's not anger. Or at least not anger at Quentin. It's hard to focus on anything but how much it hurts, how much it feels like his throat's going to close up at any moment, and how much he hates himself for not being able to stop himself from thinking about what he would have to do to get more blood. If Quentin lets him out he wouldn't have a choice, and the internal debate between letting him do it and trying to scare him into not is making his head hurt even more.

Yeah, this place fucks with them. Logically speaking he knows that was a factor, but claiming it as an excuse would feel hollow. Just like blaming Ruby for enabling him.

There's another pause, a strained, forced deep breath. ]

I don't know.

[ Dean has had first hand experiences with it. Still, this could be different. No one can say for sure. ]

It feels like it's trying to tear me apart from the inside out.

[ That's an addiction, right across the board. Quentin's breath hitches without him realizing it, walking a little more briskly. He stops then the flame that lights the bowl changes colour, walks back to where it started changing, and slowly rotates himself until he gets a different colour.

Locator spells: a magical game of hot and cold. Shit. He's going to have to get a taxi or some shit with this, isn't he? ]

I've uh, I've got a few friends that know what this is like.

[ He's just saying stuff--anything--just to keep Sam occupied. ]

Hey--humour me, what's your favourite book?

[ As distracted and out of it as he is, Sam's caught onto the fact that Quentin's just trying to keep him talking, and he might have brushed off the idea that it would help if it wasn't actually working. They might not have anything that would take the edge off of this pain, the only thing that will is the exact thing he has to avoid, but this is keeping his mind in one place. And maybe too distracted to conjure up too much in the way of voices that aren't actually there. Right now it's just one, and he's as sure that it's real as he can be of anything. ]

I dunno, man. Lord of the Rings, maybe?

[ When was the last time he read anything just because he enjoyed it, anyway? It's been a while, despite the piles of books that are slowly taking over his desk at work as well as the one he's got at home. ]

Quentin, what exactly is your plan here? I know you wanna help, and I... I appreciate that. I do. But you can't fix this.

[ Oh. Oh, there it is, 'you can't fix this,' and Quentin actually stops walking for a brief moment to take the time to compose himself. No, he can't. Quentin will never fix anything--he'll break things, clumsy, like a bull in a china shop.

But he's gotta keep trying, because people, especially people like Sam, they spend too much time trying to fix other people and not themselves. He he swallows thickly. ]

Just. Tell me the coolest part about it. I really liked the Two Towers, especially the movie version. That's sort of blasphemy, isn't it?

[ They keep talking like that--stupid shit, little shit, things to keep Sam occupied--and eventually Quentin finds Sam. When he opens the door to assess the mess, he's still got a bowl of sand that's aflame somehow, a bright, unnatural red. ]

Hey, uh, I know you said you wanted to be alone, but the thing is that I'm not very good at listening to that sort of stuff, so you can humour me again, right?

He's not taking no for an answer. He waves his hand in an intricate fashion, and the fire from the spell fizzles out.

[ Sam's dressed in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt, and it's pretty obvious that wherever he's been up until recently, this wasn't it. There's some distinctive red marks around his wrists where he's been pulling roughly on handcuffs, and even with padding it's left bruising. His hair, as well as his shirt, are damp with sweat, and he looks way too pale. It could pass as the kind of death flu that seems to happen to people who die here, not that he was planning on running into anyone to have a conversation about it in the first place. He just had to get out.

He felt like he was going to suffocate if he didn't get out of that shack, even though he's only traded that out for a slightly larger, abandoned house. He hears the door swing open, and the distinctive creak of floorboards as Quentin approaches, and the glow of the flames he's carrying cast a red light that floods the dark room around them.

It's almost too bright, but then it's gone, fizzling out abruptly. ]

I guess I gotta now.

[ 'You shouldn't be here.'

'It's not safe.'

He shakes his head, sinking down onto the dusty couch next to him. His thoughts are scattered and confused, but he's trying to focus. Trying to keep out all the voices, and definitely trying to keep away from the hungry black pit of hunger that's threatening to take over. ]

You gonna stop me if I try to leave?

Yeah.

[ Because Quentin doesn't believe in lying to someone, not like this. He closes the door, glances around, and is half contemplating warding the place before he looks back at Sam.

Looking like shit is an understatement. Quentin sucks in a breath, but tries to look at him normally. The last thing Sam needs is pity. ]

I have a, uh, I have a friend who does a lot of shit. Not demon blood, but I know he wouldn't want to be alone for it. I don't think you want to be alone for it, either. I wouldn't.

[ Even if Sam says it's for his own protection, Quentin's been very good at ignoring stuff like that. He sits on the nearest surface, offering a small, bleak smile. ]

Hey. Tell me about your first crush.

[ The answer isn't unexpected, and Sam seems to accept it with a certain amount of resignation, but it doesn't exactly put him at ease. What would Quentin do if he lost it? If he was trapped in another hallucination and thought that Azazel was going at him again? He's seen Quentin in a fight, he's not excessively confident that he could defend himself against an unexpected attack from a friend.

He shouldn't have to, but that the kind of mess that he could get himself into here. ]

Doesn't matter what I want. [ He tilts his head back until he's staring up at a dark ceiling covered in cobwebs. ] S'not worth someone else getting hurt.

[ Quentin's trying to offer distractions, trying to keep him talking and present rather than lost in his own head. He knows he should be more grateful for that. He's just so tired. He's probably silent long enough for it to seem like he's missed the question entirely, but he finally pulls his gaze back down to Quentin's face.

He'll try. ]

I barely had time for crushes. We didn't stay anywhere long enough to get too attached to anyone. Until I left for college, and that's where I met Jessica. She was amazing. Pretty, smart, totally out of my league.

[ A martyr if Quentin had ever seen--and it's relatable, at least to him. This is why he gets along with Sam, he thinks. They're both too fucking stubborn when it comes to not helping themselves until it's way too late.

But hey. Sam's looking at him, and that's a start. Quentin even smiles, gentle, and nods, and tries to ignore the pang of sympathy as he realizes that Sam's never settled down long enough because he'd been too busy fighting tooth and nail. ]

Jessica. What is it with J names as firsts? [ He'd fallen head over heels with Julia Wicker since they first met in Kindergarten. ]

[ It's probably meant to be an attempt at lightening the mood again, Sam's not exactly sure. Later he'll express appreciation for the effort, for all this, as much as part of him just wishes that Quentin would leave him alone. Right now he's in enough pain and has a loose enough grip on reality that he's barely coherent. Part of that is just because for him these observations about his life are very recent things, since that's what the voices have predominantly fixated on. ]

The demons killed her. Just like they killed our Mom, except this time I got to see it. Guess it helped me understand how Dad must've felt.

[ Didn't he react the same way? Leaving that whole life behind to chase down the demon responsible? He'd thought that once Azazel was dead then they would have a chance to change things. But that had just been the beginning of a whole new struggle. Somehow it got worse. ]

It just doesn't end for us, you know? One threat goes down, we get dragged into another. Been that way as long as I can remember. Sometimes I just... want it to stop, but I can't quit either. I died and I was still dragged back into it.

[ He sighs heavily. ]

It was my fault. If I just did what I had to do, none of this would have happened.

Oh.

[ Well, he did sort of walk into that. Quentin should have known better he thinks--Sam's obviously not had a cushy life. Sure, Quentin's wasn't exactly roses, either, but he was privileged, and he had parents, and it wasn't this.

A part of his brain genuinely wonders if Sam's ever had a happy moment in his entire life. ]

Maybe you did mess up, but...it happened. Past tense. You just gotta push forward and try to fix what you can now.

[ It seems hollow and cheap, even to him--but he's still processing everything Sam's said. ]

I know.

[ What choice does he have? He still has way too much to do, even though he has no idea how the hell he's going to accomplish it. Dean's unshakable faith in the fact that he will feels like the only thing keeping him moving sometimes. ]

I know. [ He shakes his head, a futile effort to clear it. It's so hard to focus. Whenever he has a solid train of thought going it seems to inevitably slip away from him. He's trying to focus on Quentin's face, on his voice, it's the only anchor he has to reality right now. Or at least what he has to believe is real. He's still not entirely convinced that if he tried to reach out that Quentin wouldn't disappear too. ]

It feels like I'm cursed, you know? I spent a long time trying to run away from it. Can't run away from myself.

Kind of makes you hate yourself even more, huh?

[ Is it too blunt? Is it too much? Maybe. Quentin can definitely relate, though--and sure, maybe Sam needs a friend, maybe he needs a distraction, but maybe he needs something else entirely, but Quentin's trying to narrow it down.

Plus, hey, misery loves company, right? ]

Yeah, it does.

[ There's no animosity in it, it's just one person who knows self-loathing to another. He recognizes that in the way Quentin asks, even though they haven't gotten into that before. He couldn't have brought this up - and he didn't, not before now. If Dean hadn't come in knowing all about it, it would probably still be something he was keeping to himself and Ruby.

But now that he's thinking about it, he remembers what Quentin was telling him before. ]

You said you had friends who have been through this. What was that like?

[ Obviously they got through it one way or another. ]

It wasn't demon blood. Just--you know. So we're clear. [ His lips pull up into a small, humourless smile. ]

It was... hard. More for him than for me. But in the end, he found something to hold onto and pull himself through. Honestly, I--I really should have been with him more.

[ Sam's actually wondered if demon blood would even have the same effect on other people. He's never asked, never even speculated out loud, but it stands to reason that if it did, other people would use it, no matter the cost. But any conclusions he might make on the reasons behind it would leave him feeling distinctly uncomfortable, now more than ever, so he just nods. ]

But something just as bad, wasn't it.

[ If it was as simple as some more mundane substance, he'd just put and say it, wouldn't he? Sam can't blame him for avoiding specifics, given his current state. ]

I do. Have something to hold onto, I mean, it's just...

[ He shakes his head, slumping further down on the couch. ]

I keep thinking that they don't believe in me as much as... the other me. Different ones. Not me me, if that makes sense.

[ He knows it's stupid, but that's one of the ugly things that have been swirling around in his head. ]

deerington inbox;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

text > action

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject