one more night, this can’t be me

[kickingand]

WHO: Demon!Dean & You (+various others)
WHERE: Miama, Maurtia Falls, Heropa & Anywhere Else
WHEN: This month!
WHAT: Dean livin’ the life idek; aka a catchall for the month, open starters below & closed starters in comments
WARNINGS: UHMMM what warnings are there not. potential sexual innuendo, foul intentions, bad language, talking to criminal entrepreneurs, hinting at drug useage, torture & murder (only with Lucifer, avoid that thread/threads if this offends you.) We’re running the full gamut here, so be wary.

note: if you'd like a different starter & you have a potential idea/want to chat, feel free to PM me and i'll whip something up for you!


ONE. Miami. beach.

[ One cannot spend all day indoors (or in bed, depending on how you look at it, no matter what you may be doing in said bed...) Especially when indoors means a church, even if that church happens to be owned and run by the Devil. Besides, it’s not as if Dean is a vampire, and he hardly takes any offense to the sun.

Or to the fact that being located nearby the beach means a surefire abundance of, well- use your imagination, here.

Dean, for the majority of today at least, has taken to lounging about in the sand and is for the most part, being a giant creep. I mean, what else is new. For the time being, he’s taken to watching an all-female volleyball game, peering from behind a pair of sunglasses, not so much watching the ball bounce back as forth as he is watching other things bounce…

His lechery knows no bounds.

No, really—Tipping his head back to shout: ]

Hey babe, why don’t you give up the game and come play with me.

[ As if that’s the worst he’s said over the past few minutes… ]

TWO. Maurtia Falls. on the streets.

[ It’s just at the edge of dusk, and Dean is skulking about. He has been for a good few hours now, making friends with the men situated at various corners, wandering about behind his hunched shoulders and chattering before he waves them off, carrying on to find someone else. He’s looking for prey, looking for anyone at all when nobody is watching, and is happy to avoid anyone he lingers too long with.

Just like he’s happy to grin at anyone who might be stupid enough to make eye contact.

He’s not here to make friends, though perhaps he’s here to make short term enemies, and as he carries on down the street with footsteps behind him, Dean only stops to exhale, hands going into his pockets as he silences even his breath. Lifting his chin to look up towards the sky, he ponders for a moment before he finally turns to wait for the coming onslaught. ]

Look, buddy- your price was just a little too high.

THREE. Heropa. bar.

[ And back we are at the bar.

At least this time it could be said that he's not hanging out at the Karaoke stand - he's gotten that out of his system for the time being. Instead, he's just watching people mill about, gaze tracking from one person to the next, the lackluster rage behind his eyes starting to spike every few moments. He's not particularly pissed about anything so much as he's angry in general, ready to flare at a moment's notice for absolutely no reason other than the fact that he can.

The bartender just happens to be watching him suspiciously, adding on the high wire tension running between Dean's shoulders. It's only when he flashes the man behind the counter a grin that he leans to whoever it may be sitting next to him and swirls his beer absently, waiting for a moment before he speaks. ]

Five bucks someone starts a fight in here tonight.

[ No, really, the bartender might actually kill him first. ]

Comments

(closed) lucifer.

[kickingand]

[ Dean had grown tired of tempering his rage. It wasn't as if it had truly been asked of him to do so, but he'd done it anyway, waited himself out, taken advantage of small opportunities to beat in someone's face or flick annoyance at a passerby. But it hadn't been enough, not even remotely, and so finally, one day, he cracked. He could make a million excuses but none of them were essential and so he simply went with with it, letting the flames of his rage stoke higher until there was no escaping the pulse that raced through his dead veins, the ravages of it eating him alive until there was nowhere left to turn.

The bass in this club was monumental, pounded the damn streets practically, and Dean had chosen it for that reason. The noise drove through the cement underbelly of the club and when Dean had finally chosen his perfect victim, a man who was whispering into the ears of too many whores to keep track of, Dean finally lashed out, grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him to his feet. He unfurled a wad of bills and waved it under his nose, swore he had business to speak of and promptly veered him down towards the flight of stairs that led to nowhere.

Namely, the cellar underneath the club. It was storage, old boxes and fliers - now which were strewn about as Dean knocked the man back onto his ass all over again. Hit him once, twice, three times until he finally went down for the count, old CD's scattering

Dean hadn't done anything much yet, no, but he'd at least led the man here, bashed his face in a number of times and laid him out in a whimpering puddle. From there, Dean flipped out his comm device, poked at it a few more times before pocketing it once more and simply returning to the task at hand while the man before him mumbled quiet pleas. Dean rolled his eyes around a grin, pointing his finger down at the man, driving another kick only to stop it just inches beneath the man's chin. ]

Nobody likes a whiner.

[angelfire]

[ Lucifer came when he was called, if only because he was intrigued by Dean calling for him at all, rather than the other way around. The place wasn't warded against him--a cellar, permeated by the thumping music of the club above them. And a man, beaten, laying on the floor looking pathetic in his own way.

Interesting. Still very interesting.

He looked up at Dean, just for a moment, as he came forward, crouching down and laying his fingertips on the man's shoulder. A sinner if he'd ever felt one. A positive monster, in fact. Now what would Dean be doing dragging a creature like this into a dark pit like this one, presenting him to Lucifer like he was...what? A gift?

He cocked his head back up toward the demon, looking at him casually. ]

Is it my birthday again already? I've been telling you, it's September 29th. You're early.

[kickingand]

[ It took Dean a moment to stop staring at the man before him, entranced in his own way to the prospect of death that sat at his feet. Because that's what this was, wasn't it? The tantalizing prospects of murder that he hadn't fallen for yet. The thing he wanted to do most of all, a reminder that Crowley had once thought he'd owned this - like gift wrapping murder scenes was something only the King of Hell could do. But now it was Dean's turn to take control of it, to hand it over as he so chose, to either do it himself or give it to Lucifer.

As if he really needed a reason to kill anyone.

Finally glancing up, looking to Lucifer, it took Dean a second longer to come down off his brutal high, waving a hand to the man before him expectantly. ]

So i'll come up with a better excuse.

[angelfire]

Oh, you don't need an excuse to treat me, Dean. I'm thrilled you were thinking of me.

[ Not that Dean was really thinking of him, he was caught up in his own needs, and turned them toward doing something specific, and this excuse, gifting him with it? It was just a way to forgive himself of his nature.

His new, beautiful nature, this mess of a creature abandoned on the ground. Lucifer saw an opportunity for a lesson here, and if Dean carried on this way, it would be the first of many. Dean was a cat bringing his generous owner gifts, laying them out at his feet still alive and squirming: Did I do good? ]

Carry on as though I'm not here, won't you? [ He wanted to see what the plan was. Maybe he'd stick his oar in momentarily. ]

[kickingand]

[ It's true, he wasn't really thinking of Lucifer. Not in the slightest. The moment got away from him faster than he'd meant for it to, spun out of control and now here he stood, trying to keep from heaving stormy breaths, wanting nothing more than to plow into this man and tear him limb from limb. The temptation was near unbearable but he was trying to shove the whole thing off, lay it at Lucifer's feet with the sole purpose of abandoning the train before it left the station.

He didn't need to kill anyone to feel good. He was doing just fine without it. He was coping. Navigating life. Feeling grand.

But didn't this just feel even better. It was an inescapable fact that Dean was trying to wriggle his way out from under, wishing he could pass off the torch and give Lucifer the right to maim and kill because he didn't need it. He was demon enough without murder under his nails and yet why the hell not? Dean didn't know, didn't get it, and wasn't trying to spend time figuring himself out, either.

Even so, he tapped the toe of his boot against the man's knee, readying himself himself for a sharp, absent minded kick, the yowl of a response something that Dean didn't even register. ]

You're sure? You haven't exactly had an easy time of it lately.

[angelfire]

Even so. I'm easy, Dean. I gutted the fool who thought himself good enough to stab me. It's kind of you to think of me, however.

[ Maybe he'd help Dean kill the man, if he really was struggling with that final action. This was a man, and for all the terrible things he'd done, it was still murder. It wasn't like Dean was taking the life of a monster, one who deserved the end that was coming its way. This monster was just a man.

Not that Dean hadn't taken his share of human lives too. But this... This would be intentional. Predisposed toward it.

Lucifer was enamored by the very possibility that Dean was going to follow through with it. His eyes were bright, curious, as he drew his own angel blade from the sleeve of his shirt, and offered it out toward him. ]

If you really want to make it up to me, you're welcome to put on a bit of a show. Your fun was cut off before we could really get into it, after all, and why waste an opportunity like this? There's some fairy lights in the corner there, they should make a suitable replacement for rope.

[ Cool, calm and collected, he stepped across, picking up a chair which had fallen over at some point, a layer of dust on top of it. He pulled it toward the center of the room. ]

[kickingand]

[ It wasn't as if he couldn't - he was fully capable of committing murder just for murder's sake, he told himself a hundred times. That this was no different than any other opportunity that fell into his lap, the kind of hunt he needed now and the kind of prey he could give himself over to. It was everything he wanted right now all wrapped up in a neat little meat suit.

That alone should have been enough.

And yet, he struggled.

Incrementally, perhaps, but enough to register. He should have been able to drag him out back easy enough, pop one through his skull, but it wasn't happening yet, and Dean watched carefully as Lucifer handed over his angel blade, dragged a chair into the center of the room, laid everything out as easy as could be. ]

When you put it like that- Up you go, buddy.

[ The man tries to make a break for it, hoist himself up to his wobbly feet, but Dean gets their first, foisting his hands up underneath his armpits and easily maneuvering him onto the provided chair, dropping him like a sack of flour. ]

Heropa;

[itistolaugh]

[ Harley saw him come in (God, he just keeps showing up, doesn't he?) and turned away hoping to remain unnoticed. But then her neighbor decided to be responsible and go home, leaving the spot next to her terribly vulnerable. Maybe it's all coincidence, maybe he doesn't realize it's her, but when he leans over and addresses her she can't help but feel personally victimized. ]

Oh gosh, mister, who would ever go and do such a thing as that?

[ Her brows are raised and her mouth a perfect 'o' of cartoonish naivety. ]

[kickingand]

[ Maybe he should've been more aware of the fact that the only thing between him and Harley was some poor lonely soldier, who's now gone off home to be good. Which means that when he does lean over, he's caught a touch off guard, though it leaves him with nothing but his vindictive amusement after a second because goddamn, he just keeps bumping into this chick, doesn't he.

But whatever, that just somehow makes it even more entertaining. ]

Some poor bastard who's got nothing left to lose, maybe.

[itistolaugh]

[ She bites the inside of her cheek as she looks him over. Harley hadn't considered the chance of seeing him ever again - her bad - and it's weird trying to figure out how she feels about him when his dick isn't out. Good? Bad? Pretty good, probably? Oh god, who knows. There ought to be a law against one night stands turning up in public. ]

So, uh... What was your name again?

[kickingand]

Dean.

[ It's not like they ever really stopped and shook hands... at least not like that and so he's not particularly (or even remotely) bothered that she doesn't know what it is he goes by. Hell, around here introductions don't seem to come until the very last second available. So. Whatever. Instead, he leans in slightly, what could even be called conversationally. ]

Didn't think I was that forgettable. [ He's still allowed to tease. ]

[itistolaugh]

[ Harley makes a show of screwing up her face and trying to remember him, before shrugging with a grin. ]

Doesn't ring a bell! But if you ask real nice, maybe I'll let you remind me.

[ It's amazing how much better her mood is when he isn't butting in on her plans. Plus she's had, like, A FEW Long Island Iced Teas, so she's feeling puh-retty friendly. ]

[kickingand]

[ Oh yeah, so clueless. He can feel her making fun all the way from over here which is why he drags himself and his booze on in closer, situating himself on the chair that had once stood between them, just to make the point that he ain't going away unless he's ushered on out of here. ]

I mean- [ he shrugs a shoulder, not overly interested in playing coy. As if the dude even knows how ] - I don't want to be the only one who remembers.

heropa!

[heymcfly]

[ Marty didn't hang around bars at all for the drinking part of it; after seeing what that stuff did to his mom, Marty swore himself off of anything alcoholic for the rest of his life. There were more ways he could feel sorry for himself other than latching onto a bottle like it was his lifeline. Instead, he was here to try and spread his reputation around. Some guitarists out there made it big by playing background music, right?

Lying about his age was hard; it was obvious that Marty was nowhere near the legal drinking age. He could play as much as he wanted, as long as he stuck to his curfew. And didn't get a form of payment. Tips were okay though, but he didn't really get any. Not that he minded, of course. As long as his name got out there, he would be okay with it.

He doesn't stop until his fingers can't take it anymore. Marty makes his way over to the counter, grabbing the only beverage he was allowed (a pepsi, what else?), before turning his head to the man beside him. ] What?

Nah, I think everything's gonna be fine. What would they even fight about?

[kickingand]

[ ..... did he just turn to the only twelve year old in the bar? Of course he did.

Though, even that comes with its own level of amusement. Not that Dean really cares much either way, save for the prospect of wondering why he's here in the first place and why he isn't trying to finagle more than a soda out of the bartender. Most kids would be damn near shaking down everyone in the place, trying to see who would buy them something boozy but he seems all right with the arrangement and so be it.

Dean just sort of shrugs, twisting on his barstool a bit while he contemplates for a moment. ]

Oh, I don't know. Pick a topic, any topic. Women, batting averages, favorite beer.

[heymcfly]

[ Marty kind of has to remind himself that just because his mom wasn't the angry kind of drunk, didn't mean that her attitude reflected everybody else who got wasted. Drunk people could get angry over literally anything. Look at Biff.

He shrugs, sipping on his Pepsi that was offered. ] What's the chance someone gets pissed because some other guy calls him out on something? [ Marty rests his elbow against the bar, his hand cupping his cheek. ] Like he gets called a wuss or something?

[kickingand]

[ Dean has his own opinions on drunkenness, though right now all of them are pretty much moot. If anything, all he cares about right now is stepping into violence, gearing up to hit someone in the head and hoping that perhaps he'll get to watch someone else do the same thing. What else is really worth getting his blood flowing for (save for a fuck); if booze is what gets someone there, then so be it. He's happy to encourage.

Bobbling his head back and forth a bit in thought, Dean hums under his breath before coming up with an answer. ]

A wuss? Oh, I don't know, odds are pretty damn good that someone's gonna get pissed with that one. Number of shitty tequila shots he's done can only make things worse.

[heymcfly]

[ Marty shakes his head, sipping at his drink and resting his elbows against the counter. ] 'S that why you're here? To start some kind of trouble?

[ Why wouldn't that surprise Marty at all? Going to bars isn't something that he usually does during his days off or whatever, but why else did guys like him go? Marty has no idea who this person is, but he looks kind of mean. From first looks, kinda not the guy you want to irritate, especially after he's downed a beer or two. ]

Why even ask?

[kickingand]

[ Dean just offers a cavalier shrug kind of thing, not particularly bothered by the implication behind the question. Because while he's not inherently here to start trouble, he's considering the idea. It's a possibility, and one that's itching at him if he's got nothing better to do. Which he can't even be bothered to feel bad about, or well- really feel anything about, truth be told.

It's something to do. He can't help himself. ]

Oh, I don't know- because I haven't decided yet? Not like there aren't other ways to spend a night.

[3] Heropa, Road Not Taken

[shifting]

Fifty bucks says I end it.

[a low, pleased voice from Dean's left - not the man he'd leaned in towards, but one who overheard the demon nonetheless. Sam Mickens grins around his next sip of whiskey, standing in a casual lean against the edge of the bar. Nearing his late thirties, scruffy, a brown Carhartt jacket over a beat-to-hell T-shirt and faded jeans with boots - a good 'ol boy with nothing good on his mind.

He's not sure what drew him to Dean in the first place, but the guy's had his attention since Sam saw him come in. There's something, he guesses, in the smell of the man beneath the alcohol, dark and subtle, but he can't blame it on that. Maybe it's the bunch of tense muscles he can spy beneath the guy's shoulder. More likely, it's that hungry, eager look in the kid's eyes - that's a look Sam knows.

It helps that he's wearing a matching one himself.]

[kickingand]

[ Ohhhh, boy. Sign him up for you.

Dean can only veer his attention back around at the voice that comes from his other side, eyebrows lifting with far too much interest at the comment. The guy looks practically his double (though, the Winchester boys have an infatuation with flannel that cannot be compared), as if he's come from the same air of existence that Dean was raised in, the leather and boots, the stink of a gruff exterior that belies whatever depth that might be found otherwise.

Good ol' southern kids, raised in Hell.

It's the kind of intention that Dean can only relate to, the urge to get involved himself, and the inclination to want a fight to start simply so he can step in the middle of it. All Dean needs is the barest of pushes - hardly even that at all - and if he doesn't get one, then he's just as inclined to throw the first punch just to see what happens. A domino effect that can't be tamed, perhaps throwing a beer just to make it look accidental. All he wants is to feel bones breaking against his fist, it is all he wants. ]

Figure you're just that good, huh.

[shifting]

Figure I'm good enough. [Sam shrugs, nice and easy, like they're discussing whatever bullshit sports game was on TV last night. A calloused hand slips out a crisp twenty from a thick wad of the same (because business has been just that good lately, and he's hit up every pawn shop for thirty miles to spread his haul around) and leaves it on the bar. More than his drink is worth by far, but that's not what he's paying for; the bartender just doesn't know it yet.

But he gets the feeling this guy might.]

'Least for what you're lookin' for. Ain't that right? You on the scent of somethin', boy? [boy, kid, little puppy with a pretty face he's going to break on the nearest hard surface.

Sam licks his teeth and smiles, edging casually around some dumbshit herd animal walking between them, some broad fucker who doesn't know better. That's all right. Just makes it easier for the shifter to grab a pool stick from the table behind him and hold it just out of sight.

He'll never understand how normal people can't sense it, when it gets in the air like this - the danger. Sam can smell it, like the way the air gets hot and crisp before a lightning strike; he can taste it dancing like electricity across his tongue.

He grins.]

'Cause I reckon you've found it. [and up comes the stick in an short, rough arc aimed for his new friend's teeth.

Hell's a dog fight, Dean.

Let Sam show you how he knows.]

[kickingand]

[ Dean watches for a moment, enamored in his own way as the man pulls out his twenty, watching the display for exactly what it is. Because bravado isn't hard to spot from a few yards away, especially when it's waving around more cash than is ever necessary, like Dean's gonna be impressed by that crap just for the sake of it. He hasn't gotten a whiff if exactly what this is yet, but he's clear enough in the intention to be starting to, the bristled meaning behind the move, the silent push that's already snapped between them.

But really, being called a boy would be enough on the best of days to set Dean off like a hair trigger. Puff up his chest, push out his shoulders, ball fists tight enough that the fight would be there no matter what. Dean's guessed by now that they're about equal in the height, weight, age, jackass category, and he hasn't been shot down for awhile now. Or maybe he's just looking for a reason. Just like he always is.

Give him something.

Anything. ]

You tryin'a say the shit I smell's you?

[ The guy's moving and Dean just stays put, treks his gaze over the man's shoulders that gets in the way and waits for whatever's gonna happen next. His elbow's still settled against the bar he's leaned up against, looking halfway preoccupied with everyone else instead of what his contender is up to, but his whole focus is on this brand new game. The snap of footsteps as he walks away, the distance between them, the weight of the moment suddenly sliding back and forth. Head cocking gently, taking in the sights, Dean's already infatuated with the possibilities behind this, the broken nose he can feel streaming from behind his knuckles, the gasps for air.

It's when the pool cue comes aimed for his face that everything snaps into clear focus and everyone else goes out like a light. Dodging out of the way just before the thing bashes into his mouth, Dean grabs for the tip of it and gives it a mighty heave, hoping he'll either bring the asshole closer or the stick itself, not care which'll come to him first but hoping it'll be at least some combination of the two.

Because if he doesn't put hands on someone soon, his mind is going to become something else, something that isn't his and probably never was. ]

[shifting]

[never a dog to let a stick go without a tussle, Sam doesn't fight the initial tug, riding the pull even as the bar's other occupants get out of the way, finally clued in to what's happening. Truth be told Sam's surprised the guy's reflexes are this fast. The jolt shows briefly in his face, strikes determination in his chest like the scrape and flare of a lit match. He'd been in this before just for the hell of it, because bloodying his knuckles against someone always feels good, but now there's a challenge. He won't let it go unanswered. He can't.

So he's dragged in, stick and all, and Dean better be sure that's what he wanted because the shifter won't give him time to regret the move. Sam moves his hands so he has the thickest part of the stick between them, jutting his arms forward to bash the polished wood against or under Dean's chin. The guy has three inches on him, but as far as Sam's concerned that should just make it easier to get at his throat.

The downside is he's in range - hell, they're going right on top of each other if nothing gets between them - for whatever counter Dean comes up with, but that's all right. That's all right. Everything's good when your blood is pumping this hard and hot; when the world looks this red.

Come on, fucker. We both know you want this.]

[kickingand]

[ It's exactly what he wanted, because sinking his fingers into this is the only way to go. No reason to hold a fight at an arm's distance after all, not when he wouldn't be able to feel it that way. No, this has gotta go digging under his skin, itching deep, running to where the curse can actually feel it. Otherwise what's the point besides the obvious, the pure blood lust behind it and the urge to feel flesh giving way to flesh something nobody else seems to understand as well as this asshole.

Clipped under the chin hard, pool cue digging into his throat, there's nowhere especially far to be rammed back into, getting the lip of the bar against his spine for all its worth. In retribution, or really just for the hell of it, Dean only wants to bring the fight that much closer, lifting his own hands to curl on either side of Sam's around the stick, gritting his teeth and splintering the cue in an instant. The shards of it jab up under his chin, knock his skull back with the force of the wood popping open against his skin like charred popcorn, but he knocks aside one of Sam's wrist with one hand of his own and goes for Sam's jacket with the other, wrenching the other man forward as he moves in tandem, lifting his knee into the blow he aims straight for his gut.

It's all fast, fluid and dirty, no hesitation in any movement save for the pumping of bravado within the action, the need to make this every kind of hellfire and then some. It's not supposed to be pretty, it's damn well supposed to hurt as much as it's meant to grind his gears. A fight isn't a fight unless he goes home dented in equal measure and even if he can heal from a bruise within seconds, it doesn't change the fact that he wants each wayward second of this to send both of them toppling over into their preferred means of brutal insanity.

Because really, what's the point otherwise. What's the point if every second doesn't feel like the lifting of a weight that's only ever been there from the start. ]