Someone's in trouble somewhere tonight~
Who: "Philip", Daniel & Dean Winchester & [OPEN]**
Where: ~The Mansion~, but mainly Daniel's room & Dean's room
When: Starting Wednesday afternoon
Rating: R/NC-17 for Return of Clarence [specifically violence, torture, cannibalism and very impolite language]
Summary: The mind you have dialed is currently unavailable. PleaseRUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!
( Read more... )
Where: ~The Mansion~, but mainly Daniel's room & Dean's room
When: Starting Wednesday afternoon
Rating: R/NC-17 for Return of Clarence [specifically violence, torture, cannibalism and very impolite language]
Summary: The mind you have dialed is currently unavailable. PleaseRUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!
( Read more... )
It should be duly noted that Dean has very few friends. Even fewer close friends, and despite the loner lifestyle, not hearing from certain individuals after extended periods of time doesn't really sit well with him.
It makes him nervous.
Dean hasn't talked to Philip since Philip changed rooms. After assuming (Correctly) the cause of this sudden emigration, Dean decided to give Phil a little space from whatever traumatic things he had witnessed; things which Dean hopes to never, ever see, and he'd gladly break another mirror's nose to prevent seeing them. It's been more than a few days, though. That's a justifiable ( ... )
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If it's possible for Dean's glare to emanate even more hatred, it does so.
Yeah, he wants to save Phil. Badly. By any means possible. Philip LaFresque, bless his limey soul, can sit there and actually listen to what Dean has to say, and cares. That's pretty rare, and Dean'll be damned if he doesn't try anything and everything to help him. Letting his temper get the better of him probably didn't help the situation, because he doesn't know the exact means by which Clarence possesses bodies in the first place. Is it even the same as demons from his own universe? Does he feel pain? Is Philip trapped in the back of his own mind?
"I said we," Dean snaps. "I might be the best hunter, but I ain't the best at gettin' rid of what's not supposed to be there ( ... )
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Clarence turns around and walks over to the kitchen table.
"My bad, really."
He picks up one of Dean's weapons at random and examines it.
"Anyway... nice collection you got there, monkey."
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The kitchen table with all his weapons laid out, like some kind of torturer's buffet. The biting words die in his throat.
"...comes with the job," he replies lowly, eyeing Clarence with some trepidation. Hearing that voice coming out of that body is really starting to freak him out. Try as he might, though, Dean is finding it difficult not to push his luck. Particularly when the weapons he brought with him from home are over there.
"You wanna put those down? I cleaned 'em this afternoon, and I don't want alien scumbag all over 'em."
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A retort presents itself, because it's certainly not his blood on the weapons Dean should be worried about, but Clarence opts for silence instead and merely clicks his tongue, advancing slowly.
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Building the suspense.
Yeah, he can feel the suspense all right. The knife in Clarence's hands is pretty small, but applied in the right places, it can be more than a little damaging.
In the meanwhile, Dean is trying to get over the fact that, in effect, Philip is going to be hurting him.
"A pigsticker?"
Watch him throw up that facade again.
"Go ahead. Make my day."
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"See? That's the spirit. Your buddy Philip's worried sick about you in here," A tap to his head for emphasis, "but you're obviously doin' great."
Clarence shakes his head.
"And I keep tellin' him not to worry, but you know what he's like and, uh... anyway, where was I?"
He taps his chin with the knife.
"Oh. Oh, right! I was gonna make your day."
With that Clarence darts forward and jerks Dean's head up by the hair, holding it in place just long enough to jab the knife right into his eye.
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His first pen-knife. The one his dad gave him when he was seven. He's been toting it around with him here because it's one of the few things he had on him when he crossed over here, and this asshole is going to cut him open with it.
But at least he knows Philip is still in there, and that he's not dead. Worried as Hell - that seems to be Phil's default - but not completely wiped out.
That's good.
What isn't so good is the searing, agonizing explosion of pain in his right socket as the pen-knife grinds into his skull, rupturing the cornea, the lens, the everything.
Dean screams.
He feels like his brain is leaking out of the vitreous fluid along with the blood. All the blood. His eyelid is torn. He can't see. The pain is so immense that it reminds him of when he went all Miracle-Gro after his first death, and he jerks frantically on the handcuffs, the sheer frustration and anger giving him enough incentive to want to wrap his ( ... )
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1.) His face.
2.) His palm.
Though perhaps the actual reaction is less comical, because Philip knows the answer, oh god, does he ever know the answer, especially now that it's been branded into his mind over the last few days.
Only Clarence seems uncertain, if only for show.
"That," Clarence discards the knife without a second thought, "is a very good question."
He slowly moves away from the bed and over to Dean's closet, musing idly as he strides along.
"See, the whole agonising torture thing is... really more of a human trademark, not really our style. Not usually anyway, but I guess there's a first for everything, huh?"
Clarence disappears behind opened closet doors, whistling.
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"Yeah, well-" he coughs, feeling blood dribble down the side of his face, into his ear. "Ya learn new things every day."
This is definitely one of those times when Dean wishes he hadn't chosen to postpone the chat with Castiel about talking with their minds in the celestial ether, or whatever. He could use a guardian angel right about now.
He can't dwell on these thoughts for too long, though, because the ache in his skull isn't even a dull throb yet. It still burns, and he knows it'll get so much worse.
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He stuffs away something else and dutifully returns to the bed, sitting down by Dean's side, dropping the pliers on his stomach. Then Clarence stretches a little and cracks his knuckles.
But instead of the pliers he reaches for that something else, producing a salt shaker from his pocket. He taps it with his fingers a few times, then sprinkles a small amount into Dean's wounded eye.
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There's no point in asking the question, but it feels better than sitting there and taking it like a bitch. The pliers worry him, though. Dean is a creative guy, and while he's currently struggling with depth perception and trying to retain some semblance of sanity, he's legitimately scared.
Which obviously means that the situation calls for more bravado.
Except when he focuses on the object in Clarence's hand, and realizes exactly what it is. Hissing sharply as oh FUCK itburnsitburnsitburns like lemon juice on a papercut only twenty million times worse the salt is sprinkled ever-so-delicately onto the gaping, torn, God-knows-what that had been his right eye, Dean growls at the back of his throat.
"Who are you, Chef Ramsey?"
Close, Dean. But no cigar.
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Clarence sighs and shakes his head, tsking reproachfully.
"Honestly, I just..."
He leans forward, inspecting the remains of Dean's eye with a scrutinising look.
"Just remembered hearin' a rumour about a delicacy called human eye and since you won't be needin' yours anymore I figured--"
Clarence reaches forward, fingers pressed together into a scoop. Another motion that is all too violent and swift in contrast with his slow and musing tone.
"Why not make use..."
His fingers rotate, careful and searching.
"Of..."
Any sounds or movements of protest on Dean's part go ignored.
"The opportunity?"
And then he scoops it up, the remains of a small and white orb, dripping with fluids and trailing behind strings of red tissue.
And then there's a sickening slurp and it's all gone.
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Squinting defiantly up at Clarence with his good eye, Dean doesn't realize how ironic his reference is until dry, bare fingers scrape through the remains of his eyelid and into his skull. His skull. There are fingers in his head, feeling around, scooping up the viscous leftovers.
Dean isn't aware that he's been screaming until he wrenches his head back, away from Clarence's seeking hand, and knocks it on the bed's headboard, effectively startling him into stunted silence.
The gag reflex kicks in as Clarence sucks up his eyeball like a spoonful of Jell-O.
Close to retching and half-delirious with agony, the quiet laugh returns. Weary, and devoid of humor, but there. It's his only method of defiance anymore.
"Hope it...it gives you food p-poisoning, you bastard," Dean chuckles mirthlessly, throat raw.
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Clarence pauses. Chews. Swallows.
"Now, don't sell yourself short, that..."
He licks his fingers with gusto before wiping them on the sheets.
"That was pretty good. Might need a little spice, but I could almost go for seconds..."
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It's all he has left.
"Wouldn't- ngh, deprive me of both peepers, wouldja? Not when I'd make such a...such a great pirate."
Were he not chained to a fucking bed, he'd already have Clarence tied up for a questioning he wouldn't forget, but no one's coming. Sam doesn't know he's here. He can't even call his brother and use the codewords they're both so familiar with. The ones only Sam would understand.
"...This is a pretty funky town," Dean mumbles, good eye slipping shut, cocky grin plastered to his face. "A fuckin' funky town. Get the-" his head lolls to one side. "Get the Hell away from me, you damn dirty alien."
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