Dean turns when he hears the door open. One of the angels, he might not be surprised. Hell, even someone with pure black eyes would make sense. But what he saw was someone completely unfamiliar to him. "Who the hell are you?"
Dean looks unimpressed, to say the least. He looks at the newcomer, rather irritated, as if this young man were the source of all of his discomfort. In some fashion, he was. A stranger, wandering in on him after such an encounter with the devil himself, in the strange room. Of course this one was in on the whole thing. He spread his hands keeping them at thigh level, his shoulders pushed forward, making him look overly aggressive.
"And...?" The single word carried his demand like a punch.
He sits in one of the chairs, flipping cards onto a table. A crystaline sword, a woman with butterfly wings and a club doing a backflip, a comet, an image of white light.
"It's wrong, you know. History shows one thing conclusively, in almost any world. Mortal man can kill anything that annoys it, as long as they can stand the price. Any monster, any devil, any angel..." Five cards, shining, a man's head, a backbone, the delicate hands of a woman, a set of lungs, and a heart, the last one of which trails blood across the table and calls a new upwelling from the bandages across his chest.
"Any God." He neatly shuffles the cards back together, ignoring the blood running down his hands. His eyes are tired, haunted, and his face is pale.
"The questions are: Can you stand the price? And can you stand to pay it?"
He turns to see the figure flipping cards onto the table. Their first encounter had been too chaotic and brief for his dreaming mind to remember it. As it stood right now, the apartment building was the distant, hazy dream memory, barely a whisper at the back of his mind. He watched the little show of blood and cards with his jaw set. He didn't stop to interpret what he was being told, just that part of it was supposedly impossible and the rest just bugged him. Everyone else told him killing the devil was impossible with out allowing Michael to possess him. Why would someone suddenly change their mind on that
( ... )
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"And...?" The single word carried his demand like a punch.
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"It's wrong, you know. History shows one thing conclusively, in almost any world. Mortal man can kill anything that annoys it, as long as they can stand the price. Any monster, any devil, any angel..." Five cards, shining, a man's head, a backbone, the delicate hands of a woman, a set of lungs, and a heart, the last one of which trails blood across the table and calls a new upwelling from the bandages across his chest.
"Any God." He neatly shuffles the cards back together, ignoring the blood running down his hands. His eyes are tired, haunted, and his face is pale.
"The questions are: Can you stand the price? And can you stand to pay it?"
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