ataraxionlogs | Subterranean Homesick Blues [Open]

Entry tags:

Subterranean Homesick Blues [Open]

CHARACTERS: John Blake (

oversight) + Open
LOCATION: Hallways + Various
WARNINGS: N/A at this time - will update as needed
SUMMARY: Events immediately following the disappearance of Dean Winchester.
NOTES: Additional starters in comments. If you'd like a starter of your own, feel free to PM me on this account or send me a private plurk @

blakeroo

Adrift in a mire of swirling memories, John's most pressing company as he traverses the ship is the infernal knowledge that his best friend is gone. He tries to tune it all out, but it proves impossible. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how many times he tells himself that he can't let his mind wander, John inevitably feels himself being drawn backwards.

The phantom of his best friend, still so present in his memories that the hunter might as well be walking right beside him, taunts the cop. You gonna angst a while, or...?

John very nearly laughs at the memory, of some impossibly long time ago, at it's starkness in the empty hallway speaks very clearly of his current mental state. His pace slows ever so slightly, he hesitates, and his head dips as he walks. Dean would say that. He has said that, and while very little has changed since the last time, it feels so much... sharper this time around.

"Yeah, right... you're right. Gonna— gonna be fine," John says aloud. Maybe to himself, maybe not. He can cope. He can start right now. He can set his jaw, he can grin and bear it, and he can man up, as Dean liked to say.

I can't have you cracking up on me, man, he hears, and there's no actual voice in his ear, but it's there. Somewhere. In his mind or in his memories or in his imagination. It's maybe the first time he's regretted having such a sharp memory.

Throat tightening, John's fingers clench around his phone and he finally comes to a halt, steadying himself with a palm flat against the bulkhead. "Just gonna— gonna take some time," he reminds himself, one foot in the past, another in the present. "Take some time, figure it out..."

But before he can even consider that, John has some things to clear up first.

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Getting to Selina in a timely manner — timely in Blake's mind, at least — proves to be difficult enough, so when he eventually does spot the teen, there's a measure of relief. It's nothing compared to the mountain of doubt and regret and upset he's feeling at the moment, but any reprieve is welcome considering the circumstances.

"Hey, Cat," he says, his voice deep and considerably more raw than usual. He hadn't seen her post to the network, has no idea that she's asking around about Catwoman and Batman, but at the moment, he can't even consider what he's missed in the past several hours. Having gone from focused and concerned about the future of the Tranquility to practically divesting himself of feelings all together has him suffering the effects of emotional whiplash.

With both hands in the pockets of his jeans, he focuses his dark eyes on Kyle and then his gaze drifts down to the floor. "You got a sec?"

At her name, selina turns, dropping her hood down in time to catch Blake sauntering towards her.

No. Saunter was the wrong word. Trudge.

"Got nothing but time," she says, shoving her device in her pocket and turning towards him, hands up and open to show she had nothing else going on. "What's up? You look like hell." Sounded like it, too.

"Yeah, thanks," he replies tiredly, although it's not clear if he's being sarcastic or just agreeing because he can't possibly appear any differently. He's got very little energy for much more than fighting off a headache and getting out what he's got to get out.

"Listen...um." A halting pause as he struggles with trying to find the right words without sounding like he's planning a goddamn funeral. "Wanted to tell you before you just kinda heard, but... Dean's gone. Home, I think. Not— not just scarce." He'd been that at times, too, but after what Blake had seen of Dean's room, there's little chance the hunter's just lost out in the halls of this massive ship.

Selina's jaw dropped just slightly. "He's- no. There's no way." Dean couldn't be gone. Dean had been here for so long, and he was teaching her to shoot and she was getting pretty good, and he was handsome and funny. BatDean. He'd rescued her from that Hellhound that day. He was the one to mention Catwoman in the first place, and now?

He couldn't be gone, too. Because if he was gone then... Then anyone at any time could be gone. Just like they always were back at home. And that once again, when she was starting to open up to people, everything went to shit.

That was the way it was here, too.

Without so much of a hint, she turned on her heels and started running, her shorter skirt floating behind her as she pulled her goggles down.

"Cat! Cat, wait!" he calls after her, his voice raised, his muscles suddenly tense. He never claimed to have a decent bedside manner, no, but he thought he'd do a little better than all that. Or, at least, that she'd take it a little better than all that. He's not sure why he thought that — maybe he's really lost his mind — but now that she's bolted, he can't do anything but follow.

Chasing after her, he puts as much as he can into catching up with her, and while she's fast, he's got much longer legs, and plenty of training to boot.

"Don't run, please, come on..." He'll keep at her if he has to, but for now he'll hope she sees fit to stop for him.

"Stop following me!" She calls over her shoulder towards him as she keeps running down whatever path decides to present itself. Maybe she can get to Dean's room. Maybe he'll be there.

No. He won't be there. There isn't anyone that's going to be here for her in any way, shape, or form. John and Death said they cared. Dean said he cared. But when push came to shove, no one really did. People were just out for themselves. End of story.

If ever there's been a time where John's been frustrated to the point of wanting to yell, this is it. He doesn't know where Cat's going, but he has a good idea and he can't go back there yet, he can't. If she's going to Dean's room, even if it's right there next to his, it's somewhere he can't go. Not yet.

"Don't run from this!" By way of warnings, it's pathetic and John's having trouble following his own advice, but goddamn it, he doesn't have any other choice at the moment. He'd very much like to run, to get away from this crushing weight pressing on his chest, but that's not an option.

Eventually he does slow, his boots making less and less noise as he comes to a stop at the end of the hall. "Fuck!" he barks out, torn between leaving her to work things out on her own and continuing to chase her down. He doesn't want to do either, really, but this is another choice that's already been made for him.

He takes out his phone and quickly sends a message: I'M STILL HERE

She can't take this. Can't deal with it, any of it. God, she wishes she were back in Gotham for the first time in her life. She'd run all the way to Wayne Manor if she could, back up to the room Bruce had given her, hide in the back of her closet, and not make a single noise. Then she'd just sit and wait and pretend none of this was real.

But she can't, so she doesn't. Instead, she runs until she can't hear Blake following her anymore, and all she can hear are her own boots on the metallic floors, and the text alert.

Glancing over her shoulder, she looks behind her, to make sure Blake is lost. Then, she responds to his text. LEAVE ME ALONE.

Almost immediately following that, she adds: YOU'RE GOIG TO LEAVE ME ANYWAY MAY AS WELL DO IT NOW. But that isn't the text she wants to send. Not really.

The text she wants to send is a desperate plea. And so, back against the wall, she starts to write it. But Blake won't be recieving it. Nor will it's intended recipient.

The texts coming in, and his need to use his hands, are pretty much the only things keeping Blake from taking his frustration and anger out on the nearest wall. He feels like he's spinning, like he's careening out of control, and there's nothing more that he'd like to do than ground himself. Bloody knuckles work well for that, but not much else, otherwise he probably wouldn't resist.

He reads each text carefully and as he does it only drives that proverbial knife deeper. If he didn't know better, he'd expect to bleed out here in the hallway.

Blake's aware of what he wants to say. He wants to say YOU LEFT ME TOO YOU LEFT ME TOO YOU LEFT ME YOU LEFT ME YOU LEFT ME over and over and over again because that is a very sudden, very stark, very present reality twofold. But he doesn't. She's having a hard enough time without Blake adding his own misery to the mix.

Neither of us should be alone.

But what he really means is that she's too good to be alone and he's too selfish to allow her to be. A solitary life had been simple enough at one point, but he's gained far too much to be able to go back there and still hope to recover from this. Not without forgetting everything, and that's just not an option.

Edited (clarity~) 2015-07-13 00:10 (UTC)

She can't even send the text to Dean, as much as she wants to. If he's really not here... he wont' get it. Someone else could see it, could read it, and she couldn't have that, either. To expose herself so readily... She already had cried on Blake's metaphorical shoulders once, she didn't need to do it again.

Or did she?

So? What should and should happen obviously doesn't count for us

They were from Gotham, after all, and fairness didn't exist anywhere in their fair city, let alone state. Didn't matter what universe or timeline. Just how it worked.

She drops her head back against the wall behind her, slowly sinking down to the floor, her feet out in front of her. Dean Winchester was gone. He left and now had forgotten all about her already.

This was why she kept everyone at arm's length. Because they left her in the end, and when it happened? It hurt.

John doesn't consider it unfair for her to make sweeping generalizations at this point, but it does worry him how often she does. It seems, for Selina, it's almost always all or nothing. Blake remembers living that way once and it hadn't done him a lot of favors.

Running the back of his hand across his face, he tries to compose himself a little bit more each time he responds to her.

That just means we actually have a choice. There's no rule that says we can't choose.

To be close, to be family. They're not restrained when deciding what's important, not anymore.

Choosing is like hoping. Useless, 'cause you're gonna get let down anyway.

The words came quickly, and when she was done, she let the phone drop to the floor, the noise echoing down the corridors. The phone was unharmed, but it was the dramatics of the gesture that attracted Cat.

Dramatic gestures — at least any of the ones John would choose to make — won't do him any good. As much as he wants to throw a fit, there's a greatness numbness that forces in to take over, and he's glad for it.

He presses at the keys, slowly finds his next message, tries to find a reason to pull himself back up on to his feet. So far he's only getting about half the ambition he needs.

I'm sorry. I'm here. You know where to find me.

The phone goes off, and Selina just kinda kicks it over to the other side of the hallway. Later, she'll read it. And when she reads it, she'll take back off down the halls until she knocks on Blake's door, hood up, goggles on. She felt safer, that way.

Near as he figures, there's only going to be one person knocking on his door, and even if he doesn't want to answer, he's going to. He said he'd be here and he needs to make good on that because now— because no one else going to.

As he moves to the door, it feels like he's passing through liquid, like every step is a challenge. He gestures to unlock his door and then steps aside to give her access.

Selina wastes no time in, once she's let into the room, marching over to the bed and curling up in the smallest ball she can make herself. Which is pretty small.

The fact that this is probably inappropriate doesn't cross her mind. She was fourteen by now, and Blake was ancient. She just wanted to go somewhere quiet, dark, and confined. Which happens to be right here, in Blake's bed with someone that cared nearby.

Dark, quiet, and confined is fine with Blake. In fact, he's feeling a bit like there's nowhere dark enough or quiet enough or confined enough to rival what he's feeling at the moment. But this will do.

He follows Cat but settles next to the bed, his back to her, but his presence meant to act as a barrier, like he's guarding her from everything else. He wishes he could have guarded her from this, but even if she were still soulless and didn't care, there's no convincing him that those emotions don't matter.

"He didn't have a choice," Blake finally says, eyes pinned on the wall he once shared with Winchester.

Selina's head is against her knees, her hood up and her arms resting on the back of her head, pushing the hood over her eyes and blocking the world out even more. She knows Blake is near, but not where.

Wherever he was, it wasn't close enough.

"Would he have made the same choice?" She asked carefully, refusing to put too much effort into her words. She didn't need to start crying again.

"He would have stayed." Blake's certain of that, though the waver in his voice makes to betray how truly lost all of this suddenly makes him feel. What else can he say? What else should he say? There's no words that will change the facts.

Drawing his knees up, he rests his elbows across them and lets his head dip down. "He never woulda left us. Or Sam."

"He's the first," she says, leaning her head just slightly to try to touch Blake's back. It was nice having him near, but she wanted something to hold on to, something physical. Otherwise what was the point?

He's certainly not beyond contact, but at times like this his ability to reach out is reduced to nearly nothing. It's a challenge to even remember that he's lived through this before.

"Not the last," he says quietly. It might never actually get through to Selina that he cares because he wants to, not because he's obligated to. But, then again, he's not there to seek her approval. Only to be there.

"And he's not— dead. He's just not here. A-and he— he's got a bad habit of gettin' himself into— into shit, so it's prob'ly not even— We'll prob'ly see him again. In a— in a month, or a couple. He's just not here," Blake repeats. "Not right now."

The lack of reciprocation is, in case you hadn't guessed it, noted by certain other parties involved.

"You're lying to make us feel better." Adults were so stupid sometimes.

"No." If he were lying, he'd do a hell of a lot better than that. Turning, he moves so he's perpendicular to the bed, turning his eyes on her so he can get a better look. "No, I'm not. It's happened before. It happened here," he insists. "We didn't meet here, Dean an' me," John adds, like that illustrates his point elegantly.

God, he feels like shit. Like he could scream for an hour straight. Like he could eat a pint of ice cream himself. Like he could punch a heavy bag until his knuckles bled. It's a complicated set of ridiculous feelings he has no experience coping with. And this kid, which complicates matters tenfold.

"'m no good at this, Cat. 'm sorry," he finishes, head dipping. Dean probably would have done a much better job, but it's not like they can switch places...

"You're right." He sucks. He really, really sucks at this. He sucks and she's so fucking tired of people leaving her. "You think you'd be better at this, GCPD my ass." She rubs at her eyes under her hood.

"Can we just... sit here?" They don't need to talk or anything. She really doesn't even have anything to say.

Honestly, he doesn't know what to say, either. He feels like shit. He feels broken. Dean had been there for a better part of a year in Wonderland, and to have him back for even just a couple months should feel fortunate, but truthfully, that extra time just makes this separation all that much harder.

John tries to tell himself this isn't the end — this isn't their end — and that everything endures, but he's got not idea what the future holds from here. He can't even begin to predict it.

Finally what Cat says rattles around in his brain and he nods. "Yeah, fine." Because she'll probably bolt if he answers any other way, anyway.

"Thank you," she says quietly, and it's probably the first time she's ever said it ever. The words feel foreign in her mouth, but even so. She needs the quiet, the background hum of the ship.

Eventually, as she starts to relax, she lets the tears come, allowing them to lull her into a deep sleep. It's all she can do. It's all any of them can do.

After speaking with Selina, Blake's not quite sure how much he has left in him. He feels worn and thin and like he could crumble at any moment, but there are more than a few people on the ship that Dean had gotten close with, and John's never been the type to go announcing departures on the network.

He hasn't seen Allison in a while — a considerable feat considering how few people they really are aboard Tranquility — but he knows that she resides on the 9th floor. From there, it's only a matter of sending her a message and making himself readily and easily available.

If you have a little time, I'd like to talk. I'm on your floor. I can come to you.

After sending the message, he lingers in the hallway and waits, his back pressed against the wall and his fingers rubbing tiredly at his eyes. This isn't probably going to get much easier for him, but at least he's too numb by now for it to sting so sharply.

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Subterranean Homesick Blues [Open]

Selina [closed]

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Allison [closed]