Sleep, sugar, let your dreams flood in

[perfectantidote]

Who: Cas and everyone (that means YOU, aren't you happy)
Where: The shreds of his mind as he dreams
When: Days 83-88
What: Various dream options:City of Glass, Fall from Grace, Croatoan Virus, Sex & Drugs, 
Warnings: body horror, gore, violence, "zombies", substance abuse, nsfw, angst, sex, nudity, etc etc

Notes: A catch-all log for dream sharing during the event! Different options are available to tag into, but if you have an idea of your own, please plurk/PM me and we can plot for different dream-shenanigans, too! These are recurring dreams, so multiple replies are welcome. After the first two nights, Cas knows what's up with the dream sharing, but could still forget he's dreaming due to... well, fuzzy dramscapes etc etc. Happy Tagging!

Comments

1 - Do you remember standing on a broken field

[perfectantidote]

He's itching for a gun, or a hit, or the warm sheets of a bed well used. This dream isn't Cas' own. It involves smooth buildings, empty faces, and a decided lack of questionable content. Whatever this city is, it's not a fabrication of his own mind.

He's wandering the city, keeps looking around nervously.

If there's one thing that drives him up the wall it's when nothing happens. it's a paranoia born from a life during the end of the world as opposed to drub abuse, and he almost wishes something would burst forth from this palce, something to fight or die beneath. But nothing happens, and that's worse. "What do you think?" Because this is a dream, and of course he's not alone.

Day 85ish?

[foundacause]

"Not exactly Oz, is it? Disappointed by the lack of a yellow brick road and midgets with obsessions with killing witches and eating candy." Meg walks up behind him, thumbs hooked on the waistband of her jeans as she looks around.

It's Dreamland, baby, and so her wounds are gone and her hair no longer looks like she had a battle with a bottle of bleach and lost. Shame it won't be that way when she wakes up.

"On the plus side, we're unlikely to get a house dropped on us from a great height."

2 - White crippled wings beating the sky

[perfectantidote]

Used to be a time when Cas was called Castiel, like the angel of identical faces and different stories residing in this place. During that time, Cas' favorite Heaven was the eternal tuesday afternoon of an austic man's memory, with a kite in the air, green grass, gentle sunshine. It's peaceful and beautiful, and Cas kneels in the middle of it.

Black wings grow from his back, elegant arches that frame his body. It's a peaceful scene, until the rot sets in.

It starts with the surroundings, slowly decaying around him, and after a moment the first black feathers drift to the ground. The beautiful wings are mottled with pus and a strange, silvery substance, not quite liquid, but not quite insubstantial either. It seeps into the ground, a squelching, rotten, black mass itself at this point. The breeze moves the every growing piles of feathers, scatters them carelessly. Bones crack and creak as the wings crumble, leaving deep, oozing gashes along Cas' back when they finally become so rotten and instable that they simply tear out of him and thump to the ground.

He stares ahead with an impassive face and horror in his eyes. Whereas in the waking world, every action, every word of his covers up the truth of his pain, in his dreams he's condemned to suffer silently, unable to laugh and hide the pain away.

Day 84

[venatical]

He knows which Cas he's looking at, even if it could be either one. It guts him to see him like this; he's always been aware of Cas being bigger than him, stronger than him, brighter than him, sometimes. He thought of Cas for a long time as something he could lean on, something that could take Dean being a little shitty. Things change; Cas turned into something Dean didn't understand anymore, Cas pulls away from him. Dean's afraid sometimes that if he leans on him too hard, he'll break, but he's still there.

Here Cas is, breaking. Different Cas. This one didn't have the chance to make the mistakes the other one did. This one was still there too, still propping Dean up when he needed it even if Dean wasn't nice to him about it. And what did Dean turn into? How did he twist and deform that already weird support system into using Cas as cannon fodder?

There's something stuck in his throat as he walks up to him, eyes damp and face full of pain, maybe even full of awe, the kind that's more fear than anything.

"Cas," he says, strained, and he reaches out to touch his face. "Cas, look at me."

3 - The harbingers of war with their nature revealed

[perfectantidote]

This city isn't smooth or beautiful. The word "Croatoan" is smeared in red over walls and fences, windows are smashed in, abandoned cars and garbage litter the lifeless streets. Cas' heavy boots crunch a shard of glass as he ducks behind a toppled bus. No Croats in sight, but that doesn't mean he's in the clear.

Usually, he wouldn't be on his own, and his dream blurs over the fact that he should have backup. Sometimes it sounds as if Dean is barking an order, but the man isn't to be seen, and the constant sound of gun fire, screaming humans and enranged "zombies" has no visible source either.

Cas reloads his gun. Something moves in the alley between the pharmacy and the bus' skeleton. Fight or flight?

[blackmagus]

Fortescue has been in ruined cities like this, cities half-obliterated through war and decay. But there are more bodies in those cities, or remains, and the architecture here is different enough that it gives her pause. Jazz leaps cautiously to her shoulders, as she pulls a gun from her coat. It's the shoddy, beat-up one that she has in the Cape; her subconscious isn't exactly kind to her.

She moves carefully through the streets, silent for the most part, until something spots her. Or someone? Fortescue's never seen anything like it. It's as though the man is full-on feral. Perhaps diseased. She isn't certain, but she does duck through a side street to get more distance between them, emerging near where Cas is without seeing him yet.

Whatever it is, it doesn't let up — and she fires her gun into its chest once, twice, as it heads out into the street after her.

4 - And our chances flowing by

[perfectantidote]

The room has no beginning and no end. There's hardwood floor that stretches into endless darkness, the center illuminated by candles. The air is thick and fuzzy, the colors surreal. Moving through this dream is like floating. There are people, sometimes two, sometimes half a dozen, sometimes more and less, but never just one.

In this dream, he's drunk or drugged or dazed post coitus, or in the middle of it, or just before. The features of his partners range from sharp to blurred, but Cas smiles at all of them. He's nude, or sometimes still semi-dressed, touches his partners or relaxes back to watch them.

It's sensual and warm, yet there's a strange sense of loneliness, bitter melancholy in the air. Cas' head lolls, and he smiles, and he loves every single one of the strangers and friends and passing acquaintances, and in the end, he remains even when they move on, spiral away like smoke carried on a breeze.

Day 84?

[tryingitall]

The floor is hard, and a bit chilly. Balthazar becomes aware of this as he kneels outside the ring of candles, watching the blur of skin and smiles. It's all very familiar, and it takes him a while to care enough about what's happening to extricate himself from the hazy, bittersweet vision. To realize this isn't his dream, merely a mindscape he's intruded upon, unintentionally.

Weird. He doesn't remember trying to reach out to anyone.

At last, he notices the figure amongst the candles, and suddenly it doesn't matter how or why he got here.

Rising muzzily, he pushes his way past a dream fragment to sit next to Cas, leaning into him shamelessly. Balthazar's pupils are slightly dilated, as if the atmosphere of the dream has him drugged right along with Cas. "Hello," he breathes, and smiles gently, almost awkward. "I should have brought you a pillow, hm?"