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... )
In the spirit of his newfound acting talents Clarence leans forward worriedly and grabs Dean by the shoulders, giving him a few light slaps on the cheek.
But oh, surprise over surprise, Dean's reaction remains missing and so Clarence lets him falls backwards again, deciding that his act could use a short break.
"And did I mention too easy? 'Cause it kinda was."
Grinning to himself Clarence gets up from the couch and locks the door, but not before hanging a tie on the knob outside.
What? Until you invent him an international TORTURE - DO NOT DISTURB signal this one will just have to do.
After that he-- you know what? Let's just fast forward a bit here and cut to just before Dean is about to wake up.
Because once he does he will find himself shackled to his bed (thank you, magical closet handcuffs!), his weapons spread out on the kitchen table (because he's been out for a bit and Clarence was bored and that bag looked interesting).
Clarence himself is sitting somewhere by the window, reading The Illustrated History of Torture.
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Stirring more, he reaches over to scratch an itch on his cheek and realizes that he can't reach his cheek.
Dean turns his head to look at his arm, and slowly realizes (once his vision focuses) that there are standard-issue police cuffs around his wrist and one of the bedposts. He shifts to see his other arm, and the same thing applies.
"What the-"
He frowns, feeling consciousness creeping in a little faster. And then he notices Philip over by the window.
"Uh...Phil?"
That's not Phil.
"I like a little bit of adventure on my bed from time to time, but this ain't exactly my cup of tea."
That is not Phil.
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"Ahhh, there it is again," Clarence puts his reading material aside and stands.
"Your remarkable sense of humour."
He approaches Dean laughing softly, his voice still playing Philip's part.
"I... I really can't put into words how much I loathe it," he muses with a serene smile before taking one swift step forward and bringing his fist down on Dean's stomach hard.
"Really, really loathe it," he chuckles and rubs his knuckles.
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That is not Phil I'm handcuffed to a fucking bed he drugged me the sonuvabitch drugged me why didn't I see it I oughta pay more damn attention who is this-
Dean swallows hard, watching with rapt attention as Philip, smiling benignly, walks over to the bedside.
Curls his hand into a fist.
SLAMS the thing right beneath his solar plexus, into his gut.
Choking instantaneously and trying to curl inwards - impossible, because fuck if his feet aren't strapped to the damn bed, too - Dean gasps for air, sucking in deep gulps through grit teeth.
"You-" More surprised than anything, forcing out the words is hard when his stomach is convulsing. "-dick, what the fuck?"
That is not Philip.
That is not Philip.
That is not Philip.
"Clarence."
He growls through a clenched jaw, glowering up at him.
"How?"
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"Sorry, should've introduced myself before sittin' down for drinks, huh?"
The last of Clarence's facade drops and his voice- his voice is still Philip's voice, but the patterns are different, the accent and pace distinctly alien to anyone who's heard the man speak before.
"And, uh, you mean how did I get to drive this model here?"
Clarence flashes Dean a toothy grin.
"I asked nicely."
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At least then he wouldn't feel so helpless.
Dean jerks on the cuffs around his wrists experimentally. They don't budge an inch. Unless his hands manage to shrink in the next couple of minutes, he's stuck spitting obscenities at the douchebag wearing Philip's meatsuit.
"Bullshit," he spits. "Give Phil his damn body back, you sick fuck."
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Clarence chuckles and circles the bed contemplatively.
"I mean, is that how you hunt demons? You hurl obscenities at them and they go 'Gee, sorry! I don't know what I was thinkin'! Sorry 'bout that, won't happen again, buh-bye'?"
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"Yeah? Why don't you take these fuckin' cuffs off and we'll see who gets the crap beaten out of them first, bitch?"
Because in a battle of strength, Dean knows that he could easily overpower Philip, Clarence-possessed or not. Unfortunately, he isn't exactly a match for the handcuffs. If he had a damn paperclip, then maybe, but unless he's got some kinda wire he can't MacGyver his way out.
"Usually I'm armed and I've got a pentagram under their asses."
Which reminds him.
There's a pentagram he'd painted on the floor underneath the doormat at the entrance to his room. And Clarence walked right over it.
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Clarence examines his nails idly.
"Remember what you said to Phil? 'Cause I do, and I quote: 'If it gets worse we're gonna do whatever we can to help'."
He pauses, flicks away a little dirt.
"But I guess now you're mostly sayin' that you just wanna beat the crap out of us. And hey," Clarence lifts his arms in defense, "it's not like that isn't what I've been tellin' Philip all along, it's just..."
He leans forward, supporting himself on the bedpost.
"It's just that even I figured you'd at least try to save him."
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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."
That sounds a little better than admitting that he's more of the brawn than the brains.
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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 fingers around that neck.
Quick, stuttering gasps are taken. Then airy, choked laughter.
"You..." Voice hoarse, Dean forces the words out while shivering in shock. "...s'that...best you c'n do?"
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