sirenspull_logs | (no subject)

Who: Chuck Shurley and Magneto
When: Saturday night
Where: the HoA
Summary: Chuck comes home early from work after a particularly traumatizing vision, and crashes on Mag's couch. :c
Warnings: none so far except excessive canon centricity :|

[He asked Gabriel to poof him home early that night; after having a vision, he was junk for the rest of the damn night. It was impossible to work with vivid prophecy from home slamming at the inside of his head, and especially with something so awful - one angel going crazy, killing all the others - cut off by waking up early, a story without a resolution. Just seeing the complete dissolution of His family and knowing that, if He ever went home, He had that to look forward to. Not just look forward to- but knowing that, at home, He sat back and let that happen to their world without doing a damn thing to stop it. The thought would make any feeling person want to puke.

The sheer shock of what He saw hadn't sunk in yet. He was studiously avoiding thinking about it by pondering Fred, thinking about Darkness, considering his work schedule for that week, and wondering what he would make himself for breakfast. So deep in thought, in fact, that he didn't notice where he was going until He found himself knocking on a door that wasn't his.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A few ounces of blood what?

[Which is a reasonable question, since Erik's basically talking in nonsensical sentence fragments that Chuck can't even remotely piece together to form an explanation. Plus goddamn he needs to know.]

Being used. It would take more than that to to sigils on a room, which is the only use I know.

Being- being replenished? How often? Are you saying Cas is losing that much blood?

I didn't say it was Castiel.

[But he'd not denying it either.]

But you're saying someone is losing angel blood. How often? How much? Why would Cas even say that?

I never said it was Castiel. I said he told me angel blood was used for sigils.

[A long drink.]

But one of my patients is. Four ounces, every four days.

Your patients.

[An angel. Lucifer would never, neither would Michael. Anna wouldn't even count and Gabriel wouldn't need a doctor.]

Oh my god. Oh my god, no. No no no no no no.

Chuck. I can't really go to someone else and ask.

[It's firm, low. Really calm, rather than pretense. He's not panicking, because it won't help.]

Oh no, you don't understand. This is bad. This is very, very bad.

[It's Sam. It has to be Sam. This is going to spiral out of control and someone's going to die and all because of some junkie sucking down what he shouldn't and forgetting what paves the road to Hell. It's all happening, everything in his visions, and he's pressing a hand to his forehead to keep the images out.]

It's Sam. Oh my god, it's gonna get worse.

No, I don't understand. There's a reason I asked.

[Still calm.]