#something productive. thats rare for you ;art + drabbles;

[ycurkxng-a]

Surprise Surprise.

Characters: Dean King, Hannah (@mixedmediahmm)

Warnings: N/A

Notes: Sob mf sob

Entering his apartment and kicking the door shut behind him, Dean let out a hefty breath before walking further inside. One crimson red hand turned on the lights from the switch on the wall while he moved to the bathroom, going to wash himself of the blood that was currently splattered across his hands.

Too many nights were like this, some worse than others, but that didn't mean they all weren't bad. This time he'd been lucky enough to not encounter any other things swinging at him but fists, the thing was there were a lot more than usual. He couldn't figure out if he really was just so good that not even 6 pricks could take him down together, or if he'd been lucky that they couldn't fight. He figured it was a mix of the two, as even if you can't fight, having the strength of 6 men against one usually means you win. Keyword, usually.

When they couldn't keep him down, it became a grappling match. One that each lost, not expecting the use of elbows and knees. The last one had been pushed back, losing his balance and falling on his ass, which led to Dean breaking his facial structure with his fists. Something he regretted heavily now, as he was more than certain he'd busted his knuckles a lot worse than usual.

Cold water ran over his hands and he hissed out in response, Dean didn't bother turning on the light as the one out in the main room somewhat illuminated the bathroom. That and he didn't really want to see the state of himself in the mirror, if he looked as bad as he felt, he'd be comparative in looks to actual shit.

With his hands at least somewhat cleaned, he started going through the drawers. He had to have some medkit or bandages laying around somewhere, it was him for Christs sake! He couldn't name the last time he'd run out of them, but as time ticked by and he still was unable to find himself any sort of medical supplies, a realization hit. "Fuck.." He grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose with still slightly stained fingers.

They'd all been left at Ali's house, figuring that he didn't need them at the time due to how high out of his mind he was. He gave them over as Ali had been clumsier, to the point that he burned his arm on the stove without even realizing it until they both smelled flesh in the air. Funny, but now he was wondering how he was doing, damn good session.

Never the matter, he could.. shit, what could he do?

Attempting to make some shoddy supplies to fix himself up with would both be a waste of time and too painful for his most likely broken hands. That led him to the next best option, calling someone. But who the hell could come and help him at this hour?

He certainly didn't trust Reaper with this, that guy probably didn't even trust himself to do it. Jess was in the forest, by the time she'd get there he would've been better off just heading to Ali's house, damnit. Each one had a reason for not being able to come and help him out in his mind, so he continued going to the list until he found the final one. Hannah.

Hannah was the only option he had. If what she'd told him before about always being ready to help because she cared was true, which he really, REALLY hoped it was right now.. this was the only chance he'd have at getting some help. Hopefully that son of a bitch knew what she'd be doing, that was, if she even answered.

In a matter of seconds, Dean had made his way back to the living room while taking out his phone. It was nothing short of a miracle that it hadn't flown out of his pockets during the brawl, but now was no time to think about that. He unlocked it with the code and went to contacts, scrolling down until he saw the name he'd made for Hannah.

Fucking Toon [Hannah]

Yeah, who else could it be?

One thumb pressed down onto the call icon, and the phone began to ring. Dean held it up to his ear, standing there and looking down while biting at his lip. Each second without an answer felt like an hour at a time like this, he'd only have to go through a few before a voice came through on the other end.

"Son!" Ever so cheery even in the dead of night, Hannah greeted. "Whaddya need?" She asked, to which Dean took a few moments to reply. "I, uhm.. you got a medkit, or somethin'?" He responded with a question of his own, hearing the sharp breath over the phone from her. She was dumb, but clearly not dumb enough to not see why he needed one. It didn't seem like the time to ask what had happened, "I can get something. Want me to come over?" The questions continued, "Yeah, let me get you my address-" "Already got it!" ...

"What?" Dean mumbled, going to speak again before Hannah cut him off, "I'll be there soon!"

And just like that, she hung up, leaving Dean standing there with a sudden sense of unease. Christ, how'd he get himself mixed up with people, or.. things, like this?

He was somewhat grateful, saved time for the both of them. And knowing Hannah, she'd be there nearly immediately. She had the uncanny ability to just kind of... Appear at point B, trying to look into it further led to her not explaining much and actually leaving Dean more confused, so much so to the point that he just quit trying altogether.

Knowing she'd be there any second, Dean sat down on his couch, not bothering to kick off his boots or anything like that. He simply laid his head back and waited to see or hear Hannah's entrance.. but then a minute passed by, and there was nothing. Odd, but okay.

Then two.

Then five.

And by six, he had quit his hoping entirely. Were it anyone else, a normal human, Dean would've continued to wait for even an hour. But that's not what Hannah was, no, he'd seen her appear nearly immediately when she'd been miles away seconds before. Great.

Just another person who said they wanted to give a shit, and then did something like this. The only thing he needed now was for her to go "something came up" when he asked her about it, he could already hear it in her sickeningly sweet voice now. Agh, he couldn't think about that. He'd just have to see if some drugstore was open, maybe they'd have something-

Was that knocking?

Sudden and sharp, it drew Dean's attention. He stared over at the door with narrowing eyes before approaching, his boots thudding against the floor before he reached out and opened it. Recoiling slightly at the sight of who had been knocking, Hannah, with a smile on her face in stark contrast to his own.

Getting a proper look at him now, Hannah could tell why he had called for help. She'd seen him banged and bruised up before, but he'd always strayed away from everyone during those times, repairing himself in the confines of these walls.

"...you came." He finally mumbled out, it took a second for the words to process in Hannah's head, but when they did she cocked her head to the side in confusion. Well, of course she came! Why wouldn't she?

"You called." She simply said, "Now c'mon, I might've overpacked a little-" Upon saying that, she reached behind her back and took out a comically large briefcase, damn near double the size of Dean's chest. His eyes widened at that, he supposed he should've seen something like that coming by now.

Without speaking, he motioned for her to come inside further with him as he went around to the couch where they could both sit. She shut the door behind her and followed closely, taking note of the used bandages and bloodstains that were scattered about the floor. She'd have to come through here eventually, clean up, this was a mess. Of course she wouldn't say that aloud now, rather rude.

She set down the briefcase onto his table that was just barely reaching up to the couch's seats in terms of height, popping it open revealed a myriad of medical supplies. "Where'd you get all that stuff?" Dean questioned, pointing a finger at it while staring to her, in response she simply shrugged. "A gal has her ways, my boy." Ominous, but he felt as though that was all he'd get in response to those questions.

As time went by and Hannah continued to wrap up Dean's bandages, humming some tune while he listened intently, wondering if it was something he'd heard or if she'd just made it up. Both seemed just as likely, but he didn't feel like cutting through with his own voice. He stayed quiet, and it stayed that way for the rest of the time she was there. Without needing to say anything, she knew he was deeply grateful, just from the fact he didn't take the briefcase and throw her out.

Although she still was confused as to why he had been surprised at her arrival, albeit a late one, she decided she wouldn't question him about it. Whenever he felt like talking about it, he'd come to her. It was just a hunch, but she felt pretty confident in it.

[ycurkxng-a]

No Creative Name For This One Either

Character: (Coasty SMP) Dean King

Warnings: General violence

Notes: I need to write stuff again

The situation Dean had been roped into was a little different than normal, he'd never fought a group of miners before, and they proved to be a bit more of a challenge than most other people. He'd come down to the mines looking for iron, and when he saw a minecart filled with the ore, of course he went for it. The miners didn't like that though, no one liked having their things stolen from them.

An argument ensued, well, if one sided shouting being cut off by a kick to the groin counted as an argument at least. Dean hadn't bothered to examine the sheer size of the men that outnumbered him, but when did something like that ever matter to him? He did the best he could as far as keeping the men back, hitting fast and hard to whoever rushed him. That could only work for so long though, as one man, of the larger variety, tackled Dean, although he didn't take him to the floor.

No, instead he continued to charge, his arms wrapped around Dean's waist. The charge only stopped when Dean's back slammed into the caves walls, which is when Dean was able to attack once more. Instead of letting the miner stand back up, he instead held him in place, pushing down on his back while he shot his knees upward into his cranium. One after the other, he ceased the attacks when the grip on his waist went down, and the man slumped to the ground. He wasn't unconscious, just unable to keep his hold on Dean any longer.

After he fell, Dean stomped down on his head, once, twice, three times, he couldn't tell if he was just knocked out or dead- but he wasn't going to stop and check. He proceeded to step over the man who'd fallen with his hands up, slowly moving, inch by inch, towards the rest of the group. They had armed themselves with their tools, shovels and pickaxes, which could prove to be bad for Dean. His entire being was on high alert, darkened hues scanning the combat zone as he moved in, one foot ahead of the other.

Dean jerked his upper half forward, attempting to psych out his opponents. He watched one or two flinch, but the others stood, unwavering. Some scrappers, fine by him. He knew who to target now, the weak links would go down first. He could pry their weapons away from them to take their friends out for good, which is what he began to do. In an abrupt action, he dashed towards one of the weak links to his right, ramming his entire weight into the other man's figure while his hands scrambled to grab onto his pickaxe.

That began a grapple, one that Dean would work to finish by pulling the pickaxe down to his left side, and then ramming back upwards. The handle of it being driven into the miners jaw, clattering it and his teeth together with a chattering sound following. His grip faltered, yet he didn't completely let go of it just like that. Being in a dazed state however meant it was considerably easier to wrench the tool out of his hands, and Dean did just that. He kept his grip on it while he spun around and used his back to slam into the man, forcing him between a rock and a hard place.

Although Dean did get the weapon from the man's hands, he wasn't able to keep it in his own for long. A spade cracked the side of his head, the pain sudden and sharp, tearing through his mind like a razor to flesh as he collapsed to the ground. He lost focus, he lost focus on everything around him and now he was paying for it. He let out a high pitched yelp as he hit the ground, the pickaxe he'd stolen laying just underneath him and making the landing a little harsher, as his stomach slammed against the wooden grip.

Every thought turned into static as he worked silently, footsteps drew closer, surrounding him. His head craned up to look, two pairs of shoes in front of him, and he heard one pair behind, but he knew the bastard he'd taken the tool from was still standing. 4 on 1, and he'd just hit the ground. What the fuck could he do in the moment? That's when his mind seemed to kick itself in the ass, forcing him back into action. The pickaxe.

Tap, tap, tap, went the footsteps behind him. He raised his upper half up to reach down and grab onto the pickaxe by the midpoint of it's handle, he didn't attack immediately. He waited, Dean knew if he wanted to make it out of the cave alive, he needed to time his strike perfectly. It was either pinpoint precision, or death, no compromises. He accepted that, and he played the events that would ensue in the next seconds in his mind.

When the steps slowed, that was his queue to make a comeback. He spun his entire body around, raising the pickaxe up and making sure the head was to the side before it made contact. It buried itself into the man's cheek, flesh tearing open and splattering blood from his new wound, which only grew larger as he ripped the pickaxe back down to himself. His entire jaw came off, leaving him sputtering and gagging as blood rushed from the torn off piece of his head.

There was a scream from one of the others in the small space, it made Dean's ears ring as he clambered to his feet swinging at the air, a way to ward off any possible attacks that would come his way. Two down, three to go. His eyes darted the area, spotting the closest man, he made his way to him quickly through side steps. He blocked high with a shovel, so the butcher attacked low. The head of the pickaxe wrapped around his ankle, and he ripped it out from under him, as he fell, Dean pulled it back before swinging it down on him.

Still midair, it pierced the man's forehead, leaving his corpse to fall on the ground with a sickening thud. He yanked it out with a grunt of effort, looking back at the last two who stood. One could only watch, stunned in place from shock and fear, a reasonable response, but a deadly mistake. The other man backed up, trying to avoid Dean's wrath as he proceeded to beat the first one down with his tool before stomping down once on his head and pushing all of his weight down.

His skull crushed underneath the pressure, blood oozing from his ears and eyes as Dean's boot almost peeled from his features. Before the other miner could make a run for it, he had found himself in a corner, with the butchers attention solely on him. There wasn't a second to even get a syllable out before Dean stepped in close, holding the handle closer to the pickaxes head and swinging it upwards, letting it dig through his jaw. When looking into his mouth, he could see the steel from the weapon glint, despite the blood that painted over its original white.

It twisted around in his head before Dean ripped it back down, surrounded by nothing but corpses, there was the sensation of pride that welled up in his core. His heart thumped heavy with adrenaline, and a mix of rage. He dropped the pickaxe, letting it clatter onto the ground as he walked back to the minecart. He hadn't forgotten the reason he went down there in the first place, taking a handful of iron ores and stuffing them in his jackets pocket before leaving the scene, becoming accustomed to the sharp headache that made his skull throb with displeasure while he walked out.

[ycurkxng-a]

You Got Knocked The Fuck Out!

Character: Dean King

Warnings: None

Notes: writers block sucks. It's short. Fuck you.

Consciousness comes back to him in waves, he can feel as his body begins to move once more. His fingers twitch, and he can feel the cold of the concrete next. Feeling starts the pain back up, a pounding in his head, fire in his knuckles, and... What is that in his mouth? It's warm, disgusting, definitely not just spit. That's what makes him roll to his side, his eyes cracking open as he hacks up whatever lingers at the back of his throat. To his annoyance, blood, dripping down from his nose and leaking into his mouth, great.

He lost, he knew that much by now. Turning his head back he caught sight of the last few strays in the crowd that had watched the brawl, glancing back at him before walking off. His only hope was a video of him getting his ass kicked didn't wind up on Twitter, if he joined the people he'd laughed at, someone was going to die. He groans out as he sits up, his shirt falling back down to it's proper place as his upper half shifts. That strength wasn't something he'd accounted for before stepping in, even if the guy couldn't fight, he could sure as hell pack a punch.

Fuck, his head hurt.

Dean slowly gets himself to his feet, pressing his hands into the ground to support his shaky legs while he pushes himself back up. His knuckles burned, his jaw started to ache in random moments, he forgot how much it sucked to lose a fight. Worst part was that other people got to see him get his face busted in, dear god, if anyone who knew him saw that- no, he couldn't think of that. He was already dealing with his psychical torment, he didn't need to inflict any of the mental variety onto himself.

He can feel anger bubbling in his chest just at the thought that other people really saw that. What a fucking pathetic way to go out, not even to someone who was a better fighter than him, a lucky shot! A lucky goddamn shot! He snarls as he does his best to put his mind on the thing that really matters in the moment, seeing a doctor wouldn't be the worst idea, busting his head on the fucking concrete like that would more than likely end in something else getting messed up.

So he walks off, looking for his car. Hey, maybe he'd see the guy who laid him out in the first place, and he could run him over! ...he wasn't sure if he actually wanted to do that or not.

[ycurkxng-a]

Fading

Character: Dean King

Warnings: Violence

Notes: Experimental one, just did it for fun bc I needed to

Brawling, fists meeting flesh, it's nothing new. This same repetitive song and dance he'd gone through frequently throughout the years, it all ended usually the same. Slipping and sometimes tanking the opponents shots, to the body, to the face, bruises form and red grows in the spots that the strikes are dealt.

It's fine, injuries in combat had become an ordinary part of his existence. Some didn't like it, but that didn't matter, he was the one dealing with it and it was fine. It only stopped being fine when an unaccounted for factor came into play, causing a new danger to arise and forcing him to think quickly. Almost always he could find a way out, through sheer force of will or by simply making sure his shots counted in those final few moments of desperation.

Yet, he was unable to avoid the knife.

Sharp and cold, he can feel it suddenly stab into his chest, he couldn't see it- how could he not see it?! A stupid mistake, but then he can feel the blade piercing further. Cold begins to turn into fire, eliciting an abrupt and deafening wail of agony from him. Just as fast as it goes in, he can feel it rip out.

The pain is almost too much to bear, tears gather themselves in the corners of his eyes and he feels a slight moment of reprieve from the unbearable sensations before- again, it's thrusted into his body. This time his stomach, another scream followed by a swift punch to the attackers mouth. He only wants the pain to cease, as if continuing any attempts at fighting through it will make it end.

His hit does force the other away, who looks at him. His eyes grow almost petrified at the sight he has made, and he runs. The others legs seem to blur together the further he runs, and he was unable to chase after him. Something almost rooted him into the earth, weighing down on the soles of his feet and imprinting them into the cement his weight was placed upon.

Placing a hand on his gut almost protectively, he feels as though he has a moment to rest. And then he can feel a liquid, it doesn't take more than a moment, even in his dazed state, to realize that liquid is his own fluid. Leaking from his fresh and shrieking wounds, blood drips down his attire and drops onto the ground, painting it with him.

A sickening wave of realization follows as he stares with horrified eyes, the first stabs point of contact had been his heart, piercing one of, if not his most important organ. Blood continues to flow and his entire body feels weak, he goes to let out a whimper but all that leaks from his mouth is the same crimson red that leaves the other holes in his body.

There's no time, there's vain attempts to smother the injury, as if that would help the inside. It doesn't take long before his legs completely give out, his weight seems heavier than normal as gravity takes a tight hold on him and slams him back onto the ground. The force hums through his chest, sending a flick of torment through it before it's abruptly cut off. All feeling leaves him, all he can register is the disgusting moist sensation on his palms, which were now at his sides.

He swears he can hear a voice, faint, distant, but a figure is so close. If he could reach out, if he could get help, surely they could stop this. The figure practically throws themselves onto the ground next to him, and he tries his damndest to speak, but all that comes out is croaks, breathless gasps.

His world is darkening now, not in any metaphorical way that he may use. Everything is consumed by jet black, a dark he's never seen before, one he cannot comprehend. There's a face just in front of his, he knows it, but he can't see it. It's features mesh together into a blur, before it too is consumed by the darkness.

Fear grows in his cut chest, a dread that's accompanied by absolute terror. His mind shrieks incoherently, and as loudly as it can. It all feels like static, and it can't recognize it's been only seconds since he fell. Seconds feel long, drawing out his suffering and horror in a way that feels like torture. Does he remember what torture feels like?

He tries to breathe, but no air sucks in from his now quivering lips to his lungs. It's a task that is impossible, and that fear expands through his entire skeleton. He wants to see their face. He needs someone, he can't do this alone. He can't go alone.

He wants to cry, but no tears can spill. It's getting cold, needle piercing. First, his fingers are numb, and it spreads. Up his arms, into his torso, down his abdomen and lower, and up to his head at the same time. His eyes seem useless, but he still knows there's someone there. He can sense it, can he? He's unsure, nothing's right, and another second goes by.

He wants to go home. Why here? He needs to go home. He needs to see his family, he needs to cling to them again. His mind seems to make an attempt at aching, longing, but all that comes out is more static that clouds it. It's becoming too much, there's nothing here he can understand. He thinks he can feel pain in his chest, but it's all too hazy. It's not only his eyes that have been blinded, every other sense is flooded by something cold and terrible, and all movement stops.

Why can't he move? His last shreds of willpower hurry to lift something, anything, but he's left in the same position. He lies still, but he needs to move. Why can't he move? Nothing is working with him, the screams in his mind are silenced and the fear in his chest rises a little more before that too is brought down. Another second goes by.

Everything is brought down, and he can feel it as he leaves his own body. It's unable to be described, but all the pain stops, his thoughts ease, there is nothing. There is no dark, but there is no light. There is simply nothing.

And his body remains on the cement, blood pooling around as the poor bystander who had tried to help now sits on their knees next to a lifeless husk, phone still in their hand, unable to even put in the final digit to dial emergency services before the time expired.

Quiet. There is nothing but quiet, and in the quiet, there is a semblance of peace.

[ycurkxng-a]

Last Resort

Characters: (Payday) King

Warnings: None

Notes: This was just something I made in an attempt to push through writers block.

King could feel his heart in his throat as he sprinted through the bikers club, bullets whizzed past him as he placed one hand onto the bar and vaulted over it. Hitting the ground on his ass, he knew he had mere moments before things got a lot uglier. He raised up his Crosskill with shaky hands, sliding the magazine out of its place to look at how much ammo he had left... Or, really, the complete lack of ammo.

Just his luck, wasn't it? He needed to keep a better count on how many rounds he had left, but it was hard when he was more focused on not catching a hail of them to the face. The worst part of that magazine being empty wasn't that fact itself, no, what made it ten times worse was the fact that he didn't have any other mags. He remembered that had been his last one, practically crammed into the gun behind some shoddy cover he'd taken outside.

With footsteps approaching, he knew he had to think fast. His eyes darted around the area as he stuffed the Crosskill back into his holster, squinting as he looked for anything he could use to fight off the armored cop that was quickly advancing on his location. It was a bar, at a bikers club, there had to be something- all of the bottles had already been destroyed in the initial shootout to save the mechanic. And, well, King didn't feel like throwing literal shards of glass.

The heisters entire body jolted as his eyes laid upon a drinking glass, knocked over, yet not broken. He'd take whatever he could get his hands on, so in a moment of desperation, he reached forward and took a hold of the glass before leaning back into the bar. It was hard to listen in close with the incessant gunfire and shouting outside, but it was easy enough to roughly estimate how close the cop was. King slowly turned himself around, his knees pressing against the wooden flooring as he prepared himself for his next move.

Do or die.

He shot upright, taking the split second of shock from the cop and using it against him. He threw the glass at him, first, he tried to avoid it- but when it hit, he was disorientated. King once again reached over, his hips slamming against the bar as he took a hold of the cops neck and yanked back towards himself, taking a step backwards at the same time. Once the officer had turned into the one leaning over, King pulled downwards. The others lower half went up as his upper half went down, his weapon being lost in the process and clattering onto the floor.

With the cop struggling as he was pulled down to the ground, King let go of his neck to stand upright and raise up his leg, quickly and desperately stomping down onto the back of his head. Repeated blows to the back of his head were enough to stop him from fighting back in any way that really mattered, and as he watched his struggle become weaker, he knew he had a moment of reprieve. He didn't waste it, once again jumping over the bar and this time, landing on the firearm that had been dropped.

King crouched down and grabbed onto it, a shotgun- Reinbeck. His head snapped to look back behind the bar, where the officer now began, or made an attempt, at least, to stand back up. Before he could however, he was met with a direct shotgun blast to his back, which shredded him like paper, forcing him back down- for good.

As the heister started to get a grip on his situation once more, a blunt and sudden pain roared through his back. Someone had the same idea as him, shoot them in the back. Unfortunately for the officer, it didn't kill him. King spun around, racked the shotgun and fired blindly. The pellets landed on the armor, which staggered the cop, but also didn't kill him. He racked it once more and slammed the trigger, only to be met with a faint click. Why the hell didn't that cop reload when he was walking up to him?!

It didn't matter, there was no point in questioning a dead man's motives at that point. King thought fast, changing his grip on the shotgun to hold it almost like a bat before throwing it. It clashed against the cops chest, and King rushed forward. His shoulder reared ahead, and smashed into the cop, yet he didn't stop his run. No, it was forced to a halt as he slammed the cop into a wall.

His hands moved to the officers pistol, which they began to struggle against one another for control of. King continued pressing his shoulder into his chest, using the rest of his body to yank off to the side in an attempt to rip the weapon away from the officer. But he wouldn't let go, not without a little bit of encouragement. That encouragement would be delivered swiftly, in the form of Kings elbow meeting his helmet. It stopped it from damaging the cop in any serious ways, but it didn't change that an elbow had still slammed into his face.

That lone hit was the last thing King needed to get the advantage, pulling the handgun away before pressing the barrel of it up to the officers face, right next to his own. Without thinking, he fired. Blood splattered from the new hole in his head, and his ears screamed in displeasure at the sudden ringing. He stepped away from the cop and let his body slump down the wall, and he knew there was still more work to be done as the battle raged on outside.

King once again began a sprint, armed with a single magazine in the stolen pistol, he just hoped he could get to one of the others fast enough to get some ammo for his own weapons before he fell victim to a lack of bullets to defend himself with. He made his way out of the bar, and back to the outside, his destination being the mechanics workshop, which he could hear the gang shouting inside from.

He'd survived plenty of assault waves already, even if this one was a little more difficult than usual, his confidence in his and the gangs capabilities were unwavering. What was one more shootout?

[ycurkxng-a]

Till My Last Breath

Character: Dean King

Warnings: Fighting, general violence

Notes: Got bored and I'm writing this bc I have a horribly aching arm due to a lil fight (if you can call it that) so y'know

Uncoordinated steps were beginning to be all Dean could rely on, his body ached and his mind was too tired to continue the fight at 100%. But he couldn't stop, if he stopped, he was dead. The only good part being that it seemed his last two opponents were also beginning to feel the effects that the fight had on them all, meaning they were on somewhat even ground.

With fists that he could barely keep clenched, Dean stepped forward and swung with a haymaker. His knuckles clashed against the head of one, but when he saw the other beginning to step in to try and take a shot at him, he swung that same arm backwards in his direction. The side of his fist cracked against his teeth, giving him a small amount of distance as the attacker stepped back.

His attention returned back to the first man, with Dean finally letting his fists go back into open palms for a mere moment, just so he could charge forward sluggishly and ram him against a wall. A wheeze left as the air rushed from the man's lungs, and Dean raised himself and his fist back. His other hand pressed the man to the wall by grabbing onto his chest and pushing him against it, just before he performed a slow, yet powerful, right hook.

Fist met cheek, and after a moment of recuperation from the receiving party, he was punched in the face again. The blood rushing from his mouth and nose rushed out and dripped onto his knuckles like rain in an ocean, barely noticeable by either of them. His breathing became heavier as he continued to swing, more than certain he had broken his knuckles from this alone.

One last swing is what did it, a loud scream that tore at his throat erupting from Dean before he swung. His entire body going into it, seemingly helping the power of it enough to knock the man out completely, at least for a few seconds. But he highly doubted he'd be getting back up after that, Dean knew he wouldn't want to.

As the man's body fell to the ground, Dean had barely been able to recognize the footsteps coming closer from behind. Shit. Couldn't he just get a fucking break?!

When the footsteps got close enough, Dean snapped his left elbow back far enough to not hit the man, but get close enough to make him flinch and back off ever so slightly. That was his mistake, when the distance became larger, it was closed nearly immediately. Kings entire body turned to face his final opponent, hands now clenched back into fists and being held up near his bruised face.

Deciding to finally take a step away from the offensive role, he played the waiting game. He knew that the other wouldn't stop the fight, nor would Dean. He wanted to continue fighting for his friends, who laid around them in various stages of pain. And Dean would continue because he knew if he didn't, that would be a wrap for his story. And he'd be damned if this was going to be it, done in by some little group of lowlifes.

Keeping his guard up and staying on alert was the best decision he made, as when the other stepped in and swung sluggishly, Dean stepped in and grabbed onto his head, his whole left arm stopping the others fist from connecting while giving him nearly all of the control in the fight at the same time. With this new power dynamic, Dean acted fast.

Deans fingers interlocked and gripped the back of his head tightly, before pulling down and revealing his throat as a larger target. With this enlarged point, his right fist unclenched and raised up, the webbing between his thumb and index finger spread before it was promptly slammed into his throat. Choking and sputtering followed before Dean practically threw him to the side, letting him hit the ground with a desperate attempt to draw air in.

All of them were finally down, and Dean felt like he'd soon be joining them on the ground if he didn't get to his car at least. But he couldn't stay at the scene, he needed to get away from here. All of it felt like too much for his exhausted and quite frankly overwhelmed mind, but he had to take it one step at a time.

So, with one final deep breath in and hefty exhale, he began to walk away from the area and back to his vehicle. Nearly tripping over himself every now and again on the trip, but considering that his night turned into a violent fight for his life, he figured that was only natural, unlike everything else in his goddamn life.

[ycurkxng-a]

Burial

Characters: (Coasty SMP) Dean King, Adam

Warnings: None

Notes: Damn this shit made me sad wtf

Nothing could've prepared him for this, absolutely fucking nothing. Although a part of him always knew a day like this was bound to come, he never wanted it to, Jesus Christ, he didnt want this. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, and there was one bastard Dean had to blame for this. But he'd be dealt with later, for now, Dean had a corpse that needed to be laid to rest properly... At least properly in his own viewpoint, demons probably did something different.

Adams blood stained his gloves and jacket from how tightly he'd pressed the corpse into a hug after finding him there, but he truly couldn't care less about that. Out of the few hundred things racing around in his mind, that wasn't even considered for a moment.

He crushed branches underfoot while he walked, if he was going to be buried anywhere, it wouldn't be at that goddamn village. Hell no, not in that bastards place, he deserved somewhere better to rest. He'd walk across the entire goddamn plains to find that spot if he had to, as long as he could bury his shovel into the ground to make the hole, thats all that mattered.

It wasn't long before he found the proper spot however, up a hill with flowers surrounding, the sun shining down on it from behind, hell. Dean wouldn't mind being buried somewhere like that spot himself, he just hoped Adam wouldn't mind- if he even knew about where his body was.

He continued to move, reaching the top and looking out at the view. Just high enough to see everything without having to crane his neck up or down, all in clear view for him. This is the spot he deserved, not behind some house, or anything like that.

"...pretty." He mumbled, "You'd like it.. I hope." A weak chuckle, then silence, the crushing reality still weighing down on him. He let out a soft sigh before setting the body down to the side ever so gently, watching closely how his literal dead weight slumped, his head rolling to the side- god.

The sight plunged a knife into Dean's heart and twisted it, this wasn't how it was supposed to be. Not for Adam at least, if anyone should've gone out like that, it should've been him, HIM. But that didn't matter now, at least that's how Dean got himself to stop thinking about that fact for another 20 minutes. At that rate, he would be joining in Adam in death before he even buried him.

To work he went, taking the iron shovel he stole out of his rig and pinpointing just where the body would be laid to rest. Starting at the foot of the soon to be made hole, Dean raised the shovel up to his side before thrusting it downwards. The spade dug into the ground before he pulled back up, taking a chunk of the earth with it.

"I'm sorry." He muttered, continuing to dig as he took the occasional glance at the ever unmoving body. He knew he was dead, but a part of him still wished that by sone miracle, Adam would simply rise back up. Everytime he looked he prayed he'd see something different, but no, it was the same gut wrenching sight.

"I shoulda been there, I should've been right with you, you'd... You wouldntve-..." Dean trailed off, fixing his gaze to the hole his brother would soon be in. That's now where he should be, no, he should still be there. He should've been happy, and still being a fucking moron, not THIS. Not taken out by some bastard who didn't deserve even a fraction of the shit he'd gotten, if he was there... Fuck.

Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes and spread throughout, stinging them in the process. He continued to dig, pushing through nearly being blinded by his own emotions, both literally and figuratively. Each time the shovel struck into the ground, his actions became more and more forceful. Grunts turned into incoherently shouting as he rapidly pulled dirt up from the ground before slamming the shovel back down, and shouting turned into sobbing.

He practically collapsed onto his knees, only supporting his upper half with the handle of his tool as years of anguish finally poured out. His sobbing was ugly, his masked features contorting with the pain he'd kept bottled inside for ages. His chest ached, he couldn't breathe, his hands shook violently, he couldn't fucking think.

Everything was silent around him, aside from the occasional gust of wind, all that filled the air was his wails that echoed throughout the wilderness. This kind of pain was something he hadn't felt in quite some time, and he was barely able to pull himself together after what felt like hours of mindless bawling.

Still sniffling, Dean stood back up and buried the shovel into the ground next to the fresh hole, leaving both hands free for him to pick Adams corpse back up and set him down yet again. The sight hurt, and eager to both suppress the sight and finish the burial, Dean went back to covering the hole. Easier than digging it up, that was for sure.

"I'm gonna make this right, I swear." Dean sighed as he topped off the grave, patting the dirt down to smooth it out. His attention turned to a nearby tree with rather large branches sticking out from it, "I'll find some way." He continued, moving to the tree to rip off said branches.

His hands moved as fast as he could to wrap strings he'd carried in his jacket (among other things) around the two branches, fashioned into a rather shoddy cross. It was better than nothing, right? He tied the strings ends into tight knot, knocking the cross against the ground to make sure it wouldn't just fall apart at the first hard breeze. When it didn't break apart, Dean stood up and looked at the now covered grave.

Fuck.

He raised the cross above his head, the bottom of it aiming downwards which allowed him to stab it at the head of the covered hole. He pushed down once or twice in order to keep it in place as best as he could, and once he stepped back and looked at the sight, he couldn't help but feel something rather familiar travelling quickly to his chest, his hands, his mind.

Something in him boiled just beneath the surface, something in him demanded retribution for what had been done, and he could feel it spreading and infecting his mind once more. Something needed to be done about Blue, if that motherfucker would simply be allowed to walk free after what he'd done- oh, Dean would never be able to let it go.

His breathing grew heavier, compressed in his mask, and his goal became clear in the midst of his scorching rage. "I'm going to make this right." He claimed, grabbing the shovel out of the ground and lifting it up. "I promise."

Turning around and storming off with fury in his heart, Dean's destination was that damned village. He was going to paint Coasty with that bastards blood and brains, if he had any in the first place. That fucker was dead, and he was going out by Deans hands. It was the only thing he could do now.

Even though he failed Adam, he could at least avenge him, that had to count for something.

[ycurkxng-a]

Car Battery!

Characters: (Roblox) Dean King, Kitberry

Warnings: Car battery!

Notes: I fucking hate Shovelwares Brain Game I'm so bad at it

7 points for Kitberry, 21 points for Dean, 59 points for the random son of a bitch they'd never seen.

He fucking hated game shows. That little banana bastard was SO lucky Dean couldn't get over there and squeeze it like a manic ape until it's innards popped out, that and he wanted the prize- one he knew was impossible to get by now.

"Look at that," The host began, turning to Dean to meet his enraged gaze. "It's your turn again! What category do you want?" That voice, oh, he fucking HATED IT. Did this son of a bitch just intend on driving Dean to a homicidal rage? It felt like it, and it took a terrifyingly tight grip onto the podium as he looked over his options... Nonsense Non-Sequiters? What the hell could that be?

Silently, Dean pointed to that very category which he knew he wouldn't be able to pronounce without stuttering like a moron. "What a pick! Let's take a look at your question." It grinned, confusing Dean further, but what in these worlds hadn't done that at least once before?

"One of these is the right answer!" The host exclaimed, staring to the screen which now displayed random answers... Types of hats? Bug spray? What the fuck?!

An exaggerated groan left Dean as he slammed his upper half against his podium, glancing over to Kitberry who simply stood there for a moment before nodding. If she got the right answer, he was going to scream like a wounded goat.

Moments ticked by, and as the others selected their answers, Dean felt as though he was more than certainly going to get this wrong- but how could he not? It was a 1 in 4 chance, and he knew this game would fuck him at pretty much every chance it had to do so. Without thinking, he pointed to his own answer. Bug spray, why not?

A deafening silence followed as the host stared at his answer, and it's hand holding the microphone slowly fell, before the mic itself did. His wrong answer was further solidified by a blaring sound, one that he knew was accompanied by an X plastered to the front of his stand.

"FUCK YOU!" Dean shouted, gripping onto the sides of the podium and leaning over it with his veins bulging out of his neck.

Then all was quiet.

"Car battery!"

"Wha-"

His head snapped up to stare at the oncoming item, a falling car battery that crushed down into his cranium. The world around him went black as his entire body crumpled, his face slamming into the stand before it was dragged down with the rest of his figure. The battery itself landed off to the side, by Kitberrys feet- who now stared at his slumped body. "..you okay?"

All she got as a response was a loud groan as Dean forced his eyelids apart, pressing his open palms against the floor and beginning the process of pushing himself back up. "Hggh.. dussit... SEEM like I'm.." He trailed off, his arms being thrown over the stand to support his shaking legs as his chest pressed against it.

His brown hues found the banana again, and his brows furrowed as he stared the host down with a barely coherent rage. But it didn't stop to stare back, it only continued with the show before moving back and giving the announcer time to continue speaking, something Dean completely tuned out.

Fucking car battery, yeah, that's what he needed.

[ycurkxng-a]

Round Two

Characters: (Post Mortem) Dean King, Blue

Warnings: General violence, death

Notes: I'm the president of the "I fucking hate Blue" club

Just another spell, thats how it'd been described to Dean by the villager. It was a simple trade, Dean would allow her to test her spells on him, and he would get an emerald... Fine by him, he barely spent them but maybe the others would use them for something. The only difference with this one being the necessity for him to sleep, it wouldn't work awake... Something about wanting to scare the shit out of her brother, Dean barely listened as she spoke.

He did as instructed, laying down on her bed and doing his best to relax. Although he always hated resting in anyone else's bed, and both grew irritated with how long it took for him to actually drift into sleep. It was only when she stepped out of the room that he finally managed to slip away, his entire body easing into the mattress as his mind.

Dean only knew something was happening when his dream became much more... Real. He could feel grass sink further into the earth underneath his boots, the soft breeze pushing through the village- wait, a village? And at that, a very familiar one. But not the one from his recent adventures, no, from his past. Something that felt like it'd been years ago.

Coasty. He could recognize it from a mile away, the houses lining up the paths, the trees he'd slept in for God only knew how long, he could even see the jungle off in the distance. What the fuck was he doing back in Coasty? He'd left that place a long, long time ago, and for good reason. After Adams death and quick revenge, he had no reason to hang around... But this was supposed to be a nightmare, wasn't it?

Even he could admit that seeing the village freaked him out a bit, but nothing seemed particularly out of place. Looking around, he squinted while trying to make out any possible alteration from its original design. Something did stick out as he turned around however, a figure in the woods behind him.

It stood still amidst the trees, something in one hand, from a distance it looked to be nothing more than some tool. At the end of it, something stuck out to the side, but it seemed oddly extended to be anything like a pickaxe or hoe. That's when he caught sight of the other side, something stuck out that end too, but it quickly became hidden as it went behind the figures back.

"Whos that?" Dean called out, standing a little taller as he craned his neck to the side. "Adam? Daisy? Rex?" He continued, naming one after another after a moment of silence with the last. The silence disturbed him, something like that was hard enough to do as is.

His heart practically leapt out of his throat when the figure began moving closer, the darkness beginning to be shined out by the sun, it's light beginning to reveal the figure and it's item. Brown loafers, dark dress pants- a familiar cross.

That was Adams cross.

He'd shoddily put it together himself, sticking it at the end of Adams resting place before leaving for the final time. And there was only one bastard Dean knew here that dressed like that, and as he continued to come into the light, Dean's stare grew into something dark.

A dried red painted the once black suit and shirt into a much more gruesome scene, and that's when Dean saw his neck. It looked as though something forced the head atop it to stay in place, some other unnatural force. He couldn't help how his heartrate began to quicken, thumping harder and harder until it felt like either he or it was going to explode.

Of course he knew it was supposed to scare him, but why did it have to bring Blue back?

"Why didn't I get a cross, Dean?" Blue questioned, his voice rumbling throughout the air and echoing. "Because I didn't wanna waste the wood on you." He shrugged, doing his best to keep a facade of an unwavering ease about him. "...sounds like why I didn't give Ad-AAAm one. You remember that, DONT you? Finding him th-ere-ghh-"

Blues voice broke, practically shrieking at random intervals before finishing. "You keep his fucking name out of your mouth, you son of a bitch, say another fucking word about that- AND I'LL PUT YOUR FUCKING HEAD ON A STICK!" Rage, that kind of murderous rage that now flowed freely through Dean, it was something that he tried to keep on a leash for the most part.

But he figured this could be an exception.

He didn't bother to wait for an attack, Dean knew this was a nightmare- the bastard was long dead, and he wanted to make sure he died to his hands once more. Only one wrench in the gears stopped the initial attack however, and that was the cross itself.

Dean went to swing, his arm cocking back before being launched forward- and that's when the crosses edge blocked his arm and twisted it around, forcing the killer to yelp in a mix of surprise and amazement. Only in death could he finally put up a fight, no matter.

His sheer mass won him the grapple, pulling back onto the cross before sending his entire body forward, slamming into Blue and knocking him backwards. The crosses jagged edge made an unpleasant scraping sound against the path as he slid back onto the grass, "Still can't take a hit, even in my fuckin' mind? Thats-"

He wasn't allowed another word, Blue got himself back to his feet and rushed forward. One swing to the side with the cross, which was knocked back with Dean's elbow, promptly followed by an overhead swing that came crashing down. He'd be damned, maybe he couldn't just fuck around and beat Blue up this time.

The cross coming in overhead was grabbed onto with Dean's right hand, his other delivered a swift, yet powerful, liver shot. Even if Blue was a slime, it would hurt anyone, anyone but him apparently. As Blue responded with pulling the cross back into his control and jabbing it into Dean's chest, making him take a quick step back at the contact.

"What the fuck? SINCE WHEN CAN YOU TAKE A PUNCH?!" Dean shouted, not quite believing just what it was that he found himself staring at. Blue wasn't anything special, some son of a bitch who annoyed him to no end, there was a reason he still didn't regret ending him. So what the hell was that spell doing to Blue in his mind?

That was trivial now, as Blue began to run back towards Dean with the cross raised behind his back. Dean waited until the last possible second to step out of the way of his swing, it came down to the ground ahead of him before raising back upwards, was he trying to take Dean's fucking head off?!

...oh, Christ, was he?

Stepping around him quickly, Dean grabbed onto Blues suit jacket from behind and pulled him in closer, allowing him to wrap one arm around his neck. His elbow locked his neck firmly into place, and he could feel an odd pulse against it. Any pulse from a slime was out of the ordinary, but this one felt- different. It felt as if though it were biting him, actually.

Dean pressed Blue closer to him as he began to choke, staring down at him with his teeth gritting. There were no threats to pass, no witty comments to one another, only a fight that would lead to one of their destructions. And Dean would be damned if he died to BLUE of all people, it'd be easier to say a goddamn sheep ate him alive.

No one would just allow themselves to be strangled however, which is why Blue continued to fight back and struggle. It infuriated Dean to no end, which is what drove him to end the fight at the first opportunity he saw. And that opportunity came as Adams cross was lifted up in Blues hands in a vain attempt to hit Dean with it from behind, perfect.

His free hand grabbed onto the cross and pulled it backwards, the arm that once choked Blue now unwrapping from his throat, a small breather he didn't get the chance to relish. Dean kicked Blue forward onto the dirt before planting the cross firmly into the ground and pushing downwards, making sure it wouldn't budge with the few seconds he had as Blue stood back up.

Blue wouldn't just quit fighting, but that played perfectly in Dean's favor. He grabbed onto Blues neck with both hands and raised him up off the ground, staring for only a moment before turning back around. He stepped towards the cross, and in one rushed movement, Dean slammed Blue down.

The sound of ripping, a scream, and then something dripping, those are the sounds that followed.

That still jagged end of the cross now stuck through Blues chest, tearing right through his jacket and body and leaving him pressed into it. The edges held him up, practically having him on display for Dean to watch, and he shrieked out in pain as he was viciously impaled.

Blood oozed from his large, open wounds, he'd would never understand just how a slime carried blood inside of him but he truly wasn't complaining. That blood ran down the wood and surrounded the grass around the crosses set place, a horrifyingly beautiful sight.

Dean stayed quiet as he stared on, a bright white began to overtake the entire area, blinding him completely and forcefully ripping him away from his handiwork. Instead of being able to stay and admire it, he returned to that bed, the villager staring down at him with a nervous expression plastered onto her face.

"So.." She cleared her throats after a few moments of awkward silence, "Did it- did it work? If not I can swap out one of th-" "It works." Dean assured her, sitting up and getting off the bed.

"Believe me, it fuckin' works."

[ycurkxng-a]

Outbreak

Character: (Resident Evil: Reborn) Dean King

Warnings: Gore, yippee

Notes: I'm so autistic about resident evil lately please send help

"Could I get a room? Just for the night."

That was what had led him in a motel after driving along empty roads of Tennessee, ones that were pressed tight against the edge of the woods. Dean wanted to avoid the inner city as much as possible, a terrible feeling in his gut sending him far away from it. He didn't care to question his instincts, but he couldn't lie and say that it didn't worry him a smidge.

Hell, a part of him didn't even want to come all the way out to that part of the country. But when he got the offer to come and see an old friend in celebration of his engagement, he sped over as fast as possible. He refused to take a plane there, damn metal coffins, so his trashcan on wheels was his best bet.

The motel itself was rather typical, especially for the time. The sun had just begun to set, and Dean's entire lower half ached from hours upon hours of driving. He figured it'd be best to just pull over at the first resting spot he found, and that happened to be his current place of residence. He didn't bother to unpack when he got into his room, simply throwing his bags down and perching atop the foot of the rooms bed.

His idea had become simple, rest for the night and head back out in the morning. Although he wasn't tired enough to sleep, so he supposed he'd get a quick glance at what was on the TV. Maybe he could see what the weather would be, but when he turned it on- static blasted out from the speakers and the screen was nothing but black and white lines.

What did he expect from a place like this? His clicks onto the remote became more aggressive as he flipped through the channels, each one had the same thing. "For fucks sake..." Dean murmured, hitting the power button on the remote before tossing it to the side of the bed. Maybe it would just be better to try and sleep, that train of thought led to him laying down on top of the blankets, still fully dressed.

Not enough fucks were available at that moment to even try to sleep comfortably, he curled up on his side with the light still on and closed his eyes. Even if his mind continued running at a million miles an hour with random thoughts about pretty much whatever he could remember, his body could, at the very least, recover a little.

It was only minutes after when someone began to shout in the room over, a man's voice, although he couldn't quite decipher what he was yelling about he could figure out that it was annoying as all hell to listen to. It only got worse when yelling turned into full on screaming and banging, frustration building up and eventually turning into rage after mere seconds of listening.

Dean sat upright and looked to the wall that the source laid behind, "WILL YOU PEOPLE SHUT THE FUCK UP?!" He exclaimed, his hands balling into fists as it only continued. These arrogant bastards, he'd always held a particular disdain for anyone as loud as that, intentional or not. At least now it was somewhat useful he'd stayed fully dressed, allowing him to get off of the bed and leave his room at a moments notice.

Stepping outside, his eyes were drawn to fresh blood that trailed down the walkway, room to room. Footsteps were imprinted into the liquid, and they led into the room where the current screaming now rang out from. The door was open, clear by the light that shined from inside and landed gracefully onto the floor and railing.

He rushed to get to the door, pressing his arm against the side of the doorway and looking into the room. The scene less than pretty, bloody carpet, two figures struggling in the corner next to the bed, and of course- the horrified screams.

They sent chills down his spine, but it gave him the rush of adrenaline necessary to push through fear and dash forward. He ran around the bed, stumbling as he turned the corner to the narrow walkway before reaching out and grabbing onto the attacking figure by their shoulders. Their head was tilted to the side, and seemed to be at the neck of the other.

The man's screams became much more gurgled, choked out, and when Dean pulled the attacker off of him- there was a loud tearing sound, that of flesh. Those screams were then turned into nothing but gargling and gagging, and the man slumped to the floor. The figure Dean held onto turned their head to stare at him, their mouth smeared with blood with a chunk of gore hanging in between their teeth.

Dean jolted with a yelp at the sight, shoving the thing forward into the wall before taking a few quick steps in the opposite direction. He couldn't help but freeze as it turned back around ever so slowly, letting out a low, animalistic snarl as its terrifying form was revealed in the light.

Blood dirtied its hands and the lower side of its face, cuts went across its chest, most likely from someone that had attempted to fight it off. The flesh that once dangled from its jaw fell out, plopping onto the floor just at the corpses feet. Its face, other than the bright red, was an unnatural gray, and its eyes were so lifeless. But there was a bite mark on its own neck, which was glanced over.

There was no chance in Hell that Dean was going to put his hands anywhere near its face. When it began to shamble forward, he lifted his leg up and kicked it in the stomach, knocking it backwards into the wall to create further space between them. He took the opportunity to look around for whatever kind of weapon could've been laying around, and his gaze was drawn to the bathroom, the light still on.

A shower rod, pulled down from it's rightful place with the curtain seemingly ripped off. It broke into two pieces, having been clicked together originally, better than nothing.

He backed up before turning and bursting into the bathroom, nearly slipping on a mixture of water and blood in the process. He doubled over, snatching the rod by an end, then standing back upright and spinning to face down his new enemy. In the moment it was difficult to try and pinpoint just what it was, but the realization would come to him eventually.

"Get the fuck back!" Dean yelled, placing both hands onto the rod as if were a baseball bat. It didn't stop, drawing closer by the moment. Expected, sure, but he hoped there was some kind of response other than to groan and continue it's stiff movement. "I SAID GET BACK!"

The rod was held down by the right side of his hips, his fists hovering marginally above it. When it reached his offensive range, he swung. Both arms went diagonally, up to the left, and the instrument slammed against its jaw. Its head went in the same direction as the hit, which was added by another, horizontal, swing. The two repeated blows against its rotted head made it began to leak blood, a detail he didn't notice while he swung again.

It crashed back into its neck, and that's when the rapid and aggressive blows began. Each swing became less coordinated, with Dean's entire body going into the force of each one, and with that combined power it pushed the thing down to the floor face down.

With its mouth facing away, it felt safe enough for Dean to step in closer and push his boot down against the back of its head. It kept it down, unable to take a bite out of his leg. And before its struggling arms could grab onto him, he pressed down with all the power he could muster into the limb.

He could feel its head crush underneath the pressure, and the blood began to leak out of its eyes and mouth less than a second after. Yet, the growling hadn't stopped. Actually, it sounded as if there had been another one, just from the corner.

"Wh-" Dean turned his head to stare down the source, the man he'd originally come inside to save now began to stand up with a chunk of flesh torn out of his neck. His eyes were now empty, and blood dripped down his side and front, coating the entire right side of his form in the liquid. "Jesus Christ!" He couldn't help but gasp out, was he dealing with fucking zombies?!

Normally in any dangerous situation, Dean would fight to his la poost breath, but his entire body screamed to run. Run and never look back.

And that's just what he did.

He jumped over the corpse and hauled ass back out of the door, which is where he was met with the terrifying sight of more reanimated corpses. Pieces of their heads were seemingly ripped off, they were clawed and bit to Hell, and a few others had suffered the same fate as the corpse Dean ran past. Both ends of the walkway were crowded by the infected bodies, blocking his path.

Well, they blocked a path. He stared at the railing and eyeballed the distance between the second floor he stood on and the ground below, considering his options for a split second. Possibly bruise something, or get eaten alive? A choice that even a moron could make.

Dean threw the rod at the closest monster, stopping them and the crowd behind them for a moment, which gave him the single moment he needed to grab onto the wooden and chipped railing before launching himself over and letting go. The fall felt much longer than it really was, landing on his back with a shout. He opened his eyes to stare up at the dead, and he hurriedly got up to his feet when he saw that they were beginning to follow him over.

No sense of self preservation, that explained why the one he'd killed in that room had so many cuts, and kept moving towards him. So of course falling a bit wouldn't bother them, hell, could they even feel it? He didn't care to hang around and find out, he backed away and reached into his jackets pocket to take out his keys. Their jingle as he pulled them into the air gave him a wave of hope, he just had to get the hell out.

With his heart pumping, hands shaking, and brain racing, Dean acted as fast as his body and mind would allow. He sped to the car, boots thumping against the parking lot as he unlocked the doors with the key, before nearly ripping the drivers side door off of the car and sitting down in the seat, he slammed it shut and locked the doors again.

The zombies staggered towards the car as it revved to life before speeding off to the road, Dean didn't know WHERE he was driving, and he cared little. He'd left everything at that motel, so opening up a map to get a grip on his surroundings was out of the question. He put the pedal to the metal and did his best to keep the wheel steady, breathing heavy and laughing with the slightest twinge of relief.

Of course, he wouldn't be doing so if he knew just where he was driving, which was directly towards the heart of where that zombie had come from. The city, where it had been bitten in the first place.

The night had just begun, and with it, Dean's hell.

[ycurkxng-a]

Are You Okay? (Like Seriously Jesus Christ)

Characters: Dean King, Ali Ramden

Warnings: Listen man this goes heavy into Dean's suicidal ideation and even attempt, so if you don't wanna see that then keep scrolling

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"-so I told her that my new years resolution is to stop being a pussy and to kill myself already!" Dean laughed out, leaning back in his seat. The stare he got back from his friend wasn't one that seemed happy, it was full of concern. That wasn't good.

The silence that followed was crushing, before Ali managed to speak. "..are you okay, man?"

Was he okay?

Dean sat there for a few seconds, trying to think of a snarky comment to shoot back to bring the conversation back to a more lighthearted state, but he couldn't. Was he okay? Fuck, that was something he hadn't actually thought of for a while.

Was he okay?

There were countless amounts of sleepless nights Dean had gone through, more were spent contemplating painting his walls with his brains than not. Christ, he'd tasted the barrel of his gun already, the only thing that made him pull it out and not go through with it was.. well, he didn't know that either.

He'd tried to go through with it too, but that attempt failed. The disgusting aftertaste and chalky residue left from the pills had driven him to puke them out, ironic.

Dean didn't even care about anyone around him at this point, they wouldn't care, Hell, the only reason they'd even notice his absence would most likely be because they didn't have to listen to his annoying bullshit for a little longer than normal.

Jesus, he'd already believed any poor son of a bitch that had to talk to him would be happier if he was gone in one way or another. Dean somehow found it harder to leave and move somewhere else than it would be to just quit, maybe it's because he wouldn't have to think anymore.

He wouldn't have to keep dealing with the constant thoughts that everyone would be better off without him, he wouldn't have to continue being a burden with his presence alone.

Was he okay?

No, he was pretty fucking far from okay.

Ali was the one to notice tears beginning to form in Dean's eyes, his sudden silence and lifeless stare scared him. His gaze went through the floor and deep into the abyss of his own mind, something that if any normal person got to even glance inside- it would send them howling all the way to the nuthouse.

"Dean-?"

"No.." he mumbled softly, hunching over and putting a hand over his eyes in a failed attempt to hide the oncoming sobs. "I'm.. I'm fine."

As he slumped further and further into his own hands with gut-wrenching wails, he continued to mumble out "I'm fine" in between the breathless crying. Maybe he was trying to convince himself of that, or perhaps he was just trying to get Ali to believe it. Either way, it didn't work.

Ali didn't know what to do, he placed a hand on Dean's knee and sat there with him as he continued to sob for the first time in months. He'd held it in for so long, and it was all coming out of the floodgates because of one fucking question.

Are you okay?

[ycurkxng-a]

Restricted Area

Character: (Watch Dogs) Dean King - T-800

Warnings: None

Notes: just got done with Watch Dogs 2 and motivation for this just fucking clobbered me

Hacker activists had been running around San Francisco for ages now, nearly all of them were working to expose the larger corporations and bring down corrupt monopolies, some others were too busy making attempts at stealing from different areas that were heavily guarded, either by street gangs or the police. While some of them did get their loot, others were killed, but there were some that were simply never seen again.

T-800 knew exactly what category he'd find himself in when this was all said and done.

Pulling up to a gang hideout in a vehicle would draw too much attention from the get-go, making Dean vulnerable to an ambush, but in that same vein, he could use it as an exploit. What if he wasn't driving the car? What if a vehicle managed to swerve off the road due to some unknown circumstances, crashing into the front yard?

It was bound to draw any of the Tezcas to the location, if there were any that didn't go over there then chances were that they'd be alone, easy to dispose of before anybody noticed. He just had to be careful in his approach, sneaking never was his strong suit. If he managed to piss these guys off so close to groups of their other members, then he'd be looking at an early death sentence.

Of course he wouldn't go in blind, T-800 had scouted the outside using their own cameras. He couldn't see the inside though, that would be the real issue, if he played his cards right though? He'd be looking at maybe one or two inside, those of which a few swift hammer strikes to the skull could bring down with relative ease.

The day grew dark, night settling in at a rapid pace. That was when he finally made his approach, he stood at the right side of the home, just next to the fence, it gave him a perfect view of oncoming cars. He waited, avoiding the motorcycles and smaller vehicles, they wouldn't be bombastic enough to draw out the ones he needed there. No, he saw the opportunity shine as a semi-truck came into his sight.

With his phone already out and aimed, he pressed down on the set key, the control no longer being in the driver's hands. The wheels shot left, and the front end rammed through the short, metal fences. It didn't stop immediately, pushing forward more and hitting the windows on its right side, T-800s left, shattering them on the spot.

That's when the shouting started, he couldn't decipher who was who in the midst of it all, but that was the least of his concerns. Footsteps from just next to him were hidden by the tall wooden fence, but he could hear them trailing past and into the house. When all he could hear was incoherent arguing from the front, he took it as his queue.

T-800 slid the phone back into his pocket while he turned to the fence, he looked and jumped up after a moment. His hands gripped the top of the fence tight, and he used the momentum from his initial launch upwards to swing his body over the fence and onto the ground. The landing wasn't nearly as graceful as the jump, his left side smashing against the grassy earth with a soft thud and curse under his breath.

Pulling himself back together, the hacker clambered to his feet and took in his surroundings, scanning the area for any unwanted Tezcas that hung back. Luckily for him, there was a desired lack of them. There was a little sigh of relief that left his lungs and sunk into his already pulled up mask, as much as he loved his fair share of violence, he knew that taking out even one in the wrong way would lead to more fighting than he could ask for in a month.

Dirt brown eyes managed to catch sight of the backdoor, a small red button on the side. He'd learned already that pressing it did nothing, all technological here, and he didn't have the key necessary to get through. So where could it have been? He'd already searched each Tezca during his stakeout prior, none of them had the original key that was shared, so it must've been on file somewhere.

By process of elimination, it wasn't out front or inside. It wasn't inside just due to the fact that if they had it in there, new members wouldn't be able to access the hideout. It had to be out back with him, and there was nothing on the porch that could've had it. That was when he came to his final conclusion, a shed.

Tucked away in a corner, at the other side of the fenced in backyard, there had to be something inside of it that would give him the access key. He'd seen it before but didn't think anything of it, just a shed, considering it was a gang hideout it probably held guns or some product. But he'd clearly written it off far too early, if he was right. But when was he wrong?

He moved quickly, his boots tapping gently against the grass underneath them as he lowered his entire body to a crouching stance. If someone did come back here, he would be far too visible standing upright, and being spotted now was a bad idea.

Upon reaching the shed, he took notice in the broken padlock that was tossed to the side. Maybe someone had lived here before them, they simply took over. T-800 tried to not think about what happened to the owner or owners if that was the case, instead paying attention to the inside of the structure as the door creaked open.

Weapons on racks adorned the walls, military grade hardware from grenade launchers to assault rifles to handguns. He could only assume they were all stolen or bought off the record, maybe both. The Tezcas were no strangers to either, so they were reasonable conclusions to come to.

What really caught his attention was the laptop on a small workbench, open and powered on, perfect for him, detrimental for the other guys. He pulled his phone out and held it to the device, quickly searching through the files on it brought him to the access key which was promptly downloaded.

"Jackpot." He mumbled with a grin, T-800 turned his head back to look at the door, the button next to it now a bright green. He aimed the phone at it and pressed down on the prompt that appeared on his screen, immediately the once locked door now opened itself for him, giving him access to the loot inside.

There was a sense of urgency with every breath T-800 drew, his heart raced in his chest and his hands trembled with an expectant nature. His entire mind began to prepare itself for war once he reached the door, the shouting had stopped and was replaced by simple talking in a language that was lost upon him.

"Qué hacemos con esto?" A gravelly voice spoke, their attention was hopefully drawn on something else and not the gentle footsteps that now travelled along the hideouts floors. "Él podría ir a decirle a la policía dónde estamos, o la Bravtas." Another voice, slightly softer than the last but only by a margin.

Well, at least he could make out Bravtas in that.

That stash had to be hidden somewhere, T-800 swiftly searched through the kitchen he initially entered before moving on to the living room. Couch cushions were taken off and set down, the table was searched thoroughly and even the TV stands drawers were ransacked. Once more he was forced to use the process of elimination, as far as main rooms went- he had a bedroom and a bathroom, and no one hid a pile of money where they went to take a piss.

T-800 flipped on the light switch upon entering the bedroom, the sudden change in lighting revealed a resting Tezca with a gun on the nightstand next to him, a goddamn P90. The gangbanger stirred for a moment, awakening after a moment to catch sight of the intruder. For a second, he brushed it off in a dazed state, but it was nearly immediately after that he realized that wasn't right. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened to speak.

He wouldn't be able to do so, as the hammer that T-800 had already pulled out from underneath his jacket came crashing down on his head. Rapid and deadly blows were delivered, the head driving itself into the others skull and crushing it underneath its powerful force.

The attacks stopped after the first contact, but better dead than sorry. There was no guilt for what he did, T-800 knew the Tezcas all too well, he didn't mind taking out one or two if it meant he could get through without starting a war with the rest of them.

When the blood began to pour, that's when his attention was drawn to what was just at his feet at the side of the bed while he set the hammer back underneath the layers. The straps to a duffel bag poked out from underneath, signalling to him that he'd found his prize. While he would've loved to see what he'd gotten out of it right then and there, it would be far too risky and downright idiotic.

Sticking around any longer just increased his odds of being found out, so he acted quickly. The bag was lifted up and thrown over his shoulder, hefty, so there was definitely something worth it inside. Going out through the back and over the fence wouldn't be possible with this kind of load, too heavy to throw over or climb up with, so he used the window in the bedroom. It led him back to where he'd started, at the right side of the house in a narrow alley of sorts.

The bag was thrown out first, then T-800 climbed out. He lifted his loot back up and ran as fast as he could away from the scene of his crime against criminals, taking himself and his haul throughout the neighborhood. By the time the Tezcas realized what had hit them minutes after, he was long gone.

They'd never know just who fucked them and ran off with a duffel bag full of money, and no one else would, except T-800 himself of course. As much as he would've loved to brag about it, he knew that they had a lot more firepower than him. A surprise attack with everything they had for the amount of cash he stole would be destined if he began to boast about his accomplishment, so he kept it on the down-low.

But even with him keeping quiet about it, that didn't stop another from figuring it out with the footage on the hideouts cameras, a rather infamous figure in the scene. While it didn't immediately draw him to T-800, it did pique his curiosity.

Wrench would have to look more into him, something like that wasn't something that every hacker had the skill or courage to do, or maybe it was stupidity. Either way, he'd learn soon enough.

[ycurkxng-a]

Red Asphalt

Characters: (Saints Row) Dean King, Johnny Gat, Carlos Mendoza

Warnings: Torture, heavy death, alcohol abuse

Notes: This isn't canon for Saints Row Dean!! But it just seemed v fun to write

This was his fault.

He did this. The kid, that poor fucking kid. Carlos was covered in blood, choking and screaming out as Dean desperately tried to free him from the chain that was still hooked to the back of that goddamn truck. He tried, he really did. Dean never wanted this for him, but it was too late. He'd gotten Carlos killed, even more fitting as he was the one to put the bullet in his head.

He couldn't just let him suffer.

Rain beat down heavy on Deans figure as he stood there over the corpse of his lieutenant, his friend, the person who got him out of that godforsaken prison. Now here he was, taken by the goddamn Brotherhood and dragged through the streets, painting the asphalt with his blood.

If he hadn't played a part in this by further dragging Carlos into this mess, Dean would say that the Brotherhood were the sole perpetrators of this killing, he'd be going for them with a sharpened toothbrush if he could. But no, this blood was on his hands, quite literally.

Any Saints passing by that saw their leader stared as he shambled by, staring off into the distance. His face was blank, and a mix of blood and rain drenched his clothes. Of course, when they walked further ahead, they saw the scene themselves and called other Saints, the word spread quickly throughout the gang. It was only a matter of time before Jane was all over it too, then everyone would know. Everyone would know just how bad Dean had failed, they'd see how he couldn't save anyone, not even his own friends.

It felt like weeks went by as he stumbled into the Saints HQ, then promptly into his room before sitting down on the bed. He didn't bother to shut the door, which is what helped draw Johnny's attention to the smoke that began to leave his room afterwards. He peeked in slowly, catching a glimpse as to what the boss was doing.

A bottle of whiskey on the nightstand next to him, and a cigarette hanging from his lips that he only took a drag off of when he realized he hadn't done that in minutes. It actually kind of freaked Gat out, making him hesitate before walking in. "Boss?" He called out, receiving a dead gaze from the Saint. "You... What the fuck happened?"

While the question was bound to come, it was still one he dreaded. "The Brotherhood, they... They got him, Johnny." Dean muttered out under his breath, barely being understood by Gat. He didn't dare step closer, unsure of the Boss's mental state and how he'd react to anyone stepping near. "Shit." Was all he could force out as a response, the conversation ending with a mere grunt of acknowledgment.

With nothing else to say and the boss clearly in no mood to speak, or even exist at the moment, Johnny walked out. Although he wouldn't go far, staying close would be the only course of action to make sure nothing drastic happened as a result of this. Of course he and the others cared about Carlos too, but he'd seen and heard how the boss spoke of him. He truly did love him like a little brother, trying to drive him to be the best gangbanger he could be, as fucked up as that sounded even to Gat.

It wasn't long before the death hit the news, allowing the rest of the Saints who were out of the loop like Gat to really understand what was happening. His heart sank into his stomach upon seeing the bullet in Carlos's head, clearly the Brotherhood didn't do that. No one needed further explanation as to what happened, all they needed to do was stay the fuck out of the Boss's way for a while.

Gat took over operations for a few days as Dean sulked in his room, only leaving to get another bottle from the bar. Some of the Saints had seen the dozens of already empty bottles in his room, and they'd heard the sobbing (which honestly sounded more like screaming that ripped Dean's throat) constantly, only one Saint mentioned it, chuckling slightly, and he did it a little too loud during one of Dean's rare trips outside of his room.

Seconds was all it took for Dean to grab a bottle from the bar and smash it over the back of the gangbangers head, glass broke and cut both his hands and the others head before he kicked them down and stormed off. That was when everyone made sure to either stay damn near dead silent when talking about the boss, or just not say a thing in general about him.

When Dean was finally done hiding, his levels of violence and rage were unmatched. It felt like every hour he added another few dozen Brotherhood members to his kill count, from running them over to just shooting them on sight, they all fell if they were in a 6 mile radius of him. It struck fear and terror into whichever members hadn't left Maero already, he didn't mind that they didn't run with their tail between their legs though. In fact, that was better. More of the bastards, more bodies.

Even if he could never forgive himself for failing Carlos, he could try his damndest to avenge him by destroying the Brotherhood with the fury of the devil himself. It would have to do, he just hoped it was enough to gain forgiveness from.. well, wherever Carlos was now.

[ycurkxng-a]

Final Dance.

Characters: (Post Coasty) Dean King, Retalon, Enrique Cosla

Warnings: N/A

Heavy, thumping footsteps went along the stone floor that made up the foundation of the building. Only two men were worthy enough to find themselves in it's walls, and one owned it. Of course, if one had really wanted to, he could have set traps to stop the other from getting inside and going up its floors to find him.

The leader of a crumbling army, Enrique, had been hiding out inside, trying to plan out his next moves. His entire militia had been destroyed by a small but growing rebellion, there was only one soldier that mattered out of the numbers. The Masked Butcher.

Not one of them could have expected that the rebellion would find the bastard, much less resurrect him to fight for them. The fact he fought alongside them was even more shocking, no one knew why he was doing it, no one except for him.

This was it. This was his retribution, his good deed to carry into the afterlife, the thing he'd be able to look back on with pride in his chest and a smile on his face. He didn't have that before, he had a hole through his heart and eyes spotted with tears, it was like that for years upon years. Now was his one and only chance to make things right, and he'd be damned if he didn't seize the opportunity by the throat.

Obviously that wasn't the only reason he was doing this, hell, if it were he wouldn't be preparing himself for death. But Dean knew how this would go, it could only end in two ways, and he didn't survive either. Luckily for him, there wasn't time to think about it as he grew closer to his destination.

Approaching the doorway, Dean could've sworn he felt a heartbeat increasing in his chest, despite the lack of both. Possibly a phantom feeling, but it wasn't enough to slow him down. If anything, it made him move faster. He would not be stopped by a feeling that wasn't real, not when he'd finally gotten this far.

Enrique's head snapped up as he heard the doors open, there he stood. The masked butcher, the terror of the plains, the maniac. His presence alone was intimidating even to him, causing his hand to shake slightly as he tightened his grip on his enchanted sword.

Dean moved forward and stood still, letting the doors shut behind him. His eyes stared straight at Enrique, despite the sun shining into them through the large, open windows. As he glared, the leader began to speak.

"I always knew it would end like this," he began, taking a step forward. "-two titans among men. Well, it's just a shame you couldnt-"

"Shut the fuck up... and fight me goddamnit."

Beat.

"Fine then."

With that, the fight had begun.

Both rushed forward, Dean swung his dominant hands sword first, purposely aiming it higher. Once Enrique ducked, he lowered his left arm and cut straight across his chest with the sword in that hand. He yelped in pain and jumped back, glancing down for just a moment to take note of his wound.

Nothing fatal, although Dean had been trying to cut higher and cut his throat in the process. There was no time to think about that, he had to roll with it and go from there. No time to think. Just fight. Don't think. Fight.

The moment that thought cut off, Dean attacked. His left arm was raised up high with the blade pointed downwards to be quickly blocked and knocked out of his hand with a chop at his wrist, the force of it alone making him drop it to the floor. That was followed with a retaliating stab through his jacket. It tore it open, and was further sliced as Enrique tore his sword upwards in an attempt to cut him open.

With nothing to cut, the sword only got stuck in Dean's ribcage, it hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before, oddly enough. Eyes widened as he saw just why the killer started covering up more and more, there was no flesh. He stared for too long however, and he was kicked back. The blade ripped out of Dean's bone, and a feeling of intense flames began to spread throughout the point of contact.

Enchanted.

Typical. No matter.

Their battle continued on, slashes and dodging, blocks and stabs, it became evident they were evenly matched. It was the first time either had experienced it, for Enrique it was terrifying, for Dean?

It was enough to make him feel alive, determination soaring through him and shrieking out, forcing his aching and cut bones to keep fighting, he wouldn't fail. He COULDN'T fail. The masked butcher died here, yes, but he wouldn't fall alone.

The killer hadn't noticed his apparel being torn apart with every successful attack Enrique pulled off, slowly but surely revealing more of his skeletal figure. Despite that, he continued with no pause, striking twinges of fear into Enriques heart.

Metal clashing against metal rang through their ears with each blocked attack and following riposte, Dean somewhat wished he had brought someone else up here with him. But he couldn't put someone else in harm's way, especially when he knew he could handle the bastard on his own.

Dean and Enrique's swords finally swung together and landed against one another, and they stared down one another. Enrique continued the fight, pushing his whole body weight forward and making Dean stumble back. He moved fast to disarm him, hitting near the base of Dean's blade and forcing it out of his weakened grip.

What ensued was too fast for even Dean to comprehend, he could slightly get that a sword was swung at him he, he grabbed onto it and got his legs kicked out from under him, sending him straight to the floor.

He laid there, staring up at the male. Deans body hurt too much to keep going, and it seemed that Enrique knew that. His enchanted sword and the already weak state his opponent was in had allowed him to overcome and put him down.

But he didn't understand just how far Dean would go to make sure he didn't go alone.

As he watched Enrique turn around and try to walk away, he reached out and gripped onto his left ankle. Dean pulled back, and he fell to the floor with him with a shouted curse as his face slammed against it.

"You dumb bastard-!" He gasped out as Dean crawled on top of him, holding him down with one hand, and using his free arm to wrap around his throat. "You cant kill me!" Enrique growled, trying to thrash against Dean to break free. "Maybe I can't.. but the 10 pounds of explosives that are going to blow us both to Hell WILL."

"WHAT?! NO- NO! LET GO OF ME!"

The panic was delicious, practically being devoured by him as he continued to hold him down. Almost like clockwork, he could hear the sounds of fuses sizzling slowly from outside. Tara didn't wait, just as he told her to.

It was only seconds that they had left, but their feelings were drastically different in the moments left of their life.

Enrique was filled with fear, he didn't want to die. He didn't think this is how it would end for him, this shouldn't have been how he went. Enrique kept fighting, he was either stupid enough or cocky enough to think he could beat the masked butcher, and this is how it would end as a result.

Dean was ready. He was content with this, he'd die doing what he always did, fighting. But it would be for a different reason, he'd die for the good and safety of others. For once in his life, he didn't fight out of hatred and rage, he fought out of love and empathy. He was ready to go, it was his time.

The explosions from the TNT lining around the foundation of the building roared and ripped their way through it, it all came tumbling down, bringing the two down with it. The last things Dean felt against his bones was the scorching heat of the flames, and then the crushing of the rubble above him.

Death had taken him once more, and he'd welcomed it with open arms.

[ycurkxng-a]

Resisting Arrest

Character: Dean King

Content Warnings: None

Notes: Learn from Dean, punch a cop today! :D

Wrong place, wrong time. That's all it really was.

It's not like Dean planned on getting wrapped up in a street fight that looked like a royal rumble match, someone had missed their shot and hit him, so he swung back. He wasn't even sure who was against who, which was why he swung without care as to who it was going to hit.

Getting lost in the moment was his downfall, he'd failed to notice what everyone else around him did. Two beat cops who had been around the corner now running around towards them, shouting. Everyone was shouting at that moment, so the added noise was unidentifiable. Even when the other fighters started running, he stood there, oblivious to what they were running from.

Of course, when he realized there was shouting coming towards him while everyone in his view was running away, that's when he figured he should turn around. The badges were what his eyes landed on first, alerting him to the fact that he was likely in some trouble, seeing as he was the only one still standing there. "Motherfuck.." he muttered, stepping back as the two officers approached.

"Hands out!" One of them demanded, his hand hovering over his taser while the other pointed at him. "Put them out!"

Even if he didn't want to, Dean knew that it was either that or he got shocked. It wasn't like he'd stay cooperative for long however, the last thing he needed was to get arrested for something he wasn't really a part of... Starting, at least. "Alright, alright!" He barked, holding his hands out next to each other while the other cop approached.

Handcuffs were withdrawn from the officers belt, and the other seemed to lower his guard while also coming closer. Dean looked over their uniforms for a body cam, and was relieved to see a lack of one on the two of them. If he was on camera for this, then there was no way in hell he'd see the outside of a cell for at least the next week.

One cuff was locked around Dean's right wrist, but before the next one could be locked, Dean jerked his arms down to his side suddenly and threw his head downwards. His forehead smashed against the cops nose, the surprise and force from the headbutt sent him down to the pavement. The next officer reached for his taser again, but it was already seconds too late. Dean stepped closer to him and swung, his fist cracking against his jaw.

He'd never fought a cop before, punched a few, sure. But never fought. It was normally just a hit and run, just because getting away from them was always more important than standing there and slapping them around.

Honestly, he wasn't completely sure what drove him to do it now. Maybe a confidence boost from his previous fight less than a minute before, or he was just feeling dumber than normal, either way; it was his first time fighting a cop. He did know one very important thing however, they had little to no training in hand to hand combat.

The first cop Dean had put down was already beginning to get back up, and the second one was recovering from his hit. The one behind him was reaching for his radio, and that just couldn't do. Acting as fast as his body could move, Dean grabbed onto the second officer and spun around. Throwing him backwards in the process, which made him stagger into the first cop, therefore making him stagger too.

Dean rushed forward and continued to swing, his right went first, his fist missing the initial attack but his elbow coming through and hitting one in the side of his head. Following that up, his left arm pulled back and shot forward, sending his fist into the same targets side.

The first officer stepped away and took a swing at Dean with a wild hook, he barely managed to step away in time to avoid the attack. But when it missed, he stepped back forward with his leg raised up. His boot kicked the cop in the stomach, and pushed him backwards. He turned to look at the other officer, who put his fists up while getting into a rather basic stance.

As much as Dean would've loved to have fun and fuck around with the cops, he knew that he couldn't stick around forever. Beating two cops up was guaranteed to land him in boiling hot water, he just needed to make sure he had them too disorientated to know where he went.

To break through the guard the officers guard, Dean shot up his fist just underneath his jaw and landed an uppercut, clacking his teeth together. He would've liked it to be more of a charged attack, he'd seen uppercuts send people off their feet before, but again, not enough time. That blow to his jaw stunned him for the briefest moment, which was all Dean needed to grab onto his shirt and pull him to the ground.

Once on the ground, Dean stomped down on the officers head once. His attention turned to the other one, who had already started to sit back up, must've been knocked out for a few moments. Unfortunately he wasn't fast enough, and while starting to sit, Dean stepped over to him and kicked him in the side of the head like a soccer ball.

It put him back down, not quite unconscious but not quite there.

No more force was needed for this, Dean figured it was safer to get out while he still had the chance. They could stand there and measure dicks while he beat them down but running the risk of more cops showing up wasnt his idea of a fun time, so with both of them on the ground, he ran off. Going down the street and hitting a right corner, his destination being his car.

When the cops did get back up, they called for backup, giving a very, very rough description of Dean. Unfortunately for them, he was long gone, speeding away from the scene and heading back to his apartment as fast as he could without running someone over.

Without a name or any footage to pinpoint who or where he was it was simply impossible to find him. And from all of it, Dean had gotten more than enough fighting for a bit. He felt somewhat grateful that those were some cops who decided that they didn't want to learn martial arts on their own time, even if they had it wouldn't have mattered, but it made his life easier.

It made that night a lot more memorable too, a lot more fun.

[ycurkxng-a]

Stealth Is An Option

Characters: (Payday) Bain, King, Houston, brief mentions of Dragan and Jacket

Warnings: None

A quiet bank hit, it was easy enough for most heisters, with the exception of the new addition to the crew. Bain had requested for the resident ghost, Houston, to show King the ropes of a stealthier approach. Going in quietly was something he'd done before in his line of work, but it never stayed quiet for long, always ending in a blaze of gunfire and screaming.

With the Payday gang however, there were simply too many cases where an approach like that would only screw them over. And once King admitted that fact, it seemed beneficial to have one of them walk him through it. Training with Houston in the safehouse worked fine enough, but the only way to tell if he could be sent in without starting a firefight was to give him a real job. That's what led the heisters to where they were now, standing in front of a Harvest & Trustees.

Just in case the attempt did end in more bloodshed than they anticipated, they brought along two of the crews better fighters. Jacket and Dragan waited outside, taking drags off of their respective while they waited, anticipating a fight at any moment. To Bain, it seemed like it would be downright reckless to just send two heisters alone, especially when one wasn't fully confident in his capabilities. Neither Houston nor King tried to argue with it, Houston tried to assure Bain that with him around, he'd be able to get King through it easily. It was the opposite on the others end, saying that if it did go to hell- he'd be able to handle himself.

Glancing over his weapons one last time, Houston looked over to King, he'd armed himself with a suppressed Chimano and a combat knife. With no armor on, he would be able to slip right past anyone without them pondering his intentions for a second. That was something Houston hadn't explained to him, which led him to believe he'd had more experience with blending in than he let on. It made sense, the way he carried himself spoke volumes about his past, despite his age.

"You can handle yourself, right?" The ghost questioned, getting a nod in return. "Alright, just checkin' man.. remember, you go through the back and I'll go grab the drill. Find the keycard, take out the cameras." He explained once more, as if they hadn't gone over the plan twenty times before leaving. King understood why he was doing this, but it didn't mean he wasn't ever so slightly annoyed. "Yeah, I got it. Let's get our payday."

One last shared nod between the two and they were off, Houston was quick to cut open the fence next to him with his pliers. Crouching down and moving through, he caught sight of the thermal drill, stashed in the trunk of a parked car. While he went off to do that, King moved down the sidewalk and around the back. Walking past the large sign, he took his mask out from under his suit jacket and strapped it onto his head. The back door was wide open already, someone had to be close. Hopefully the bank manager, maybe out for a smoke break.

Taking out his concealed blade, he held it close to his leg while moving into the narrow hall. The chatter and noise from the main room would make it much easier to get away with a couple things, a sudden yelp or two wouldnt raise much if any suspicion. A damn near silent thermal drill would also be unidentifiable, as long as no one got close.

The security office was immediately spotted out by King, next to the staircase and the hall he now walked out of held it. The door was locked, obviously, so that's where the keycard came into play. Footsteps from the stairs above caught his attention, either a guard or the manager. Either would work. They sounded as if they were moving away, up to the roof. It would make sneaking up on whoever it was even easier, perfect for him, not so much for the other guy.

Slipping past the sightline of the door ahead, King began to make his way up the stairs. He did his best to make as little noise as possible, trying to time his steps with the others. Light taps from their shoes was all that the two could hear, if there was another pair moving unevenly from that then it would make them start questioning. This approach forced him to go slower than he would've liked to, but the benefit was that it gave the crook time to identify just who he was running into. And it was indeed the manager, easily spotted out by his classy attire.

Killing him wasn't an option, but King kept the knife out for intimidation nonetheless. He looked a little outside to see if anyone else, or god forbid a camera watched him from the roof. But luckily enough, there was none. Now he just had to stop him before he did reach someone else that could see him, picking up his pace rather suddenly, King closed the gap between him and the manager in seconds. One hand reached around and grabbed him by the mouth, and the other held the tip of the knife to his back. A muffled gasp left him, and his hands shot up into the air. "Stay quiet." King commanded, his voice low and husky.

To stay alive, the manager followed Kings order and following motions. He was slowly brought down to the ground, and his mouth was released, allowing him to breathe a little easier. But not by much, as the danger of an armed robber was still present. His hands were ziptied together, and his pockets were searched. The manager was more grateful that his wallet was left alone, as that wasn't Kings concern. No, he wanted the keycard, which is just what he found. He took it out of the others pocket and stood upright, "Stay here, don't make a peep, and you'll live." King whispered to him, turning away and descending the stairs to leave the manager there until someone found him, hopefully after they were long gone.

Kings attention now focused on the cameras, the thing Houston was most likely waiting on to be taken out before he made any moves inside. It was hard to not get spotted when you were hauling a bright orange bag on your back, so having someone else get rid of that threat would make the job easy.

Upon reaching the door, he slid the keycard into its designated slit and the door beeped, giving him the go-ahead that it was now unlocked. The guard inside looked over to see it open up, with one of the infamous clowns standing there, a knife in hand. There was an attempt to get his gun out to open fire, but it failed. King rushed forward and pushed him into the wall, the armor didn't do much to help as before he could get himself recuperated for a retaliation, the knife was stabbed into his throat.

Blood began to seep from the wound, and when the knife was ripped out, it sprayed slightly. A few steps back were taken to keep King out of the radius while the guard choked in his last moments, the life leaving him in seconds. A part of it made it sad to watch, just doing his job, and this is what he got for it. But he knew the danger he was getting into when he took it, that was obvious by the armor and office he was locked in. Just as King went to speak through his earpiece, the pager on the corpse beeped. He must've hit it once slamming against the wall, shit.

"Hey, what's going on over there?" The voice on the other side spoke out, King ducked down next to it and grabbed on, lifting his mask up so his voice was clear. "Why are you calling me? You want some company over there, control? I can come over there if you want me to." He mused, glancing at the corpse he took the pager from. "Er.. yeah, okay, whatever." The man responded, going quiet on the other side.

Jeez, the guy behind that really didn't give much of a shit. Houston had told him that anyone could say anything and they seemed to brush it off, hell, Jimmy and Rust had threatened them all a few times and it didn't seem to matter. It seemed to be as long as there was a voice there to confirm someone was breathing, even if it wasn't the guard.

A soft sigh of relief left King and he stood back up, raising his free hand he pressed down on his earpiece. "Cams are down, can't say much about the other guards." He muttered, "I'll go and check where they a-"

"Hey!" A voice called out from behind, another guard, shit. He'd wandered out here and seen the blood, and unlike the one he'd just killed, he had his gun drawn and aimed. Unless King wanted shots in his spine, he had to cooperate just for now. He raised his hands up and looked back at the guard, watching him closely as he approached. He kept aiming with one hand while the other took his cuffs off of his belt, "Stay there." Great, now he was the one taking commands.

He was pulled down to his knees, the cuffs being locked around his wrists tight in less than a second. King could see the guards eyes widening as he saw what had happened to the other, a soft "Jesus Christ" leaving his lips. He turned to look at the cameras, which was when he saw the other heister outside. King had to take him out now, and with cuffs holding his hands together, he had a plan already set in motion.

In a swift motion, King got up onto his feet and threw his arms over the guards shoulders. Ripping back, the chain link on his cuffs went around his neck and began to choke him. Gagging and sputtering ensued, his arms flailed wildly around as he made a desperate, but vain attempt to escape his fate. Seconds felt like hours to him, but it was almost as soon as it started that he began to slump over. Choking someone out never took that long, and it was rare anyone could actually break free.

As the unconscious guard went to the ground, King went to his belt and took the keys off of it. He unlocked his cuffs and let them fall off his wrists to the floor before getting his knife, no one stayed down for long, so he had to make sure he didn't get up. He did that by simply cutting his throat, the blood sprayed and he practically flung himself back to avoid the spray that followed.

Two guards in one room, messy all-around but the job was going to get done either way. King once again pressed down on his earpiece and spoke, "Sorry, man.. fuckin' guard just cuffed me, got it handled." He explained, taking a pause before continuing. "Vaults by the back, usual spot."

"Are you alright?" Houston asked, beginning to wrap around the building to go through the same entrance King had gone in. "I'm fine." He assured, stepping out of the office and glancing out. "We'll have to tie down a few civs, maybe take out a few guards that come back... Let's hurry."

Thankfully, the rest of the job went a lot smoother. King stood by the cams and kept an eye out for anyone who had the chance to come close to the drill, which is what Houston stood by. Using the keys they'd gotten from an insider, they unlocked the gate inside the vault, got inside and bagged the cash.

Hauling it to the van was easy enough, they moved quickly to avoid catching the attention of nosy civilians and stuffed each duffel bag inside the van before going back for anything that was left inside. The deposit boxes were untouched, as they would simply take too long to bust open and weren't worth it in their eyes.

Jacket and Dragan came to the van once Houston had waved for them to come over, with King carrying the last bag of money to the van. He removed his mask prematurely, threw the bag inside and got in with the rest of them. It was a little cramped with their haul, but the lack of heavy armor and firepower they would otherwise carry gave them a little more free room.

Bain's praises came over their comms soon after they drove off, leaving the scene of the crime far behind them. Kings ability to think quickly had shined through and saved his, and possibly Houston's ass. An easy payday for sure, even if there were a few bodies left behind, they weren't noticed until much later on.

While they definitely weren't going to bring him on jobs where their only option was to sneak around, not yet at least, King had shown that he was able to handle himself during it all. It would be a progressive climb, but it was better than sitting at the bottom of the ladder, right?