Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kickingand) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
gameofmana2016-09-16 01:37 pm
kickingand) wrote in gameofmana2016-09-16 01:37 pm
Entry tags:
i've been up and down in prison
Who: Dean Winchester & YOUUU
What: waking up at Home and being confused out of his mind
Where: Home!
When: morning sometime
Other: talk of Hell & not overly graphic mentions of torture. also, prose or brackets are welcome!
Dean doesn't have a clue as to where he is. Granted, he doesn't have a clue as to what's going on altogether, but that would be said no matter where it was he was waking up. Because the thing is, he isn't supposed to be here. A thing that likely everyone said upon waking up here, but Dean isn't supposed to be anywhere but Hell. It's a thing he can't comprehend as he wakes up with a start and looks around to find himself not on the rack. The lack of shrill screams in the distance, the dank nonexistent smells wrecking havoc through his brain, making it impossible to do anything but shudder with anticipation of what tool was going to be used today to pry body parts from his soul, over and over and over--
Giving his head a shake, the place he is now is so opposite of what he's endure for the past years that it's nearly startling. It's beyond startling actually, and Dean doesn't know what to do about it when all he can think is he doesn't deserve it. This place is practically happy and somehow blossoms with an easiness that he can't comprehend, his stomach twisting with confusion and ultimately a sheer disorientation that he's struggling his way through. He hardly knows how to move let alone how to think his way through this and he tries to find his voice to shout for the existence of anyone else here. But it clams up in his throat, refusing to puff out from between his lips and instead makes him want to curl up that much more. It's terrifying and soft all at once and he's rejecting it aggressively, trying to butt himself up against the nearest wall and hide, wondering if this is a new breed of torture. Let him see something happy for two seconds before he's dragged back to the reality that is Hell, brutally laughed in the face by Alistair before the torture continues. A psychological thing, maybe.
He doesn't know.
But eventually, he begins to move.
Slowly, he pushes himself out of the bed, taking one cautious step at at time, moving forward and ducking around corners, peering around the edges of the spacious room and trying to adjust to everything he's seeing. Which unto itself is still just weird - if anything, he should've woken up in a dank motel room. His grave maybe. And some part of his mind wonders if he's been shot up to Heaven finally, in some sort of weird Brazil-esque filing error, but that's just ridiculous.
He's supposed to be in Hell. So what the fuck is going on.
Continuing to move, Dean soon finds himself on the stairway leading downwards, though he glances up for a moment and stares, before deciding that down is best way for now. It isn't as if any of this is truly ominous apart from the fact that he doesn't know why he's here altogether but he has to keep moving, try to figure out what's going on, understand this as best as he can before he finds himself getting tugged straight back to the one place he's actually supposed to be.
"The fuck is this-"
Rough words are finally pulled from his throat, scratchy and hard and he steps even further down, slow going as he tries to take it all in. He just wants to know where he is and why, maybe even find someone here. Or maybe he just wants to be alone for a minute, relish in the lack of pain and death fleeing across his vision, the wholeness of his body and the feeling of his limbs stretching out. It's all odd sensations after too long on the rack, at the hands of demons, souls at the hands of him, and he grit his teeth for a moment, squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think before he keeps going, pushing himself forward, and finally gives a shout, sounding distant to his own ears.
"-- Anyone here?"
What: waking up at Home and being confused out of his mind
Where: Home!
When: morning sometime
Other: talk of Hell & not overly graphic mentions of torture. also, prose or brackets are welcome!
Dean doesn't have a clue as to where he is. Granted, he doesn't have a clue as to what's going on altogether, but that would be said no matter where it was he was waking up. Because the thing is, he isn't supposed to be here. A thing that likely everyone said upon waking up here, but Dean isn't supposed to be anywhere but Hell. It's a thing he can't comprehend as he wakes up with a start and looks around to find himself not on the rack. The lack of shrill screams in the distance, the dank nonexistent smells wrecking havoc through his brain, making it impossible to do anything but shudder with anticipation of what tool was going to be used today to pry body parts from his soul, over and over and over--
Giving his head a shake, the place he is now is so opposite of what he's endure for the past years that it's nearly startling. It's beyond startling actually, and Dean doesn't know what to do about it when all he can think is he doesn't deserve it. This place is practically happy and somehow blossoms with an easiness that he can't comprehend, his stomach twisting with confusion and ultimately a sheer disorientation that he's struggling his way through. He hardly knows how to move let alone how to think his way through this and he tries to find his voice to shout for the existence of anyone else here. But it clams up in his throat, refusing to puff out from between his lips and instead makes him want to curl up that much more. It's terrifying and soft all at once and he's rejecting it aggressively, trying to butt himself up against the nearest wall and hide, wondering if this is a new breed of torture. Let him see something happy for two seconds before he's dragged back to the reality that is Hell, brutally laughed in the face by Alistair before the torture continues. A psychological thing, maybe.
He doesn't know.
But eventually, he begins to move.
Slowly, he pushes himself out of the bed, taking one cautious step at at time, moving forward and ducking around corners, peering around the edges of the spacious room and trying to adjust to everything he's seeing. Which unto itself is still just weird - if anything, he should've woken up in a dank motel room. His grave maybe. And some part of his mind wonders if he's been shot up to Heaven finally, in some sort of weird Brazil-esque filing error, but that's just ridiculous.
He's supposed to be in Hell. So what the fuck is going on.
Continuing to move, Dean soon finds himself on the stairway leading downwards, though he glances up for a moment and stares, before deciding that down is best way for now. It isn't as if any of this is truly ominous apart from the fact that he doesn't know why he's here altogether but he has to keep moving, try to figure out what's going on, understand this as best as he can before he finds himself getting tugged straight back to the one place he's actually supposed to be.
"The fuck is this-"
Rough words are finally pulled from his throat, scratchy and hard and he steps even further down, slow going as he tries to take it all in. He just wants to know where he is and why, maybe even find someone here. Or maybe he just wants to be alone for a minute, relish in the lack of pain and death fleeing across his vision, the wholeness of his body and the feeling of his limbs stretching out. It's all odd sensations after too long on the rack, at the hands of demons, souls at the hands of him, and he grit his teeth for a moment, squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think before he keeps going, pushing himself forward, and finally gives a shout, sounding distant to his own ears.
"-- Anyone here?"
no subject
At least, he stays focused until someone is swearing behind him.
If nothing else, he has the good graces to wrinkle his nose while his back is still to the person behind him. When he looks behind him a second later, his expression has fallen into the usual placid look as usual. "He's a friend's, actually, but I watch him sometime." As though he absolutely didn't get a little excited at the idea of a little dinosaur thing and is totally not the one who dubbed it 'Ian'. Tsukishima's gaze flicks over the older man, quickly assessing him, before he shrugs.
"I haven't seen you in this place before." Not like he's gotten familiar with everyone... But you learn to recognize regular faces in a place like this. "Did you just show up?"
no subject
It's a thought that hits hard enough at times that it makes it hard for Dean to think, but he's still at attention, lifting his face back up to the kid as he turns to speak, even more aware of the fact that he's the newbie around here and apparently everyone knows it. Maybe everyone's just that familiar with one another - he doesn't know, but either way, the kid's right and that's really all that matters.
Gesturing wide into a shrug, Dean tries to look placidly innocent, as if it's nobody's fault that they now have to endure his shoddy ass presence. "Just call me the new guy. Only been here a few hours, and I gotta say- nobody around here mentioned there's someone here that could cook."
no subject
“If we didn’t have anyone who could cook, we’d be stuck relying on the town nearby, and no one has enough money for that.” Not yet, anyway. There’s always the opportunity for jobs, but Tsukishima isn’t sure what kind of skills everyone has that would be useful enough for that. Theoretically, he supposes there’s a chance to learn easily enough. It’s not like anyone is asking them to program a computer; the technology doesn’t even seem to be here yet as far as he can tell. Still, in some ways, that might make work harder depending on where they go. Blacksmithing? Yeah, he’s not sure how many people in the tree know that. But holding down the counter at the inn? Doable, probably. It’s just a matter of checking around. However, that’s for a little later. For now, it seems like they have enough to manage.
“A while ago, there was a meeting to figure out chore management and all that… Today’s my day for cooking.” That probably sounds weird… Frowning slightly, he scratches the back of his neck. “Most of the people around here only showed up… around a month ago, I think. Give or take a few days. We’re still trying to figure everything out.”
And he means ‘everything’. Home life, how they got here, where ‘here’ even is....
...But he should probably introduce himself first. Wiping his hands down on a cloth, he steps forward and offers his hand with a minute bow. Westerner, from what he can tell, so- “I’m Kei Tsukishima. You can call me by my last name.” Foreigners or not, he’d still rather not have relative strangers calling him by his given name.