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
She can't get angry. She wants to, sure, but the Light or the moon goddess or whatever other god of Azeroth or beyond you wanted to name? She knows damn well she's guilty of doing the same thing, and so she really can't. She's a hypocrite at other times, so she can't deny it. So she saved Dean the scourge of her tongue for that.
"If you decide you want to retract that later, I'll listen. And it won't go past me." Meaning she won't rat out to your brother the things you don't want told. And for the moment, she makes a calculated decision, and offers that flask he's eyeing so avariciously to Dean.
"Don't go hard, cully, but I still think you need it worse than I." Avandrel's positive that Dean's smart enough not to go hard, especially if they're going after Sam now (because she's not leaving him alone, especially if he belongs to Sam like she thinks he does). But she's going to give him the warning anyway. Even if it ends up pissing the man off.
no subject
And instead he got none, thankfully, offering a nod of appreciation, though he didn't really believe it for a second. "You sure about that?" It was offered with the faintest of smiles, not sure how to kindly impress upon the fact that he didn't trust people so easy, that information had a way of slipping free from its source and especially where family lay, word tended to get around.
But okay, okay- he gives in and finally accepts the flask with a kind of desperate greed that even he's willing to admit to himself. He needs a drink like burning, like something he can't explain and even if it does nothing to fix the ache that's wound itself tight through his core then it doesn't matter because maybe it'll help him just enough to keep him breathing for another second, another moment where he can pretend it's all okay. Unscrewing the lid and kid taking a drink, he even goes so far as to heave a breath, as if it's been knocked out of him with a wallop, closing his eyes for a brief moment and just letting the burn go down.
And then he's all back to business like he didn't just give something stupid away, not sure if he should hand the flask back now or hold on to it out of sheer possessiveness.
"Not sure I know how to do anything but go hard."