https://www.unitedheroesmush.com/api.php?action=feedcontributions&feedformat=atom&user=JustanothernameUnited Heroes MUSH - User contributions [en]2026-10-24T05:17:58ZUser contributionsMediaWiki 1.44.0https://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=2737/What%27s_a_rogue_demon&diff=18932737/What's a rogue demon2017-10-07T03:19:50Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/10/06 |Location=Luke's Bar |Synopsis=Wesley and Steve walk into a bar and... meet. And talk. |Cast of Characters=1327, 112 |pretty=yes }} {{Po..."</p>
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<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/10/06<br />
|Location=Luke's Bar<br />
|Synopsis=Wesley and Steve walk into a bar and... meet. And talk.<br />
|Cast of Characters=1327, 112<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>Wesley Wyndam-Pryce has had a bad night. He was hunting a little gremlin-type creature through the streets. It wasn't exactly big quarry, but the thing had potential to grow and become a //real// problem. Unfortunately, the chase brought him through the territory of some vampires who happened to have a particular grudge against Watchers, ex or no. Then after dusting two and ditching a third, he slipped in something slick and unpleasant and ended up wrenching his ankle. <br> After a night like that, he's limped to the nearest place that serves alcohol. He's taken a seat at the bar, dirty and bruised, with a beat-up but sturdy crossbow resting by his feet. "A pint of something, please. Whatever is darkest. And a shot of whiskey." It's boilermaker o'clock.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Brooklyn will always hold a place in Steve Rogers's heart. While pomp and circumstance have attached themselves to him through Captain America, even with his military record, super soldier status, and general claims to fame, he will always be the kid from Brooklyn who still doesn't know when to run from a fight. <br><br>Decades in the ice and nothing changed on that front. <br><br>The battles have just become increasingly demanding, off-putting, and unsettling. Which is why centring on the important, the constant, and the general warmth of life has become more important as the days go by. That said, here he's able to walk around in his khakis, t-shirt, and leather jacket without drawing too much attention. Most don't recognize him; it's a far-cry from the days when everyone knew his name--if only because he was too scrappy to keep it from them. <br><br>But even without the familiarity others display, he finds comfort in what he finds personally familiar. He treads into the joint and has a seat at the bar, not far off from Wesley. His eyes trail the room and land on the other man. <br><br>A glint of kindness and warmth reflect in his now-softening eyes when he looks towards Wes. "Hey," he says softly. "You look like you could use more than a drink. The burgers are pretty good--real American fare. And honestly, I don't think a drink will resolve all your troubles."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>Wesley smiles a weary smile in Steve's direction. He probably should recognize the other man, but he's tired and because it's that kind of day, he lost one of his contacts and doesn't have his glasses with him. Vampire dust got under one and when he took it out, it...disappeared. So the world is only in focus if he closes one eye. Which he does to read the menu. <br> "I could use a bit of good luck," he says wryly. "It seems rather in short supply lately. The drink is also to stop a touch of throbbing pain. Once that subsides, I might find my appetite. Ah, thank you," he says as the bartender sets his drinks in front of him.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>"Sounds more like you could use an aspirin than a drink," Steve observes as he leans back in his seat. The bartender nods in his direction--they know him well enough here. In short order, the bartender sets a cola in front of him. "Liquor doesn't do much to appease throbbing pain for me," he observes with a smirk. Since waking up he doesn't understand the point of it for him. His metabolism keeps him from drinking anyways. <br><br>"But fair on the food front," he notes with a tip of his head. He looks towards the bartender again, "I'll a cheeseburger. Fries. Please." His smile turns downright boyish and his hands fold neatly in his lap. <br><br>This place brings out the young man he once was rather than the Avenger and Agent he's become. "So, what happened?" he finally asks. This is the kind of conversation that seems a given in a bar.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>Wesley lifts a hand to rub at his face, but at the last second sniffs his fingers to check for the unnamed substance he slipped in. He apparently decides he's safe, because instead he picks up his pint and takes a sip. After swallowing, he says, "Ever have one of those days when you question your basic competency? When things you've done a hundred times before suddenly feel that much more difficult than they should? When fate seems to be having a bit of a laugh at you?"<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Steve's fingers rake through his hair and he shoots Wes that same boyish grin. "Almost constantly," he replies. "But I think anyone who is competent feels the opposite. I've seen a lot of extremely competent people feel like they know nothing. We all have those days." His eyebrows lift and he takes a long drink of his cola. "Plus, I suspect, anyone worth their mettle feels like they don't know what they're doing for good reason." He rubs his chin.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>"If you always think you know what you're doing in this world," begins Wes as he tosses back the shot of whiskey, "...you're probably underestimating your enemies. Or potential enemies." He shifts and rolls his ankle around, but winces in pain when he gets to a certain range of motion. "Or underestimating the speed of a tiny gremlin."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>A faint lift of Steve's eyebrows follows the last. "Tiny gremlin?" his head shakes and he brings the cola to his lips again. "The world has definitely changed in a hundred years," his eyebrows lift in strange surprise at the thought, but he lifts the coke in the air in a //cheers// motion. "Makes sense, I guess. Zombies exist. Why not gremlins?"<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>"There is an awful lot that lurks in the shadows, just out of view. If you strain to see it, most of the time you'd rather wish you hadn't." In another situation, Wes might say that with a slight tinge of arrogance and the dramatic. But today is not a day for arrogance, so instead it comes off as slightly wistful and beaten down. <br> At the hundred year comment, he turns towards the other man and closes one eye. He leans forward a bit. It's very strange, unless you piece together what it is he's doing. "I suddenly feel as if I should know who you are."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>"There's a lot that lurks in the light too," Steve offers with another flicker of a smile--this one far more subdued than before. Talking of how the world has changed and what the changes look like leaves him unsettled, but he manages to still be friendly--affable, even. <br><br>The last, however, earns a small chuckle. "Just a kid from Brooklyn who sometimes thinks himself a philosopher," he replies. He holds out his hand for Wes to shake, "Steve."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>The Brit blinks rapidly, but not in response to the name. It's very awkward to only be able to see correctly out of one eye. "Ah yes," is all he says as he puts it together. He extends his hand. "Wesley. A pleasure."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>"Likewise," Steve replies. The bartender sets Steve's burger in front of him and Cap gives the fellow a nod, "Thanks." His lips curve up at the sight of it. Old habits die hard, and while he normally eats well, he appreciates this. "So you hunt gremlins then?"<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>As soon as Wes sees the burger, his appetite cuts through the fog of self-pity and pain. He straightens a little and tries to flag the bartender down. "I'd like one of those as well, please." Then he folds his hands around the base of his pint. "Ah, not generally, no. This particular creature grows rather rapidly and can become a problem if left unchecked. Particularly if it finds a mate. I tend to hunt all manner of things that need hunting."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>"Huh," Steve replies rather ineloquently. "Well, I've met hunters before. I work with one actually," he brightens. Common ground with new friends at a bar does some incredible work. But temporary brightness fades quickly as he observes, "Been some pretty insane cases with things that go bump in the night. Just one side of the world I didn't know much when I was young." Pause. "Younger. Younger," he nods at that. He definitely doesn't look old.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>"I've learned that age and appearance often do not match up, so I don't tend to jump to conclusions," says Wes with a touch of amusement, but also a certain weariness. "It is rather a lot to take when you first start pulling back the veil. But it has rules and history like any other thing. When you approach things academically, it feels less overwhelming and staves off existential crisis....sort of." He wobbles his head side to side, "Sometimes."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>"An important lesson, that," Steve replies quietly. The mention of approaching things academically warrants a touch of good humour, "Not everything is academic though." The good humour in his gaze grows, "Sometimes it's all action and teamwork and..." he swallows around a growing lump in his throat "...rescue. Sometimes there isn't time for the other, just the need to stop bullies in their tracks. No matter their size, appearance, or reason."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>"Yes well, that might work for you," says Wes with a soft chuckle. "But for those of us with less in the brawn department, the best way to win a battle is to research. I know rather a lot about...things that only occasionally come in handy. Ah," he looks pleased when his burger is produced. "I do my best to find a team who can balance out my shortcomings, yes. I'm a good shot, and I can hold my own in a fight, but there's nothing supernatural about me. I'm just a man." He attempts to pick up his burger. It nearly falls apart on him. "...a man who seems to be having an exceptionally bad day."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>A chuckle follows the remark about brawn. Steve's head shakes, "Didn't always have the brawn. Still didn't stand for bullies." He laughs again, "It was actually a huge problem." His lips quirk into a tired smile. "I swear my brother," not biological, "pulled me out of more fights I couldn't possibly win than I have hairs on my head." The smile turns fond and then bittersweet. He sniffs, tilts his head, and takes another bite of his burger. "Just a man can do a lot in any fight if he's determined and equipped. But I understand using strengths. Guile if you've got it."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>"With all respect," and Wes seems to mean that, "The best fighter, or the most determined, can't win against a creature that only has a single weakness if you don't know what that weakness is." He takes a fairly neat bite of his burger, then goes for a few fries. "Determination counts for a lot, but sometimes knowledge is the best weapon."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>"It's not just determination," Steve counters quietly. "It's parsing in the moment. Diving head first and standing up for someone smaller. A weakness can be learned at that second, and waiting isn't always an option." His fingers drum against the counter. Something weighs on him with these thoughts. "And I know some are determined to wait--that it somehow will maximize safety for the most people, but," his head shakes, "I'd rather die doing something than have someone else get hurt while waiting." His lips press into a thin line, tight and taut.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>Wesley is a pretty observant man. He's getting that they're not talking in broad strokes about battle tactics here. Fortunately, he has a burger to work on while he composes his thoughts. "I don't disagree with you in principle, but I believe you and I have different sorts of enemies. For instance, have you ever fought a vampire? A werewolf? Faced a ghost or a demon with a face full of horns?"<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>"No to all of those fronts," Steve replies slowly. "But I punched a lot of Nazis." At that his lips quirk and his head shakes. "And I've seen some pretty strange mysticism. And mythological weaponry," his eyes actually roll. "Stuff that could've wiped out entire cities if we had waited." His lips quirk again, "Some that could wipe out costs. It's surreal really."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>"And very deservedly so," Wes remarks in regards to Nazi punching as he pops another fry into his mouth. He chews it thoroughly for a moment then, "My point is, in those cases, there is often only one way to dispatch your enemy." He wobbles his head, "Occasionally two or three, but my point is, it isn't always apparent." He inhales, then decides to switch tacks. "Think of what I do as intelligence gathering. I'm the one who determines where a target might be and what it might want. And in the case of the supernatural, how it can be killed. You can beat up a vampire all day. You can shoot it. You can stab it. It will keep coming. But behead it, a stake through the heart, burn it? All quite effective. I once came up against a demon that couldn't be killed except by spraying it with a solution of cloves and glycerine soap. Other than that it was quite invulnerable."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>"I think that's why we," the royal we?, "also work in teams. I need intel, but I can't get it quick enough. Not to make a big enough difference fast enough." Steve's chin drops. "Which is half the problem." His lips purse and he emits a long breath while he glances towards Wes again. "No one can do it all on their own. Not with any long-term success. I'm no engineer. Punching a doomsday weapon isn't elegant or useful depending on what kind of reactor is in the middle of that thing." His lips edge downwards. "But that's why I work with other people. So we don't have to pause. It's not about my own neck," he's lived far passed his expiry date, "it's about resolving the problem quickly."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1327|Wesley (1327)}} has posed:'''<br>"And sometimes a permanent solution is a slow one," says Wes. But then, he's always been a pragmatic soul. He hates losing people too, but the Watcher training of a big picture approach to problems has never really left him. <br> He eats what he can of the burger, then pushes the plate aside. He doesn't have a huge appetite in general, but American portions are also a bit too large for his English sensibilities. He swallows a few more mouthfuls of beer, then digs for his wallet. "I'm afraid I must leave you," and then he says a bit pointedly, "Captain. I lost one of my contacts earlier and seeing half the world clearly has created a rather wicked headache. That and I believe I've sprained my ankle."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Steve dips his head toward Wes. "Steve is fine. I'm not at work," he counters with another smile and a nod of his head. "Make sure you nurse that ankle then. And good luck with the headache." His hand lifts and he issues the other man a small wave, "Good to meet you, Wesley." He looks back towards his burger, content to relax into the kid from Brooklyn rather than Cap himself.<br> <br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=2685/Thesis_Projects&diff=18142685/Thesis Projects2017-10-04T11:56:12Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/10/02 |Location=Mercy's Garage |Synopsis=Dean had received a text from Sam saying Mercy could use some help fixing a car. It turns out the car..."</p>
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<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/10/02<br />
|Location=Mercy's Garage<br />
|Synopsis=Dean had received a text from Sam saying Mercy could use some help fixing a car. It turns out the car has been all but destroyed...<br />
|Cast of Characters=99, 306<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:99|Mercy Thompson (99)}} has posed:'''<br>There is a war going on in Mercy's Garage.<br><br>A battle being raged.<br><br>It's between (wo)man and machine. A car to be specific. To be even more specific it's a Ford Fusion. This car has been through the ringer. The top of it has been crunched downward, every bit of glass has been shattered out, and it'll truly take a miracle for this car to be put back together; but try, Mercy must. She gave her word she would.<br><br>So, every spare minute she has to work on this car she does. And today is no different. While nothing looks overtly repaired upon the car there are signs that it's been worked upon. The side mirrors have been removed and so has the driver side front door - that alone came off in two pieces. Now Mercy is struggling with the hood of the car, as she tries to get a peek inside the engine. "For the love - come on." Mutters the woman, even as she employs all her 'considerable' strength. While the hood looks undamaged it's clear by the struggle to open it that something is broken; whether on the inside, or the body has been warped just enough to make it stuck.<br><br>"Don't make me open you up like a tin can." The coyote mutters some more, before she momentarily stops struggling with the hood. A baleful looks is focused upon the offending part and after a second she'll slam her fist hard down upon it. That apparently hit seems to work, as a soft click is heard and the hood loosens slightly.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A familiar figure treads into the garage. His shuffle-booted steps have him pausing at the edge of the room, aiming not to draw too much attention to himself until needed. His arms cross comfortably over his chest and he leans against the wall. His weight shifts from one foot to the other and he finally steps forward. "Need a hand?" <br><br>He shoots her a crooked grin but whistles sharply as he walks around the car. "Sammy texted me. Saying you needed a hand--assume this is the car?" The grin extends. There's no question that he's intrigued. "So what on earth happened, Mercy?" His smile fades. <br><br>Carefully, he walks to the hood and spies it. "Think two bodies'll make a difference?" Because he's able and willing to pull it with her. There's no way he can do it on his own. Those aren't delusions he suffers from.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:99|Mercy Thompson (99)}} has posed:'''<br>The sound of that shuffle-footed step and the scent of the man entering the garage is heard and smelled.<br><br>It's enough to bring the coyote's gaze sharply around. There's a tension within her shoulders at the sudden appearance of Dean, but when Mercy sees who it is that arrived, there's some relief. Relief that it's someone known versus not.<br><br>"I could use a hand, sure." Comes the easy response from Mercy to that initial question of his. "And yes -" Is the more wry response from the coyote, "- This is definitely /the car/." Curiously, Mercy will watch the elder brother pace around the car, only responding once he's back to the hood, near her. "While I don't have the whole story it was apparently in a fight. Between powered individuals, I'm imagining, with how much damage was done."<br><br>That last question of his earns another wry look from the woman, "I hope so. I have doubts this tear-down and repair is going to work, but I gave my word I'd try. So, I'd appreciate another set of hands and eyes. Sam says you've some skill with cars and the struggle to keep them running smoothly."<br><br>With that silent offer to help with the hood, Mercy steps back up to the car. The hood is just loose enough to offer a handhold - really a fingerhold - between the edge of the hood and the car body. It's enough for the coyote, but Dean might find it a touch harder to find a sure grip upon it. Either way, when both put their backs into it the hood will finally rise upward, a sound of tortured metal proceeding it.<br><br>First glimpse of the inside doesn't show any catastrophic damage, at least with that initial look.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>"Dude," Dean murmurs as he looks under the hood. He sucks on the inside of his cheek and bends over to get a closer look at the engine. "This... Is better than expected," he cants his head to look up at Mercy. His hand reaches for the side of the machine, allowing him to maintain balance while taking a long look at the machine. <br><br>"Yeah, I work on my own car," he finally offers with a vague shrug. "Dad has a way with cars and pause dit on. Even worked as a mechanic for awhile when I was almost-respectable," he actually winks at that. Hunting is never respectable. Everyone knows that. <br><br>"Whose car is it?" His eyebrows draw together. "Might be best to pull out the guts and build something new. Unless that person is committed to it. 'Course, we could build it to be nearly identical if whoever you promised would want that. I mean, it'll take work to track parts, but..." his lips purse.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:99|Mercy Thompson (99)}} has posed:'''<br>Once the hood is up it stays up, even without any additional internal support. That's both a good and bad thing; good because the rod that supports the hood wouldn't have budged from its resting place and bad, since that likely means it needs repaired. Or replaced.<br><br>Like Dean, as soon as the hood is cleared from the engine and all the various parts inside, Mercy will start to visually inspect it.<br><br>"Mm." She agrees noncommittally to his initial assessment. "Definitely better than I expected." She finally agrees verbally, as she doesn't yet see any major damage to the majority of the components. Eventually, as they dig within the electronic engine they'll find some cracks and stress fractures that'll need to be repaired within the frame and the housing, but so far it still looks good.<br><br>His mention of being a mechanic earns a quirk of a grin from Mercy, even as she shakes her head slightly at his question about the owner. "So, I can't say I know." She begins, "It's sort of the situation where the person who brought it in wanted to keep it on the down-low, so I didn't ask too many question. She just asked I try to save it. There's also an issue with the car insurance - which likely means they have none."<br><br>Straightening from that review of the engine, Mercy will step to the side, more towards the body of the car and that crushed roof of the vehicle. "I had that thought." She agrees, "Of doing a total rebuild, but there's also the situation of money. Money is going to be a problem for her too." A sardonic look is sent Dean's way, "Do you see the boat I'm in with this? I'm hoping we'll be able to save the majority of the frame and the guts, with the potential of re-building the actual body."<br><br>Now it's Mercy's turns to walk around the car, as her gaze looks at the crushed portion of the car. "How's Sam?" She'll ask, a seemingly innocent question there, but one that holds a shade of worry to it for the coyote.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean straightens. It's a posture that seems to snap everything not place as he considers the importance of funds in all of this. "You know," his eyebrows lift, "if it makes sense, it's possible to get the cash." Winchesters are basically criminals at the best of times. "I mean, I always think that less..." he watches Mercy carefully to gauge her reaction to his words "...reputable means of getting things done needs to have justification. Even a bit." <br><br>There's a twitch of his lips. It's a tell in his own way. He has no problem with bending the law when the situation warrants it, and credit card scams have been Dean's old friends these ten years past. He was running them well before he could legally drink. <br><br>"Yeah, I get the boat. I can give you some labour for free," he offers lowly as he sizes up the damage. "But parts'll still be killer. Even if we can get some of the exterior from the dump. And matching colour'll be a struggle." He cringes at that. Paint is always an expensive part of the job. <br><br>But the question about Sam has him ducking underneath the vehicle to check out the undercarriage. "Fine," he answers. But Mercy, with her keen hearing, can catch it. No one catches it. When Dean says the word, there's a hitch in his throat and a change in his heartbeat. He's worried. He mostly keeps his cool despite it.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:99|Mercy Thompson (99)}} has posed:'''<br>That first part -<br><br>That earns a faint quirk of eyebrows in confusion, before Mercedes Thompson connects the dots. Once those dots are connected Mercy shakes her head, "No. I understand there are some circumstances that warrant that particular necessity, but this isn't it." And while others might sound scandalized, Mercy doesn't. She's lived long enough to know that not /everything/ can be done lawfully, but it's clear Mercy ins't the type to get in on that particular money-making scheme.<br><br>His offer of free labor, however, earns a better expression from the coyote. A quirk of a grin, "Great. I'll definitely take you up on that. I'm pretty sure I can throw in some free beer for you too. And pizza." There might be some homemade cookies in there too, but that's not said. Not when he mentions paint. That brings forth another pained expression from Mercy. "Let's not talk about paint until we get the car in actual working condition. Then I'll consider that particular horror."<br><br>Of course, when he goes beneath the car to check the undercarriage out, he'll find some definite issues. For one, the undercover is completely gone. It probably fell off somewhere. Thankfully those particular shields are more cosmetic than actually needed. With it missing it's easy to get a good look at the various parts beneath. Quick glance shows the muffler and a portion of the exhaust system has been torn off. There's likely something wrong with the back tire axles, as well, though it'll take more than just a general looking at to figure out what's going on.<br><br>From his position, Dean should be able to track Mercy by the movement of her feet, as she moves to this point and that, as she waits for him to pop from beneath the car.<br><br>The hitch within his voice is heard, as is the change in his heartbeat. It's enough for the coyote to crouch downward, near where she expects his head to be, "Fine as in 'fine I don't want to talk about it'? Or fine as in 'you don't realize I know he's not fine'. Or something else all together?" The last is said with a faint sense of grim humor.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>"It's a mess down here," Dean observes not-helpfully. "Gonna need to get a new muffler. Exhaust system, geez. And those axels are gonna need replacing if the car is gonna have a shot in hell of outrunning anything." He whistles again. "This is some pretty fantastic damage. Seriously. We might be able to save the bones though. She might be able to handle it." She. Cars are always notoriously women with him. <br><br>He slides out from underneath, sitting along the floor of the garage as the coyote makes her observation. Dean can feel his lips purse and his expression tighten. The edges of his lips twitch. It's not a smile. It's not a grimace. It's something else entirely. Nothing about him is easy. He's tense and terse and it shows. <br><br>Being so-called-out when he's so used to lying has Dean curl into himself some. His head hangs and his hands scrub his face. "Fine s in... there's nothing I can do about it so he needs to be fine right now." His eyebrows lift to punctuate the point and he shakes his head. "He's a mess," he finally admits. "He's a mess, and I can't fix it. Hell, I don't think even he can fix it." His eyebrows lift again. "And no, I didn't know you knew anything was up."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:99|Mercy Thompson (99)}} has posed:'''<br>The mention of axels, exhaust and muffler needing replaced and repaired earns a sigh from the coyote. It's enough that she rises from that low crouch and moves to a work bench. Upon the work bench is a tablet with neat writing already upon it. A pencil is picked up and Mercy adds a few more lines upon it; clearly she's keeping a list of everything that need repaired. It's the only way to keep it straight right now.<br><br>When Dean slides from beneath the car Mercy turns, her gaze upon the young man. She can see and scent the tension within him. If he expected to hide his emotions from Mercy he's going to be possibly surprised.<br><br>She watches the elder brother scrub his face and listen to his words. When he's finished speaking Mercy nods towards a work bench, where a folding chair is already next to it. "Yes, I know. I smelled the change in his scent." Which might be an odd thing to say, if Dean weren't a hunter and likely used to the strange, "Why don't you take a load off. I'll get some beer." And with that said Mercy does just that. She'll go to the back of the shop, to a small fridge, and pull out two bottles of cold beer. One of the beers will be offered to Dean, no matter whether he stayed standing, or sat down. "You can't fix it yet." Mercy states firmly, "Yet being the word there. But, I agree that it'll likely take something more than what you or he can do to fix it. Liam might be able to help."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The slide from the floor gives Winchester the elder a few moments reprieve from his own thoughts about the car. Dean groans when he hoists himself back to his feet. His shuffle-steps take him to the chair. He slumps into it. Allowing himself to groan again once he settles with little ceremony. "Man. Have you just ever felt tired? I mean... really tired?" He casts a long look at Mercy. "All I wanted was for Sam to be okay." <br><br>The beer is taken with a small nod and smile of thanks. Dean appreciates it. The cap is popped off and he takes a long swig. "You think Liam can do it?" His eyebrows lift with the question. "Sam isn't okay," he finally settles on. "All I tried to do all my life is watch out for him, and I've just... I screwed the pooch on this one." His tongue wets his lips. "And it's my fault. I should've..." not been possessed. "Something." His eyes lid lightly and he takes another swig of the beer. "I still don't know what's with Hydra and what they wanted with him either. I know they got him hooked on the demon blood, but," he doesn't finish the thought and just takes another drink of the beer. Liquor is easier.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:99|Mercy Thompson (99)}} has posed:'''<br>"Yes." Is Mercy's answer to that first question, full of sympathy and empathy. His next words, about wanting Sam to just be ok, likewise earns a sympathetic look from her. Though she doesn't necessarily say anything to those words. After all, there's not much she can say to them. Sam isn't 'safe' and anything she might say might come across badly or taken wrongly.<br><br>When Dean takes the proffered bottle, Mercy takes a second to pop the cap from her own bottle. The little metal lid is tossed casually upon the nearby work bench, even as she takes a second for a sip from her bottle. While Dean settles into that folding chair, Mercy doesn't. Instead she settles against the edge of that nearby work bench, even as she casts a look to the younger man. His question about Liam earns a thoughtful look, "I think so. I hope so. If not he might know who can." Is what she'll finally end with on that particular subject, then her gaze is returning back to Dean.<br><br>Again, Mercy listens to what Dean has to say. Her expression turns back to sympathetic and worried, as Dean expresses some of what he feels and some of his own worries. "I don't know the whole story behind this demon thing, but I highly doubt it's your fault." The coyote says, not realizing just how wrong she is, "If we can get him back from Hydra and everyone else, then we can figure out how to fix this, I promise."<br><br>And while her next words might sound like a joke, they're really not. "Then afterwards, we can go get Hydra and destroy them for what they did to Sam and everyone."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Mercy's words cause Dean to hone in on the floor in front of him. His body tenses again and he fights the frown that still manages to draw the edges of his lips downwards. "I think..." he starts and then stops. "I /don't/ think I deserve any absolution there." He casts her a long look. "I practically raised Sam." He actually smirks at that. "Until recently I let myself believe that wasn't really true, but it is. I fed him. I clothed him. I bathed him. I scared away the monsters under his bed. I raised Sam." <br><br>"Pretty sure that means I get to have both the credit and the blame. This one? Probably on me." Somehow. For not showing up earlier when Sam got in trouble with Hydra. For getting possessed by Alistair so Sam needed more blood. For not telling Sam more about Azazel sooner. <br><br>He takes a swig of his bear and threads the fingers of his free hand through his hair. It's a welcome distraction, or a strange comfort that he can't articulate. <br><br>"Thanks," he finally lands on about fixing it. "Just feels like everything's spinning out lately. What I wouldn't give for a simple straightforward hunt again..."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:99|Mercy Thompson (99)}} has posed:'''<br>The coyote tilts her head slightly to the side at Dean's words. A question is there, but for now, Mercy doesn't voice it. She gets the sense here that they're on uncertain ground.<br><br>"Credit or blame." Mercy states, "You did the best you could, I'm certain of that. That's all you can ask of yourself and all Sam can ask for too. I can tell Sam thinks you're the best big brother. If he didn't he wouldn't worry equally as much about you as you do of him."<br><br>His thanks causes the coyote to nod, before her expression turns sympathetic again, "Feeling like everything is out of control is never fun." She agrees, "Times like these it's good to have a project at hand." With those words Mercy slides an obvious look at the broken and battered car, "Good thing you have one." It's a little humor she's trying to interject here, but when she looks back at Dean her expression turns somber again.<br><br>"We'll figure it out." She offers again, even as she asks with some curious, "Sam has mentioned hunting too. I don't think he's ever explained what exactly it is you two hunt. Though I have a guess - things that go bump in the night and other typical magical oddities that seem to crop up unexpectedly and numerously."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The uncertainty is catching. A smirk follows the mention of doing the best he could. "Probably could've done better if I'd realized I was doing it. Like, for real, I mean." Dean's voice turns gruff, but strangely quiet too. "Would've been easier if Dad hadn't said /take care of Sammy/ and had just told me to raise my brother. Honestly. Then at least I'd get it." He rubs his chin, feeling the stubble there and assessing that he should probably shave. <br><br>"Yeaaaah," Dean virtually sighs at the car. "Don't mind doing the work. I like working with my hands. And playing with making things work? Yeah, that's fun. But man. This one isn't a project. It's a damned thesis with everything that needs doing." But he doesn't say no. "Haven't built one from the ground up in an age. At least it'll be worth the time and energy if whoever owns it appreciates it." <br><br>As far as what they hunt. "We hunt anything that needs hunting. Honestly? It's a bit of this a bit of that," he issues her a one shouldered shrug. "It's all about making people safer. Making the world safer. I know that's weird and cryptic, but it's what it is."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:99|Mercy Thompson (99)}} has posed:'''<br>What he says about his father earns a look from the coyote. She'll stay silent a moment as she considers what to say there. Or rather, if she should say anything. Finally, the coyote will hedge simply with, "Sometimes parents are guessing or struggling with how to do things just as much as we are. Though that doesn't make any of it right. Especially for children."<br><br>And while more could be said Mercy doesn't expand much beyond that. Not when she's getting hints that the relationship there wasn't necessarily the best. Between sons and father, that is.<br><br>The quip about the car project being a thesis earns an amused snort from Mercy, "I think they'll appreciate it, yes. If not I'll make sure to press upon them how much this tear down and rebuild really cost; both in money, sweat and curse words."<br><br>His explanation of hunting pulls a nod from Mercy, "Not all that weird and cryptic. Not really. Not after all we've seen lately. Besides, not sure if you know, but a wolf pack raised me. Weird and cryptic are two things I definitely know of." While half her bottle is finished, Mercy still sets it aside and straightens from the work bench, "I wouldn't be surprised if our two worlds intersected at some point and we just never realized."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The bit about John earns Mercy a sharp lift of Dean's eyebrows but nothing else. John Winchester has entered a place of betrayal in Dean's mind. But the bit about crossing paths, that he will agree with. "Probably. Feels like all worlds intersect," Dean agrees. He finishes off the beer. He's been drinking like a fish lately. The bottle is set on the work bench and he presses to a stand. <br><br>"Alright, we can work on that thesis in a few days' time. If you're good with it, I can let myself in and plug away. At the very least, we should get the parts running. Can worry about the body after?" For now though, Dean has to be going. He glances towards a clock on the wall. "I gotta run. Promised Jo," his cheeks actually warm, "my girlfriend, that I'd be home on time tonight." He winks. "Trying to make good on it. Take it easy, Mercy. We'll chat more later, I'm sure." With that he slips out the garage.<br> <br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=2628/Heads_Will_Roll&diff=17532628/Heads Will Roll2017-10-03T12:12:39Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/10/02<br />
|Location=Raccoon<br />
|Synopsis=SHIELD sends a team on a rescue op. Things are far worse than intel suggested.<br />
|Thanks=Steve<br />
|Cast of Characters=112, 294, 229, 230<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Something vile has gone down in Raccoon. <br><br>SHIELD had put up a quarantine zone, represented by a large bubble of energy to keep whatever is going on in and everything else out. While very little is actually known, briefings and reconnaissance have suggested something strange has descended on the Midwestern American city. <br><br>The Quinjet arrives just shy of the forcefield zone. Warnings about the area had been extreme. Proceed with caution, the briefing had stated. Go in, scope the situation, save any survivors, and report back. While there had been aerial evidence that someone remained in the chaos (a large SOS had been drawn atop one of the many buildings), communications have been shut off with the outside world. <br><br>All-in-all, raccoon has become a dead zone. <br><br>The smell of death, dying, and decay fills the air when the entrance to the Quinjet opens, suffocating the signs of life that might draw anyone away from this spot. <br><br>SHIELD had promised to keep its people well equipped and well protected. Lightweight armour developed to look like street clothes (an invention from SHIELD R&amp;D that at least one developer was quite proud of) was made available to all. Weaponry had been assigned. And the Mission Parameters were made available to each of the heroes present. This was about finding survivors, and, if at all possible, get a handle on whatever happened in Raccoon for things to get so out of control so quickly. <br><br>Captain America, rather than Steve Rogers, complete with his costume, mask and helmet steps off the Quinjet. With the shield securely fastened to his back, he casts a long look behind him. "Alright everyone. We're going to stick as close together as we can. We know that the city is in a bad way," it's easy enough to see thanks to the ransacked buildings damaged by rioters, pillagers, and anyone trying to manage to survive amongst the bedlam that's broken out. "Watch for signs of survivors, keep your eyes open, and," his lips turn to a thin grim line, "if need be, defend yourself and any survivors. We don't know what we'll find." <br><br>His throat clears and he makes a small tick with his head, leading them down the path into whatever lies beyond, silently thankful that the current mission is happening in the middle of the day with plenty of hours of light rather than the dark. At least they have the privilege of light. <br><br>The large buildings squeak and creak as they pass, looking mostly abandoned save for the occasional band of shadow that trails passed one of the windows. <br><br>Despite the silence, Raccoon isn't a ghost town.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester is loaded for bear, and has been trying to dig up //any// information prior to the quarantine that might help him get out in front of this and identify it. To this end, he read pre-quarantine reports, and then cross-checked them against all of his various lore sources, a growing, searchable, digitized library in his tablet now with the help of SHIELD's resources, and more borrowed books from one Bobby Singer.<br><br>This is, he supposes, his first official official SHIELD Agent mission, so his street clothes are a suit today, if a suit armored up and ready to go.<br><br>"So according to the pre-quarantine reports," he says slowly, "people lost it. They started going violent and attacking one another, even family members. There might have been some sort of illness first though. High fevers, shakes. The lore doesn't have anything that matches up. Which could mean it's not supernatural, and it could mean...there's no lore."<br><br>Well, there's no reason why it //should// be supernatural in nature, but Sam's life suffers from a bad case of 'every problem to date has mostly been a nail and the real solution has always been 'pick the right hammer.'<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>It might be Captain America, rather than Steve Rogers, stepping off the Quinjet, but it's Bucky Barnes rather than the Winter Soldier that stands in the shadow behind him, still wary of being too close to others.<br><br>He had had quiet conference with both Steve and Claire before this -- individually, not together -- and the topic of conversation had been the same: if I revert, knock me the hell out before I can kill anyone or do any damage. With Claire he had developed a sort of failsafe to that end: a little vial of sedative calibrated specifically to put him out within five seconds regardless of injection site.<br><br>He just prays that if he does revert, he doesn't retain enough memories to know to kill Claire first.<br><br>So far so good, however. He seems transparently uncomfortable, even with a rifle cradled in his right arm, and even more uncomfortable when Sam mentions 'they just went violent and attacked their own family.' "People gonna be fine barefaced here if it's some kinda sickness?" he asks, glancing first at Claire, and then dubiously at the ruins beyond.<br><br>He moves instantly when Steve does. Normally he would trail, bringing up the rear, but he does not want to be in a position where no one would notice if he started drawing a bead on their backs.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>A myriad of reasons brings Claire Temple to the here and now. One is being asked as a medical consult onto something that looks close to resembling a pandemic. Another is wanting to give back, and desperately so, to the believe who all joined together to rescue /her/. Another is she doesn't have much else going on, especially in terms of a 9-to-5, and an underworked Claire is a stir-crazy Claire. Another is James Barnes, and after the last two months of his close proximity, she anxiously does not want him out of eyesight for too long.<br><br>Gratefully dressed in that light armor, and though her only weapon on-hand may be that injectable vial handed to her by Bucky -- ever the pragmatist, Claire holds onto it now, even though she doesn't /like/ it -- she walks bravely with the others.<br><br>The too-quiet city rises all around them, vacant and husked-out for what looks like some time, and the nurse frowns up the lengths of shadowy skyscrapers. "Reminds me a bit too much of Hell's Kitchen," she comments. "That's not a good thing."<br><br>She steps over stray garbage and debris littering the road, listening to others speak as she goes, her own first priority looking for signs of survivors as Captain America directed. "Should be," Claire confirms, though she doesn't sound comfortable about the idea. "Even if it's airborne, we're in a serious lack of a transmission vector right now," namely, people they can see, "but from what the agent sounds like -- neurological infection? Not airborne, usually. Few to no viruses last long outside of a host. If it's bacterial, different. Either way, safest if no one touches /anything/ without gloves, and if we do find someone -- I'll handle quarantine."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam earns a facsimile of a smile. "I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing." Behind the mask, his face scrunches together. There's little reassurance beyond the lack of knowing anything. "Feels like the War all over again. It's amazing that we're always playing catch-up and never know what we're actually getting into." <br><br>Towards Claire, he nods when she answers Bucky. "Basic notes said be on guard, but Claire is right. Researchers don't think it's airborne." While Cap may be wearing the suit there's a lack of confidence in the statement that is all Steve. But then the source of his uncertainty turns up in a few words delivered moments later from //the Captain// rather than his alter ego, "SHIELD has been keeping an eye on the site for some time," without intervention. His thoughts on that matter lay bare even in the plain non-judgmental language he chooses. Tone speaks volumes. <br><br>While the group moves silently through the highly industrialized city turned primitive, they continue to see shadows through the windows they pass. It's a wonder there are so many people around when so few are physically on the streets. The aerial map had indicated the SOS message was written atop one of the many tall buildings--this one a mega mall not far from their current position. Looking towards the sky, the group can see the peaks of the building in question not far from where they are. <br><br>But as they near, the silence gets interrupted by moaning. Grunts. Groans. Something beastly calls angrily to them, even as it remains out of sight, there's little question that something lays between them and their target. <br><br>Rounding the corner, while staying close to the walls of a CVS Pharmacy, the view of the mall becomes unimpeded. Its bright colours feel dull beneath the SHIELD-created dome encompassing them and this entire city. Without lights on, inside it looks dull and dreary, a once-harbinger of activity turned literal graveyard. In front of the mall entrance, a barrage of twenty amblers, with pale-grey skin, hollow eyes, and various states of rot, patrol. Their skin falls off its bones, melting away while suggesting some sense of decomposition. Their ability to still move seems almost nonsensical. They look vacant, but the haunting emissions from their mouths are unmistakable. What remains of some of the residents has slipped into disarray. <br><br>A loud, blood-curdling scream emits from the West.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>There might be a shift in Sam's expression when Claire explains this isn't (probably) airborne, one that hints at relief. It's subtle, but it's there.<br><br>In the meantime, he finds out that SHIELD just sat around and did nothing. His eyes go briefly and literally black with anger; nostrils flare and his mouth tightens. SHIELD loses another point with him today.<br><br>Still, he's focused as they draw closer, drawing his Beretta in response to all the noise. He points it at the ground until he sees the shamblers.<br><br>The problem with stuff like this is there are dozens of things that can make an apparent corpse move like that, and all of them are totally different. Sometimes just shooting the damned things works wonders. Sometimes, not so much. He raises his gun, aims briefly, and tries a headshot on one of them.<br><br>Winchester the Younger figures the time to find out is before they get within melee range, after all.<br><br>It's the kind of decisive, independent action that both serves him well and drives most of SHIELD crazy. Maybe he should have announced 'I'm going to shoot that thing.' Maybe there are strategic reasons he shouldn't. But in the end he's kind of like that comedy where that one guy talks about playing video games.<br><br>I don't have TIME to make a CHARACTER, there are ZOMBIES and I gotta shoot 'em in the HEAD!<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>For the most part, Bucky leaves looking for survivors to others, despite the instruction. His eye isn't really attuned to people who need help unless it's to mark them as easy prey, and he doesn't like the way that makes him feel. Brings the predator too close back to the surface. Instead he mostly scans for threats, which is better in the sense that it comes with far less of a sense of eating the wounded.<br><br>His eyes turn to Steve thoughtfully at his friend's words. Bucky was fluent in Steve context-switching-ese long before he became a true polyglot. Sam hears it too, and his reaction is written quite clearly across his features, along with a startling tic that thins Bucky's mouth.<br><br>The first sight of the amblers draws a grimace from him. "I was gonna ask," he says, "if there was any bringing these people back from this, but..." The flesh slips off a shambler's arm entirely, as if to prove just how ridiculous such a query would be. Grimly, he mounts the grenade launcher under the barrel of his weapon, though unlike Sam -- who he shoots a rather scandalized look -- he is ingrained to wait for word from Steve before he fires. Especially since what he's loading is a grenade.<br><br>The shriek makes him tense, though, his rifle lifting.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>Following along, feeling her unease grow the deeper they all wade into this gutted-out city, Claire --<br><br>-- gets her first and true unimpeded look at what must be left of the residents. And in that one look, she also gets an answer to a question she /has/ never and would not /want/ to ever ask: are zombies real?<br><br>"Son of a..." Claire murmurs under her breath, her voice twisted up with revulsion and horror. She cups a hand over her mouth, and despite her own iron stomach, even it finds itself immediately tested by the stink of flyblown rot and the distant sight of decaying meat falling free from the exposed bones of /someone still moving, and very much alive./<br><br>It goes against all biological plausibility, and yet here it is. "I think we --" Claire begins to offer her sage medical advice, when --<br><br>Sam up and /shoots/ one.<br><br>The gunshot looks like it takes one of Temple's nine lives with it, jumping like some skinned cat. "What in the /hell/, Sam!" Claire sputters, eyes flared wide, hands outstretched in a beseeching OH YOU DID NOT JUST. "<br><br>Of course, there's no time for more lecturing, that or it just dries the hell up in her voice, at the sound of /something/ screaming distant.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>The headshot lands and the zombie collapses to the ground. Headshots seems effective. Or, maybe only particular headshots are. In this case, the bullet does the expected work. <br><br>Even with success, however, Steve's expression mirrors Bucky's. There are some things that Rogers is no longer used to. There was a season in his life when he struggled to understand why anyone would listen to his orders. But after becoming accustomed, it's equally strange to not be so heeded. Not that he gave an order. <br><br>And then Claire issues a reprimand. Blue eyes sweep to meet Bucky's punctuating the very brief contact with a faint lift of eyebrows behind the mask. <br><br>The shock only has a moment to make purchase on Steve's face. Where the one zombie had been struck down, its friends are drawn to attention. They move forward, dripping with all of the flesh and markers of resurrected dead. Teeth gnash angrily and blood stains across ragged clothes speak to both open wounds--greyed and puss-filled and other victims. <br><br>Decisively, in the moment, and because their position is already given up anyways, Steve's head snaps towards Bucky, "Fire at will!" <br><br>His hand already traces for the firearm at his side. A simple hand gun. He'd rather use the shield still attached to his back, but with this many unfriendlies, there's no telling how quickly he'll be able to retrieve it once thrown. <br><br>His head turns to the West. The scream suggests someone alive. Every muscle in his body tenses with silent calculation. He's estimating distance. It's not remotely scientific, but leaving the mission parameters has him in want. Someone needs help. <br><br>While attention might be on the walking dead in front of them, the moaning gets louder. More are on their way. <br><br>Freshly risen corpses with no signs of decay run fast towards the group from the South, closing in from behind--had they passed them without realizing? It's difficult to tell. The vacancy of the new arrivals' eyes suggests more the same, but these ones might be salvageable. Maybe. If they could get remotely close without risking assault. Several in the front have marked blood smeared across their faces like they indulged in a pie eating contest, complete without utensils. <br><br>The West yields more moaning as does the East. On all sides they're being pressed in. "Get into the mall, we'll regroup, find any survivors and get out," and even as Steve gives the order, he's firing at the zombies in front. There are far less ahead than there are behind. At least the glass doors guarantee that much.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam looks more confused by this outrage and confusion than anything else. The confusion turns his irises back to a more piney green color. His brows draw down in an earnest frown, and he says gently, "They're going to eat our faces if we don't shoot them. And our brains."<br><br>Like he's explaining water is wet.<br><br>Fortunately Steve seems to get the memo and orders firing at will. He draws a bead on another head, staying with the group at least, and he fires again, again aiming for heads. As Steve picks a direction he does follow; the orders are good ones and really, when they're this outnumbered there's really not much more to do than move and fire. Though he's got high hopes for that rocket launcher Bucky is toting.<br><br>With this much this close he says, with a veteran's calm, "These are resurrected dead. They might have gotten sick first, and that may or may not be related, but Voodoo's involved. A mambo or a bokor is close."<br><br>He fires again, even as he explains. "They have to be on site to control them. It's likely he or she will have at least 5 followers being ridden by various petro loa in response to this; very angry pagan gods and goddesses who will have received sacrifices--"<br><br>Firing again, "And who will definitely be behind him."<br><br>He's speaking rapidly, trying to get all the information out fast; if he dies in the next 30 seconds, after all, they won't know what they need to know. "Every voodoo ritual--"<br><br>He dodges a swing at his face that comes too close for comfort, fires, "begins with the Opening of the Way. We can significantly weaken the mambo and his ritual if we find and destroy the Legba veve. It will look like a stylized gate in black and red chalk, probably inscribed on a door near the ritual."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>Bucky takes a few steps back towards Claire as she freaks out over the gunshot. It's half to give her a calming look, and half to unholster one of his sidearms and present it to her. "Last resort. Don't shoot one of us," is his crash course. "I'll teach you more later."<br><br>As for Sam? "You usually wait for the CO to make that call," Bucky says in response to Sam's rather bemused explanation of his actions. "Keeps things more organized than everyone just running about willy nilly and thereby fucking up each other's shit. If you think the CO's call is dumb, then you ask 'Do you really want to do that, sir,' before you do it."<br><br>Operational protocol dispensed, he lifts his own (considerably larger) weapon, feeds a grenade, and cocks an eye at Steve. Despite the years, despite everything that's happened to them and between them, they still operate together like clockwork, without need for spoken words to ask questions or give orders. That Steve eventually does give an order is just a formality at that point: Bucky read the letter of it in the decision that flashes in Steve's eyes moments before.<br><br>He takes point instantly, being the one with the heaviest ordnance, firing a grenade in a low and accurate arc directly for the center of those massed zombies between them and the mall. There's fewer of them up ahead than there are flanking them.<br><br>He moves so he's chivvying Claire ahead of him, keeping an eye on her and providing her cover. He's listening to Sam, but true to his earlier advice -- he glances sidelong to Steve to see what he thinks about this information.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>Claire stares up and up on Sam Winchester like his logic come descendeth from the temple mount of the craziest ass god she's ever heard of. "They're going to eat our faces," she whispers back incredulously, "because they all now know our fool faces are here!!"<br><br>And whether it's by the gunshot or simply proximity alone -- the other undead turn their attention one way only.<br><br>The colour drains out of her face; she steps back, unsure, arrested only when Bucky gives her a look that feels like a last handhold before a fatal fall. And he offers her one of his sidearms. She looks down at it, unsure, never a fan of guns and recently now even less so, but with their little time, she gratefully takes it in hand.<br><br>Last resort. She keeps the barrel turned down and her finger off the trigger. He doesn't have to say that twice.<br><br>Taking no shots herself, Claire heeds Steve Rogers' command and breaks into a sprint, cringing between the reports of gunfire as the three take shots on the amassing dead in pursuit.<br><br>"And what if it's not a voodoo ritual?!" she calls back to Sam's paranormal instruction. "If this is some disease -- if this is /real/ -- and this gets out -- "<br><br>With one glance back on Bucky as he shuttles her ahead, making sure he's not too far lost behind -- the looming shopping mall ahead inspires little confidence admist Claire's dead run. "/Every/ zombie movie -- starts in a damn /mall/!" she huffs. "And it /never/ ends well! And you know who dies first? It won't be one of your white asses!"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>/They're going to eat our faces if we don't shoot them/ While Bucky explains the ins and outs of command, and Claire calls attention to their previous element of surprise, Rogers, predictably, resorts to: "We'll discuss it later." He aims and fires his own weapon while on the move to get into the mall. There's little question that it will be discussed. Later. When they are not being surrounded by dead assailants. <br><br>Steve shoots another in the head. The squish-slosh sound of brains being bored through a rotting skull is akin to the splat of spaghetti falling from a wall into a vat of sauce, complete with the //SCHPLUNK// at the end. <br><br>He frowns. "I don't think I understood half of those words, Winchester." It's fortunate that they have Bucky with them as the path of zombies ahead clears thanks to the power of the weapon. Corpses light in a crowd with clothes catching fire far quicker than extremities, limbs, and bones. And that fire that causes the zombies to go up in smoke grants the group enough of an opening to get into the mall. <br><br>The door doesn't give immediately. Someone has sealed it on the other side. There's little question survivors exist in the mall. But with the pressure to get out of the street, the door handles, chained together on the inside certainly doesn't grant much space. They are literally pressed against the door. <br><br>That flicker in Steve's eyes recognizes the impossibility of the situation. He inhales a long breath, grasps the shield at his back, and instructs to the others, "Take as many out as you can. We're not going to have much room inside." The glass doors are little match for the hard impact of the vibranium shield against their surface. It takes three solid hits, but in short order, glass shatters. <br><br>The zombies are on their tails, but as they move, Steve turns back to Sam: "So... you're saying," he looks back towards the glass.. "/Someone/ is controlling them? Can we disrupt it?" He looks pointedly at Sam with that thought. Not that there's time to think more on this. He turns to look at Claire, "What if it's something between? A disease and some kind of... weirdness," that he doesn't have language for, "Is that possible?" This is so far outside his wheelhouse that he doesn't push the idea more, just leaves it to sit with people who understand these things more than he does. <br><br>As the group moves through the mall with its gleaming floors, it's clear that someone has certainly set up home here. Stores have been broken into and supplies have been utilized to their fullest potential. <br><br>The smell of campfire inside wafts from up the busted-escalator. <br><br>Going the direction yields survivors. Three girls. All dark haired and green-eyed. One, the youngest, no more than six, trembles on the ground. Her skin is pale compared to the others as she shivers madly. ,<br><br>Getting even these three out will be a challenge.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>"CO, wait, got it. I'll remember next time."<br><br>Claire says that they know cause he shot, and a look of exasperation passes over the young man's face. "They were already looking right at us!"<br><br>And then she asks, 'what if it's not voodoo.'<br><br>"If it's not voodoo," he says, deadpanning both his snark and his logic, "then I'm wrong about the veve."<br><br>Dean is not the only sassy one in the family. Dean just uses his snark a lot less judiciously than one Sam Winchester. But it's a stressful situation, and snark is fair game. Military men, a street nurse, and a Hunter...three very distinct thought patterns in one very crappy situation, three distinct thought patterns that don't always agree.<br><br>He's also forced to reload as he uses up the 15 shots in his Beretta. Old clip out, new clip in, fast as if he can do it in his sleep (he very nearly can).<br><br>She says her brown ass is who dies first and he gives an incredulous version of his Face, a brief flattening of his mouth and flaring of his nostrils, a brief tilt of his head.<br><br>They'll discuss it later, Steve says, and Sam at least recognizes the wisdom of that. Meanwhile Rogers says he doesn't get it and he opens his mouth to try to figure out what part he didn't get. But then the rocket launcher is doing its incredible work, buying them a moment, and Steve reveals he at least absorbed all the important bits. "Yes," he says. "We just have to find them. Killing the ritualists will also work, but I'd prefer to just mar the veve, which should banish the loa, knock out his followers and snap his control."<br><br>The door is now shattered, which means it's useless as a blockade. Sam backs into the mall as he reloads. Protocol. Okay. "Should we block those?" he asks Steve. He doesn't add the Sir; it evokes bad memories in the extreme and grates against an inherently rebellious nature. But at least he remembers to ask.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>By virtue of many years of military service, Bucky manages to keep a straight face as Claire goes off. It's a near thing, though. His mouth twitches a little towards the end.<br><br>Focusing on firing into the massed zombies helps: bullets are great, but grenades are even better, and Bucky is generous with their application. He probably should have just focused on that, in fact, because when he does tune back in to the conversation, it's to hear Claire saying something about how it won't be their white asses dying first, and --<br><br>"No, /I/ was already the one to die first," he says. It's obvious he meant it as a joke.<br><br>It's not very funny.<br><br>He gets pretty quiet again after that. He'll probably need a 'we'll discuss it later,' too.<br><br>Once in the mall, he finally pushes down his worries enough to bring up the rear, using suppressive fire to keep the zombies from coming in after them too quickly and yielding some breathing room. Like Steve, he seems content to leave the analysis to those with more expertise, though it doesn't take knowhow for him to judge the condition of the three survivors they come across.<br><br>"She sick?" he wonders of the smallest one, as he takes up a position to try to provide overwatch for the group.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>Happy to take shelter in the shadow of Steve's lead -- it still astounds Claire even /running for her life/ that she's on some sort of mission with Captain America himself -- she finds herself closed him between the him, vibranium shield and all, smashing a way into the mall, and on the other side, both Bucky and Sam picking off the closing, incoming horde, putting bullets and fiery grenades into a deepening sea of rotting faces.<br><br>She's so scared out of her goddamned mind she doesn't know anything to do but run her own mouth. The gun stays silent in her hands. Last resort -- this doesn't feel like one.<br><br>It's not going to end like this, right? /Especially/ not with Sam making snark next to her?<br><br>"I haven't read all those notes you gave me," Claire sasses breathlessly back, all terror and no real candor, "but is there actually any monster you can stop by talking like a smartass?!"<br><br>Steve smashes them a path inside. Bucky covers them all with that last -- terrible joke.<br><br>Claire shoots him a quick, incredulous look that's more wince than anything else. She backtracks another glance on him, certain he's still with them, but otherwise the woman sprints on a dead-run, no super soldier endurance or years of military training to sustain her -- just a lot of long hours, years of long-hours' endurance, and a shitload of adrenaline.<br><br>Moving through the darkened mall and up the dead escalator, she rasps breathlessly, "Do you guys smell --"<br><br>And survivors, they find. Claire hitches in shock, before her demeanour mutates like a light turned on, all that sharpness gone. She hands Bucky back his gun, grip-first, needing her hands free to pull rubber gloves over them.<br><br>She wastes no time to dash over to the girls and knee down. "Hey, sweeties," she says gently, "it's all right. I'm a doctor -- we're here to find you. Is it just you three?"<br><br>The youngest, shivering, first earns Claire's attention, as she counts her heartrate with her fingers and tests her dehydration through the pallor and give of her skin. "Can you hear me? Can you tell me what's wrong?" she entreats.<br><br>Bucky's question swings back her head. Is she sick? Claire's worried expression is answer enough.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Bucky was the one to die first. Steve's expression flattens. If he was serious earlier, he's downright professional now. He leans hard into Captain America. And sure enough, as predicted, Steve turns towards Barnes, "We'll discuss this later." Although Bucky knows Steve well enough to see that reflection in his eyes.They won't discuss it later. This is something Steve won't bring up again. <br><br>The flicker of failure lingers longer than he intends. With a sharp shake of his head, like an etch a sketch, he purposively scrubs out the loss. <br><br>Sam's discussion of words Steve still isn't convinced are words, causes Steve to stiffen, but the notion of a blockade earns a sharp nod of his head. "Do it. Any time we can buy to get out of here is necessary." <br><br>The smallest of the sisters shivers at the question. She's been in the care of her two older siblings--evidence of which can be seen in the weapons arsenal the girls have gathered around them. For 6, 10, and 14, they seem to have well resourced themselves. The smallest moves towards Claire. <br><br>Undeniably, her skin is hot to touch. Burning up. The whites of her eyes have given way to yellow, and have become increasingly bloodshot through fever and stress. While buried under blankets, she still feels cold, evidence that something in her body works hard to fight off some deep-rooted infection. <br><br>"She got bit," the middle girl says softly. "We don't what to do! We did everything we could. We boiled our water! We ate only from," the cache of snack foods from a robbed vending machine lay beside the fire. "We've been trying everything! Maddie," she looks towards her older sister, "said we should just lay low." Her lips purse. "She's our sister, you can't let her die!" <br><br>"We're not leaving without her," the eldest asserts. <br><br>Steve eyes the trio. His expression falters and he looks towards Claire, "Can she be moved?" because that's going to pose other problems. He then glances back towards the others, "Ideas?" because they actively need suggestions. And a plan.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Claire's banter produces a fast grin out of Sam. There is a reason why Claire sort of registers as a 'long lost Winchester cousin' to him. She demonstrates all of the above right now. Cool under pressure, even when scared out of her mind. Keeping up with the deadpan snarking. Long meaningful looks. Pretexting an upgrade from nurse to doctor (one she frankly deserves anyway) because she knows 'doctor' is going to keep them calmer and earn more respect than nurse. He doesn't continue the snark train though, because Bucky says he died first-- and inappropriately //Sam// also flashes his quick grin at that, not because he's necessarily insensitive to Captain Rogers' guilt, but because, well, for a guy who has also died at least once, it's //really funny// to him, though he's not about to indulge in the Me Second-- or is it Me Third, with Captain America's stint on the ice?-- right now-- until he gets a look at the faces of the two who maybe aren't as amused and clears his throat. Though if Captain America's stint does count, Claire is actually the Last Woman standing in some sense, and that makes it even funnier.<br><br>Not that the situation, overall, is particularly funny. It would be heart-wrenching, soul-searing, and frightening if he allowed it to be. But all he can do is just handle the next thing. "Bit's bad," he adds, probably unecessarily. He's proposed a great idea, but how to do it? His telekinesis isn't so strong (yet?) that he can just fling something into place with his mind. And there's no mystic ward versus zombies that he knows. So when Steve says 'do it' he gives a long 'uhhhh' and looks to Bucky the Tank, who surely can.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>Bucky realizes the impact of what he said about five seconds after it's way too late, and it's already struck Steve to the core. The trouble is that it just does not ever occur to him to connect 'Steve' and 'his fall' in any sense of responsibility or failure. When he thinks about it, remarks about it, it's not with any thought in his mind of failure or fault on his brother's part.<br><br>If anything, he considers it his own fault that he died, so any remarks on it are solely self-deprecating. Yet after hearing Steve speak of how he sees it, as a personal failing? Yeah, he gets the sting, even if he vehemently disagrees.<br><br>"Later," he eventually concurs, his gaze lowered, his entire demeanor subdued. It's a toss-up whether he actually means it, too, or whether like Steve he'll let the subject drop forever and find some nonproductive, self-loathing, and intensely guilt-ridden way to cope instead. Like running away for five years. That might do the trick.<br><br>In the here and now, he stays subdued, his blue eyes watching as Claire sees to the girls. Seeming to feel himself not very useful in regards to comforting children, he instead takes the hint from Sam's 'uhhhhhhh' and shoulders his gun, heading towards a long table standing derelict, perhaps a relic of some Girl Scout cookie sale long past.<br><br>Hooking his left hand under its edge, he eyeballs a second, then flips the thing with a sharp precise jerk and a whir of its mechanisms. It eventually ends its flight lodged horizontally in the doorframe, its body barring off the entryway at about waist height. He considers this work a moment, before he heads over and starts pushing a vending machine in front of the entire affair also, just in case some of these zombies have enough brain left to realize they can crawl over or under obstacles.<br><br>Yeah, this is much easier than talking.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>"She's going to have to be moved," Claire answers from where she's crouched, head turned up to regard Steve Rogers. Her eyes burn with urgency as hot as that little girl's fever. "She needs fluids, among other things I don't have here. If we call for back-up, would they even make it before we're overrun?"<br><br>Her attention turns on the other girls, brows furrowed, all seriousness -- and yet for them an infinite patience she rarely, if ever, extends toward adults. Children are every exception for Claire Temple.<br><br>It pales her slightly to hear the cause. "Bit," she repeats, and it's a struggle for her to keep the dread from hollowing out her voice. Her hands carefully unwind those layers of blankets. "No one is leaving without anyone. I promise. We're all here to keep you safe. Now can you show me the bite? On her arms? Her legs?" Please let it be an extremity.<br><br>It seems she may have found the transmission vector. Dear Lord.<br><br>Amidst her searching, wanting at least to get a look at the source of what is probably the infection, Claire's attention swings over at the distant THOOM of the table-made-blockade, jamming any simple way in. Her dark eyes flick from Bucky's left arm up to him, and gentle.<br><br>"All I know is we don't have much time to wait here," Claire presses, her eyes moving among the three men. She knows this, but doesn't know /that/ -- doesn't know how survival in a place that looks like war happened. "Depends if you guys think is safest."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Zombies scratch and claw and writhe until they are effectively shut out from the mall. But even with the barriers in place the sound of fingernails scratching against plastic can be heard. They are most definitely gathering in the world outside. The good news is the vending machine holds. But if enough of the bodies come this direction, they may be able to push the machine over. Mind that would be a lot of bodies and a very unideal situation. <br><br>Mostly because it means that there are just that many walking dead. <br><br>Moans begin to form in a rumbling chorus outside. <br><br>Steve's eyebrows lift at Sam's assertion that bit isn't good. A sardonic smile, that likely speaks spades because of who's wearing it follows the observation. "Yeah. I'm old, Sam. Not dead." Because he can infer biting is bad. And he seems like the one most likely to be talked about. <br><br>But easily, Steve's attention moves back to Claire and the child on the floor. His lips edge downwards and he manages a small nod. "I'm not sure about backup. I think we could call backup, but there's no guarantee they'll be able to break through." There's a stitch of indecisiveness. He's the commanding officer, yet something wears on him. "We need to find another route to get them out. Is there a map of this mall somewhere?" His eyes fllit towards the directory at the bottom of the escalator. Towards the vending machine with the scratch noises. <br><br>The second oldest reaches for her sister and props her up slowly, revealing a bite mark in the girl's shoulder. "We were doing okay here until, well..." her cheeks flush. "...we were okay. But then we were running out of food and we didn't want to go alone... we shoulda left Mika... she's not good with the knife..." Her chin drops towards her chest. <br><br> <br><br>The vending machine begins to rock.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>"I'll go have a look," Sam promises. He checks his weapon one more time, but if they were safe in here he should be safe to walk around a mall.<br><br>At least he said what he was doing this time. That's some sort of an improvement, right? But he does go look, slipping down the escalator, clicking on a flashlight and holding it with his gun, swinging it around to make sure he doesn't get ambushed. And looking for any other clues as to what happened here, or the veve he's already postulated.<br><br>He walks with a faint frown of concentration, and he moves very quickly. The victims don't have a lot of time here.<br><br>And then the vending machine is rocking. Sam turns his gun towards it, but does not go all Rambo towards the machine. He backs up a few steps, aiming. If it just falls over he backs up right out of the path of it, at an angle so that if it's kicked out towards him or flung forward it won't hit him. Because there are lots of reasons it could be rocking, not just a monster, and he wants to make sure it's not an innocent first.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>"That and you don't want the backup for us turning into backup for them," Bucky says dryly from his position near the barricaded door, his weapon lifted in readiness. "If you take my meaning."<br><br>His eyes turn to Steve at that moment of silence afterwards. Any good right-hand man knows when their CO is having a moment, and he studies Steve wordlessly a few seconds before he gives up his position, and steps softly back towards the main group. Softer than a man his height and weight has any right to move.<br><br>"Give her to me," he says, slinging his weapon over his shoulder and out of the way, "if we have to move them." He has no idea if the serum will cleanse a zombie plague, though it's cleansed just about any other disease or poison he's come across to date; but more than just the serum, he also has his left arm, which is eminently unbiteable.<br><br>Unless there are objections, he'll take the girl up into his arms, cradling her so her head is braced against his left In Case of Biting. Somehow, despite the circumstances under which most people present first met him, he doesn't look much like a legendary killer carrying off a victim. He looks more like a guy who had a little sister, once, and carried her to bed more times than he can count.<br><br>"We got a way out?" he inquires of Sam, who seems to have been scouting.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>When it comes to matters like these -- people like Claire look up on Captain America.<br><br>It's a rote movement, one of the few things her generation grew up on that still sticks to today -- especially with him /here/. He's their hero, and his countrymen look on him to make those decisions.<br><br>Something seems to be wearing on him; it's cursory enough that the very perceptive Night Nurse picks it up, though with only the time to tighten her eyes questioningly at the corners. Then her attention breaks off, as Sam volunteers himself off to look --<br><br>-- "Be careful," Claire calls after him, a frown burnt into those words, unable to help the bit of protectiveness she feels for him since the night he bared her track marks on his arm.<br><br>Then Bucky bends in to relieve her of the youngest, and Claire watches his gentle arranging of the child in his flesh-and-metal arms. She doesn't even need to nag him to be careful, or mindful of her head; he knows. She looks after him for a moment.<br><br>"Hey," Claire says instead, pushing herself up to a half-kneel, ducking in to put a hand on the second-oldest girl's shoulder. "You're all together. You did right. Now we have to go, all right? You two are gonna stay with me. We're going to be right in the middle and these guys are going to see our way out. You stick to me. All right? /Stick/ to me."<br><br>The vending machine rocks, and Claire lifts to a stand. "We're gonna do this," she tells everyone, in case there's doubts.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>The girl in Bucky's grasp groans when he picks her up. Even with her facing his metallic arm, she feels warm, essentially radiating heat. The injury at her shoulder in particular seems to emulate the fever that has been drawn from these layers of flesh. <br><br>Her middle sister looks up at Bucky, hopeful. "Please mister, just.. Keep her safe. Please," her voice cracks and she looks towards Claire for reassurance, seemingly believing that the medical professional in the group will best account for her sister's safety. <br><br>But Steve casts Bucky a grateful look followed by a crisp nod. Claire's assurance to the girls and instructions merits another nod. "We gotta move. You both okay to run?" he looks between the girls. But Claire's assurance seems to gain more the same. <br><br>"Yeah, we can run," the eldest finally answers. She looks towards Claire and nods. "We'll stay close. Just... get us out of here. Please." There's a pause. "And the school. Oh man, we should go help--" <br><br>"No." There's decisiveness in Cap's words. "We need to move and get your sister medical attenton. We'll get you out and we'll be back for the school..." He pauses. "Winchester, do you have an exit?" Cap repeats. "Lead us out of here!" <br><br>The rumble of the vending machine starts with the simple scratches of a dull tilt, with the echo of plastic tipping back and forth along tile and then the distinct sound of something slamming against it from the back. Undeniably, they're trying to get in. While the ones that had been loitering outside the mall had been in extreme states of decay, whatever slams against the machine is in another altogether. There's little doubt that the monster has some strength and substance left in its musculoskeletal system. <br><br>The vending machine slams forward. Falling flat on its face. The monster on the other side has few hallmarks of humanity. It's eyes bulge, the skin at its lips pull back into a strange mash of teeth. The pale colour of skin that doesn't appear to be rotting speaks to something other having taken over. A few stitches sew it's bald scalp together while a long tentacle-like tube curves around its neck. Dressed in black, unlike the others, it bears a large weapon. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, and a ridiculously tall build makes it far larger than any traditional human. This is not a zombie. This is a soldier. The large weapon flung over its shoulder hangs precariously but with the machine knocked over, reaches to twist it in its grasp. Whatever its purpose or plight, the heroes have one advantage over it: it had been locked out and needed to push the machine over to get in.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Bang! Bang! Bang! Winchester is already firing at this thing, black eyes narrowed. He even lifts his arm for a twitch of a second before he drops it, and hears the question: Does he have an exit?<br><br>And he does. Sam had a chance to glance at the kiosk for a few seconds before the machine started rocking, and that was all he needed.<br><br>"Yes!" He's told to lead the way, so he does, but as he does, he at least tells them what they're looking for. Because he could get shot in the next sixty seconds, and for all he's the king of bad communication in the field, he knows that they'll die without the information. Well. Maybe Bucky and Cap won't, but the others could. "We're going to take a left at the next hallway intersection, then a right between the Gap and the bookstore. There's a restroom hallway in there. At the end, service exit. Leads to dumpsters. Least likely place for zombies to be looking for victims, but of course there's no way to be sure. We can use the dumpsters to block the exit and then find a new route from there."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>Bucky doesn't miss the way Claire looks reflexively up to Steve -- up to Captain America -- for answers. Something about that dims the blue of his eyes, and he blinks and averts his gaze.<br><br>Instead he concentrates on gathering the girl up, though whatever dulled his eyes earlier seems to have made him a little nervous handling her now as well. He is gentle, almost too gentle, as if he fears his hands are no longer fit for kindness, and will automatically kill anything that is unlucky enough to fall into their grasp.<br><br>But the girl is not killed. Not even hurt. She nestles into his arms unharmed, and now her sister is looking up to /him/ to keep her safe. Something about that shimmers a brief emotion in his eyes, understated, that comes and goes like light glancing off a window.<br><br>"Nothin's gonna get her," he says gruffly, to cover the moment. "She'll be fine."<br><br>Sam gives them a rundown of a way out, then, and he starts moving immediately. That thing that just knocked over the barricade? He's not sticking around to dance with THAT when there's children in tow.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>Missing that change in Bucky's eyes, with her own attention turned fully on the girls, and with their little time... instead Claire collects herself, galvanized by the moment and kicked back on alert by a plan made.<br><br>Of course, the mention of a /school/ gives her pause, and Claire's eyes widen -- her mind is already reaching towards that prospect. Not wanting to end with this, but there too -- rescue as many as one can, perhaps /more/ than one can, in one night --<br><br>Sometimes, thinking like a nurse has its failures. Saving as many lives as possible -- more than a few hands feasibly can. You /have/ to think this way or you fail in your job.<br><br>But it's Captain America's call, and he makes the decision before she can speak. Claire's mouth tightens, considering argument, but between the little girl in Bucky's arms and that pleading look her sister gives her -- she relents. "She'll be fine," she tells the girl. "His name is James, and he's going to protect her. You have to stick with me. Hold my hand, and run when I tell you."<br><br>And -- it appears that's going to be RIGHT NOW.<br><br>The vending machine pitches aside as if it were a pillow, and Claire snaps a hand reflexively around each that of the girls' as she takes /that/ sight in, paling, lost for words. Sam's cracks of gunshots cover the curse she wants to spit out.<br><br>"GO!" she shrieks, already peeling forward into a dead sprint, adrenaline pulling those girls with. She keeps dogged on Sam's heels, her breath hot on her throat, regretting every terrified glance she turns back.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Bullets push the man-beast backwards with a low growl. His body curls into itself, and it becomes immediately clear that they will need a lot more firepower to put that thing down. While the impact of the gunfire causes him to crumple backwards, he's not dead, and it doesn't look like he's likely to stay down long. Unquestionably, however, he's far more focused than his dead counterparts. Yet the others leave him alone, even when he's in a semi-compromised state. They don't attempt to claw or bite him. It's a wonder if there are more of them roaming around the closed-off city. <br><br>The eldest girl nods hopefully at Bucky before sidling closer to Claire. With eyes full of gratitude at Claire's introduction, the eldest nods. "Thank you," she whispers, but imminently, she's and her other sister are made to run. The pair cling to Claire's hands with the younger of the two being a bit of dead weight while they move. <br><br>The small child against Bucky mumbles something soft and low, for his ears only before closing her eyes again. <br><br>Sam's direction guides them through a strange passage of occasionally flickering lights (isn't the power off? Maybe there's a backup generator), pillaged stores with broken glass and various levels of theft, and long, empty hallways. It's fortunate that the silence of the mall grants them some even more protection. The break in silence suggests something follows. With Bucky having taken the child in his arms, Steve assumes the rear. <br><br>Bang! Bang! Bang! <br><br>"Don't look back! Straight shot to the exit!" he calls. If he keeps firing he can buy them space. It's in his nature to linger. To give them something to shoot at. Bang! Bang! Bang! <br><br>The gunfire pushes it back again, but it's only a matter of time before it catches up again. It's smart. It's different. It's somehow superior. And when it collapses back over a not-running fountain, Steve turns on his heel and sprints to catch up to the others. He's quick. For this he's thankful. <br><br>The group passes the restrooms and the lights flicker again, buzzing with energy as they do so. And finally, they make it to the exit. Sure enough, ten zombies amble around the dumpsters seeking some kind of scraps amongst human limbs disposed. <br><br>But the echo of loud paces and that thing on their tails warns that going back might not be a viable option. "Fire at will!" Steve commands. It's a terrible plan, but with that thing on their caboose, running like a bat out of hell seems to be the best option.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>'Fire at will!'<br><br>Sam Winchester does just that, sighting on one of the zombies and pulling the trigger with brutal efficiency. The kids in the midst of their group are an ever-present thought on his mind, too, which is why he finally breaks his private resolve.<br><br>He whips out a hand to try to throw two more halfway down the street with his telekinesis. His desire to do without, balanced against the life of those kids.<br><br>//There is no good without a balancing of the scales somewhere,// he thinks, almost bitterly, but the math still adds up, even as his mouth twists. Because it only takes a second, one awful split second, and it only takes one darting through their ranks at the wrong moment. He's not willing to shy away from minimizing those risks.<br><br>He is moving even as he's doing it, getting out of the way of Bucky, who will no doubt do for even more of them even //with// a kid in his arms.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>Whatever the girl says to Bucky, it brings him to stare askance at her a few moments, shocked, before he steels himself and looks away again. His arms tighten, but he says nothing.<br><br>His right hand might stray a little to pet her hair, but if it does, it does so while no one else is looking.<br><br>His focus returns to their exit. He made a promise, and he isn't about to start breaking promises now. Introduced as 'James,' he nods briefly at Claire and her charges, making sure she's going to be okay, before he takes an instant lead. Sam's directions were long, but despite that Bucky doesn't ask for them to be repeated, nor look liable to need them to be repeated. The gift of the serum isn't all physical: he and Steve have perfect recall of things once told.<br><br>He is conscious of Steve bringing up the rear, and a vague concern rises at the back of his mind about unnecessary heroics -- one that is swiftly brushed off. They didn't fight through a war together just so Bucky could doubt Steve when the going got tough.<br><br>More zombies block their exit. Bucky grimaces, not wanting to do this while holding a child, but he's not got a lot of choice. "Fingers in your ears, sweetheart," he whispers, though he shifts his hold on her so he can curl her head between his hand and his chest, muffling her ears for her if she can't.<br><br>Because his free hand, holding a sidearm, comes up a moment later. With his typical precision, he aims for headshots on each of the creatures remaining.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>With no hands free to fire a gun of her own -- and probably for the best she isn't -- Claire concentrates only on the dead flight forward, her clinging fingers white-knuckling those girls' hands in hers.<br><br>She herds them this way and that, keeping in the middle between Sam at vanguard and Steve at the back, with Bucky and that little parcel in his arms remaining promisingly nearby.<br><br>There's only one thing -- the youngest of the two, Claire feels her dragging, feels her unable to keep up to her longer, urgent strides. She's going to slow them down, and she can't ask any of the men to give up their gunhands as they /clear/ a path and hold back the horde at the periphery.<br><br>So Claire takes in a breath, and mid-step, snatches the ten-year-old up against her hip, and charges on. The last two months have her out of shape, but she can /do/ this. She's /done/ this, every day, fourteen-hour shifts followed by running all through New York with her forty-pound bag of medical supplies. She was strong enough then, and she's sure as hell strong enough now.<br><br>"Hold on, baby," she says, and with her hand clasped around the other girl, summons up every last lick of adrenaline and stays true on her sprint. The added weight labours her, but Claire doesn't slow. She holds her jaw against the too-close fire of gunshots, and runs as around them those creatures ventilate and fall.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>The zombies that Sam and Bucky fire at splatter into a mess of brain-guts when the bullets meet their heads. They drop. Hard. And the telekinesis sends even more floating away, crushing them against buildings and surfaces thanks to their various states of decay. <br><br>//SCHPLUNK!// <br><br>Following the shooting the little girl on Bucky's shoulder murmurs soft thanks. A kind of grateful sigh in her addled fever-state. The bodies virtually disintegrate as they move. And with the path cleared, the group runs into the street. They only have two blocks to run and they can find the exit out of the dome. Two blocks to leave the death and dying. <br><br>The sprint feels like an eternity, especially as the gunfire draws more of the dead on their trail. But the group doesn't stop. No one lingers behind. <br><br>Bang! Bang! Bang! <br><br>Gunfire from all sides keeps the zombies at bay. <br><br>And then the line is met. The end of the dome is reached. The forcefield lifts to permit them exit just in time to see the Soldier-beast take up the rear. <br><br>With a loud bellow, it becomes clear. <br><br>Inside the dome a war is being waged against the living.<br> <br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=2628/Heads_Will_Roll&diff=17522628/Heads Will Roll2017-10-03T12:11:32Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/10/03 |Location=Raccoon |Synopsis=SHIELD sends a team on a rescue op. Things are far worse than intel suggested. |Thanks=Steve |Cast of Charac..."</p>
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<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/10/03<br />
|Location=Raccoon<br />
|Synopsis=SHIELD sends a team on a rescue op. Things are far worse than intel suggested.<br />
|Thanks=Steve<br />
|Cast of Characters=112, 294, 229, 230<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Something vile has gone down in Raccoon. <br><br>SHIELD had put up a quarantine zone, represented by a large bubble of energy to keep whatever is going on in and everything else out. While very little is actually known, briefings and reconnaissance have suggested something strange has descended on the Midwestern American city. <br><br>The Quinjet arrives just shy of the forcefield zone. Warnings about the area had been extreme. Proceed with caution, the briefing had stated. Go in, scope the situation, save any survivors, and report back. While there had been aerial evidence that someone remained in the chaos (a large SOS had been drawn atop one of the many buildings), communications have been shut off with the outside world. <br><br>All-in-all, raccoon has become a dead zone. <br><br>The smell of death, dying, and decay fills the air when the entrance to the Quinjet opens, suffocating the signs of life that might draw anyone away from this spot. <br><br>SHIELD had promised to keep its people well equipped and well protected. Lightweight armour developed to look like street clothes (an invention from SHIELD R&amp;D that at least one developer was quite proud of) was made available to all. Weaponry had been assigned. And the Mission Parameters were made available to each of the heroes present. This was about finding survivors, and, if at all possible, get a handle on whatever happened in Raccoon for things to get so out of control so quickly. <br><br>Captain America, rather than Steve Rogers, complete with his costume, mask and helmet steps off the Quinjet. With the shield securely fastened to his back, he casts a long look behind him. "Alright everyone. We're going to stick as close together as we can. We know that the city is in a bad way," it's easy enough to see thanks to the ransacked buildings damaged by rioters, pillagers, and anyone trying to manage to survive amongst the bedlam that's broken out. "Watch for signs of survivors, keep your eyes open, and," his lips turn to a thin grim line, "if need be, defend yourself and any survivors. We don't know what we'll find." <br><br>His throat clears and he makes a small tick with his head, leading them down the path into whatever lies beyond, silently thankful that the current mission is happening in the middle of the day with plenty of hours of light rather than the dark. At least they have the privilege of light. <br><br>The large buildings squeak and creak as they pass, looking mostly abandoned save for the occasional band of shadow that trails passed one of the windows. <br><br>Despite the silence, Raccoon isn't a ghost town.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester is loaded for bear, and has been trying to dig up //any// information prior to the quarantine that might help him get out in front of this and identify it. To this end, he read pre-quarantine reports, and then cross-checked them against all of his various lore sources, a growing, searchable, digitized library in his tablet now with the help of SHIELD's resources, and more borrowed books from one Bobby Singer.<br><br>This is, he supposes, his first official official SHIELD Agent mission, so his street clothes are a suit today, if a suit armored up and ready to go.<br><br>"So according to the pre-quarantine reports," he says slowly, "people lost it. They started going violent and attacking one another, even family members. There might have been some sort of illness first though. High fevers, shakes. The lore doesn't have anything that matches up. Which could mean it's not supernatural, and it could mean...there's no lore."<br><br>Well, there's no reason why it //should// be supernatural in nature, but Sam's life suffers from a bad case of 'every problem to date has mostly been a nail and the real solution has always been 'pick the right hammer.'<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>It might be Captain America, rather than Steve Rogers, stepping off the Quinjet, but it's Bucky Barnes rather than the Winter Soldier that stands in the shadow behind him, still wary of being too close to others.<br><br>He had had quiet conference with both Steve and Claire before this -- individually, not together -- and the topic of conversation had been the same: if I revert, knock me the hell out before I can kill anyone or do any damage. With Claire he had developed a sort of failsafe to that end: a little vial of sedative calibrated specifically to put him out within five seconds regardless of injection site.<br><br>He just prays that if he does revert, he doesn't retain enough memories to know to kill Claire first.<br><br>So far so good, however. He seems transparently uncomfortable, even with a rifle cradled in his right arm, and even more uncomfortable when Sam mentions 'they just went violent and attacked their own family.' "People gonna be fine barefaced here if it's some kinda sickness?" he asks, glancing first at Claire, and then dubiously at the ruins beyond.<br><br>He moves instantly when Steve does. Normally he would trail, bringing up the rear, but he does not want to be in a position where no one would notice if he started drawing a bead on their backs.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>A myriad of reasons brings Claire Temple to the here and now. One is being asked as a medical consult onto something that looks close to resembling a pandemic. Another is wanting to give back, and desperately so, to the believe who all joined together to rescue /her/. Another is she doesn't have much else going on, especially in terms of a 9-to-5, and an underworked Claire is a stir-crazy Claire. Another is James Barnes, and after the last two months of his close proximity, she anxiously does not want him out of eyesight for too long.<br><br>Gratefully dressed in that light armor, and though her only weapon on-hand may be that injectable vial handed to her by Bucky -- ever the pragmatist, Claire holds onto it now, even though she doesn't /like/ it -- she walks bravely with the others.<br><br>The too-quiet city rises all around them, vacant and husked-out for what looks like some time, and the nurse frowns up the lengths of shadowy skyscrapers. "Reminds me a bit too much of Hell's Kitchen," she comments. "That's not a good thing."<br><br>She steps over stray garbage and debris littering the road, listening to others speak as she goes, her own first priority looking for signs of survivors as Captain America directed. "Should be," Claire confirms, though she doesn't sound comfortable about the idea. "Even if it's airborne, we're in a serious lack of a transmission vector right now," namely, people they can see, "but from what the agent sounds like -- neurological infection? Not airborne, usually. Few to no viruses last long outside of a host. If it's bacterial, different. Either way, safest if no one touches /anything/ without gloves, and if we do find someone -- I'll handle quarantine."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam earns a facsimile of a smile. "I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing." Behind the mask, his face scrunches together. There's little reassurance beyond the lack of knowing anything. "Feels like the War all over again. It's amazing that we're always playing catch-up and never know what we're actually getting into." <br><br>Towards Claire, he nods when she answers Bucky. "Basic notes said be on guard, but Claire is right. Researchers don't think it's airborne." While Cap may be wearing the suit there's a lack of confidence in the statement that is all Steve. But then the source of his uncertainty turns up in a few words delivered moments later from //the Captain// rather than his alter ego, "SHIELD has been keeping an eye on the site for some time," without intervention. His thoughts on that matter lay bare even in the plain non-judgmental language he chooses. Tone speaks volumes. <br><br>While the group moves silently through the highly industrialized city turned primitive, they continue to see shadows through the windows they pass. It's a wonder there are so many people around when so few are physically on the streets. The aerial map had indicated the SOS message was written atop one of the many tall buildings--this one a mega mall not far from their current position. Looking towards the sky, the group can see the peaks of the building in question not far from where they are. <br><br>But as they near, the silence gets interrupted by moaning. Grunts. Groans. Something beastly calls angrily to them, even as it remains out of sight, there's little question that something lays between them and their target. <br><br>Rounding the corner, while staying close to the walls of a CVS Pharmacy, the view of the mall becomes unimpeded. Its bright colours feel dull beneath the SHIELD-created dome encompassing them and this entire city. Without lights on, inside it looks dull and dreary, a once-harbinger of activity turned literal graveyard. In front of the mall entrance, a barrage of twenty amblers, with pale-grey skin, hollow eyes, and various states of rot, patrol. Their skin falls off its bones, melting away while suggesting some sense of decomposition. Their ability to still move seems almost nonsensical. They look vacant, but the haunting emissions from their mouths are unmistakable. What remains of some of the residents has slipped into disarray. <br><br>A loud, blood-curdling scream emits from the West.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>There might be a shift in Sam's expression when Claire explains this isn't (probably) airborne, one that hints at relief. It's subtle, but it's there.<br><br>In the meantime, he finds out that SHIELD just sat around and did nothing. His eyes go briefly and literally black with anger; nostrils flare and his mouth tightens. SHIELD loses another point with him today.<br><br>Still, he's focused as they draw closer, drawing his Beretta in response to all the noise. He points it at the ground until he sees the shamblers.<br><br>The problem with stuff like this is there are dozens of things that can make an apparent corpse move like that, and all of them are totally different. Sometimes just shooting the damned things works wonders. Sometimes, not so much. He raises his gun, aims briefly, and tries a headshot on one of them.<br><br>Winchester the Younger figures the time to find out is before they get within melee range, after all.<br><br>It's the kind of decisive, independent action that both serves him well and drives most of SHIELD crazy. Maybe he should have announced 'I'm going to shoot that thing.' Maybe there are strategic reasons he shouldn't. But in the end he's kind of like that comedy where that one guy talks about playing video games.<br><br>I don't have TIME to make a CHARACTER, there are ZOMBIES and I gotta shoot 'em in the HEAD!<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>For the most part, Bucky leaves looking for survivors to others, despite the instruction. His eye isn't really attuned to people who need help unless it's to mark them as easy prey, and he doesn't like the way that makes him feel. Brings the predator too close back to the surface. Instead he mostly scans for threats, which is better in the sense that it comes with far less of a sense of eating the wounded.<br><br>His eyes turn to Steve thoughtfully at his friend's words. Bucky was fluent in Steve context-switching-ese long before he became a true polyglot. Sam hears it too, and his reaction is written quite clearly across his features, along with a startling tic that thins Bucky's mouth.<br><br>The first sight of the amblers draws a grimace from him. "I was gonna ask," he says, "if there was any bringing these people back from this, but..." The flesh slips off a shambler's arm entirely, as if to prove just how ridiculous such a query would be. Grimly, he mounts the grenade launcher under the barrel of his weapon, though unlike Sam -- who he shoots a rather scandalized look -- he is ingrained to wait for word from Steve before he fires. Especially since what he's loading is a grenade.<br><br>The shriek makes him tense, though, his rifle lifting.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>Following along, feeling her unease grow the deeper they all wade into this gutted-out city, Claire --<br><br>-- gets her first and true unimpeded look at what must be left of the residents. And in that one look, she also gets an answer to a question she /has/ never and would not /want/ to ever ask: are zombies real?<br><br>"Son of a..." Claire murmurs under her breath, her voice twisted up with revulsion and horror. She cups a hand over her mouth, and despite her own iron stomach, even it finds itself immediately tested by the stink of flyblown rot and the distant sight of decaying meat falling free from the exposed bones of /someone still moving, and very much alive./<br><br>It goes against all biological plausibility, and yet here it is. "I think we --" Claire begins to offer her sage medical advice, when --<br><br>Sam up and /shoots/ one.<br><br>The gunshot looks like it takes one of Temple's nine lives with it, jumping like some skinned cat. "What in the /hell/, Sam!" Claire sputters, eyes flared wide, hands outstretched in a beseeching OH YOU DID NOT JUST. "<br><br>Of course, there's no time for more lecturing, that or it just dries the hell up in her voice, at the sound of /something/ screaming distant.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>The headshot lands and the zombie collapses to the ground. Headshots seems effective. Or, maybe only particular headshots are. In this case, the bullet does the expected work. <br><br>Even with success, however, Steve's expression mirrors Bucky's. There are some things that Rogers is no longer used to. There was a season in his life when he struggled to understand why anyone would listen to his orders. But after becoming accustomed, it's equally strange to not be so heeded. Not that he gave an order. <br><br>And then Claire issues a reprimand. Blue eyes sweep to meet Bucky's punctuating the very brief contact with a faint lift of eyebrows behind the mask. <br><br>The shock only has a moment to make purchase on Steve's face. Where the one zombie had been struck down, its friends are drawn to attention. They move forward, dripping with all of the flesh and markers of resurrected dead. Teeth gnash angrily and blood stains across ragged clothes speak to both open wounds--greyed and puss-filled and other victims. <br><br>Decisively, in the moment, and because their position is already given up anyways, Steve's head snaps towards Bucky, "Fire at will!" <br><br>His hand already traces for the firearm at his side. A simple hand gun. He'd rather use the shield still attached to his back, but with this many unfriendlies, there's no telling how quickly he'll be able to retrieve it once thrown. <br><br>His head turns to the West. The scream suggests someone alive. Every muscle in his body tenses with silent calculation. He's estimating distance. It's not remotely scientific, but leaving the mission parameters has him in want. Someone needs help. <br><br>While attention might be on the walking dead in front of them, the moaning gets louder. More are on their way. <br><br>Freshly risen corpses with no signs of decay run fast towards the group from the South, closing in from behind--had they passed them without realizing? It's difficult to tell. The vacancy of the new arrivals' eyes suggests more the same, but these ones might be salvageable. Maybe. If they could get remotely close without risking assault. Several in the front have marked blood smeared across their faces like they indulged in a pie eating contest, complete without utensils. <br><br>The West yields more moaning as does the East. On all sides they're being pressed in. "Get into the mall, we'll regroup, find any survivors and get out," and even as Steve gives the order, he's firing at the zombies in front. There are far less ahead than there are behind. At least the glass doors guarantee that much.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam looks more confused by this outrage and confusion than anything else. The confusion turns his irises back to a more piney green color. His brows draw down in an earnest frown, and he says gently, "They're going to eat our faces if we don't shoot them. And our brains."<br><br>Like he's explaining water is wet.<br><br>Fortunately Steve seems to get the memo and orders firing at will. He draws a bead on another head, staying with the group at least, and he fires again, again aiming for heads. As Steve picks a direction he does follow; the orders are good ones and really, when they're this outnumbered there's really not much more to do than move and fire. Though he's got high hopes for that rocket launcher Bucky is toting.<br><br>With this much this close he says, with a veteran's calm, "These are resurrected dead. They might have gotten sick first, and that may or may not be related, but Voodoo's involved. A mambo or a bokor is close."<br><br>He fires again, even as he explains. "They have to be on site to control them. It's likely he or she will have at least 5 followers being ridden by various petro loa in response to this; very angry pagan gods and goddesses who will have received sacrifices--"<br><br>Firing again, "And who will definitely be behind him."<br><br>He's speaking rapidly, trying to get all the information out fast; if he dies in the next 30 seconds, after all, they won't know what they need to know. "Every voodoo ritual--"<br><br>He dodges a swing at his face that comes too close for comfort, fires, "begins with the Opening of the Way. We can significantly weaken the mambo and his ritual if we find and destroy the Legba veve. It will look like a stylized gate in black and red chalk, probably inscribed on a door near the ritual."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>Bucky takes a few steps back towards Claire as she freaks out over the gunshot. It's half to give her a calming look, and half to unholster one of his sidearms and present it to her. "Last resort. Don't shoot one of us," is his crash course. "I'll teach you more later."<br><br>As for Sam? "You usually wait for the CO to make that call," Bucky says in response to Sam's rather bemused explanation of his actions. "Keeps things more organized than everyone just running about willy nilly and thereby fucking up each other's shit. If you think the CO's call is dumb, then you ask 'Do you really want to do that, sir,' before you do it."<br><br>Operational protocol dispensed, he lifts his own (considerably larger) weapon, feeds a grenade, and cocks an eye at Steve. Despite the years, despite everything that's happened to them and between them, they still operate together like clockwork, without need for spoken words to ask questions or give orders. That Steve eventually does give an order is just a formality at that point: Bucky read the letter of it in the decision that flashes in Steve's eyes moments before.<br><br>He takes point instantly, being the one with the heaviest ordnance, firing a grenade in a low and accurate arc directly for the center of those massed zombies between them and the mall. There's fewer of them up ahead than there are flanking them.<br><br>He moves so he's chivvying Claire ahead of him, keeping an eye on her and providing her cover. He's listening to Sam, but true to his earlier advice -- he glances sidelong to Steve to see what he thinks about this information.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>Claire stares up and up on Sam Winchester like his logic come descendeth from the temple mount of the craziest ass god she's ever heard of. "They're going to eat our faces," she whispers back incredulously, "because they all now know our fool faces are here!!"<br><br>And whether it's by the gunshot or simply proximity alone -- the other undead turn their attention one way only.<br><br>The colour drains out of her face; she steps back, unsure, arrested only when Bucky gives her a look that feels like a last handhold before a fatal fall. And he offers her one of his sidearms. She looks down at it, unsure, never a fan of guns and recently now even less so, but with their little time, she gratefully takes it in hand.<br><br>Last resort. She keeps the barrel turned down and her finger off the trigger. He doesn't have to say that twice.<br><br>Taking no shots herself, Claire heeds Steve Rogers' command and breaks into a sprint, cringing between the reports of gunfire as the three take shots on the amassing dead in pursuit.<br><br>"And what if it's not a voodoo ritual?!" she calls back to Sam's paranormal instruction. "If this is some disease -- if this is /real/ -- and this gets out -- "<br><br>With one glance back on Bucky as he shuttles her ahead, making sure he's not too far lost behind -- the looming shopping mall ahead inspires little confidence admist Claire's dead run. "/Every/ zombie movie -- starts in a damn /mall/!" she huffs. "And it /never/ ends well! And you know who dies first? It won't be one of your white asses!"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>/They're going to eat our faces if we don't shoot them/ While Bucky explains the ins and outs of command, and Claire calls attention to their previous element of surprise, Rogers, predictably, resorts to: "We'll discuss it later." He aims and fires his own weapon while on the move to get into the mall. There's little question that it will be discussed. Later. When they are not being surrounded by dead assailants. <br><br>Steve shoots another in the head. The squish-slosh sound of brains being bored through a rotting skull is akin to the splat of spaghetti falling from a wall into a vat of sauce, complete with the //SCHPLUNK// at the end. <br><br>He frowns. "I don't think I understood half of those words, Winchester." It's fortunate that they have Bucky with them as the path of zombies ahead clears thanks to the power of the weapon. Corpses light in a crowd with clothes catching fire far quicker than extremities, limbs, and bones. And that fire that causes the zombies to go up in smoke grants the group enough of an opening to get into the mall. <br><br>The door doesn't give immediately. Someone has sealed it on the other side. There's little question survivors exist in the mall. But with the pressure to get out of the street, the door handles, chained together on the inside certainly doesn't grant much space. They are literally pressed against the door. <br><br>That flicker in Steve's eyes recognizes the impossibility of the situation. He inhales a long breath, grasps the shield at his back, and instructs to the others, "Take as many out as you can. We're not going to have much room inside." The glass doors are little match for the hard impact of the vibranium shield against their surface. It takes three solid hits, but in short order, glass shatters. <br><br>The zombies are on their tails, but as they move, Steve turns back to Sam: "So... you're saying," he looks back towards the glass.. "/Someone/ is controlling them? Can we disrupt it?" He looks pointedly at Sam with that thought. Not that there's time to think more on this. He turns to look at Claire, "What if it's something between? A disease and some kind of... weirdness," that he doesn't have language for, "Is that possible?" This is so far outside his wheelhouse that he doesn't push the idea more, just leaves it to sit with people who understand these things more than he does. <br><br>As the group moves through the mall with its gleaming floors, it's clear that someone has certainly set up home here. Stores have been broken into and supplies have been utilized to their fullest potential. <br><br>The smell of campfire inside wafts from up the busted-escalator. <br><br>Going the direction yields survivors. Three girls. All dark haired and green-eyed. One, the youngest, no more than six, trembles on the ground. Her skin is pale compared to the others as she shivers madly. ,<br><br>Getting even these three out will be a challenge.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>"CO, wait, got it. I'll remember next time."<br><br>Claire says that they know cause he shot, and a look of exasperation passes over the young man's face. "They were already looking right at us!"<br><br>And then she asks, 'what if it's not voodoo.'<br><br>"If it's not voodoo," he says, deadpanning both his snark and his logic, "then I'm wrong about the veve."<br><br>Dean is not the only sassy one in the family. Dean just uses his snark a lot less judiciously than one Sam Winchester. But it's a stressful situation, and snark is fair game. Military men, a street nurse, and a Hunter...three very distinct thought patterns in one very crappy situation, three distinct thought patterns that don't always agree.<br><br>He's also forced to reload as he uses up the 15 shots in his Beretta. Old clip out, new clip in, fast as if he can do it in his sleep (he very nearly can).<br><br>She says her brown ass is who dies first and he gives an incredulous version of his Face, a brief flattening of his mouth and flaring of his nostrils, a brief tilt of his head.<br><br>They'll discuss it later, Steve says, and Sam at least recognizes the wisdom of that. Meanwhile Rogers says he doesn't get it and he opens his mouth to try to figure out what part he didn't get. But then the rocket launcher is doing its incredible work, buying them a moment, and Steve reveals he at least absorbed all the important bits. "Yes," he says. "We just have to find them. Killing the ritualists will also work, but I'd prefer to just mar the veve, which should banish the loa, knock out his followers and snap his control."<br><br>The door is now shattered, which means it's useless as a blockade. Sam backs into the mall as he reloads. Protocol. Okay. "Should we block those?" he asks Steve. He doesn't add the Sir; it evokes bad memories in the extreme and grates against an inherently rebellious nature. But at least he remembers to ask.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>By virtue of many years of military service, Bucky manages to keep a straight face as Claire goes off. It's a near thing, though. His mouth twitches a little towards the end.<br><br>Focusing on firing into the massed zombies helps: bullets are great, but grenades are even better, and Bucky is generous with their application. He probably should have just focused on that, in fact, because when he does tune back in to the conversation, it's to hear Claire saying something about how it won't be their white asses dying first, and --<br><br>"No, /I/ was already the one to die first," he says. It's obvious he meant it as a joke.<br><br>It's not very funny.<br><br>He gets pretty quiet again after that. He'll probably need a 'we'll discuss it later,' too.<br><br>Once in the mall, he finally pushes down his worries enough to bring up the rear, using suppressive fire to keep the zombies from coming in after them too quickly and yielding some breathing room. Like Steve, he seems content to leave the analysis to those with more expertise, though it doesn't take knowhow for him to judge the condition of the three survivors they come across.<br><br>"She sick?" he wonders of the smallest one, as he takes up a position to try to provide overwatch for the group.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>Happy to take shelter in the shadow of Steve's lead -- it still astounds Claire even /running for her life/ that she's on some sort of mission with Captain America himself -- she finds herself closed him between the him, vibranium shield and all, smashing a way into the mall, and on the other side, both Bucky and Sam picking off the closing, incoming horde, putting bullets and fiery grenades into a deepening sea of rotting faces.<br><br>She's so scared out of her goddamned mind she doesn't know anything to do but run her own mouth. The gun stays silent in her hands. Last resort -- this doesn't feel like one.<br><br>It's not going to end like this, right? /Especially/ not with Sam making snark next to her?<br><br>"I haven't read all those notes you gave me," Claire sasses breathlessly back, all terror and no real candor, "but is there actually any monster you can stop by talking like a smartass?!"<br><br>Steve smashes them a path inside. Bucky covers them all with that last -- terrible joke.<br><br>Claire shoots him a quick, incredulous look that's more wince than anything else. She backtracks another glance on him, certain he's still with them, but otherwise the woman sprints on a dead-run, no super soldier endurance or years of military training to sustain her -- just a lot of long hours, years of long-hours' endurance, and a shitload of adrenaline.<br><br>Moving through the darkened mall and up the dead escalator, she rasps breathlessly, "Do you guys smell --"<br><br>And survivors, they find. Claire hitches in shock, before her demeanour mutates like a light turned on, all that sharpness gone. She hands Bucky back his gun, grip-first, needing her hands free to pull rubber gloves over them.<br><br>She wastes no time to dash over to the girls and knee down. "Hey, sweeties," she says gently, "it's all right. I'm a doctor -- we're here to find you. Is it just you three?"<br><br>The youngest, shivering, first earns Claire's attention, as she counts her heartrate with her fingers and tests her dehydration through the pallor and give of her skin. "Can you hear me? Can you tell me what's wrong?" she entreats.<br><br>Bucky's question swings back her head. Is she sick? Claire's worried expression is answer enough.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Bucky was the one to die first. Steve's expression flattens. If he was serious earlier, he's downright professional now. He leans hard into Captain America. And sure enough, as predicted, Steve turns towards Barnes, "We'll discuss this later." Although Bucky knows Steve well enough to see that reflection in his eyes.They won't discuss it later. This is something Steve won't bring up again. <br><br>The flicker of failure lingers longer than he intends. With a sharp shake of his head, like an etch a sketch, he purposively scrubs out the loss. <br><br>Sam's discussion of words Steve still isn't convinced are words, causes Steve to stiffen, but the notion of a blockade earns a sharp nod of his head. "Do it. Any time we can buy to get out of here is necessary." <br><br>The smallest of the sisters shivers at the question. She's been in the care of her two older siblings--evidence of which can be seen in the weapons arsenal the girls have gathered around them. For 6, 10, and 14, they seem to have well resourced themselves. The smallest moves towards Claire. <br><br>Undeniably, her skin is hot to touch. Burning up. The whites of her eyes have given way to yellow, and have become increasingly bloodshot through fever and stress. While buried under blankets, she still feels cold, evidence that something in her body works hard to fight off some deep-rooted infection. <br><br>"She got bit," the middle girl says softly. "We don't what to do! We did everything we could. We boiled our water! We ate only from," the cache of snack foods from a robbed vending machine lay beside the fire. "We've been trying everything! Maddie," she looks towards her older sister, "said we should just lay low." Her lips purse. "She's our sister, you can't let her die!" <br><br>"We're not leaving without her," the eldest asserts. <br><br>Steve eyes the trio. His expression falters and he looks towards Claire, "Can she be moved?" because that's going to pose other problems. He then glances back towards the others, "Ideas?" because they actively need suggestions. And a plan.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Claire's banter produces a fast grin out of Sam. There is a reason why Claire sort of registers as a 'long lost Winchester cousin' to him. She demonstrates all of the above right now. Cool under pressure, even when scared out of her mind. Keeping up with the deadpan snarking. Long meaningful looks. Pretexting an upgrade from nurse to doctor (one she frankly deserves anyway) because she knows 'doctor' is going to keep them calmer and earn more respect than nurse. He doesn't continue the snark train though, because Bucky says he died first-- and inappropriately //Sam// also flashes his quick grin at that, not because he's necessarily insensitive to Captain Rogers' guilt, but because, well, for a guy who has also died at least once, it's //really funny// to him, though he's not about to indulge in the Me Second-- or is it Me Third, with Captain America's stint on the ice?-- right now-- until he gets a look at the faces of the two who maybe aren't as amused and clears his throat. Though if Captain America's stint does count, Claire is actually the Last Woman standing in some sense, and that makes it even funnier.<br><br>Not that the situation, overall, is particularly funny. It would be heart-wrenching, soul-searing, and frightening if he allowed it to be. But all he can do is just handle the next thing. "Bit's bad," he adds, probably unecessarily. He's proposed a great idea, but how to do it? His telekinesis isn't so strong (yet?) that he can just fling something into place with his mind. And there's no mystic ward versus zombies that he knows. So when Steve says 'do it' he gives a long 'uhhhh' and looks to Bucky the Tank, who surely can.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>Bucky realizes the impact of what he said about five seconds after it's way too late, and it's already struck Steve to the core. The trouble is that it just does not ever occur to him to connect 'Steve' and 'his fall' in any sense of responsibility or failure. When he thinks about it, remarks about it, it's not with any thought in his mind of failure or fault on his brother's part.<br><br>If anything, he considers it his own fault that he died, so any remarks on it are solely self-deprecating. Yet after hearing Steve speak of how he sees it, as a personal failing? Yeah, he gets the sting, even if he vehemently disagrees.<br><br>"Later," he eventually concurs, his gaze lowered, his entire demeanor subdued. It's a toss-up whether he actually means it, too, or whether like Steve he'll let the subject drop forever and find some nonproductive, self-loathing, and intensely guilt-ridden way to cope instead. Like running away for five years. That might do the trick.<br><br>In the here and now, he stays subdued, his blue eyes watching as Claire sees to the girls. Seeming to feel himself not very useful in regards to comforting children, he instead takes the hint from Sam's 'uhhhhhhh' and shoulders his gun, heading towards a long table standing derelict, perhaps a relic of some Girl Scout cookie sale long past.<br><br>Hooking his left hand under its edge, he eyeballs a second, then flips the thing with a sharp precise jerk and a whir of its mechanisms. It eventually ends its flight lodged horizontally in the doorframe, its body barring off the entryway at about waist height. He considers this work a moment, before he heads over and starts pushing a vending machine in front of the entire affair also, just in case some of these zombies have enough brain left to realize they can crawl over or under obstacles.<br><br>Yeah, this is much easier than talking.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>"She's going to have to be moved," Claire answers from where she's crouched, head turned up to regard Steve Rogers. Her eyes burn with urgency as hot as that little girl's fever. "She needs fluids, among other things I don't have here. If we call for back-up, would they even make it before we're overrun?"<br><br>Her attention turns on the other girls, brows furrowed, all seriousness -- and yet for them an infinite patience she rarely, if ever, extends toward adults. Children are every exception for Claire Temple.<br><br>It pales her slightly to hear the cause. "Bit," she repeats, and it's a struggle for her to keep the dread from hollowing out her voice. Her hands carefully unwind those layers of blankets. "No one is leaving without anyone. I promise. We're all here to keep you safe. Now can you show me the bite? On her arms? Her legs?" Please let it be an extremity.<br><br>It seems she may have found the transmission vector. Dear Lord.<br><br>Amidst her searching, wanting at least to get a look at the source of what is probably the infection, Claire's attention swings over at the distant THOOM of the table-made-blockade, jamming any simple way in. Her dark eyes flick from Bucky's left arm up to him, and gentle.<br><br>"All I know is we don't have much time to wait here," Claire presses, her eyes moving among the three men. She knows this, but doesn't know /that/ -- doesn't know how survival in a place that looks like war happened. "Depends if you guys think is safest."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Zombies scratch and claw and writhe until they are effectively shut out from the mall. But even with the barriers in place the sound of fingernails scratching against plastic can be heard. They are most definitely gathering in the world outside. The good news is the vending machine holds. But if enough of the bodies come this direction, they may be able to push the machine over. Mind that would be a lot of bodies and a very unideal situation. <br><br>Mostly because it means that there are just that many walking dead. <br><br>Moans begin to form in a rumbling chorus outside. <br><br>Steve's eyebrows lift at Sam's assertion that bit isn't good. A sardonic smile, that likely speaks spades because of who's wearing it follows the observation. "Yeah. I'm old, Sam. Not dead." Because he can infer biting is bad. And he seems like the one most likely to be talked about. <br><br>But easily, Steve's attention moves back to Claire and the child on the floor. His lips edge downwards and he manages a small nod. "I'm not sure about backup. I think we could call backup, but there's no guarantee they'll be able to break through." There's a stitch of indecisiveness. He's the commanding officer, yet something wears on him. "We need to find another route to get them out. Is there a map of this mall somewhere?" His eyes fllit towards the directory at the bottom of the escalator. Towards the vending machine with the scratch noises. <br><br>The second oldest reaches for her sister and props her up slowly, revealing a bite mark in the girl's shoulder. "We were doing okay here until, well..." her cheeks flush. "...we were okay. But then we were running out of food and we didn't want to go alone... we shoulda left Mika... she's not good with the knife..." Her chin drops towards her chest. <br><br> <br><br>The vending machine begins to rock.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>"I'll go have a look," Sam promises. He checks his weapon one more time, but if they were safe in here he should be safe to walk around a mall.<br><br>At least he said what he was doing this time. That's some sort of an improvement, right? But he does go look, slipping down the escalator, clicking on a flashlight and holding it with his gun, swinging it around to make sure he doesn't get ambushed. And looking for any other clues as to what happened here, or the veve he's already postulated.<br><br>He walks with a faint frown of concentration, and he moves very quickly. The victims don't have a lot of time here.<br><br>And then the vending machine is rocking. Sam turns his gun towards it, but does not go all Rambo towards the machine. He backs up a few steps, aiming. If it just falls over he backs up right out of the path of it, at an angle so that if it's kicked out towards him or flung forward it won't hit him. Because there are lots of reasons it could be rocking, not just a monster, and he wants to make sure it's not an innocent first.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>"That and you don't want the backup for us turning into backup for them," Bucky says dryly from his position near the barricaded door, his weapon lifted in readiness. "If you take my meaning."<br><br>His eyes turn to Steve at that moment of silence afterwards. Any good right-hand man knows when their CO is having a moment, and he studies Steve wordlessly a few seconds before he gives up his position, and steps softly back towards the main group. Softer than a man his height and weight has any right to move.<br><br>"Give her to me," he says, slinging his weapon over his shoulder and out of the way, "if we have to move them." He has no idea if the serum will cleanse a zombie plague, though it's cleansed just about any other disease or poison he's come across to date; but more than just the serum, he also has his left arm, which is eminently unbiteable.<br><br>Unless there are objections, he'll take the girl up into his arms, cradling her so her head is braced against his left In Case of Biting. Somehow, despite the circumstances under which most people present first met him, he doesn't look much like a legendary killer carrying off a victim. He looks more like a guy who had a little sister, once, and carried her to bed more times than he can count.<br><br>"We got a way out?" he inquires of Sam, who seems to have been scouting.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>When it comes to matters like these -- people like Claire look up on Captain America.<br><br>It's a rote movement, one of the few things her generation grew up on that still sticks to today -- especially with him /here/. He's their hero, and his countrymen look on him to make those decisions.<br><br>Something seems to be wearing on him; it's cursory enough that the very perceptive Night Nurse picks it up, though with only the time to tighten her eyes questioningly at the corners. Then her attention breaks off, as Sam volunteers himself off to look --<br><br>-- "Be careful," Claire calls after him, a frown burnt into those words, unable to help the bit of protectiveness she feels for him since the night he bared her track marks on his arm.<br><br>Then Bucky bends in to relieve her of the youngest, and Claire watches his gentle arranging of the child in his flesh-and-metal arms. She doesn't even need to nag him to be careful, or mindful of her head; he knows. She looks after him for a moment.<br><br>"Hey," Claire says instead, pushing herself up to a half-kneel, ducking in to put a hand on the second-oldest girl's shoulder. "You're all together. You did right. Now we have to go, all right? You two are gonna stay with me. We're going to be right in the middle and these guys are going to see our way out. You stick to me. All right? /Stick/ to me."<br><br>The vending machine rocks, and Claire lifts to a stand. "We're gonna do this," she tells everyone, in case there's doubts.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>The girl in Bucky's grasp groans when he picks her up. Even with her facing his metallic arm, she feels warm, essentially radiating heat. The injury at her shoulder in particular seems to emulate the fever that has been drawn from these layers of flesh. <br><br>Her middle sister looks up at Bucky, hopeful. "Please mister, just.. Keep her safe. Please," her voice cracks and she looks towards Claire for reassurance, seemingly believing that the medical professional in the group will best account for her sister's safety. <br><br>But Steve casts Bucky a grateful look followed by a crisp nod. Claire's assurance to the girls and instructions merits another nod. "We gotta move. You both okay to run?" he looks between the girls. But Claire's assurance seems to gain more the same. <br><br>"Yeah, we can run," the eldest finally answers. She looks towards Claire and nods. "We'll stay close. Just... get us out of here. Please." There's a pause. "And the school. Oh man, we should go help--" <br><br>"No." There's decisiveness in Cap's words. "We need to move and get your sister medical attenton. We'll get you out and we'll be back for the school..." He pauses. "Winchester, do you have an exit?" Cap repeats. "Lead us out of here!" <br><br>The rumble of the vending machine starts with the simple scratches of a dull tilt, with the echo of plastic tipping back and forth along tile and then the distinct sound of something slamming against it from the back. Undeniably, they're trying to get in. While the ones that had been loitering outside the mall had been in extreme states of decay, whatever slams against the machine is in another altogether. There's little doubt that the monster has some strength and substance left in its musculoskeletal system. <br><br>The vending machine slams forward. Falling flat on its face. The monster on the other side has few hallmarks of humanity. It's eyes bulge, the skin at its lips pull back into a strange mash of teeth. The pale colour of skin that doesn't appear to be rotting speaks to something other having taken over. A few stitches sew it's bald scalp together while a long tentacle-like tube curves around its neck. Dressed in black, unlike the others, it bears a large weapon. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, and a ridiculously tall build makes it far larger than any traditional human. This is not a zombie. This is a soldier. The large weapon flung over its shoulder hangs precariously but with the machine knocked over, reaches to twist it in its grasp. Whatever its purpose or plight, the heroes have one advantage over it: it had been locked out and needed to push the machine over to get in.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Bang! Bang! Bang! Winchester is already firing at this thing, black eyes narrowed. He even lifts his arm for a twitch of a second before he drops it, and hears the question: Does he have an exit?<br><br>And he does. Sam had a chance to glance at the kiosk for a few seconds before the machine started rocking, and that was all he needed.<br><br>"Yes!" He's told to lead the way, so he does, but as he does, he at least tells them what they're looking for. Because he could get shot in the next sixty seconds, and for all he's the king of bad communication in the field, he knows that they'll die without the information. Well. Maybe Bucky and Cap won't, but the others could. "We're going to take a left at the next hallway intersection, then a right between the Gap and the bookstore. There's a restroom hallway in there. At the end, service exit. Leads to dumpsters. Least likely place for zombies to be looking for victims, but of course there's no way to be sure. We can use the dumpsters to block the exit and then find a new route from there."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>Bucky doesn't miss the way Claire looks reflexively up to Steve -- up to Captain America -- for answers. Something about that dims the blue of his eyes, and he blinks and averts his gaze.<br><br>Instead he concentrates on gathering the girl up, though whatever dulled his eyes earlier seems to have made him a little nervous handling her now as well. He is gentle, almost too gentle, as if he fears his hands are no longer fit for kindness, and will automatically kill anything that is unlucky enough to fall into their grasp.<br><br>But the girl is not killed. Not even hurt. She nestles into his arms unharmed, and now her sister is looking up to /him/ to keep her safe. Something about that shimmers a brief emotion in his eyes, understated, that comes and goes like light glancing off a window.<br><br>"Nothin's gonna get her," he says gruffly, to cover the moment. "She'll be fine."<br><br>Sam gives them a rundown of a way out, then, and he starts moving immediately. That thing that just knocked over the barricade? He's not sticking around to dance with THAT when there's children in tow.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>Missing that change in Bucky's eyes, with her own attention turned fully on the girls, and with their little time... instead Claire collects herself, galvanized by the moment and kicked back on alert by a plan made.<br><br>Of course, the mention of a /school/ gives her pause, and Claire's eyes widen -- her mind is already reaching towards that prospect. Not wanting to end with this, but there too -- rescue as many as one can, perhaps /more/ than one can, in one night --<br><br>Sometimes, thinking like a nurse has its failures. Saving as many lives as possible -- more than a few hands feasibly can. You /have/ to think this way or you fail in your job.<br><br>But it's Captain America's call, and he makes the decision before she can speak. Claire's mouth tightens, considering argument, but between the little girl in Bucky's arms and that pleading look her sister gives her -- she relents. "She'll be fine," she tells the girl. "His name is James, and he's going to protect her. You have to stick with me. Hold my hand, and run when I tell you."<br><br>And -- it appears that's going to be RIGHT NOW.<br><br>The vending machine pitches aside as if it were a pillow, and Claire snaps a hand reflexively around each that of the girls' as she takes /that/ sight in, paling, lost for words. Sam's cracks of gunshots cover the curse she wants to spit out.<br><br>"GO!" she shrieks, already peeling forward into a dead sprint, adrenaline pulling those girls with. She keeps dogged on Sam's heels, her breath hot on her throat, regretting every terrified glance she turns back.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Bullets push the man-beast backwards with a low growl. His body curls into itself, and it becomes immediately clear that they will need a lot more firepower to put that thing down. While the impact of the gunfire causes him to crumple backwards, he's not dead, and it doesn't look like he's likely to stay down long. Unquestionably, however, he's far more focused than his dead counterparts. Yet the others leave him alone, even when he's in a semi-compromised state. They don't attempt to claw or bite him. It's a wonder if there are more of them roaming around the closed-off city. <br><br>The eldest girl nods hopefully at Bucky before sidling closer to Claire. With eyes full of gratitude at Claire's introduction, the eldest nods. "Thank you," she whispers, but imminently, she's and her other sister are made to run. The pair cling to Claire's hands with the younger of the two being a bit of dead weight while they move. <br><br>The small child against Bucky mumbles something soft and low, for his ears only before closing her eyes again. <br><br>Sam's direction guides them through a strange passage of occasionally flickering lights (isn't the power off? Maybe there's a backup generator), pillaged stores with broken glass and various levels of theft, and long, empty hallways. It's fortunate that the silence of the mall grants them some even more protection. The break in silence suggests something follows. With Bucky having taken the child in his arms, Steve assumes the rear. <br><br>Bang! Bang! Bang! <br><br>"Don't look back! Straight shot to the exit!" he calls. If he keeps firing he can buy them space. It's in his nature to linger. To give them something to shoot at. Bang! Bang! Bang! <br><br>The gunfire pushes it back again, but it's only a matter of time before it catches up again. It's smart. It's different. It's somehow superior. And when it collapses back over a not-running fountain, Steve turns on his heel and sprints to catch up to the others. He's quick. For this he's thankful. <br><br>The group passes the restrooms and the lights flicker again, buzzing with energy as they do so. And finally, they make it to the exit. Sure enough, ten zombies amble around the dumpsters seeking some kind of scraps amongst human limbs disposed. <br><br>But the echo of loud paces and that thing on their tails warns that going back might not be a viable option. "Fire at will!" Steve commands. It's a terrible plan, but with that thing on their caboose, running like a bat out of hell seems to be the best option.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>'Fire at will!'<br><br>Sam Winchester does just that, sighting on one of the zombies and pulling the trigger with brutal efficiency. The kids in the midst of their group are an ever-present thought on his mind, too, which is why he finally breaks his private resolve.<br><br>He whips out a hand to try to throw two more halfway down the street with his telekinesis. His desire to do without, balanced against the life of those kids.<br><br>//There is no good without a balancing of the scales somewhere,// he thinks, almost bitterly, but the math still adds up, even as his mouth twists. Because it only takes a second, one awful split second, and it only takes one darting through their ranks at the wrong moment. He's not willing to shy away from minimizing those risks.<br><br>He is moving even as he's doing it, getting out of the way of Bucky, who will no doubt do for even more of them even //with// a kid in his arms.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:229|Winter Soldier (229)}} has posed:'''<br>Whatever the girl says to Bucky, it brings him to stare askance at her a few moments, shocked, before he steels himself and looks away again. His arms tighten, but he says nothing.<br><br>His right hand might stray a little to pet her hair, but if it does, it does so while no one else is looking.<br><br>His focus returns to their exit. He made a promise, and he isn't about to start breaking promises now. Introduced as 'James,' he nods briefly at Claire and her charges, making sure she's going to be okay, before he takes an instant lead. Sam's directions were long, but despite that Bucky doesn't ask for them to be repeated, nor look liable to need them to be repeated. The gift of the serum isn't all physical: he and Steve have perfect recall of things once told.<br><br>He is conscious of Steve bringing up the rear, and a vague concern rises at the back of his mind about unnecessary heroics -- one that is swiftly brushed off. They didn't fight through a war together just so Bucky could doubt Steve when the going got tough.<br><br>More zombies block their exit. Bucky grimaces, not wanting to do this while holding a child, but he's not got a lot of choice. "Fingers in your ears, sweetheart," he whispers, though he shifts his hold on her so he can curl her head between his hand and his chest, muffling her ears for her if she can't.<br><br>Because his free hand, holding a sidearm, comes up a moment later. With his typical precision, he aims for headshots on each of the creatures remaining.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:230|Claire Temple (230)}} has posed:'''<br>With no hands free to fire a gun of her own -- and probably for the best she isn't -- Claire concentrates only on the dead flight forward, her clinging fingers white-knuckling those girls' hands in hers.<br><br>She herds them this way and that, keeping in the middle between Sam at vanguard and Steve at the back, with Bucky and that little parcel in his arms remaining promisingly nearby.<br><br>There's only one thing -- the youngest of the two, Claire feels her dragging, feels her unable to keep up to her longer, urgent strides. She's going to slow them down, and she can't ask any of the men to give up their gunhands as they /clear/ a path and hold back the horde at the periphery.<br><br>So Claire takes in a breath, and mid-step, snatches the ten-year-old up against her hip, and charges on. The last two months have her out of shape, but she can /do/ this. She's /done/ this, every day, fourteen-hour shifts followed by running all through New York with her forty-pound bag of medical supplies. She was strong enough then, and she's sure as hell strong enough now.<br><br>"Hold on, baby," she says, and with her hand clasped around the other girl, summons up every last lick of adrenaline and stays true on her sprint. The added weight labours her, but Claire doesn't slow. She holds her jaw against the too-close fire of gunshots, and runs as around them those creatures ventilate and fall.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>The zombies that Sam and Bucky fire at splatter into a mess of brain-guts when the bullets meet their heads. They drop. Hard. And the telekinesis sends even more floating away, crushing them against buildings and surfaces thanks to their various states of decay. <br><br>//SCHPLUNK!// <br><br>Following the shooting the little girl on Bucky's shoulder murmurs soft thanks. A kind of grateful sigh in her addled fever-state. The bodies virtually disintegrate as they move. And with the path cleared, the group runs into the street. They only have two blocks to run and they can find the exit out of the dome. Two blocks to leave the death and dying. <br><br>The sprint feels like an eternity, especially as the gunfire draws more of the dead on their trail. But the group doesn't stop. No one lingers behind. <br><br>Bang! Bang! Bang! <br><br>Gunfire from all sides keeps the zombies at bay. <br><br>And then the line is met. The end of the dome is reached. The forcefield lifts to permit them exit just in time to see the Soldier-beast take up the rear. <br><br>With a loud bellow, it becomes clear. <br><br>Inside the dome a war is being waged against the living.<br> <br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=2529/Boulevard_of_Broken_Dreams&diff=16042529/Boulevard of Broken Dreams2017-09-21T04:11:05Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/09/20 |Location=Hell's Kitchen |Synopsis=The Winchesters smell 'off' and end up with an angel tailing them as a result. |Cast of Characters=30..."</p>
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<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/20<br />
|Location=Hell's Kitchen<br />
|Synopsis=The Winchesters smell 'off' and end up with an angel tailing them as a result.<br />
|Cast of Characters=306, 294, 1086<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The street outside Sam and Dean's apartment is oddly quiet today. But then darkness fell some time ago. The temperature has even begun to indicate the clear markers of fall through the crispness that rips across the New York night. While it may be late, it's not so late that nothing is open. This is New York, after all. <br><br>Hell's Kitchen turns around rather rapidly once night really settles in. Young families of all sorts disappear for the night. And a very different crowd takes to the streets afterwards. <br><br>But then, the Winchesters have never really been intimidated by people. Fighting ghosts, demons, and the undead has given them enough on their resumes to feel no concern with the switch in the community's occupants. <br><br>With his green jacket open over a plaid shirt resting overtop a grey t-shirt, Dean has layered up. Not because it's necessary. He's even taken to adding a splash of colour. It might seem unremarkable to some, but he has shifted from everyday lumberjack to lumberjack with style. Today, at least. <br><br>He gnaws greedily on the burger in his grasp. His opposite hand holds a large paper bag. With more burgers. "I figure I have days of eating to make up for."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>An amused smile, followed by a brief through-the-nose exhale of amusement, greets Dean's pronouncement. Sam doesn't challenge the reasoning exactly, but it's clear he finds it a little lacking. The smile mingles fondness with exasperation as the big man walks next to his brother. He just wears a V-necked grey t-shirt with a black tactical jacket over it. The big man has his hands in his pockets.<br><br>He occasionally checks his surroundings out of habit. He checks their backtrail out of driver's side mirrors in parked cars. He glances up and down the street, knows in general who is close. It's a lifetime of survival habit mingled with a boatload more prudence and less distraction than Winchester the Elder is over there displaying. But Dean's had it rough, and the way Sam figures, he's earned a little watchful vigilance from his brother so he can enjoy his attempts to ensure every artery in his body is as clogged as possible in as close to peace as their sort ever get.<br><br>Occasionally he rubs his arm. 30 minutes ago, after days without a single dose, and that after sucking down a white-eye's potent blood only to burn much of the boost away in a desperate bid to save his brother, his friends, and people important to all of the above, he finally was able to inject blood from his captive demon. He was so desperate he jammed in needle after needle, 5 in all, and had sat there gasping from the relief of it all. No rush, not exactly what he craves now, but enough to fight back the shakes, the headaches, the cramps, the nausea. Some of that is still there, mostly the headache, but it's slowly fading, as is the slight shake of his hand.<br><br>The scent of woodsmoke tinged with hellfire. Herbal soap enhanced with sulfur. This is how Sam smells all the time now, but re-upping his supply does instantly strengthen both with the bite of demonic magic.<br><br>"Just...try not to choke or throw up, okay man?" he says, in tones of soft concern. "Eating after a long period of starvation is like...like bonuses in D&amp;D. They don't necessarily stack."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1086|Castiel (1086)}} has posed:'''<br>Time is an irrelevant annoyance when you're an angel, even if you're walking around in a human vessel. Some things might have been left behind, but not all, and there are aspects of humanity that aren't a necessity. Except.. if you walk amongst them, it becomes clear that there are things they do. Things that keep you from being set apart. Things that let you blend into the crowd.<br><br>Castiel is learning those things. Like - the fact that humans eat and drink. He's found any number of pizza joins (he's discovered that's what they're called, joints), and places where alcoholic beverages may be had. Sometimes even in the same place. The vessel seems to remember such things with fondness. He's learning to appreciate the subtleties of flavours. Deluxe pizza with extra pepperoni is winning as he makes the rounds.<br><br>He's also learned that when the day star goes down, the attitude and aspect of the streets change. People grow wary. Eyes aren't met. Greetings aren't exchanged. A person walks with their head down and their shoulders hunched a little closer to the neck to avoid drawing challenges, and even then, sometimes that isn't enough.<br><br>Castiel has been circling this neighbourhood for days now, trying to pinpoint that niggling scent. Sulphur. Brimstone. Something acrid in the back of his throat. Demonic.. but not a demon. It's puzzling.<br><br>Tonight, though? Tonight it's stronger. No longer a niggle, but a scent that leads down a street he's walked many times of late. A scent that seems centered on just ahead. The men.<br><br>He sets his bear-walking ambol in pace with theirs, about fifteen feet back.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>"I would /never/--" the notion of choking OR throwing up visibly offends Dean. His eyes widen, his eyebrows lift, and he even talks around the burger in his mouth, clearly pained by the sheer thought. "Each of these White Castle burgers is going to stay in my stomach. And it's going to live there. Happily," he side glances Sam. "I love burgers like a fat-kid loves cake." <br><br>He stares at Sam's arm and then thrusts the bag of burgers towards Sam. This probably counts as brotherly care in Dean's mind. "Have a burger," he wants to tell Sam that it'll take his mind off the pain, but he really has no idea. But if Sam is eating it will bring some relief to Winchester the elder. If only because it'll make him stop thinking about Alistair. About being cut with the demon knife. About--and just like that, his appetite is gone. <br><br>His nostrils flare and he ditches the half burger left in his grasp to the garbage. For good measure he manages to smile after. "No vomiting involved," although he does feel queasy. "And some bonuses in D&amp;D do stack. Burger bonuses always stack." But then why did he stop eating? <br><br>He doesn't notice Castiel yet; he's far too focused on not loosing his midnight snack.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>"I'm not really-- "<br><br>But the burger bag is in Sam Winchester's hands. He reaches in with a sigh and a shrug, even as his eyes flick to another rear-view mirror. He has the thing unwrapped and a bite in his mouth and swallowed before he checks again. He keeps right on eating the slider, because it only takes him three bites. He studies the man in mirror after mirror, and murmurs the following words in a low tone of warning. "Dude. 10-66."<br><br>It's a police code, not a Marine code, but then the Marines don't really have codes for 'we've picked up a tail.' Point of fact, neither do the cops, but they do have one for 'suspicious person', and that one serves just as well. He waits for Dean to call the play: try to lose this guy? Or try to circle around, trap him in an alley? He'll let his brother take lead as he so often does.<br><br>Casually, he throws the burgers in the trash and says in far more normal tones, "Dude, these things taste like grease. /Just/ grease. Day /old/ grease. You should have let me cook. My burgers are ten times better than that."<br><br>Because not tipping off the tail that you've seen him is half the battle when it comes to surviving the experience.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1086|Castiel (1086)}} has posed:'''<br>Another might have noticed they'd been caught out, but Castiel isn't another. And this form hampers in ways he wouldn't have understood until he took it up. If there's something about the brothers that should tip him off to the fact he's been made, it's lost upon him. All he sees is a bag handed over, and shortly thereafter, a half-eaten burger being tossed.<br><br>It all seems mundane.<br><br>He does wonder, though about the distinctions of grease. Grease he's discovered. Deep dish pizza comes with it. It sops into napkins and leaves orange stains. There's one lingering at the bottom-most button of his white shirt, reminding him that that experiment didn't go over so well. As the conversation reminds him that humans seem to be fascinated by meaningless things. Their time so short, and yet wasted upon topics of no matter.<br><br>Of course, he doesn't hear the low warning. And had he, it wouldn't have made a difference.<br><br>One thing he does know, though, the scent is strong with them. Upon the younger in particular. Not possession, but still nothing that should be.<br><br>Castiel is careful to keep them in his sights.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Despite the tail code, Dean's skin takes on a pale tone. He leans forward towards the garbage and brings a fist towards his lips. The feeling of dry heaving is enough to leave him in want. He clears his throat though at the 10-66. He doesn't turn around. Instead, he glances at the windows seeking reflections and indications that the pair have someone following them. <br><br>Dean ducks his head. "Sam, I'm gonna be sick." But the glint in his eyes indicates otherwise. He tucks his hands into his pockets, preening just a little to show off his green shirt (yeah, he's super happy with the way the plaid matches his eyes, and it shows) as he falls into an easy stroll towards an alley. <br><br>It seems that cornering buddy in an alley is going to be the plan. He lowers his voice, "You want front or back." He intends to close the guy in. Two on one seem like good odds.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>"Seriously?" Sam asks, in response to Dean being sick. "Man!"<br><br>All a ruse, a show, and he mutters, "Front." Because he's the larger. He can block the view a little bit, make it look like he's tending to a sick brother from the way he holds his body, and buy Dean even more time to get behind their mysterious pursuer. It's why he usually runs 'front.' And in many ways, despite the fact that the Younger is the Larger, Dean is the one with the greater intimidation value. Dean can pull off a hardness and steely resolve that is sometimes missing in Sam, and Sam knows it. Intimidation matters when you're the one going 'surprise' from behind.<br><br>He wraps his arm around Dean with a soft sigh and hustles him into the alleyway. "Alright, it's alright, ooookay right there," keeping up a whole patter there as he lets his brother go so Dean can get moving. Once he does, he pulls out his phone. It's a sad truth about humanity that quick thumbing the word 'vomit' into Google instantly produces a video he can ramp the volume up on for verisimalatude. Phone goes back to pocket.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1086|Castiel (1086)}} has posed:'''<br>Vomit. There's a word Castiel has learned in the past days, too. It seems to happen most frequently at the end of evenings, and generally after pitchers of beer have been consumed. It's not a malady he suffers from - a fact he could probably put to good moneymaking use if he understood it's value as a skill, the fact that alcohol does nothing to him.<br><br>Craggy eyebrows furrow into a line of concern. Vomit is usually a sign something is wrong. And with the other scent lingering about the pair, he has more than small reason to be alert. He may wear this suit of human flesh, but he was a warrior of the Lord. Relaxing only fractionally as the sounds of someone being ill issue forth from the darkened mouth of the alleyway. <br><br>His pace slows as he approaches the alley the brothers have deked into, pausing at its entrance and peering in. "You are sick." It isn't a question, the statement coming with an odd inflection to it. Hard to pin down, but not unlike worry. Tones low and gravelly.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It helps that Sam's size gives him probable ability to hide behind Winchester the younger. When they move into the alley, Dean slips behind a dumpster, immediately separating him and his younger brother and falling into plan execution mode. And as he slides behind the dumpster, his chin drops, admiring the shirt once again. He even nods approvingly at himself. He'll have to tell Jo about it. She probably won't be nearly as enthused, but he has no idea why. <br><br>He waits behind it, hearing Castiel observe his illness while his eyebrows draw together. If Sam could see the expression from his vantage point, it would probably read something akin to confusion. He's seen a lot of strange things since they chose to settle in the area. But observations about someone wanting to ralph? Yeah, that's new one. <br><br>He reaches into his jacket and unholsters a gun. It's loaded with salt shells, but even against humans it'll intimidate in a pinch... but he waits for Castiel to tread further into the alley. Cornering someone means first letting them pass you.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam does what any suspicious human might do in Hell's Kitchen at night. He pushes forward, curling his body over an imaginary Dean.<br><br>For all that May believes his face to be an open book, Sam, like all three of the Winchesters, is an old hat at running all kinds of cons. Plus, he did theatre in college. He does a credible, if not a perfect job, of turning his body just so, of making it seem like he's dragging the weight. "He's fine," Sam says gruffly. "I got it, thanks man." He doesn't look back at Cas, though he tenses like he expects a mugging, and adds, "We're out of cash, man."<br><br>At least there's no shortage of vomit smells in a New York City back alley. Or. Other awful things. Eugh. Not that being 'out of cash' necessarily stops a mugging. Sam just doesn't believe they're dealing with a mugger. Actually, he kind of hopes they are. That would be hilarious. If it's just a mugger, a real mugger, he'll pass the guy $50 just for his balls and sheer normalcy.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1086|Castiel (1086)}} has posed:'''<br>Money. Ah, yes. That crumpled, bedraggled thing that passes from hand to hand and procures both the pizza and the boilermakers. It isn't, however, a thing he has copious amounts of rattling about his trencoat pockets. Up to this moment, it wasn't a thing he spent much time pondering.<br><br>"The other is ill." Again with the statement. Castiel still hovering in the alley's mouth, body entirely too still and too erect for comfort. It's as though his form has frozen in place, and only his voice has chosen to carry on forth.<br><br>The two are considered, the angelic pausing for more heartbeats of time than one should if one were going to either mug, or hand over cash. Finally the man seems to make a decision, moving forward, his shoulders looser than the hunch he carried while following them, his trenchcoat settling more comfortably about his form. "I can help."<br><br>As he steps forward, he holds his right hand out, palm towards the men - particularly Dean. If this is a mugging, it's a strange one.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Castiel walks passed the dumpster, Dean waits on an extra two seconds from his hiding place, giving him just enough space to come up behind. His own paces become quick, authoritative, and heavy. Nothing about Dean suggests that he should be trifled with. <br><br>"//Hey//, buddy," the colt (but not THE Colt) rests in his grasp as he traipses behind Castiel. Yet he doesn't aim it. Instead, he levels a look at the angel. "Why are you following us?" he virtually hisses the words. Something about his own town makes him ill. It reminds him of when Alistair used his voice, causing his eyebrows to draw together in moderate disgust. Fortunately, the reaction gets quickly replaced by bravado. <br><br>His chest puffs and he inhales a deep breath. "We don't like being followed. And you heard my brother, we don't have anything worth taking," except maybe a bevy of weapons that might discourage someone from trying to attack either of them. <br><br>Green eyes flit momentarily to Sam. In silence, the arch of a wry eyebrow speaks volumes between them: //I got you//.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean is what Castiel sees should he glance behind.<br><br>Should he glance in front-- or even keep his gaze directly there-- what he will see is a man who turns around to level his own weapon directly between Castiel's eyes, stepping back to put space between the two of them to discourage any disarm attempts. His pistol is strange-- silvery, with some sort of blue glowing //stuff// in the middle of it. On the off chance this is just a mugger or a PI or something equally ridiculous, Sam has decided to pack the non-lethal heat. Just as Dean has really; they have it covered both ways now. Salt for things that go bump in the night, and ICER rounds direct from SHIELD's vaults, for humans.<br><br>He lets Dean do the talking, as he so often does in these scenarios. Hardened hazel eyes reflect no ire in this moment, but manage to communicate he means business, that they both do. He dips his chin towards Dean, acknowledging his brother's silent communication and delivering his own in turn. //And I got you//.<br><br>This his eyes flick back to Castiel, and dark eyebrows lift, both of them, an interrogatory facial expression.<br><br>He'd really like it if Cas would go right ahead and answer the question now.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1086|Castiel (1086)}} has posed:'''<br>There's not even an iota of a physcial reaction from the man, cornered as he is between the brothers, guns fore and aft. Not unless you count lowering his hand to curl against the pocket of his trenchcoat. Or the intent blue gaze that is visited upon Sam, being directly in front of the man.<br><br>"Guns. Projectile weapons. At this distance, generally lethal. You do not wish to use them, instead, intend to intimidate."<br><br>It's clear Castiel is not intimidated.<br><br>"It would be a waste of your time and ammunition." There's a pause - too long for polite conversation, really, especially given he's not the one calling the shots currently. "You were not ill." His head turns ever so slightly to indicate and include Dean in the statement, and ever so slowly, he turns back to regard Sam. "And you dabble in things you should not." Fire and brimstone. Sulphur. He's the source.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>/You were not ill/. "Yeah, no shit, Sherlock," Dean sputters with a scrunching of his face. His eyes attempt to meet Sam's. His lips part, his chin tucks towards his chest, and with no lack of ceremony, he rolls his eyes. "We were /grifting/ you," the complete obliviousness of the observation floors Dean. And when his gaze turns back to Sam, it's with unbridled irritation at their stalker's need to observe the obvious. <br><br>Less obvious, however, is how Castiel addresses Sam. Dean's nostrils flare and his hand remains on the gun. "What do you mean?" he snarls. Nausea rolls over him and a tremble in his hand indicates the magnitude of how wrong he truly is. <br><br>It's not even the moment that's wrong. It's him. <br><br>He steels his expression, but his weapon-wielding hand won't stop trembling. His head shakes, telling each of his faculties to control themselves as he does so, but it's useless. <br><br>A single voice rolls over his consciousness. Loud. Angry. Masculine. <br><br>/Walk it off/. <br><br>And in that moment, not even his shirt becomes a source of pride. His gaze hardens and he takes a few more steps forward to literally walk it off.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The implication that he is the way he is because he //dabbles in things he should not// causes Sam Winchester's mouth to thin. Nostrils flare, and hazel eyes narrow. He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side, and back again, his shoulders and neck tensing. A dozen signs of silent outrage, subtle defensiveness, that would be as familiar to Dean as their own names.<br><br>Nevertheless, his voice is steady and controlled. He may have let his rage slip while his brother was a prisoner in his own body, but he holds that white hot nuclear fire on its customary tight leash now. It's just one word, a word of warning. "Dean."<br><br>It's more code between them. He is the more collected of the brothers, the one whose job it is to help Dean himself keep a handle on that hot-headedness. He has learned over the years how to condense that function down to a single moment of tense tonal short-hand in any dangerous situation. He does so now.<br><br>That doesn't mean the weapon wavers, for all Castiel's attempts to tell them how futile it is. Hazel eyes remain locked on blue, and controlled breathing speaks of a man who now perceives himself to be in danger.<br><br>With that brief moment of ire brought back under control, he lifts his eyebrows at their prisoner-of-the-moment (or not) once more. Giving that 'answer the question' vibe once more.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1086|Castiel (1086)}} has posed:'''<br>Castiel continues to regard Sam, watching the byplay of emotions as the younger of the brothers gets a grip on himself. Waits patiently while he interact in such terse terms with his brother. Then waits even longer before he finally speaks again.<br><br>"I think you know what I mean," Castiel's tones low and gravelly as the blue of his gaze remains steady upon Sam. "But if you must, you smell of demons. It is not a thing to be taken lightly. Nor do you smack of one possessed. So you dabble."<br><br>And perhaps that is when it occurs to Castiel the oddity of the other, his brows furrowing in an all too human gesture as he contemplates, half turning to address Dean, in disregard of the gun pointed at him. "What happened?"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's eyes darken as he watches Sam rather than Castiel. With the latter's back to him, it's far easier to pay attention to the nuances of Sam's expressions. The sound of his name grounds him. Right. He needs to focus. He needs to breathe and do the job. That's what they do. <br><br>He swallows hard when Castiel explains that Sam /smells like demons/. "So what are you, a blood hound?" his eyebrows lift expectantly while his lips purse into a cynical, thin line. He refuses to back down, puffing up further with the assessment of Sam. Yeah, he will defend Sam. <br><br>But the question has Dean's face paling again. "Look Lassie, we're not interested in recounting where we've been," he's matter-of-fact about it. Pointed. But undoubtedly, defensive. "We know where we've been. Hell, we're just glad not to be there anymore," but his hand won't stop trembling. Ever uttered threat sounds like Alistair using his mouth again to spew hatred at everyone he cares about. <br><br>The dull pain in the back of his head sharpens. But he ignores it. He has to focus. His breathing quickens as does his pulse, much like it had in SHIELD medical. Except he really can't afford to have a panic attack right now.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Panic attacks are a new thing for Dean, but Sam knows what they are, knows what he's seeing. It is vastly strange to him he isn't having some sort of similar reaction. Everything that had been cutting into him, traumatizing him, seems like small stuff thanks to his newly restored memories of perdition, and while he felt every agonizing moment of it for a few short minutes under a South Dakota sky, it has since retreated to something that happened to him 9 years ago. Or maybe he's just compartmentalized it, and it's all sitting there like a series of old buried mines, waiting for someone to tread across them.<br><br>It tells him it's time to take control of the situation. Summoning up the sensation of being the steady rock in a storm isn't hard; he's mostly feeling that. More wary, even, than angry.<br><br>"Dabbling implies I wanted it. I was assaulted with it." That's the Cliff's Notes. "Now I just deal with it. Anything you smell on him? Also imposed. Now you've heard our story."<br><br>He lifts his chin, broadens his stance, mostly just to remind Castiel the weapon is there. "This is no normal gun. I would suggest not assuming you know what it, or we, are capable of. You've heard our stories. Now tell us what you want here, and what your intentions are. I'd as soon resolve this peacefully, but if my brother and I have to hand your ass to you we will. For one thing, I had to throw all his burgers away. And they weren't actually half bad."<br><br>It's not said with any kind of levity to indicate he's trying to be a wise ass per se. There's no wavering in his tone. It's still all steady control, said as if he were a bouncer at a bar. But the latter bit is aimed at Dean. Dean's name can ground him; humor can help see him through his panic.<br><br>But he never looks at Dean at all, intent on keeping the interloper's attention on //him//. The last thing he wants is for the fellow to realize Dean is being consumed by fear, to find a way to exploit that PTSD response, both gaining the upper hand...and making his brother that much worse in the long term. In this way, he mantles over Dean's mental health the way Dean so often mantles over his physical well-being.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1086|Castiel (1086)}} has posed:'''<br>Castiel doesn't have to see Dean at this proximity to smell the fear on him. It's subtle. Just wafts of staleness. The faintest of acrid odours - not unreminiscent of the vomitting the two used as a ruse to get him here. He's waded through enough bodies and blood to know the stench of fear upon another, and oddly, it draws a gentled expression from the man. His shoulders hunching forward ever so slightly, the pace of his feet shifted to just shoulder width apart. Not unlike one who might expect to embrace another... Or stop a flight.<br><br>"Ah. If I had to guess, possession then." A faintness of gesture, that might be a nod in another if they allowed the thing to finish, is given by Castiel. "It explains much. There are things that could be done." A soothing of his tormented psyche, perhaps. A small thing, but a thing nonetheless.<br><br>He isn't fool enough to ignore Sam, though, the other seeming the most vocal of the pair. Or at least in control of his faculties enough to be the spokesperson. And, as it stands, seemingly the one who is most volatile at the moment as well.<br><br>Sam is regarded calmly. Too calmly, and yet, there isn't that of the demonic about him. There isn't that smugness. Or that harsh edge. Instead, there is still that odd gentleness the man. "You, however, would require more thought. As to your weapons, I know what I am, and there is nothing of your mortal ilk that can slay me. I may bleed, but I will not die." He relents, then, "I am Castiel. Late of the Choir. Now mostly mortal. And were I to hazard why I am here, I think you are the answer." Cryptic, but then again, who ever said Angels were wont to be otherwise.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The joke about the burgers does its work. In short order, Dean eases and the panic attack is put at bay. He can feel his heartbeat slow. His breathing calms. Everything feels better. He'd managed in medical, and he'll manage again. If only out of necessity. Sam gets cast a vague nod. It's almost a nod of thanks, but then, that would require acknowledgement of his panic attack. <br><br>"Seriously Snoopy, do you just spend all day smelling out demons?" The mention of possession has his eyebrows lifting further though. "What things?" he virtually spits. "Look." His lips quirk into a grim merciless smile. "There's nothing anyone can do. Not now. It sucks, but we keep on. /That's/ what we do." <br><br>He squints at the description Castiel gives of himself, "I don't know what any of that means," but the last catches his attention in particular. "Well, hate to break it to you, Buddy, but the dog role in our mystery team is reserved for Scooby Doo. Mostly because I really want to try those Scooby snacks." His smile turns smug. That little bit of geekery makes him happy. <br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam is distantly relieved that his brother has managed to come back to an even keel. Distantly, because Castiel has gathered more of his attention. Something hard and cynical enters his face. Castiel could have been another Hunter, or a wizard, or some other form of mystical vigilante up until this point. "Late of the choir, now mostly mortal," he repeats. "Here for us."<br><br>His voice hardens. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but things were not pleasant the last time angels intervened in our lives, Castiel. I haven't forgotten Zechariah rambling on about some scheme he wants to rope my brother into, at his expense."<br><br>But he puts the weapon away. He now knows that won't do. His hand may hover near his jacket though. He has something on him which he thinks will. He doesn't draw it though. He wasn't lying when he said he wants a peaceful resolution.<br><br>"Long and short of it: kind of feeling Dean on the Scooby Doo thing." His lips quirk into an almost smile.<br><br>He //has// always wanted a dog. A talking mystery solving dog wouldn't be the worst dog he could imagine having.<br><br>Just saying.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1086|Castiel (1086)}} has posed:'''<br>There's that furrow of craggy brow again, as something Dean says draws the man's attention inward, running through the information he has been accumulating of late. Whatever it is, though, is lost as the angelic, catches upon something else Dean says, the matter causing him to give a short bark of a laugh, "I'm an angel, you ass," he growls at the older brother in his gravelly voice. "Not a dog."<br><br>That Sam has put his weapon away doesn't change his stance, Castiel seemingly as relaxed as he gets, still in that feet shoulder width apart postition, shoulders hunched fractionally closer to his ears so that his already ill-fitting trenchcoat looks like it truly belongs to another.<br><br>"I am not my brother," the man addresses Sam, now, the gravel filling his voice, as well as something else. Edges of irritation. And something more. The barest rumbling hints of what lies behind the vessel he wears.<br><br>"I am not my brother," he repeats. "I chose to walk among you with all that entails. The Fall. The Loss. The Sever. I serve where none other would because you should not be pawns."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A smirk follows Cas's declaration. Dean tucks the weapon back into his jacket. There's no reason for that now. But the downward pull of his lips, the saggy creases along his eyes, and the cynical pull of his eyebrows all speak to memory of Zachariah. The encounter that happened over ten years ago had been burned into his memory. <br><br>His lips purse and draw downwards into an angry frown while his arms cross tightly over his chest. It's protective. Closed. Altogether determined not to let this angel get a piece of him. His encounter with the last had burned in his memory. And teenage impetuousness had challenged the angel's determination at every corner. <br><br>Idle threats invited rebellion. <br><br>Like death deals with Crowley. <br><br>"You don't think we should be pawns..." he begins slowly. "Others disagree then?"<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Something has shifted in this exchange.<br><br>Maybe it was Castiel's frustrated growl at Dean, which tugs an unwilling smile from the edges of Sam's lips. Just a hint of a half of one, causing him to cant his gaze downward for half a second to hide the sudden twinkle in his eye. The frustration-- I am not my brother-- and the anger at said brother wins points too. Not that he doesn't love Dean with all his heart, obviously, he does, but even brothers who are close have those moments, those 'hey don't mistake me for HIM' moments. It can only be worse, he supposes, when stakes are high and brothers don't agree on what to do. He sorts through the words, this announcement that this Castiel has basically made himself a fallen angel, a rebel in the eyes of the Lord, because he does not like whatever scheme is being played. Hell has factions. Why not Heaven?<br><br>The ball has passed between he and Dean again in the meanwhile, seamlessly, two who have questioned people up and down the United States even as teens to get them to share stories they don't believe anyone will or should believe. They know when to step back and step up without thinking about it. Now Sam drops his hands entirely, interested in the answer, thoughts of violence mostly forgotten. Mostly. They're never really //that// far from his thoughts.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1086|Castiel (1086)}} has posed:'''<br>His answer comes without the pause. Without the consideration. It seems that when the man is not his vessel, not trying to fit in, when he allows himself the moments that once were the Grace of the Lord, and all that entailed - what remains of said Grace to him - he's quite capable in speaking in mostly understandable sentences.<br><br>"There are those who do not believe your loss is a matter for concern." Castiel sighs, brushing his hand through the unkempt length of his hair - clearly a memory of the vessel. "We forget, too easily, your place in the pattern of things. I do not stand in the majority in my love for your kind. This seemed the easiest way to act upon my intentions."<br><br>If he notices the change in Sam's demeanour, he makes no indication. His answer encompassing both, and ending in notes of frustration.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The note of frustration earns Cas more trust. There are few emotions Dean Winchester really identifies with. Frustration, however, happens to be one of them. His hands drop from his chest and find the pockets of his jeans. He leans back on the heels of his feet. He's lounging, no longer defensive against the angel that made itself known. <br><br>"Do we have a place in the pattern of things? Seems like humans are little more than collateral damage." His lips purse and he hums quietly. "Look. We met one angel once. He got me sick," made him sick?, "so he could talk to me without coming here." Or, at least, that's what the brothers had decided. Not that they talked about it after the incident. Not with each other, anyways. <br><br>Dean does recall a rather pointed conversation with Bobby. But that had little to do with Zachariah. His eyes find the ground. "I gotta talk to my brother." There's a pause. "Do Angels carry cellphones?"<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1086|Castiel (1086)}} has posed:'''<br>There's a glint to the piercing blue of Castiel's eyes as he turns himself that he might address both brothers now, though mostly Dean gets the answer, as he is the one to ask, "I believe there is a place for you. I believe that the Choir will learn to their lament that they are wrong about you."<br><br>He nods, however, to the explanation. The mention of angel past. The gesture is almost human in its fluidity, only slightly stilted, much as if as long as he lets the body be the body, things happen, only getting into trouble when he thinks about it.<br><br>"There are those of my brethren who would use anything to their advantage without thought. Perhaps that is what drew me to you." That and the demon stench. Don't forget the demon stench.<br><br>"Cell phone?" The question draws a slight furrowing of brow. "You mean technology? No. But if you call, I will answer." He leans in, as if sharing a secret, lips pursed over an amusement of smile, "Castiel will do. I think that there are those who will think twice about tampering with you now that I have set myself your guardian." Whatever /that/ means.<br><br>And just as simply, he's erect again. Still as stone. "Go. Talk with one another. I've done what I needed."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Call. "...right." Dean finds that rather freaky, but merely shakes his head and rolls his eyes. He catches Sam's gaze, but Winchester the younger has already begun to make his way to big brother. Dean squints though when Castiel declares himself their guardian. He can't really comment on that. "We both know we're too far gone for any angels to give a damn about us," despite one pushing him into a near-death experience. "But we'll talk. And you're here from us." Unless Dean is lying. It's such a frequent occurrence who would even know. <br><br>And then the pair fall into step to tread out of the alley. When they move, Dean calls back: "Take it easy, Cas."<br> <br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=2523/Save_People..._Hunt_Jerks&diff=16022523/Save People... Hunt Jerks2017-09-20T19:03:05Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
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<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/07<br />
|Location=SHIELD<br />
|Synopsis=Steve and Sam have a chat.<br />
|Cast of Characters=112, 294<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>SHIELD has all the pomp and circumstance expected of a large government institution. Steve has been on edge for the better part of a week. He's working doggedly to help dismantle several HYDRA cells, particularly as Bucky has become so keen. Well, keen to follow him. Not really keen on SHIELD. But these things are currently synonymous. At least in Steve's mind. <br><br>Currently he stands at the gun range and levels the weapon he holds. <br><br>His cheeks puff out. He fires. <br><br>//I'm gonna need a rain check on that dance.// <br><br>He fires again. <br><br>//All right. A week next Saturday at the Stork Club.// <br><br>He fires. <br><br>//Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late.// <br><br>He unloads the rest of the rounds into the target. His head shakes. He just needs to forget. He just needs to forget. <br><br>"I still don't know how to dance." He murmurs. It's only then he looks at the gun. His fingers have reformed the hilt. He frowns.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester has been taking tests all day. They're starting to irritate him, truth be told. All these cases, a 4.0 average, and he still has to take a "Knowledge, Logic, and Problem-Solving Battery." (KLPB). He's had to take a hand-to-hand test. A weapons test. He wishes he could say he soundly beat the crap out of his test partner, but the level 7 agent was a martial artist, so not so much on the melee test. On the hand-to-hand Sam finally got irritated and threw a handful of salt into the man's eyes just so he could beat the crap out of him. Felt pretty good.<br><br>If there's one thing Sam doesn't respond well to, it's being treated like a child. After running a simulation with other trainees where they not only seemed not to know what to do, but seemed surprised and shocked when he did things that were just //common sense//, he found himself being berated for his 'lack of communication skills.' He'd simply made the bitchface and wondered why the others didn't get it. The right play was super obvious. Was he alone in this?<br><br>Now its time for the firearms battery. He's been sent to the range to log some shots. He's not the shot Dean is, but he doesn't really have much fear he won't 'pass.' He //is// starting to wonder if this SHIELD thing was a terrible mistake.<br><br>It will not be the first time this week he has this thought, but for now he hasn't been near R&amp;D yet.<br><br>For the first time in a long time he's itching to take to the road to just go take a case. Maine. There's gotta be something in Maine. Or hey, Miami. It could have ghosts //and// be warm, and nobody will be telling him to do //stupid things//.<br><br>So he's wearing a flat eyed, flat-mouthed, tight-lipped look when he arrives. It fades, though, when he hears Steve's mutter.<br><br>He gives the guy at the range window a long, flat, disbelieving look when he's handed earmuffs and goggles, then takes them to the next station and promptly refuses to put them on. He looks over at Steve, studying him. That's a guy who is super upset, who has plenty of stuff to be super upset about. Sam's impulse, as Sam's impulse always is, would be to make it better. But he hardly knows this guy at all.<br><br>He decides to lead in with some gentle humor.<br><br>"What, no Waltz, Foxtrot, Breakdance (WFB) Battery here at SHIELD? And here I thought there was a test and a training course for //everything// around here."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>There's a fine line to be walked when you have been immortalized as an action figure. Particularly when you come back to life following such immortalization. And today Steve skirts it. He just hadn't realized anyone was paying a lick of attention. He can feel his face warm at the remark and issues Sam a faint nod in greeting. <br><br>He manages a faint smile as he secures the weapon and then holsters it. His hand has been forever molded into it. He's pretty sure it means it's his now. "They do have a lot," Steve's agrees. But the warmth in his face doesn't drain. He's pretty sure his ears have reddened. And so, he adds, "And I guess they could. I just..." his eyebrows draw together in an effort to bring the thought into focus, "...well... I'm guessing teaching Captain America how to dance would be low on training priorities." He actually laughs at that. "My Commander would be appalled if an organization like this taught its agents to dance. Even if it had some strange connection to spycraft." <br><br>"But I guess he was a soldier. Not a spy." He shrugs.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>"How'd you get swept into SHIELD, anyway?" Sam asks, even as he loads up his weapon.<br><br>He may not know much about being an icon, but he knows about people who don't want to be called on feelings. He gives zero sign he's noticed that embarrassment at all. He probably does, but he just keeps loading his weapon. "Given you're a soldier, not a spy, it seems kind of an odd fit. You seem more a straightforward warrior type."<br><br>With James, he was prepared to hear about the man's personality and history from the man himself, basically forgetting everything he thought he knew. Including action figures. He can easily extend the same courtesy to Steve Rogers. He asks his questions with the sort of earnestness that's natural to his personality; he'd genuinely like to know. Multiple reasons: talking about something /else/ might take Rogers' mind off the things bothering him, it will let him get to know this fellow a little better, and it might...better inform Sam's own worldview on what the Hell he's doing here. Saving people, hunting things, and get a steady paycheck? It had seemed like the perfect bridge, the right solution for a long-standing problem.<br><br>But a certain spell has him questioning everything. Including the nature of compromises, of third options. Is it always either-or? Is there a both answer? Or is 'both' an illusion? Is the third option a lie? A weasel way of handling what should be handled in a straightforward fashion: pick a side, make a choice, and pursue it to its natural conclusion, do or die?<br><br>He sure doesn't know, but he's committed to finding out.<br><br>Thus, he's utterly ignoring the range really, hazel eyes trained on this man who he's fought beside once now, but does not know.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Earnest to a fault, Sam's question wears heavily on Steve's shoulders. "Sometimes we fall into things and don't get a lot of say otherwise." He could wax poetic on the nature of patriotism, of how he owes SHIELD for waking him up and making the transition easier somehow. He could discuss the importance of saving people, but he doesn't need SHIELD for that. <br><br>"It's weird. I started here because I literally woke up here," there's a laugh in his voice--humoured. "In the lab down the hall. They tried to make it something synthetic to minimize the shock, but... that didn't work." A glance is given Sam's target and then back to Sam. None of that explains why he's stayed. <br><br>"I guess... I guess I'm here because I'm chasing ghosts." His eyebrows lift to punctuate the point. "I'm over a hundred years old, Sam. That's a lot of ghosts to chase." But only one that keeps him close to SHIELD. "And now, knowing what I know about HYDRA? How we failed? How they didn't end when the War did? I don't think I'm likely to leave soon. Ghosts or not."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Note to self. SHIELD really is enthusiastic about synthetics. Note #2. Not as successful as advertised on the tin. Good to know.<br><br>Steve glances at Sam's target, and the Hunter takes it as some sort of indication that he should maybe get on with the business of shooting it. He does, planting three into the paper man's heart. Blam! Blam! Blam! There's very little concentration, very little visible hemming and hawing with aim. Hitting something stationary isn't hard. Hitting moving targets is the challenge.<br><br>It gives him a chance to absorb Steve's words though. He avoids the obvious comment-- they don't mean the same thing when they talk about chasing ghosts, after all, and he knows it.<br><br>"There are always people ready to ressurect old evils. And certain evils don't die too easy. You can't focus on that. You say you failed, but you saved a lot of people. A lot of lives, a lot of futures. I'm not saying you give up the hunt."<br><br>He raises the pistol again, puts three into the paper man's head.<br><br>"Cause that never ends."<br><br>He decides to put three in the stomach for good measure. The shots are neat, precise, clustered.<br><br>He hits the button to bring the target to him.<br><br>"But the mission is save people, hunt assholes, not hunt assholes, save people. If first part's first, you didn't fail. You're just still fighting."<br><br>He shrugs, aware he's a 21-year old trying to comfort a 100-year old, adds, "That's the way I see it, anyway."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>Steve watches Sam's ability with the firearm. There's little question that Agent-in-Training Winchester has skills. His smile turns lopsided, "I know this might sound like an odd question, but it seems like you have ample skills to be in the field already. Why are you in training?" <br><br>But the advice earns some consideration and a faint nod of his head. "Yeah. It was always about saving people. But not just their lives." He stares at the target because it's easier to consider. "Their freedom. Our freedom. Our ability to make choices and live. I wanted to stop people from pushing others into corners." He rubs his chin. <br><br>"Just seems like it's not the world we aimed to save. But it's the one we have. So, as you said, Agent Winchester, we keep fighting." He flashes Sam a small smile.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>'Why are you in training?'<br><br>Sam pulls a face. "I wish I knew," he mutters, loading up the next target. There's a minimum number of shots they told him to take.<br><br>"And you did stop people from pushing others into corners. Notice the lack of a Nazi flag flying over the United States, and the general lack of concentration camps in the modern day."<br><br>He flashes a quick smile; it's a sort of a grim topic. But he wants to stress that success factor. Of course, he knows it's not just 'Murica Steve is upset over failing, but he's learned a thing or two from dealing with Dean. Mostly that you approach some things sideways, and sometimes you give support over //here// when it's too raw and too early to give that same support over //there//.<br><br>"We keep fighting," he agrees. "Even if it lands both of us in places we're not entirely sure we're suited for." Agent Winchester still doesn't have a terrible ring to it. Maybe it's worth enduring all the foolishness. Maybe. Which is ridiculous. He did ask to be here. He had just imagined he'd just go right back in the field with a real badge instead of a consultant's badge. He hadn't dreamed how sticky all the red tape would be.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:112|Steve Rogers (112)}} has posed:'''<br>"We did what we could," Steve returns. He takes a step behind Sam. "I've seen you in the field. I know you're capable of this. All of it. If you need someone to vouch for your skills, let me know. You're an asset." He laughs at that. "Not that I know anything about assets. You'd have to see one of the other agents around here about that." <br><br>"But seriously. If you need someone to advocate, let me know. I know you know this, but there's a lot you can't learn in this place anyways. Everyone went through basic. But it taught little. Very little. And real life isn't like training." His blue eyes scan the area. "It's too controlled. So if they're going to put you in training, I think you should insist on being trained. I mean really trained. Alongside someone seasoned who can teach you whatever it is they still think you have to learn." <br><br>"Anyways. Let me know." He flashes Sam a very Captain America smile before turning on his heel back towards the door.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Um. When Steve Rogers asks, 'Do you want to go out in the field with me and do some good instead of sitting around a dusty old building playing with testing batteries', the answer is always...<br><br>"Letting you know. Like. Now." Sam raises his hand a little and smiles. "Offer accepted, with my sincere thanks." Of course, Steve is more than of a level to be able to find out what SHIELD's beefs with Sam and fieldwork are, but if anyone can tackle those little tweakable problems, Steve can. Except maybe the whole 'earnest heart on sleeve' thing, but given he successfully lived a criminal grifter lifestyle for years, one has to wonder how big a flaw that really is. He may look like more of an open book than he is. Or he might just drop his guard around people he thinks is worthwhile. Hard to say. May wrote the deficiency in though, so he's stuck with it till someone clears it. But everything else?<br><br>Well. Steve's more than capable of addressing that. If he even sees the need to.<br> <br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Third_Option&diff=1580Third Option2017-09-19T04:00:22Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
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<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/13<br />
|Location=Sioux Falls, South Dakota<br />
|Synopsis=After receiving word of Dean's possession, a team goes out of their way to get White Eyes out of the Elder Winchester's body. Things don't go as planned.<br />
|Thanks=Dean Winchester<br />
|Cast of Characters=306, 1379, 160, 294, 5<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The road gifted more than tortured time. The drive from Hell’s Kitchen to rural South Dakota was long, but thanks to Alistair’s actions against the Impala, it also provided Sam and Fred two allies along the way. The black Impala on the side of the road was unmistakable. It had garnered attention immediately, and both May and Jo joined the foray. <br><br>While discussion had been short thanks to not really knowing what they’re getting into, the details seemed to align. Something had Dean. It occupied his body with its flat-white eyes and sadistic smile. Whoever it is has little regard for kindness and, presumably, roughed him up before choosing to take up residence. <br><br>It also became clear that the creature’s machinations had some intent. Those encountering demons regularly know full-well they ride their vessels hard. But many just seemed to want power. Something about this particular demon seemed different--purposive, even. <br><br>But after those details had been exchanged, there was little else to say. It was hard to plan without knowing what they faced… <br><br>Hours passed before they saw its first indication. Any who’d visited Bobby in South Dakota before would know the oddity of the prairie’s big open skies. Today, however, the sky itself dreads whatever will happen here. A swirl of grey, orange, pink, and red calls upwards in an incredibly odd storm. No rain falls. No wind blows. Yet the sky swirls in impossibility overhead. <br><br>Driving down the rural range road kicks up dust as the car moves, but something else hits hard against the car with each passing moment. The faint clunk of something meeting metal presents at a strange pace. Random enough not to be something wrong with the car, but loud enough to know that outside they’re hitting something.. Or something is hitting them. <br><br>The number of them grows as does the sound. The barrage of brown-green bugs--locusts that have presumably infested the area--pushes against the windshield. And should the driver just continue on their course, they pass the warning as quickly as they’d come to it, producing a house in the distance. <br><br>If they didn’t know better, a passerby would assume the people outside are enjoying a barbeque, a true wonder with skies like these. They see five figures for certain. It’s impossible to know if there’s more kicking around. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's a quiet Jo Harvelle who huddles on the back seat of the Impala. She's worried about Dean, and about Sam (given what Dean had told her before), and trying not to show it. She's failing - not badly but enough. <br><br>The swarm of locusts has the blonde leaning forward, against the seat belt, and peering out the window. "If I was more devout than I am, I'd probably be able to quote a bible verse or two." She mutters, eyes narrowing as she takes the upcoming house in. "Well they probably ain't Riders, given there's five of them but they're likely trouble all the same." <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s been hours on the road from New York City to here for Fred and Sam. The time have been tense, with bursts of conversation and planning and then anxious silence. They know only some of what awaits them at Bobby’s house. The demon’s purpose and what he’s done with Bobby is still a mystery. At least they now know that May and Jo are alright, despite the unmoveable Impala on the side of the road. <br><br>Acquiring two more allies as well as the sleepy bomb from Fred’s stash that she left in the car from the Crossroads fight is certainly a boon in her opinion. <br><br>Fred is not one of the people who have visited Bobby before. Or South Dakota, even. However, she makes an educated guess that they’re getting close when locusts start to hit against the car and windshield. Behind the wheel, the physicist slows but does not stop the car. She’s not as skilled a driver as Sam is, but she manages to push them through the almost biblical plague intact. “It’s not a Bible verse, but I’m starting to think the most appropriate one is, ‘When Moses was in Egypt’s Land, ‘Let my people go.’’ ‘Course the last part is actually a Bible verse, so that’s really a twofor. Either way, that wasn’t pleasant and doesn’t really much bode well for what else he can do. Last thing we want are boils. Or frogs. I didn’t even like dissecting them in class. Locusts were at the end of the plagues, yeah? After that came darkness?” It’s been a little while since Fred rambled quite like this. It’s either a testament to leaving the Winchester apartment or how close they are to the anticipated showdown. <br><br>Once through the bugs, the slowing of the car turns into a stop. She scans the five figures in the distance. “They’re probably expecting us from the front. Buncha places to hide, for them and us.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The road always brings gifts. <br><br>It’s a distant thought that Sam had experienced when he’d spotted that Impala and had asked Fred to stop the car. <br><br>But hearing the demon had white eyes had cast him into a pensive silence, folded him up in the front passenger’s seat with his hand over his eyes. He conducts his grapple with despair in silence. He’d passed out two more anti-possession necklaces prior to slipping off into this dark inner world. <br><br>But when the first locust hits the windshield he sits up with narrowed eyes. Fred’s observation casts him into Professional Mode, and it’s as if he had never had a doubt in his life. Because now that he can see some of what they’re up against, a plan is starting to present itself. <br><br>“Park there,” he says, tense, pointing to an old open barn off the side of the road. “The property’s up ahead. Park before they can see us.” <br><br>Then the young man half turns around to look at May and Jo. <br><br>The oddity of Sam’s upbringing has had a profound effect on him. Sometimes his youth is obvious: he is uncertain and hopeful all at once. Sometimes, he is twice or even three times as old behind the eyes as he really is. Now he looks ancient, someone who has gone beyond “seen too much”, gone beyond “experienced too much.” He hasn’t stared into the Abyss; he’s sat in the passenger’s seat of a classic car while other men drove straight through it. Or, in this case, a woman, through a cloud of locusts. <br><br>That weight is in his eyes now. They’re flat, hazel reflecting mostly the color green today, emotion pushed far from him. At the least, the matte black the irises (though not the sclera) have been known to display in response to anger lately is missing. <br><br>“White-eyes doesn’t know you three are coming. He only knows for sure that I am.” <br><br>He removes a salt shotgun from beneath his feet. Cocks it. Loads it. “So. I go in obvious. You ladies go in stealth. Attack when the time seems right. I imagine it will want to talk to me before the violence starts. Agent May will know the right moment.” <br><br>It’s Agent May’s eyes he looks into now, because he knows several things. He knows Fred and Jo will hate this plan. He also knows it’s probably their only chance. He knows May will get that. He knows that she’ll get them out of there if she has to. There are senior agents who have never displayed the kind of grim, knowing bleakness that sits in his eyes now. He’s counting on her to make the hard calls and to make these two women her priority if it comes to that. And to lead them to some sort of successful conclusion, if she can. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Being stranded on the side of the highway with all dead electronics and a stalled out Impala and a MISSING DEAN does not a happy May make. She’d been fully prepared to leave Jo with the car and walk to the nearest phone, but that’s about when Sam and Fred pull up. Her first words to the pair are to demand Sam’s cell phone, and then she spends the next several minutes talking with someone in SHIELD as they transfer whatever they need from the Impala’s trunk to Fred’s car and get underway again. <br><br>“Sam, Another senior agent is going to see that the Impala is returned to New York and any damages are repaired. He’s taken care of her for Dean before.” And, Sam might have seen Lola in passing. <br><br>Upon reaching the city with an airport, May directs them toward it, where she meets up with the SHIELD personnel waiting there beside a quinjet. There’s body armor and comms and gear for everyone as well as replacement electronics for May, and despite it being a VERY close fit, Fred’s car is loaded into the jet and they’re underway again with May doing the piloting. <br><br>The atmospheric situation forces them to land several miles away from their target location and drive the rest of the way. The locusts have May muttering something in Cantonese, and then Sam lays out the plan. Her reply is to simply nod and then look at Fred and Jo. Both have seen her at work before, though under completely different situations. This should be interesting. <br><br>May can’t help but wish a sniper had been available to join them. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s fortunate they park away from the house as it enables them the element of surprise--at least to some extent. The figures outside don’t seem to have taken notice. Not yet, anyways. While the heroes plan some distance away, the house-posse lingers watching the front road. The people on the lawn almost look familiar. But it’s hard to really notice from this distance. <br><br>Make no mistake, it’s a trap of their making. <br><br>A few beats pass and when everyone looks away for a second--only to look back moments later--and another figure in a camo-green jacket joins them. Near silence comes over the people while eyes turn up to the sky. <br><br>And in a single second, the swirling sky stills. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>“Sounds more like a musical to me…” Jo’s snark comes out when she’s worried and poor Fred, who’s just met the blonde, gets the full force of it. “... sorry… I’m just … worried.” She falls silent as the car pulls up and just stares at Sams STUPID plan. <br><br>Damn Winchesters and their stupid plans. <br><br>Yet she can’t think of a better one. Not at all. “I ain’t no lady …” it’s the best she can do as she slips from the back of the car and pops the trunk. It’s a veritable treasure trove of weapons they’ve collected there. The Impala was certainly well stocked and combined with what the other other two had … they could go in loaded for bear. <br><br>Pity it’s //not// bear they’re hunting. That would be sooooo much easier. <br><br>Silently, blue eyes flicking to the figures at the house, Jo arms herself. Salt loaded rounds, holy water, silver, iron. Whatever she can carry, she’ll take. As the sixth figure arrives and the sky literally starts opening, she shakes her head. <br><br>“Guess it’s now or never.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam is quite right in thinking Fred will hate his plan - it leaves him going in alone with a creature that can apparently summon swarms of locusts. Demon locusts. “No way.” Fred shakes her head. “I’m not letting you go in there alone. If that thing knows what Dean’s thinking, he knows I wouldn’t let you do this by yourself, I’ll go with you.” It’s not just her being leery of splitting up, it does make logical sense. Her eyes flick toward the SHIELD agent as she says this before they return to Sam. She knows how good May is, having seen her in action during Sam’s rescue, but she is also stubborn on this issue. <br><br>As they start to gather the weapons, Jo’s snark is met with an innocent blink from the brunette. “Actually, yeah, I think it’s a song,” she agrees, a bit guileless. The apology is given a confused nod. “It’s alright, me too.” Worried about Dean, worried about Sam, worried about all of them. <br><br>She makes sure she has some of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt as well as the sleepy-time bomb, passing out other items as needed. The stillness of the sky, when before it was agitated catches Fred’s attention. Much like the other figures, she looks up and then looks back to the yard to see the green jacketed figure now amongst the others. Dean. Or whatever it is that has possessed him. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>He’d nodded about Lola; he’d seen it. An impressive car. But too flashy. Cop magnet. <br><br>“Now or never is a song too,” Sam points out, distracted. Or maybe he’s just going ahead and trying to lighten the mood somewhat. It’s hard to tell. There’s a flash of a tired smile on his face, there and gone again. <br><br>/I ain’t gonna live forever. I just wanna live while I’m alive./ <br><br>Fred makes some sense too. His eyes close for just a moment. But he chose her because he saw an equal, and if she’s ready to step out and partner up and face this with him...well. He has no right to stop her, not when her comment makes tactical sense. He reaches out. Takes her hand. Squeezes once. <br><br>“Together, then,” he says softly. <br><br>They might die together. It might be the last time they are together, because he’s fairly sure what Fred’s destination will be, and he /knows/ what his will be already. <br><br>/But this world is shit. You carve out every last. Damned. Good moment. You. Can./ <br><br>Right now, there’s a little good in the feel of her softer, smaller hand in his broader, more calloused one. <br><br>“Good luck, you two.” This to Jo and Agent May. “And...thanks.” <br><br>And then he takes a deep breath. Steels his spine. Gets out of the car. He’ll wait for Fred. <br><br>And then, hand in hand with her still, if she’ll allow it...he takes what seems to be an endless walk towards the 6 demons he can see, shotgun aimed, for the moment, groundward in his unoccupied hand. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May can only nod as Fred insists on sticking with Sam and he agrees. She’s not in charge of this mission, so she’ll do what’s asked of her and not argue unless she thinks it’s a suicidally stupid idea. And, well, this WHOLE DAY has been suicidally stupid. So, really, it’s all the same anymore. <br><br>Wishing her blades had even a hint of usefulness against demons, she checks the rounds in the pistol in her hands again then looks at Jo. “Let’s go.” She plans to lead the blonde around to flank the demons. At the same time, she’s mentally reviewing other possibilities for getting these demons to leave HER agents the F* alone. <br><br>“How big can a devil’s trap be made?” she asks of the Hunter as they run. She’s now also contemplating the accuracy of, say, those red lasers that Iron Man uses from time to time. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Sam and Fred draw near, the people outside begin to come into focus. The first, with curly red hair, freckles, and a fit figure looks undeniably familiar to Sam. But from years past. If he watches her now-black eyes long enough he might draw some faint memory. When he’d known her, she’d been one of the odd kids in school. While twelve-year-old Sam was new to school, Ellie had been an outcast already. They’d saved her from the Backahasten nine years ago. Evidently she lived well into adulthood. To now be possessed here. Her forehead oozes blood as do her arms and legs. It’s a wonder whether she’s still alive and in her body at all. <br><br>Adjacent to her, the pale mulleted brunette man in the jean vest also has an air of familiarity. His jaw tightens and his eyes level at Sam and Fred in turn. The demon wearing the Roadhouse employee, Ash, stares blandly at the pair. Unlike his female comrade with the black eyes, he has a guise of being human. He’s not. But the guise is there. Ash’s hands are bloodied, bruised, and his shoulder has a strange angle. <br><br>Behind Ash, a pair familiar to Fred lingers. Their eyes follow the woman in particular as she walks by. The faces of her parents staring at her with open amusement eye Fred. She was right--she was expected. Her parents’ lips curve upwards with recognition as their eyes roll to black. Bruising lines her mother’s cheeks and her father’s clothes are soaked in blood.The Deanmon knew that Fred would come along. And it put Fred and her obvious loved ones on the radar. <br><br>And as they walk on, it becomes ever clearer, the Deanmon spent time rooting around through Dean’s thoughts and using each to make a very calculated move. While this demon may not have managed to take May and Jo, he had made other efforts to collect plenty of hostages by dressing his allies in them. Most put up a fight of some kind, but the result had been the same. Those that knew him were lulled into easy complacency while Dean made a trap for them. Swiftly. Easily. <br><br>Finally, adjacent to whoever wears Dean, a small girl. Her light blonde hair, fair almost-invisible eyebrows, and flat-white eyes stare blankly at the pair while her lips press into a thin line. It’s a stand-off. And even children are available to the masses. <br><br>And then there’s Dean. His lips quirk at Sam and Fred’s presence. His hands tuck into his pockets and he stares into Sam’s eyes, trying to make eye contact with the younger Winchester. His lips pull with pride as his teeth flash towards the pair. “Sammy,” the greeting has familiarity that this thing shouldn’t have. But then he has all of Dean’s memories, all of his feelings, and every nuance of the body at his disposal. Dean looks worse for wear. His skin is pale. His eyes, sunken and hollow. And his clothes have blood splatters across them. It’s hard to tell whether the blood is Dean’s or someone else’s but it remains. Dean Winchester is not in good shape--even worse than when Jo and May saw him last. <br><br>Inside the house a loud crash clatters loudly followed by a blood curdling scream. Dean shrugs his shoulders as if to ask //Whatcha gonna do?//. He lifts both of his hands and with a gentle move of his fingers aims to telekinetically throw Fred in one direction and Sam in the other. <br><br>Should anyone try to use electronics, they fail. Utterly and completely. The omens above and the opening in the sky has caused everything to short out. Entirely. There are no cell phone signals, no radio transmissions, and no satellite signals. <br><br>They are in a dead zone. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Thought it was from a musical, to be honest. Y'know the one the Donny Osmond as Joseph..." Jo shrugs at Fred. She might have watched it a time or two and she's deflecting her worry with dumb jokes. <br><br>That, or she simply hasn't eaten enough. That does that too. <br><br>"Be careful." Is all she mutters as the pair head off towards Deanmon and his crew. <br><br>"Soak your blades if you don' think it will negate anything that's been done to them already." The blonde hands over a flask of holy water. It's ... not much, but it's something right. Then they're at a run, skirting round the back of the house whilst Sam and Fred run distraction. <br><br>"How big? If we had the time, we could probably cover the yard and the house." she frowns at the Agent "What are you thinkin' though?" There's a copse of trees not far from the structure, it will obscure their approach, at least for the moment. <br><br>That is, if the demons don't sense their humanity. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Two white-eyed demons. A host of hostages important to them both. <br><br>They are utterly fucked. Even with May and Jo. Especially with May and Jo, who Sam is beginning to think will just be the other hostages taken one way or another today. The state of his brother breaks his heart, ramps up his desperation. <br><br>A shudder runs over him as the white-eyed demon in Dean greets him. His hand tightens on Fred’s hand until it might well hurt. He meets those eyes, then is flung hard into the nearest telephone pole. It bruises him, but that’s not what rips him apart next. <br><br>Because he met those eyes, and even as he staggers up to his feet, his own widen in recognition. Somewhere in his mind, a dam starts to crack. <br><br>“No…” <br><br>At first he doesn’t understand the source of his own mortal terror. But then a name comes to him. The dread he says it with, the sheer, crushing dread, ought to be enough to worry anyone. <br><br>“Alistair.” <br><br>As soon as he says the name the crack becomes a flood. As Alistair no doubt intended when he looked into Sam’s eyes, he breaks Crowley’s weaker memory manipulations easily. It’s like a very talented college basketball player made an incredible three point shot, only to be defeated with ease by an Olympian basketball player on the defense. <br><br>A flash before Sam’s eyes, a /flicker/… <br><br>And… <br><br>Stretched out on the rack, perceiving all as if he were in a body still. Limbs pulled unnaturally long and tight, hooks digging into his flesh, blood slicking them down, unable to move, unable to free himself. <br><br>Flicker. He’s in South Dakota. <br><br>“E--exorcizamus...t-te,” Sam stammers. Is it a serious effort at exorcism? Really? Here? Like this? Or is it a fearful prayer? <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Alistair leans over him, his smile a mockery of something loving as Sammy screams. Something in his hand. The boy has lost track of it. The demon just peeled a layer of skin off of his arm, shoulder to wrist. He holds it up for Sam to see. It’s soulstuff, not skin, Sam understands this, but it feels like skin, looks like skin, is gruesome and bloody like skin. Only if someone had done that to him on Earth, he’d die and escape. Here there is no death. Never death, never an escape. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>The memories are almost too much. His soul twists in agony as if it were all happening here and now. <br><br>“O-omnis,” he whispers, tears flowing down his face, body convulsing. His shotgun hits the dirt. Useless as the words he’s speaking. He grabs his head with both hands, panting, eyes wide, barely seeing anything here anymore because… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He has been here just five days, and he can’t stop weeping, even for a moment. The brand that his tormenter slowly presses into exposed muscle turns tears to howls. Alistair presses hideous lips against his temple, strokes his hair. “You’re my favorite, Sammy.” <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>“Omnis satanica!” It’s almost defiant, until the scream rips out of him, a moment and a flash of pain. The lack of memory had meant that he never felt the damage to his own soul. Now the buffer is gone, and he feels it in live flesh. He falls back to his knees, curling over into a ball, hands pulling fitfully at his hair, screams pouring out of him, twenty days of torment, relived in a few short seconds. <br><br>Just as Alistair intended. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred takes Sam’s hand, looking to Jo and May as they prepare and then separate for this mission. There’s a quick smile to them as thanks before they head straight forward. It may be a stupid idea for her to go in with Sam straight away, she can be quite stealthy from her years scavenging and hiding from demons who wished to capture and behead her. However, she also knows she’s far too close to the situation to hide and wait for a signal. If something happened to Sam, she’d charge in. <br><br>Her hand remains in Sam’s, clutching to him in this moment, knowing how dangerous this is and that they may not make it out alive, but at least in this they’ll face it together. Her bottles and bomb remain tucked in a bag over her shoulder. While she generally feels more comfortable with a crossbow, the second shotgun with its salt shells is cradled in her other arm. <br><br>It’s probably for the best that Fred didn’t stay with May and Jo. As they approach the gathering of individuals, it’s not Sam she would rush forward toward - it’s a pair of very familiar faces. <br><br>“…Mom? Dad?” Fred’s voice breaks as she sees their eyes shift to black. Her attention immediately narrows to the blood on her father’s shirt, the bruises on her mother’s cheeks. Her mind drifts to the young teenager motionless on a yard the night she met Sam. It’s his voice in her head telling her in sympathetic, yet matter of fact voice, ‘Sometimes they use bodies so hard they become walking corpses.’ Is that what she is looking at? <br><br>“No. No!” It’s a denial of both that inner voice and the fact of the matter: her parents might be dead and standing in front of her. Her hand leaves Sam’s as she rushes to them. The shotgun drops at her feet as she reaches out to grasp them on opposite arms, pleading. “Mom, Dad, please.” <br><br>Behind her, as if from a different room, she can hear Sam screaming. <br><br>They shouldn’t have come here. They shouldn’t have done this. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Bigger than we have time to make.” So that idea is discarded promptly. As much as it rankled, May is seeing her potential options dwindling, and quickly. She leads the blonde Hunter through to as close to the others as they can manage without having to leave the cover of the stand of trees they’re in. And again, she wishes they’d asked for a sniper. Or that she’d bothered to spend more time on sniper training. <br><br>With the comms to Fred and Sam suddenly gone quiet, there’s no way to tell that anyone in there is familiar to the Hunters, and when Sam’s screams carry to them, she knows they’re out of time. She’s got one last thing to try, and it’s a long shot. <br><br>Speaking in the ancient and overly formal-sounding Mandarin, she calls for King Wuguan of the Courts of Hell to reclaim the souls that have left Hell before their punishments for their sins were completed. She’s focused specifically on the ones that had been there originally, not Dean or the little girl standing next to him. <br><br>Do exorcisms work when one is out of earshot of the target demons? <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>As May and Jo move around the back of the house, the scent of sulphur becomes increasingly powerful. Its pungent scent of rotten eggs overwhelms as they get closer. Moving to flank the demons out front means passing the windows of the home on the way there thanks to the abandoned cars that surround the junkyard. Bobby had taken care to ensure he would see the goings-on around his house, a necessity as a hunter aiming to stay on in one spot. <br><br>Before they even get to the window, they can smell it: the distinct scent of flames licking wood. But combined with the already sulphuric aroma floating from the area? Fire and brimstone reign here. <br><br>May and Jo can feel the heat of flame as they draw closer to the house. It burns hot and angry as it begins to lick the ceiling inside. And as they pass the window, they see a middle aged woman with dirty blonde hair staring up at the ceiling. While they can’t see what’s on the ceiling, it’s clear that Ellen Harvelle isn’t herself today. <br><br>Her sadistic smile, yellow eyes, and extended hand admire some handiwork out of scope. But within scope. A bevy of unconscious (or dead?) children strewn about the floor. She looks down the hall. “Any movement yet?” she calls. <br><br>“Not yet,” a voice calls back. <br><br>“Then show him a goddamned picture of this. Use your suit’s cellphone,” Ellen scoffs. “Knock on the door and call him out.” <br><br>As far as May’s words are concerned, they don’t seem to have any effect as of yet. But expediency isn’t a feature of all spirits. <br><br>Outside, in the front yard, things aren’t going well. But most of the torture hasn’t been physical as of yet. <br><br>“Hello sweetie,” Fred’s mother’s voice cuts through the little stillness that exists. Alluringly--not at all with an air of maternal warmth--she strides towards Fred. Her long, slender fingers reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind Fred’s ear, an action her mother took many times as a comfort. But the smile is wrong. Her expressions are wrong. Even the tone is wrong. And in an instant, comfort turns tides. <br><br>The demon wearing Fred’s mother reaches out her hand to push Fred back. “We are here for you,” while it might come off as warmth or support, it’s cold and angry. She reaches those slender fingers to grab a mitt-full of Fred’s hair in an effort to drag the girl to her father. <br><br>“Winifred Burkle needs punishment,” Fred’s mother allays to her father. <br><br>Fred’s father’s eyes crease with delight. He looks towards her bag. “You brought us gifts? Oh little girl… we do like presents,” he jeers. He walks around her, assessing her as he does so. “You’ve been very naughty. Your mother just said as much.” And then with the condescending tone of an animal owner reprimanding their pet, he asks, “What did you do?” <br><br>“She wants to hurt us, darling~” Fred’s mother virtually sings. “She wants us to pop and sizzle and burn. She came here with fire in her eyes to smite us, but now? She remembers she’s just a lost little girl.” <br><br>Her father nods curtly. “Of course none of this is real. Sam isn’t real. You made him up, Fred. We’re not really here. None of us. You’re alone. A slave dressed in rags with a heavy collar bound to your neck for eternity. They won’t tell you this, but you don’t die. And you never leave. Not there. Not really. You get to live day after day enslaved to them, their world, and their servitude. To their whirls, wants, and whimsies.” <br><br>A giggle emits from Dean’s lips as Sam begins the words that could put any of them out of commission. “That tickles,” he notes with another quirk of his lips. <br><br>Dean’s face lights with unbridled pleasure. His eyes lid and his lips quirk as if experiencing some other ecstasy at Sam’s pain. A shiver of delight passes over him. But if anyone is paying attention, something, however briefly, changes in the tide. His hand moves towards the inside of his jacket. It’s slow, cautioned, and purposive. It tugs at the inner pocket and draws out a strange looking knife. <br><br>The picture has oddities of its own: Dean basking in revelrie while his hand utilizes the opportunity. With the little girl near, and Alistair’s pleasure continuing, the knife moves to stab the little girl, another white-eyed demon, in the back. Hard. Her body flickers yellow and her occupant twists around to face Alistair. It’s not enough to kill her--not one as powerful as she is, but its effect speaks volumes of what the weapon is. She screams in pain. <br><br>The knife misses her heart, its intended target. <br><br>“I have this handled,” Dean’s voice hisses to the girl. <br><br>“I’ll be fine,” she returns with a smirk. Undoubtedly, whatever that weapon was, hurt. But evidently she doesn’t want to be eliminated from this stand-off. <br><br>The knife rests on the ground in the dust. And for a moment flat-white eyes turn green. They soften. They stare at Sam. And, with a drop of Dean’s chin, they look at the knife. And then back to Sam. In a moment the message is given. One can only hope that in his agony, Sam got it. <br><br>And as quickly as those eyes had softened, they harden again. “So,” Alistair begins. “Tell me, Sammy, do you remember all our fun?” There’s a pause. “I do. I remember the chorus of your screams amongst the others, the way you cried each and every time you awoke the next morning, how you called out for your brother as you hung there.” His eyebrows draw together, “Of course, you also called out for Dad. But we both knew /he’d/ never come.” <br><br>Dean’s body treads to where Sam remains in a ball. “Because he never would. He doesn’t care for you. For either of you.” He lifts a finger. “But. Big brother made a deal to get you out of there.” His expression sours and he looks towards Lilith as he seems to put something together. Between Dean’s memories and the space between them, something is becoming increasingly obvious in their efforts to control Hell. The Faustians are actively undermining their efforts. Alistair sneers. “They stole you from me,” he seethes. <br><br>“You were mine.” There’s a long pause. “And you’re mine again,” his lips edge into a smile. “And this time? There’s nothing big brother can do to stop me. You’re on your own, Sammy.” <br><br>“You. Are. Mine.” <br><br>And then, ominously like a revelation has just come to him, he pats Dean’s chest. <br><br>“And so is he.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>No way to tell that anyone is familiar to the Hunters except for the hitch in Jo's step as she spies Ash through the trees. "... Ash ..." She hisses and glares at the SHIELD agent - heavens knows why, it's not May's fault. <br><br>The look turns to horror as Sam's screams ring out through the area and she squints at the tableau unfolding. "What... is she doing .... " Of course, she doesn't recognise Freds parents but she does recognise Dean, the man who ... well who she's become quite fond of. <br><br>"Keep moving..." What they're going to do, she's no idea but one of her Dads Hunter friend had once said //No plan, no matter how good, survives first contact.// This one, the one of Sam's making, doesn't look like it ever really deployed. <br><br>Despite the heat emanating from the house. Despite the smell of rotten eggs, her steps bring them closer to that window and now the blonde freezes. "Mom..." She breathes, breath hitching in terror. "... they've got Mom ... we have to save her... " <br><br>Can she? Can they? Can they truly save Ellen from the Demon that possesses her. Jo doesn't know, but she's going to try. Probably much to May's dismay. Untrained, undisciplined and potentially, just plain stupid - might be some of the words that the blonde gets labelled with. <br><br>"... and Bobby." That has to be who they're trying to bait out. <br><br>One last glance to the older agent and the blonde takes off at a run, right to the door, throwing it open. "Hey Mom... fancy meeting you here ...." <br><br>//Splash// there's some holy water just for good measure. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There was no one else Alistair could have stolen that would have a worse impact on Fred. Angel, Wesley, even Sam...she would be upset and enraged by their possession. However, she also knows that they live in this world and signed up to be a part of its dangers and accepted those consequences. Her parents? They might know about demons and vampires now, but they live on a farm in Texas. They were away from all this, going about their own normal lives. This could have only happened to them because someone wished to hurt her and that makes this her fault. <br><br>She already knows it is a horrible idea as she runs to them, but she can’t stop herself, wanting to shake them, //make// them okay. Trish tucks her hair behind her ear and for a brief heartbeat of a moment, she hopes. Unfortunately, the voice - while unmistakably her mother’s voice - is wrong. <br><br>The hand easily curls into her long hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling her forward. Fred almost topples and does fall to one knee in front of her father as it happens, wincing at the pain of that yank. “I’m sorry,” she says, heartfelt, through the pain. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you both better. I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t know if they can hear her, but she says it anyway. The words about this being a different world, one that she has made up cause a hitch in her throat, a taunt as to how she dealt with five years in Pylea. How she dealt with the spell that just recently sent her into a spiral. She’s weak, she can’t handle the dangers, she couldn’t protect her parents. <br><br>They ask her what is in her bag, what she’s brought them. It clinks to the ground as she falls, the bottles inside rattling against each other, but don’t break. There is no way she will use any force against her parents, but she has to do something. “H-here…” she says, unzipping the bag just a bit, still looped over one arm. “I’ll show you.” <br><br>A hand reaches in to grab one of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt. Squeezing her eyes shut, taking a deep breath, she pulls it out to smash against the leg of her mother. There are tears in her eyes as she she swings. Five years in Pylea cemented a survivor’s spirit, one that instinctively knows that to save her parents, she has to stay alive, too. If they’re not already dead. No, she can’t think like that. She can’t. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The screams do stop. Sam gets himself under control, bit by bit. <br><br>First, it's because he can hear, distantly, the demons taunting Fred. A flame of fury ignites in him. He's spent many nights reassuring her he was real, and some bastard black-eye pissants think they're going to undo her? Even now, her heart-felt apologies to them rip at his heart. It's a sentiment he more than understands, really. <br><br>That's the moment where he raises his head, panting softly in fear, pain, and fury all at once. His irises slowly turn. Hazel to light green, light green to dark green, dark green to pitch black. He can still feel the throbbing pain as he watches his brother keep right on fighting, and feels such pride in Winchester the Elder that it helps to snap a new memory into place. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Life is pain, Princess," says the smooth-talking pirate on the flickering television screen. "Anyone who says differently is selling something." <br><br>The TBS logo appears briefly at the bottom of the screen, signalling a switch to commercial. Sometimes nothing good is on TV, but today, at the Motel Picayune on MS Hwy 5, they luck out. Sammy is four years old, and he is in his favorite spot: snuggled up to his brother on the couch, one of the only places he ever feels safe. He's sucking his thumb, and Dean notices and gently draws it out of his mouth. <br><br>"Stop that," says the older boy, but with no heat. And then, thoughtfully, "He's right you know, Sammy. The Dread Pirate. Life is pain." <br><br>Sammy shifts uneasily and says nothing. He kind of knows some of this already. Life had Been Pain just yesterday, when he'd spilled his milk in the diner, broken a glass, and had inspired Dad to smack him and berate him for being careless in front of everyone. It was his fault. He shouldn't have been so clumsy. <br><br>Dean seems to sense his unease, and sets his mouth into a grim line. At 8, Dean always looks so grown-up, so tough. Sammy emulates the expression as best he can. <br><br>"But you know what you can do, Sammy? You can /fight/. Fight for the people who can't fight for themselves, and most of all fight against any son of a bitch who tries to hurt anyone you care about. I'm going to teach you. You'll see." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He gets the signal. He sees it. Now he has to figure out how to exploit it. Alistair steps right up to him, taunts him, and Sam starts putting his brain to work. Why is it going down like this, specifically? Why draw him all the way out there for hours? Why gather everyone he's ever known, and Fred's parents? Why attack Bobby? What do they want here? Getting Dean's body alone was enough to have Sam ready to give himself up to them, but that's not what they want. Alistair had been angry, in fact, when Sam had seemed meek. Sam gets the impression he'd have been angrier still if he'd tried to bow his head for his brother's life. It tracks with what he remembers, now. Some tormenters grew angry at defiance, threats, but Alistair had never seemed so proud as the day that-- <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" Sam screams, his voice cracking not because it was ready to take on the new tones of manhood, but simply under the strain. Day 14. "I'm going to carve out your KIDNEYS and I'm going to FEED THEM TO YOU, do you understand? You better HOPE I never get out of here, because I am going to KICK YOUR DEMON ASS!" <br><br>"Goood," Alistair coos. "That's good, Sammy." <br><br>And he rewards him with a drink of water, the first his parched throat had seen in two weeks. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Of course. Alistair wants him to /change/. Soon after that… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"All you have to do is take the knife, Sammy. Take the knife, and run it down her foot, and I'll let you off the rack. I'll give you a whole day off for that one little cut. It's so sharp, it'll cut her like nothing. Like running a butter knife through mashed potatoes." <br><br>"No. I won't." <br><br>"Then I guess I'll have to run it down /your/ feet." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Sam's throat burns, parched. He can sense he doesn't have nearly enough juice to pull the only trick that gets any of their possessed friends out. He doesn't have enough for Alistair for sure. He needs more. Which was the point. Goad him into saving Dean at the expense of Ellie, Ash, Fred's parents. Save Dean, and possibly Fred from her infected parents, and Bobby...or save nobody at all. A sadistic choice. May and Jo are here, but they're vastly outnumbered. And /something/ awful is happening inside the house, too. <br><br>Sam is not a fan of sadistic choices. <br><br>He is, however, a fan of third options. The knife won't be enough, he knows, because he just saw for himself it wasn't. But he has a theory. Two theories, really. <br><br>One. <br><br>The strength of the demon MUST matter to the potency of the blood. He hadn't entirely been honest with Claire, though it was only cause he hadn't thought about it at the time. The Crossroads demon he'd eaten had been so much more satisfying and had lasted so much longer than the black-eyes he'd first taken. Vengeance demons were also crazy powerful, and that's what he'd been mostly sipping on, but he would rank them about on the scale of a Crossroads...they both had that wish-granting ability and power, and just used it differently. The rush was more the rush of NEEDING something and getting it. Like feeding a caffiene addiction. Or his alcohol addiction. As he'd said. The rush of a black-eyes? Practically non-existent. The rush, and the power. The power of a white-eyes, a literal ruler of Hell? That's going to be immense. So will, dangerously, the rush, but one problem at a time. <br><br>Two. <br><br>That he can inject it, or he can drink it. He'd had some dreams about simply drinking gallon after gallon of demon blood. He'd had dreams of ripping demons open with his /teeth/, during that first hellish week where demon blood had suddenly become nearly all he could think of. Which was...to the good, really, because he has no time whatsoever to set up a neat, clean drip. This again tracked with the set-up; if they'd hoped he wouldn't see through this they couldn't exactly set it up so he could go after each of those people with a needle. <br><br>So. Third option. Dangerous, difficult to pull off, disgusting in the extreme, uncomfortable for both him and Dean because there is no way to do this in a way that isn't. But fitting, too, because this will mean he and Dean took care of this son of a bitch together. And really, there is no universe where Sam Winchester ever wants Dean to be an unwilling victim. Dean has put himself a little bit back in the ring; Sam decides to keep him there. <br><br>He times the test of the theory though. Times it for the moment that Fred decides she's not going to cave. That she's going to fight. The moment she smashes holy water and salt into the demon wearing her beloved mother. He synchs up with them, moves with them, adding Fred to the synchronous fighting flow that he's always shared with Dean. This is appropriate. On a number of levels. <br><br>He stretches out his hand, as if he is going to try his trick of forcing a soul out of the body without the juice-up. But instead, he exercises the barest hint of his power, yanking that knife to his hand with a burst of telekinetic force. <br><br>"Watch those kidneys, Al," Sam hisses, as if they were already succeeding, as if he'd be willing to kill his brother to spare him… <br><br>Only to feint at them...and instead plunge the demon knife into Alistair's calf, right into where Sam thinks he remembered a superficial system called the great saphenous vein would be. He has read up on anatomy, as it happens, precisely /because/ he tries to spare the vessels of the possessed. If he finds his mark he's hit a vein that would bleed like a son of a bitch, and /hurt/ like a son of a bitch, but won't threaten Dean's life. He hopes the shock of the obviously magical weapon, Dean's own desire to take the reins, and the location itself will buy him the time to do what he needs to do. Because the next thing he does is withdraw the knife, launch himself forward, seize Alistair's leg, and clamp his mouth around it. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Pulling the still salt-saturated sash whip, May looks up and curses when Jo darts off toward the house proper. She can’t watch over everyone if they’re running all over the place willy-nilly. She wastes a moment trying to decide if she can help Jo with the farmhouse, then decides, no, the young woman has proven herself pretty well able to handle things. It’s the multiple demons that she’s concerned with. <br><br>This whole day has been beyond screwed up. Moving as quietly as she can she takes a breath, then charges out at the group of demons all together. She doesn’t know any of the people they’re possessing, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to just mow through them. Anything she can do to lock them down and hopefully banish the demons will be good enough. <br><br>Her sash whip snaps out at the closest black-eyed demon (Ash) the moment she’s within range. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside, the dramatic interruption of a the blonde hunter sees holy water steam from Ellen’s back. The demon wearing her, however, is powerful and strong. Ellen twists around to see her daughter’s face, and yellow eyes sparkle at the sight. “You look like her--thought that when I got access to your mother’s thoughts,” yellow-eyes taunts. “Dean is just looking for his mama again and again and again,” she muses with a sadistic turn of her lips. With the fire burning above, lighting multiple bodies as it billows, she lifts a hand--a burst of telekinetic energy to push Jo back, hard. Her head tilts. “I would’ve liked to wait until Alistair could bring his suit here,” the smooth cadence of her mother’s voice mixed with the pure venom of Azazel’s malice chills the air. “But, as they say, time is of the essence.” <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>The shotgun fire of salt loaded bullets distracts enough to have the telekinetic move last just a moment, giving Jo release as Bobby’s house continues to go up in flames. “Let go of Ellen, you son of a bitch,” Bobby’s flat tone cuts into the room. The salt rounds won’t be enough to stop her, but it might serve as a distraction. “Kid, we need to round her off back towards the living room,” he states. Bobby’s house is most definitely full of demon traps. The trick is getting this thing into one of them. <br><br>Outside, Fred finds her fight, and the holy water burns her mother’s skin. The demon wearing her screeches in pain, falling forward as steam rises from her body. Her father reacts in kind, forcing her backwards with a burst of telekinetic energy to throw her against a car. “Winifred, you’ve been a very naughty girl,” he repeats from before. While Trish-demon tries to recover, Roger-demon takes point. <br><br>He paces towards her and allows his head to cant to the side, examining her. “There was a time when you were young that your father gifted you something of comfort. That you wouldn’t be afraid. Somehow you thought a rabbit would calm the storm. A stuffed bunny that your father believed would help you relate better to others.” He taps his temple. “I remember. Or, he does. He almost felt bad about it. Giving you a bunny instead of helping you find a friend. You were always such a sweet child.” He motions towards Trish. “That’s what your mother always said. So sweet. So innocent. So alone. Still alone. Always alone.” <br><br>“Nothing can comfort you here.” His tone flattens, “Not your beloved knight in shining whatever,” his nostrils flare, “not your mother’s touch,” his nose wrinkles and his lips quirk, “and not even that damned bunny. No one can make sense of the chaos.” <br><br>“That place you were at, it’s real. It’s not just in your mind, and you can bet that we will find a way to return you to it. Or,” he smiles faintly, “at least, leave dear old Mom and Dad there.” His black eyes shimmer with unbridled amusement. He’s thrilled. Pleased with his latest consideration. “I bet these bodies aren’t even necessary for our plans.” <br><br>The knife into Dean’s calf cuts true. And, sure enough, Sam finds the vein easily. If, however, he opens his eyes, he can see his brother has been subjected to numerous other cuts down his leg--all in various states of disarray thanks to the lack of nutrition that Alistair has provided him. Healing requires basic blocks of life, and Dean has had none. Yet none of those would’ve granted or <br><br>The sound that emits from Dean’s lips is somewhere between pain and ecstasy. Sam gets an ample dose before Alistair manages to lift a hand to push him back because another will buried inside him continues to exert itself where it can, even in exhaustion, malnutrition, and injury. Of course, it doesn’t take much of Alistair’s blood to make the younger Winchester dosed up. Oddly, none of the other demons rush the situation. None try to draw Sam away. The child in the distance even smiles. Softly. As if she’s experiencing a puppet show or play. Her eyes flit towards the others, and with a small smile, she disappears. <br><br>“I didn’t think you had it in you, Sammy,” Alistair states with a wry smile as he flexes Dean’s leg to continue to let the blood pour out. He is really not kind to this body. “You know, I wonder how much /anyone/,” Crowley for one, “will want my sloppy seconds.” <br><br>The sash draws towards Ash and catches his skin causing it to steam and burn, but doesn’t wrap around the demon before he’s onto the ploy. His hand lifts and it turns back towards May. Vacantly, his head tilts to the side. “Handy trick,” he states evenly while he lifts a hand to . “Bet it helped when you ganked that little girl in Bahrain.” His lips curve into a smile. “Alistair tortures her day after day after day in Hell. If you ever wonder what that’s like, I suggest talking to Sam.” <br><br>He strides forward to close the distance again. His hands lift in want. “She was pretty though, wasn’t she?”<br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo grimaces as Ellen back steams. As much as she'd expected it, it was still a shock. "Mom..." is that plea or just simple sorrow? Hard to tell, given the blonde is rocketed backwards. <br><br>//Thump// <br><br>"Nggggnh. He's not, you know, looking for his Mom..." A weak protest indeed. The words have cut through the blonde like a knife. Far more dangerous than any physical torment Ellen-demon could subject her to. <br><br>Eyes wide, there's still fight in the woman even though she's held tight. The first blast from the shotgun causes her to jump - that's not how they're supposed to take her, is it? Oh wait. That's Bobby's voice she's hearing as she slides to ground, hand rising to massage her throat. <br><br>It takes a moment - several very long moments really - for Bobby's words to sink in. "Living room, right. Come and get me you bitch if you want me..." her other hand delves into the pouch on her hip and salt is strewn to one side Ellen-mon. It won't hold her for long but Bobby should be able to ride herd as Jo acts as bait. <br><br>OK. It might not be the best plan - but it's far from the worst she's had today. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Wincing in sympathy pain as she hears her mother shriek, Fred pushes herself upward to standing. Her hand grips the neck of another bottle to toss onto her possessed father, but she never gets a chance to throw it. The telekenetic shove whips her against the car and she gives a short, soft cry of pain. Some of the beer bottles shatter on impact, shards of glass and holy salt water now pooling in the bottom of its fabric. <br><br>Pinned there, Fred is forced to listen to the demon holding her father as he recounts exactly why he gave her Feigenbaum in the first place. It attempts to twist a fond memory into something sad and tainted. Hearing her father’s voice talk to her in a way that is nothing like her father twists a knot in her stomach. Desperately, she shoves against the supernatural hold that keeps her helplessly in place, unable to move and unable to stop listening to the horrible words and threats. <br><br>The threat of Pylea - finding a way to send her or her parents back there - sends a cold stroke of fear down her back. “Don’t,” she says, softly. The thought of her parents on Pylea, scrounging to survive, causes her eyes to glass over with more tears. “Please leave them out of this.” She has to do something, has to stop this. <br><br>Trapped against the junked car, there is little she can do. She can’t toss any of the holy water, can’t do anything. Except talk. She takes a shallow breath - all she is able to do against the horrible pressure - and starts to quietly recite. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It feels amazing. For a moment Sammy is just...lost. The power flows into his mouth, down his throat, into his body. He feels the glory of every swallow. The taste on his tongue. Not bitter, or salty, or coppery. Sweet. He feels like he's floating in a sea of white. It feels surprisingly unthreatening. Exhaustion, gone. Uncertainty gone. Fear, gone. Nothing but the absolute certainty that he is unstoppable. <br><br>Being pushed off is a blessing. To Sam, it feels almost intolerable. But it keeps him from madly draining his brother dry, which he surely would have done if he'd been allowed to feed without reservation or restraint. <br><br>Only a bare trickle of blood runs from the corner of his lips, stained a rich color from the exchange. His eyes shift a little too. Black? Or are they closer to red now? Is his demon half moving subtlely up the hierarchy? It fades back to black a second later, he'd have to do a lot more feeding, a lot more regularly, to unleash /that/ fresh Hell. Probably nobody's looking at that but Alistair himself. <br><br>Alistair says he didn't think he had it in him. <br><br>Sam stands. He's not doing this on his knees. He wipes the trickle on the back of his hand. He watches Alistair as he slurps it up, licking that last little bit away. Nothing wasted. Nothing. There will be consequences for this, but they feel so distant. So. Unimportant. He rolls his tongue over his lips, over his teeth, cleaning the blood away, mostly intent on getting it all inside of him as fast as he can make it happen. But there's still a very disturbing quality to his smile. It's slight. Hard, as Sammy's smiles never are. Holding an edge that hints at something within him that is more than capable of cruelty, if pushed to it. Cruelty in equal measure, as it happens, to his vast empathy. <br><br>"You shouldn't have put yourself back on my radar, Alistair," Sam says, in a low, too-calm voice. "There will be consequences for that. But for now?" <br><br>His hand forms into a sort of claw. He rears it back. Though the other demons are right on his priority list, Fred's parents in particular, he's going to trust May and Fred to keep fighting while he initiates what has been, with every other demon, a battle of wills. Fred might achieve what she needs to with the exorcism anyway. Distantly, he hopes they're in good enough shape to survive the process. Distantly, he wonders what's happening to Jo and Bobby. <br><br>But he can only do one thing at a time. <br><br>He flings his will into his brother's form, shoving with all his might, doing his dead level best to use his stolen power to force his former tormenter straight back to Hell, and to hit him hard enough with that force that he won't have the strength to come seeking a new host for quite some time. <br><br>"Give me back my brother, you sorry son of a bitch." <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>If there’s one thing that May has learned only too well in her years at SHIELD, it’s the ability to NOT let it show when something affects her. Thus, Ash’s comments about the little girl and Bahrain appear to fall upon deaf ears as she sidesteps the sash whip coming back at her then whirls around, pulling the weapon back into a whirring spin. She also doesn’t waste time with talking. <br><br>Setting the whip to spin blurringly fast, she flicks it out at Ash-demon again, knowing it’s exactly what he’ll expect and with her other hand pulls the salt-loaded pistol from the Impala’s trunk and shoots at the redneck demon. She’s aiming only to wound and annoy, though, by shooting at his right thigh. Sorry… whoever you are. <br><br>Then she does start to toss out words, again using the ancient Mandarin to call upon one of the Kings of Diyu to pull these souls back to Hell to complete their punishments. <br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, “He’s been looking for his mom since I stole her,” Ellen counters to Jo. Bobby receives a small tilt of her head as she stumbles backwards from the shells. It won’t stop her, and it won’t send her back to hell, but it certainly has some impact, enough to grant a death stare towards the gentleman-hunter. “Decided to leave your solace to have some fun?” her yellow eyes flash with amusement. <br><br>Bobby looks worse for wear. His head has been bandaged many times over. His clothes are blood soaked. His wrists are bound with bandages. He’s been through something vile--that much is clear. But the anger in his eyes doesn’t dissipate. He shoots the gun again, this time towards the demon’s head. “Get. Out,” he says again. <br><br>Ellen’s eyes glimmer as Jo begins to lead her away. She knows what’s up. She also knows the house is going up in flames. Even from the outside the flames can be seen. Time is short. “I took her, you know. I took Sam’s fiance. And it’s only a matter of time until I take you. And make no mistake, Jo, I will get you.” She manages a small smile. “But in the meantime, know that he doesn’t love you. Not really. He doesn’t know how. Even your mother knows that.” There’s a pause. “Unless it’s Sam. Sam will always come first. He sold his soul for Sam--do you think he would ever do that for you? If you think so, you know you’re lying to yourself…” <br><br>“Shut up, you Idjit!” Bobby fires again to herd the demon towards Jo. “Don’t listen to him, Kid. They spew anything and everything to get inside yer ‘ead,” he fires the shotgun again. <br><br>And it seems to be working for the time being, but it’s easier than it should be. It’s possible the demon wants to get caught or its gambit has been fulfilled already. <br><br>Outside, Roger-demon sneers when Fred makes her bid for her parents’ lives. His nostrils flare and his body tenses at the request not to put them in Pylea. There’s little room for any of it. He takes delight in her pleading, and he doesn’t lose that edge of torment as he laughs, “I will see that every day of their life and beyond they are in agony. And the agony will never cease. Not once. Not ever.” <br><br>But the murmuring of the Latin causes his knees to buckle. His black eyes cannot handle the Latin the way the white eyes can. He falls onto his hands. He bats the ground as the words continue to spill from Fred’s lips and he begins to cough as his soul begins to be banished into the pit beyond. <br><br>Trish-demon, meanwhile has begun to recover. She forces herself to a stand and walks to where Roger and Fred are. <br><br>There will be consequences for Alistar returning to Sam’s radar. “I’m counting on it,” Dean replies gruffly. Amusement tugs at each edge of Dean’s face. His eyes crinkle with delight, his lips turn upwards, and the white of his eyes seems downright delighted. But the delight begins to change when Sam reaches out his hand. <br><br>At first, Alistair spreads Dean’s arms, inviting the change. But then the pressure changes. The white-eyed demon fights, demanding even more juice to be expensed and Dean’s body buckles beneath the war, stumbling towards the ground. Sam pulls on Alistair’s soul, forcing him from Dean’s body. And, because he can, he claws at the edges of Dean’s consciousness. <br><br>Dean’s chin lifts towards the sky and his mouth opens as a white thick cloud of smoke floats into the sky. It billows above, disappearing into nothing as it moves. <br><br>Dean collapses when the smoke disappears, causing his body to fall into the fetal position with his stomach falling to the ground. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cough. Emptily, he remains there frozen in place. <br><br>Ash screams in agony when the shell hits his thigh. He collapses to his knees. “You bitch!” he seethes loudly. “She agonizes every day because of what you did! And she will come back to haunt you--I swear that you will suffer tenfold!” <br><br>The demon wearing him keeps black eyes shining as he reaches out to counter her. He sends a burst of telekinetic towards her to thrust her against a rusty looking dumpster. But as he does so, he also begins to be willed from the body he’s occupying. His lips part and thick black smoke begins to billow up to the sky. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's difficult to hear much of what's happening outside - just the muffled noises that indicate not everything is ok in Kansas, Toto. Jo's blue eyes flick uncertainly in that direction but Ellen-mon's words have her focussing again. <br><br>Do they work? Does the demon manage to plant the seed of doubt in the blondes mind? What she has with Dean ... it's fledgling. They'd made no promises to each other, had they? Wasn't he really 'Mister Right Now' rather than 'Mister Right'? Maybe. Time will tell the effect those words truly have. <br><br>"You can have me if you can catch me." Jo's voice trembles as she moves further into the house. It is too easy, baiting the creature like this and she shoots a quick look to Bobby trying to convey that. <br><br>"I've chosen Ellen over Dean, so I guess we're even on that score." she tells her corrupted mothers form. "Blood is, after all, thicker than water." <br><br>It's getting hot in here and a trickle of sweat runs down her forehead but still, she leads the demon on. Ellen-mon. Gotta catch them all. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred, pinned against the car like a butterfly to a board, keeps reciting. She can hear the spiteful words of the demon holding her father promising them pain. It only spurs her to recite faster, to try and literally release that demon. The same fear Sam has is lodged in the back of her head - the teenager face down in a lawn that would never move again. The one Sam wrapped in a tarp and drove elsewhere. Is that the future for her parents? Will she not only be the reason for their possession, but their death? <br><br>The words slow slightly as she thinks about that, a soft sob interjecting itself in her recitation in between lines. Her eyes close as she continues, seeing her father drop to his knees and choke. The approach of her mother is unable to be seen. She simply can’t stand it. She has little of the training or outward fortitude of May. Every word clearly cuts her deeply. Still, though, she speaks through unbearable pressure and the pain. <br><br>Determined, aching and devastated, she finishes the exorcism. Despite the dangers, the fact that she knows there are enemies still around, she cannot bear to open her eyes, to see if she succeeded - and if she did - to see what that means. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Dean!” <br><br>Sam darts forward to gather Dean into his arms. He wants to check for a pulse, he wants to offer some food or water or medical care, but they are still very much in the middle of a crisis here. And Fred is still being menaced. He sees Mr. Burkle’s demon smoke out, but here comes Mrs. Burkle. <br><br>He flings his hand in that direction, jaw firming with determination. After Alistair, this should be nothing. He was unable to force the white-eyed monster back to Hell, he’s still out there. But a black-eyes? <br><br>Should be easy enough. <br><br>He pushes the soul out like it’s nothing, leaving, briefly, a black fiery burn mark on the ground beneath her feet. It takes a moment of concentration, but compared to Alistair it’s as easy as simply thumping a piece of paper away with his thumb and forefinger. Gentler on Mrs. Burkle’s body than the exorcism, though there are still no guarantees. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May get slammed back against a rusty old dumpster, and that finally elicits a reaction from her. She growls at the pain and frustration of being stuck, but then as the demon ghosts out of the young man’s body and the hold on her releases, she takes a breath and then says to the black smoke, “You first.” <br><br>Then, grimacing slightly as she steps away from the dumpster and feels like someone just pulled a rusty knife out of her back, she takes a very quick stock of the goings on and turns to run for the farmhouse. As much as seeing what Sam is doing disturbs her, she can’t exactly argue it now. But she CAN go help Jo with whatever is going on inside the house. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, Ellen follows Jo through to the living room. She lifts a hand to telekinetically hit the girl, but the shotgun fire grants her pause. Bobby has few (if any) concerns about damaging his home. It’s already going up in flames anyways. While Jo may be acting as live bait, the yellow-eyed demon seems to take it. The plan may be known, but something seems to inspire Ellen-mon forward. <br><br>And sure enough, the living room is a veritable myriad of demon traps. The ceiling, walls, and floor underneath the carpet all act as demon traps. Yellow eyes is stuck. Ellen, however, just smiles at the others, strangely pleased with herself at this turn of events. “You’re both aware that you’ve won nothing today, aren’t you? All of this went according to plan.” Her yellow eyes track towards Jo. <br><br>Bobby’s expression remains neutral. He’s been dealing with monsters for decades and he won’t let himself be rattled by another. He does, however, look towards Jo. “Send the bitch home, Kid,” intending her to exorcise her own mother. <br><br>When May finds the pair inside the home, Bobby casts her a long look as he levels his shotgun towards her. A glance is given Jo, silently asking about the woman standing in front of him. <br><br>Outside, Fred’s agony gets emphasized as her mother continues what her father had begun. Trish lifts her fingers to slowly, telekinetically, wrench Fred’s skull. She applies pressure, exerting more with every passing instant to literally crush her brain. But it’s all for naught. She’s ripped from the mortal she’s residing in by Sam’s will. In an array of black smoke, she leaves Trish’s body on the ground in a mess of nothing. <br><br>Ellie smirks as Trish is exorcised, and in a second, she’s gone to parts unknown to fight another day. <br><br>Unconscious, both of Fred’s parents lay there with no movement. It’s a wonder if they’re alive. <br><br>Not far away, Dean’s body resembles a corpse. Pallid skin. Cold. Empty. His eyes don’t flicker, his breath doesn’t steady. And in a way, he’s nearly vacant. The light seems comforting. Peaceful. He knows it leads nowhere good, but his mind struggles to return to the present. <br><br>The rocking had been peaceful. The sound of her humming a comfort even before he’d seen her face. But she never stuck to humming. Her voice echoes in his mind. “Hey Jude, refrain, don’t carry the world upon your shoulders~’ <br><br>She didn’t like lullabies. She liked the Beatles. They would rock in the rocking chair of the nursery. Time and time again. “For well you know that it’s a fool~ Who plays it cool~ By making this world a little colder~” <br><br>“You need to wake up, Dean,” she says softly. He can almost feel her fingers on his cheek. The way she’d gently woken him many times when they had somewhere to be. <br><br>In the real world, Dean gasps for breath, inhaling a face full of dirt, causing him to push up slightly to cough the dirt back into the ground before collapsing against it again. He’s alive. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus... " Jo starts to intone as she hits the living room. Bobby didn't need to tell her twice. "omnis satanig--" <br><br>She stutters as the yellowed eye demon taunts them further and draws in a gasping breath. <br><br>"He'll survive. They'll survive..." She mutters to herself. Who's she's talking about isn't clear, perhaps not even to herself. She knows better than to respond to the creature but it's hard, oh so hard. <br><br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis satanicus potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii..." <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>Holy water is added to the moment mix of this recipe. <br><br>"omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura," <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>"tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, AUDI NOS!" <br><br>The final words of the rite have her voice rising as sweat pours down her face. She's breathing heavily by the time she finishes. Who knew reciting a few words could be so taxing? <br><br>Ellen-mon smokes, or is it steams?, as the water hits her and her body trembles terribly at the words. Those eyes fix Jo with deadly intent as yellow smoke rises from her body. <br><br>"Is it over, Bobby?" she grates out. Not once thinking to question if this truly is the Hunter and not some other meat-suit wearing Demon. <br><br>Um. They should probably take Ellen's body and get the hell out of Dodge. <br><br>"Dean...." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The pressure against her is felt exponentially. Fred’s eyes remain closed as the pain increases, her head shoved against the junkyard car further and further. There’s only so long it will last before it might burst. She starts to try again, the words gritted through her teeth, through the excruciating pain. “Exorci….zamus….te….” <br><br>Suddenly, though, the pain is gone. Fred drops to the ground in a pile of limbs, gasping at the sudden release of pressure against her body. Her eyes remain closed for a few moments until they open to glance upward. She takes in the scene, blinking at the sudden brightness after squeezing her eyes shut for so long. <br><br>There’s Sam holding Dean and then, there is her parents, lying motionless on the ground. Scrambling, tripping in her hurry to get up, she scurries to them. The bag of mystical weapons are left behind broken and filled with water. It might be a mistake, but she isn’t thinking about that right now. Instead, she needs to get to her parents, to check on them. <br><br>“Mom? Dad?” Terrified, she reaches for them, checking for a pulse, gently assessing them to try and see if they have any wounds that need to be tended. “Please, please, wake up. Please be okay. I’m sorry.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester has never felt so relieved in his life as he feels when Dean wakes up in his arms. He lifts him up a little to try to get him out of the dirt, rolls him over, sees Fred fussing over her parents. Some of the demons exited, stage left. Now he turns his attention to Bobby’s home, gasping, worried. <br><br>He is no healer, but there are still things he can do. He knows this might well use nearly all of what he’s got. He is already going to need a dose much faster than usual. He’s already out of them. New York is far, far away. <br><br>He’ll just have to trust that he’ll pull through, because he can’t let Bobby’s house burn. Father, uncle, whatever one wants to call him, Bobby Singer is family. <br><br>He could never try this if he weren’t high on the rush of demonic blood. But now he lifts his hand and focuses on the fire. Focuses on pulling it first to a single point outside the house, telekinetically trying to draw flames together into one long finger-like torrent, stretching it out and out and out until he can get it away from Bobby’s home. <br><br>It works, to his shock. But he doesn’t revel in it for long. There’s a watery ditch, a culvert he played in as a kid. He slams the fire into it, leaving only a hiss of steam in the distance. It’s probably a Hell of a thing to watch. In more ways than one. <br><br>He keeps his arm tightly around his brother the entire time, pressing his chest to his brother’s back to keep him in spiritual contact with the anti-possession ward tattoo’d deeply into his own skin. He doesn’t have time to grab that final necklace from his pocket right now, and he won’t risk another possession. They won’t get this lucky twice. <br><br>“Fred,” he asks hoarsely, a one-word request for a status report on her parents. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May bursts into the farmhouse and stops abruptly when the older man (though really, he’s probably the same age she is) turns his shotgun on her. “We need to go,” she says to the younger Harvelle after seeing the woman freed of possession. She’s guessing that that’s Jo’s mother, and while keeping a wary eye on Bobby, she moves cautiously closer to check on the now unconscious woman and in doing so passes straight through at least two devil’s traps without realizing they’re there. <br><br>She checks Ellen’s pulse and finds that she’s out for the count, but not on the verge of dying, which is a relief. She starts to heft the unconscious woman into a fireman’s carry when the fire suddenly just … goes away. She is going to have WORDS with Sam after this. But, the house may very well still be structurally compromised so she keeps on with the getting Ellen out. “Let’s move, Jo. Now.” <br><br>Her eyes land on Bobby again for a moment as if to see if he’s going to follow or continue standing there being openly curmudgeonly. But only for a moment. The smoke is now more dangerous than the flames were, so she’s getting out and she’s taking Ellen with her. <br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Looking to the skies reveals that the omens have shifted. The skies have cleared and blue takes over from the swirl of orange, red, and white. It’s relieving. The locusts have cleared--something they will notice when they drive out of here. <br><br>Bobby casts a long look to Jo as May enters the demon traps. His shotguns drop and his own bloodied body nods once at the young blonde when May moves to get Ellen out. In no time, he’s walking out of his home, semi-intact and looking out on the yard. His head shakes once while he assumes silence. His eyes train on the boys and linger on Sam for a long while. <br><br>Fred’s parents remain unresponsive. Assessing her mother yields a strong pulse and breathing. Her body doesn’t look ridden hard--likely because it wasn’t ridden long. Alistair had some last minute additions to his hostage entourage. It’s good to be at the tail end of the possessions. Her father’s pulse, however, is weak. Barely there. His breathing is shallow. Undoubtedly the exorcism had unwanted secondary effects. Both are alive though. <br><br>Dean’s vision can’t come into focus. His body refuses to cooperate as he tries to regain some semblance of muscle control. He wants to stand. He can’t even motivate himself to wriggle out of Sam’s grasp. And so he stays there. His eyes burn, prompting him to close them again. His very breath rakes against his throat, scratching with dryness like sandpaper. Mary’s voice continues to sing over him in this place. He can sense her. Feel her. And it moves him. <br><br>Years of hunting have made Dean hard. He knows to maintain himself. To carry his composure. His life has been threatened many times before. He’s sold his soul. He’s died and come back to life. Seven times. <br><br>Maybe it’s the lack of nourishment, dehydration, or the sheer magnitude of being possessed for days, but something breaks. And, underneath his arm, Sam can feel Dean’s chest heave. <br><br>Dean Winchester is crying. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"A friend..." Jo grates out as May bursts through the door "... sort of..." she ammends. "SHIELD agent." Which should speak volumes for Bobby and warn him. No matter what she's been through, and her face shows the fear, the panic, the terror she feels, Jo won't leave Bobby out to dry. <br><br>Wiping her hand across her forehead, smearing grime and soot as she does, the blonde nods once to May, dips and helps her left Ellen, leaving the house and out into the yard. <br><br>"... Dean ..." Poor May is left with Ellens weight as the Hunter's daugher, now Hunter herself, takes a faltering step forward. Yellow eyes words play in her head like a bad song stuck on repeat. It takes a moment for her to push the doubt down. It's not gone - and the pair will have to deal with that ... later. <br><br>Hopefully much, much, later. <br><br>Standing there, between May and the men, hands clenched, Jo finally surveys the turmoil. "Fred? Ar... " she swallows "Are they ... " she can't finish the statement. She heard the womans' plaintive plea to the downed pair. <br><br>She hasn't looked for Ash yet. There's too much to take in, as her eyes return to the Winchester brothers. No place for her there. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>As her mother is closest to her, Fred checks her pulse first, finding it steady, though the woman has yet to wake up. A slight warmth of relief starts flood its way through until she reaches her father. His breathing is shallow, his pulse weak. The blood in her ears pounds as she quickly tries whatever she can to steady him, to heal him. There’s a look to her mother, still lying there. She feels terrible about leaving her there, but it’s Roger that is in the most dire straits. <br><br>“Dad, Dad, come on. You gotta stay strong, okay?” The question from Sam, from Jo, they’re both only heard as if from far away, barely recognized. All her attention is on her father, lying here. Her hands remain on him as she finally looks up, towards the others. She might not have heard their questions, but she knows Sam is there, that Dean is there. There’s almost surprise as she sees Jo and May, as well as two others she doesn’t know. Ellen may be unconscious, but the previously unseen form of Bobby stands with them and there is a brief wariness that fades to her greater concerns. <br><br>“Help him,” she pleads. “He’s...he’s weak. I think I...I don’t know. We gotta get him out of here. Please.” Panic has clearly set in. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Bobby is staring at him, and Sam looks away, flushing with sudden shame. And that makes him angry, because look. There they are. All alive. <br><br>But not all well. Dean is weak, Fred’s parents are weak, Ash is weak, Ellen is no doubt weak. His mouth sets into a tight line. He hefts Dean up as if he were hefting up a small child. He doesn’t even strain to do it. It doesn’t occur to him that Jo might be feeling uneasy about her place in that right now, or he’d be more considerate, but right now he’s in crisis mode. He fishes out that necklace, puts it firmly around Dean’s neck. <br><br>He sees Dean’s tears but won’t address them. It would mortify his brother. If anything he turns Dean into his body just a little bit, so the man can shed what he needs to shed without anyone seeing. A protective gesture, though not a traditional one. <br><br>“How fast can you get a SHIELD medical team to us, Agent May?” Sam asks. “Or us to a SHIELD medical team? Everyone needs help.” His words, when they come out, are grim, taut, and utterly professional, showing no hint of any emotion at all. His irises remain flat black. No telling if they’re going back. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>With Jo’s help, May gets Ellen out of the farmhouse only to have to take all of her weight when the blonde moves toward the brothers. She’s starting to feel where she took that dumpster to the back, so before she’s at risk of dropping the unconscious woman she moves to set her down somewhere central-ish. Doing so might reveal that she didn’t get out of this unscathed, and it was something bad enough to tear through her jacket. <br><br>“Depends on if,” she pauses and forces herself to not wince as she pulls her cell phone from a pocket. Please work, please work, “my phone is working now.” She starts trying to dial out and looks at Bobby again. “There’s a young man over that way. Sleeveless shirt. Mullet.” She doesn’t know if he’s okay or not, though. <br><br>Glancing over at Sam, she reaches into her jacket again and pulls the water flask that Dean had declined before. It’s at best four ounces of water, but it’s better than nothing and Dean looks like he’ll need any bit of sustenance they can manage. <br><br>Oh thank goodness. “HQ. May. Require immediate medical teams or exfil at my location. Four civilians down, one asset, one agent.” She doesn’t bother to get up from where she’s sitting on the ground next to Ellen. She’s not sure her back will take it. “Have Medical check my file, I’ll likely need another tetanus booster.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Bobby’s gaze finally peels away from the brothers, it rests on Ellen a few beats and then he moves to find Ash and assess the kid. “What a mess,” he mutters softly to himself. But he’s pleased enough to find the body with a heartbeat and signs of life. His eyes turn up to the sky for a moment, taking in the blue stillness and he exhales a long breath. “And it’s just gonna get worse,” he murmurs to no one in particular. <br><br>But on that note, SHIELD medical arrives. The quinjet is fully prepared to take all for transport. And while at least one patient objects, a lot of sedative eats the objection. In short order everyone is receiving treatment. And when they’re alert, five will wake up in a place they don’t recall going to sleep. <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Hey_Jude&diff=1579Hey Jude2017-09-19T03:59:24Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/14<br />
|Location=South Dakota<br />
|Synopsis=After the incident at Sioux Falls, Dean wakes up in SHIELD medical. He and Sam reconnect after nearly a month apart.<br />
|Cast of Characters=306, 294<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>SHIELD medics had gone about their work on each of the victims immediately upon their arrival to the scene. They’d insisted that each of those present give them room to work--an insistence that wasn’t well-received by all of those present. But physicians exercise authority easily. It’s their training, especially when lives are at stake. <br><br>Most of the victims were kept for observation if not outright treatment. It’s fortunate that so few of the victims had been occupied long. It meant they hadn’t had the opportunity to be so terribly treated. Others were less lucky. <br><br>Days without food, water, or rest have had their impact on Dean. The IV he’s hooked into, with its constant stream of fluids has made a world of difference. He’d wanted to eat pretty quickly when he’d arrived to the facility, but his doctor insisted he not. Ironically, this made him all the more determined. He’d rushed the process and put something in his stomach before it was ready… and had suffered the consequences as a result. <br><br>It’d become increasingly obvious Alistair carved him before occupying him. The wounds had festered. Infection had started to set in. He’d been feverish. Consequently, he’s been on a solid round of antibiotics since his arrival. The med team has insisted that it’s fortunate he got here when he did. That he’s lucky. The phrase was enough to make Dean ill. <br><br>Lucky. <br><br>Dean Winchester, lucky. <br><br>His mother was killed when he was four. His brother was cursed to become a monster. His father didn’t care that he was being tortured for a year. His was body occupied and abused for days. Yeah. He’s lucky. <br><br>It made him angry. But he buried it. Locked it down. Sam had been in earshot. He’d probably seen the change in his brother at the phrase. Whatever had opened was shut down again. The notion of being lucky with what had happened to him over the course of weeks was enough to breed distrust. <br><br>The good news is, most of the time he’s been in the facility, he’s been some version of asleep. It made it easier to keep the lockdown in place. But even in his sleep he’s been humming. Hey Jude seems to be stuck in his head--an oddity. He’d tried singing it once to Sammy when he was four, and suffered consequences for it. Many of them. It was a lesson he only needed once. The song was Mary’s and was to die with her. That’s when Dean had found a song of his own to act as a lullabye. But it never produced those same feelings of comfort for /him/. <br><br>When he knew John couldn’t hear, he’d listened to the Beatles, but like some kind of guilty pleasure, he’d promptly shut it off if anyone was in earshot. Including Sam, even when John wasn’t around. The Beatles were sacred. And like a forbidden religion, it was kept for the corners of his own space. <br><br>But here, even when asleep, he thinks of it. How she’d sung it. What she’d looked like when she sung it. What it felt like. And thanks to days of his will rebelling, it happens even when he’s not trying. The song has followed him since he collapsed. He’s hummed it almost constantly. A few bars at random intervals. <br><br>And so he’s still there. He’d slept in most of the time since he’d come here. Or, had pretended to sleep. Most of it involved vivid memories he’d rather let go of. He hasn’t said much. He sits up in the bed they’ve confined him to as he stares skeptically at the IV hooked into his arm and the heart monitor he’d taken off three times already to get talked to about the importance of monitoring. His lips turn down into grim line as he stares at the window of the room. At least it gives him something to look at. It’s a welcome distraction. And so he stares at the window. Haunted green eyes train on buildings in the distance. <br><br>He’s getting out today. He’s already decided that, no matter what the med team says. He’s an adult. He can make decisions. He needs to get home. He needs to fix the Impala. There are things to do. And getting out means getting control of his faculties. Of his body. Of his emotions. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s hard to tell what Sam Winchester is thinking or feeling right now. <br><br>Doctors tried to chase him out, but the truth is he just retreated to a corner and folded his arms. The large man had agreed to put on scrubs, to stay silent, to retreat out of the way, but he hadn’t even opened his mouth to tell them he wasn’t leaving this room. Something about what he’s radiating now makes the argument open and shut before anyone speaks a word. <br><br>He’d had the predator’s aura at that point. The one that tells more sensitive humans, the ones with better instincts, they’re in the presence of someone vastly more dangerous than themselves, someone who means business and has no fucks to give. <br><br>He’d stood in the corner concentrating on a chant. His mouth moved to speak it without any sound, all beneath his surgical mask. This particular SHIELD facility got a ward against evil that was difficult to set, but he had hours to stand there, stand guard, and set it. It’s a chant that made it into a Madeline L’Engle book but which he’d discovered was the real deal. If focused on in Latin, not English. <br><br>“Hanc fatalem horam, et locus ejus omnis potestas in Caelo, cum sol splendet, et nives per lanam ex capris: Omnem habens virtutem ignis, et fulgur cum celeri ira sua, cum celeritas in ventis iter, et habebant altitudinem suam in mare, et factum est cum saxa suas iniquitatem, et terram ejus eremi vastitate: haec omnia locum, per gratiam, et auxilium Dei omnipotentis, inter me et potestates tenebrarum!” <br><br>Over and over again, in sets of three times three, for hours, until he felt sure Lucifer himself couldn’t touch this building. <br><br>To him there is some irony in calling on Heaven. He now knows /viscerally/ what he’d known logically. Heaven abandoned him when he was just six months old. But the spell still worked, and if it had trouble deciding if /he/ was among the powers of darkness it /had/ finally decided. He was the one who set the spell, so it didn’t harm him. Perhaps if he proved he could be good in spite of what had happened to him, Heaven would quit turning its back on him. And his brother. <br><br>And fuck them if they didn’t, because Sam wasn’t going to be good because he got a big Heaven cookie at the end of it. He wanted to be good because he chose to be good. <br><br>After that, he settled at Dean’s bedside, his feet up on an ottoman in a chaise chair once they got him out of surgery and into a room. Arms folded. Fred is with her family, Jo is with her Mom, Bobby’s still getting treatment too. <br><br>He’d listened to Dean mutter in his sleep, and it brought tears to black eyes. And then: /fuck you, Dad/. He wouldn’t do this while Dean was awake ever, but he sang the song to him softly. He wouldn’t do it while anyone was watching, either. It would mortify Dean. Probably make him mad, were he awake, Sam didn’t know. <br><br>He knew the song was special though, knew the aversion, knew the way it got rapidly shut off every time it came on the car radio, knew the strange look that would come over Dean’s face. <br><br>This isn’t the first time he’s ever sung it, either. The year Dean’d had the flu so bad Sam had thought he was going to die of it, a cold winter in Pennsylvania where their Dad had rented them a vacation cabin prone to getting snowed in...and then had disappeared for six months. There hadn’t even been a school for 30 miles, and Dad hadn’t “had time” to enroll them. He’d listed them as home schooled at the next place they ended up. And Sam had learned: how to nurse someone through the flu, how to do meal planning and prep, how to grocery shop for snowstorms, how to shovel snow, how to drive the car, how to fake a driver’s license so he could do so at the age of 10, how to dress and carry himself so he could pass for older. That had been the year he’d run his first credit card scam, too. The year he’d decided he couldn’t play sentry and nurse, so he’d called Bobby and asked about wards and had received six thick tomes on the subject. <br><br>A year they got to spend 8 whole months at Bobby’s after that, because Bobby had finally come to get them when, exhausted and scared because Dean wasn’t getting better, he’d finally asked if the older man would come, and take his brother to a doctor. The year Bobby had decked John right in the nose when he’d come to claim his sons, the worst fight the two men had ever had. Because a 10 year old could not take a 14 year old to the doctor without getting CPS involved, and Sam knew CPS could never be involved. <br><br>He hears Dean shift and he opens his eyes. Dark green eyes, right now, the color of pine trees at an approaching dusk. <br><br>“Dean?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>At the sound of his name, Dean scrubs his face with his hands. He sniffs loudly. There’s something strangely reassuring about being able to force air into his lungs. And even if he denies it, he basks silently in being able to exercise control. He turns his head to face Sam. The buried thoughts remain locked down as he quite lazily manages a faint quirk of his lips. But the grifter’s smile never catches his eyes. The smile is practiced. It had been perfected through years of lies to complete jobs. But there are some hauntings that not even a hunter can resist. <br><br>Plain as day, Dean’s eyes speak a different story. Their colour, the way they crease at the edges, the reflection of something other behind them--all call to the change. Something has shifted. He can feel it. But some had shifted before Alistair had happened. His life has been reframed in his own mind and memory. And its reframing has left him in want. Those same eyes call to discontent. To confusion. To anger. To hurt. <br><br>But feeling anything let alone everything at once is a liability for a Hunter. So he locks it down as best he can. Smiling. And it would convince almost anyone, save his nearest and dearest. <br><br>His eyebrows draw together some, a measured consideration, while he lets those green eyes linger on his brother’s. There’s a flicker of concern that flashes in them when he watches Sam. But he attempts to lock that down as well. He’s a soldier. He can handle this. He can handle anything. “...hey,” his voice feels foreign in his own throat. He folds his arms across his chest. It’s more comfortable that way, only to cringe when the line in his arm bends at the motion. Nope. Straight arms. He’s getting out today and won’t let posturing be the reason he doesn’t. IVs work better with straight arms. <br><br>His lips press together tightly after the word. There’s much to say and nothing to say. And so his eyebrows lift with some unspoken thought. Yet what he gives words to doesn’t match the expression. “Thanks,” he starts--that much is true, but the rest that comes out finds itself shrouded in a lie, “I know you bailed me out, but… I don’t really know what happened…” His eyes narrow slightly, fully prepared to be challenged on that front. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam knows his brother is full of shit. <br><br>He also knows his brother is going to want to save face. And that he’ll finally deal with it when he’s ready to. Right now, what Dean Winchester needs are choices. They can be shitty choices, but they must be his. <br><br>So Sam allows a look of relief to pass over his face, and retreats to one of his masks. Humor. “Yeah? No, that’s good, because when he made you roll up your pants leg and sing show tunes I thought you’d never recover.” A boyish grin flashes over his face, one that never reaches his eyes either. His eyes say it all too: ‘I know you’re full of shit, I’m going to give you a pass, but I am here for you.’ <br><br>Turning more serious, he transfers himself from chair to ottoman so he can pull it closer. “I drew on you with a Sharpie while you slept,” he says, as if it were just a standard slumber party trick. He points to Dean’s arm, where he’s drawn an anti-possession ward right near that IV needle. “I think you should get it done permanently though.” <br><br>He pulls aside his collar, revealing his tattoo. <br><br>But though he’ll give Dean a pass on some things, he won’t on others. His face turns sober, serious, and for once, he says exactly what he wants, exactly what he needs. “Look, things are bad right now,” he says quietly. “Real bad for you, real bad for me. The only way we’re going to survive this is together, man. I need you. I need the crap out of you. I need you to--please don’t take off anymore. I know--I know I was an asshole. I know I left you and Dad. But you’re the better of us, and--I need you not to run off anymore. I’m not saying there won’t be times it doesn’t make sense to split up, I’m not saying we need to be joined at the hip, but...we have that check-in system for a reason, and--” <br><br>He looks down. “It would kill me to lose you, Dean. I know you think--you maybe think--I don’t care but--” <br><br>He lets the whole thing linger in the air. Dean might not want to talk. But Sam is more than willing to. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The smile loses its edge at the mention of show tunes and something more genuine replaces it. “It’s fortunate I have no memory then,” Dean’s teeth flash with a modicum of self-deprecation. Relief colours his expression. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to think about it. He wants to stop replaying it in his head. <br><br>The notion of being drawn on though has his chin tucking towards his chest to examine the symbol on his arm. And as he sees his arms, his face blanches. He feels queasy. His eyes lid lightly and he leans back again to watch the ceiling above. The heart monitor hooked to his index finger begins to beat loudly. He inhale a long breath, holds it, and releases it slowly. Those hands. His hands. His arms. They betrayed him. <br><br>But the breathing doesn’t work. Not quickly. Not effectively. <br><br>The image flashes across his memory. Fresh. His eyes cinch shut. <br><br>Alistair shuts Dean’s cellphone. The front room of Bobby’s house feels familiar and foreign at the same time from this vantage. His hands tremble. Dean hasn’t lost his fight. He may have no real control, but he doesn’t make it easy for his body’s other occupant either. The body is his. It belongs to him and the interloper isn’t welcome. <br><br>“What was that about?” Bobby’s voice cuts through the silence. There’s a glint in the older man’s eyes that Dean catches. And, with easy access to his thoughts, he knows Alistair catches it too. It’s horrifying. How can he stop thinking in his own mind? <br><br>Bobby shoves a now-open bottle of beer to the Dean-mon. “Drink. I know it’s useless to ask you to talk about it, ya idjit.” There’s a pause. “But you can’t run from this, son.” <br><br>Dean’s lips hitch up on one side. The bottle draws to his lips. He takes a swig. The fluid burns hot in his mouth. It sears, smoking his tongue. There’s nothing sweet or normal about the beer. It wretches in his stomach. Something skips in Dean’s mind. He misses something. The room changes. It’s the dining room. Not the front room. And in an instant, Bobby has his shotgun out. It’s dizzying in the moment. Alistair lifts Dean’s hand and Bobby is plastered against the wall. Alistair moves telekinetically rips the first layer of flesh from the skin covering his forehead. <br><br>Bobby’s screams fill the house. It echoes. <br><br>In the present, Dean forces his eyes open to meet Sam’s. His head shakes. Shake it off. And then, bluntly, he offers, “I don’t want a tattoo.” Free will. Agency. He aches to exercise it. “Those places,” tattoo parlours, “are shit. They’re full of wannabe hippie beatniks who don’t even know who Zeppelin even is.” His expression suggests he’s also dead serious. And focusing on this makes the heart monitor begin to return to a normal pace. It’s helping him lock it down. <br><br>When Sam begins to reiterate his needs though, Dean can feel his eyes narrow again. Something in his brain cracks. “I didn’t take off because of you,” it’s the truth. “I didn’t leave my phone behind because of you,” it’s true that he didn’t want to be called. But it wasn’t for lack of wanting to talk to Sam. He didn’t want to have to lock the truth down. He didn’t want to have to lie about John’s betrayal to his brother’s face. But more than that, he didn’t want to give voice to the truth. “I made choices. My choices. All of them.” <br><br>His eyes train on Sam’s. “Dude. I never thought you didn’t care.” Absolution is something he’s willing to give. “Just lose that thought right now.” His eyes actually roll at the next, “And there’s no way I’m the better of us Sam. Of any of us,” including John, especially at this moment. <br><br>He inhales another long breath. “When did this story turn into a Lifetime movie?” His head turns towards the window. “I’m fine. I can’t promise not to take off. Not when it’s necessary. I know you don’t get it, but I needed to. And not just because of Crowley.” Sure, Crowley had something to do with it, but it was John who nailed that coffin shut. “I needed to talk to Jo. I needed to…” seduce a stranger. His shoulders sink. Hopefully it’s enough to make Sam get it while telling him almost nothing. <br><br>He knows Alistair brought up John. He knows Sam may have ideas of his own. He knows all of these things. But instead of talking about the issue directly, he hones in on something tangential. “I need the road. Sammy--” there’s so much he wants to say in the space between his words. There’s so much he longs to express. His heart actually aches as he holds it back. The judgment he feels for himself and his inability to utter it actually hurts more. Alistair had been cruel. But he’d found honesty in the cruelty. “--you don’t need me anymore. I know you care. I do. But you’re getting roots. It’s.. good, probably.” He manages a bitter laugh. He’s not someone able to assess the qualitative nature of goodness on much of anything, let alone roots. <br><br>“You have Fred. You have SHIELD. I’m gone in a year. Less, probably.” His smile turns bitter. And while there’s more to say, he won’t let himself speak it. Not yet, anyways. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah, I have an angle on that,” Sam says. He’s got a wish demon in his back pocket. He just has to figure out how to use her. “You’re not dead yet.” <br><br>He also scowls. He’s not sure about SHIELD. It’s all over his face. What he says is, “You have Jo. Dude, at some point it is maybe okay for us to get hot Hunter girlfriends.” <br><br>He leans back. He folds his arms. He listens to what Dean has to say, and he thinks about it for a long time. He says, “You know, WAND isn’t the most well-funded department ever. I get the impression it’s hard to look at Congress and say ‘we need a billion dollars for ghost hunting.’ It’s a fringe department. May seems content to let me choose my cases, and there are SHIELD offices all over the country. We’re still in South Dakota.” <br><br>He’s already had some of this discussion with Fred. <br><br>“So. You need the road. Fine. There are cases all over America. I need a steady paycheck so I don’t have to defraud people to do this job. Fine. Turns out there are people willing to pay me to do what we do anyway. Fred needs her people at the Hyperion, but turns out she’s willing to hop in a car as long as I’m willing to drive her back.” <br><br>He gestures to the door. “Bobby has had a home base, and has simply taken road trips to his hunts, as long as we’ve known him, man.” <br><br>“Bottom line, you can have the road. And you can maybe keep your room, keep a home. It doesn’t have to be either-or. That kind of no-compromise thinking gets us in a lot of trouble. Sometimes it’s okay to take the third option.” <br><br>And as for the tattoo artist: “And what you’re saying is if you don’t have to go to a parlor and I can find an artist who knows abou Zeppelin, you’ll get the thing that keeps Alistair from riding shotgun in your skull again. Awesome, I’m gonna get on that.” <br><br>The tone Sam gets when he decides to mother Dean just like Dean fathers him is absolutely present in that final statement. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The mention of Bobby’s home base changes something in Dean’s expression. His gaze settles on a spot on the bed. His lips purse. It washes over him. All over again. The guilt feels distinct. A glance is given the IV. He wonders if they’ve put painkillers in here. He could really use a drink. <br><br>He can smell it. The fire. It burns brightly in his mind, and he can smell it. The Roadhouse. Bobby’s home. He frowns openly. It’s not guarded. He doesn’t even try. The mention of letting Alistair ride shotgun in his skull earns Sam a pained look. It’s not particularly convincing for someone who has no apparent memory of an incident, but they both know he’s lying. <br><br>He pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off the oncoming headache. But that’s not where the pain is. His hands settle over his eyes, forcing them closed. Again the heart monitor quickens. He can feel a tightness grow in his chest. He’s struggles to find his breath. And he flicks the monitor off with punctuated impertinence and disregard for the machine. It’s bad enough he’s having a panic attack; he’d rather his brother not be able to hear it. <br><br>He struggles to lock it down. For days he’s been in fight or flight mode without having any ability to do either. Not really. And now he can’t control it. Not the way he wants. <br><br>Maybe he can channel it. Anger. He’s lucky, they said. He put everyone he loved in harm’s way and he’s lucky. A demon exploited his very thoughts. His emotions. Every unuttered bittered concern. Not just his body. <br><br>Alistair sliced him. He sliced Bobby. And others. He was bait to get them. Bobby’s house burned. It might be fine, but yellow eyes knew what he was doing. <br><br>His father left him for a year. A whole year. To toughen him up because he clearly wasn’t tough enough in the first place. <br><br>He’s lucky. <br><br>Frustrated hands fall to Dean’s sides, away from his eyes and he pulls at the IV in his arm, digging it out with all the ceremony of having no fucks left. The site oozes with blood and his eyebrows draw together as he wraps his opposite hand around it to stop it. He pulls back the covers and his feet hit the floor. <br><br>And then, in what likely seems like the biggest subject change he’s made in weeks, he asks, “I need my wheels. You know where Baby is?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>And just like that, Dean shuts down the conversation. <br><br>Frustration and concern do a dance on Sam’s face. He steadfastly tries to ignore the heart monitors, knowing how his brother will feel about hiding his response. He’s never seen his brother have anything like a panic attack, and after a moment, remorse joins the dance. <br><br>Hazel eyes betray a man who doesn’t know what to do. He raises a slightly shaking hand to his hair and pushes it back. “Baby was in bad shape. May did what May does, which is try to take care of you by having her pulled off the highway and sent to the shop where some SHIELD-bigwig gets his cop magnet seen to.” <br><br>He hates this, because he has to stand in front of the door. “Look, man,” he says quietly. “I know everything about everything sucks. But you can’t just take off. We have other people here that we, you and I, have to see to and take care of and deal with.” <br><br>An appeal to responsibility is going to have to do, where nothing else will work. Dean can’t just take off and leave Jo and Bobby in the wind. To say nothing of Fred, but Jo and Bobby are, he knows, the ones Dean will worry for the most. <br><br>And then, changing the subject again--and perhaps giving Dean something else to think about: “I’m going to try to get off the stuff, man. I think Claire can help.” <br><br>Even as he says it he wonders who will die without his powers. But something about Alistair trying to push him into becoming more of a monster, and something about knowing he’s just ramped up the force of his addiction by sipping on a high-ranking demon, has him stubbornly deciding to go his own way and clean himself back out anyway. When there’s time. When there’s a moment. But he’s going to try. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The mention of anyone touching his car earns an offended expression. His lips part and his eyebrows draw together. Someone touched Baby. Without his permission. He barely lets Sam drive that car. He only let Jo drive it the once. Alistair let it slide the second time. Demon prick. <br><br>He frowns. But he doesn’t let go of the anger. Anger is easier than the rest. Anger is allowed. Anger he can cope with. It can burn hot and bright and he can let it continue. The mention of responsibility earns Sam a sobering expression. The appeal feels unbelievable. “That’s the problem, Sam.” He’s not supposed to have those ties. His mind trails to a time when he’d considered that before. <br><br>//Just Over Five Years Ago// <br><br>The television blares in the Kilgore, Texas motel room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean Winchester lifts the beer bottle to his lips again. His fingers are white against its dark tone. Next to him, the shoulder bag. He’s packed and ready to move on out. <br><br>“You talkin’ to me?” Clint Eastwood asks. Dean’s eyebrows lift and he reaches for the remote to shut the movie off. <br><br>“Not today,” he mutters to himself as he tugs the strap of the bag over his shoulder and rises to his feet. He abandons the now-empty beer bottle to the table. <br><br>It’s then that the door opens and his father treads through the door. John has a flare in his eyes, the kind that suggests he shouldn’t be trifled with today. Or… any day, from Dean’s vantage point. Dean inhales a long breath and holds it before observing. “So…” his green eyes search John’s face several beats, and he draws his own conclusions, “...Sammy is gone then.” His thoughts on the matter remain neutral as his lips press into a thin line. <br><br>John’s eyes roll. “Yeah, no thanks to you.” His arms fold and he eyes Dean and the bag over his son’s shoulder. <br><br>Twenty-something Dean stares at his father. He’s not Sam. He hasn’t openly defied his father, questioned their life, or even bothered to critique it. He’s done his part consistently without praise. He even raised his own brother, mostly alone, to that end. But the blame causes a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach. Not that John can tell. John never bothered to learn the nuances of Dean’s expressions. <br><br>Sam would’ve seen it. <br><br>The subtle change colour in Dean’s eyes when anger flashes behind them. The way his eyes narrow, however minutely. The faint pull of his lips. Sam would’ve caught all of it. John misses each signal. And so, when he lowly asks, “How do you figure?” it comes across as naive to the elder Winchester. <br><br>“/You/ were responsible for making sure he had some loyalty to us in this. /You/ were the one who should’ve shown him the importance of getting the yellow eyed demon. /You/ were the one who should’ve been stronger with him. Harder with him. You made him /soft/,” the flatness in his tone doesn’t invite argument. “You just had to go to that goddamned graduation didn’t you?” <br><br>There’s a long silence that follows John’s question, and it’s not until John grabs his son’s collar to force Dean to look at him that he even receives a response. Dean’s hand grasps at John’s, pushing the hand away from his jacket. “He didn’t even know I was there,” he replies to the question. <br><br>But that’s not what he takes issue with. <br><br>“But you’re wrong,” Dean says blandly. “I didn’t teach him to run away. You did that.” His expression sours. “I taught him to defend other people. I taught him he could be strong. I taught him not to be afraid--that he could do something about all the things that go bump in the night. I taught him to be independent because no one else was going to take care of him when sick. Because you weren’t there. You’ve never been there.” Dean’s throat clears, “I’ve been waiting. Virtually sixteen years I’ve been waiting for you to show up. And because you didn’t, I did. Sammy needed someone to raise him. So yeah, I did it.” <br><br>And in a second, John’s fists do the talking. Dean lays creamed on the floor with a hand pressed to his jaw. His eyes close and he lays there a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I’m heading East,” he finally says. “There’s a pack of werewolves terrorizing Jersey. Seem to have taken up residence as an organized crime… thing.” <br><br>“I thought we’d intended to head West… we’ve got yellow eyes on the run--” John counters. <br><br>Dean peels himself from the floor. “I think it’s time I do some on my own. I’m an adult. I got a truck I fixed at the garage,” that he’s been working at for months, “think it’s good to go.” He shrugs and then catches the glint in his father’s eyes. “Look. I know you’ll still be off doing solo jobs. I may as well do the same. I don’t have to keep Sam in school anymore, so we can double our efforts by splitting up. I know you need to go after yellow eyes, but I need to become good at this alone,” it’s something he’s never done before. He brings himself back to a stand and tugs the bag over his shoulder again. <br><br>John stares at Dean a few moments. At least one son has stuck to the course. And for the first time in a long time, something shifts. For a moment the disappointment seems to disappear. “You should take the Impala.” He tosses the keys at Dean. He may as well have said he’s proud of his son. That’s what it feels like. <br><br>And for a moment Dean feels like his brain will implode. He’d spent years doing everything he could to get this man’s attention. He took care of his brother, patched his father, and filled his mother’s role of trying to keep the family together. But this earns pride--something that will fuel him long-term. <br><br>Shock causes Dean’s lips to part. But he doesn’t object. He just nods. His throat clears and he walks towards the door, still holding his jaw. But before he walks through the door, he offers, “See you at the Roadhouse?” <br><br>John nods. “Or on the road.” <br><br>Dean nods again before striding through the door. <br><br>It was the first time he’d recognized it: his father was proud of his loneliness. <br><br>While he’d never been forthcoming, in that moment, he learned that being a man means being an island. <br><br>//Present// <br><br>He doesn’t offer further explanation on what he means. He’s shut down once already. And when he puts his mind to it, he can be painfully vague. <br><br>But the notion of Sam getting off the juice earns some measure of approval. And it does seem to allay some of the more challenging feelings Dean is struggling against. “Good,” he says darkly. He knows more than he aims to let on. He spent days listening to Alistair discuss things he could scarcely understand. And in processing those thoughts, he’s come to some conclusions. <br><br>His jaw tightens. And then something else kicks in. His eyebrows lift and he levels a look at Sam. “You’re not a monster.” And there it is. Plain and simple. “You’re my brother and I--” sentiment has never been his strong suit. He was better when they were younger. Before he was given the Impala. Before John made it clear he regarded independence as more important than family. <br><br>“I love you.” He doesn’t say it enough. He knows he doesn’t. Sam said his needs. And so Dean mirrors that with one of his own, but only one: “I need you to be okay. With or without me,” because he’s still preparing Sammy for a life without him. <br><br>And then, finally having said that, his shoulders slump with defeat. Something washes over him. It’s not the secret that anyone expects to loose, but, “Dad knew all along. Where I was.” And then, as if it needs saying, he adds in a deadpanned tone, “I would never do that to you. Or him. Or a stranger. Or my worst human enemy.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“I love you too.” <br><br>It’s so simple for Sammy to fold Dean into his arms. He comes forward and does. He’s so big now, and for a moment he wants nothing more than to use all that size and power to shelter Dean from the world. Dean may not like /Lifetime/ movie moments (which is such a lie, Sam has caught him enjoying that shit more than once), but Sam is unrestrained in his emotion, and /he/ needs to hug his brother even if his brother is going to pretend not to care. <br><br>Being told he’s not a monster is nice. Helpful. He needs to hear it. Dean needs him to be okay with or without him. “And if you’re really going to die, I need the time you have left,” he says. <br><br>But when he learns about John, the cold rage on his face is palpable. It washes through him like a tidal wave. He pulls back from Dean, still holding his shoulders. His eyes go pitch black once more. He’s looking a little peaked, a little pale, but there’s enough demonic blood in his system to instantly offer this marker of his absolute fury. <br><br>“That son of a bitch,” Sam hisses. His fingers tighten on Dean’s shoulders, clutching at him until he realizes he might well be hurting his brother. His nostrils have flared, and his cheekbones stand out in stark relief as his mouth flattens. It is safe to say Dean has /never/ seen Sam this pissed in his life. <br><br>All in an instant, he knows precisely how he’s going to save Dean’s life. <br><br>And then: “This bullshit. About ties? That was /his/ bullshit. That man who led me on a /fucking snipe hunt/ on a year. Looking back, I see it now.” Sam’s teeth are gritted. “That monster fouled up my trail. I could have had you out of there--” <br><br>His rage needs somewhere to go. He turns from Dean and flings the ottoman against the wall with his will. It shatters in a flurry of springs and wood. He just has to destroy something. He has to. He’ll go crazy if this anger doesn’t get to go somewhere. In so doing, he burns even more of his reserves. A headache, a dull and distant migraine throb, begins in his left temple. He ignores it. <br><br>“Dean,” he says, chest heaving, voice shaking. “You have got to stop holding yourself to standards set by that man. He abused you. Then he betrayed you. Everything he ever taught us is garbage. Not the techniques, but the attitudes. /You/ were the one who brought some nobility to this. /You/ made it about saving people. Okay? Everything good about Hunting came from /you/.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>He shouldn’t have said it. The moment it loosens, Dean regrets it. Sam’s fury far outweighs his own. When it had happened, he knew it would. He knew he shouldn’t tell his brother. Weirdly, it seemed important when he said it. He needed Sam to know that those three words--/I love you/--meant something different to him than they ever did to John. <br><br>It meant making deals with Hell to rescue his brother from its depths. It meant renegotiating that and becoming Crowley’s bitch in a bid to last longer to help Sam. It meant bending over backwards to protect his baby brother at every turn. <br><br>Love isn’t just a word. It’s an action. And while Dean doesn’t say it nearly enough, he lives it. Day in, day out. He lives all of it. <br><br>The ache in his shoulders as Sam clutches them doesn’t ease. He’s had the demon treatment. And the pressure doesn’t help. Worry tugs at his eyes and lips when Sam throws the ottoman across the room. His throat begins to close up. Sam need shim. He knows Sam needs him. <br><br>/That bullshit about the ties is his bullshit/. Dean’s lips twitch. He blinks hard. “It’s not.” For the first time Dean really gets it. “There are rooms full of people who were on Alistair’s radar because of /me/. Because he had access to every memory and thought I’ve ever had. Because he knew where the demon traps were because I’d helped build them. Because he knew what I did and didn’t care about. Because he knew the people on my radar who would hurt you the most.” He emits a mirthless laugh. “The people who would hurt me the most.” <br><br>His lips purse. “He didn’t take Fred because it didn’t suit his plans. He didn’t take Jo or May because he felt he could get to them another way. He saw my hand and played it with style. And now he knows it. All of it.” He taps his temple. “Sam, my thoughts aren’t my own anymore. I don’t own them. Someone else literally stole them. Looked at all of them and saw what would rattle out.” <br><br>The mention of John abusing him makes his mouth dry. John punched him. He didn’t even try to defend himself. His chin drops towards his chest. “I’m not noble. I’m not out for revenge like he is, but I’m not noble.” What he did for Crowley makes his stomach sick. “But I would do anything for you. And all of Hell knows it. Lie, cheat, steal, kill, whore. I’d do it all.” Crowley called his card. “And most of it I’d do for them.” His eyes flit towards the window. <br><br>“I don’t think it makes me noble.” He turns his gaze back to Sam. “I’m pretty sure it means Dad won. I’d lose everything I am to this life. Hell, I don’t even know if I am anything more than this life.” It’s a rare moment of honesty. “He tried to convince me that you leaving was some kind of personal insult or hatred. I almost believed it.” <br><br>He manages a vague smile. “Do you know the first time I got it? The first time I understood why you wanted something more than this life?” His lips quirk into a tighter smile. “It was the night you died. Because even at sixteen, I knew you were the only thing keeping me sane. Grounded. Happy. Dad probably wouldn't even have noticed.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam looks down. He still has a nagging feeling that he ruins Dean’s life more than he helps it, but Dean has a very different take. He swallows back tears, one hand still on one of Dean’s shoulders, though not squeezing. <br><br>Two ways to look at everything. Monster or man. Heretic or hero. Dean’s burden, or Dean’s brother and best friend. He decides, at least, to believe Dean’s interpretation on two of those things. He is Dean’s brother, and he is a man. <br><br>Jury’s still out on heretic. “There are plenty of dark deeds I’d do for you too,” he says. There are plenty of dark deeds he intends to do for Dean, as soon as he can. “And for them. It’s a dark business. But at the core of it, we help people. We’ve helped a lot of people. And that’s what /I/ lost sight of.” <br><br>When he raises his head his eyes are the right color again. And he’s speaking now like a much older man. There is, in Sam, the shape of someone who can lead others. He can project gentle, total confidence. He can be a rock. It’s still a fledgling thing. Still something he hasn’t even fully realized about himself. He’s found it in himself mostly for Fred. A few times in front of others. <br><br>Dean needs to know he’s going to be okay. Dean needs a partner, not a baby to take care of. And Dean needs to know he’s still needed. Turns out these things aren’t really mutually exclusive. <br><br>“Listen to me,” he says, and there’s utter certainty in his words. “We’re not going to let anyone back in your head. That’s why you need the tattoo. To stop that. And why I’m definitely not going to take no for an answer on being right there while you get it.” <br><br>A tight, grim, cynical little half-smile creases his face. No humor in it. Just darkness. “I’ve been researching the runes on the knife. I think it would send a lesser demon to oblivion with one strike. That means they can be killed for good. Alistair is going down. You mark me.” <br><br>Another pause. “Meanwhile, there are still things waiting back in New York. The sorcerer who got me addicted in the first place, Volkov. He’s still alive. We’ve still got a hydra to kill. We can’t protect any of these people by shutting them out, Dean. We can’t protect each other by shutting each other out. We can only do that by being there.” <br><br>A sudden smile. <br><br>“So let’s stick together. Let’s kill some evil sons of bitches and raise a little hell.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s eyebrows lift. He watches Sam with intent and he can feel his jaw tighten at the notion of getting a tattoo. “Dude,” the word itself is pained. He can relent on its necessity. He can relent to its importance. He swears he can still feel Alistair in his mind--even with the demon long-gone. He knows. But he knows other things too. And so he settles on a few carefully chosen words, “I don’t know that I can.” <br><br>He cringes. “I don’t… I don’t think you get it.” It’s irrational. Wholly irrational. He knows it is. But decades later, he has the same fear he did when he had to receive his first booster without Mary. The memory has hung on. He couldn’t even hum Hey Jude to himself when it happened. He’d ended up with more than a vaccine. It wasn’t the last time he got backhanded. But it was the only time he really let himself cry about it. <br><br>“I was put on a plane.” There’s a pause. His eyes widen, “//Baby// was probably put on a plane. A fucking plane! Those things are death traps, Sam! You get in one you are letting your life into someone else’s hands!” <br><br>The notion of raising hell earns Sam a tight smile. Still guarded. Still measured. “Things aren’t fixed in Virginia yet. There’s a lot more to be done.” There’s a long pause that follows. “When Hydra had you? I was stuck. In Virginia,” in prison. <br><br>“Alistair… Lilith,” yeah, he knows names, “Azazel… they’re up to something. And I think it’ll spread.” His expression edges on grim. “It’s big. Whatever it is.” <br><br>He runs a hand through his hair. “I asked Jo to come along,” whatever that means. He levels a look at Sam. “Look, she’s not my girlfriend. I have no business--” his hands lift in defeat. This is not a question he aims to answer, but Sam had mentioned girlfriends. “But she’s along for the ride.” Whatever that means. Everything in Dean’s life is fluid. “Just… no reason to make assumptions there.”<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Needles and planes. Well. Sam is afraid of clowns, so he can’t talk. <br><br>“Ok,” he soothes, conceding to this first: “She’s not your girlfriend.” <br><br>Now what to tackle next? Sam looks sober as he listens to this parade of names. He shivers. Lilith had visited him only once in Hell. She’d asked if he wanted to be her boyfriend, waved looseleaf paper in front of his face, and asked him to check yes or no. And then she’d cackled like a loon. It had scared him almost as much as everything Alistair had done. He sweats a little now, thinking of it. <br><br>“We’re not going to abandon any of it,” he says firmly. “We can drive anywhere in the nation in 48 hours or less, you know that. Even New York to California is only 42 hours straight shot.” Takes more if you stop to sleep, of course, and there’s eating, and other necessaries which probably makes that trip more like 72 hours at its most sane, but the straight drive time is what it is. And child of the road that Sammy is, he has drive times pretty well memorized by time zone, east-west and north-south. Five hours from Houston to Shreveport. 24 hours from Dallas to Detroit. Four hours from Detroit to Chicago. Six hours from Chicago to St. Louis. He can rattle them all off. He learned drive times and road signs before he learned some basic kindergarten skills. <br><br>Finally, this: “It doesn’t look or feel like a needle, Dean. You’ve already faced the IV, yeah? It feels like a little series of firm thumps against your skin. I tell you what. Before we go, you can have a few beers, loosen up a little bit, and then after, I will buy you a whole pie, and won’t say a word if you eat the whole thing.” <br><br>Bribes. They are a totally legit mothering tool. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>There are few times in life Dean retreats into his more juvenile self. He’s had to be an adult long before he hit adulthood. But the mention of the tattoo has him retreating to that place. Like a petulant child, his bottom lip extends. “Ehn,” he’s not sold. Even the bribery isn’t working as well as it usually would. He really doesn’t like needles. “Beer and burger first.” Pause. “No, wait, whiskey. Shots. I don’t remember the last time we had shots together…” <br><br>It’s possible it’s been literal years before at least one of them was legal. <br><br>“And a burger. With bacon. And cheese.” Pause. “And a fried egg over top.” He missed eating. A lot. <br><br>But he catches, and addresses, Sam’s shiver. Kind of. “So.” His throat clears. And then silence falls over him. For a few beats he watches Sam thoughtfully. His lips purse lightly. “I know you’re trying to get me out of my deal,” it’s a nice way to start. “But I need you to know I don’t have regrets about it.” He looks pointedly at Sam. “At all.” His eyebrows draw together. “And… I know what I’m getting into.” <br><br>His eyes actually roll now. There’s more to say. So much more. “When I was… gone,” it’s a kinder word than tortured, “for a year, I died. More than once.” Although he can’t be sure how many times. “I don’t know why Crowley brought me back, but I do know what it sounded like there. I also know I don’t belong to Alistair. Crowley is a son of a bitch. But some are worse than others.” There. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Shots, burger, bacon, cheese. Pie after, done.” And with that, Sam spits on his palm and offers his hand. Agreement made, accord done. The whole tattoo party plan is happening, cause really, /none/ of these people are going home without one. If he has to spend his whole paycheck and use his last two fake credit cards, this is happening. And he can probably expense it all. Ha! There are some benefits. But the shots and burgers will be just them. They need it. They deserve it. <br><br>“While there’s something to be said for winding up in the same place together after death,” Sam says grimly, “I cannot live my life knowing you’re there. You heard. I lived. And I remember it all now, Dean. It’s not happening. Someone would have to be a real monster for me to wish that on anyone.” <br><br>Fortunately, he knows one of those. Fucker. <br><br>“I--” <br><br>How to even talk about this? “The fact that you did that for me--It’s the bravest goddamn thing I can think of. It makes me wish I’d--been a better brother.” At every turn. “I wish I’d been more careful. If I hadn’t been such a dumbass on that hunt…” <br><br>Dean absolves him, but he still feels it in his gut, the guilt that he died, that /he/ forced Dean’s hand, that Dean has been through 9 years of torment for /him/. And /he/ fell for John’s tricks, /he/ didn’t see through them, /he/ didn’t rescue his brother. Who without a doubt suffered longer than he ever did. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A wry smile follows Sam’s action and Dean mirrors it in an instant, spitting on his palm and extending it to take his brother’s hand. Some things are sacred. Like pacts between brothers. “Deal.” His smile extends. They both know he never would’ve got a tattoo if it weren’t for Sam’s insistence. It’s not in him. He’d rather die of polio than be pricked by a needle. <br><br>Dean’s eyes lid when Sam confesses he remembers it all. “Crowley took that from you. As a bonus.” A long pause follows. “If it’s something you’d rather lose…” he rakes his fingers through his hair. He might be able to arrange it. He feels dirty all over again and longs for a shower. Like after he’d seduced that young woman. His stomach churns. <br><br>His face feels hot when Sam calls him brave. His eyes settle on the floor. “Sammy it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t brave. It was right. When your twelve year old brother is sent to Hell, and you can do something about it, you do.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I told Dad,” finally. “He didn’t care,” Dean actually laughs at that. Like it matters. “It was dumb of me to ever think that would be the case.” <br><br>Sam’s thoughts on the hunt though warrant a crease of Dean’s forehead. “We were both dumbasses,” he states too honestly. But he actually laughs. “I thought breaking the windows of the house would make me feel better. It just invited Crowley’s mockery.” He laughs again. “He calls you Moose.” He looks pointedly at Sam. “And I’m Squirrel.” His hands lift as if to say /that’s Crowley/. “He’s a son of a bitch, but he tried to stop Alistair. The knife was his. Alistair was just… stronger.” <br><br>His lips press together tightly and he hmms. “They didn’t like each other. At all from what I could tell.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“No,” Sam says firmly. “Getting the memory back kind of sucked. I only need to go through that once. No guarantee wiping it again would help.” <br><br>He looks unsurprised that John didn’t care. He simply gives a thin-lipped shake of his head. It sparks the rage that’s still stoked there, stirs the embers in those hot coals burning inside his belly. <br><br>“Politics in Hell,” Sam muses, half-shaking his head. “Who’d have thought.” He didn’t really hear anything useful to this during his time there. He’d just died, and had been sent to the first realm of Hell to snatch him up. With nobody having any specific claim on his soul, the most powerful demons there got him. <br><br>He banishes the cold, dark, creepy feelings inside of him. The sensation that someone is looming over his shoulder. The memory of agony. He’d go back to a Hydra prison any day. He supposes he has some time to figure out a strategy for fighting his way up the hierarchy and earning himself some sort of a reprieve the next time he’s sent. He’s not 12 anymore, and he’s got more advance warning than any human should. <br><br>If he’s got to be damned, he intends to make Hell feel like /they/ are trapped with /him/. <br><br>It all flickers across his face: the terror and the determination all at once, before he fishes Dean’s clothing out of a nearby drawer, handing them off to him. “Come on. We can be out that window and down to the local burger bar before anyone knows we’re gone.” That, first, then he’ll check on Fred and Mr. and Mrs. Burkle, and Bobby, and -- no, best leave Jo to her Not Boyfriend. And then he will round them all up for the tattoo party of the century. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah,” Dean agrees about the politics. “They were arguing about these groups. And who Lucifer aligns with,” his eyebrows draw together sharply. “Like kids fighting over who’s Daddy’s favourite. It was… something else.” He shudders. He won’t think anymore about it. About what Alistair did with this body. What he saw Alistair do with it. <br><br>He looks at the clothes and rolls his eyes. He’d worn them too long. “Baby really is stashed at SHIELD somewhere?” because he has a change in the car. “I have my favourite shirt in the car,” the one he’d been wearing when they went on that hunt in June. Before everything turned to madness. “I love that shirt.” He’s personally offended that it’s off in some SHIELD facility. “I should get more like it.” <br><br>“You know I’m going to have to go over it with a fine-toothed comb. I don’t need those suits being able to track us that easy.” There’s a pause as he casts Sam a strange look. “Me, I mean. /Me/ that easily.” Because Sam works for them. Kind of. <br><br>And as he begins to change, he’s humming again. Hey Jude. Absently at first. And then, realizing he’s doing it, his head shakes, his eyebrows lift, and his eyes widen. /That’s John’s bullshit./ <br><br>“Mom used to sing it to us,” he finally relents. Evidently honesty begets more honesty. “All the time. She hated lullabies. She loved the Beatles.” His lips twitch into a bittersweet line. “And she loved you.” Another pause follows the words. “I know he put a lot on you. You didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve that.” He inhales a long breath. “But she protected you. And… I would’ve done the same. In a heartbeat. Still.” <br><br>He shrugs and goes back to changing. Putting on his SHIELD issued clothes like putting on armour. Suit up. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>No comment on Baby or shirts. Grumble Dean gotta grumble. After a certain point what you do is you give a wry half smile and you don’t address it. Otherwise you just start dumb arguments really. That’s what he does now. Yep. Favorite shirt. Baby. <br><br>Then...Mom. <br><br>Sam looks down. <br><br>If he’s internalized anything, it’s the idea that his mother’s death was his fault. It was a story that was told to him almost before he could talk. It was the top film on the marquee for every one of John’s drunken rages. If he’d never been born, Mary would still be here. He’s heard it so many times he has never even stopped to examine it. <br><br>But that’s John’s bullshit. <br><br>He exhales. “We’re going to buy so many Beatles cassettes,” he says. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The mention of the cassettes earns Sam a lopsided grin. Boyish. Dimpled. Downright pleased. It’s short-lived but it’s present. “We can listen in the Impala. SHe used to play it way too loud.” While Dean had come to terms with John’s betrayal, he’s only begun absolving himself of John’s bullshit. And it’s weirdly liberating. <br><br>Talking. Singing the Beatles. Embracing his Mom. <br><br>“She wasn’t perfect,” he offers. “But she lived up to the moniker.” He doesn’t talk about her often. He can’t remember the last time he really let himself. It might’ve been the last time they drank shots. His eyes trace back to Sam and his head cants to the side. <br><br>“Burger. I’m so hungry. I haven’t had a burger in like… a week.” Or anything besides sugar water and the toast he forced down his throat that came back up.<br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Take it slow or you’ll end up vomiting everything back--” Then Sam smiles, dimples on his own face, and he throws his arm around Dean. <br><br>“Whatever, you’re Iron Man. Or at least Iron Stomach. Come on.” <br><br>It’s a good thing this is a one story facility. And with that, he opens the window, flashes the V sign at the exterior camera, aaaand finds a SHIELD vehicle to hotwire. What? He’s an agent, it’s fine. <br><br>You can put the Winchester in SHIELD but good luck putting a lot of SHIELD into the Winchester. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Pfffft,” Dean replies so eloquently. “If man wasn’t meant to eat meat he wouldn’t have given us canines.” He points at his teeth. “Like vampires. They only got those chompers to eat people.” Speaking of eating people, “Same reason I don’t trust vegetarian vamps. Teeth weren’t designed for that.” <br><br>He climbs out the window, saluting at the camera as he lingers in the frame. With another flash of teeth he finishes crawling through it. “Dude. Agent Mom found me before--” he shrugs. Whatever. “They have crazy tracking skills. That’s all I’m saying.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah, I think they run facial recognition software on every traffic camera or something. They don’t even really need tracking devices.” <br><br>He gets the car hotwired and just programs the GPS to the nearest sports bar, a place where they can get both burgers and shots. This is an important mission here. <br><br>At least SHIELD is used to folks like this. They have some colorful personalities. Not that Sam knows that. He just wants to feel...like himself. And he wants Dean to feel like Dean. And stealing an SUV with a giant eagle on the side seems like a great way to do that. Well. Borrowing. He will return it. He’ll even top off the tank before he does. And if it ought to have a push button and a chip key, well, that’s the thing about government spending. It doesn’t always lead to the best equipment, and this thing has a bit of an older set-up. <br><br>There is totally a tracking device on this car of course, but. Likely it will also feed into the GPS and just see that they’re just making a food run. <br><br>“If anyone asks I’m practicing my skills for training purposes,” Sam says, a mischievous grin flitting right over his face. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah. But I’m pretty sure they won’t believe me, Bonnie,” Dean returns as his eyes narrow. A glance is given Sam a moment. He studies his brother. His head cants to the side as if decided something. “I’ll drive.” And then, with a wry smirk, “Probably lose cool points for being near this thing. Besides theft. Theft wins points.” <br><br>He frowns slightly. “These people better not have douched up my wheels,” his eyes scan each of the controls and some of the fancier features of the car. “Seriously. This thing is a douche magnet for people that don’t have to think about fighting. They just press a button and the machine can do it for them.” <br><br>His head shakes slightly and he puts the SUV into drive. “So. I have no idea where we are…” but he does know how to find a highway. He also knows how to speed. A lot. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam just shakes his head with a slight smile when Dean insists on driving. It never fails. He just takes the customary passenger seat. He doesn’t mind it there. It’s familiar. He doesn’t object to being called Bonnie either. Pretty common. And he doesn’t object to the speeding. This is Dean regaining control in the best possible way, really. <br><br>“The map’s right there on the dash,” he points out dryly. “I know it’s a little high-tech for your Luddite soul. It will read the directions and everything. We are in north South Dakota, for those following along in the home audience.” <br><br>Of course, Dean might count dashboard GPS displays as evidence of douchery. <br><br>Despite him getting all sassy, there’s a hint of a smile. Everything may not be okay in the broader scheme of things. It might not all be okay at the facility they’ve just left behind. But it’s okay right /now/ in this /car/, and that’s something. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Frigging oxymoron, ‘north South Dakota,’” Dean repeats as his foot steps on the gas. He beams. He’s like a kid in a candy store. No, it’s not a fantastic ride, but driving makes him feel alive. It always has. <br><br>“Nothing about all of this,” he lifts a finger and points at each of the gadgets glowing on the gas, “makes the car /better/. Remember that. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.” For a twenty-something he remains a purist about cars. “It just makes the driver and designer look like douchebags. Like they can’t read a map,” his head turns for a second to catch Sam’s eye. “Like they don’t know how to actually /drive the car/.” <br><br>His eyebrows lift to punctuate the point. He does, however, shrug slightly as he proceeds to open all the windows. Power windows are a nice perk. Especially when wanting to drive fast down a highway. <br><br>He eyes a button at the centre dash and presses it. The roof begins to retract. It’s likely designed for tactical purposes. But that wins another flicker of a smile as Dean presses harder on the gas. <br><br>The wind resistance is immense. But it also seems to breed delight. He glances at the GPS. “You know where a pub is? Unless SHIELD is a lot cooler than I think it is, it’s probably not programmed in--” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Well, people who /know how to use technology/,” Sam says with some amusement, “Know that every GPS device comes equipped with an automatic search-engine tie in, so I just typed in what I wanted and it found the nearest one. So the answer is yes, I sure do know where a pub is, and you’re going to want to make a right turn at Junction 314.” <br><br>This is good. His long hair starts whipping around his face, and he just grins until his cheeks hurt. <br><br>This is.../them/. This is exactly them. The road. The wind. The bickering. <br><br>He smirks, and gives his brother a long gaze, and says, “Through the wonders of technology I bring you…” <br><br>This thing has Sirius XM Satellite Radio. He considers grabbing the Beatles. But it’s the wrong mood for that now. They’ve done the serious, the heavy, the intense. Later they will buy all the Beatles, but he thinks there will no doubt be some intense emotions in the car. And...he thinks they’ll want to be in the Impala for that. Weirdly, he thinks: /Mom will want to join us -there-./ <br><br>Maybe not so weirdly. <br><br>So he just switches to classic rock. Creedence Clearwater Revival booms over expensive SHIELD-themed speakers. Because the secret organization loves its branding. And...he sings, which he rarely does, hamming it up for his brother a little, because being the goofy, funny baby brother who can lighten the mood is part of his /job/ (thus why he tried it, first and foremost, with one Bucky Barnes). It occurs to him they probably could have even of taken /his/ car, but he’s not sure if it’s not locked up in a Quinjet or something. <br><br>“Some folks are born, maaaaaaaade to wave the flag…” <br><br>//SHIELD Control Room// <br><br>A technician looks up from his headset with alarm. “Er. Agent Takana? Should we…?” <br><br>The other agent reaches over and turns up the volume so they can listen too, shrugging. “I think Agent May would tell us to let it ride, Agent West. Just let it ride.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s lips edge upwards into an easier smile. He’s relaxing. He’s feeling like himself. He cracks up as Sam begins to sing, and at the top of his lungs, over the noise of the wind, he joins, “Ooooooooh, they’re red, white, and blue!” His cheeks hurt because he’s smiling so broadly. They stiffen. He aches. But it feels good. He hasn’t smiled like this in months. He knows he hasn’t. <br><br>It’s a simple fact. He wonders how long it’s been since Sammy felt like this. He feels normal. <br><br>Like it’s five years ago, and Sam never left for school. The days leading up had been torment. But before that? Before they’d made it to Kilgore--the place of their parting--that had been almost perfect to him. <br><br>And in this moment it feels much the same. <br><br>He flashes another smile to Sam. <br><br>He has what he needs. His brother and the road. <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Hey_Jude&diff=1578Hey Jude2017-09-19T03:56:51Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/14<br />
|Location=South Dakota<br />
|Synopsis=After the incident at Sioux Falls, Dean wakes up in SHIELD medical. He and Sam reconnect after nearly a month apart.<br />
|Cast of Characters=Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester,<br />
|pretty<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>SHIELD medics had gone about their work on each of the victims immediately upon their arrival to the scene. They’d insisted that each of those present give them room to work--an insistence that wasn’t well-received by all of those present. But physicians exercise authority easily. It’s their training, especially when lives are at stake. <br><br>Most of the victims were kept for observation if not outright treatment. It’s fortunate that so few of the victims had been occupied long. It meant they hadn’t had the opportunity to be so terribly treated. Others were less lucky. <br><br>Days without food, water, or rest have had their impact on Dean. The IV he’s hooked into, with its constant stream of fluids has made a world of difference. He’d wanted to eat pretty quickly when he’d arrived to the facility, but his doctor insisted he not. Ironically, this made him all the more determined. He’d rushed the process and put something in his stomach before it was ready… and had suffered the consequences as a result. <br><br>It’d become increasingly obvious Alistair carved him before occupying him. The wounds had festered. Infection had started to set in. He’d been feverish. Consequently, he’s been on a solid round of antibiotics since his arrival. The med team has insisted that it’s fortunate he got here when he did. That he’s lucky. The phrase was enough to make Dean ill. <br><br>Lucky. <br><br>Dean Winchester, lucky. <br><br>His mother was killed when he was four. His brother was cursed to become a monster. His father didn’t care that he was being tortured for a year. His was body occupied and abused for days. Yeah. He’s lucky. <br><br>It made him angry. But he buried it. Locked it down. Sam had been in earshot. He’d probably seen the change in his brother at the phrase. Whatever had opened was shut down again. The notion of being lucky with what had happened to him over the course of weeks was enough to breed distrust. <br><br>The good news is, most of the time he’s been in the facility, he’s been some version of asleep. It made it easier to keep the lockdown in place. But even in his sleep he’s been humming. Hey Jude seems to be stuck in his head--an oddity. He’d tried singing it once to Sammy when he was four, and suffered consequences for it. Many of them. It was a lesson he only needed once. The song was Mary’s and was to die with her. That’s when Dean had found a song of his own to act as a lullabye. But it never produced those same feelings of comfort for /him/. <br><br>When he knew John couldn’t hear, he’d listened to the Beatles, but like some kind of guilty pleasure, he’d promptly shut it off if anyone was in earshot. Including Sam, even when John wasn’t around. The Beatles were sacred. And like a forbidden religion, it was kept for the corners of his own space. <br><br>But here, even when asleep, he thinks of it. How she’d sung it. What she’d looked like when she sung it. What it felt like. And thanks to days of his will rebelling, it happens even when he’s not trying. The song has followed him since he collapsed. He’s hummed it almost constantly. A few bars at random intervals. <br><br>And so he’s still there. He’d slept in most of the time since he’d come here. Or, had pretended to sleep. Most of it involved vivid memories he’d rather let go of. He hasn’t said much. He sits up in the bed they’ve confined him to as he stares skeptically at the IV hooked into his arm and the heart monitor he’d taken off three times already to get talked to about the importance of monitoring. His lips turn down into grim line as he stares at the window of the room. At least it gives him something to look at. It’s a welcome distraction. And so he stares at the window. Haunted green eyes train on buildings in the distance. <br><br>He’s getting out today. He’s already decided that, no matter what the med team says. He’s an adult. He can make decisions. He needs to get home. He needs to fix the Impala. There are things to do. And getting out means getting control of his faculties. Of his body. Of his emotions. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s hard to tell what Sam Winchester is thinking or feeling right now. <br><br>Doctors tried to chase him out, but the truth is he just retreated to a corner and folded his arms. The large man had agreed to put on scrubs, to stay silent, to retreat out of the way, but he hadn’t even opened his mouth to tell them he wasn’t leaving this room. Something about what he’s radiating now makes the argument open and shut before anyone speaks a word. <br><br>He’d had the predator’s aura at that point. The one that tells more sensitive humans, the ones with better instincts, they’re in the presence of someone vastly more dangerous than themselves, someone who means business and has no fucks to give. <br><br>He’d stood in the corner concentrating on a chant. His mouth moved to speak it without any sound, all beneath his surgical mask. This particular SHIELD facility got a ward against evil that was difficult to set, but he had hours to stand there, stand guard, and set it. It’s a chant that made it into a Madeline L’Engle book but which he’d discovered was the real deal. If focused on in Latin, not English. <br><br>“Hanc fatalem horam, et locus ejus omnis potestas in Caelo, cum sol splendet, et nives per lanam ex capris: Omnem habens virtutem ignis, et fulgur cum celeri ira sua, cum celeritas in ventis iter, et habebant altitudinem suam in mare, et factum est cum saxa suas iniquitatem, et terram ejus eremi vastitate: haec omnia locum, per gratiam, et auxilium Dei omnipotentis, inter me et potestates tenebrarum!” <br><br>Over and over again, in sets of three times three, for hours, until he felt sure Lucifer himself couldn’t touch this building. <br><br>To him there is some irony in calling on Heaven. He now knows /viscerally/ what he’d known logically. Heaven abandoned him when he was just six months old. But the spell still worked, and if it had trouble deciding if /he/ was among the powers of darkness it /had/ finally decided. He was the one who set the spell, so it didn’t harm him. Perhaps if he proved he could be good in spite of what had happened to him, Heaven would quit turning its back on him. And his brother. <br><br>And fuck them if they didn’t, because Sam wasn’t going to be good because he got a big Heaven cookie at the end of it. He wanted to be good because he chose to be good. <br><br>After that, he settled at Dean’s bedside, his feet up on an ottoman in a chaise chair once they got him out of surgery and into a room. Arms folded. Fred is with her family, Jo is with her Mom, Bobby’s still getting treatment too. <br><br>He’d listened to Dean mutter in his sleep, and it brought tears to black eyes. And then: /fuck you, Dad/. He wouldn’t do this while Dean was awake ever, but he sang the song to him softly. He wouldn’t do it while anyone was watching, either. It would mortify Dean. Probably make him mad, were he awake, Sam didn’t know. <br><br>He knew the song was special though, knew the aversion, knew the way it got rapidly shut off every time it came on the car radio, knew the strange look that would come over Dean’s face. <br><br>This isn’t the first time he’s ever sung it, either. The year Dean’d had the flu so bad Sam had thought he was going to die of it, a cold winter in Pennsylvania where their Dad had rented them a vacation cabin prone to getting snowed in...and then had disappeared for six months. There hadn’t even been a school for 30 miles, and Dad hadn’t “had time” to enroll them. He’d listed them as home schooled at the next place they ended up. And Sam had learned: how to nurse someone through the flu, how to do meal planning and prep, how to grocery shop for snowstorms, how to shovel snow, how to drive the car, how to fake a driver’s license so he could do so at the age of 10, how to dress and carry himself so he could pass for older. That had been the year he’d run his first credit card scam, too. The year he’d decided he couldn’t play sentry and nurse, so he’d called Bobby and asked about wards and had received six thick tomes on the subject. <br><br>A year they got to spend 8 whole months at Bobby’s after that, because Bobby had finally come to get them when, exhausted and scared because Dean wasn’t getting better, he’d finally asked if the older man would come, and take his brother to a doctor. The year Bobby had decked John right in the nose when he’d come to claim his sons, the worst fight the two men had ever had. Because a 10 year old could not take a 14 year old to the doctor without getting CPS involved, and Sam knew CPS could never be involved. <br><br>He hears Dean shift and he opens his eyes. Dark green eyes, right now, the color of pine trees at an approaching dusk. <br><br>“Dean?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>At the sound of his name, Dean scrubs his face with his hands. He sniffs loudly. There’s something strangely reassuring about being able to force air into his lungs. And even if he denies it, he basks silently in being able to exercise control. He turns his head to face Sam. The buried thoughts remain locked down as he quite lazily manages a faint quirk of his lips. But the grifter’s smile never catches his eyes. The smile is practiced. It had been perfected through years of lies to complete jobs. But there are some hauntings that not even a hunter can resist. <br><br>Plain as day, Dean’s eyes speak a different story. Their colour, the way they crease at the edges, the reflection of something other behind them--all call to the change. Something has shifted. He can feel it. But some had shifted before Alistair had happened. His life has been reframed in his own mind and memory. And its reframing has left him in want. Those same eyes call to discontent. To confusion. To anger. To hurt. <br><br>But feeling anything let alone everything at once is a liability for a Hunter. So he locks it down as best he can. Smiling. And it would convince almost anyone, save his nearest and dearest. <br><br>His eyebrows draw together some, a measured consideration, while he lets those green eyes linger on his brother’s. There’s a flicker of concern that flashes in them when he watches Sam. But he attempts to lock that down as well. He’s a soldier. He can handle this. He can handle anything. “...hey,” his voice feels foreign in his own throat. He folds his arms across his chest. It’s more comfortable that way, only to cringe when the line in his arm bends at the motion. Nope. Straight arms. He’s getting out today and won’t let posturing be the reason he doesn’t. IVs work better with straight arms. <br><br>His lips press together tightly after the word. There’s much to say and nothing to say. And so his eyebrows lift with some unspoken thought. Yet what he gives words to doesn’t match the expression. “Thanks,” he starts--that much is true, but the rest that comes out finds itself shrouded in a lie, “I know you bailed me out, but… I don’t really know what happened…” His eyes narrow slightly, fully prepared to be challenged on that front. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam knows his brother is full of shit. <br><br>He also knows his brother is going to want to save face. And that he’ll finally deal with it when he’s ready to. Right now, what Dean Winchester needs are choices. They can be shitty choices, but they must be his. <br><br>So Sam allows a look of relief to pass over his face, and retreats to one of his masks. Humor. “Yeah? No, that’s good, because when he made you roll up your pants leg and sing show tunes I thought you’d never recover.” A boyish grin flashes over his face, one that never reaches his eyes either. His eyes say it all too: ‘I know you’re full of shit, I’m going to give you a pass, but I am here for you.’ <br><br>Turning more serious, he transfers himself from chair to ottoman so he can pull it closer. “I drew on you with a Sharpie while you slept,” he says, as if it were just a standard slumber party trick. He points to Dean’s arm, where he’s drawn an anti-possession ward right near that IV needle. “I think you should get it done permanently though.” <br><br>He pulls aside his collar, revealing his tattoo. <br><br>But though he’ll give Dean a pass on some things, he won’t on others. His face turns sober, serious, and for once, he says exactly what he wants, exactly what he needs. “Look, things are bad right now,” he says quietly. “Real bad for you, real bad for me. The only way we’re going to survive this is together, man. I need you. I need the crap out of you. I need you to--please don’t take off anymore. I know--I know I was an asshole. I know I left you and Dad. But you’re the better of us, and--I need you not to run off anymore. I’m not saying there won’t be times it doesn’t make sense to split up, I’m not saying we need to be joined at the hip, but...we have that check-in system for a reason, and--” <br><br>He looks down. “It would kill me to lose you, Dean. I know you think--you maybe think--I don’t care but--” <br><br>He lets the whole thing linger in the air. Dean might not want to talk. But Sam is more than willing to. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The smile loses its edge at the mention of show tunes and something more genuine replaces it. “It’s fortunate I have no memory then,” Dean’s teeth flash with a modicum of self-deprecation. Relief colours his expression. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to think about it. He wants to stop replaying it in his head. <br><br>The notion of being drawn on though has his chin tucking towards his chest to examine the symbol on his arm. And as he sees his arms, his face blanches. He feels queasy. His eyes lid lightly and he leans back again to watch the ceiling above. The heart monitor hooked to his index finger begins to beat loudly. He inhale a long breath, holds it, and releases it slowly. Those hands. His hands. His arms. They betrayed him. <br><br>But the breathing doesn’t work. Not quickly. Not effectively. <br><br>The image flashes across his memory. Fresh. His eyes cinch shut. <br><br>Alistair shuts Dean’s cellphone. The front room of Bobby’s house feels familiar and foreign at the same time from this vantage. His hands tremble. Dean hasn’t lost his fight. He may have no real control, but he doesn’t make it easy for his body’s other occupant either. The body is his. It belongs to him and the interloper isn’t welcome. <br><br>“What was that about?” Bobby’s voice cuts through the silence. There’s a glint in the older man’s eyes that Dean catches. And, with easy access to his thoughts, he knows Alistair catches it too. It’s horrifying. How can he stop thinking in his own mind? <br><br>Bobby shoves a now-open bottle of beer to the Dean-mon. “Drink. I know it’s useless to ask you to talk about it, ya idjit.” There’s a pause. “But you can’t run from this, son.” <br><br>Dean’s lips hitch up on one side. The bottle draws to his lips. He takes a swig. The fluid burns hot in his mouth. It sears, smoking his tongue. There’s nothing sweet or normal about the beer. It wretches in his stomach. Something skips in Dean’s mind. He misses something. The room changes. It’s the dining room. Not the front room. And in an instant, Bobby has his shotgun out. It’s dizzying in the moment. Alistair lifts Dean’s hand and Bobby is plastered against the wall. Alistair moves telekinetically rips the first layer of flesh from the skin covering his forehead. <br><br>Bobby’s screams fill the house. It echoes. <br><br>In the present, Dean forces his eyes open to meet Sam’s. His head shakes. Shake it off. And then, bluntly, he offers, “I don’t want a tattoo.” Free will. Agency. He aches to exercise it. “Those places,” tattoo parlours, “are shit. They’re full of wannabe hippie beatniks who don’t even know who Zeppelin even is.” His expression suggests he’s also dead serious. And focusing on this makes the heart monitor begin to return to a normal pace. It’s helping him lock it down. <br><br>When Sam begins to reiterate his needs though, Dean can feel his eyes narrow again. Something in his brain cracks. “I didn’t take off because of you,” it’s the truth. “I didn’t leave my phone behind because of you,” it’s true that he didn’t want to be called. But it wasn’t for lack of wanting to talk to Sam. He didn’t want to have to lock the truth down. He didn’t want to have to lie about John’s betrayal to his brother’s face. But more than that, he didn’t want to give voice to the truth. “I made choices. My choices. All of them.” <br><br>His eyes train on Sam’s. “Dude. I never thought you didn’t care.” Absolution is something he’s willing to give. “Just lose that thought right now.” His eyes actually roll at the next, “And there’s no way I’m the better of us Sam. Of any of us,” including John, especially at this moment. <br><br>He inhales another long breath. “When did this story turn into a Lifetime movie?” His head turns towards the window. “I’m fine. I can’t promise not to take off. Not when it’s necessary. I know you don’t get it, but I needed to. And not just because of Crowley.” Sure, Crowley had something to do with it, but it was John who nailed that coffin shut. “I needed to talk to Jo. I needed to…” seduce a stranger. His shoulders sink. Hopefully it’s enough to make Sam get it while telling him almost nothing. <br><br>He knows Alistair brought up John. He knows Sam may have ideas of his own. He knows all of these things. But instead of talking about the issue directly, he hones in on something tangential. “I need the road. Sammy--” there’s so much he wants to say in the space between his words. There’s so much he longs to express. His heart actually aches as he holds it back. The judgment he feels for himself and his inability to utter it actually hurts more. Alistair had been cruel. But he’d found honesty in the cruelty. “--you don’t need me anymore. I know you care. I do. But you’re getting roots. It’s.. good, probably.” He manages a bitter laugh. He’s not someone able to assess the qualitative nature of goodness on much of anything, let alone roots. <br><br>“You have Fred. You have SHIELD. I’m gone in a year. Less, probably.” His smile turns bitter. And while there’s more to say, he won’t let himself speak it. Not yet, anyways. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah, I have an angle on that,” Sam says. He’s got a wish demon in his back pocket. He just has to figure out how to use her. “You’re not dead yet.” <br><br>He also scowls. He’s not sure about SHIELD. It’s all over his face. What he says is, “You have Jo. Dude, at some point it is maybe okay for us to get hot Hunter girlfriends.” <br><br>He leans back. He folds his arms. He listens to what Dean has to say, and he thinks about it for a long time. He says, “You know, WAND isn’t the most well-funded department ever. I get the impression it’s hard to look at Congress and say ‘we need a billion dollars for ghost hunting.’ It’s a fringe department. May seems content to let me choose my cases, and there are SHIELD offices all over the country. We’re still in South Dakota.” <br><br>He’s already had some of this discussion with Fred. <br><br>“So. You need the road. Fine. There are cases all over America. I need a steady paycheck so I don’t have to defraud people to do this job. Fine. Turns out there are people willing to pay me to do what we do anyway. Fred needs her people at the Hyperion, but turns out she’s willing to hop in a car as long as I’m willing to drive her back.” <br><br>He gestures to the door. “Bobby has had a home base, and has simply taken road trips to his hunts, as long as we’ve known him, man.” <br><br>“Bottom line, you can have the road. And you can maybe keep your room, keep a home. It doesn’t have to be either-or. That kind of no-compromise thinking gets us in a lot of trouble. Sometimes it’s okay to take the third option.” <br><br>And as for the tattoo artist: “And what you’re saying is if you don’t have to go to a parlor and I can find an artist who knows abou Zeppelin, you’ll get the thing that keeps Alistair from riding shotgun in your skull again. Awesome, I’m gonna get on that.” <br><br>The tone Sam gets when he decides to mother Dean just like Dean fathers him is absolutely present in that final statement. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The mention of Bobby’s home base changes something in Dean’s expression. His gaze settles on a spot on the bed. His lips purse. It washes over him. All over again. The guilt feels distinct. A glance is given the IV. He wonders if they’ve put painkillers in here. He could really use a drink. <br><br>He can smell it. The fire. It burns brightly in his mind, and he can smell it. The Roadhouse. Bobby’s home. He frowns openly. It’s not guarded. He doesn’t even try. The mention of letting Alistair ride shotgun in his skull earns Sam a pained look. It’s not particularly convincing for someone who has no apparent memory of an incident, but they both know he’s lying. <br><br>He pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off the oncoming headache. But that’s not where the pain is. His hands settle over his eyes, forcing them closed. Again the heart monitor quickens. He can feel a tightness grow in his chest. He’s struggles to find his breath. And he flicks the monitor off with punctuated impertinence and disregard for the machine. It’s bad enough he’s having a panic attack; he’d rather his brother not be able to hear it. <br><br>He struggles to lock it down. For days he’s been in fight or flight mode without having any ability to do either. Not really. And now he can’t control it. Not the way he wants. <br><br>Maybe he can channel it. Anger. He’s lucky, they said. He put everyone he loved in harm’s way and he’s lucky. A demon exploited his very thoughts. His emotions. Every unuttered bittered concern. Not just his body. <br><br>Alistair sliced him. He sliced Bobby. And others. He was bait to get them. Bobby’s house burned. It might be fine, but yellow eyes knew what he was doing. <br><br>His father left him for a year. A whole year. To toughen him up because he clearly wasn’t tough enough in the first place. <br><br>He’s lucky. <br><br>Frustrated hands fall to Dean’s sides, away from his eyes and he pulls at the IV in his arm, digging it out with all the ceremony of having no fucks left. The site oozes with blood and his eyebrows draw together as he wraps his opposite hand around it to stop it. He pulls back the covers and his feet hit the floor. <br><br>And then, in what likely seems like the biggest subject change he’s made in weeks, he asks, “I need my wheels. You know where Baby is?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>And just like that, Dean shuts down the conversation. <br><br>Frustration and concern do a dance on Sam’s face. He steadfastly tries to ignore the heart monitors, knowing how his brother will feel about hiding his response. He’s never seen his brother have anything like a panic attack, and after a moment, remorse joins the dance. <br><br>Hazel eyes betray a man who doesn’t know what to do. He raises a slightly shaking hand to his hair and pushes it back. “Baby was in bad shape. May did what May does, which is try to take care of you by having her pulled off the highway and sent to the shop where some SHIELD-bigwig gets his cop magnet seen to.” <br><br>He hates this, because he has to stand in front of the door. “Look, man,” he says quietly. “I know everything about everything sucks. But you can’t just take off. We have other people here that we, you and I, have to see to and take care of and deal with.” <br><br>An appeal to responsibility is going to have to do, where nothing else will work. Dean can’t just take off and leave Jo and Bobby in the wind. To say nothing of Fred, but Jo and Bobby are, he knows, the ones Dean will worry for the most. <br><br>And then, changing the subject again--and perhaps giving Dean something else to think about: “I’m going to try to get off the stuff, man. I think Claire can help.” <br><br>Even as he says it he wonders who will die without his powers. But something about Alistair trying to push him into becoming more of a monster, and something about knowing he’s just ramped up the force of his addiction by sipping on a high-ranking demon, has him stubbornly deciding to go his own way and clean himself back out anyway. When there’s time. When there’s a moment. But he’s going to try. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The mention of anyone touching his car earns an offended expression. His lips part and his eyebrows draw together. Someone touched Baby. Without his permission. He barely lets Sam drive that car. He only let Jo drive it the once. Alistair let it slide the second time. Demon prick. <br><br>He frowns. But he doesn’t let go of the anger. Anger is easier than the rest. Anger is allowed. Anger he can cope with. It can burn hot and bright and he can let it continue. The mention of responsibility earns Sam a sobering expression. The appeal feels unbelievable. “That’s the problem, Sam.” He’s not supposed to have those ties. His mind trails to a time when he’d considered that before. <br><br>//Just Over Five Years Ago// <br><br>The television blares in the Kilgore, Texas motel room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean Winchester lifts the beer bottle to his lips again. His fingers are white against its dark tone. Next to him, the shoulder bag. He’s packed and ready to move on out. <br><br>“You talkin’ to me?” Clint Eastwood asks. Dean’s eyebrows lift and he reaches for the remote to shut the movie off. <br><br>“Not today,” he mutters to himself as he tugs the strap of the bag over his shoulder and rises to his feet. He abandons the now-empty beer bottle to the table. <br><br>It’s then that the door opens and his father treads through the door. John has a flare in his eyes, the kind that suggests he shouldn’t be trifled with today. Or… any day, from Dean’s vantage point. Dean inhales a long breath and holds it before observing. “So…” his green eyes search John’s face several beats, and he draws his own conclusions, “...Sammy is gone then.” His thoughts on the matter remain neutral as his lips press into a thin line. <br><br>John’s eyes roll. “Yeah, no thanks to you.” His arms fold and he eyes Dean and the bag over his son’s shoulder. <br><br>Twenty-something Dean stares at his father. He’s not Sam. He hasn’t openly defied his father, questioned their life, or even bothered to critique it. He’s done his part consistently without praise. He even raised his own brother, mostly alone, to that end. But the blame causes a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach. Not that John can tell. John never bothered to learn the nuances of Dean’s expressions. <br><br>Sam would’ve seen it. <br><br>The subtle change colour in Dean’s eyes when anger flashes behind them. The way his eyes narrow, however minutely. The faint pull of his lips. Sam would’ve caught all of it. John misses each signal. And so, when he lowly asks, “How do you figure?” it comes across as naive to the elder Winchester. <br><br>“/You/ were responsible for making sure he had some loyalty to us in this. /You/ were the one who should’ve shown him the importance of getting the yellow eyed demon. /You/ were the one who should’ve been stronger with him. Harder with him. You made him /soft/,” the flatness in his tone doesn’t invite argument. “You just had to go to that goddamned graduation didn’t you?” <br><br>There’s a long silence that follows John’s question, and it’s not until John grabs his son’s collar to force Dean to look at him that he even receives a response. Dean’s hand grasps at John’s, pushing the hand away from his jacket. “He didn’t even know I was there,” he replies to the question. <br><br>But that’s not what he takes issue with. <br><br>“But you’re wrong,” Dean says blandly. “I didn’t teach him to run away. You did that.” His expression sours. “I taught him to defend other people. I taught him he could be strong. I taught him not to be afraid--that he could do something about all the things that go bump in the night. I taught him to be independent because no one else was going to take care of him when sick. Because you weren’t there. You’ve never been there.” Dean’s throat clears, “I’ve been waiting. Virtually sixteen years I’ve been waiting for you to show up. And because you didn’t, I did. Sammy needed someone to raise him. So yeah, I did it.” <br><br>And in a second, John’s fists do the talking. Dean lays creamed on the floor with a hand pressed to his jaw. His eyes close and he lays there a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I’m heading East,” he finally says. “There’s a pack of werewolves terrorizing Jersey. Seem to have taken up residence as an organized crime… thing.” <br><br>“I thought we’d intended to head West… we’ve got yellow eyes on the run--” John counters. <br><br>Dean peels himself from the floor. “I think it’s time I do some on my own. I’m an adult. I got a truck I fixed at the garage,” that he’s been working at for months, “think it’s good to go.” He shrugs and then catches the glint in his father’s eyes. “Look. I know you’ll still be off doing solo jobs. I may as well do the same. I don’t have to keep Sam in school anymore, so we can double our efforts by splitting up. I know you need to go after yellow eyes, but I need to become good at this alone,” it’s something he’s never done before. He brings himself back to a stand and tugs the bag over his shoulder again. <br><br>John stares at Dean a few moments. At least one son has stuck to the course. And for the first time in a long time, something shifts. For a moment the disappointment seems to disappear. “You should take the Impala.” He tosses the keys at Dean. He may as well have said he’s proud of his son. That’s what it feels like. <br><br>And for a moment Dean feels like his brain will implode. He’d spent years doing everything he could to get this man’s attention. He took care of his brother, patched his father, and filled his mother’s role of trying to keep the family together. But this earns pride--something that will fuel him long-term. <br><br>Shock causes Dean’s lips to part. But he doesn’t object. He just nods. His throat clears and he walks towards the door, still holding his jaw. But before he walks through the door, he offers, “See you at the Roadhouse?” <br><br>John nods. “Or on the road.” <br><br>Dean nods again before striding through the door. <br><br>It was the first time he’d recognized it: his father was proud of his loneliness. <br><br>While he’d never been forthcoming, in that moment, he learned that being a man means being an island. <br><br>//Present// <br><br>He doesn’t offer further explanation on what he means. He’s shut down once already. And when he puts his mind to it, he can be painfully vague. <br><br>But the notion of Sam getting off the juice earns some measure of approval. And it does seem to allay some of the more challenging feelings Dean is struggling against. “Good,” he says darkly. He knows more than he aims to let on. He spent days listening to Alistair discuss things he could scarcely understand. And in processing those thoughts, he’s come to some conclusions. <br><br>His jaw tightens. And then something else kicks in. His eyebrows lift and he levels a look at Sam. “You’re not a monster.” And there it is. Plain and simple. “You’re my brother and I--” sentiment has never been his strong suit. He was better when they were younger. Before he was given the Impala. Before John made it clear he regarded independence as more important than family. <br><br>“I love you.” He doesn’t say it enough. He knows he doesn’t. Sam said his needs. And so Dean mirrors that with one of his own, but only one: “I need you to be okay. With or without me,” because he’s still preparing Sammy for a life without him. <br><br>And then, finally having said that, his shoulders slump with defeat. Something washes over him. It’s not the secret that anyone expects to loose, but, “Dad knew all along. Where I was.” And then, as if it needs saying, he adds in a deadpanned tone, “I would never do that to you. Or him. Or a stranger. Or my worst human enemy.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“I love you too.” <br><br>It’s so simple for Sammy to fold Dean into his arms. He comes forward and does. He’s so big now, and for a moment he wants nothing more than to use all that size and power to shelter Dean from the world. Dean may not like /Lifetime/ movie moments (which is such a lie, Sam has caught him enjoying that shit more than once), but Sam is unrestrained in his emotion, and /he/ needs to hug his brother even if his brother is going to pretend not to care. <br><br>Being told he’s not a monster is nice. Helpful. He needs to hear it. Dean needs him to be okay with or without him. “And if you’re really going to die, I need the time you have left,” he says. <br><br>But when he learns about John, the cold rage on his face is palpable. It washes through him like a tidal wave. He pulls back from Dean, still holding his shoulders. His eyes go pitch black once more. He’s looking a little peaked, a little pale, but there’s enough demonic blood in his system to instantly offer this marker of his absolute fury. <br><br>“That son of a bitch,” Sam hisses. His fingers tighten on Dean’s shoulders, clutching at him until he realizes he might well be hurting his brother. His nostrils have flared, and his cheekbones stand out in stark relief as his mouth flattens. It is safe to say Dean has /never/ seen Sam this pissed in his life. <br><br>All in an instant, he knows precisely how he’s going to save Dean’s life. <br><br>And then: “This bullshit. About ties? That was /his/ bullshit. That man who led me on a /fucking snipe hunt/ on a year. Looking back, I see it now.” Sam’s teeth are gritted. “That monster fouled up my trail. I could have had you out of there--” <br><br>His rage needs somewhere to go. He turns from Dean and flings the ottoman against the wall with his will. It shatters in a flurry of springs and wood. He just has to destroy something. He has to. He’ll go crazy if this anger doesn’t get to go somewhere. In so doing, he burns even more of his reserves. A headache, a dull and distant migraine throb, begins in his left temple. He ignores it. <br><br>“Dean,” he says, chest heaving, voice shaking. “You have got to stop holding yourself to standards set by that man. He abused you. Then he betrayed you. Everything he ever taught us is garbage. Not the techniques, but the attitudes. /You/ were the one who brought some nobility to this. /You/ made it about saving people. Okay? Everything good about Hunting came from /you/.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>He shouldn’t have said it. The moment it loosens, Dean regrets it. Sam’s fury far outweighs his own. When it had happened, he knew it would. He knew he shouldn’t tell his brother. Weirdly, it seemed important when he said it. He needed Sam to know that those three words--/I love you/--meant something different to him than they ever did to John. <br><br>It meant making deals with Hell to rescue his brother from its depths. It meant renegotiating that and becoming Crowley’s bitch in a bid to last longer to help Sam. It meant bending over backwards to protect his baby brother at every turn. <br><br>Love isn’t just a word. It’s an action. And while Dean doesn’t say it nearly enough, he lives it. Day in, day out. He lives all of it. <br><br>The ache in his shoulders as Sam clutches them doesn’t ease. He’s had the demon treatment. And the pressure doesn’t help. Worry tugs at his eyes and lips when Sam throws the ottoman across the room. His throat begins to close up. Sam need shim. He knows Sam needs him. <br><br>/That bullshit about the ties is his bullshit/. Dean’s lips twitch. He blinks hard. “It’s not.” For the first time Dean really gets it. “There are rooms full of people who were on Alistair’s radar because of /me/. Because he had access to every memory and thought I’ve ever had. Because he knew where the demon traps were because I’d helped build them. Because he knew what I did and didn’t care about. Because he knew the people on my radar who would hurt you the most.” He emits a mirthless laugh. “The people who would hurt me the most.” <br><br>His lips purse. “He didn’t take Fred because it didn’t suit his plans. He didn’t take Jo or May because he felt he could get to them another way. He saw my hand and played it with style. And now he knows it. All of it.” He taps his temple. “Sam, my thoughts aren’t my own anymore. I don’t own them. Someone else literally stole them. Looked at all of them and saw what would rattle out.” <br><br>The mention of John abusing him makes his mouth dry. John punched him. He didn’t even try to defend himself. His chin drops towards his chest. “I’m not noble. I’m not out for revenge like he is, but I’m not noble.” What he did for Crowley makes his stomach sick. “But I would do anything for you. And all of Hell knows it. Lie, cheat, steal, kill, whore. I’d do it all.” Crowley called his card. “And most of it I’d do for them.” His eyes flit towards the window. <br><br>“I don’t think it makes me noble.” He turns his gaze back to Sam. “I’m pretty sure it means Dad won. I’d lose everything I am to this life. Hell, I don’t even know if I am anything more than this life.” It’s a rare moment of honesty. “He tried to convince me that you leaving was some kind of personal insult or hatred. I almost believed it.” <br><br>He manages a vague smile. “Do you know the first time I got it? The first time I understood why you wanted something more than this life?” His lips quirk into a tighter smile. “It was the night you died. Because even at sixteen, I knew you were the only thing keeping me sane. Grounded. Happy. Dad probably wouldn't even have noticed.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam looks down. He still has a nagging feeling that he ruins Dean’s life more than he helps it, but Dean has a very different take. He swallows back tears, one hand still on one of Dean’s shoulders, though not squeezing. <br><br>Two ways to look at everything. Monster or man. Heretic or hero. Dean’s burden, or Dean’s brother and best friend. He decides, at least, to believe Dean’s interpretation on two of those things. He is Dean’s brother, and he is a man. <br><br>Jury’s still out on heretic. “There are plenty of dark deeds I’d do for you too,” he says. There are plenty of dark deeds he intends to do for Dean, as soon as he can. “And for them. It’s a dark business. But at the core of it, we help people. We’ve helped a lot of people. And that’s what /I/ lost sight of.” <br><br>When he raises his head his eyes are the right color again. And he’s speaking now like a much older man. There is, in Sam, the shape of someone who can lead others. He can project gentle, total confidence. He can be a rock. It’s still a fledgling thing. Still something he hasn’t even fully realized about himself. He’s found it in himself mostly for Fred. A few times in front of others. <br><br>Dean needs to know he’s going to be okay. Dean needs a partner, not a baby to take care of. And Dean needs to know he’s still needed. Turns out these things aren’t really mutually exclusive. <br><br>“Listen to me,” he says, and there’s utter certainty in his words. “We’re not going to let anyone back in your head. That’s why you need the tattoo. To stop that. And why I’m definitely not going to take no for an answer on being right there while you get it.” <br><br>A tight, grim, cynical little half-smile creases his face. No humor in it. Just darkness. “I’ve been researching the runes on the knife. I think it would send a lesser demon to oblivion with one strike. That means they can be killed for good. Alistair is going down. You mark me.” <br><br>Another pause. “Meanwhile, there are still things waiting back in New York. The sorcerer who got me addicted in the first place, Volkov. He’s still alive. We’ve still got a hydra to kill. We can’t protect any of these people by shutting them out, Dean. We can’t protect each other by shutting each other out. We can only do that by being there.” <br><br>A sudden smile. <br><br>“So let’s stick together. Let’s kill some evil sons of bitches and raise a little hell.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s eyebrows lift. He watches Sam with intent and he can feel his jaw tighten at the notion of getting a tattoo. “Dude,” the word itself is pained. He can relent on its necessity. He can relent to its importance. He swears he can still feel Alistair in his mind--even with the demon long-gone. He knows. But he knows other things too. And so he settles on a few carefully chosen words, “I don’t know that I can.” <br><br>He cringes. “I don’t… I don’t think you get it.” It’s irrational. Wholly irrational. He knows it is. But decades later, he has the same fear he did when he had to receive his first booster without Mary. The memory has hung on. He couldn’t even hum Hey Jude to himself when it happened. He’d ended up with more than a vaccine. It wasn’t the last time he got backhanded. But it was the only time he really let himself cry about it. <br><br>“I was put on a plane.” There’s a pause. His eyes widen, “//Baby// was probably put on a plane. A fucking plane! Those things are death traps, Sam! You get in one you are letting your life into someone else’s hands!” <br><br>The notion of raising hell earns Sam a tight smile. Still guarded. Still measured. “Things aren’t fixed in Virginia yet. There’s a lot more to be done.” There’s a long pause that follows. “When Hydra had you? I was stuck. In Virginia,” in prison. <br><br>“Alistair… Lilith,” yeah, he knows names, “Azazel… they’re up to something. And I think it’ll spread.” His expression edges on grim. “It’s big. Whatever it is.” <br><br>He runs a hand through his hair. “I asked Jo to come along,” whatever that means. He levels a look at Sam. “Look, she’s not my girlfriend. I have no business--” his hands lift in defeat. This is not a question he aims to answer, but Sam had mentioned girlfriends. “But she’s along for the ride.” Whatever that means. Everything in Dean’s life is fluid. “Just… no reason to make assumptions there.”<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Needles and planes. Well. Sam is afraid of clowns, so he can’t talk. <br><br>“Ok,” he soothes, conceding to this first: “She’s not your girlfriend.” <br><br>Now what to tackle next? Sam looks sober as he listens to this parade of names. He shivers. Lilith had visited him only once in Hell. She’d asked if he wanted to be her boyfriend, waved looseleaf paper in front of his face, and asked him to check yes or no. And then she’d cackled like a loon. It had scared him almost as much as everything Alistair had done. He sweats a little now, thinking of it. <br><br>“We’re not going to abandon any of it,” he says firmly. “We can drive anywhere in the nation in 48 hours or less, you know that. Even New York to California is only 42 hours straight shot.” Takes more if you stop to sleep, of course, and there’s eating, and other necessaries which probably makes that trip more like 72 hours at its most sane, but the straight drive time is what it is. And child of the road that Sammy is, he has drive times pretty well memorized by time zone, east-west and north-south. Five hours from Houston to Shreveport. 24 hours from Dallas to Detroit. Four hours from Detroit to Chicago. Six hours from Chicago to St. Louis. He can rattle them all off. He learned drive times and road signs before he learned some basic kindergarten skills. <br><br>Finally, this: “It doesn’t look or feel like a needle, Dean. You’ve already faced the IV, yeah? It feels like a little series of firm thumps against your skin. I tell you what. Before we go, you can have a few beers, loosen up a little bit, and then after, I will buy you a whole pie, and won’t say a word if you eat the whole thing.” <br><br>Bribes. They are a totally legit mothering tool. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>There are few times in life Dean retreats into his more juvenile self. He’s had to be an adult long before he hit adulthood. But the mention of the tattoo has him retreating to that place. Like a petulant child, his bottom lip extends. “Ehn,” he’s not sold. Even the bribery isn’t working as well as it usually would. He really doesn’t like needles. “Beer and burger first.” Pause. “No, wait, whiskey. Shots. I don’t remember the last time we had shots together…” <br><br>It’s possible it’s been literal years before at least one of them was legal. <br><br>“And a burger. With bacon. And cheese.” Pause. “And a fried egg over top.” He missed eating. A lot. <br><br>But he catches, and addresses, Sam’s shiver. Kind of. “So.” His throat clears. And then silence falls over him. For a few beats he watches Sam thoughtfully. His lips purse lightly. “I know you’re trying to get me out of my deal,” it’s a nice way to start. “But I need you to know I don’t have regrets about it.” He looks pointedly at Sam. “At all.” His eyebrows draw together. “And… I know what I’m getting into.” <br><br>His eyes actually roll now. There’s more to say. So much more. “When I was… gone,” it’s a kinder word than tortured, “for a year, I died. More than once.” Although he can’t be sure how many times. “I don’t know why Crowley brought me back, but I do know what it sounded like there. I also know I don’t belong to Alistair. Crowley is a son of a bitch. But some are worse than others.” There. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Shots, burger, bacon, cheese. Pie after, done.” And with that, Sam spits on his palm and offers his hand. Agreement made, accord done. The whole tattoo party plan is happening, cause really, /none/ of these people are going home without one. If he has to spend his whole paycheck and use his last two fake credit cards, this is happening. And he can probably expense it all. Ha! There are some benefits. But the shots and burgers will be just them. They need it. They deserve it. <br><br>“While there’s something to be said for winding up in the same place together after death,” Sam says grimly, “I cannot live my life knowing you’re there. You heard. I lived. And I remember it all now, Dean. It’s not happening. Someone would have to be a real monster for me to wish that on anyone.” <br><br>Fortunately, he knows one of those. Fucker. <br><br>“I--” <br><br>How to even talk about this? “The fact that you did that for me--It’s the bravest goddamn thing I can think of. It makes me wish I’d--been a better brother.” At every turn. “I wish I’d been more careful. If I hadn’t been such a dumbass on that hunt…” <br><br>Dean absolves him, but he still feels it in his gut, the guilt that he died, that /he/ forced Dean’s hand, that Dean has been through 9 years of torment for /him/. And /he/ fell for John’s tricks, /he/ didn’t see through them, /he/ didn’t rescue his brother. Who without a doubt suffered longer than he ever did. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A wry smile follows Sam’s action and Dean mirrors it in an instant, spitting on his palm and extending it to take his brother’s hand. Some things are sacred. Like pacts between brothers. “Deal.” His smile extends. They both know he never would’ve got a tattoo if it weren’t for Sam’s insistence. It’s not in him. He’d rather die of polio than be pricked by a needle. <br><br>Dean’s eyes lid when Sam confesses he remembers it all. “Crowley took that from you. As a bonus.” A long pause follows. “If it’s something you’d rather lose…” he rakes his fingers through his hair. He might be able to arrange it. He feels dirty all over again and longs for a shower. Like after he’d seduced that young woman. His stomach churns. <br><br>His face feels hot when Sam calls him brave. His eyes settle on the floor. “Sammy it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t brave. It was right. When your twelve year old brother is sent to Hell, and you can do something about it, you do.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I told Dad,” finally. “He didn’t care,” Dean actually laughs at that. Like it matters. “It was dumb of me to ever think that would be the case.” <br><br>Sam’s thoughts on the hunt though warrant a crease of Dean’s forehead. “We were both dumbasses,” he states too honestly. But he actually laughs. “I thought breaking the windows of the house would make me feel better. It just invited Crowley’s mockery.” He laughs again. “He calls you Moose.” He looks pointedly at Sam. “And I’m Squirrel.” His hands lift as if to say /that’s Crowley/. “He’s a son of a bitch, but he tried to stop Alistair. The knife was his. Alistair was just… stronger.” <br><br>His lips press together tightly and he hmms. “They didn’t like each other. At all from what I could tell.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“No,” Sam says firmly. “Getting the memory back kind of sucked. I only need to go through that once. No guarantee wiping it again would help.” <br><br>He looks unsurprised that John didn’t care. He simply gives a thin-lipped shake of his head. It sparks the rage that’s still stoked there, stirs the embers in those hot coals burning inside his belly. <br><br>“Politics in Hell,” Sam muses, half-shaking his head. “Who’d have thought.” He didn’t really hear anything useful to this during his time there. He’d just died, and had been sent to the first realm of Hell to snatch him up. With nobody having any specific claim on his soul, the most powerful demons there got him. <br><br>He banishes the cold, dark, creepy feelings inside of him. The sensation that someone is looming over his shoulder. The memory of agony. He’d go back to a Hydra prison any day. He supposes he has some time to figure out a strategy for fighting his way up the hierarchy and earning himself some sort of a reprieve the next time he’s sent. He’s not 12 anymore, and he’s got more advance warning than any human should. <br><br>If he’s got to be damned, he intends to make Hell feel like /they/ are trapped with /him/. <br><br>It all flickers across his face: the terror and the determination all at once, before he fishes Dean’s clothing out of a nearby drawer, handing them off to him. “Come on. We can be out that window and down to the local burger bar before anyone knows we’re gone.” That, first, then he’ll check on Fred and Mr. and Mrs. Burkle, and Bobby, and -- no, best leave Jo to her Not Boyfriend. And then he will round them all up for the tattoo party of the century. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah,” Dean agrees about the politics. “They were arguing about these groups. And who Lucifer aligns with,” his eyebrows draw together sharply. “Like kids fighting over who’s Daddy’s favourite. It was… something else.” He shudders. He won’t think anymore about it. About what Alistair did with this body. What he saw Alistair do with it. <br><br>He looks at the clothes and rolls his eyes. He’d worn them too long. “Baby really is stashed at SHIELD somewhere?” because he has a change in the car. “I have my favourite shirt in the car,” the one he’d been wearing when they went on that hunt in June. Before everything turned to madness. “I love that shirt.” He’s personally offended that it’s off in some SHIELD facility. “I should get more like it.” <br><br>“You know I’m going to have to go over it with a fine-toothed comb. I don’t need those suits being able to track us that easy.” There’s a pause as he casts Sam a strange look. “Me, I mean. /Me/ that easily.” Because Sam works for them. Kind of. <br><br>And as he begins to change, he’s humming again. Hey Jude. Absently at first. And then, realizing he’s doing it, his head shakes, his eyebrows lift, and his eyes widen. /That’s John’s bullshit./ <br><br>“Mom used to sing it to us,” he finally relents. Evidently honesty begets more honesty. “All the time. She hated lullabies. She loved the Beatles.” His lips twitch into a bittersweet line. “And she loved you.” Another pause follows the words. “I know he put a lot on you. You didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve that.” He inhales a long breath. “But she protected you. And… I would’ve done the same. In a heartbeat. Still.” <br><br>He shrugs and goes back to changing. Putting on his SHIELD issued clothes like putting on armour. Suit up. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>No comment on Baby or shirts. Grumble Dean gotta grumble. After a certain point what you do is you give a wry half smile and you don’t address it. Otherwise you just start dumb arguments really. That’s what he does now. Yep. Favorite shirt. Baby. <br><br>Then...Mom. <br><br>Sam looks down. <br><br>If he’s internalized anything, it’s the idea that his mother’s death was his fault. It was a story that was told to him almost before he could talk. It was the top film on the marquee for every one of John’s drunken rages. If he’d never been born, Mary would still be here. He’s heard it so many times he has never even stopped to examine it. <br><br>But that’s John’s bullshit. <br><br>He exhales. “We’re going to buy so many Beatles cassettes,” he says. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The mention of the cassettes earns Sam a lopsided grin. Boyish. Dimpled. Downright pleased. It’s short-lived but it’s present. “We can listen in the Impala. SHe used to play it way too loud.” While Dean had come to terms with John’s betrayal, he’s only begun absolving himself of John’s bullshit. And it’s weirdly liberating. <br><br>Talking. Singing the Beatles. Embracing his Mom. <br><br>“She wasn’t perfect,” he offers. “But she lived up to the moniker.” He doesn’t talk about her often. He can’t remember the last time he really let himself. It might’ve been the last time they drank shots. His eyes trace back to Sam and his head cants to the side. <br><br>“Burger. I’m so hungry. I haven’t had a burger in like… a week.” Or anything besides sugar water and the toast he forced down his throat that came back up.<br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Take it slow or you’ll end up vomiting everything back--” Then Sam smiles, dimples on his own face, and he throws his arm around Dean. <br><br>“Whatever, you’re Iron Man. Or at least Iron Stomach. Come on.” <br><br>It’s a good thing this is a one story facility. And with that, he opens the window, flashes the V sign at the exterior camera, aaaand finds a SHIELD vehicle to hotwire. What? He’s an agent, it’s fine. <br><br>You can put the Winchester in SHIELD but good luck putting a lot of SHIELD into the Winchester. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Pfffft,” Dean replies so eloquently. “If man wasn’t meant to eat meat he wouldn’t have given us canines.” He points at his teeth. “Like vampires. They only got those chompers to eat people.” Speaking of eating people, “Same reason I don’t trust vegetarian vamps. Teeth weren’t designed for that.” <br><br>He climbs out the window, saluting at the camera as he lingers in the frame. With another flash of teeth he finishes crawling through it. “Dude. Agent Mom found me before--” he shrugs. Whatever. “They have crazy tracking skills. That’s all I’m saying.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah, I think they run facial recognition software on every traffic camera or something. They don’t even really need tracking devices.” <br><br>He gets the car hotwired and just programs the GPS to the nearest sports bar, a place where they can get both burgers and shots. This is an important mission here. <br><br>At least SHIELD is used to folks like this. They have some colorful personalities. Not that Sam knows that. He just wants to feel...like himself. And he wants Dean to feel like Dean. And stealing an SUV with a giant eagle on the side seems like a great way to do that. Well. Borrowing. He will return it. He’ll even top off the tank before he does. And if it ought to have a push button and a chip key, well, that’s the thing about government spending. It doesn’t always lead to the best equipment, and this thing has a bit of an older set-up. <br><br>There is totally a tracking device on this car of course, but. Likely it will also feed into the GPS and just see that they’re just making a food run. <br><br>“If anyone asks I’m practicing my skills for training purposes,” Sam says, a mischievous grin flitting right over his face. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah. But I’m pretty sure they won’t believe me, Bonnie,” Dean returns as his eyes narrow. A glance is given Sam a moment. He studies his brother. His head cants to the side as if decided something. “I’ll drive.” And then, with a wry smirk, “Probably lose cool points for being near this thing. Besides theft. Theft wins points.” <br><br>He frowns slightly. “These people better not have douched up my wheels,” his eyes scan each of the controls and some of the fancier features of the car. “Seriously. This thing is a douche magnet for people that don’t have to think about fighting. They just press a button and the machine can do it for them.” <br><br>His head shakes slightly and he puts the SUV into drive. “So. I have no idea where we are…” but he does know how to find a highway. He also knows how to speed. A lot. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam just shakes his head with a slight smile when Dean insists on driving. It never fails. He just takes the customary passenger seat. He doesn’t mind it there. It’s familiar. He doesn’t object to being called Bonnie either. Pretty common. And he doesn’t object to the speeding. This is Dean regaining control in the best possible way, really. <br><br>“The map’s right there on the dash,” he points out dryly. “I know it’s a little high-tech for your Luddite soul. It will read the directions and everything. We are in north South Dakota, for those following along in the home audience.” <br><br>Of course, Dean might count dashboard GPS displays as evidence of douchery. <br><br>Despite him getting all sassy, there’s a hint of a smile. Everything may not be okay in the broader scheme of things. It might not all be okay at the facility they’ve just left behind. But it’s okay right /now/ in this /car/, and that’s something. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Frigging oxymoron, ‘north South Dakota,’” Dean repeats as his foot steps on the gas. He beams. He’s like a kid in a candy store. No, it’s not a fantastic ride, but driving makes him feel alive. It always has. <br><br>“Nothing about all of this,” he lifts a finger and points at each of the gadgets glowing on the gas, “makes the car /better/. Remember that. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.” For a twenty-something he remains a purist about cars. “It just makes the driver and designer look like douchebags. Like they can’t read a map,” his head turns for a second to catch Sam’s eye. “Like they don’t know how to actually /drive the car/.” <br><br>His eyebrows lift to punctuate the point. He does, however, shrug slightly as he proceeds to open all the windows. Power windows are a nice perk. Especially when wanting to drive fast down a highway. <br><br>He eyes a button at the centre dash and presses it. The roof begins to retract. It’s likely designed for tactical purposes. But that wins another flicker of a smile as Dean presses harder on the gas. <br><br>The wind resistance is immense. But it also seems to breed delight. He glances at the GPS. “You know where a pub is? Unless SHIELD is a lot cooler than I think it is, it’s probably not programmed in--” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Well, people who /know how to use technology/,” Sam says with some amusement, “Know that every GPS device comes equipped with an automatic search-engine tie in, so I just typed in what I wanted and it found the nearest one. So the answer is yes, I sure do know where a pub is, and you’re going to want to make a right turn at Junction 314.” <br><br>This is good. His long hair starts whipping around his face, and he just grins until his cheeks hurt. <br><br>This is.../them/. This is exactly them. The road. The wind. The bickering. <br><br>He smirks, and gives his brother a long gaze, and says, “Through the wonders of technology I bring you…” <br><br>This thing has Sirius XM Satellite Radio. He considers grabbing the Beatles. But it’s the wrong mood for that now. They’ve done the serious, the heavy, the intense. Later they will buy all the Beatles, but he thinks there will no doubt be some intense emotions in the car. And...he thinks they’ll want to be in the Impala for that. Weirdly, he thinks: /Mom will want to join us -there-./ <br><br>Maybe not so weirdly. <br><br>So he just switches to classic rock. Creedence Clearwater Revival booms over expensive SHIELD-themed speakers. Because the secret organization loves its branding. And...he sings, which he rarely does, hamming it up for his brother a little, because being the goofy, funny baby brother who can lighten the mood is part of his /job/ (thus why he tried it, first and foremost, with one Bucky Barnes). It occurs to him they probably could have even of taken /his/ car, but he’s not sure if it’s not locked up in a Quinjet or something. <br><br>“Some folks are born, maaaaaaaade to wave the flag…” <br><br>//SHIELD Control Room// <br><br>A technician looks up from his headset with alarm. “Er. Agent Takana? Should we…?” <br><br>The other agent reaches over and turns up the volume so they can listen too, shrugging. “I think Agent May would tell us to let it ride, Agent West. Just let it ride.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s lips edge upwards into an easier smile. He’s relaxing. He’s feeling like himself. He cracks up as Sam begins to sing, and at the top of his lungs, over the noise of the wind, he joins, “Ooooooooh, they’re red, white, and blue!” His cheeks hurt because he’s smiling so broadly. They stiffen. He aches. But it feels good. He hasn’t smiled like this in months. He knows he hasn’t. <br><br>It’s a simple fact. He wonders how long it’s been since Sammy felt like this. He feels normal. <br><br>Like it’s five years ago, and Sam never left for school. The days leading up had been torment. But before that? Before they’d made it to Kilgore--the place of their parting--that had been almost perfect to him. <br><br>And in this moment it feels much the same. <br><br>He flashes another smile to Sam. <br><br>He has what he needs. His brother and the road. <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Hey_Jude&diff=1577Hey Jude2017-09-19T03:56:35Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/09/14 |Location=South Dakota |Synopsis=After the incident at Sioux Falls, Dean wakes up in SHIELD medical. He and Sam reconnect after nearly a..."</p>
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<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/14<br />
|Location=South Dakota<br />
|Synopsis=After the incident at Sioux Falls, Dean wakes up in SHIELD medical. He and Sam reconnect after nearly a month apart.<br />
|Cast of Characters=Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester,<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>SHIELD medics had gone about their work on each of the victims immediately upon their arrival to the scene. They’d insisted that each of those present give them room to work--an insistence that wasn’t well-received by all of those present. But physicians exercise authority easily. It’s their training, especially when lives are at stake. <br><br>Most of the victims were kept for observation if not outright treatment. It’s fortunate that so few of the victims had been occupied long. It meant they hadn’t had the opportunity to be so terribly treated. Others were less lucky. <br><br>Days without food, water, or rest have had their impact on Dean. The IV he’s hooked into, with its constant stream of fluids has made a world of difference. He’d wanted to eat pretty quickly when he’d arrived to the facility, but his doctor insisted he not. Ironically, this made him all the more determined. He’d rushed the process and put something in his stomach before it was ready… and had suffered the consequences as a result. <br><br>It’d become increasingly obvious Alistair carved him before occupying him. The wounds had festered. Infection had started to set in. He’d been feverish. Consequently, he’s been on a solid round of antibiotics since his arrival. The med team has insisted that it’s fortunate he got here when he did. That he’s lucky. The phrase was enough to make Dean ill. <br><br>Lucky. <br><br>Dean Winchester, lucky. <br><br>His mother was killed when he was four. His brother was cursed to become a monster. His father didn’t care that he was being tortured for a year. His was body occupied and abused for days. Yeah. He’s lucky. <br><br>It made him angry. But he buried it. Locked it down. Sam had been in earshot. He’d probably seen the change in his brother at the phrase. Whatever had opened was shut down again. The notion of being lucky with what had happened to him over the course of weeks was enough to breed distrust. <br><br>The good news is, most of the time he’s been in the facility, he’s been some version of asleep. It made it easier to keep the lockdown in place. But even in his sleep he’s been humming. Hey Jude seems to be stuck in his head--an oddity. He’d tried singing it once to Sammy when he was four, and suffered consequences for it. Many of them. It was a lesson he only needed once. The song was Mary’s and was to die with her. That’s when Dean had found a song of his own to act as a lullabye. But it never produced those same feelings of comfort for /him/. <br><br>When he knew John couldn’t hear, he’d listened to the Beatles, but like some kind of guilty pleasure, he’d promptly shut it off if anyone was in earshot. Including Sam, even when John wasn’t around. The Beatles were sacred. And like a forbidden religion, it was kept for the corners of his own space. <br><br>But here, even when asleep, he thinks of it. How she’d sung it. What she’d looked like when she sung it. What it felt like. And thanks to days of his will rebelling, it happens even when he’s not trying. The song has followed him since he collapsed. He’s hummed it almost constantly. A few bars at random intervals. <br><br>And so he’s still there. He’d slept in most of the time since he’d come here. Or, had pretended to sleep. Most of it involved vivid memories he’d rather let go of. He hasn’t said much. He sits up in the bed they’ve confined him to as he stares skeptically at the IV hooked into his arm and the heart monitor he’d taken off three times already to get talked to about the importance of monitoring. His lips turn down into grim line as he stares at the window of the room. At least it gives him something to look at. It’s a welcome distraction. And so he stares at the window. Haunted green eyes train on buildings in the distance. <br><br>He’s getting out today. He’s already decided that, no matter what the med team says. He’s an adult. He can make decisions. He needs to get home. He needs to fix the Impala. There are things to do. And getting out means getting control of his faculties. Of his body. Of his emotions. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s hard to tell what Sam Winchester is thinking or feeling right now. <br><br>Doctors tried to chase him out, but the truth is he just retreated to a corner and folded his arms. The large man had agreed to put on scrubs, to stay silent, to retreat out of the way, but he hadn’t even opened his mouth to tell them he wasn’t leaving this room. Something about what he’s radiating now makes the argument open and shut before anyone speaks a word. <br><br>He’d had the predator’s aura at that point. The one that tells more sensitive humans, the ones with better instincts, they’re in the presence of someone vastly more dangerous than themselves, someone who means business and has no fucks to give. <br><br>He’d stood in the corner concentrating on a chant. His mouth moved to speak it without any sound, all beneath his surgical mask. This particular SHIELD facility got a ward against evil that was difficult to set, but he had hours to stand there, stand guard, and set it. It’s a chant that made it into a Madeline L’Engle book but which he’d discovered was the real deal. If focused on in Latin, not English. <br><br>“Hanc fatalem horam, et locus ejus omnis potestas in Caelo, cum sol splendet, et nives per lanam ex capris: Omnem habens virtutem ignis, et fulgur cum celeri ira sua, cum celeritas in ventis iter, et habebant altitudinem suam in mare, et factum est cum saxa suas iniquitatem, et terram ejus eremi vastitate: haec omnia locum, per gratiam, et auxilium Dei omnipotentis, inter me et potestates tenebrarum!” <br><br>Over and over again, in sets of three times three, for hours, until he felt sure Lucifer himself couldn’t touch this building. <br><br>To him there is some irony in calling on Heaven. He now knows /viscerally/ what he’d known logically. Heaven abandoned him when he was just six months old. But the spell still worked, and if it had trouble deciding if /he/ was among the powers of darkness it /had/ finally decided. He was the one who set the spell, so it didn’t harm him. Perhaps if he proved he could be good in spite of what had happened to him, Heaven would quit turning its back on him. And his brother. <br><br>And fuck them if they didn’t, because Sam wasn’t going to be good because he got a big Heaven cookie at the end of it. He wanted to be good because he chose to be good. <br><br>After that, he settled at Dean’s bedside, his feet up on an ottoman in a chaise chair once they got him out of surgery and into a room. Arms folded. Fred is with her family, Jo is with her Mom, Bobby’s still getting treatment too. <br><br>He’d listened to Dean mutter in his sleep, and it brought tears to black eyes. And then: /fuck you, Dad/. He wouldn’t do this while Dean was awake ever, but he sang the song to him softly. He wouldn’t do it while anyone was watching, either. It would mortify Dean. Probably make him mad, were he awake, Sam didn’t know. <br><br>He knew the song was special though, knew the aversion, knew the way it got rapidly shut off every time it came on the car radio, knew the strange look that would come over Dean’s face. <br><br>This isn’t the first time he’s ever sung it, either. The year Dean’d had the flu so bad Sam had thought he was going to die of it, a cold winter in Pennsylvania where their Dad had rented them a vacation cabin prone to getting snowed in...and then had disappeared for six months. There hadn’t even been a school for 30 miles, and Dad hadn’t “had time” to enroll them. He’d listed them as home schooled at the next place they ended up. And Sam had learned: how to nurse someone through the flu, how to do meal planning and prep, how to grocery shop for snowstorms, how to shovel snow, how to drive the car, how to fake a driver’s license so he could do so at the age of 10, how to dress and carry himself so he could pass for older. That had been the year he’d run his first credit card scam, too. The year he’d decided he couldn’t play sentry and nurse, so he’d called Bobby and asked about wards and had received six thick tomes on the subject. <br><br>A year they got to spend 8 whole months at Bobby’s after that, because Bobby had finally come to get them when, exhausted and scared because Dean wasn’t getting better, he’d finally asked if the older man would come, and take his brother to a doctor. The year Bobby had decked John right in the nose when he’d come to claim his sons, the worst fight the two men had ever had. Because a 10 year old could not take a 14 year old to the doctor without getting CPS involved, and Sam knew CPS could never be involved. <br><br>He hears Dean shift and he opens his eyes. Dark green eyes, right now, the color of pine trees at an approaching dusk. <br><br>“Dean?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>At the sound of his name, Dean scrubs his face with his hands. He sniffs loudly. There’s something strangely reassuring about being able to force air into his lungs. And even if he denies it, he basks silently in being able to exercise control. He turns his head to face Sam. The buried thoughts remain locked down as he quite lazily manages a faint quirk of his lips. But the grifter’s smile never catches his eyes. The smile is practiced. It had been perfected through years of lies to complete jobs. But there are some hauntings that not even a hunter can resist. <br><br>Plain as day, Dean’s eyes speak a different story. Their colour, the way they crease at the edges, the reflection of something other behind them--all call to the change. Something has shifted. He can feel it. But some had shifted before Alistair had happened. His life has been reframed in his own mind and memory. And its reframing has left him in want. Those same eyes call to discontent. To confusion. To anger. To hurt. <br><br>But feeling anything let alone everything at once is a liability for a Hunter. So he locks it down as best he can. Smiling. And it would convince almost anyone, save his nearest and dearest. <br><br>His eyebrows draw together some, a measured consideration, while he lets those green eyes linger on his brother’s. There’s a flicker of concern that flashes in them when he watches Sam. But he attempts to lock that down as well. He’s a soldier. He can handle this. He can handle anything. “...hey,” his voice feels foreign in his own throat. He folds his arms across his chest. It’s more comfortable that way, only to cringe when the line in his arm bends at the motion. Nope. Straight arms. He’s getting out today and won’t let posturing be the reason he doesn’t. IVs work better with straight arms. <br><br>His lips press together tightly after the word. There’s much to say and nothing to say. And so his eyebrows lift with some unspoken thought. Yet what he gives words to doesn’t match the expression. “Thanks,” he starts--that much is true, but the rest that comes out finds itself shrouded in a lie, “I know you bailed me out, but… I don’t really know what happened…” His eyes narrow slightly, fully prepared to be challenged on that front. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam knows his brother is full of shit. <br><br>He also knows his brother is going to want to save face. And that he’ll finally deal with it when he’s ready to. Right now, what Dean Winchester needs are choices. They can be shitty choices, but they must be his. <br><br>So Sam allows a look of relief to pass over his face, and retreats to one of his masks. Humor. “Yeah? No, that’s good, because when he made you roll up your pants leg and sing show tunes I thought you’d never recover.” A boyish grin flashes over his face, one that never reaches his eyes either. His eyes say it all too: ‘I know you’re full of shit, I’m going to give you a pass, but I am here for you.’ <br><br>Turning more serious, he transfers himself from chair to ottoman so he can pull it closer. “I drew on you with a Sharpie while you slept,” he says, as if it were just a standard slumber party trick. He points to Dean’s arm, where he’s drawn an anti-possession ward right near that IV needle. “I think you should get it done permanently though.” <br><br>He pulls aside his collar, revealing his tattoo. <br><br>But though he’ll give Dean a pass on some things, he won’t on others. His face turns sober, serious, and for once, he says exactly what he wants, exactly what he needs. “Look, things are bad right now,” he says quietly. “Real bad for you, real bad for me. The only way we’re going to survive this is together, man. I need you. I need the crap out of you. I need you to--please don’t take off anymore. I know--I know I was an asshole. I know I left you and Dad. But you’re the better of us, and--I need you not to run off anymore. I’m not saying there won’t be times it doesn’t make sense to split up, I’m not saying we need to be joined at the hip, but...we have that check-in system for a reason, and--” <br><br>He looks down. “It would kill me to lose you, Dean. I know you think--you maybe think--I don’t care but--” <br><br>He lets the whole thing linger in the air. Dean might not want to talk. But Sam is more than willing to. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The smile loses its edge at the mention of show tunes and something more genuine replaces it. “It’s fortunate I have no memory then,” Dean’s teeth flash with a modicum of self-deprecation. Relief colours his expression. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to think about it. He wants to stop replaying it in his head. <br><br>The notion of being drawn on though has his chin tucking towards his chest to examine the symbol on his arm. And as he sees his arms, his face blanches. He feels queasy. His eyes lid lightly and he leans back again to watch the ceiling above. The heart monitor hooked to his index finger begins to beat loudly. He inhale a long breath, holds it, and releases it slowly. Those hands. His hands. His arms. They betrayed him. <br><br>But the breathing doesn’t work. Not quickly. Not effectively. <br><br>The image flashes across his memory. Fresh. His eyes cinch shut. <br><br>Alistair shuts Dean’s cellphone. The front room of Bobby’s house feels familiar and foreign at the same time from this vantage. His hands tremble. Dean hasn’t lost his fight. He may have no real control, but he doesn’t make it easy for his body’s other occupant either. The body is his. It belongs to him and the interloper isn’t welcome. <br><br>“What was that about?” Bobby’s voice cuts through the silence. There’s a glint in the older man’s eyes that Dean catches. And, with easy access to his thoughts, he knows Alistair catches it too. It’s horrifying. How can he stop thinking in his own mind? <br><br>Bobby shoves a now-open bottle of beer to the Dean-mon. “Drink. I know it’s useless to ask you to talk about it, ya idjit.” There’s a pause. “But you can’t run from this, son.” <br><br>Dean’s lips hitch up on one side. The bottle draws to his lips. He takes a swig. The fluid burns hot in his mouth. It sears, smoking his tongue. There’s nothing sweet or normal about the beer. It wretches in his stomach. Something skips in Dean’s mind. He misses something. The room changes. It’s the dining room. Not the front room. And in an instant, Bobby has his shotgun out. It’s dizzying in the moment. Alistair lifts Dean’s hand and Bobby is plastered against the wall. Alistair moves telekinetically rips the first layer of flesh from the skin covering his forehead. <br><br>Bobby’s screams fill the house. It echoes. <br><br>In the present, Dean forces his eyes open to meet Sam’s. His head shakes. Shake it off. And then, bluntly, he offers, “I don’t want a tattoo.” Free will. Agency. He aches to exercise it. “Those places,” tattoo parlours, “are shit. They’re full of wannabe hippie beatniks who don’t even know who Zeppelin even is.” His expression suggests he’s also dead serious. And focusing on this makes the heart monitor begin to return to a normal pace. It’s helping him lock it down. <br><br>When Sam begins to reiterate his needs though, Dean can feel his eyes narrow again. Something in his brain cracks. “I didn’t take off because of you,” it’s the truth. “I didn’t leave my phone behind because of you,” it’s true that he didn’t want to be called. But it wasn’t for lack of wanting to talk to Sam. He didn’t want to have to lock the truth down. He didn’t want to have to lie about John’s betrayal to his brother’s face. But more than that, he didn’t want to give voice to the truth. “I made choices. My choices. All of them.” <br><br>His eyes train on Sam’s. “Dude. I never thought you didn’t care.” Absolution is something he’s willing to give. “Just lose that thought right now.” His eyes actually roll at the next, “And there’s no way I’m the better of us Sam. Of any of us,” including John, especially at this moment. <br><br>He inhales another long breath. “When did this story turn into a Lifetime movie?” His head turns towards the window. “I’m fine. I can’t promise not to take off. Not when it’s necessary. I know you don’t get it, but I needed to. And not just because of Crowley.” Sure, Crowley had something to do with it, but it was John who nailed that coffin shut. “I needed to talk to Jo. I needed to…” seduce a stranger. His shoulders sink. Hopefully it’s enough to make Sam get it while telling him almost nothing. <br><br>He knows Alistair brought up John. He knows Sam may have ideas of his own. He knows all of these things. But instead of talking about the issue directly, he hones in on something tangential. “I need the road. Sammy--” there’s so much he wants to say in the space between his words. There’s so much he longs to express. His heart actually aches as he holds it back. The judgment he feels for himself and his inability to utter it actually hurts more. Alistair had been cruel. But he’d found honesty in the cruelty. “--you don’t need me anymore. I know you care. I do. But you’re getting roots. It’s.. good, probably.” He manages a bitter laugh. He’s not someone able to assess the qualitative nature of goodness on much of anything, let alone roots. <br><br>“You have Fred. You have SHIELD. I’m gone in a year. Less, probably.” His smile turns bitter. And while there’s more to say, he won’t let himself speak it. Not yet, anyways. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah, I have an angle on that,” Sam says. He’s got a wish demon in his back pocket. He just has to figure out how to use her. “You’re not dead yet.” <br><br>He also scowls. He’s not sure about SHIELD. It’s all over his face. What he says is, “You have Jo. Dude, at some point it is maybe okay for us to get hot Hunter girlfriends.” <br><br>He leans back. He folds his arms. He listens to what Dean has to say, and he thinks about it for a long time. He says, “You know, WAND isn’t the most well-funded department ever. I get the impression it’s hard to look at Congress and say ‘we need a billion dollars for ghost hunting.’ It’s a fringe department. May seems content to let me choose my cases, and there are SHIELD offices all over the country. We’re still in South Dakota.” <br><br>He’s already had some of this discussion with Fred. <br><br>“So. You need the road. Fine. There are cases all over America. I need a steady paycheck so I don’t have to defraud people to do this job. Fine. Turns out there are people willing to pay me to do what we do anyway. Fred needs her people at the Hyperion, but turns out she’s willing to hop in a car as long as I’m willing to drive her back.” <br><br>He gestures to the door. “Bobby has had a home base, and has simply taken road trips to his hunts, as long as we’ve known him, man.” <br><br>“Bottom line, you can have the road. And you can maybe keep your room, keep a home. It doesn’t have to be either-or. That kind of no-compromise thinking gets us in a lot of trouble. Sometimes it’s okay to take the third option.” <br><br>And as for the tattoo artist: “And what you’re saying is if you don’t have to go to a parlor and I can find an artist who knows abou Zeppelin, you’ll get the thing that keeps Alistair from riding shotgun in your skull again. Awesome, I’m gonna get on that.” <br><br>The tone Sam gets when he decides to mother Dean just like Dean fathers him is absolutely present in that final statement. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The mention of Bobby’s home base changes something in Dean’s expression. His gaze settles on a spot on the bed. His lips purse. It washes over him. All over again. The guilt feels distinct. A glance is given the IV. He wonders if they’ve put painkillers in here. He could really use a drink. <br><br>He can smell it. The fire. It burns brightly in his mind, and he can smell it. The Roadhouse. Bobby’s home. He frowns openly. It’s not guarded. He doesn’t even try. The mention of letting Alistair ride shotgun in his skull earns Sam a pained look. It’s not particularly convincing for someone who has no apparent memory of an incident, but they both know he’s lying. <br><br>He pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off the oncoming headache. But that’s not where the pain is. His hands settle over his eyes, forcing them closed. Again the heart monitor quickens. He can feel a tightness grow in his chest. He’s struggles to find his breath. And he flicks the monitor off with punctuated impertinence and disregard for the machine. It’s bad enough he’s having a panic attack; he’d rather his brother not be able to hear it. <br><br>He struggles to lock it down. For days he’s been in fight or flight mode without having any ability to do either. Not really. And now he can’t control it. Not the way he wants. <br><br>Maybe he can channel it. Anger. He’s lucky, they said. He put everyone he loved in harm’s way and he’s lucky. A demon exploited his very thoughts. His emotions. Every unuttered bittered concern. Not just his body. <br><br>Alistair sliced him. He sliced Bobby. And others. He was bait to get them. Bobby’s house burned. It might be fine, but yellow eyes knew what he was doing. <br><br>His father left him for a year. A whole year. To toughen him up because he clearly wasn’t tough enough in the first place. <br><br>He’s lucky. <br><br>Frustrated hands fall to Dean’s sides, away from his eyes and he pulls at the IV in his arm, digging it out with all the ceremony of having no fucks left. The site oozes with blood and his eyebrows draw together as he wraps his opposite hand around it to stop it. He pulls back the covers and his feet hit the floor. <br><br>And then, in what likely seems like the biggest subject change he’s made in weeks, he asks, “I need my wheels. You know where Baby is?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>And just like that, Dean shuts down the conversation. <br><br>Frustration and concern do a dance on Sam’s face. He steadfastly tries to ignore the heart monitors, knowing how his brother will feel about hiding his response. He’s never seen his brother have anything like a panic attack, and after a moment, remorse joins the dance. <br><br>Hazel eyes betray a man who doesn’t know what to do. He raises a slightly shaking hand to his hair and pushes it back. “Baby was in bad shape. May did what May does, which is try to take care of you by having her pulled off the highway and sent to the shop where some SHIELD-bigwig gets his cop magnet seen to.” <br><br>He hates this, because he has to stand in front of the door. “Look, man,” he says quietly. “I know everything about everything sucks. But you can’t just take off. We have other people here that we, you and I, have to see to and take care of and deal with.” <br><br>An appeal to responsibility is going to have to do, where nothing else will work. Dean can’t just take off and leave Jo and Bobby in the wind. To say nothing of Fred, but Jo and Bobby are, he knows, the ones Dean will worry for the most. <br><br>And then, changing the subject again--and perhaps giving Dean something else to think about: “I’m going to try to get off the stuff, man. I think Claire can help.” <br><br>Even as he says it he wonders who will die without his powers. But something about Alistair trying to push him into becoming more of a monster, and something about knowing he’s just ramped up the force of his addiction by sipping on a high-ranking demon, has him stubbornly deciding to go his own way and clean himself back out anyway. When there’s time. When there’s a moment. But he’s going to try. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The mention of anyone touching his car earns an offended expression. His lips part and his eyebrows draw together. Someone touched Baby. Without his permission. He barely lets Sam drive that car. He only let Jo drive it the once. Alistair let it slide the second time. Demon prick. <br><br>He frowns. But he doesn’t let go of the anger. Anger is easier than the rest. Anger is allowed. Anger he can cope with. It can burn hot and bright and he can let it continue. The mention of responsibility earns Sam a sobering expression. The appeal feels unbelievable. “That’s the problem, Sam.” He’s not supposed to have those ties. His mind trails to a time when he’d considered that before. <br><br>//Just Over Five Years Ago// <br><br>The television blares in the Kilgore, Texas motel room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean Winchester lifts the beer bottle to his lips again. His fingers are white against its dark tone. Next to him, the shoulder bag. He’s packed and ready to move on out. <br><br>“You talkin’ to me?” Clint Eastwood asks. Dean’s eyebrows lift and he reaches for the remote to shut the movie off. <br><br>“Not today,” he mutters to himself as he tugs the strap of the bag over his shoulder and rises to his feet. He abandons the now-empty beer bottle to the table. <br><br>It’s then that the door opens and his father treads through the door. John has a flare in his eyes, the kind that suggests he shouldn’t be trifled with today. Or… any day, from Dean’s vantage point. Dean inhales a long breath and holds it before observing. “So…” his green eyes search John’s face several beats, and he draws his own conclusions, “...Sammy is gone then.” His thoughts on the matter remain neutral as his lips press into a thin line. <br><br>John’s eyes roll. “Yeah, no thanks to you.” His arms fold and he eyes Dean and the bag over his son’s shoulder. <br><br>Twenty-something Dean stares at his father. He’s not Sam. He hasn’t openly defied his father, questioned their life, or even bothered to critique it. He’s done his part consistently without praise. He even raised his own brother, mostly alone, to that end. But the blame causes a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach. Not that John can tell. John never bothered to learn the nuances of Dean’s expressions. <br><br>Sam would’ve seen it. <br><br>The subtle change colour in Dean’s eyes when anger flashes behind them. The way his eyes narrow, however minutely. The faint pull of his lips. Sam would’ve caught all of it. John misses each signal. And so, when he lowly asks, “How do you figure?” it comes across as naive to the elder Winchester. <br><br>“/You/ were responsible for making sure he had some loyalty to us in this. /You/ were the one who should’ve shown him the importance of getting the yellow eyed demon. /You/ were the one who should’ve been stronger with him. Harder with him. You made him /soft/,” the flatness in his tone doesn’t invite argument. “You just had to go to that goddamned graduation didn’t you?” <br><br>There’s a long silence that follows John’s question, and it’s not until John grabs his son’s collar to force Dean to look at him that he even receives a response. Dean’s hand grasps at John’s, pushing the hand away from his jacket. “He didn’t even know I was there,” he replies to the question. <br><br>But that’s not what he takes issue with. <br><br>“But you’re wrong,” Dean says blandly. “I didn’t teach him to run away. You did that.” His expression sours. “I taught him to defend other people. I taught him he could be strong. I taught him not to be afraid--that he could do something about all the things that go bump in the night. I taught him to be independent because no one else was going to take care of him when sick. Because you weren’t there. You’ve never been there.” Dean’s throat clears, “I’ve been waiting. Virtually sixteen years I’ve been waiting for you to show up. And because you didn’t, I did. Sammy needed someone to raise him. So yeah, I did it.” <br><br>And in a second, John’s fists do the talking. Dean lays creamed on the floor with a hand pressed to his jaw. His eyes close and he lays there a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I’m heading East,” he finally says. “There’s a pack of werewolves terrorizing Jersey. Seem to have taken up residence as an organized crime… thing.” <br><br>“I thought we’d intended to head West… we’ve got yellow eyes on the run--” John counters. <br><br>Dean peels himself from the floor. “I think it’s time I do some on my own. I’m an adult. I got a truck I fixed at the garage,” that he’s been working at for months, “think it’s good to go.” He shrugs and then catches the glint in his father’s eyes. “Look. I know you’ll still be off doing solo jobs. I may as well do the same. I don’t have to keep Sam in school anymore, so we can double our efforts by splitting up. I know you need to go after yellow eyes, but I need to become good at this alone,” it’s something he’s never done before. He brings himself back to a stand and tugs the bag over his shoulder again. <br><br>John stares at Dean a few moments. At least one son has stuck to the course. And for the first time in a long time, something shifts. For a moment the disappointment seems to disappear. “You should take the Impala.” He tosses the keys at Dean. He may as well have said he’s proud of his son. That’s what it feels like. <br><br>And for a moment Dean feels like his brain will implode. He’d spent years doing everything he could to get this man’s attention. He took care of his brother, patched his father, and filled his mother’s role of trying to keep the family together. But this earns pride--something that will fuel him long-term. <br><br>Shock causes Dean’s lips to part. But he doesn’t object. He just nods. His throat clears and he walks towards the door, still holding his jaw. But before he walks through the door, he offers, “See you at the Roadhouse?” <br><br>John nods. “Or on the road.” <br><br>Dean nods again before striding through the door. <br><br>It was the first time he’d recognized it: his father was proud of his loneliness. <br><br>While he’d never been forthcoming, in that moment, he learned that being a man means being an island. <br><br>//Present// <br><br>He doesn’t offer further explanation on what he means. He’s shut down once already. And when he puts his mind to it, he can be painfully vague. <br><br>But the notion of Sam getting off the juice earns some measure of approval. And it does seem to allay some of the more challenging feelings Dean is struggling against. “Good,” he says darkly. He knows more than he aims to let on. He spent days listening to Alistair discuss things he could scarcely understand. And in processing those thoughts, he’s come to some conclusions. <br><br>His jaw tightens. And then something else kicks in. His eyebrows lift and he levels a look at Sam. “You’re not a monster.” And there it is. Plain and simple. “You’re my brother and I--” sentiment has never been his strong suit. He was better when they were younger. Before he was given the Impala. Before John made it clear he regarded independence as more important than family. <br><br>“I love you.” He doesn’t say it enough. He knows he doesn’t. Sam said his needs. And so Dean mirrors that with one of his own, but only one: “I need you to be okay. With or without me,” because he’s still preparing Sammy for a life without him. <br><br>And then, finally having said that, his shoulders slump with defeat. Something washes over him. It’s not the secret that anyone expects to loose, but, “Dad knew all along. Where I was.” And then, as if it needs saying, he adds in a deadpanned tone, “I would never do that to you. Or him. Or a stranger. Or my worst human enemy.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“I love you too.” <br><br>It’s so simple for Sammy to fold Dean into his arms. He comes forward and does. He’s so big now, and for a moment he wants nothing more than to use all that size and power to shelter Dean from the world. Dean may not like /Lifetime/ movie moments (which is such a lie, Sam has caught him enjoying that shit more than once), but Sam is unrestrained in his emotion, and /he/ needs to hug his brother even if his brother is going to pretend not to care. <br><br>Being told he’s not a monster is nice. Helpful. He needs to hear it. Dean needs him to be okay with or without him. “And if you’re really going to die, I need the time you have left,” he says. <br><br>But when he learns about John, the cold rage on his face is palpable. It washes through him like a tidal wave. He pulls back from Dean, still holding his shoulders. His eyes go pitch black once more. He’s looking a little peaked, a little pale, but there’s enough demonic blood in his system to instantly offer this marker of his absolute fury. <br><br>“That son of a bitch,” Sam hisses. His fingers tighten on Dean’s shoulders, clutching at him until he realizes he might well be hurting his brother. His nostrils have flared, and his cheekbones stand out in stark relief as his mouth flattens. It is safe to say Dean has /never/ seen Sam this pissed in his life. <br><br>All in an instant, he knows precisely how he’s going to save Dean’s life. <br><br>And then: “This bullshit. About ties? That was /his/ bullshit. That man who led me on a /fucking snipe hunt/ on a year. Looking back, I see it now.” Sam’s teeth are gritted. “That monster fouled up my trail. I could have had you out of there--” <br><br>His rage needs somewhere to go. He turns from Dean and flings the ottoman against the wall with his will. It shatters in a flurry of springs and wood. He just has to destroy something. He has to. He’ll go crazy if this anger doesn’t get to go somewhere. In so doing, he burns even more of his reserves. A headache, a dull and distant migraine throb, begins in his left temple. He ignores it. <br><br>“Dean,” he says, chest heaving, voice shaking. “You have got to stop holding yourself to standards set by that man. He abused you. Then he betrayed you. Everything he ever taught us is garbage. Not the techniques, but the attitudes. /You/ were the one who brought some nobility to this. /You/ made it about saving people. Okay? Everything good about Hunting came from /you/.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>He shouldn’t have said it. The moment it loosens, Dean regrets it. Sam’s fury far outweighs his own. When it had happened, he knew it would. He knew he shouldn’t tell his brother. Weirdly, it seemed important when he said it. He needed Sam to know that those three words--/I love you/--meant something different to him than they ever did to John. <br><br>It meant making deals with Hell to rescue his brother from its depths. It meant renegotiating that and becoming Crowley’s bitch in a bid to last longer to help Sam. It meant bending over backwards to protect his baby brother at every turn. <br><br>Love isn’t just a word. It’s an action. And while Dean doesn’t say it nearly enough, he lives it. Day in, day out. He lives all of it. <br><br>The ache in his shoulders as Sam clutches them doesn’t ease. He’s had the demon treatment. And the pressure doesn’t help. Worry tugs at his eyes and lips when Sam throws the ottoman across the room. His throat begins to close up. Sam need shim. He knows Sam needs him. <br><br>/That bullshit about the ties is his bullshit/. Dean’s lips twitch. He blinks hard. “It’s not.” For the first time Dean really gets it. “There are rooms full of people who were on Alistair’s radar because of /me/. Because he had access to every memory and thought I’ve ever had. Because he knew where the demon traps were because I’d helped build them. Because he knew what I did and didn’t care about. Because he knew the people on my radar who would hurt you the most.” He emits a mirthless laugh. “The people who would hurt me the most.” <br><br>His lips purse. “He didn’t take Fred because it didn’t suit his plans. He didn’t take Jo or May because he felt he could get to them another way. He saw my hand and played it with style. And now he knows it. All of it.” He taps his temple. “Sam, my thoughts aren’t my own anymore. I don’t own them. Someone else literally stole them. Looked at all of them and saw what would rattle out.” <br><br>The mention of John abusing him makes his mouth dry. John punched him. He didn’t even try to defend himself. His chin drops towards his chest. “I’m not noble. I’m not out for revenge like he is, but I’m not noble.” What he did for Crowley makes his stomach sick. “But I would do anything for you. And all of Hell knows it. Lie, cheat, steal, kill, whore. I’d do it all.” Crowley called his card. “And most of it I’d do for them.” His eyes flit towards the window. <br><br>“I don’t think it makes me noble.” He turns his gaze back to Sam. “I’m pretty sure it means Dad won. I’d lose everything I am to this life. Hell, I don’t even know if I am anything more than this life.” It’s a rare moment of honesty. “He tried to convince me that you leaving was some kind of personal insult or hatred. I almost believed it.” <br><br>He manages a vague smile. “Do you know the first time I got it? The first time I understood why you wanted something more than this life?” His lips quirk into a tighter smile. “It was the night you died. Because even at sixteen, I knew you were the only thing keeping me sane. Grounded. Happy. Dad probably wouldn't even have noticed.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam looks down. He still has a nagging feeling that he ruins Dean’s life more than he helps it, but Dean has a very different take. He swallows back tears, one hand still on one of Dean’s shoulders, though not squeezing. <br><br>Two ways to look at everything. Monster or man. Heretic or hero. Dean’s burden, or Dean’s brother and best friend. He decides, at least, to believe Dean’s interpretation on two of those things. He is Dean’s brother, and he is a man. <br><br>Jury’s still out on heretic. “There are plenty of dark deeds I’d do for you too,” he says. There are plenty of dark deeds he intends to do for Dean, as soon as he can. “And for them. It’s a dark business. But at the core of it, we help people. We’ve helped a lot of people. And that’s what /I/ lost sight of.” <br><br>When he raises his head his eyes are the right color again. And he’s speaking now like a much older man. There is, in Sam, the shape of someone who can lead others. He can project gentle, total confidence. He can be a rock. It’s still a fledgling thing. Still something he hasn’t even fully realized about himself. He’s found it in himself mostly for Fred. A few times in front of others. <br><br>Dean needs to know he’s going to be okay. Dean needs a partner, not a baby to take care of. And Dean needs to know he’s still needed. Turns out these things aren’t really mutually exclusive. <br><br>“Listen to me,” he says, and there’s utter certainty in his words. “We’re not going to let anyone back in your head. That’s why you need the tattoo. To stop that. And why I’m definitely not going to take no for an answer on being right there while you get it.” <br><br>A tight, grim, cynical little half-smile creases his face. No humor in it. Just darkness. “I’ve been researching the runes on the knife. I think it would send a lesser demon to oblivion with one strike. That means they can be killed for good. Alistair is going down. You mark me.” <br><br>Another pause. “Meanwhile, there are still things waiting back in New York. The sorcerer who got me addicted in the first place, Volkov. He’s still alive. We’ve still got a hydra to kill. We can’t protect any of these people by shutting them out, Dean. We can’t protect each other by shutting each other out. We can only do that by being there.” <br><br>A sudden smile. <br><br>“So let’s stick together. Let’s kill some evil sons of bitches and raise a little hell.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s eyebrows lift. He watches Sam with intent and he can feel his jaw tighten at the notion of getting a tattoo. “Dude,” the word itself is pained. He can relent on its necessity. He can relent to its importance. He swears he can still feel Alistair in his mind--even with the demon long-gone. He knows. But he knows other things too. And so he settles on a few carefully chosen words, “I don’t know that I can.” <br><br>He cringes. “I don’t… I don’t think you get it.” It’s irrational. Wholly irrational. He knows it is. But decades later, he has the same fear he did when he had to receive his first booster without Mary. The memory has hung on. He couldn’t even hum Hey Jude to himself when it happened. He’d ended up with more than a vaccine. It wasn’t the last time he got backhanded. But it was the only time he really let himself cry about it. <br><br>“I was put on a plane.” There’s a pause. His eyes widen, “//Baby// was probably put on a plane. A fucking plane! Those things are death traps, Sam! You get in one you are letting your life into someone else’s hands!” <br><br>The notion of raising hell earns Sam a tight smile. Still guarded. Still measured. “Things aren’t fixed in Virginia yet. There’s a lot more to be done.” There’s a long pause that follows. “When Hydra had you? I was stuck. In Virginia,” in prison. <br><br>“Alistair… Lilith,” yeah, he knows names, “Azazel… they’re up to something. And I think it’ll spread.” His expression edges on grim. “It’s big. Whatever it is.” <br><br>He runs a hand through his hair. “I asked Jo to come along,” whatever that means. He levels a look at Sam. “Look, she’s not my girlfriend. I have no business--” his hands lift in defeat. This is not a question he aims to answer, but Sam had mentioned girlfriends. “But she’s along for the ride.” Whatever that means. Everything in Dean’s life is fluid. “Just… no reason to make assumptions there.”<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Needles and planes. Well. Sam is afraid of clowns, so he can’t talk. <br><br>“Ok,” he soothes, conceding to this first: “She’s not your girlfriend.” <br><br>Now what to tackle next? Sam looks sober as he listens to this parade of names. He shivers. Lilith had visited him only once in Hell. She’d asked if he wanted to be her boyfriend, waved looseleaf paper in front of his face, and asked him to check yes or no. And then she’d cackled like a loon. It had scared him almost as much as everything Alistair had done. He sweats a little now, thinking of it. <br><br>“We’re not going to abandon any of it,” he says firmly. “We can drive anywhere in the nation in 48 hours or less, you know that. Even New York to California is only 42 hours straight shot.” Takes more if you stop to sleep, of course, and there’s eating, and other necessaries which probably makes that trip more like 72 hours at its most sane, but the straight drive time is what it is. And child of the road that Sammy is, he has drive times pretty well memorized by time zone, east-west and north-south. Five hours from Houston to Shreveport. 24 hours from Dallas to Detroit. Four hours from Detroit to Chicago. Six hours from Chicago to St. Louis. He can rattle them all off. He learned drive times and road signs before he learned some basic kindergarten skills. <br><br>Finally, this: “It doesn’t look or feel like a needle, Dean. You’ve already faced the IV, yeah? It feels like a little series of firm thumps against your skin. I tell you what. Before we go, you can have a few beers, loosen up a little bit, and then after, I will buy you a whole pie, and won’t say a word if you eat the whole thing.” <br><br>Bribes. They are a totally legit mothering tool. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>There are few times in life Dean retreats into his more juvenile self. He’s had to be an adult long before he hit adulthood. But the mention of the tattoo has him retreating to that place. Like a petulant child, his bottom lip extends. “Ehn,” he’s not sold. Even the bribery isn’t working as well as it usually would. He really doesn’t like needles. “Beer and burger first.” Pause. “No, wait, whiskey. Shots. I don’t remember the last time we had shots together…” <br><br>It’s possible it’s been literal years before at least one of them was legal. <br><br>“And a burger. With bacon. And cheese.” Pause. “And a fried egg over top.” He missed eating. A lot. <br><br>But he catches, and addresses, Sam’s shiver. Kind of. “So.” His throat clears. And then silence falls over him. For a few beats he watches Sam thoughtfully. His lips purse lightly. “I know you’re trying to get me out of my deal,” it’s a nice way to start. “But I need you to know I don’t have regrets about it.” He looks pointedly at Sam. “At all.” His eyebrows draw together. “And… I know what I’m getting into.” <br><br>His eyes actually roll now. There’s more to say. So much more. “When I was… gone,” it’s a kinder word than tortured, “for a year, I died. More than once.” Although he can’t be sure how many times. “I don’t know why Crowley brought me back, but I do know what it sounded like there. I also know I don’t belong to Alistair. Crowley is a son of a bitch. But some are worse than others.” There. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Shots, burger, bacon, cheese. Pie after, done.” And with that, Sam spits on his palm and offers his hand. Agreement made, accord done. The whole tattoo party plan is happening, cause really, /none/ of these people are going home without one. If he has to spend his whole paycheck and use his last two fake credit cards, this is happening. And he can probably expense it all. Ha! There are some benefits. But the shots and burgers will be just them. They need it. They deserve it. <br><br>“While there’s something to be said for winding up in the same place together after death,” Sam says grimly, “I cannot live my life knowing you’re there. You heard. I lived. And I remember it all now, Dean. It’s not happening. Someone would have to be a real monster for me to wish that on anyone.” <br><br>Fortunately, he knows one of those. Fucker. <br><br>“I--” <br><br>How to even talk about this? “The fact that you did that for me--It’s the bravest goddamn thing I can think of. It makes me wish I’d--been a better brother.” At every turn. “I wish I’d been more careful. If I hadn’t been such a dumbass on that hunt…” <br><br>Dean absolves him, but he still feels it in his gut, the guilt that he died, that /he/ forced Dean’s hand, that Dean has been through 9 years of torment for /him/. And /he/ fell for John’s tricks, /he/ didn’t see through them, /he/ didn’t rescue his brother. Who without a doubt suffered longer than he ever did. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A wry smile follows Sam’s action and Dean mirrors it in an instant, spitting on his palm and extending it to take his brother’s hand. Some things are sacred. Like pacts between brothers. “Deal.” His smile extends. They both know he never would’ve got a tattoo if it weren’t for Sam’s insistence. It’s not in him. He’d rather die of polio than be pricked by a needle. <br><br>Dean’s eyes lid when Sam confesses he remembers it all. “Crowley took that from you. As a bonus.” A long pause follows. “If it’s something you’d rather lose…” he rakes his fingers through his hair. He might be able to arrange it. He feels dirty all over again and longs for a shower. Like after he’d seduced that young woman. His stomach churns. <br><br>His face feels hot when Sam calls him brave. His eyes settle on the floor. “Sammy it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t brave. It was right. When your twelve year old brother is sent to Hell, and you can do something about it, you do.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I told Dad,” finally. “He didn’t care,” Dean actually laughs at that. Like it matters. “It was dumb of me to ever think that would be the case.” <br><br>Sam’s thoughts on the hunt though warrant a crease of Dean’s forehead. “We were both dumbasses,” he states too honestly. But he actually laughs. “I thought breaking the windows of the house would make me feel better. It just invited Crowley’s mockery.” He laughs again. “He calls you Moose.” He looks pointedly at Sam. “And I’m Squirrel.” His hands lift as if to say /that’s Crowley/. “He’s a son of a bitch, but he tried to stop Alistair. The knife was his. Alistair was just… stronger.” <br><br>His lips press together tightly and he hmms. “They didn’t like each other. At all from what I could tell.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“No,” Sam says firmly. “Getting the memory back kind of sucked. I only need to go through that once. No guarantee wiping it again would help.” <br><br>He looks unsurprised that John didn’t care. He simply gives a thin-lipped shake of his head. It sparks the rage that’s still stoked there, stirs the embers in those hot coals burning inside his belly. <br><br>“Politics in Hell,” Sam muses, half-shaking his head. “Who’d have thought.” He didn’t really hear anything useful to this during his time there. He’d just died, and had been sent to the first realm of Hell to snatch him up. With nobody having any specific claim on his soul, the most powerful demons there got him. <br><br>He banishes the cold, dark, creepy feelings inside of him. The sensation that someone is looming over his shoulder. The memory of agony. He’d go back to a Hydra prison any day. He supposes he has some time to figure out a strategy for fighting his way up the hierarchy and earning himself some sort of a reprieve the next time he’s sent. He’s not 12 anymore, and he’s got more advance warning than any human should. <br><br>If he’s got to be damned, he intends to make Hell feel like /they/ are trapped with /him/. <br><br>It all flickers across his face: the terror and the determination all at once, before he fishes Dean’s clothing out of a nearby drawer, handing them off to him. “Come on. We can be out that window and down to the local burger bar before anyone knows we’re gone.” That, first, then he’ll check on Fred and Mr. and Mrs. Burkle, and Bobby, and -- no, best leave Jo to her Not Boyfriend. And then he will round them all up for the tattoo party of the century. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah,” Dean agrees about the politics. “They were arguing about these groups. And who Lucifer aligns with,” his eyebrows draw together sharply. “Like kids fighting over who’s Daddy’s favourite. It was… something else.” He shudders. He won’t think anymore about it. About what Alistair did with this body. What he saw Alistair do with it. <br><br>He looks at the clothes and rolls his eyes. He’d worn them too long. “Baby really is stashed at SHIELD somewhere?” because he has a change in the car. “I have my favourite shirt in the car,” the one he’d been wearing when they went on that hunt in June. Before everything turned to madness. “I love that shirt.” He’s personally offended that it’s off in some SHIELD facility. “I should get more like it.” <br><br>“You know I’m going to have to go over it with a fine-toothed comb. I don’t need those suits being able to track us that easy.” There’s a pause as he casts Sam a strange look. “Me, I mean. /Me/ that easily.” Because Sam works for them. Kind of. <br><br>And as he begins to change, he’s humming again. Hey Jude. Absently at first. And then, realizing he’s doing it, his head shakes, his eyebrows lift, and his eyes widen. /That’s John’s bullshit./ <br><br>“Mom used to sing it to us,” he finally relents. Evidently honesty begets more honesty. “All the time. She hated lullabies. She loved the Beatles.” His lips twitch into a bittersweet line. “And she loved you.” Another pause follows the words. “I know he put a lot on you. You didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve that.” He inhales a long breath. “But she protected you. And… I would’ve done the same. In a heartbeat. Still.” <br><br>He shrugs and goes back to changing. Putting on his SHIELD issued clothes like putting on armour. Suit up. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>No comment on Baby or shirts. Grumble Dean gotta grumble. After a certain point what you do is you give a wry half smile and you don’t address it. Otherwise you just start dumb arguments really. That’s what he does now. Yep. Favorite shirt. Baby. <br><br>Then...Mom. <br><br>Sam looks down. <br><br>If he’s internalized anything, it’s the idea that his mother’s death was his fault. It was a story that was told to him almost before he could talk. It was the top film on the marquee for every one of John’s drunken rages. If he’d never been born, Mary would still be here. He’s heard it so many times he has never even stopped to examine it. <br><br>But that’s John’s bullshit. <br><br>He exhales. “We’re going to buy so many Beatles cassettes,” he says. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The mention of the cassettes earns Sam a lopsided grin. Boyish. Dimpled. Downright pleased. It’s short-lived but it’s present. “We can listen in the Impala. SHe used to play it way too loud.” While Dean had come to terms with John’s betrayal, he’s only begun absolving himself of John’s bullshit. And it’s weirdly liberating. <br><br>Talking. Singing the Beatles. Embracing his Mom. <br><br>“She wasn’t perfect,” he offers. “But she lived up to the moniker.” He doesn’t talk about her often. He can’t remember the last time he really let himself. It might’ve been the last time they drank shots. His eyes trace back to Sam and his head cants to the side. <br><br>“Burger. I’m so hungry. I haven’t had a burger in like… a week.” Or anything besides sugar water and the toast he forced down his throat that came back up.<br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Take it slow or you’ll end up vomiting everything back--” Then Sam smiles, dimples on his own face, and he throws his arm around Dean. <br><br>“Whatever, you’re Iron Man. Or at least Iron Stomach. Come on.” <br><br>It’s a good thing this is a one story facility. And with that, he opens the window, flashes the V sign at the exterior camera, aaaand finds a SHIELD vehicle to hotwire. What? He’s an agent, it’s fine. <br><br>You can put the Winchester in SHIELD but good luck putting a lot of SHIELD into the Winchester. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Pfffft,” Dean replies so eloquently. “If man wasn’t meant to eat meat he wouldn’t have given us canines.” He points at his teeth. “Like vampires. They only got those chompers to eat people.” Speaking of eating people, “Same reason I don’t trust vegetarian vamps. Teeth weren’t designed for that.” <br><br>He climbs out the window, saluting at the camera as he lingers in the frame. With another flash of teeth he finishes crawling through it. “Dude. Agent Mom found me before--” he shrugs. Whatever. “They have crazy tracking skills. That’s all I’m saying.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah, I think they run facial recognition software on every traffic camera or something. They don’t even really need tracking devices.” <br><br>He gets the car hotwired and just programs the GPS to the nearest sports bar, a place where they can get both burgers and shots. This is an important mission here. <br><br>At least SHIELD is used to folks like this. They have some colorful personalities. Not that Sam knows that. He just wants to feel...like himself. And he wants Dean to feel like Dean. And stealing an SUV with a giant eagle on the side seems like a great way to do that. Well. Borrowing. He will return it. He’ll even top off the tank before he does. And if it ought to have a push button and a chip key, well, that’s the thing about government spending. It doesn’t always lead to the best equipment, and this thing has a bit of an older set-up. <br><br>There is totally a tracking device on this car of course, but. Likely it will also feed into the GPS and just see that they’re just making a food run. <br><br>“If anyone asks I’m practicing my skills for training purposes,” Sam says, a mischievous grin flitting right over his face. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah. But I’m pretty sure they won’t believe me, Bonnie,” Dean returns as his eyes narrow. A glance is given Sam a moment. He studies his brother. His head cants to the side as if decided something. “I’ll drive.” And then, with a wry smirk, “Probably lose cool points for being near this thing. Besides theft. Theft wins points.” <br><br>He frowns slightly. “These people better not have douched up my wheels,” his eyes scan each of the controls and some of the fancier features of the car. “Seriously. This thing is a douche magnet for people that don’t have to think about fighting. They just press a button and the machine can do it for them.” <br><br>His head shakes slightly and he puts the SUV into drive. “So. I have no idea where we are…” but he does know how to find a highway. He also knows how to speed. A lot. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam just shakes his head with a slight smile when Dean insists on driving. It never fails. He just takes the customary passenger seat. He doesn’t mind it there. It’s familiar. He doesn’t object to being called Bonnie either. Pretty common. And he doesn’t object to the speeding. This is Dean regaining control in the best possible way, really. <br><br>“The map’s right there on the dash,” he points out dryly. “I know it’s a little high-tech for your Luddite soul. It will read the directions and everything. We are in north South Dakota, for those following along in the home audience.” <br><br>Of course, Dean might count dashboard GPS displays as evidence of douchery. <br><br>Despite him getting all sassy, there’s a hint of a smile. Everything may not be okay in the broader scheme of things. It might not all be okay at the facility they’ve just left behind. But it’s okay right /now/ in this /car/, and that’s something. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Frigging oxymoron, ‘north South Dakota,’” Dean repeats as his foot steps on the gas. He beams. He’s like a kid in a candy store. No, it’s not a fantastic ride, but driving makes him feel alive. It always has. <br><br>“Nothing about all of this,” he lifts a finger and points at each of the gadgets glowing on the gas, “makes the car /better/. Remember that. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.” For a twenty-something he remains a purist about cars. “It just makes the driver and designer look like douchebags. Like they can’t read a map,” his head turns for a second to catch Sam’s eye. “Like they don’t know how to actually /drive the car/.” <br><br>His eyebrows lift to punctuate the point. He does, however, shrug slightly as he proceeds to open all the windows. Power windows are a nice perk. Especially when wanting to drive fast down a highway. <br><br>He eyes a button at the centre dash and presses it. The roof begins to retract. It’s likely designed for tactical purposes. But that wins another flicker of a smile as Dean presses harder on the gas. <br><br>The wind resistance is immense. But it also seems to breed delight. He glances at the GPS. “You know where a pub is? Unless SHIELD is a lot cooler than I think it is, it’s probably not programmed in--” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Well, people who /know how to use technology/,” Sam says with some amusement, “Know that every GPS device comes equipped with an automatic search-engine tie in, so I just typed in what I wanted and it found the nearest one. So the answer is yes, I sure do know where a pub is, and you’re going to want to make a right turn at Junction 314.” <br><br>This is good. His long hair starts whipping around his face, and he just grins until his cheeks hurt. <br><br>This is.../them/. This is exactly them. The road. The wind. The bickering. <br><br>He smirks, and gives his brother a long gaze, and says, “Through the wonders of technology I bring you…” <br><br>This thing has Sirius XM Satellite Radio. He considers grabbing the Beatles. But it’s the wrong mood for that now. They’ve done the serious, the heavy, the intense. Later they will buy all the Beatles, but he thinks there will no doubt be some intense emotions in the car. And...he thinks they’ll want to be in the Impala for that. Weirdly, he thinks: /Mom will want to join us -there-./ <br><br>Maybe not so weirdly. <br><br>So he just switches to classic rock. Creedence Clearwater Revival booms over expensive SHIELD-themed speakers. Because the secret organization loves its branding. And...he sings, which he rarely does, hamming it up for his brother a little, because being the goofy, funny baby brother who can lighten the mood is part of his /job/ (thus why he tried it, first and foremost, with one Bucky Barnes). It occurs to him they probably could have even of taken /his/ car, but he’s not sure if it’s not locked up in a Quinjet or something. <br><br>“Some folks are born, maaaaaaaade to wave the flag…” <br><br>//SHIELD Control Room// <br><br>A technician looks up from his headset with alarm. “Er. Agent Takana? Should we…?” <br><br>The other agent reaches over and turns up the volume so they can listen too, shrugging. “I think Agent May would tell us to let it ride, Agent West. Just let it ride.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s lips edge upwards into an easier smile. He’s relaxing. He’s feeling like himself. He cracks up as Sam begins to sing, and at the top of his lungs, over the noise of the wind, he joins, “Ooooooooh, they’re red, white, and blue!” His cheeks hurt because he’s smiling so broadly. They stiffen. He aches. But it feels good. He hasn’t smiled like this in months. He knows he hasn’t. <br><br>It’s a simple fact. He wonders how long it’s been since Sammy felt like this. He feels normal. <br><br>Like it’s five years ago, and Sam never left for school. The days leading up had been torment. But before that? Before they’d made it to Kilgore--the place of their parting--that had been almost perfect to him. <br><br>And in this moment it feels much the same. <br><br>He flashes another smile to Sam. <br><br>He has what he needs. His brother and the road. <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Third_Option&diff=1576Third Option2017-09-19T02:27:07Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/13<br />
|Location=Sioux Falls, South Dakota<br />
|Synopsis=After receiving word of Dean's possession, a team goes out of their way to get White Eyes out of the Elder Winchester's body. Things don't go as planned.<br />
|Thanks=Dean Winchester<br />
|Cast of Characters=Dean Winchester, 1379, Winifred Burkle, Sam Winchester, 5<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The road gifted more than tortured time. The drive from Hell’s Kitchen to rural South Dakota was long, but thanks to Alistair’s actions against the Impala, it also provided Sam and Fred two allies along the way. The black Impala on the side of the road was unmistakable. It had garnered attention immediately, and both May and Jo joined the foray. <br><br>While discussion had been short thanks to not really knowing what they’re getting into, the details seemed to align. Something had Dean. It occupied his body with its flat-white eyes and sadistic smile. Whoever it is has little regard for kindness and, presumably, roughed him up before choosing to take up residence. <br><br>It also became clear that the creature’s machinations had some intent. Those encountering demons regularly know full-well they ride their vessels hard. But many just seemed to want power. Something about this particular demon seemed different--purposive, even. <br><br>But after those details had been exchanged, there was little else to say. It was hard to plan without knowing what they faced… <br><br>Hours passed before they saw its first indication. Any who’d visited Bobby in South Dakota before would know the oddity of the prairie’s big open skies. Today, however, the sky itself dreads whatever will happen here. A swirl of grey, orange, pink, and red calls upwards in an incredibly odd storm. No rain falls. No wind blows. Yet the sky swirls in impossibility overhead. <br><br>Driving down the rural range road kicks up dust as the car moves, but something else hits hard against the car with each passing moment. The faint clunk of something meeting metal presents at a strange pace. Random enough not to be something wrong with the car, but loud enough to know that outside they’re hitting something.. Or something is hitting them. <br><br>The number of them grows as does the sound. The barrage of brown-green bugs--locusts that have presumably infested the area--pushes against the windshield. And should the driver just continue on their course, they pass the warning as quickly as they’d come to it, producing a house in the distance. <br><br>If they didn’t know better, a passerby would assume the people outside are enjoying a barbeque, a true wonder with skies like these. They see five figures for certain. It’s impossible to know if there’s more kicking around. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's a quiet Jo Harvelle who huddles on the back seat of the Impala. She's worried about Dean, and about Sam (given what Dean had told her before), and trying not to show it. She's failing - not badly but enough. <br><br>The swarm of locusts has the blonde leaning forward, against the seat belt, and peering out the window. "If I was more devout than I am, I'd probably be able to quote a bible verse or two." She mutters, eyes narrowing as she takes the upcoming house in. "Well they probably ain't Riders, given there's five of them but they're likely trouble all the same." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s been hours on the road from New York City to here for Fred and Sam. The time have been tense, with bursts of conversation and planning and then anxious silence. They know only some of what awaits them at Bobby’s house. The demon’s purpose and what he’s done with Bobby is still a mystery. At least they now know that May and Jo are alright, despite the unmoveable Impala on the side of the road. <br><br>Acquiring two more allies as well as the sleepy bomb from Fred’s stash that she left in the car from the Crossroads fight is certainly a boon in her opinion. <br><br>Fred is not one of the people who have visited Bobby before. Or South Dakota, even. However, she makes an educated guess that they’re getting close when locusts start to hit against the car and windshield. Behind the wheel, the physicist slows but does not stop the car. She’s not as skilled a driver as Sam is, but she manages to push them through the almost biblical plague intact. “It’s not a Bible verse, but I’m starting to think the most appropriate one is, ‘When Moses was in Egypt’s Land, ‘Let my people go.’’ ‘Course the last part is actually a Bible verse, so that’s really a twofor. Either way, that wasn’t pleasant and doesn’t really much bode well for what else he can do. Last thing we want are boils. Or frogs. I didn’t even like dissecting them in class. Locusts were at the end of the plagues, yeah? After that came darkness?” It’s been a little while since Fred rambled quite like this. It’s either a testament to leaving the Winchester apartment or how close they are to the anticipated showdown. <br><br>Once through the bugs, the slowing of the car turns into a stop. She scans the five figures in the distance. “They’re probably expecting us from the front. Buncha places to hide, for them and us.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The road always brings gifts. <br><br>It’s a distant thought that Sam had experienced when he’d spotted that Impala and had asked Fred to stop the car. <br><br>But hearing the demon had white eyes had cast him into a pensive silence, folded him up in the front passenger’s seat with his hand over his eyes. He conducts his grapple with despair in silence. He’d passed out two more anti-possession necklaces prior to slipping off into this dark inner world. <br><br>But when the first locust hits the windshield he sits up with narrowed eyes. Fred’s observation casts him into Professional Mode, and it’s as if he had never had a doubt in his life. Because now that he can see some of what they’re up against, a plan is starting to present itself. <br><br>“Park there,” he says, tense, pointing to an old open barn off the side of the road. “The property’s up ahead. Park before they can see us.” <br><br>Then the young man half turns around to look at May and Jo. <br><br>The oddity of Sam’s upbringing has had a profound effect on him. Sometimes his youth is obvious: he is uncertain and hopeful all at once. Sometimes, he is twice or even three times as old behind the eyes as he really is. Now he looks ancient, someone who has gone beyond “seen too much”, gone beyond “experienced too much.” He hasn’t stared into the Abyss; he’s sat in the passenger’s seat of a classic car while other men drove straight through it. Or, in this case, a woman, through a cloud of locusts. <br><br>That weight is in his eyes now. They’re flat, hazel reflecting mostly the color green today, emotion pushed far from him. At the least, the matte black the irises (though not the sclera) have been known to display in response to anger lately is missing. <br><br>“White-eyes doesn’t know you three are coming. He only knows for sure that I am.” <br><br>He removes a salt shotgun from beneath his feet. Cocks it. Loads it. “So. I go in obvious. You ladies go in stealth. Attack when the time seems right. I imagine it will want to talk to me before the violence starts. Agent May will know the right moment.” <br><br>It’s Agent May’s eyes he looks into now, because he knows several things. He knows Fred and Jo will hate this plan. He also knows it’s probably their only chance. He knows May will get that. He knows that she’ll get them out of there if she has to. There are senior agents who have never displayed the kind of grim, knowing bleakness that sits in his eyes now. He’s counting on her to make the hard calls and to make these two women her priority if it comes to that. And to lead them to some sort of successful conclusion, if she can. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Being stranded on the side of the highway with all dead electronics and a stalled out Impala and a MISSING DEAN does not a happy May make. She’d been fully prepared to leave Jo with the car and walk to the nearest phone, but that’s about when Sam and Fred pull up. Her first words to the pair are to demand Sam’s cell phone, and then she spends the next several minutes talking with someone in SHIELD as they transfer whatever they need from the Impala’s trunk to Fred’s car and get underway again. <br><br>“Sam, Another senior agent is going to see that the Impala is returned to New York and any damages are repaired. He’s taken care of her for Dean before.” And, Sam might have seen Lola in passing. <br><br>Upon reaching the city with an airport, May directs them toward it, where she meets up with the SHIELD personnel waiting there beside a quinjet. There’s body armor and comms and gear for everyone as well as replacement electronics for May, and despite it being a VERY close fit, Fred’s car is loaded into the jet and they’re underway again with May doing the piloting. <br><br>The atmospheric situation forces them to land several miles away from their target location and drive the rest of the way. The locusts have May muttering something in Cantonese, and then Sam lays out the plan. Her reply is to simply nod and then look at Fred and Jo. Both have seen her at work before, though under completely different situations. This should be interesting. <br><br>May can’t help but wish a sniper had been available to join them. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s fortunate they park away from the house as it enables them the element of surprise--at least to some extent. The figures outside don’t seem to have taken notice. Not yet, anyways. While the heroes plan some distance away, the house-posse lingers watching the front road. The people on the lawn almost look familiar. But it’s hard to really notice from this distance. <br><br>Make no mistake, it’s a trap of their making. <br><br>A few beats pass and when everyone looks away for a second--only to look back moments later--and another figure in a camo-green jacket joins them. Near silence comes over the people while eyes turn up to the sky. <br><br>And in a single second, the swirling sky stills. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>“Sounds more like a musical to me…” Jo’s snark comes out when she’s worried and poor Fred, who’s just met the blonde, gets the full force of it. “... sorry… I’m just … worried.” She falls silent as the car pulls up and just stares at Sams STUPID plan. <br><br>Damn Winchesters and their stupid plans. <br><br>Yet she can’t think of a better one. Not at all. “I ain’t no lady …” it’s the best she can do as she slips from the back of the car and pops the trunk. It’s a veritable treasure trove of weapons they’ve collected there. The Impala was certainly well stocked and combined with what the other other two had … they could go in loaded for bear. <br><br>Pity it’s //not// bear they’re hunting. That would be sooooo much easier. <br><br>Silently, blue eyes flicking to the figures at the house, Jo arms herself. Salt loaded rounds, holy water, silver, iron. Whatever she can carry, she’ll take. As the sixth figure arrives and the sky literally starts opening, she shakes her head. <br><br>“Guess it’s now or never.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam is quite right in thinking Fred will hate his plan - it leaves him going in alone with a creature that can apparently summon swarms of locusts. Demon locusts. “No way.” Fred shakes her head. “I’m not letting you go in there alone. If that thing knows what Dean’s thinking, he knows I wouldn’t let you do this by yourself, I’ll go with you.” It’s not just her being leery of splitting up, it does make logical sense. Her eyes flick toward the SHIELD agent as she says this before they return to Sam. She knows how good May is, having seen her in action during Sam’s rescue, but she is also stubborn on this issue. <br><br>As they start to gather the weapons, Jo’s snark is met with an innocent blink from the brunette. “Actually, yeah, I think it’s a song,” she agrees, a bit guileless. The apology is given a confused nod. “It’s alright, me too.” Worried about Dean, worried about Sam, worried about all of them. <br><br>She makes sure she has some of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt as well as the sleepy-time bomb, passing out other items as needed. The stillness of the sky, when before it was agitated catches Fred’s attention. Much like the other figures, she looks up and then looks back to the yard to see the green jacketed figure now amongst the others. Dean. Or whatever it is that has possessed him. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>He’d nodded about Lola; he’d seen it. An impressive car. But too flashy. Cop magnet. <br><br>“Now or never is a song too,” Sam points out, distracted. Or maybe he’s just going ahead and trying to lighten the mood somewhat. It’s hard to tell. There’s a flash of a tired smile on his face, there and gone again. <br><br>/I ain’t gonna live forever. I just wanna live while I’m alive./ <br><br>Fred makes some sense too. His eyes close for just a moment. But he chose her because he saw an equal, and if she’s ready to step out and partner up and face this with him...well. He has no right to stop her, not when her comment makes tactical sense. He reaches out. Takes her hand. Squeezes once. <br><br>“Together, then,” he says softly. <br><br>They might die together. It might be the last time they are together, because he’s fairly sure what Fred’s destination will be, and he /knows/ what his will be already. <br><br>/But this world is shit. You carve out every last. Damned. Good moment. You. Can./ <br><br>Right now, there’s a little good in the feel of her softer, smaller hand in his broader, more calloused one. <br><br>“Good luck, you two.” This to Jo and Agent May. “And...thanks.” <br><br>And then he takes a deep breath. Steels his spine. Gets out of the car. He’ll wait for Fred. <br><br>And then, hand in hand with her still, if she’ll allow it...he takes what seems to be an endless walk towards the 6 demons he can see, shotgun aimed, for the moment, groundward in his unoccupied hand. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May can only nod as Fred insists on sticking with Sam and he agrees. She’s not in charge of this mission, so she’ll do what’s asked of her and not argue unless she thinks it’s a suicidally stupid idea. And, well, this WHOLE DAY has been suicidally stupid. So, really, it’s all the same anymore. <br><br>Wishing her blades had even a hint of usefulness against demons, she checks the rounds in the pistol in her hands again then looks at Jo. “Let’s go.” She plans to lead the blonde around to flank the demons. At the same time, she’s mentally reviewing other possibilities for getting these demons to leave HER agents the F* alone. <br><br>“How big can a devil’s trap be made?” she asks of the Hunter as they run. She’s now also contemplating the accuracy of, say, those red lasers that Iron Man uses from time to time. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Sam and Fred draw near, the people outside begin to come into focus. The first, with curly red hair, freckles, and a fit figure looks undeniably familiar to Sam. But from years past. If he watches her now-black eyes long enough he might draw some faint memory. When he’d known her, she’d been one of the odd kids in school. While twelve-year-old Sam was new to school, Ellie had been an outcast already. They’d saved her from the Backahasten nine years ago. Evidently she lived well into adulthood. To now be possessed here. Her forehead oozes blood as do her arms and legs. It’s a wonder whether she’s still alive and in her body at all. <br><br>Adjacent to her, the pale mulleted brunette man in the jean vest also has an air of familiarity. His jaw tightens and his eyes level at Sam and Fred in turn. The demon wearing the Roadhouse employee, Ash, stares blandly at the pair. Unlike his female comrade with the black eyes, he has a guise of being human. He’s not. But the guise is there. Ash’s hands are bloodied, bruised, and his shoulder has a strange angle. <br><br>Behind Ash, a pair familiar to Fred lingers. Their eyes follow the woman in particular as she walks by. The faces of her parents staring at her with open amusement eye Fred. She was right--she was expected. Her parents’ lips curve upwards with recognition as their eyes roll to black. Bruising lines her mother’s cheeks and her father’s clothes are soaked in blood.The Deanmon knew that Fred would come along. And it put Fred and her obvious loved ones on the radar. <br><br>And as they walk on, it becomes ever clearer, the Deanmon spent time rooting around through Dean’s thoughts and using each to make a very calculated move. While this demon may not have managed to take May and Jo, he had made other efforts to collect plenty of hostages by dressing his allies in them. Most put up a fight of some kind, but the result had been the same. Those that knew him were lulled into easy complacency while Dean made a trap for them. Swiftly. Easily. <br><br>Finally, adjacent to whoever wears Dean, a small girl. Her light blonde hair, fair almost-invisible eyebrows, and flat-white eyes stare blankly at the pair while her lips press into a thin line. It’s a stand-off. And even children are available to the masses. <br><br>And then there’s Dean. His lips quirk at Sam and Fred’s presence. His hands tuck into his pockets and he stares into Sam’s eyes, trying to make eye contact with the younger Winchester. His lips pull with pride as his teeth flash towards the pair. “Sammy,” the greeting has familiarity that this thing shouldn’t have. But then he has all of Dean’s memories, all of his feelings, and every nuance of the body at his disposal. Dean looks worse for wear. His skin is pale. His eyes, sunken and hollow. And his clothes have blood splatters across them. It’s hard to tell whether the blood is Dean’s or someone else’s but it remains. Dean Winchester is not in good shape--even worse than when Jo and May saw him last. <br><br>Inside the house a loud crash clatters loudly followed by a blood curdling scream. Dean shrugs his shoulders as if to ask //Whatcha gonna do?//. He lifts both of his hands and with a gentle move of his fingers aims to telekinetically throw Fred in one direction and Sam in the other. <br><br>Should anyone try to use electronics, they fail. Utterly and completely. The omens above and the opening in the sky has caused everything to short out. Entirely. There are no cell phone signals, no radio transmissions, and no satellite signals. <br><br>They are in a dead zone. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Thought it was from a musical, to be honest. Y'know the one the Donny Osmond as Joseph..." Jo shrugs at Fred. She might have watched it a time or two and she's deflecting her worry with dumb jokes. <br><br>That, or she simply hasn't eaten enough. That does that too. <br><br>"Be careful." Is all she mutters as the pair head off towards Deanmon and his crew. <br><br>"Soak your blades if you don' think it will negate anything that's been done to them already." The blonde hands over a flask of holy water. It's ... not much, but it's something right. Then they're at a run, skirting round the back of the house whilst Sam and Fred run distraction. <br><br>"How big? If we had the time, we could probably cover the yard and the house." she frowns at the Agent "What are you thinkin' though?" There's a copse of trees not far from the structure, it will obscure their approach, at least for the moment. <br><br>That is, if the demons don't sense their humanity. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Two white-eyed demons. A host of hostages important to them both. <br><br>They are utterly fucked. Even with May and Jo. Especially with May and Jo, who Sam is beginning to think will just be the other hostages taken one way or another today. The state of his brother breaks his heart, ramps up his desperation. <br><br>A shudder runs over him as the white-eyed demon in Dean greets him. His hand tightens on Fred’s hand until it might well hurt. He meets those eyes, then is flung hard into the nearest telephone pole. It bruises him, but that’s not what rips him apart next. <br><br>Because he met those eyes, and even as he staggers up to his feet, his own widen in recognition. Somewhere in his mind, a dam starts to crack. <br><br>“No…” <br><br>At first he doesn’t understand the source of his own mortal terror. But then a name comes to him. The dread he says it with, the sheer, crushing dread, ought to be enough to worry anyone. <br><br>“Alistair.” <br><br>As soon as he says the name the crack becomes a flood. As Alistair no doubt intended when he looked into Sam’s eyes, he breaks Crowley’s weaker memory manipulations easily. It’s like a very talented college basketball player made an incredible three point shot, only to be defeated with ease by an Olympian basketball player on the defense. <br><br>A flash before Sam’s eyes, a /flicker/… <br><br>And… <br><br>Stretched out on the rack, perceiving all as if he were in a body still. Limbs pulled unnaturally long and tight, hooks digging into his flesh, blood slicking them down, unable to move, unable to free himself. <br><br>Flicker. He’s in South Dakota. <br><br>“E--exorcizamus...t-te,” Sam stammers. Is it a serious effort at exorcism? Really? Here? Like this? Or is it a fearful prayer? <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Alistair leans over him, his smile a mockery of something loving as Sammy screams. Something in his hand. The boy has lost track of it. The demon just peeled a layer of skin off of his arm, shoulder to wrist. He holds it up for Sam to see. It’s soulstuff, not skin, Sam understands this, but it feels like skin, looks like skin, is gruesome and bloody like skin. Only if someone had done that to him on Earth, he’d die and escape. Here there is no death. Never death, never an escape. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>The memories are almost too much. His soul twists in agony as if it were all happening here and now. <br><br>“O-omnis,” he whispers, tears flowing down his face, body convulsing. His shotgun hits the dirt. Useless as the words he’s speaking. He grabs his head with both hands, panting, eyes wide, barely seeing anything here anymore because… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He has been here just five days, and he can’t stop weeping, even for a moment. The brand that his tormenter slowly presses into exposed muscle turns tears to howls. Alistair presses hideous lips against his temple, strokes his hair. “You’re my favorite, Sammy.” <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>“Omnis satanica!” It’s almost defiant, until the scream rips out of him, a moment and a flash of pain. The lack of memory had meant that he never felt the damage to his own soul. Now the buffer is gone, and he feels it in live flesh. He falls back to his knees, curling over into a ball, hands pulling fitfully at his hair, screams pouring out of him, twenty days of torment, relived in a few short seconds. <br><br>Just as Alistair intended. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred takes Sam’s hand, looking to Jo and May as they prepare and then separate for this mission. There’s a quick smile to them as thanks before they head straight forward. It may be a stupid idea for her to go in with Sam straight away, she can be quite stealthy from her years scavenging and hiding from demons who wished to capture and behead her. However, she also knows she’s far too close to the situation to hide and wait for a signal. If something happened to Sam, she’d charge in. <br><br>Her hand remains in Sam’s, clutching to him in this moment, knowing how dangerous this is and that they may not make it out alive, but at least in this they’ll face it together. Her bottles and bomb remain tucked in a bag over her shoulder. While she generally feels more comfortable with a crossbow, the second shotgun with its salt shells is cradled in her other arm. <br><br>It’s probably for the best that Fred didn’t stay with May and Jo. As they approach the gathering of individuals, it’s not Sam she would rush forward toward - it’s a pair of very familiar faces. <br><br>“…Mom? Dad?” Fred’s voice breaks as she sees their eyes shift to black. Her attention immediately narrows to the blood on her father’s shirt, the bruises on her mother’s cheeks. Her mind drifts to the young teenager motionless on a yard the night she met Sam. It’s his voice in her head telling her in sympathetic, yet matter of fact voice, ‘Sometimes they use bodies so hard they become walking corpses.’ Is that what she is looking at? <br><br>“No. No!” It’s a denial of both that inner voice and the fact of the matter: her parents might be dead and standing in front of her. Her hand leaves Sam’s as she rushes to them. The shotgun drops at her feet as she reaches out to grasp them on opposite arms, pleading. “Mom, Dad, please.” <br><br>Behind her, as if from a different room, she can hear Sam screaming. <br><br>They shouldn’t have come here. They shouldn’t have done this. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Bigger than we have time to make.” So that idea is discarded promptly. As much as it rankled, May is seeing her potential options dwindling, and quickly. She leads the blonde Hunter through to as close to the others as they can manage without having to leave the cover of the stand of trees they’re in. And again, she wishes they’d asked for a sniper. Or that she’d bothered to spend more time on sniper training. <br><br>With the comms to Fred and Sam suddenly gone quiet, there’s no way to tell that anyone in there is familiar to the Hunters, and when Sam’s screams carry to them, she knows they’re out of time. She’s got one last thing to try, and it’s a long shot. <br><br>Speaking in the ancient and overly formal-sounding Mandarin, she calls for King Wuguan of the Courts of Hell to reclaim the souls that have left Hell before their punishments for their sins were completed. She’s focused specifically on the ones that had been there originally, not Dean or the little girl standing next to him. <br><br>Do exorcisms work when one is out of earshot of the target demons? <br><br><br />
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<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>As May and Jo move around the back of the house, the scent of sulphur becomes increasingly powerful. Its pungent scent of rotten eggs overwhelms as they get closer. Moving to flank the demons out front means passing the windows of the home on the way there thanks to the abandoned cars that surround the junkyard. Bobby had taken care to ensure he would see the goings-on around his house, a necessity as a hunter aiming to stay on in one spot. <br><br>Before they even get to the window, they can smell it: the distinct scent of flames licking wood. But combined with the already sulphuric aroma floating from the area? Fire and brimstone reign here. <br><br>May and Jo can feel the heat of flame as they draw closer to the house. It burns hot and angry as it begins to lick the ceiling inside. And as they pass the window, they see a middle aged woman with dirty blonde hair staring up at the ceiling. While they can’t see what’s on the ceiling, it’s clear that Ellen Harvelle isn’t herself today. <br><br>Her sadistic smile, yellow eyes, and extended hand admire some handiwork out of scope. But within scope. A bevy of unconscious (or dead?) children strewn about the floor. She looks down the hall. “Any movement yet?” she calls. <br><br>“Not yet,” a voice calls back. <br><br>“Then show him a goddamned picture of this. Use your suit’s cellphone,” Ellen scoffs. “Knock on the door and call him out.” <br><br>As far as May’s words are concerned, they don’t seem to have any effect as of yet. But expediency isn’t a feature of all spirits. <br><br>Outside, in the front yard, things aren’t going well. But most of the torture hasn’t been physical as of yet. <br><br>“Hello sweetie,” Fred’s mother’s voice cuts through the little stillness that exists. Alluringly--not at all with an air of maternal warmth--she strides towards Fred. Her long, slender fingers reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind Fred’s ear, an action her mother took many times as a comfort. But the smile is wrong. Her expressions are wrong. Even the tone is wrong. And in an instant, comfort turns tides. <br><br>The demon wearing Fred’s mother reaches out her hand to push Fred back. “We are here for you,” while it might come off as warmth or support, it’s cold and angry. She reaches those slender fingers to grab a mitt-full of Fred’s hair in an effort to drag the girl to her father. <br><br>“Winifred Burkle needs punishment,” Fred’s mother allays to her father. <br><br>Fred’s father’s eyes crease with delight. He looks towards her bag. “You brought us gifts? Oh little girl… we do like presents,” he jeers. He walks around her, assessing her as he does so. “You’ve been very naughty. Your mother just said as much.” And then with the condescending tone of an animal owner reprimanding their pet, he asks, “What did you do?” <br><br>“She wants to hurt us, darling~” Fred’s mother virtually sings. “She wants us to pop and sizzle and burn. She came here with fire in her eyes to smite us, but now? She remembers she’s just a lost little girl.” <br><br>Her father nods curtly. “Of course none of this is real. Sam isn’t real. You made him up, Fred. We’re not really here. None of us. You’re alone. A slave dressed in rags with a heavy collar bound to your neck for eternity. They won’t tell you this, but you don’t die. And you never leave. Not there. Not really. You get to live day after day enslaved to them, their world, and their servitude. To their whirls, wants, and whimsies.” <br><br>A giggle emits from Dean’s lips as Sam begins the words that could put any of them out of commission. “That tickles,” he notes with another quirk of his lips. <br><br>Dean’s face lights with unbridled pleasure. His eyes lid and his lips quirk as if experiencing some other ecstasy at Sam’s pain. A shiver of delight passes over him. But if anyone is paying attention, something, however briefly, changes in the tide. His hand moves towards the inside of his jacket. It’s slow, cautioned, and purposive. It tugs at the inner pocket and draws out a strange looking knife. <br><br>The picture has oddities of its own: Dean basking in revelrie while his hand utilizes the opportunity. With the little girl near, and Alistair’s pleasure continuing, the knife moves to stab the little girl, another white-eyed demon, in the back. Hard. Her body flickers yellow and her occupant twists around to face Alistair. It’s not enough to kill her--not one as powerful as she is, but its effect speaks volumes of what the weapon is. She screams in pain. <br><br>The knife misses her heart, its intended target. <br><br>“I have this handled,” Dean’s voice hisses to the girl. <br><br>“I’ll be fine,” she returns with a smirk. Undoubtedly, whatever that weapon was, hurt. But evidently she doesn’t want to be eliminated from this stand-off. <br><br>The knife rests on the ground in the dust. And for a moment flat-white eyes turn green. They soften. They stare at Sam. And, with a drop of Dean’s chin, they look at the knife. And then back to Sam. In a moment the message is given. One can only hope that in his agony, Sam got it. <br><br>And as quickly as those eyes had softened, they harden again. “So,” Alistair begins. “Tell me, Sammy, do you remember all our fun?” There’s a pause. “I do. I remember the chorus of your screams amongst the others, the way you cried each and every time you awoke the next morning, how you called out for your brother as you hung there.” His eyebrows draw together, “Of course, you also called out for Dad. But we both knew /he’d/ never come.” <br><br>Dean’s body treads to where Sam remains in a ball. “Because he never would. He doesn’t care for you. For either of you.” He lifts a finger. “But. Big brother made a deal to get you out of there.” His expression sours and he looks towards Lilith as he seems to put something together. Between Dean’s memories and the space between them, something is becoming increasingly obvious in their efforts to control Hell. The Faustians are actively undermining their efforts. Alistair sneers. “They stole you from me,” he seethes. <br><br>“You were mine.” There’s a long pause. “And you’re mine again,” his lips edge into a smile. “And this time? There’s nothing big brother can do to stop me. You’re on your own, Sammy.” <br><br>“You. Are. Mine.” <br><br>And then, ominously like a revelation has just come to him, he pats Dean’s chest. <br><br>“And so is he.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>No way to tell that anyone is familiar to the Hunters except for the hitch in Jo's step as she spies Ash through the trees. "... Ash ..." She hisses and glares at the SHIELD agent - heavens knows why, it's not May's fault. <br><br>The look turns to horror as Sam's screams ring out through the area and she squints at the tableau unfolding. "What... is she doing .... " Of course, she doesn't recognise Freds parents but she does recognise Dean, the man who ... well who she's become quite fond of. <br><br>"Keep moving..." What they're going to do, she's no idea but one of her Dads Hunter friend had once said //No plan, no matter how good, survives first contact.// This one, the one of Sam's making, doesn't look like it ever really deployed. <br><br>Despite the heat emanating from the house. Despite the smell of rotten eggs, her steps bring them closer to that window and now the blonde freezes. "Mom..." She breathes, breath hitching in terror. "... they've got Mom ... we have to save her... " <br><br>Can she? Can they? Can they truly save Ellen from the Demon that possesses her. Jo doesn't know, but she's going to try. Probably much to May's dismay. Untrained, undisciplined and potentially, just plain stupid - might be some of the words that the blonde gets labelled with. <br><br>"... and Bobby." That has to be who they're trying to bait out. <br><br>One last glance to the older agent and the blonde takes off at a run, right to the door, throwing it open. "Hey Mom... fancy meeting you here ...." <br><br>//Splash// there's some holy water just for good measure. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There was no one else Alistair could have stolen that would have a worse impact on Fred. Angel, Wesley, even Sam...she would be upset and enraged by their possession. However, she also knows that they live in this world and signed up to be a part of its dangers and accepted those consequences. Her parents? They might know about demons and vampires now, but they live on a farm in Texas. They were away from all this, going about their own normal lives. This could have only happened to them because someone wished to hurt her and that makes this her fault. <br><br>She already knows it is a horrible idea as she runs to them, but she can’t stop herself, wanting to shake them, //make// them okay. Trish tucks her hair behind her ear and for a brief heartbeat of a moment, she hopes. Unfortunately, the voice - while unmistakably her mother’s voice - is wrong. <br><br>The hand easily curls into her long hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling her forward. Fred almost topples and does fall to one knee in front of her father as it happens, wincing at the pain of that yank. “I’m sorry,” she says, heartfelt, through the pain. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you both better. I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t know if they can hear her, but she says it anyway. The words about this being a different world, one that she has made up cause a hitch in her throat, a taunt as to how she dealt with five years in Pylea. How she dealt with the spell that just recently sent her into a spiral. She’s weak, she can’t handle the dangers, she couldn’t protect her parents. <br><br>They ask her what is in her bag, what she’s brought them. It clinks to the ground as she falls, the bottles inside rattling against each other, but don’t break. There is no way she will use any force against her parents, but she has to do something. “H-here…” she says, unzipping the bag just a bit, still looped over one arm. “I’ll show you.” <br><br>A hand reaches in to grab one of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt. Squeezing her eyes shut, taking a deep breath, she pulls it out to smash against the leg of her mother. There are tears in her eyes as she she swings. Five years in Pylea cemented a survivor’s spirit, one that instinctively knows that to save her parents, she has to stay alive, too. If they’re not already dead. No, she can’t think like that. She can’t. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The screams do stop. Sam gets himself under control, bit by bit. <br><br>First, it's because he can hear, distantly, the demons taunting Fred. A flame of fury ignites in him. He's spent many nights reassuring her he was real, and some bastard black-eye pissants think they're going to undo her? Even now, her heart-felt apologies to them rip at his heart. It's a sentiment he more than understands, really. <br><br>That's the moment where he raises his head, panting softly in fear, pain, and fury all at once. His irises slowly turn. Hazel to light green, light green to dark green, dark green to pitch black. He can still feel the throbbing pain as he watches his brother keep right on fighting, and feels such pride in Winchester the Elder that it helps to snap a new memory into place. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Life is pain, Princess," says the smooth-talking pirate on the flickering television screen. "Anyone who says differently is selling something." <br><br>The TBS logo appears briefly at the bottom of the screen, signalling a switch to commercial. Sometimes nothing good is on TV, but today, at the Motel Picayune on MS Hwy 5, they luck out. Sammy is four years old, and he is in his favorite spot: snuggled up to his brother on the couch, one of the only places he ever feels safe. He's sucking his thumb, and Dean notices and gently draws it out of his mouth. <br><br>"Stop that," says the older boy, but with no heat. And then, thoughtfully, "He's right you know, Sammy. The Dread Pirate. Life is pain." <br><br>Sammy shifts uneasily and says nothing. He kind of knows some of this already. Life had Been Pain just yesterday, when he'd spilled his milk in the diner, broken a glass, and had inspired Dad to smack him and berate him for being careless in front of everyone. It was his fault. He shouldn't have been so clumsy. <br><br>Dean seems to sense his unease, and sets his mouth into a grim line. At 8, Dean always looks so grown-up, so tough. Sammy emulates the expression as best he can. <br><br>"But you know what you can do, Sammy? You can /fight/. Fight for the people who can't fight for themselves, and most of all fight against any son of a bitch who tries to hurt anyone you care about. I'm going to teach you. You'll see." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He gets the signal. He sees it. Now he has to figure out how to exploit it. Alistair steps right up to him, taunts him, and Sam starts putting his brain to work. Why is it going down like this, specifically? Why draw him all the way out there for hours? Why gather everyone he's ever known, and Fred's parents? Why attack Bobby? What do they want here? Getting Dean's body alone was enough to have Sam ready to give himself up to them, but that's not what they want. Alistair had been angry, in fact, when Sam had seemed meek. Sam gets the impression he'd have been angrier still if he'd tried to bow his head for his brother's life. It tracks with what he remembers, now. Some tormenters grew angry at defiance, threats, but Alistair had never seemed so proud as the day that-- <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" Sam screams, his voice cracking not because it was ready to take on the new tones of manhood, but simply under the strain. Day 14. "I'm going to carve out your KIDNEYS and I'm going to FEED THEM TO YOU, do you understand? You better HOPE I never get out of here, because I am going to KICK YOUR DEMON ASS!" <br><br>"Goood," Alistair coos. "That's good, Sammy." <br><br>And he rewards him with a drink of water, the first his parched throat had seen in two weeks. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Of course. Alistair wants him to /change/. Soon after that… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"All you have to do is take the knife, Sammy. Take the knife, and run it down her foot, and I'll let you off the rack. I'll give you a whole day off for that one little cut. It's so sharp, it'll cut her like nothing. Like running a butter knife through mashed potatoes." <br><br>"No. I won't." <br><br>"Then I guess I'll have to run it down /your/ feet." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Sam's throat burns, parched. He can sense he doesn't have nearly enough juice to pull the only trick that gets any of their possessed friends out. He doesn't have enough for Alistair for sure. He needs more. Which was the point. Goad him into saving Dean at the expense of Ellie, Ash, Fred's parents. Save Dean, and possibly Fred from her infected parents, and Bobby...or save nobody at all. A sadistic choice. May and Jo are here, but they're vastly outnumbered. And /something/ awful is happening inside the house, too. <br><br>Sam is not a fan of sadistic choices. <br><br>He is, however, a fan of third options. The knife won't be enough, he knows, because he just saw for himself it wasn't. But he has a theory. Two theories, really. <br><br>One. <br><br>The strength of the demon MUST matter to the potency of the blood. He hadn't entirely been honest with Claire, though it was only cause he hadn't thought about it at the time. The Crossroads demon he'd eaten had been so much more satisfying and had lasted so much longer than the black-eyes he'd first taken. Vengeance demons were also crazy powerful, and that's what he'd been mostly sipping on, but he would rank them about on the scale of a Crossroads...they both had that wish-granting ability and power, and just used it differently. The rush was more the rush of NEEDING something and getting it. Like feeding a caffiene addiction. Or his alcohol addiction. As he'd said. The rush of a black-eyes? Practically non-existent. The rush, and the power. The power of a white-eyes, a literal ruler of Hell? That's going to be immense. So will, dangerously, the rush, but one problem at a time. <br><br>Two. <br><br>That he can inject it, or he can drink it. He'd had some dreams about simply drinking gallon after gallon of demon blood. He'd had dreams of ripping demons open with his /teeth/, during that first hellish week where demon blood had suddenly become nearly all he could think of. Which was...to the good, really, because he has no time whatsoever to set up a neat, clean drip. This again tracked with the set-up; if they'd hoped he wouldn't see through this they couldn't exactly set it up so he could go after each of those people with a needle. <br><br>So. Third option. Dangerous, difficult to pull off, disgusting in the extreme, uncomfortable for both him and Dean because there is no way to do this in a way that isn't. But fitting, too, because this will mean he and Dean took care of this son of a bitch together. And really, there is no universe where Sam Winchester ever wants Dean to be an unwilling victim. Dean has put himself a little bit back in the ring; Sam decides to keep him there. <br><br>He times the test of the theory though. Times it for the moment that Fred decides she's not going to cave. That she's going to fight. The moment she smashes holy water and salt into the demon wearing her beloved mother. He synchs up with them, moves with them, adding Fred to the synchronous fighting flow that he's always shared with Dean. This is appropriate. On a number of levels. <br><br>He stretches out his hand, as if he is going to try his trick of forcing a soul out of the body without the juice-up. But instead, he exercises the barest hint of his power, yanking that knife to his hand with a burst of telekinetic force. <br><br>"Watch those kidneys, Al," Sam hisses, as if they were already succeeding, as if he'd be willing to kill his brother to spare him… <br><br>Only to feint at them...and instead plunge the demon knife into Alistair's calf, right into where Sam thinks he remembered a superficial system called the great saphenous vein would be. He has read up on anatomy, as it happens, precisely /because/ he tries to spare the vessels of the possessed. If he finds his mark he's hit a vein that would bleed like a son of a bitch, and /hurt/ like a son of a bitch, but won't threaten Dean's life. He hopes the shock of the obviously magical weapon, Dean's own desire to take the reins, and the location itself will buy him the time to do what he needs to do. Because the next thing he does is withdraw the knife, launch himself forward, seize Alistair's leg, and clamp his mouth around it. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Pulling the still salt-saturated sash whip, May looks up and curses when Jo darts off toward the house proper. She can’t watch over everyone if they’re running all over the place willy-nilly. She wastes a moment trying to decide if she can help Jo with the farmhouse, then decides, no, the young woman has proven herself pretty well able to handle things. It’s the multiple demons that she’s concerned with. <br><br>This whole day has been beyond screwed up. Moving as quietly as she can she takes a breath, then charges out at the group of demons all together. She doesn’t know any of the people they’re possessing, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to just mow through them. Anything she can do to lock them down and hopefully banish the demons will be good enough. <br><br>Her sash whip snaps out at the closest black-eyed demon (Ash) the moment she’s within range. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside, the dramatic interruption of a the blonde hunter sees holy water steam from Ellen’s back. The demon wearing her, however, is powerful and strong. Ellen twists around to see her daughter’s face, and yellow eyes sparkle at the sight. “You look like her--thought that when I got access to your mother’s thoughts,” yellow-eyes taunts. “Dean is just looking for his mama again and again and again,” she muses with a sadistic turn of her lips. With the fire burning above, lighting multiple bodies as it billows, she lifts a hand--a burst of telekinetic energy to push Jo back, hard. Her head tilts. “I would’ve liked to wait until Alistair could bring his suit here,” the smooth cadence of her mother’s voice mixed with the pure venom of Azazel’s malice chills the air. “But, as they say, time is of the essence.” <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>The shotgun fire of salt loaded bullets distracts enough to have the telekinetic move last just a moment, giving Jo release as Bobby’s house continues to go up in flames. “Let go of Ellen, you son of a bitch,” Bobby’s flat tone cuts into the room. The salt rounds won’t be enough to stop her, but it might serve as a distraction. “Kid, we need to round her off back towards the living room,” he states. Bobby’s house is most definitely full of demon traps. The trick is getting this thing into one of them. <br><br>Outside, Fred finds her fight, and the holy water burns her mother’s skin. The demon wearing her screeches in pain, falling forward as steam rises from her body. Her father reacts in kind, forcing her backwards with a burst of telekinetic energy to throw her against a car. “Winifred, you’ve been a very naughty girl,” he repeats from before. While Trish-demon tries to recover, Roger-demon takes point. <br><br>He paces towards her and allows his head to cant to the side, examining her. “There was a time when you were young that your father gifted you something of comfort. That you wouldn’t be afraid. Somehow you thought a rabbit would calm the storm. A stuffed bunny that your father believed would help you relate better to others.” He taps his temple. “I remember. Or, he does. He almost felt bad about it. Giving you a bunny instead of helping you find a friend. You were always such a sweet child.” He motions towards Trish. “That’s what your mother always said. So sweet. So innocent. So alone. Still alone. Always alone.” <br><br>“Nothing can comfort you here.” His tone flattens, “Not your beloved knight in shining whatever,” his nostrils flare, “not your mother’s touch,” his nose wrinkles and his lips quirk, “and not even that damned bunny. No one can make sense of the chaos.” <br><br>“That place you were at, it’s real. It’s not just in your mind, and you can bet that we will find a way to return you to it. Or,” he smiles faintly, “at least, leave dear old Mom and Dad there.” His black eyes shimmer with unbridled amusement. He’s thrilled. Pleased with his latest consideration. “I bet these bodies aren’t even necessary for our plans.” <br><br>The knife into Dean’s calf cuts true. And, sure enough, Sam finds the vein easily. If, however, he opens his eyes, he can see his brother has been subjected to numerous other cuts down his leg--all in various states of disarray thanks to the lack of nutrition that Alistair has provided him. Healing requires basic blocks of life, and Dean has had none. Yet none of those would’ve granted or <br><br>The sound that emits from Dean’s lips is somewhere between pain and ecstasy. Sam gets an ample dose before Alistair manages to lift a hand to push him back because another will buried inside him continues to exert itself where it can, even in exhaustion, malnutrition, and injury. Of course, it doesn’t take much of Alistair’s blood to make the younger Winchester dosed up. Oddly, none of the other demons rush the situation. None try to draw Sam away. The child in the distance even smiles. Softly. As if she’s experiencing a puppet show or play. Her eyes flit towards the others, and with a small smile, she disappears. <br><br>“I didn’t think you had it in you, Sammy,” Alistair states with a wry smile as he flexes Dean’s leg to continue to let the blood pour out. He is really not kind to this body. “You know, I wonder how much /anyone/,” Crowley for one, “will want my sloppy seconds.” <br><br>The sash draws towards Ash and catches his skin causing it to steam and burn, but doesn’t wrap around the demon before he’s onto the ploy. His hand lifts and it turns back towards May. Vacantly, his head tilts to the side. “Handy trick,” he states evenly while he lifts a hand to . “Bet it helped when you ganked that little girl in Bahrain.” His lips curve into a smile. “Alistair tortures her day after day after day in Hell. If you ever wonder what that’s like, I suggest talking to Sam.” <br><br>He strides forward to close the distance again. His hands lift in want. “She was pretty though, wasn’t she?”<br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo grimaces as Ellen back steams. As much as she'd expected it, it was still a shock. "Mom..." is that plea or just simple sorrow? Hard to tell, given the blonde is rocketed backwards. <br><br>//Thump// <br><br>"Nggggnh. He's not, you know, looking for his Mom..." A weak protest indeed. The words have cut through the blonde like a knife. Far more dangerous than any physical torment Ellen-demon could subject her to. <br><br>Eyes wide, there's still fight in the woman even though she's held tight. The first blast from the shotgun causes her to jump - that's not how they're supposed to take her, is it? Oh wait. That's Bobby's voice she's hearing as she slides to ground, hand rising to massage her throat. <br><br>It takes a moment - several very long moments really - for Bobby's words to sink in. "Living room, right. Come and get me you bitch if you want me..." her other hand delves into the pouch on her hip and salt is strewn to one side Ellen-mon. It won't hold her for long but Bobby should be able to ride herd as Jo acts as bait. <br><br>OK. It might not be the best plan - but it's far from the worst she's had today. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Wincing in sympathy pain as she hears her mother shriek, Fred pushes herself upward to standing. Her hand grips the neck of another bottle to toss onto her possessed father, but she never gets a chance to throw it. The telekenetic shove whips her against the car and she gives a short, soft cry of pain. Some of the beer bottles shatter on impact, shards of glass and holy salt water now pooling in the bottom of its fabric. <br><br>Pinned there, Fred is forced to listen to the demon holding her father as he recounts exactly why he gave her Feigenbaum in the first place. It attempts to twist a fond memory into something sad and tainted. Hearing her father’s voice talk to her in a way that is nothing like her father twists a knot in her stomach. Desperately, she shoves against the supernatural hold that keeps her helplessly in place, unable to move and unable to stop listening to the horrible words and threats. <br><br>The threat of Pylea - finding a way to send her or her parents back there - sends a cold stroke of fear down her back. “Don’t,” she says, softly. The thought of her parents on Pylea, scrounging to survive, causes her eyes to glass over with more tears. “Please leave them out of this.” She has to do something, has to stop this. <br><br>Trapped against the junked car, there is little she can do. She can’t toss any of the holy water, can’t do anything. Except talk. She takes a shallow breath - all she is able to do against the horrible pressure - and starts to quietly recite. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It feels amazing. For a moment Sammy is just...lost. The power flows into his mouth, down his throat, into his body. He feels the glory of every swallow. The taste on his tongue. Not bitter, or salty, or coppery. Sweet. He feels like he's floating in a sea of white. It feels surprisingly unthreatening. Exhaustion, gone. Uncertainty gone. Fear, gone. Nothing but the absolute certainty that he is unstoppable. <br><br>Being pushed off is a blessing. To Sam, it feels almost intolerable. But it keeps him from madly draining his brother dry, which he surely would have done if he'd been allowed to feed without reservation or restraint. <br><br>Only a bare trickle of blood runs from the corner of his lips, stained a rich color from the exchange. His eyes shift a little too. Black? Or are they closer to red now? Is his demon half moving subtlely up the hierarchy? It fades back to black a second later, he'd have to do a lot more feeding, a lot more regularly, to unleash /that/ fresh Hell. Probably nobody's looking at that but Alistair himself. <br><br>Alistair says he didn't think he had it in him. <br><br>Sam stands. He's not doing this on his knees. He wipes the trickle on the back of his hand. He watches Alistair as he slurps it up, licking that last little bit away. Nothing wasted. Nothing. There will be consequences for this, but they feel so distant. So. Unimportant. He rolls his tongue over his lips, over his teeth, cleaning the blood away, mostly intent on getting it all inside of him as fast as he can make it happen. But there's still a very disturbing quality to his smile. It's slight. Hard, as Sammy's smiles never are. Holding an edge that hints at something within him that is more than capable of cruelty, if pushed to it. Cruelty in equal measure, as it happens, to his vast empathy. <br><br>"You shouldn't have put yourself back on my radar, Alistair," Sam says, in a low, too-calm voice. "There will be consequences for that. But for now?" <br><br>His hand forms into a sort of claw. He rears it back. Though the other demons are right on his priority list, Fred's parents in particular, he's going to trust May and Fred to keep fighting while he initiates what has been, with every other demon, a battle of wills. Fred might achieve what she needs to with the exorcism anyway. Distantly, he hopes they're in good enough shape to survive the process. Distantly, he wonders what's happening to Jo and Bobby. <br><br>But he can only do one thing at a time. <br><br>He flings his will into his brother's form, shoving with all his might, doing his dead level best to use his stolen power to force his former tormenter straight back to Hell, and to hit him hard enough with that force that he won't have the strength to come seeking a new host for quite some time. <br><br>"Give me back my brother, you sorry son of a bitch." <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>If there’s one thing that May has learned only too well in her years at SHIELD, it’s the ability to NOT let it show when something affects her. Thus, Ash’s comments about the little girl and Bahrain appear to fall upon deaf ears as she sidesteps the sash whip coming back at her then whirls around, pulling the weapon back into a whirring spin. She also doesn’t waste time with talking. <br><br>Setting the whip to spin blurringly fast, she flicks it out at Ash-demon again, knowing it’s exactly what he’ll expect and with her other hand pulls the salt-loaded pistol from the Impala’s trunk and shoots at the redneck demon. She’s aiming only to wound and annoy, though, by shooting at his right thigh. Sorry… whoever you are. <br><br>Then she does start to toss out words, again using the ancient Mandarin to call upon one of the Kings of Diyu to pull these souls back to Hell to complete their punishments. <br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, “He’s been looking for his mom since I stole her,” Ellen counters to Jo. Bobby receives a small tilt of her head as she stumbles backwards from the shells. It won’t stop her, and it won’t send her back to hell, but it certainly has some impact, enough to grant a death stare towards the gentleman-hunter. “Decided to leave your solace to have some fun?” her yellow eyes flash with amusement. <br><br>Bobby looks worse for wear. His head has been bandaged many times over. His clothes are blood soaked. His wrists are bound with bandages. He’s been through something vile--that much is clear. But the anger in his eyes doesn’t dissipate. He shoots the gun again, this time towards the demon’s head. “Get. Out,” he says again. <br><br>Ellen’s eyes glimmer as Jo begins to lead her away. She knows what’s up. She also knows the house is going up in flames. Even from the outside the flames can be seen. Time is short. “I took her, you know. I took Sam’s fiance. And it’s only a matter of time until I take you. And make no mistake, Jo, I will get you.” She manages a small smile. “But in the meantime, know that he doesn’t love you. Not really. He doesn’t know how. Even your mother knows that.” There’s a pause. “Unless it’s Sam. Sam will always come first. He sold his soul for Sam--do you think he would ever do that for you? If you think so, you know you’re lying to yourself…” <br><br>“Shut up, you Idjit!” Bobby fires again to herd the demon towards Jo. “Don’t listen to him, Kid. They spew anything and everything to get inside yer ‘ead,” he fires the shotgun again. <br><br>And it seems to be working for the time being, but it’s easier than it should be. It’s possible the demon wants to get caught or its gambit has been fulfilled already. <br><br>Outside, Roger-demon sneers when Fred makes her bid for her parents’ lives. His nostrils flare and his body tenses at the request not to put them in Pylea. There’s little room for any of it. He takes delight in her pleading, and he doesn’t lose that edge of torment as he laughs, “I will see that every day of their life and beyond they are in agony. And the agony will never cease. Not once. Not ever.” <br><br>But the murmuring of the Latin causes his knees to buckle. His black eyes cannot handle the Latin the way the white eyes can. He falls onto his hands. He bats the ground as the words continue to spill from Fred’s lips and he begins to cough as his soul begins to be banished into the pit beyond. <br><br>Trish-demon, meanwhile has begun to recover. She forces herself to a stand and walks to where Roger and Fred are. <br><br>There will be consequences for Alistar returning to Sam’s radar. “I’m counting on it,” Dean replies gruffly. Amusement tugs at each edge of Dean’s face. His eyes crinkle with delight, his lips turn upwards, and the white of his eyes seems downright delighted. But the delight begins to change when Sam reaches out his hand. <br><br>At first, Alistair spreads Dean’s arms, inviting the change. But then the pressure changes. The white-eyed demon fights, demanding even more juice to be expensed and Dean’s body buckles beneath the war, stumbling towards the ground. Sam pulls on Alistair’s soul, forcing him from Dean’s body. And, because he can, he claws at the edges of Dean’s consciousness. <br><br>Dean’s chin lifts towards the sky and his mouth opens as a white thick cloud of smoke floats into the sky. It billows above, disappearing into nothing as it moves. <br><br>Dean collapses when the smoke disappears, causing his body to fall into the fetal position with his stomach falling to the ground. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cough. Emptily, he remains there frozen in place. <br><br>Ash screams in agony when the shell hits his thigh. He collapses to his knees. “You bitch!” he seethes loudly. “She agonizes every day because of what you did! And she will come back to haunt you--I swear that you will suffer tenfold!” <br><br>The demon wearing him keeps black eyes shining as he reaches out to counter her. He sends a burst of telekinetic towards her to thrust her against a rusty looking dumpster. But as he does so, he also begins to be willed from the body he’s occupying. His lips part and thick black smoke begins to billow up to the sky. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's difficult to hear much of what's happening outside - just the muffled noises that indicate not everything is ok in Kansas, Toto. Jo's blue eyes flick uncertainly in that direction but Ellen-mon's words have her focussing again. <br><br>Do they work? Does the demon manage to plant the seed of doubt in the blondes mind? What she has with Dean ... it's fledgling. They'd made no promises to each other, had they? Wasn't he really 'Mister Right Now' rather than 'Mister Right'? Maybe. Time will tell the effect those words truly have. <br><br>"You can have me if you can catch me." Jo's voice trembles as she moves further into the house. It is too easy, baiting the creature like this and she shoots a quick look to Bobby trying to convey that. <br><br>"I've chosen Ellen over Dean, so I guess we're even on that score." she tells her corrupted mothers form. "Blood is, after all, thicker than water." <br><br>It's getting hot in here and a trickle of sweat runs down her forehead but still, she leads the demon on. Ellen-mon. Gotta catch them all. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred, pinned against the car like a butterfly to a board, keeps reciting. She can hear the spiteful words of the demon holding her father promising them pain. It only spurs her to recite faster, to try and literally release that demon. The same fear Sam has is lodged in the back of her head - the teenager face down in a lawn that would never move again. The one Sam wrapped in a tarp and drove elsewhere. Is that the future for her parents? Will she not only be the reason for their possession, but their death? <br><br>The words slow slightly as she thinks about that, a soft sob interjecting itself in her recitation in between lines. Her eyes close as she continues, seeing her father drop to his knees and choke. The approach of her mother is unable to be seen. She simply can’t stand it. She has little of the training or outward fortitude of May. Every word clearly cuts her deeply. Still, though, she speaks through unbearable pressure and the pain. <br><br>Determined, aching and devastated, she finishes the exorcism. Despite the dangers, the fact that she knows there are enemies still around, she cannot bear to open her eyes, to see if she succeeded - and if she did - to see what that means. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Dean!” <br><br>Sam darts forward to gather Dean into his arms. He wants to check for a pulse, he wants to offer some food or water or medical care, but they are still very much in the middle of a crisis here. And Fred is still being menaced. He sees Mr. Burkle’s demon smoke out, but here comes Mrs. Burkle. <br><br>He flings his hand in that direction, jaw firming with determination. After Alistair, this should be nothing. He was unable to force the white-eyed monster back to Hell, he’s still out there. But a black-eyes? <br><br>Should be easy enough. <br><br>He pushes the soul out like it’s nothing, leaving, briefly, a black fiery burn mark on the ground beneath her feet. It takes a moment of concentration, but compared to Alistair it’s as easy as simply thumping a piece of paper away with his thumb and forefinger. Gentler on Mrs. Burkle’s body than the exorcism, though there are still no guarantees. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May get slammed back against a rusty old dumpster, and that finally elicits a reaction from her. She growls at the pain and frustration of being stuck, but then as the demon ghosts out of the young man’s body and the hold on her releases, she takes a breath and then says to the black smoke, “You first.” <br><br>Then, grimacing slightly as she steps away from the dumpster and feels like someone just pulled a rusty knife out of her back, she takes a very quick stock of the goings on and turns to run for the farmhouse. As much as seeing what Sam is doing disturbs her, she can’t exactly argue it now. But she CAN go help Jo with whatever is going on inside the house. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, Ellen follows Jo through to the living room. She lifts a hand to telekinetically hit the girl, but the shotgun fire grants her pause. Bobby has few (if any) concerns about damaging his home. It’s already going up in flames anyways. While Jo may be acting as live bait, the yellow-eyed demon seems to take it. The plan may be known, but something seems to inspire Ellen-mon forward. <br><br>And sure enough, the living room is a veritable myriad of demon traps. The ceiling, walls, and floor underneath the carpet all act as demon traps. Yellow eyes is stuck. Ellen, however, just smiles at the others, strangely pleased with herself at this turn of events. “You’re both aware that you’ve won nothing today, aren’t you? All of this went according to plan.” Her yellow eyes track towards Jo. <br><br>Bobby’s expression remains neutral. He’s been dealing with monsters for decades and he won’t let himself be rattled by another. He does, however, look towards Jo. “Send the bitch home, Kid,” intending her to exorcise her own mother. <br><br>When May finds the pair inside the home, Bobby casts her a long look as he levels his shotgun towards her. A glance is given Jo, silently asking about the woman standing in front of him. <br><br>Outside, Fred’s agony gets emphasized as her mother continues what her father had begun. Trish lifts her fingers to slowly, telekinetically, wrench Fred’s skull. She applies pressure, exerting more with every passing instant to literally crush her brain. But it’s all for naught. She’s ripped from the mortal she’s residing in by Sam’s will. In an array of black smoke, she leaves Trish’s body on the ground in a mess of nothing. <br><br>Ellie smirks as Trish is exorcised, and in a second, she’s gone to parts unknown to fight another day. <br><br>Unconscious, both of Fred’s parents lay there with no movement. It’s a wonder if they’re alive. <br><br>Not far away, Dean’s body resembles a corpse. Pallid skin. Cold. Empty. His eyes don’t flicker, his breath doesn’t steady. And in a way, he’s nearly vacant. The light seems comforting. Peaceful. He knows it leads nowhere good, but his mind struggles to return to the present. <br><br>The rocking had been peaceful. The sound of her humming a comfort even before he’d seen her face. But she never stuck to humming. Her voice echoes in his mind. “Hey Jude, refrain, don’t carry the world upon your shoulders~’ <br><br>She didn’t like lullabies. She liked the Beatles. They would rock in the rocking chair of the nursery. Time and time again. “For well you know that it’s a fool~ Who plays it cool~ By making this world a little colder~” <br><br>“You need to wake up, Dean,” she says softly. He can almost feel her fingers on his cheek. The way she’d gently woken him many times when they had somewhere to be. <br><br>In the real world, Dean gasps for breath, inhaling a face full of dirt, causing him to push up slightly to cough the dirt back into the ground before collapsing against it again. He’s alive. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus... " Jo starts to intone as she hits the living room. Bobby didn't need to tell her twice. "omnis satanig--" <br><br>She stutters as the yellowed eye demon taunts them further and draws in a gasping breath. <br><br>"He'll survive. They'll survive..." She mutters to herself. Who's she's talking about isn't clear, perhaps not even to herself. She knows better than to respond to the creature but it's hard, oh so hard. <br><br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis satanicus potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii..." <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>Holy water is added to the moment mix of this recipe. <br><br>"omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura," <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>"tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, AUDI NOS!" <br><br>The final words of the rite have her voice rising as sweat pours down her face. She's breathing heavily by the time she finishes. Who knew reciting a few words could be so taxing? <br><br>Ellen-mon smokes, or is it steams?, as the water hits her and her body trembles terribly at the words. Those eyes fix Jo with deadly intent as yellow smoke rises from her body. <br><br>"Is it over, Bobby?" she grates out. Not once thinking to question if this truly is the Hunter and not some other meat-suit wearing Demon. <br><br>Um. They should probably take Ellen's body and get the hell out of Dodge. <br><br>"Dean...." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The pressure against her is felt exponentially. Fred’s eyes remain closed as the pain increases, her head shoved against the junkyard car further and further. There’s only so long it will last before it might burst. She starts to try again, the words gritted through her teeth, through the excruciating pain. “Exorci….zamus….te….” <br><br>Suddenly, though, the pain is gone. Fred drops to the ground in a pile of limbs, gasping at the sudden release of pressure against her body. Her eyes remain closed for a few moments until they open to glance upward. She takes in the scene, blinking at the sudden brightness after squeezing her eyes shut for so long. <br><br>There’s Sam holding Dean and then, there is her parents, lying motionless on the ground. Scrambling, tripping in her hurry to get up, she scurries to them. The bag of mystical weapons are left behind broken and filled with water. It might be a mistake, but she isn’t thinking about that right now. Instead, she needs to get to her parents, to check on them. <br><br>“Mom? Dad?” Terrified, she reaches for them, checking for a pulse, gently assessing them to try and see if they have any wounds that need to be tended. “Please, please, wake up. Please be okay. I’m sorry.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester has never felt so relieved in his life as he feels when Dean wakes up in his arms. He lifts him up a little to try to get him out of the dirt, rolls him over, sees Fred fussing over her parents. Some of the demons exited, stage left. Now he turns his attention to Bobby’s home, gasping, worried. <br><br>He is no healer, but there are still things he can do. He knows this might well use nearly all of what he’s got. He is already going to need a dose much faster than usual. He’s already out of them. New York is far, far away. <br><br>He’ll just have to trust that he’ll pull through, because he can’t let Bobby’s house burn. Father, uncle, whatever one wants to call him, Bobby Singer is family. <br><br>He could never try this if he weren’t high on the rush of demonic blood. But now he lifts his hand and focuses on the fire. Focuses on pulling it first to a single point outside the house, telekinetically trying to draw flames together into one long finger-like torrent, stretching it out and out and out until he can get it away from Bobby’s home. <br><br>It works, to his shock. But he doesn’t revel in it for long. There’s a watery ditch, a culvert he played in as a kid. He slams the fire into it, leaving only a hiss of steam in the distance. It’s probably a Hell of a thing to watch. In more ways than one. <br><br>He keeps his arm tightly around his brother the entire time, pressing his chest to his brother’s back to keep him in spiritual contact with the anti-possession ward tattoo’d deeply into his own skin. He doesn’t have time to grab that final necklace from his pocket right now, and he won’t risk another possession. They won’t get this lucky twice. <br><br>“Fred,” he asks hoarsely, a one-word request for a status report on her parents. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May bursts into the farmhouse and stops abruptly when the older man (though really, he’s probably the same age she is) turns his shotgun on her. “We need to go,” she says to the younger Harvelle after seeing the woman freed of possession. She’s guessing that that’s Jo’s mother, and while keeping a wary eye on Bobby, she moves cautiously closer to check on the now unconscious woman and in doing so passes straight through at least two devil’s traps without realizing they’re there. <br><br>She checks Ellen’s pulse and finds that she’s out for the count, but not on the verge of dying, which is a relief. She starts to heft the unconscious woman into a fireman’s carry when the fire suddenly just … goes away. She is going to have WORDS with Sam after this. But, the house may very well still be structurally compromised so she keeps on with the getting Ellen out. “Let’s move, Jo. Now.” <br><br>Her eyes land on Bobby again for a moment as if to see if he’s going to follow or continue standing there being openly curmudgeonly. But only for a moment. The smoke is now more dangerous than the flames were, so she’s getting out and she’s taking Ellen with her. <br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Looking to the skies reveals that the omens have shifted. The skies have cleared and blue takes over from the swirl of orange, red, and white. It’s relieving. The locusts have cleared--something they will notice when they drive out of here. <br><br>Bobby casts a long look to Jo as May enters the demon traps. His shotguns drop and his own bloodied body nods once at the young blonde when May moves to get Ellen out. In no time, he’s walking out of his home, semi-intact and looking out on the yard. His head shakes once while he assumes silence. His eyes train on the boys and linger on Sam for a long while. <br><br>Fred’s parents remain unresponsive. Assessing her mother yields a strong pulse and breathing. Her body doesn’t look ridden hard--likely because it wasn’t ridden long. Alistair had some last minute additions to his hostage entourage. It’s good to be at the tail end of the possessions. Her father’s pulse, however, is weak. Barely there. His breathing is shallow. Undoubtedly the exorcism had unwanted secondary effects. Both are alive though. <br><br>Dean’s vision can’t come into focus. His body refuses to cooperate as he tries to regain some semblance of muscle control. He wants to stand. He can’t even motivate himself to wriggle out of Sam’s grasp. And so he stays there. His eyes burn, prompting him to close them again. His very breath rakes against his throat, scratching with dryness like sandpaper. Mary’s voice continues to sing over him in this place. He can sense her. Feel her. And it moves him. <br><br>Years of hunting have made Dean hard. He knows to maintain himself. To carry his composure. His life has been threatened many times before. He’s sold his soul. He’s died and come back to life. Seven times. <br><br>Maybe it’s the lack of nourishment, dehydration, or the sheer magnitude of being possessed for days, but something breaks. And, underneath his arm, Sam can feel Dean’s chest heave. <br><br>Dean Winchester is crying. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"A friend..." Jo grates out as May bursts through the door "... sort of..." she ammends. "SHIELD agent." Which should speak volumes for Bobby and warn him. No matter what she's been through, and her face shows the fear, the panic, the terror she feels, Jo won't leave Bobby out to dry. <br><br>Wiping her hand across her forehead, smearing grime and soot as she does, the blonde nods once to May, dips and helps her left Ellen, leaving the house and out into the yard. <br><br>"... Dean ..." Poor May is left with Ellens weight as the Hunter's daugher, now Hunter herself, takes a faltering step forward. Yellow eyes words play in her head like a bad song stuck on repeat. It takes a moment for her to push the doubt down. It's not gone - and the pair will have to deal with that ... later. <br><br>Hopefully much, much, later. <br><br>Standing there, between May and the men, hands clenched, Jo finally surveys the turmoil. "Fred? Ar... " she swallows "Are they ... " she can't finish the statement. She heard the womans' plaintive plea to the downed pair. <br><br>She hasn't looked for Ash yet. There's too much to take in, as her eyes return to the Winchester brothers. No place for her there. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>As her mother is closest to her, Fred checks her pulse first, finding it steady, though the woman has yet to wake up. A slight warmth of relief starts flood its way through until she reaches her father. His breathing is shallow, his pulse weak. The blood in her ears pounds as she quickly tries whatever she can to steady him, to heal him. There’s a look to her mother, still lying there. She feels terrible about leaving her there, but it’s Roger that is in the most dire straits. <br><br>“Dad, Dad, come on. You gotta stay strong, okay?” The question from Sam, from Jo, they’re both only heard as if from far away, barely recognized. All her attention is on her father, lying here. Her hands remain on him as she finally looks up, towards the others. She might not have heard their questions, but she knows Sam is there, that Dean is there. There’s almost surprise as she sees Jo and May, as well as two others she doesn’t know. Ellen may be unconscious, but the previously unseen form of Bobby stands with them and there is a brief wariness that fades to her greater concerns. <br><br>“Help him,” she pleads. “He’s...he’s weak. I think I...I don’t know. We gotta get him out of here. Please.” Panic has clearly set in. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Bobby is staring at him, and Sam looks away, flushing with sudden shame. And that makes him angry, because look. There they are. All alive. <br><br>But not all well. Dean is weak, Fred’s parents are weak, Ash is weak, Ellen is no doubt weak. His mouth sets into a tight line. He hefts Dean up as if he were hefting up a small child. He doesn’t even strain to do it. It doesn’t occur to him that Jo might be feeling uneasy about her place in that right now, or he’d be more considerate, but right now he’s in crisis mode. He fishes out that necklace, puts it firmly around Dean’s neck. <br><br>He sees Dean’s tears but won’t address them. It would mortify his brother. If anything he turns Dean into his body just a little bit, so the man can shed what he needs to shed without anyone seeing. A protective gesture, though not a traditional one. <br><br>“How fast can you get a SHIELD medical team to us, Agent May?” Sam asks. “Or us to a SHIELD medical team? Everyone needs help.” His words, when they come out, are grim, taut, and utterly professional, showing no hint of any emotion at all. His irises remain flat black. No telling if they’re going back. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>With Jo’s help, May gets Ellen out of the farmhouse only to have to take all of her weight when the blonde moves toward the brothers. She’s starting to feel where she took that dumpster to the back, so before she’s at risk of dropping the unconscious woman she moves to set her down somewhere central-ish. Doing so might reveal that she didn’t get out of this unscathed, and it was something bad enough to tear through her jacket. <br><br>“Depends on if,” she pauses and forces herself to not wince as she pulls her cell phone from a pocket. Please work, please work, “my phone is working now.” She starts trying to dial out and looks at Bobby again. “There’s a young man over that way. Sleeveless shirt. Mullet.” She doesn’t know if he’s okay or not, though. <br><br>Glancing over at Sam, she reaches into her jacket again and pulls the water flask that Dean had declined before. It’s at best four ounces of water, but it’s better than nothing and Dean looks like he’ll need any bit of sustenance they can manage. <br><br>Oh thank goodness. “HQ. May. Require immediate medical teams or exfil at my location. Four civilians down, one asset, one agent.” She doesn’t bother to get up from where she’s sitting on the ground next to Ellen. She’s not sure her back will take it. “Have Medical check my file, I’ll likely need another tetanus booster.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Bobby’s gaze finally peels away from the brothers, it rests on Ellen a few beats and then he moves to find Ash and assess the kid. “What a mess,” he mutters softly to himself. But he’s pleased enough to find the body with a heartbeat and signs of life. His eyes turn up to the sky for a moment, taking in the blue stillness and he exhales a long breath. “And it’s just gonna get worse,” he murmurs to no one in particular. <br><br>But on that note, SHIELD medical arrives. The quinjet is fully prepared to take all for transport. And while at least one patient objects, a lot of sedative eats the objection. In short order everyone is receiving treatment. And when they’re alert, five will wake up in a place they don’t recall going to sleep. <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Third_Option&diff=1575Third Option2017-09-19T02:26:28Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/13<br />
|Location=Sioux Falls, South Dakota<br />
|Synopsis=After receiving word of Dean's possession, a team goes out of their way to get White Eyes out of the Elder Winchester's body. Things don't go as planned.<br />
|Thanks=Dean Winchester<br />
|Cast of Characters=Dean Winchester, 1379, Winifred Burkle, Sam Winchester, 5<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The road gifted more than tortured time. The drive from Hell’s Kitchen to rural South Dakota was long, but thanks to Alistair’s actions against the Impala, it also provided Sam and Fred two allies along the way. The black Impala on the side of the road was unmistakable. It had garnered attention immediately, and both May and Jo joined the foray. <br><br>While discussion had been short thanks to not really knowing what they’re getting into, the details seemed to align. Something had Dean. It occupied his body with its flat-white eyes and sadistic smile. Whoever it is has little regard for kindness and, presumably, roughed him up before choosing to take up residence. <br><br>It also became clear that the creature’s machinations had some intent. Those encountering demons regularly know full-well they ride their vessels hard. But many just seemed to want power. Something about this particular demon seemed different--purposive, even. <br><br>But after those details had been exchanged, there was little else to say. It was hard to plan without knowing what they faced… <br><br>Hours passed before they saw its first indication. Any who’d visited Bobby in South Dakota before would know the oddity of the prairie’s big open skies. Today, however, the sky itself dreads whatever will happen here. A swirl of grey, orange, pink, and red calls upwards in an incredibly odd storm. No rain falls. No wind blows. Yet the sky swirls in impossibility overhead. <br><br>Driving down the rural range road kicks up dust as the car moves, but something else hits hard against the car with each passing moment. The faint clunk of something meeting metal presents at a strange pace. Random enough not to be something wrong with the car, but loud enough to know that outside they’re hitting something.. Or something is hitting them. <br><br>The number of them grows as does the sound. The barrage of brown-green bugs--locusts that have presumably infested the area--pushes against the windshield. And should the driver just continue on their course, they pass the warning as quickly as they’d come to it, producing a house in the distance. <br><br>If they didn’t know better, a passerby would assume the people outside are enjoying a barbeque, a true wonder with skies like these. They see five figures for certain. It’s impossible to know if there’s more kicking around. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's a quiet Jo Harvelle who huddles on the back seat of the Impala. She's worried about Dean, and about Sam (given what Dean had told her before), and trying not to show it. She's failing - not badly but enough. <br><br>The swarm of locusts has the blonde leaning forward, against the seat belt, and peering out the window. "If I was more devout than I am, I'd probably be able to quote a bible verse or two." She mutters, eyes narrowing as she takes the upcoming house in. "Well they probably ain't Riders, given there's five of them but they're likely trouble all the same." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s been hours on the road from New York City to here for Fred and Sam. The time have been tense, with bursts of conversation and planning and then anxious silence. They know only some of what awaits them at Bobby’s house. The demon’s purpose and what he’s done with Bobby is still a mystery. At least they now know that May and Jo are alright, despite the unmoveable Impala on the side of the road. <br><br>Acquiring two more allies as well as the sleepy bomb from Fred’s stash that she left in the car from the Crossroads fight is certainly a boon in her opinion. <br><br>Fred is not one of the people who have visited Bobby before. Or South Dakota, even. However, she makes an educated guess that they’re getting close when locusts start to hit against the car and windshield. Behind the wheel, the physicist slows but does not stop the car. She’s not as skilled a driver as Sam is, but she manages to push them through the almost biblical plague intact. “It’s not a Bible verse, but I’m starting to think the most appropriate one is, ‘When Moses was in Egypt’s Land, ‘Let my people go.’’ ‘Course the last part is actually a Bible verse, so that’s really a twofor. Either way, that wasn’t pleasant and doesn’t really much bode well for what else he can do. Last thing we want are boils. Or frogs. I didn’t even like dissecting them in class. Locusts were at the end of the plagues, yeah? After that came darkness?” It’s been a little while since Fred rambled quite like this. It’s either a testament to leaving the Winchester apartment or how close they are to the anticipated showdown. <br><br>Once through the bugs, the slowing of the car turns into a stop. She scans the five figures in the distance. “They’re probably expecting us from the front. Buncha places to hide, for them and us.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The road always brings gifts. <br><br>It’s a distant thought that Sam had experienced when he’d spotted that Impala and had asked Fred to stop the car. <br><br>But hearing the demon had white eyes had cast him into a pensive silence, folded him up in the front passenger’s seat with his hand over his eyes. He conducts his grapple with despair in silence. He’d passed out two more anti-possession necklaces prior to slipping off into this dark inner world. <br><br>But when the first locust hits the windshield he sits up with narrowed eyes. Fred’s observation casts him into Professional Mode, and it’s as if he had never had a doubt in his life. Because now that he can see some of what they’re up against, a plan is starting to present itself. <br><br>“Park there,” he says, tense, pointing to an old open barn off the side of the road. “The property’s up ahead. Park before they can see us.” <br><br>Then the young man half turns around to look at May and Jo. <br><br>The oddity of Sam’s upbringing has had a profound effect on him. Sometimes his youth is obvious: he is uncertain and hopeful all at once. Sometimes, he is twice or even three times as old behind the eyes as he really is. Now he looks ancient, someone who has gone beyond “seen too much”, gone beyond “experienced too much.” He hasn’t stared into the Abyss; he’s sat in the passenger’s seat of a classic car while other men drove straight through it. Or, in this case, a woman, through a cloud of locusts. <br><br>That weight is in his eyes now. They’re flat, hazel reflecting mostly the color green today, emotion pushed far from him. At the least, the matte black the irises (though not the sclera) have been known to display in response to anger lately is missing. <br><b>“White-eyes doesn’t know you three are coming. He only knows for sure that I am.” <br><br>He removes a salt shotgun from beneath his feet. Cocks it. Loads it. “So. I go in obvious. You ladies go in stealth. Attack when the time seems right. I imagine it will want to talk to me before the violence starts. Agent May will know the right moment.” <br><br>It’s Agent May’s eyes he looks into now, because he knows several things. He knows Fred and Jo will hate this plan. He also knows it’s probably their only chance. He knows May will get that. He knows that she’ll get them out of there if she has to. There are senior agents who have never displayed the kind of grim, knowing bleakness that sits in his eyes now. He’s counting on her to make the hard calls and to make these two women her priority if it comes to that. And to lead them to some sort of successful conclusion, if she can. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Being stranded on the side of the highway with all dead electronics and a stalled out Impala and a MISSING DEAN does not a happy May make. She’d been fully prepared to leave Jo with the car and walk to the nearest phone, but that’s about when Sam and Fred pull up. Her first words to the pair are to demand Sam’s cell phone, and then she spends the next several minutes talking with someone in SHIELD as they transfer whatever they need from the Impala’s trunk to Fred’s car and get underway again. <br><br>“Sam, Another senior agent is going to see that the Impala is returned to New York and any damages are repaired. He’s taken care of her for Dean before.” And, Sam might have seen Lola in passing. <br><br>Upon reaching the city with an airport, May directs them toward it, where she meets up with the SHIELD personnel waiting there beside a quinjet. There’s body armor and comms and gear for everyone as well as replacement electronics for May, and despite it being a VERY close fit, Fred’s car is loaded into the jet and they’re underway again with May doing the piloting. <br><br>The atmospheric situation forces them to land several miles away from their target location and drive the rest of the way. The locusts have May muttering something in Cantonese, and then Sam lays out the plan. Her reply is to simply nod and then look at Fred and Jo. Both have seen her at work before, though under completely different situations. This should be interesting. <br><br>May can’t help but wish a sniper had been available to join them. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s fortunate they park away from the house as it enables them the element of surprise--at least to some extent. The figures outside don’t seem to have taken notice. Not yet, anyways. While the heroes plan some distance away, the house-posse lingers watching the front road. The people on the lawn almost look familiar. But it’s hard to really notice from this distance. <br><br>Make no mistake, it’s a trap of their making. <br><br>A few beats pass and when everyone looks away for a second--only to look back moments later--and another figure in a camo-green jacket joins them. Near silence comes over the people while eyes turn up to the sky. <br><br>And in a single second, the swirling sky stills. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>“Sounds more like a musical to me…” Jo’s snark comes out when she’s worried and poor Fred, who’s just met the blonde, gets the full force of it. “... sorry… I’m just … worried.” She falls silent as the car pulls up and just stares at Sams STUPID plan. <br><br>Damn Winchesters and their stupid plans. <br><br>Yet she can’t think of a better one. Not at all. “I ain’t no lady …” it’s the best she can do as she slips from the back of the car and pops the trunk. It’s a veritable treasure trove of weapons they’ve collected there. The Impala was certainly well stocked and combined with what the other other two had … they could go in loaded for bear. <br><br>Pity it’s //not// bear they’re hunting. That would be sooooo much easier. <br><br>Silently, blue eyes flicking to the figures at the house, Jo arms herself. Salt loaded rounds, holy water, silver, iron. Whatever she can carry, she’ll take. As the sixth figure arrives and the sky literally starts opening, she shakes her head. <br><br>“Guess it’s now or never.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam is quite right in thinking Fred will hate his plan - it leaves him going in alone with a creature that can apparently summon swarms of locusts. Demon locusts. “No way.” Fred shakes her head. “I’m not letting you go in there alone. If that thing knows what Dean’s thinking, he knows I wouldn’t let you do this by yourself, I’ll go with you.” It’s not just her being leery of splitting up, it does make logical sense. Her eyes flick toward the SHIELD agent as she says this before they return to Sam. She knows how good May is, having seen her in action during Sam’s rescue, but she is also stubborn on this issue. <br><br>As they start to gather the weapons, Jo’s snark is met with an innocent blink from the brunette. “Actually, yeah, I think it’s a song,” she agrees, a bit guileless. The apology is given a confused nod. “It’s alright, me too.” Worried about Dean, worried about Sam, worried about all of them. <br><br>She makes sure she has some of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt as well as the sleepy-time bomb, passing out other items as needed. The stillness of the sky, when before it was agitated catches Fred’s attention. Much like the other figures, she looks up and then looks back to the yard to see the green jacketed figure now amongst the others. Dean. Or whatever it is that has possessed him. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>He’d nodded about Lola; he’d seen it. An impressive car. But too flashy. Cop magnet. <br><br>“Now or never is a song too,” Sam points out, distracted. Or maybe he’s just going ahead and trying to lighten the mood somewhat. It’s hard to tell. There’s a flash of a tired smile on his face, there and gone again. <br><br>/I ain’t gonna live forever. I just wanna live while I’m alive./ <br><br>Fred makes some sense too. His eyes close for just a moment. But he chose her because he saw an equal, and if she’s ready to step out and partner up and face this with him...well. He has no right to stop her, not when her comment makes tactical sense. He reaches out. Takes her hand. Squeezes once. <br><br>“Together, then,” he says softly. <br><br>They might die together. It might be the last time they are together, because he’s fairly sure what Fred’s destination will be, and he /knows/ what his will be already. <br><br>/But this world is shit. You carve out every last. Damned. Good moment. You. Can./ <br><br>Right now, there’s a little good in the feel of her softer, smaller hand in his broader, more calloused one. <br><br>“Good luck, you two.” This to Jo and Agent May. “And...thanks.” <br><br>And then he takes a deep breath. Steels his spine. Gets out of the car. He’ll wait for Fred. <br><br>And then, hand in hand with her still, if she’ll allow it...he takes what seems to be an endless walk towards the 6 demons he can see, shotgun aimed, for the moment, groundward in his unoccupied hand. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May can only nod as Fred insists on sticking with Sam and he agrees. She’s not in charge of this mission, so she’ll do what’s asked of her and not argue unless she thinks it’s a suicidally stupid idea. And, well, this WHOLE DAY has been suicidally stupid. So, really, it’s all the same anymore. <br><br>Wishing her blades had even a hint of usefulness against demons, she checks the rounds in the pistol in her hands again then looks at Jo. “Let’s go.” She plans to lead the blonde around to flank the demons. At the same time, she’s mentally reviewing other possibilities for getting these demons to leave HER agents the F* alone. <br><br>“How big can a devil’s trap be made?” she asks of the Hunter as they run. She’s now also contemplating the accuracy of, say, those red lasers that Iron Man uses from time to time. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Sam and Fred draw near, the people outside begin to come into focus. The first, with curly red hair, freckles, and a fit figure looks undeniably familiar to Sam. But from years past. If he watches her now-black eyes long enough he might draw some faint memory. When he’d known her, she’d been one of the odd kids in school. While twelve-year-old Sam was new to school, Ellie had been an outcast already. They’d saved her from the Backahasten nine years ago. Evidently she lived well into adulthood. To now be possessed here. Her forehead oozes blood as do her arms and legs. It’s a wonder whether she’s still alive and in her body at all. <br><br>Adjacent to her, the pale mulleted brunette man in the jean vest also has an air of familiarity. His jaw tightens and his eyes level at Sam and Fred in turn. The demon wearing the Roadhouse employee, Ash, stares blandly at the pair. Unlike his female comrade with the black eyes, he has a guise of being human. He’s not. But the guise is there. Ash’s hands are bloodied, bruised, and his shoulder has a strange angle. <br><br>Behind Ash, a pair familiar to Fred lingers. Their eyes follow the woman in particular as she walks by. The faces of her parents staring at her with open amusement eye Fred. She was right--she was expected. Her parents’ lips curve upwards with recognition as their eyes roll to black. Bruising lines her mother’s cheeks and her father’s clothes are soaked in blood.The Deanmon knew that Fred would come along. And it put Fred and her obvious loved ones on the radar. <br><br>And as they walk on, it becomes ever clearer, the Deanmon spent time rooting around through Dean’s thoughts and using each to make a very calculated move. While this demon may not have managed to take May and Jo, he had made other efforts to collect plenty of hostages by dressing his allies in them. Most put up a fight of some kind, but the result had been the same. Those that knew him were lulled into easy complacency while Dean made a trap for them. Swiftly. Easily. <br><br>Finally, adjacent to whoever wears Dean, a small girl. Her light blonde hair, fair almost-invisible eyebrows, and flat-white eyes stare blankly at the pair while her lips press into a thin line. It’s a stand-off. And even children are available to the masses. <br><br>And then there’s Dean. His lips quirk at Sam and Fred’s presence. His hands tuck into his pockets and he stares into Sam’s eyes, trying to make eye contact with the younger Winchester. His lips pull with pride as his teeth flash towards the pair. “Sammy,” the greeting has familiarity that this thing shouldn’t have. But then he has all of Dean’s memories, all of his feelings, and every nuance of the body at his disposal. Dean looks worse for wear. His skin is pale. His eyes, sunken and hollow. And his clothes have blood splatters across them. It’s hard to tell whether the blood is Dean’s or someone else’s but it remains. Dean Winchester is not in good shape--even worse than when Jo and May saw him last. <br><br>Inside the house a loud crash clatters loudly followed by a blood curdling scream. Dean shrugs his shoulders as if to ask //Whatcha gonna do?//. He lifts both of his hands and with a gentle move of his fingers aims to telekinetically throw Fred in one direction and Sam in the other. <br><br>Should anyone try to use electronics, they fail. Utterly and completely. The omens above and the opening in the sky has caused everything to short out. Entirely. There are no cell phone signals, no radio transmissions, and no satellite signals. <br><br>They are in a dead zone. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Thought it was from a musical, to be honest. Y'know the one the Donny Osmond as Joseph..." Jo shrugs at Fred. She might have watched it a time or two and she's deflecting her worry with dumb jokes. <br><br>That, or she simply hasn't eaten enough. That does that too. <br><br>"Be careful." Is all she mutters as the pair head off towards Deanmon and his crew. <br><br>"Soak your blades if you don' think it will negate anything that's been done to them already." The blonde hands over a flask of holy water. It's ... not much, but it's something right. Then they're at a run, skirting round the back of the house whilst Sam and Fred run distraction. <br><br>"How big? If we had the time, we could probably cover the yard and the house." she frowns at the Agent "What are you thinkin' though?" There's a copse of trees not far from the structure, it will obscure their approach, at least for the moment. <br><br>That is, if the demons don't sense their humanity. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Two white-eyed demons. A host of hostages important to them both. <br><br>They are utterly fucked. Even with May and Jo. Especially with May and Jo, who Sam is beginning to think will just be the other hostages taken one way or another today. The state of his brother breaks his heart, ramps up his desperation. <br><br>A shudder runs over him as the white-eyed demon in Dean greets him. His hand tightens on Fred’s hand until it might well hurt. He meets those eyes, then is flung hard into the nearest telephone pole. It bruises him, but that’s not what rips him apart next. <br><br>Because he met those eyes, and even as he staggers up to his feet, his own widen in recognition. Somewhere in his mind, a dam starts to crack. <br><br>“No…” <br><br>At first he doesn’t understand the source of his own mortal terror. But then a name comes to him. The dread he says it with, the sheer, crushing dread, ought to be enough to worry anyone. <br><br>“Alistair.” <br><br>As soon as he says the name the crack becomes a flood. As Alistair no doubt intended when he looked into Sam’s eyes, he breaks Crowley’s weaker memory manipulations easily. It’s like a very talented college basketball player made an incredible three point shot, only to be defeated with ease by an Olympian basketball player on the defense. <br><br>A flash before Sam’s eyes, a /flicker/… <br><br>And… <br><br>Stretched out on the rack, perceiving all as if he were in a body still. Limbs pulled unnaturally long and tight, hooks digging into his flesh, blood slicking them down, unable to move, unable to free himself. <br><br>Flicker. He’s in South Dakota. <br><br>“E--exorcizamus...t-te,” Sam stammers. Is it a serious effort at exorcism? Really? Here? Like this? Or is it a fearful prayer? <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Alistair leans over him, his smile a mockery of something loving as Sammy screams. Something in his hand. The boy has lost track of it. The demon just peeled a layer of skin off of his arm, shoulder to wrist. He holds it up for Sam to see. It’s soulstuff, not skin, Sam understands this, but it feels like skin, looks like skin, is gruesome and bloody like skin. Only if someone had done that to him on Earth, he’d die and escape. Here there is no death. Never death, never an escape. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>The memories are almost too much. His soul twists in agony as if it were all happening here and now. <br><br>“O-omnis,” he whispers, tears flowing down his face, body convulsing. His shotgun hits the dirt. Useless as the words he’s speaking. He grabs his head with both hands, panting, eyes wide, barely seeing anything here anymore because… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He has been here just five days, and he can’t stop weeping, even for a moment. The brand that his tormenter slowly presses into exposed muscle turns tears to howls. Alistair presses hideous lips against his temple, strokes his hair. “You’re my favorite, Sammy.” <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>“Omnis satanica!” It’s almost defiant, until the scream rips out of him, a moment and a flash of pain. The lack of memory had meant that he never felt the damage to his own soul. Now the buffer is gone, and he feels it in live flesh. He falls back to his knees, curling over into a ball, hands pulling fitfully at his hair, screams pouring out of him, twenty days of torment, relived in a few short seconds. <br><br>Just as Alistair intended. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred takes Sam’s hand, looking to Jo and May as they prepare and then separate for this mission. There’s a quick smile to them as thanks before they head straight forward. It may be a stupid idea for her to go in with Sam straight away, she can be quite stealthy from her years scavenging and hiding from demons who wished to capture and behead her. However, she also knows she’s far too close to the situation to hide and wait for a signal. If something happened to Sam, she’d charge in. <br><br>Her hand remains in Sam’s, clutching to him in this moment, knowing how dangerous this is and that they may not make it out alive, but at least in this they’ll face it together. Her bottles and bomb remain tucked in a bag over her shoulder. While she generally feels more comfortable with a crossbow, the second shotgun with its salt shells is cradled in her other arm. <br><br>It’s probably for the best that Fred didn’t stay with May and Jo. As they approach the gathering of individuals, it’s not Sam she would rush forward toward - it’s a pair of very familiar faces. <br><br>“…Mom? Dad?” Fred’s voice breaks as she sees their eyes shift to black. Her attention immediately narrows to the blood on her father’s shirt, the bruises on her mother’s cheeks. Her mind drifts to the young teenager motionless on a yard the night she met Sam. It’s his voice in her head telling her in sympathetic, yet matter of fact voice, ‘Sometimes they use bodies so hard they become walking corpses.’ Is that what she is looking at? <br><br>“No. No!” It’s a denial of both that inner voice and the fact of the matter: her parents might be dead and standing in front of her. Her hand leaves Sam’s as she rushes to them. The shotgun drops at her feet as she reaches out to grasp them on opposite arms, pleading. “Mom, Dad, please.” <br><br>Behind her, as if from a different room, she can hear Sam screaming. <br><br>They shouldn’t have come here. They shouldn’t have done this. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Bigger than we have time to make.” So that idea is discarded promptly. As much as it rankled, May is seeing her potential options dwindling, and quickly. She leads the blonde Hunter through to as close to the others as they can manage without having to leave the cover of the stand of trees they’re in. And again, she wishes they’d asked for a sniper. Or that she’d bothered to spend more time on sniper training. <br><br>With the comms to Fred and Sam suddenly gone quiet, there’s no way to tell that anyone in there is familiar to the Hunters, and when Sam’s screams carry to them, she knows they’re out of time. She’s got one last thing to try, and it’s a long shot. <br><br>Speaking in the ancient and overly formal-sounding Mandarin, she calls for King Wuguan of the Courts of Hell to reclaim the souls that have left Hell before their punishments for their sins were completed. She’s focused specifically on the ones that had been there originally, not Dean or the little girl standing next to him. <br><br>Do exorcisms work when one is out of earshot of the target demons? <br><br><br />
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<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>As May and Jo move around the back of the house, the scent of sulphur becomes increasingly powerful. Its pungent scent of rotten eggs overwhelms as they get closer. Moving to flank the demons out front means passing the windows of the home on the way there thanks to the abandoned cars that surround the junkyard. Bobby had taken care to ensure he would see the goings-on around his house, a necessity as a hunter aiming to stay on in one spot. <br><br>Before they even get to the window, they can smell it: the distinct scent of flames licking wood. But combined with the already sulphuric aroma floating from the area? Fire and brimstone reign here. <br><br>May and Jo can feel the heat of flame as they draw closer to the house. It burns hot and angry as it begins to lick the ceiling inside. And as they pass the window, they see a middle aged woman with dirty blonde hair staring up at the ceiling. While they can’t see what’s on the ceiling, it’s clear that Ellen Harvelle isn’t herself today. <br><br>Her sadistic smile, yellow eyes, and extended hand admire some handiwork out of scope. But within scope. A bevy of unconscious (or dead?) children strewn about the floor. She looks down the hall. “Any movement yet?” she calls. <br><br>“Not yet,” a voice calls back. <br><br>“Then show him a goddamned picture of this. Use your suit’s cellphone,” Ellen scoffs. “Knock on the door and call him out.” <br><br>As far as May’s words are concerned, they don’t seem to have any effect as of yet. But expediency isn’t a feature of all spirits. <br><br>Outside, in the front yard, things aren’t going well. But most of the torture hasn’t been physical as of yet. <br><br>“Hello sweetie,” Fred’s mother’s voice cuts through the little stillness that exists. Alluringly--not at all with an air of maternal warmth--she strides towards Fred. Her long, slender fingers reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind Fred’s ear, an action her mother took many times as a comfort. But the smile is wrong. Her expressions are wrong. Even the tone is wrong. And in an instant, comfort turns tides. <br><br>The demon wearing Fred’s mother reaches out her hand to push Fred back. “We are here for you,” while it might come off as warmth or support, it’s cold and angry. She reaches those slender fingers to grab a mitt-full of Fred’s hair in an effort to drag the girl to her father. <br><br>“Winifred Burkle needs punishment,” Fred’s mother allays to her father. <br><br>Fred’s father’s eyes crease with delight. He looks towards her bag. “You brought us gifts? Oh little girl… we do like presents,” he jeers. He walks around her, assessing her as he does so. “You’ve been very naughty. Your mother just said as much.” And then with the condescending tone of an animal owner reprimanding their pet, he asks, “What did you do?” <br><br>“She wants to hurt us, darling~” Fred’s mother virtually sings. “She wants us to pop and sizzle and burn. She came here with fire in her eyes to smite us, but now? She remembers she’s just a lost little girl.” <br><br>Her father nods curtly. “Of course none of this is real. Sam isn’t real. You made him up, Fred. We’re not really here. None of us. You’re alone. A slave dressed in rags with a heavy collar bound to your neck for eternity. They won’t tell you this, but you don’t die. And you never leave. Not there. Not really. You get to live day after day enslaved to them, their world, and their servitude. To their whirls, wants, and whimsies.” <br><br>A giggle emits from Dean’s lips as Sam begins the words that could put any of them out of commission. “That tickles,” he notes with another quirk of his lips. <br><br>Dean’s face lights with unbridled pleasure. His eyes lid and his lips quirk as if experiencing some other ecstasy at Sam’s pain. A shiver of delight passes over him. But if anyone is paying attention, something, however briefly, changes in the tide. His hand moves towards the inside of his jacket. It’s slow, cautioned, and purposive. It tugs at the inner pocket and draws out a strange looking knife. <br><br>The picture has oddities of its own: Dean basking in revelrie while his hand utilizes the opportunity. With the little girl near, and Alistair’s pleasure continuing, the knife moves to stab the little girl, another white-eyed demon, in the back. Hard. Her body flickers yellow and her occupant twists around to face Alistair. It’s not enough to kill her--not one as powerful as she is, but its effect speaks volumes of what the weapon is. She screams in pain. <br><br>The knife misses her heart, its intended target. <br><br>“I have this handled,” Dean’s voice hisses to the girl. <br><br>“I’ll be fine,” she returns with a smirk. Undoubtedly, whatever that weapon was, hurt. But evidently she doesn’t want to be eliminated from this stand-off. <br><br>The knife rests on the ground in the dust. And for a moment flat-white eyes turn green. They soften. They stare at Sam. And, with a drop of Dean’s chin, they look at the knife. And then back to Sam. In a moment the message is given. One can only hope that in his agony, Sam got it. <br><br>And as quickly as those eyes had softened, they harden again. “So,” Alistair begins. “Tell me, Sammy, do you remember all our fun?” There’s a pause. “I do. I remember the chorus of your screams amongst the others, the way you cried each and every time you awoke the next morning, how you called out for your brother as you hung there.” His eyebrows draw together, “Of course, you also called out for Dad. But we both knew /he’d/ never come.” <br><br>Dean’s body treads to where Sam remains in a ball. “Because he never would. He doesn’t care for you. For either of you.” He lifts a finger. “But. Big brother made a deal to get you out of there.” His expression sours and he looks towards Lilith as he seems to put something together. Between Dean’s memories and the space between them, something is becoming increasingly obvious in their efforts to control Hell. The Faustians are actively undermining their efforts. Alistair sneers. “They stole you from me,” he seethes. <br><br>“You were mine.” There’s a long pause. “And you’re mine again,” his lips edge into a smile. “And this time? There’s nothing big brother can do to stop me. You’re on your own, Sammy.” <br><br>“You. Are. Mine.” <br><br>And then, ominously like a revelation has just come to him, he pats Dean’s chest. <br><br>“And so is he.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>No way to tell that anyone is familiar to the Hunters except for the hitch in Jo's step as she spies Ash through the trees. "... Ash ..." She hisses and glares at the SHIELD agent - heavens knows why, it's not May's fault. <br><br>The look turns to horror as Sam's screams ring out through the area and she squints at the tableau unfolding. "What... is she doing .... " Of course, she doesn't recognise Freds parents but she does recognise Dean, the man who ... well who she's become quite fond of. <br><br>"Keep moving..." What they're going to do, she's no idea but one of her Dads Hunter friend had once said //No plan, no matter how good, survives first contact.// This one, the one of Sam's making, doesn't look like it ever really deployed. <br><br>Despite the heat emanating from the house. Despite the smell of rotten eggs, her steps bring them closer to that window and now the blonde freezes. "Mom..." She breathes, breath hitching in terror. "... they've got Mom ... we have to save her... " <br><br>Can she? Can they? Can they truly save Ellen from the Demon that possesses her. Jo doesn't know, but she's going to try. Probably much to May's dismay. Untrained, undisciplined and potentially, just plain stupid - might be some of the words that the blonde gets labelled with. <br><br>"... and Bobby." That has to be who they're trying to bait out. <br><br>One last glance to the older agent and the blonde takes off at a run, right to the door, throwing it open. "Hey Mom... fancy meeting you here ...." <br><br>//Splash// there's some holy water just for good measure. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There was no one else Alistair could have stolen that would have a worse impact on Fred. Angel, Wesley, even Sam...she would be upset and enraged by their possession. However, she also knows that they live in this world and signed up to be a part of its dangers and accepted those consequences. Her parents? They might know about demons and vampires now, but they live on a farm in Texas. They were away from all this, going about their own normal lives. This could have only happened to them because someone wished to hurt her and that makes this her fault. <br><br>She already knows it is a horrible idea as she runs to them, but she can’t stop herself, wanting to shake them, //make// them okay. Trish tucks her hair behind her ear and for a brief heartbeat of a moment, she hopes. Unfortunately, the voice - while unmistakably her mother’s voice - is wrong. <br><br>The hand easily curls into her long hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling her forward. Fred almost topples and does fall to one knee in front of her father as it happens, wincing at the pain of that yank. “I’m sorry,” she says, heartfelt, through the pain. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you both better. I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t know if they can hear her, but she says it anyway. The words about this being a different world, one that she has made up cause a hitch in her throat, a taunt as to how she dealt with five years in Pylea. How she dealt with the spell that just recently sent her into a spiral. She’s weak, she can’t handle the dangers, she couldn’t protect her parents. <br><br>They ask her what is in her bag, what she’s brought them. It clinks to the ground as she falls, the bottles inside rattling against each other, but don’t break. There is no way she will use any force against her parents, but she has to do something. “H-here…” she says, unzipping the bag just a bit, still looped over one arm. “I’ll show you.” <br><br>A hand reaches in to grab one of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt. Squeezing her eyes shut, taking a deep breath, she pulls it out to smash against the leg of her mother. There are tears in her eyes as she she swings. Five years in Pylea cemented a survivor’s spirit, one that instinctively knows that to save her parents, she has to stay alive, too. If they’re not already dead. No, she can’t think like that. She can’t. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The screams do stop. Sam gets himself under control, bit by bit. <br><br>First, it's because he can hear, distantly, the demons taunting Fred. A flame of fury ignites in him. He's spent many nights reassuring her he was real, and some bastard black-eye pissants think they're going to undo her? Even now, her heart-felt apologies to them rip at his heart. It's a sentiment he more than understands, really. <br><br>That's the moment where he raises his head, panting softly in fear, pain, and fury all at once. His irises slowly turn. Hazel to light green, light green to dark green, dark green to pitch black. He can still feel the throbbing pain as he watches his brother keep right on fighting, and feels such pride in Winchester the Elder that it helps to snap a new memory into place. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Life is pain, Princess," says the smooth-talking pirate on the flickering television screen. "Anyone who says differently is selling something." <br><br>The TBS logo appears briefly at the bottom of the screen, signalling a switch to commercial. Sometimes nothing good is on TV, but today, at the Motel Picayune on MS Hwy 5, they luck out. Sammy is four years old, and he is in his favorite spot: snuggled up to his brother on the couch, one of the only places he ever feels safe. He's sucking his thumb, and Dean notices and gently draws it out of his mouth. <br><br>"Stop that," says the older boy, but with no heat. And then, thoughtfully, "He's right you know, Sammy. The Dread Pirate. Life is pain." <br><br>Sammy shifts uneasily and says nothing. He kind of knows some of this already. Life had Been Pain just yesterday, when he'd spilled his milk in the diner, broken a glass, and had inspired Dad to smack him and berate him for being careless in front of everyone. It was his fault. He shouldn't have been so clumsy. <br><br>Dean seems to sense his unease, and sets his mouth into a grim line. At 8, Dean always looks so grown-up, so tough. Sammy emulates the expression as best he can. <br><br>"But you know what you can do, Sammy? You can /fight/. Fight for the people who can't fight for themselves, and most of all fight against any son of a bitch who tries to hurt anyone you care about. I'm going to teach you. You'll see." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He gets the signal. He sees it. Now he has to figure out how to exploit it. Alistair steps right up to him, taunts him, and Sam starts putting his brain to work. Why is it going down like this, specifically? Why draw him all the way out there for hours? Why gather everyone he's ever known, and Fred's parents? Why attack Bobby? What do they want here? Getting Dean's body alone was enough to have Sam ready to give himself up to them, but that's not what they want. Alistair had been angry, in fact, when Sam had seemed meek. Sam gets the impression he'd have been angrier still if he'd tried to bow his head for his brother's life. It tracks with what he remembers, now. Some tormenters grew angry at defiance, threats, but Alistair had never seemed so proud as the day that-- <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" Sam screams, his voice cracking not because it was ready to take on the new tones of manhood, but simply under the strain. Day 14. "I'm going to carve out your KIDNEYS and I'm going to FEED THEM TO YOU, do you understand? You better HOPE I never get out of here, because I am going to KICK YOUR DEMON ASS!" <br><br>"Goood," Alistair coos. "That's good, Sammy." <br><br>And he rewards him with a drink of water, the first his parched throat had seen in two weeks. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Of course. Alistair wants him to /change/. Soon after that… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"All you have to do is take the knife, Sammy. Take the knife, and run it down her foot, and I'll let you off the rack. I'll give you a whole day off for that one little cut. It's so sharp, it'll cut her like nothing. Like running a butter knife through mashed potatoes." <br><br>"No. I won't." <br><br>"Then I guess I'll have to run it down /your/ feet." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Sam's throat burns, parched. He can sense he doesn't have nearly enough juice to pull the only trick that gets any of their possessed friends out. He doesn't have enough for Alistair for sure. He needs more. Which was the point. Goad him into saving Dean at the expense of Ellie, Ash, Fred's parents. Save Dean, and possibly Fred from her infected parents, and Bobby...or save nobody at all. A sadistic choice. May and Jo are here, but they're vastly outnumbered. And /something/ awful is happening inside the house, too. <br><br>Sam is not a fan of sadistic choices. <br><br>He is, however, a fan of third options. The knife won't be enough, he knows, because he just saw for himself it wasn't. But he has a theory. Two theories, really. <br><br>One. <br><br>The strength of the demon MUST matter to the potency of the blood. He hadn't entirely been honest with Claire, though it was only cause he hadn't thought about it at the time. The Crossroads demon he'd eaten had been so much more satisfying and had lasted so much longer than the black-eyes he'd first taken. Vengeance demons were also crazy powerful, and that's what he'd been mostly sipping on, but he would rank them about on the scale of a Crossroads...they both had that wish-granting ability and power, and just used it differently. The rush was more the rush of NEEDING something and getting it. Like feeding a caffiene addiction. Or his alcohol addiction. As he'd said. The rush of a black-eyes? Practically non-existent. The rush, and the power. The power of a white-eyes, a literal ruler of Hell? That's going to be immense. So will, dangerously, the rush, but one problem at a time. <br><br>Two. <br><br>That he can inject it, or he can drink it. He'd had some dreams about simply drinking gallon after gallon of demon blood. He'd had dreams of ripping demons open with his /teeth/, during that first hellish week where demon blood had suddenly become nearly all he could think of. Which was...to the good, really, because he has no time whatsoever to set up a neat, clean drip. This again tracked with the set-up; if they'd hoped he wouldn't see through this they couldn't exactly set it up so he could go after each of those people with a needle. <br><br>So. Third option. Dangerous, difficult to pull off, disgusting in the extreme, uncomfortable for both him and Dean because there is no way to do this in a way that isn't. But fitting, too, because this will mean he and Dean took care of this son of a bitch together. And really, there is no universe where Sam Winchester ever wants Dean to be an unwilling victim. Dean has put himself a little bit back in the ring; Sam decides to keep him there. <br><br>He times the test of the theory though. Times it for the moment that Fred decides she's not going to cave. That she's going to fight. The moment she smashes holy water and salt into the demon wearing her beloved mother. He synchs up with them, moves with them, adding Fred to the synchronous fighting flow that he's always shared with Dean. This is appropriate. On a number of levels. <br><br>He stretches out his hand, as if he is going to try his trick of forcing a soul out of the body without the juice-up. But instead, he exercises the barest hint of his power, yanking that knife to his hand with a burst of telekinetic force. <br><br>"Watch those kidneys, Al," Sam hisses, as if they were already succeeding, as if he'd be willing to kill his brother to spare him… <br><br>Only to feint at them...and instead plunge the demon knife into Alistair's calf, right into where Sam thinks he remembered a superficial system called the great saphenous vein would be. He has read up on anatomy, as it happens, precisely /because/ he tries to spare the vessels of the possessed. If he finds his mark he's hit a vein that would bleed like a son of a bitch, and /hurt/ like a son of a bitch, but won't threaten Dean's life. He hopes the shock of the obviously magical weapon, Dean's own desire to take the reins, and the location itself will buy him the time to do what he needs to do. Because the next thing he does is withdraw the knife, launch himself forward, seize Alistair's leg, and clamp his mouth around it. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Pulling the still salt-saturated sash whip, May looks up and curses when Jo darts off toward the house proper. She can’t watch over everyone if they’re running all over the place willy-nilly. She wastes a moment trying to decide if she can help Jo with the farmhouse, then decides, no, the young woman has proven herself pretty well able to handle things. It’s the multiple demons that she’s concerned with. <br><br>This whole day has been beyond screwed up. Moving as quietly as she can she takes a breath, then charges out at the group of demons all together. She doesn’t know any of the people they’re possessing, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to just mow through them. Anything she can do to lock them down and hopefully banish the demons will be good enough. <br><br>Her sash whip snaps out at the closest black-eyed demon (Ash) the moment she’s within range. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside, the dramatic interruption of a the blonde hunter sees holy water steam from Ellen’s back. The demon wearing her, however, is powerful and strong. Ellen twists around to see her daughter’s face, and yellow eyes sparkle at the sight. “You look like her--thought that when I got access to your mother’s thoughts,” yellow-eyes taunts. “Dean is just looking for his mama again and again and again,” she muses with a sadistic turn of her lips. With the fire burning above, lighting multiple bodies as it billows, she lifts a hand--a burst of telekinetic energy to push Jo back, hard. Her head tilts. “I would’ve liked to wait until Alistair could bring his suit here,” the smooth cadence of her mother’s voice mixed with the pure venom of Azazel’s malice chills the air. “But, as they say, time is of the essence.” <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>The shotgun fire of salt loaded bullets distracts enough to have the telekinetic move last just a moment, giving Jo release as Bobby’s house continues to go up in flames. “Let go of Ellen, you son of a bitch,” Bobby’s flat tone cuts into the room. The salt rounds won’t be enough to stop her, but it might serve as a distraction. “Kid, we need to round her off back towards the living room,” he states. Bobby’s house is most definitely full of demon traps. The trick is getting this thing into one of them. <br><br>Outside, Fred finds her fight, and the holy water burns her mother’s skin. The demon wearing her screeches in pain, falling forward as steam rises from her body. Her father reacts in kind, forcing her backwards with a burst of telekinetic energy to throw her against a car. “Winifred, you’ve been a very naughty girl,” he repeats from before. While Trish-demon tries to recover, Roger-demon takes point. <br><br>He paces towards her and allows his head to cant to the side, examining her. “There was a time when you were young that your father gifted you something of comfort. That you wouldn’t be afraid. Somehow you thought a rabbit would calm the storm. A stuffed bunny that your father believed would help you relate better to others.” He taps his temple. “I remember. Or, he does. He almost felt bad about it. Giving you a bunny instead of helping you find a friend. You were always such a sweet child.” He motions towards Trish. “That’s what your mother always said. So sweet. So innocent. So alone. Still alone. Always alone.” <br><br>“Nothing can comfort you here.” His tone flattens, “Not your beloved knight in shining whatever,” his nostrils flare, “not your mother’s touch,” his nose wrinkles and his lips quirk, “and not even that damned bunny. No one can make sense of the chaos.” <br><br>“That place you were at, it’s real. It’s not just in your mind, and you can bet that we will find a way to return you to it. Or,” he smiles faintly, “at least, leave dear old Mom and Dad there.” His black eyes shimmer with unbridled amusement. He’s thrilled. Pleased with his latest consideration. “I bet these bodies aren’t even necessary for our plans.” <br><br>The knife into Dean’s calf cuts true. And, sure enough, Sam finds the vein easily. If, however, he opens his eyes, he can see his brother has been subjected to numerous other cuts down his leg--all in various states of disarray thanks to the lack of nutrition that Alistair has provided him. Healing requires basic blocks of life, and Dean has had none. Yet none of those would’ve granted or <br><br>The sound that emits from Dean’s lips is somewhere between pain and ecstasy. Sam gets an ample dose before Alistair manages to lift a hand to push him back because another will buried inside him continues to exert itself where it can, even in exhaustion, malnutrition, and injury. Of course, it doesn’t take much of Alistair’s blood to make the younger Winchester dosed up. Oddly, none of the other demons rush the situation. None try to draw Sam away. The child in the distance even smiles. Softly. As if she’s experiencing a puppet show or play. Her eyes flit towards the others, and with a small smile, she disappears. <br><br>“I didn’t think you had it in you, Sammy,” Alistair states with a wry smile as he flexes Dean’s leg to continue to let the blood pour out. He is really not kind to this body. “You know, I wonder how much /anyone/,” Crowley for one, “will want my sloppy seconds.” <br><br>The sash draws towards Ash and catches his skin causing it to steam and burn, but doesn’t wrap around the demon before he’s onto the ploy. His hand lifts and it turns back towards May. Vacantly, his head tilts to the side. “Handy trick,” he states evenly while he lifts a hand to . “Bet it helped when you ganked that little girl in Bahrain.” His lips curve into a smile. “Alistair tortures her day after day after day in Hell. If you ever wonder what that’s like, I suggest talking to Sam.” <br><br>He strides forward to close the distance again. His hands lift in want. “She was pretty though, wasn’t she?”<br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo grimaces as Ellen back steams. As much as she'd expected it, it was still a shock. "Mom..." is that plea or just simple sorrow? Hard to tell, given the blonde is rocketed backwards. <br><br>//Thump// <br><br>"Nggggnh. He's not, you know, looking for his Mom..." A weak protest indeed. The words have cut through the blonde like a knife. Far more dangerous than any physical torment Ellen-demon could subject her to. <br><br>Eyes wide, there's still fight in the woman even though she's held tight. The first blast from the shotgun causes her to jump - that's not how they're supposed to take her, is it? Oh wait. That's Bobby's voice she's hearing as she slides to ground, hand rising to massage her throat. <br><br>It takes a moment - several very long moments really - for Bobby's words to sink in. "Living room, right. Come and get me you bitch if you want me..." her other hand delves into the pouch on her hip and salt is strewn to one side Ellen-mon. It won't hold her for long but Bobby should be able to ride herd as Jo acts as bait. <br><br>OK. It might not be the best plan - but it's far from the worst she's had today. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Wincing in sympathy pain as she hears her mother shriek, Fred pushes herself upward to standing. Her hand grips the neck of another bottle to toss onto her possessed father, but she never gets a chance to throw it. The telekenetic shove whips her against the car and she gives a short, soft cry of pain. Some of the beer bottles shatter on impact, shards of glass and holy salt water now pooling in the bottom of its fabric. <br><br>Pinned there, Fred is forced to listen to the demon holding her father as he recounts exactly why he gave her Feigenbaum in the first place. It attempts to twist a fond memory into something sad and tainted. Hearing her father’s voice talk to her in a way that is nothing like her father twists a knot in her stomach. Desperately, she shoves against the supernatural hold that keeps her helplessly in place, unable to move and unable to stop listening to the horrible words and threats. <br><br>The threat of Pylea - finding a way to send her or her parents back there - sends a cold stroke of fear down her back. “Don’t,” she says, softly. The thought of her parents on Pylea, scrounging to survive, causes her eyes to glass over with more tears. “Please leave them out of this.” She has to do something, has to stop this. <br><br>Trapped against the junked car, there is little she can do. She can’t toss any of the holy water, can’t do anything. Except talk. She takes a shallow breath - all she is able to do against the horrible pressure - and starts to quietly recite. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It feels amazing. For a moment Sammy is just...lost. The power flows into his mouth, down his throat, into his body. He feels the glory of every swallow. The taste on his tongue. Not bitter, or salty, or coppery. Sweet. He feels like he's floating in a sea of white. It feels surprisingly unthreatening. Exhaustion, gone. Uncertainty gone. Fear, gone. Nothing but the absolute certainty that he is unstoppable. <br><br>Being pushed off is a blessing. To Sam, it feels almost intolerable. But it keeps him from madly draining his brother dry, which he surely would have done if he'd been allowed to feed without reservation or restraint. <br><br>Only a bare trickle of blood runs from the corner of his lips, stained a rich color from the exchange. His eyes shift a little too. Black? Or are they closer to red now? Is his demon half moving subtlely up the hierarchy? It fades back to black a second later, he'd have to do a lot more feeding, a lot more regularly, to unleash /that/ fresh Hell. Probably nobody's looking at that but Alistair himself. <br><br>Alistair says he didn't think he had it in him. <br><br>Sam stands. He's not doing this on his knees. He wipes the trickle on the back of his hand. He watches Alistair as he slurps it up, licking that last little bit away. Nothing wasted. Nothing. There will be consequences for this, but they feel so distant. So. Unimportant. He rolls his tongue over his lips, over his teeth, cleaning the blood away, mostly intent on getting it all inside of him as fast as he can make it happen. But there's still a very disturbing quality to his smile. It's slight. Hard, as Sammy's smiles never are. Holding an edge that hints at something within him that is more than capable of cruelty, if pushed to it. Cruelty in equal measure, as it happens, to his vast empathy. <br><br>"You shouldn't have put yourself back on my radar, Alistair," Sam says, in a low, too-calm voice. "There will be consequences for that. But for now?" <br><br>His hand forms into a sort of claw. He rears it back. Though the other demons are right on his priority list, Fred's parents in particular, he's going to trust May and Fred to keep fighting while he initiates what has been, with every other demon, a battle of wills. Fred might achieve what she needs to with the exorcism anyway. Distantly, he hopes they're in good enough shape to survive the process. Distantly, he wonders what's happening to Jo and Bobby. <br><br>But he can only do one thing at a time. <br><br>He flings his will into his brother's form, shoving with all his might, doing his dead level best to use his stolen power to force his former tormenter straight back to Hell, and to hit him hard enough with that force that he won't have the strength to come seeking a new host for quite some time. <br><br>"Give me back my brother, you sorry son of a bitch." <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>If there’s one thing that May has learned only too well in her years at SHIELD, it’s the ability to NOT let it show when something affects her. Thus, Ash’s comments about the little girl and Bahrain appear to fall upon deaf ears as she sidesteps the sash whip coming back at her then whirls around, pulling the weapon back into a whirring spin. She also doesn’t waste time with talking. <br><br>Setting the whip to spin blurringly fast, she flicks it out at Ash-demon again, knowing it’s exactly what he’ll expect and with her other hand pulls the salt-loaded pistol from the Impala’s trunk and shoots at the redneck demon. She’s aiming only to wound and annoy, though, by shooting at his right thigh. Sorry… whoever you are. <br><br>Then she does start to toss out words, again using the ancient Mandarin to call upon one of the Kings of Diyu to pull these souls back to Hell to complete their punishments. <br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, “He’s been looking for his mom since I stole her,” Ellen counters to Jo. Bobby receives a small tilt of her head as she stumbles backwards from the shells. It won’t stop her, and it won’t send her back to hell, but it certainly has some impact, enough to grant a death stare towards the gentleman-hunter. “Decided to leave your solace to have some fun?” her yellow eyes flash with amusement. <br><br>Bobby looks worse for wear. His head has been bandaged many times over. His clothes are blood soaked. His wrists are bound with bandages. He’s been through something vile--that much is clear. But the anger in his eyes doesn’t dissipate. He shoots the gun again, this time towards the demon’s head. “Get. Out,” he says again. <br><br>Ellen’s eyes glimmer as Jo begins to lead her away. She knows what’s up. She also knows the house is going up in flames. Even from the outside the flames can be seen. Time is short. “I took her, you know. I took Sam’s fiance. And it’s only a matter of time until I take you. And make no mistake, Jo, I will get you.” She manages a small smile. “But in the meantime, know that he doesn’t love you. Not really. He doesn’t know how. Even your mother knows that.” There’s a pause. “Unless it’s Sam. Sam will always come first. He sold his soul for Sam--do you think he would ever do that for you? If you think so, you know you’re lying to yourself…” <br><br>“Shut up, you Idjit!” Bobby fires again to herd the demon towards Jo. “Don’t listen to him, Kid. They spew anything and everything to get inside yer ‘ead,” he fires the shotgun again. <br><br>And it seems to be working for the time being, but it’s easier than it should be. It’s possible the demon wants to get caught or its gambit has been fulfilled already. <br><br>Outside, Roger-demon sneers when Fred makes her bid for her parents’ lives. His nostrils flare and his body tenses at the request not to put them in Pylea. There’s little room for any of it. He takes delight in her pleading, and he doesn’t lose that edge of torment as he laughs, “I will see that every day of their life and beyond they are in agony. And the agony will never cease. Not once. Not ever.” <br><br>But the murmuring of the Latin causes his knees to buckle. His black eyes cannot handle the Latin the way the white eyes can. He falls onto his hands. He bats the ground as the words continue to spill from Fred’s lips and he begins to cough as his soul begins to be banished into the pit beyond. <br><br>Trish-demon, meanwhile has begun to recover. She forces herself to a stand and walks to where Roger and Fred are. <br><br>There will be consequences for Alistar returning to Sam’s radar. “I’m counting on it,” Dean replies gruffly. Amusement tugs at each edge of Dean’s face. His eyes crinkle with delight, his lips turn upwards, and the white of his eyes seems downright delighted. But the delight begins to change when Sam reaches out his hand. <br><br>At first, Alistair spreads Dean’s arms, inviting the change. But then the pressure changes. The white-eyed demon fights, demanding even more juice to be expensed and Dean’s body buckles beneath the war, stumbling towards the ground. Sam pulls on Alistair’s soul, forcing him from Dean’s body. And, because he can, he claws at the edges of Dean’s consciousness. <br><br>Dean’s chin lifts towards the sky and his mouth opens as a white thick cloud of smoke floats into the sky. It billows above, disappearing into nothing as it moves. <br><br>Dean collapses when the smoke disappears, causing his body to fall into the fetal position with his stomach falling to the ground. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cough. Emptily, he remains there frozen in place. <br><br>Ash screams in agony when the shell hits his thigh. He collapses to his knees. “You bitch!” he seethes loudly. “She agonizes every day because of what you did! And she will come back to haunt you--I swear that you will suffer tenfold!” <br><br>The demon wearing him keeps black eyes shining as he reaches out to counter her. He sends a burst of telekinetic towards her to thrust her against a rusty looking dumpster. But as he does so, he also begins to be willed from the body he’s occupying. His lips part and thick black smoke begins to billow up to the sky. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's difficult to hear much of what's happening outside - just the muffled noises that indicate not everything is ok in Kansas, Toto. Jo's blue eyes flick uncertainly in that direction but Ellen-mon's words have her focussing again. <br><br>Do they work? Does the demon manage to plant the seed of doubt in the blondes mind? What she has with Dean ... it's fledgling. They'd made no promises to each other, had they? Wasn't he really 'Mister Right Now' rather than 'Mister Right'? Maybe. Time will tell the effect those words truly have. <br><br>"You can have me if you can catch me." Jo's voice trembles as she moves further into the house. It is too easy, baiting the creature like this and she shoots a quick look to Bobby trying to convey that. <br><br>"I've chosen Ellen over Dean, so I guess we're even on that score." she tells her corrupted mothers form. "Blood is, after all, thicker than water." <br><br>It's getting hot in here and a trickle of sweat runs down her forehead but still, she leads the demon on. Ellen-mon. Gotta catch them all. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred, pinned against the car like a butterfly to a board, keeps reciting. She can hear the spiteful words of the demon holding her father promising them pain. It only spurs her to recite faster, to try and literally release that demon. The same fear Sam has is lodged in the back of her head - the teenager face down in a lawn that would never move again. The one Sam wrapped in a tarp and drove elsewhere. Is that the future for her parents? Will she not only be the reason for their possession, but their death? <br><br>The words slow slightly as she thinks about that, a soft sob interjecting itself in her recitation in between lines. Her eyes close as she continues, seeing her father drop to his knees and choke. The approach of her mother is unable to be seen. She simply can’t stand it. She has little of the training or outward fortitude of May. Every word clearly cuts her deeply. Still, though, she speaks through unbearable pressure and the pain. <br><br>Determined, aching and devastated, she finishes the exorcism. Despite the dangers, the fact that she knows there are enemies still around, she cannot bear to open her eyes, to see if she succeeded - and if she did - to see what that means. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Dean!” <br><br>Sam darts forward to gather Dean into his arms. He wants to check for a pulse, he wants to offer some food or water or medical care, but they are still very much in the middle of a crisis here. And Fred is still being menaced. He sees Mr. Burkle’s demon smoke out, but here comes Mrs. Burkle. <br><br>He flings his hand in that direction, jaw firming with determination. After Alistair, this should be nothing. He was unable to force the white-eyed monster back to Hell, he’s still out there. But a black-eyes? <br><br>Should be easy enough. <br><br>He pushes the soul out like it’s nothing, leaving, briefly, a black fiery burn mark on the ground beneath her feet. It takes a moment of concentration, but compared to Alistair it’s as easy as simply thumping a piece of paper away with his thumb and forefinger. Gentler on Mrs. Burkle’s body than the exorcism, though there are still no guarantees. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May get slammed back against a rusty old dumpster, and that finally elicits a reaction from her. She growls at the pain and frustration of being stuck, but then as the demon ghosts out of the young man’s body and the hold on her releases, she takes a breath and then says to the black smoke, “You first.” <br><br>Then, grimacing slightly as she steps away from the dumpster and feels like someone just pulled a rusty knife out of her back, she takes a very quick stock of the goings on and turns to run for the farmhouse. As much as seeing what Sam is doing disturbs her, she can’t exactly argue it now. But she CAN go help Jo with whatever is going on inside the house. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, Ellen follows Jo through to the living room. She lifts a hand to telekinetically hit the girl, but the shotgun fire grants her pause. Bobby has few (if any) concerns about damaging his home. It’s already going up in flames anyways. While Jo may be acting as live bait, the yellow-eyed demon seems to take it. The plan may be known, but something seems to inspire Ellen-mon forward. <br><br>And sure enough, the living room is a veritable myriad of demon traps. The ceiling, walls, and floor underneath the carpet all act as demon traps. Yellow eyes is stuck. Ellen, however, just smiles at the others, strangely pleased with herself at this turn of events. “You’re both aware that you’ve won nothing today, aren’t you? All of this went according to plan.” Her yellow eyes track towards Jo. <br><br>Bobby’s expression remains neutral. He’s been dealing with monsters for decades and he won’t let himself be rattled by another. He does, however, look towards Jo. “Send the bitch home, Kid,” intending her to exorcise her own mother. <br><br>When May finds the pair inside the home, Bobby casts her a long look as he levels his shotgun towards her. A glance is given Jo, silently asking about the woman standing in front of him. <br><br>Outside, Fred’s agony gets emphasized as her mother continues what her father had begun. Trish lifts her fingers to slowly, telekinetically, wrench Fred’s skull. She applies pressure, exerting more with every passing instant to literally crush her brain. But it’s all for naught. She’s ripped from the mortal she’s residing in by Sam’s will. In an array of black smoke, she leaves Trish’s body on the ground in a mess of nothing. <br><br>Ellie smirks as Trish is exorcised, and in a second, she’s gone to parts unknown to fight another day. <br><br>Unconscious, both of Fred’s parents lay there with no movement. It’s a wonder if they’re alive. <br><br>Not far away, Dean’s body resembles a corpse. Pallid skin. Cold. Empty. His eyes don’t flicker, his breath doesn’t steady. And in a way, he’s nearly vacant. The light seems comforting. Peaceful. He knows it leads nowhere good, but his mind struggles to return to the present. <br><br>The rocking had been peaceful. The sound of her humming a comfort even before he’d seen her face. But she never stuck to humming. Her voice echoes in his mind. “Hey Jude, refrain, don’t carry the world upon your shoulders~’ <br><br>She didn’t like lullabies. She liked the Beatles. They would rock in the rocking chair of the nursery. Time and time again. “For well you know that it’s a fool~ Who plays it cool~ By making this world a little colder~” <br><br>“You need to wake up, Dean,” she says softly. He can almost feel her fingers on his cheek. The way she’d gently woken him many times when they had somewhere to be. <br><br>In the real world, Dean gasps for breath, inhaling a face full of dirt, causing him to push up slightly to cough the dirt back into the ground before collapsing against it again. He’s alive. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus... " Jo starts to intone as she hits the living room. Bobby didn't need to tell her twice. "omnis satanig--" <br><br>She stutters as the yellowed eye demon taunts them further and draws in a gasping breath. <br><br>"He'll survive. They'll survive..." She mutters to herself. Who's she's talking about isn't clear, perhaps not even to herself. She knows better than to respond to the creature but it's hard, oh so hard. <br><br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis satanicus potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii..." <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>Holy water is added to the moment mix of this recipe. <br><br>"omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura," <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>"tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, AUDI NOS!" <br><br>The final words of the rite have her voice rising as sweat pours down her face. She's breathing heavily by the time she finishes. Who knew reciting a few words could be so taxing? <br><br>Ellen-mon smokes, or is it steams?, as the water hits her and her body trembles terribly at the words. Those eyes fix Jo with deadly intent as yellow smoke rises from her body. <br><br>"Is it over, Bobby?" she grates out. Not once thinking to question if this truly is the Hunter and not some other meat-suit wearing Demon. <br><br>Um. They should probably take Ellen's body and get the hell out of Dodge. <br><br>"Dean...." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The pressure against her is felt exponentially. Fred’s eyes remain closed as the pain increases, her head shoved against the junkyard car further and further. There’s only so long it will last before it might burst. She starts to try again, the words gritted through her teeth, through the excruciating pain. “Exorci….zamus….te….” <br><br>Suddenly, though, the pain is gone. Fred drops to the ground in a pile of limbs, gasping at the sudden release of pressure against her body. Her eyes remain closed for a few moments until they open to glance upward. She takes in the scene, blinking at the sudden brightness after squeezing her eyes shut for so long. <br><br>There’s Sam holding Dean and then, there is her parents, lying motionless on the ground. Scrambling, tripping in her hurry to get up, she scurries to them. The bag of mystical weapons are left behind broken and filled with water. It might be a mistake, but she isn’t thinking about that right now. Instead, she needs to get to her parents, to check on them. <br><br>“Mom? Dad?” Terrified, she reaches for them, checking for a pulse, gently assessing them to try and see if they have any wounds that need to be tended. “Please, please, wake up. Please be okay. I’m sorry.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester has never felt so relieved in his life as he feels when Dean wakes up in his arms. He lifts him up a little to try to get him out of the dirt, rolls him over, sees Fred fussing over her parents. Some of the demons exited, stage left. Now he turns his attention to Bobby’s home, gasping, worried. <br><br>He is no healer, but there are still things he can do. He knows this might well use nearly all of what he’s got. He is already going to need a dose much faster than usual. He’s already out of them. New York is far, far away. <br><br>He’ll just have to trust that he’ll pull through, because he can’t let Bobby’s house burn. Father, uncle, whatever one wants to call him, Bobby Singer is family. <br><br>He could never try this if he weren’t high on the rush of demonic blood. But now he lifts his hand and focuses on the fire. Focuses on pulling it first to a single point outside the house, telekinetically trying to draw flames together into one long finger-like torrent, stretching it out and out and out until he can get it away from Bobby’s home. <br><br>It works, to his shock. But he doesn’t revel in it for long. There’s a watery ditch, a culvert he played in as a kid. He slams the fire into it, leaving only a hiss of steam in the distance. It’s probably a Hell of a thing to watch. In more ways than one. <br><br>He keeps his arm tightly around his brother the entire time, pressing his chest to his brother’s back to keep him in spiritual contact with the anti-possession ward tattoo’d deeply into his own skin. He doesn’t have time to grab that final necklace from his pocket right now, and he won’t risk another possession. They won’t get this lucky twice. <br><br>“Fred,” he asks hoarsely, a one-word request for a status report on her parents. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May bursts into the farmhouse and stops abruptly when the older man (though really, he’s probably the same age she is) turns his shotgun on her. “We need to go,” she says to the younger Harvelle after seeing the woman freed of possession. She’s guessing that that’s Jo’s mother, and while keeping a wary eye on Bobby, she moves cautiously closer to check on the now unconscious woman and in doing so passes straight through at least two devil’s traps without realizing they’re there. <br><br>She checks Ellen’s pulse and finds that she’s out for the count, but not on the verge of dying, which is a relief. She starts to heft the unconscious woman into a fireman’s carry when the fire suddenly just … goes away. She is going to have WORDS with Sam after this. But, the house may very well still be structurally compromised so she keeps on with the getting Ellen out. “Let’s move, Jo. Now.” <br><br>Her eyes land on Bobby again for a moment as if to see if he’s going to follow or continue standing there being openly curmudgeonly. But only for a moment. The smoke is now more dangerous than the flames were, so she’s getting out and she’s taking Ellen with her. <br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Looking to the skies reveals that the omens have shifted. The skies have cleared and blue takes over from the swirl of orange, red, and white. It’s relieving. The locusts have cleared--something they will notice when they drive out of here. <br><br>Bobby casts a long look to Jo as May enters the demon traps. His shotguns drop and his own bloodied body nods once at the young blonde when May moves to get Ellen out. In no time, he’s walking out of his home, semi-intact and looking out on the yard. His head shakes once while he assumes silence. His eyes train on the boys and linger on Sam for a long while. <br><br>Fred’s parents remain unresponsive. Assessing her mother yields a strong pulse and breathing. Her body doesn’t look ridden hard--likely because it wasn’t ridden long. Alistair had some last minute additions to his hostage entourage. It’s good to be at the tail end of the possessions. Her father’s pulse, however, is weak. Barely there. His breathing is shallow. Undoubtedly the exorcism had unwanted secondary effects. Both are alive though. <br><br>Dean’s vision can’t come into focus. His body refuses to cooperate as he tries to regain some semblance of muscle control. He wants to stand. He can’t even motivate himself to wriggle out of Sam’s grasp. And so he stays there. His eyes burn, prompting him to close them again. His very breath rakes against his throat, scratching with dryness like sandpaper. Mary’s voice continues to sing over him in this place. He can sense her. Feel her. And it moves him. <br><br>Years of hunting have made Dean hard. He knows to maintain himself. To carry his composure. His life has been threatened many times before. He’s sold his soul. He’s died and come back to life. Seven times. <br><br>Maybe it’s the lack of nourishment, dehydration, or the sheer magnitude of being possessed for days, but something breaks. And, underneath his arm, Sam can feel Dean’s chest heave. <br><br>Dean Winchester is crying. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"A friend..." Jo grates out as May bursts through the door "... sort of..." she ammends. "SHIELD agent." Which should speak volumes for Bobby and warn him. No matter what she's been through, and her face shows the fear, the panic, the terror she feels, Jo won't leave Bobby out to dry. <br><br>Wiping her hand across her forehead, smearing grime and soot as she does, the blonde nods once to May, dips and helps her left Ellen, leaving the house and out into the yard. <br><br>"... Dean ..." Poor May is left with Ellens weight as the Hunter's daugher, now Hunter herself, takes a faltering step forward. Yellow eyes words play in her head like a bad song stuck on repeat. It takes a moment for her to push the doubt down. It's not gone - and the pair will have to deal with that ... later. <br><br>Hopefully much, much, later. <br><br>Standing there, between May and the men, hands clenched, Jo finally surveys the turmoil. "Fred? Ar... " she swallows "Are they ... " she can't finish the statement. She heard the womans' plaintive plea to the downed pair. <br><br>She hasn't looked for Ash yet. There's too much to take in, as her eyes return to the Winchester brothers. No place for her there. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>As her mother is closest to her, Fred checks her pulse first, finding it steady, though the woman has yet to wake up. A slight warmth of relief starts flood its way through until she reaches her father. His breathing is shallow, his pulse weak. The blood in her ears pounds as she quickly tries whatever she can to steady him, to heal him. There’s a look to her mother, still lying there. She feels terrible about leaving her there, but it’s Roger that is in the most dire straits. <br><br>“Dad, Dad, come on. You gotta stay strong, okay?” The question from Sam, from Jo, they’re both only heard as if from far away, barely recognized. All her attention is on her father, lying here. Her hands remain on him as she finally looks up, towards the others. She might not have heard their questions, but she knows Sam is there, that Dean is there. There’s almost surprise as she sees Jo and May, as well as two others she doesn’t know. Ellen may be unconscious, but the previously unseen form of Bobby stands with them and there is a brief wariness that fades to her greater concerns. <br><br>“Help him,” she pleads. “He’s...he’s weak. I think I...I don’t know. We gotta get him out of here. Please.” Panic has clearly set in. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Bobby is staring at him, and Sam looks away, flushing with sudden shame. And that makes him angry, because look. There they are. All alive. <br><br>But not all well. Dean is weak, Fred’s parents are weak, Ash is weak, Ellen is no doubt weak. His mouth sets into a tight line. He hefts Dean up as if he were hefting up a small child. He doesn’t even strain to do it. It doesn’t occur to him that Jo might be feeling uneasy about her place in that right now, or he’d be more considerate, but right now he’s in crisis mode. He fishes out that necklace, puts it firmly around Dean’s neck. <br><br>He sees Dean’s tears but won’t address them. It would mortify his brother. If anything he turns Dean into his body just a little bit, so the man can shed what he needs to shed without anyone seeing. A protective gesture, though not a traditional one. <br><br>“How fast can you get a SHIELD medical team to us, Agent May?” Sam asks. “Or us to a SHIELD medical team? Everyone needs help.” His words, when they come out, are grim, taut, and utterly professional, showing no hint of any emotion at all. His irises remain flat black. No telling if they’re going back. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>With Jo’s help, May gets Ellen out of the farmhouse only to have to take all of her weight when the blonde moves toward the brothers. She’s starting to feel where she took that dumpster to the back, so before she’s at risk of dropping the unconscious woman she moves to set her down somewhere central-ish. Doing so might reveal that she didn’t get out of this unscathed, and it was something bad enough to tear through her jacket. <br><br>“Depends on if,” she pauses and forces herself to not wince as she pulls her cell phone from a pocket. Please work, please work, “my phone is working now.” She starts trying to dial out and looks at Bobby again. “There’s a young man over that way. Sleeveless shirt. Mullet.” She doesn’t know if he’s okay or not, though. <br><br>Glancing over at Sam, she reaches into her jacket again and pulls the water flask that Dean had declined before. It’s at best four ounces of water, but it’s better than nothing and Dean looks like he’ll need any bit of sustenance they can manage. <br><br>Oh thank goodness. “HQ. May. Require immediate medical teams or exfil at my location. Four civilians down, one asset, one agent.” She doesn’t bother to get up from where she’s sitting on the ground next to Ellen. She’s not sure her back will take it. “Have Medical check my file, I’ll likely need another tetanus booster.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Bobby’s gaze finally peels away from the brothers, it rests on Ellen a few beats and then he moves to find Ash and assess the kid. “What a mess,” he mutters softly to himself. But he’s pleased enough to find the body with a heartbeat and signs of life. His eyes turn up to the sky for a moment, taking in the blue stillness and he exhales a long breath. “And it’s just gonna get worse,” he murmurs to no one in particular. <br><br>But on that note, SHIELD medical arrives. The quinjet is fully prepared to take all for transport. And while at least one patient objects, a lot of sedative eats the objection. In short order everyone is receiving treatment. And when they’re alert, five will wake up in a place they don’t recall going to sleep. <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Third_Option&diff=1574Third Option2017-09-19T02:25:28Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/13<br />
|Location=Sioux Falls, South Dakota<br />
|Synopsis=After receiving word of Dean's possession, a team goes out of their way to get White Eyes out of the Elder Winchester's body. Things don't go as planned.<br />
|Thanks=Dean Winchester<br />
|Cast of Characters=Dean Winchester, 1379, Winifred Burkle, Sam Winchester, 5<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The road gifted more than tortured time. The drive from Hell’s Kitchen to rural South Dakota was long, but thanks to Alistair’s actions against the Impala, it also provided Sam and Fred two allies along the way. The black Impala on the side of the road was unmistakable. It had garnered attention immediately, and both May and Jo joined the foray. <br><br>While discussion had been short thanks to not really knowing what they’re getting into, the details seemed to align. Something had Dean. It occupied his body with its flat-white eyes and sadistic smile. Whoever it is has little regard for kindness and, presumably, roughed him up before choosing to take up residence. <br><br>It also became clear that the creature’s machinations had some intent. Those encountering demons regularly know full-well they ride their vessels hard. But many just seemed to want power. Something about this particular demon seemed different--purposive, even. <br><br>But after those details had been exchanged, there was little else to say. It was hard to plan without knowing what they faced… <br><br>Hours passed before they saw its first indication. Any who’d visited Bobby in South Dakota before would know the oddity of the prairie’s big open skies. Today, however, the sky itself dreads whatever will happen here. A swirl of grey, orange, pink, and red calls upwards in an incredibly odd storm. No rain falls. No wind blows. Yet the sky swirls in impossibility overhead. <br><b>Driving down the rural range road kicks up dust as the car moves, but something else hits hard against the car with each passing moment. The faint clunk of something meeting metal presents at a strange pace. Random enough not to be something wrong with the car, but loud enough to know that outside they’re hitting something.. Or something is hitting them. <br><br>The number of them grows as does the sound. The barrage of brown-green bugs--locusts that have presumably infested the area--pushes against the windshield. And should the driver just continue on their course, they pass the warning as quickly as they’d come to it, producing a house in the distance. <br><br>If they didn’t know better, a passerby would assume the people outside are enjoying a barbeque, a true wonder with skies like these. They see five figures for certain. It’s impossible to know if there’s more kicking around. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's a quiet Jo Harvelle who huddles on the back seat of the Impala. She's worried about Dean, and about Sam (given what Dean had told her before), and trying not to show it. She's failing - not badly but enough. <br><br>The swarm of locusts has the blonde leaning forward, against the seat belt, and peering out the window. "If I was more devout than I am, I'd probably be able to quote a bible verse or two." She mutters, eyes narrowing as she takes the upcoming house in. "Well they probably ain't Riders, given there's five of them but they're likely trouble all the same." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s been hours on the road from New York City to here for Fred and Sam. The time have been tense, with bursts of conversation and planning and then anxious silence. They know only some of what awaits them at Bobby’s house. The demon’s purpose and what he’s done with Bobby is still a mystery. At least they now know that May and Jo are alright, despite the unmoveable Impala on the side of the road. <br><br>Acquiring two more allies as well as the sleepy bomb from Fred’s stash that she left in the car from the Crossroads fight is certainly a boon in her opinion. <br><br>Fred is not one of the people who have visited Bobby before. Or South Dakota, even. However, she makes an educated guess that they’re getting close when locusts start to hit against the car and windshield. Behind the wheel, the physicist slows but does not stop the car. She’s not as skilled a driver as Sam is, but she manages to push them through the almost biblical plague intact. “It’s not a Bible verse, but I’m starting to think the most appropriate one is, ‘When Moses was in Egypt’s Land, ‘Let my people go.’’ ‘Course the last part is actually a Bible verse, so that’s really a twofor. Either way, that wasn’t pleasant and doesn’t really much bode well for what else he can do. Last thing we want are boils. Or frogs. I didn’t even like dissecting them in class. Locusts were at the end of the plagues, yeah? After that came darkness?” It’s been a little while since Fred rambled quite like this. It’s either a testament to leaving the Winchester apartment or how close they are to the anticipated showdown. <br><br>Once through the bugs, the slowing of the car turns into a stop. She scans the five figures in the distance. “They’re probably expecting us from the front. Buncha places to hide, for them and us.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The road always brings gifts. <br><br>It’s a distant thought that Sam had experienced when he’d spotted that Impala and had asked Fred to stop the car. <br><br>But hearing the demon had white eyes had cast him into a pensive silence, folded him up in the front passenger’s seat with his hand over his eyes. He conducts his grapple with despair in silence. He’d passed out two more anti-possession necklaces prior to slipping off into this dark inner world. <br><br>But when the first locust hits the windshield he sits up with narrowed eyes. Fred’s observation casts him into Professional Mode, and it’s as if he had never had a doubt in his life. Because now that he can see some of what they’re up against, a plan is starting to present itself. <br><br>“Park there,” he says, tense, pointing to an old open barn off the side of the road. “The property’s up ahead. Park before they can see us.” <br><br>Then the young man half turns around to look at May and Jo. <br><br>The oddity of Sam’s upbringing has had a profound effect on him. Sometimes his youth is obvious: he is uncertain and hopeful all at once. Sometimes, he is twice or even three times as old behind the eyes as he really is. Now he looks ancient, someone who has gone beyond “seen too much”, gone beyond “experienced too much.” He hasn’t stared into the Abyss; he’s sat in the passenger’s seat of a classic car while other men drove straight through it. Or, in this case, a woman, through a cloud of locusts. <br><br>That weight is in his eyes now. They’re flat, hazel reflecting mostly the color green today, emotion pushed far from him. At the least, the matte black the irises (though not the sclera) have been known to display in response to anger lately is missing. <br><b>“White-eyes doesn’t know you three are coming. He only knows for sure that I am.” <br><br>He removes a salt shotgun from beneath his feet. Cocks it. Loads it. “So. I go in obvious. You ladies go in stealth. Attack when the time seems right. I imagine it will want to talk to me before the violence starts. Agent May will know the right moment.” <br><br>It’s Agent May’s eyes he looks into now, because he knows several things. He knows Fred and Jo will hate this plan. He also knows it’s probably their only chance. He knows May will get that. He knows that she’ll get them out of there if she has to. There are senior agents who have never displayed the kind of grim, knowing bleakness that sits in his eyes now. He’s counting on her to make the hard calls and to make these two women her priority if it comes to that. And to lead them to some sort of successful conclusion, if she can. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Being stranded on the side of the highway with all dead electronics and a stalled out Impala and a MISSING DEAN does not a happy May make. She’d been fully prepared to leave Jo with the car and walk to the nearest phone, but that’s about when Sam and Fred pull up. Her first words to the pair are to demand Sam’s cell phone, and then she spends the next several minutes talking with someone in SHIELD as they transfer whatever they need from the Impala’s trunk to Fred’s car and get underway again. <br><br>“Sam, Another senior agent is going to see that the Impala is returned to New York and any damages are repaired. He’s taken care of her for Dean before.” And, Sam might have seen Lola in passing. <br><br>Upon reaching the city with an airport, May directs them toward it, where she meets up with the SHIELD personnel waiting there beside a quinjet. There’s body armor and comms and gear for everyone as well as replacement electronics for May, and despite it being a VERY close fit, Fred’s car is loaded into the jet and they’re underway again with May doing the piloting. <br><br>The atmospheric situation forces them to land several miles away from their target location and drive the rest of the way. The locusts have May muttering something in Cantonese, and then Sam lays out the plan. Her reply is to simply nod and then look at Fred and Jo. Both have seen her at work before, though under completely different situations. This should be interesting. <br><br>May can’t help but wish a sniper had been available to join them. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s fortunate they park away from the house as it enables them the element of surprise--at least to some extent. The figures outside don’t seem to have taken notice. Not yet, anyways. While the heroes plan some distance away, the house-posse lingers watching the front road. The people on the lawn almost look familiar. But it’s hard to really notice from this distance. <br><br>Make no mistake, it’s a trap of their making. <br><br>A few beats pass and when everyone looks away for a second--only to look back moments later--and another figure in a camo-green jacket joins them. Near silence comes over the people while eyes turn up to the sky. <br><br>And in a single second, the swirling sky stills. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>“Sounds more like a musical to me…” Jo’s snark comes out when she’s worried and poor Fred, who’s just met the blonde, gets the full force of it. “... sorry… I’m just … worried.” She falls silent as the car pulls up and just stares at Sams STUPID plan. <br><br>Damn Winchesters and their stupid plans. <br><br>Yet she can’t think of a better one. Not at all. “I ain’t no lady …” it’s the best she can do as she slips from the back of the car and pops the trunk. It’s a veritable treasure trove of weapons they’ve collected there. The Impala was certainly well stocked and combined with what the other other two had … they could go in loaded for bear. <br><br>Pity it’s //not// bear they’re hunting. That would be sooooo much easier. <br><br>Silently, blue eyes flicking to the figures at the house, Jo arms herself. Salt loaded rounds, holy water, silver, iron. Whatever she can carry, she’ll take. As the sixth figure arrives and the sky literally starts opening, she shakes her head. <br><br>“Guess it’s now or never.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam is quite right in thinking Fred will hate his plan - it leaves him going in alone with a creature that can apparently summon swarms of locusts. Demon locusts. “No way.” Fred shakes her head. “I’m not letting you go in there alone. If that thing knows what Dean’s thinking, he knows I wouldn’t let you do this by yourself, I’ll go with you.” It’s not just her being leery of splitting up, it does make logical sense. Her eyes flick toward the SHIELD agent as she says this before they return to Sam. She knows how good May is, having seen her in action during Sam’s rescue, but she is also stubborn on this issue. <br><br>As they start to gather the weapons, Jo’s snark is met with an innocent blink from the brunette. “Actually, yeah, I think it’s a song,” she agrees, a bit guileless. The apology is given a confused nod. “It’s alright, me too.” Worried about Dean, worried about Sam, worried about all of them. <br><br>She makes sure she has some of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt as well as the sleepy-time bomb, passing out other items as needed. The stillness of the sky, when before it was agitated catches Fred’s attention. Much like the other figures, she looks up and then looks back to the yard to see the green jacketed figure now amongst the others. Dean. Or whatever it is that has possessed him. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>He’d nodded about Lola; he’d seen it. An impressive car. But too flashy. Cop magnet. <br><br>“Now or never is a song too,” Sam points out, distracted. Or maybe he’s just going ahead and trying to lighten the mood somewhat. It’s hard to tell. There’s a flash of a tired smile on his face, there and gone again. <br><br>/I ain’t gonna live forever. I just wanna live while I’m alive./ <br><br>Fred makes some sense too. His eyes close for just a moment. But he chose her because he saw an equal, and if she’s ready to step out and partner up and face this with him...well. He has no right to stop her, not when her comment makes tactical sense. He reaches out. Takes her hand. Squeezes once. <br><br>“Together, then,” he says softly. <br><br>They might die together. It might be the last time they are together, because he’s fairly sure what Fred’s destination will be, and he /knows/ what his will be already. <br><br>/But this world is shit. You carve out every last. Damned. Good moment. You. Can./ <br><br>Right now, there’s a little good in the feel of her softer, smaller hand in his broader, more calloused one. <br><br>“Good luck, you two.” This to Jo and Agent May. “And...thanks.” <br><br>And then he takes a deep breath. Steels his spine. Gets out of the car. He’ll wait for Fred. <br><br>And then, hand in hand with her still, if she’ll allow it...he takes what seems to be an endless walk towards the 6 demons he can see, shotgun aimed, for the moment, groundward in his unoccupied hand. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May can only nod as Fred insists on sticking with Sam and he agrees. She’s not in charge of this mission, so she’ll do what’s asked of her and not argue unless she thinks it’s a suicidally stupid idea. And, well, this WHOLE DAY has been suicidally stupid. So, really, it’s all the same anymore. <br><br>Wishing her blades had even a hint of usefulness against demons, she checks the rounds in the pistol in her hands again then looks at Jo. “Let’s go.” She plans to lead the blonde around to flank the demons. At the same time, she’s mentally reviewing other possibilities for getting these demons to leave HER agents the F* alone. <br><br>“How big can a devil’s trap be made?” she asks of the Hunter as they run. She’s now also contemplating the accuracy of, say, those red lasers that Iron Man uses from time to time. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Sam and Fred draw near, the people outside begin to come into focus. The first, with curly red hair, freckles, and a fit figure looks undeniably familiar to Sam. But from years past. If he watches her now-black eyes long enough he might draw some faint memory. When he’d known her, she’d been one of the odd kids in school. While twelve-year-old Sam was new to school, Ellie had been an outcast already. They’d saved her from the Backahasten nine years ago. Evidently she lived well into adulthood. To now be possessed here. Her forehead oozes blood as do her arms and legs. It’s a wonder whether she’s still alive and in her body at all. <br><br>Adjacent to her, the pale mulleted brunette man in the jean vest also has an air of familiarity. His jaw tightens and his eyes level at Sam and Fred in turn. The demon wearing the Roadhouse employee, Ash, stares blandly at the pair. Unlike his female comrade with the black eyes, he has a guise of being human. He’s not. But the guise is there. Ash’s hands are bloodied, bruised, and his shoulder has a strange angle. <br><br>Behind Ash, a pair familiar to Fred lingers. Their eyes follow the woman in particular as she walks by. The faces of her parents staring at her with open amusement eye Fred. She was right--she was expected. Her parents’ lips curve upwards with recognition as their eyes roll to black. Bruising lines her mother’s cheeks and her father’s clothes are soaked in blood.The Deanmon knew that Fred would come along. And it put Fred and her obvious loved ones on the radar. <br><br>And as they walk on, it becomes ever clearer, the Deanmon spent time rooting around through Dean’s thoughts and using each to make a very calculated move. While this demon may not have managed to take May and Jo, he had made other efforts to collect plenty of hostages by dressing his allies in them. Most put up a fight of some kind, but the result had been the same. Those that knew him were lulled into easy complacency while Dean made a trap for them. Swiftly. Easily. <br><br>Finally, adjacent to whoever wears Dean, a small girl. Her light blonde hair, fair almost-invisible eyebrows, and flat-white eyes stare blankly at the pair while her lips press into a thin line. It’s a stand-off. And even children are available to the masses. <br><br>And then there’s Dean. His lips quirk at Sam and Fred’s presence. His hands tuck into his pockets and he stares into Sam’s eyes, trying to make eye contact with the younger Winchester. His lips pull with pride as his teeth flash towards the pair. “Sammy,” the greeting has familiarity that this thing shouldn’t have. But then he has all of Dean’s memories, all of his feelings, and every nuance of the body at his disposal. Dean looks worse for wear. His skin is pale. His eyes, sunken and hollow. And his clothes have blood splatters across them. It’s hard to tell whether the blood is Dean’s or someone else’s but it remains. Dean Winchester is not in good shape--even worse than when Jo and May saw him last. <br><br>Inside the house a loud crash clatters loudly followed by a blood curdling scream. Dean shrugs his shoulders as if to ask //Whatcha gonna do?//. He lifts both of his hands and with a gentle move of his fingers aims to telekinetically throw Fred in one direction and Sam in the other. <br><br>Should anyone try to use electronics, they fail. Utterly and completely. The omens above and the opening in the sky has caused everything to short out. Entirely. There are no cell phone signals, no radio transmissions, and no satellite signals. <br><br>They are in a dead zone. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Thought it was from a musical, to be honest. Y'know the one the Donny Osmond as Joseph..." Jo shrugs at Fred. She might have watched it a time or two and she's deflecting her worry with dumb jokes. <br><br>That, or she simply hasn't eaten enough. That does that too. <br><br>"Be careful." Is all she mutters as the pair head off towards Deanmon and his crew. <br><br>"Soak your blades if you don' think it will negate anything that's been done to them already." The blonde hands over a flask of holy water. It's ... not much, but it's something right. Then they're at a run, skirting round the back of the house whilst Sam and Fred run distraction. <br><br>"How big? If we had the time, we could probably cover the yard and the house." she frowns at the Agent "What are you thinkin' though?" There's a copse of trees not far from the structure, it will obscure their approach, at least for the moment. <br><br>That is, if the demons don't sense their humanity. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Two white-eyed demons. A host of hostages important to them both. <br><br>They are utterly fucked. Even with May and Jo. Especially with May and Jo, who Sam is beginning to think will just be the other hostages taken one way or another today. The state of his brother breaks his heart, ramps up his desperation. <br><br>A shudder runs over him as the white-eyed demon in Dean greets him. His hand tightens on Fred’s hand until it might well hurt. He meets those eyes, then is flung hard into the nearest telephone pole. It bruises him, but that’s not what rips him apart next. <br><br>Because he met those eyes, and even as he staggers up to his feet, his own widen in recognition. Somewhere in his mind, a dam starts to crack. <br><br>“No…” <br><br>At first he doesn’t understand the source of his own mortal terror. But then a name comes to him. The dread he says it with, the sheer, crushing dread, ought to be enough to worry anyone. <br><br>“Alistair.” <br><br>As soon as he says the name the crack becomes a flood. As Alistair no doubt intended when he looked into Sam’s eyes, he breaks Crowley’s weaker memory manipulations easily. It’s like a very talented college basketball player made an incredible three point shot, only to be defeated with ease by an Olympian basketball player on the defense. <br><br>A flash before Sam’s eyes, a /flicker/… <br><br>And… <br><br>Stretched out on the rack, perceiving all as if he were in a body still. Limbs pulled unnaturally long and tight, hooks digging into his flesh, blood slicking them down, unable to move, unable to free himself. <br><br>Flicker. He’s in South Dakota. <br><br>“E--exorcizamus...t-te,” Sam stammers. Is it a serious effort at exorcism? Really? Here? Like this? Or is it a fearful prayer? <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Alistair leans over him, his smile a mockery of something loving as Sammy screams. Something in his hand. The boy has lost track of it. The demon just peeled a layer of skin off of his arm, shoulder to wrist. He holds it up for Sam to see. It’s soulstuff, not skin, Sam understands this, but it feels like skin, looks like skin, is gruesome and bloody like skin. Only if someone had done that to him on Earth, he’d die and escape. Here there is no death. Never death, never an escape. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>The memories are almost too much. His soul twists in agony as if it were all happening here and now. <br><br>“O-omnis,” he whispers, tears flowing down his face, body convulsing. His shotgun hits the dirt. Useless as the words he’s speaking. He grabs his head with both hands, panting, eyes wide, barely seeing anything here anymore because… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He has been here just five days, and he can’t stop weeping, even for a moment. The brand that his tormenter slowly presses into exposed muscle turns tears to howls. Alistair presses hideous lips against his temple, strokes his hair. “You’re my favorite, Sammy.” <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>“Omnis satanica!” It’s almost defiant, until the scream rips out of him, a moment and a flash of pain. The lack of memory had meant that he never felt the damage to his own soul. Now the buffer is gone, and he feels it in live flesh. He falls back to his knees, curling over into a ball, hands pulling fitfully at his hair, screams pouring out of him, twenty days of torment, relived in a few short seconds. <br><br>Just as Alistair intended. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred takes Sam’s hand, looking to Jo and May as they prepare and then separate for this mission. There’s a quick smile to them as thanks before they head straight forward. It may be a stupid idea for her to go in with Sam straight away, she can be quite stealthy from her years scavenging and hiding from demons who wished to capture and behead her. However, she also knows she’s far too close to the situation to hide and wait for a signal. If something happened to Sam, she’d charge in. <br><br>Her hand remains in Sam’s, clutching to him in this moment, knowing how dangerous this is and that they may not make it out alive, but at least in this they’ll face it together. Her bottles and bomb remain tucked in a bag over her shoulder. While she generally feels more comfortable with a crossbow, the second shotgun with its salt shells is cradled in her other arm. <br><br>It’s probably for the best that Fred didn’t stay with May and Jo. As they approach the gathering of individuals, it’s not Sam she would rush forward toward - it’s a pair of very familiar faces. <br><br>“…Mom? Dad?” Fred’s voice breaks as she sees their eyes shift to black. Her attention immediately narrows to the blood on her father’s shirt, the bruises on her mother’s cheeks. Her mind drifts to the young teenager motionless on a yard the night she met Sam. It’s his voice in her head telling her in sympathetic, yet matter of fact voice, ‘Sometimes they use bodies so hard they become walking corpses.’ Is that what she is looking at? <br><br>“No. No!” It’s a denial of both that inner voice and the fact of the matter: her parents might be dead and standing in front of her. Her hand leaves Sam’s as she rushes to them. The shotgun drops at her feet as she reaches out to grasp them on opposite arms, pleading. “Mom, Dad, please.” <br><br>Behind her, as if from a different room, she can hear Sam screaming. <br><br>They shouldn’t have come here. They shouldn’t have done this. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Bigger than we have time to make.” So that idea is discarded promptly. As much as it rankled, May is seeing her potential options dwindling, and quickly. She leads the blonde Hunter through to as close to the others as they can manage without having to leave the cover of the stand of trees they’re in. And again, she wishes they’d asked for a sniper. Or that she’d bothered to spend more time on sniper training. <br><br>With the comms to Fred and Sam suddenly gone quiet, there’s no way to tell that anyone in there is familiar to the Hunters, and when Sam’s screams carry to them, she knows they’re out of time. She’s got one last thing to try, and it’s a long shot. <br><br>Speaking in the ancient and overly formal-sounding Mandarin, she calls for King Wuguan of the Courts of Hell to reclaim the souls that have left Hell before their punishments for their sins were completed. She’s focused specifically on the ones that had been there originally, not Dean or the little girl standing next to him. <br><br>Do exorcisms work when one is out of earshot of the target demons? <br><br><br />
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<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>As May and Jo move around the back of the house, the scent of sulphur becomes increasingly powerful. Its pungent scent of rotten eggs overwhelms as they get closer. Moving to flank the demons out front means passing the windows of the home on the way there thanks to the abandoned cars that surround the junkyard. Bobby had taken care to ensure he would see the goings-on around his house, a necessity as a hunter aiming to stay on in one spot. <br><br>Before they even get to the window, they can smell it: the distinct scent of flames licking wood. But combined with the already sulphuric aroma floating from the area? Fire and brimstone reign here. <br><br>May and Jo can feel the heat of flame as they draw closer to the house. It burns hot and angry as it begins to lick the ceiling inside. And as they pass the window, they see a middle aged woman with dirty blonde hair staring up at the ceiling. While they can’t see what’s on the ceiling, it’s clear that Ellen Harvelle isn’t herself today. <br><br>Her sadistic smile, yellow eyes, and extended hand admire some handiwork out of scope. But within scope. A bevy of unconscious (or dead?) children strewn about the floor. She looks down the hall. “Any movement yet?” she calls. <br><br>“Not yet,” a voice calls back. <br><br>“Then show him a goddamned picture of this. Use your suit’s cellphone,” Ellen scoffs. “Knock on the door and call him out.” <br><br>As far as May’s words are concerned, they don’t seem to have any effect as of yet. But expediency isn’t a feature of all spirits. <br><br>Outside, in the front yard, things aren’t going well. But most of the torture hasn’t been physical as of yet. <br><br>“Hello sweetie,” Fred’s mother’s voice cuts through the little stillness that exists. Alluringly--not at all with an air of maternal warmth--she strides towards Fred. Her long, slender fingers reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind Fred’s ear, an action her mother took many times as a comfort. But the smile is wrong. Her expressions are wrong. Even the tone is wrong. And in an instant, comfort turns tides. <br><br>The demon wearing Fred’s mother reaches out her hand to push Fred back. “We are here for you,” while it might come off as warmth or support, it’s cold and angry. She reaches those slender fingers to grab a mitt-full of Fred’s hair in an effort to drag the girl to her father. <br><br>“Winifred Burkle needs punishment,” Fred’s mother allays to her father. <br><br>Fred’s father’s eyes crease with delight. He looks towards her bag. “You brought us gifts? Oh little girl… we do like presents,” he jeers. He walks around her, assessing her as he does so. “You’ve been very naughty. Your mother just said as much.” And then with the condescending tone of an animal owner reprimanding their pet, he asks, “What did you do?” <br><br>“She wants to hurt us, darling~” Fred’s mother virtually sings. “She wants us to pop and sizzle and burn. She came here with fire in her eyes to smite us, but now? She remembers she’s just a lost little girl.” <br><br>Her father nods curtly. “Of course none of this is real. Sam isn’t real. You made him up, Fred. We’re not really here. None of us. You’re alone. A slave dressed in rags with a heavy collar bound to your neck for eternity. They won’t tell you this, but you don’t die. And you never leave. Not there. Not really. You get to live day after day enslaved to them, their world, and their servitude. To their whirls, wants, and whimsies.” <br><br>A giggle emits from Dean’s lips as Sam begins the words that could put any of them out of commission. “That tickles,” he notes with another quirk of his lips. <br><br>Dean’s face lights with unbridled pleasure. His eyes lid and his lips quirk as if experiencing some other ecstasy at Sam’s pain. A shiver of delight passes over him. But if anyone is paying attention, something, however briefly, changes in the tide. His hand moves towards the inside of his jacket. It’s slow, cautioned, and purposive. It tugs at the inner pocket and draws out a strange looking knife. <br><br>The picture has oddities of its own: Dean basking in revelrie while his hand utilizes the opportunity. With the little girl near, and Alistair’s pleasure continuing, the knife moves to stab the little girl, another white-eyed demon, in the back. Hard. Her body flickers yellow and her occupant twists around to face Alistair. It’s not enough to kill her--not one as powerful as she is, but its effect speaks volumes of what the weapon is. She screams in pain. <br><br>The knife misses her heart, its intended target. <br><br>“I have this handled,” Dean’s voice hisses to the girl. <br><br>“I’ll be fine,” she returns with a smirk. Undoubtedly, whatever that weapon was, hurt. But evidently she doesn’t want to be eliminated from this stand-off. <br><br>The knife rests on the ground in the dust. And for a moment flat-white eyes turn green. They soften. They stare at Sam. And, with a drop of Dean’s chin, they look at the knife. And then back to Sam. In a moment the message is given. One can only hope that in his agony, Sam got it. <br><br>And as quickly as those eyes had softened, they harden again. “So,” Alistair begins. “Tell me, Sammy, do you remember all our fun?” There’s a pause. “I do. I remember the chorus of your screams amongst the others, the way you cried each and every time you awoke the next morning, how you called out for your brother as you hung there.” His eyebrows draw together, “Of course, you also called out for Dad. But we both knew /he’d/ never come.” <br><br>Dean’s body treads to where Sam remains in a ball. “Because he never would. He doesn’t care for you. For either of you.” He lifts a finger. “But. Big brother made a deal to get you out of there.” His expression sours and he looks towards Lilith as he seems to put something together. Between Dean’s memories and the space between them, something is becoming increasingly obvious in their efforts to control Hell. The Faustians are actively undermining their efforts. Alistair sneers. “They stole you from me,” he seethes. <br><br>“You were mine.” There’s a long pause. “And you’re mine again,” his lips edge into a smile. “And this time? There’s nothing big brother can do to stop me. You’re on your own, Sammy.” <br><br>“You. Are. Mine.” <br><br>And then, ominously like a revelation has just come to him, he pats Dean’s chest. <br><br>“And so is he.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>No way to tell that anyone is familiar to the Hunters except for the hitch in Jo's step as she spies Ash through the trees. "... Ash ..." She hisses and glares at the SHIELD agent - heavens knows why, it's not May's fault. <br><br>The look turns to horror as Sam's screams ring out through the area and she squints at the tableau unfolding. "What... is she doing .... " Of course, she doesn't recognise Freds parents but she does recognise Dean, the man who ... well who she's become quite fond of. <br><br>"Keep moving..." What they're going to do, she's no idea but one of her Dads Hunter friend had once said //No plan, no matter how good, survives first contact.// This one, the one of Sam's making, doesn't look like it ever really deployed. <br><br>Despite the heat emanating from the house. Despite the smell of rotten eggs, her steps bring them closer to that window and now the blonde freezes. "Mom..." She breathes, breath hitching in terror. "... they've got Mom ... we have to save her... " <br><br>Can she? Can they? Can they truly save Ellen from the Demon that possesses her. Jo doesn't know, but she's going to try. Probably much to May's dismay. Untrained, undisciplined and potentially, just plain stupid - might be some of the words that the blonde gets labelled with. <br><br>"... and Bobby." That has to be who they're trying to bait out. <br><br>One last glance to the older agent and the blonde takes off at a run, right to the door, throwing it open. "Hey Mom... fancy meeting you here ...." <br><br>//Splash// there's some holy water just for good measure. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There was no one else Alistair could have stolen that would have a worse impact on Fred. Angel, Wesley, even Sam...she would be upset and enraged by their possession. However, she also knows that they live in this world and signed up to be a part of its dangers and accepted those consequences. Her parents? They might know about demons and vampires now, but they live on a farm in Texas. They were away from all this, going about their own normal lives. This could have only happened to them because someone wished to hurt her and that makes this her fault. <br><br>She already knows it is a horrible idea as she runs to them, but she can’t stop herself, wanting to shake them, //make// them okay. Trish tucks her hair behind her ear and for a brief heartbeat of a moment, she hopes. Unfortunately, the voice - while unmistakably her mother’s voice - is wrong. <br><br>The hand easily curls into her long hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling her forward. Fred almost topples and does fall to one knee in front of her father as it happens, wincing at the pain of that yank. “I’m sorry,” she says, heartfelt, through the pain. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you both better. I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t know if they can hear her, but she says it anyway. The words about this being a different world, one that she has made up cause a hitch in her throat, a taunt as to how she dealt with five years in Pylea. How she dealt with the spell that just recently sent her into a spiral. She’s weak, she can’t handle the dangers, she couldn’t protect her parents. <br><br>They ask her what is in her bag, what she’s brought them. It clinks to the ground as she falls, the bottles inside rattling against each other, but don’t break. There is no way she will use any force against her parents, but she has to do something. “H-here…” she says, unzipping the bag just a bit, still looped over one arm. “I’ll show you.” <br><br>A hand reaches in to grab one of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt. Squeezing her eyes shut, taking a deep breath, she pulls it out to smash against the leg of her mother. There are tears in her eyes as she she swings. Five years in Pylea cemented a survivor’s spirit, one that instinctively knows that to save her parents, she has to stay alive, too. If they’re not already dead. No, she can’t think like that. She can’t. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The screams do stop. Sam gets himself under control, bit by bit. <br><br>First, it's because he can hear, distantly, the demons taunting Fred. A flame of fury ignites in him. He's spent many nights reassuring her he was real, and some bastard black-eye pissants think they're going to undo her? Even now, her heart-felt apologies to them rip at his heart. It's a sentiment he more than understands, really. <br><br>That's the moment where he raises his head, panting softly in fear, pain, and fury all at once. His irises slowly turn. Hazel to light green, light green to dark green, dark green to pitch black. He can still feel the throbbing pain as he watches his brother keep right on fighting, and feels such pride in Winchester the Elder that it helps to snap a new memory into place. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Life is pain, Princess," says the smooth-talking pirate on the flickering television screen. "Anyone who says differently is selling something." <br><br>The TBS logo appears briefly at the bottom of the screen, signalling a switch to commercial. Sometimes nothing good is on TV, but today, at the Motel Picayune on MS Hwy 5, they luck out. Sammy is four years old, and he is in his favorite spot: snuggled up to his brother on the couch, one of the only places he ever feels safe. He's sucking his thumb, and Dean notices and gently draws it out of his mouth. <br><br>"Stop that," says the older boy, but with no heat. And then, thoughtfully, "He's right you know, Sammy. The Dread Pirate. Life is pain." <br><br>Sammy shifts uneasily and says nothing. He kind of knows some of this already. Life had Been Pain just yesterday, when he'd spilled his milk in the diner, broken a glass, and had inspired Dad to smack him and berate him for being careless in front of everyone. It was his fault. He shouldn't have been so clumsy. <br><br>Dean seems to sense his unease, and sets his mouth into a grim line. At 8, Dean always looks so grown-up, so tough. Sammy emulates the expression as best he can. <br><br>"But you know what you can do, Sammy? You can /fight/. Fight for the people who can't fight for themselves, and most of all fight against any son of a bitch who tries to hurt anyone you care about. I'm going to teach you. You'll see." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He gets the signal. He sees it. Now he has to figure out how to exploit it. Alistair steps right up to him, taunts him, and Sam starts putting his brain to work. Why is it going down like this, specifically? Why draw him all the way out there for hours? Why gather everyone he's ever known, and Fred's parents? Why attack Bobby? What do they want here? Getting Dean's body alone was enough to have Sam ready to give himself up to them, but that's not what they want. Alistair had been angry, in fact, when Sam had seemed meek. Sam gets the impression he'd have been angrier still if he'd tried to bow his head for his brother's life. It tracks with what he remembers, now. Some tormenters grew angry at defiance, threats, but Alistair had never seemed so proud as the day that-- <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" Sam screams, his voice cracking not because it was ready to take on the new tones of manhood, but simply under the strain. Day 14. "I'm going to carve out your KIDNEYS and I'm going to FEED THEM TO YOU, do you understand? You better HOPE I never get out of here, because I am going to KICK YOUR DEMON ASS!" <br><br>"Goood," Alistair coos. "That's good, Sammy." <br><br>And he rewards him with a drink of water, the first his parched throat had seen in two weeks. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Of course. Alistair wants him to /change/. Soon after that… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"All you have to do is take the knife, Sammy. Take the knife, and run it down her foot, and I'll let you off the rack. I'll give you a whole day off for that one little cut. It's so sharp, it'll cut her like nothing. Like running a butter knife through mashed potatoes." <br><br>"No. I won't." <br><br>"Then I guess I'll have to run it down /your/ feet." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Sam's throat burns, parched. He can sense he doesn't have nearly enough juice to pull the only trick that gets any of their possessed friends out. He doesn't have enough for Alistair for sure. He needs more. Which was the point. Goad him into saving Dean at the expense of Ellie, Ash, Fred's parents. Save Dean, and possibly Fred from her infected parents, and Bobby...or save nobody at all. A sadistic choice. May and Jo are here, but they're vastly outnumbered. And /something/ awful is happening inside the house, too. <br><br>Sam is not a fan of sadistic choices. <br><br>He is, however, a fan of third options. The knife won't be enough, he knows, because he just saw for himself it wasn't. But he has a theory. Two theories, really. <br><br>One. <br><br>The strength of the demon MUST matter to the potency of the blood. He hadn't entirely been honest with Claire, though it was only cause he hadn't thought about it at the time. The Crossroads demon he'd eaten had been so much more satisfying and had lasted so much longer than the black-eyes he'd first taken. Vengeance demons were also crazy powerful, and that's what he'd been mostly sipping on, but he would rank them about on the scale of a Crossroads...they both had that wish-granting ability and power, and just used it differently. The rush was more the rush of NEEDING something and getting it. Like feeding a caffiene addiction. Or his alcohol addiction. As he'd said. The rush of a black-eyes? Practically non-existent. The rush, and the power. The power of a white-eyes, a literal ruler of Hell? That's going to be immense. So will, dangerously, the rush, but one problem at a time. <br><br>Two. <br><br>That he can inject it, or he can drink it. He'd had some dreams about simply drinking gallon after gallon of demon blood. He'd had dreams of ripping demons open with his /teeth/, during that first hellish week where demon blood had suddenly become nearly all he could think of. Which was...to the good, really, because he has no time whatsoever to set up a neat, clean drip. This again tracked with the set-up; if they'd hoped he wouldn't see through this they couldn't exactly set it up so he could go after each of those people with a needle. <br><br>So. Third option. Dangerous, difficult to pull off, disgusting in the extreme, uncomfortable for both him and Dean because there is no way to do this in a way that isn't. But fitting, too, because this will mean he and Dean took care of this son of a bitch together. And really, there is no universe where Sam Winchester ever wants Dean to be an unwilling victim. Dean has put himself a little bit back in the ring; Sam decides to keep him there. <br><br>He times the test of the theory though. Times it for the moment that Fred decides she's not going to cave. That she's going to fight. The moment she smashes holy water and salt into the demon wearing her beloved mother. He synchs up with them, moves with them, adding Fred to the synchronous fighting flow that he's always shared with Dean. This is appropriate. On a number of levels. <br><br>He stretches out his hand, as if he is going to try his trick of forcing a soul out of the body without the juice-up. But instead, he exercises the barest hint of his power, yanking that knife to his hand with a burst of telekinetic force. <br><br>"Watch those kidneys, Al," Sam hisses, as if they were already succeeding, as if he'd be willing to kill his brother to spare him… <br><br>Only to feint at them...and instead plunge the demon knife into Alistair's calf, right into where Sam thinks he remembered a superficial system called the great saphenous vein would be. He has read up on anatomy, as it happens, precisely /because/ he tries to spare the vessels of the possessed. If he finds his mark he's hit a vein that would bleed like a son of a bitch, and /hurt/ like a son of a bitch, but won't threaten Dean's life. He hopes the shock of the obviously magical weapon, Dean's own desire to take the reins, and the location itself will buy him the time to do what he needs to do. Because the next thing he does is withdraw the knife, launch himself forward, seize Alistair's leg, and clamp his mouth around it. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Pulling the still salt-saturated sash whip, May looks up and curses when Jo darts off toward the house proper. She can’t watch over everyone if they’re running all over the place willy-nilly. She wastes a moment trying to decide if she can help Jo with the farmhouse, then decides, no, the young woman has proven herself pretty well able to handle things. It’s the multiple demons that she’s concerned with. <br><br>This whole day has been beyond screwed up. Moving as quietly as she can she takes a breath, then charges out at the group of demons all together. She doesn’t know any of the people they’re possessing, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to just mow through them. Anything she can do to lock them down and hopefully banish the demons will be good enough. <br><br>Her sash whip snaps out at the closest black-eyed demon (Ash) the moment she’s within range. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside, the dramatic interruption of a the blonde hunter sees holy water steam from Ellen’s back. The demon wearing her, however, is powerful and strong. Ellen twists around to see her daughter’s face, and yellow eyes sparkle at the sight. “You look like her--thought that when I got access to your mother’s thoughts,” yellow-eyes taunts. “Dean is just looking for his mama again and again and again,” she muses with a sadistic turn of her lips. With the fire burning above, lighting multiple bodies as it billows, she lifts a hand--a burst of telekinetic energy to push Jo back, hard. Her head tilts. “I would’ve liked to wait until Alistair could bring his suit here,” the smooth cadence of her mother’s voice mixed with the pure venom of Azazel’s malice chills the air. “But, as they say, time is of the essence.” <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>The shotgun fire of salt loaded bullets distracts enough to have the telekinetic move last just a moment, giving Jo release as Bobby’s house continues to go up in flames. “Let go of Ellen, you son of a bitch,” Bobby’s flat tone cuts into the room. The salt rounds won’t be enough to stop her, but it might serve as a distraction. “Kid, we need to round her off back towards the living room,” he states. Bobby’s house is most definitely full of demon traps. The trick is getting this thing into one of them. <br><br>Outside, Fred finds her fight, and the holy water burns her mother’s skin. The demon wearing her screeches in pain, falling forward as steam rises from her body. Her father reacts in kind, forcing her backwards with a burst of telekinetic energy to throw her against a car. “Winifred, you’ve been a very naughty girl,” he repeats from before. While Trish-demon tries to recover, Roger-demon takes point. <br><br>He paces towards her and allows his head to cant to the side, examining her. “There was a time when you were young that your father gifted you something of comfort. That you wouldn’t be afraid. Somehow you thought a rabbit would calm the storm. A stuffed bunny that your father believed would help you relate better to others.” He taps his temple. “I remember. Or, he does. He almost felt bad about it. Giving you a bunny instead of helping you find a friend. You were always such a sweet child.” He motions towards Trish. “That’s what your mother always said. So sweet. So innocent. So alone. Still alone. Always alone.” <br><br>“Nothing can comfort you here.” His tone flattens, “Not your beloved knight in shining whatever,” his nostrils flare, “not your mother’s touch,” his nose wrinkles and his lips quirk, “and not even that damned bunny. No one can make sense of the chaos.” <br><br>“That place you were at, it’s real. It’s not just in your mind, and you can bet that we will find a way to return you to it. Or,” he smiles faintly, “at least, leave dear old Mom and Dad there.” His black eyes shimmer with unbridled amusement. He’s thrilled. Pleased with his latest consideration. “I bet these bodies aren’t even necessary for our plans.” <br><br>The knife into Dean’s calf cuts true. And, sure enough, Sam finds the vein easily. If, however, he opens his eyes, he can see his brother has been subjected to numerous other cuts down his leg--all in various states of disarray thanks to the lack of nutrition that Alistair has provided him. Healing requires basic blocks of life, and Dean has had none. Yet none of those would’ve granted or <br><br>The sound that emits from Dean’s lips is somewhere between pain and ecstasy. Sam gets an ample dose before Alistair manages to lift a hand to push him back because another will buried inside him continues to exert itself where it can, even in exhaustion, malnutrition, and injury. Of course, it doesn’t take much of Alistair’s blood to make the younger Winchester dosed up. Oddly, none of the other demons rush the situation. None try to draw Sam away. The child in the distance even smiles. Softly. As if she’s experiencing a puppet show or play. Her eyes flit towards the others, and with a small smile, she disappears. <br><br>“I didn’t think you had it in you, Sammy,” Alistair states with a wry smile as he flexes Dean’s leg to continue to let the blood pour out. He is really not kind to this body. “You know, I wonder how much /anyone/,” Crowley for one, “will want my sloppy seconds.” <br><br>The sash draws towards Ash and catches his skin causing it to steam and burn, but doesn’t wrap around the demon before he’s onto the ploy. His hand lifts and it turns back towards May. Vacantly, his head tilts to the side. “Handy trick,” he states evenly while he lifts a hand to . “Bet it helped when you ganked that little girl in Bahrain.” His lips curve into a smile. “Alistair tortures her day after day after day in Hell. If you ever wonder what that’s like, I suggest talking to Sam.” <br><br>He strides forward to close the distance again. His hands lift in want. “She was pretty though, wasn’t she?”<br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo grimaces as Ellen back steams. As much as she'd expected it, it was still a shock. "Mom..." is that plea or just simple sorrow? Hard to tell, given the blonde is rocketed backwards. <br><br>//Thump// <br><br>"Nggggnh. He's not, you know, looking for his Mom..." A weak protest indeed. The words have cut through the blonde like a knife. Far more dangerous than any physical torment Ellen-demon could subject her to. <br><br>Eyes wide, there's still fight in the woman even though she's held tight. The first blast from the shotgun causes her to jump - that's not how they're supposed to take her, is it? Oh wait. That's Bobby's voice she's hearing as she slides to ground, hand rising to massage her throat. <br><br>It takes a moment - several very long moments really - for Bobby's words to sink in. "Living room, right. Come and get me you bitch if you want me..." her other hand delves into the pouch on her hip and salt is strewn to one side Ellen-mon. It won't hold her for long but Bobby should be able to ride herd as Jo acts as bait. <br><br>OK. It might not be the best plan - but it's far from the worst she's had today. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Wincing in sympathy pain as she hears her mother shriek, Fred pushes herself upward to standing. Her hand grips the neck of another bottle to toss onto her possessed father, but she never gets a chance to throw it. The telekenetic shove whips her against the car and she gives a short, soft cry of pain. Some of the beer bottles shatter on impact, shards of glass and holy salt water now pooling in the bottom of its fabric. <br><br>Pinned there, Fred is forced to listen to the demon holding her father as he recounts exactly why he gave her Feigenbaum in the first place. It attempts to twist a fond memory into something sad and tainted. Hearing her father’s voice talk to her in a way that is nothing like her father twists a knot in her stomach. Desperately, she shoves against the supernatural hold that keeps her helplessly in place, unable to move and unable to stop listening to the horrible words and threats. <br><br>The threat of Pylea - finding a way to send her or her parents back there - sends a cold stroke of fear down her back. “Don’t,” she says, softly. The thought of her parents on Pylea, scrounging to survive, causes her eyes to glass over with more tears. “Please leave them out of this.” She has to do something, has to stop this. <br><br>Trapped against the junked car, there is little she can do. She can’t toss any of the holy water, can’t do anything. Except talk. She takes a shallow breath - all she is able to do against the horrible pressure - and starts to quietly recite. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It feels amazing. For a moment Sammy is just...lost. The power flows into his mouth, down his throat, into his body. He feels the glory of every swallow. The taste on his tongue. Not bitter, or salty, or coppery. Sweet. He feels like he's floating in a sea of white. It feels surprisingly unthreatening. Exhaustion, gone. Uncertainty gone. Fear, gone. Nothing but the absolute certainty that he is unstoppable. <br><br>Being pushed off is a blessing. To Sam, it feels almost intolerable. But it keeps him from madly draining his brother dry, which he surely would have done if he'd been allowed to feed without reservation or restraint. <br><br>Only a bare trickle of blood runs from the corner of his lips, stained a rich color from the exchange. His eyes shift a little too. Black? Or are they closer to red now? Is his demon half moving subtlely up the hierarchy? It fades back to black a second later, he'd have to do a lot more feeding, a lot more regularly, to unleash /that/ fresh Hell. Probably nobody's looking at that but Alistair himself. <br><br>Alistair says he didn't think he had it in him. <br><br>Sam stands. He's not doing this on his knees. He wipes the trickle on the back of his hand. He watches Alistair as he slurps it up, licking that last little bit away. Nothing wasted. Nothing. There will be consequences for this, but they feel so distant. So. Unimportant. He rolls his tongue over his lips, over his teeth, cleaning the blood away, mostly intent on getting it all inside of him as fast as he can make it happen. But there's still a very disturbing quality to his smile. It's slight. Hard, as Sammy's smiles never are. Holding an edge that hints at something within him that is more than capable of cruelty, if pushed to it. Cruelty in equal measure, as it happens, to his vast empathy. <br><br>"You shouldn't have put yourself back on my radar, Alistair," Sam says, in a low, too-calm voice. "There will be consequences for that. But for now?" <br><br>His hand forms into a sort of claw. He rears it back. Though the other demons are right on his priority list, Fred's parents in particular, he's going to trust May and Fred to keep fighting while he initiates what has been, with every other demon, a battle of wills. Fred might achieve what she needs to with the exorcism anyway. Distantly, he hopes they're in good enough shape to survive the process. Distantly, he wonders what's happening to Jo and Bobby. <br><br>But he can only do one thing at a time. <br><br>He flings his will into his brother's form, shoving with all his might, doing his dead level best to use his stolen power to force his former tormenter straight back to Hell, and to hit him hard enough with that force that he won't have the strength to come seeking a new host for quite some time. <br><br>"Give me back my brother, you sorry son of a bitch." <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>If there’s one thing that May has learned only too well in her years at SHIELD, it’s the ability to NOT let it show when something affects her. Thus, Ash’s comments about the little girl and Bahrain appear to fall upon deaf ears as she sidesteps the sash whip coming back at her then whirls around, pulling the weapon back into a whirring spin. She also doesn’t waste time with talking. <br><br>Setting the whip to spin blurringly fast, she flicks it out at Ash-demon again, knowing it’s exactly what he’ll expect and with her other hand pulls the salt-loaded pistol from the Impala’s trunk and shoots at the redneck demon. She’s aiming only to wound and annoy, though, by shooting at his right thigh. Sorry… whoever you are. <br><br>Then she does start to toss out words, again using the ancient Mandarin to call upon one of the Kings of Diyu to pull these souls back to Hell to complete their punishments. <br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, “He’s been looking for his mom since I stole her,” Ellen counters to Jo. Bobby receives a small tilt of her head as she stumbles backwards from the shells. It won’t stop her, and it won’t send her back to hell, but it certainly has some impact, enough to grant a death stare towards the gentleman-hunter. “Decided to leave your solace to have some fun?” her yellow eyes flash with amusement. <br><br>Bobby looks worse for wear. His head has been bandaged many times over. His clothes are blood soaked. His wrists are bound with bandages. He’s been through something vile--that much is clear. But the anger in his eyes doesn’t dissipate. He shoots the gun again, this time towards the demon’s head. “Get. Out,” he says again. <br><br>Ellen’s eyes glimmer as Jo begins to lead her away. She knows what’s up. She also knows the house is going up in flames. Even from the outside the flames can be seen. Time is short. “I took her, you know. I took Sam’s fiance. And it’s only a matter of time until I take you. And make no mistake, Jo, I will get you.” She manages a small smile. “But in the meantime, know that he doesn’t love you. Not really. He doesn’t know how. Even your mother knows that.” There’s a pause. “Unless it’s Sam. Sam will always come first. He sold his soul for Sam--do you think he would ever do that for you? If you think so, you know you’re lying to yourself…” <br><br>“Shut up, you Idjit!” Bobby fires again to herd the demon towards Jo. “Don’t listen to him, Kid. They spew anything and everything to get inside yer ‘ead,” he fires the shotgun again. <br><br>And it seems to be working for the time being, but it’s easier than it should be. It’s possible the demon wants to get caught or its gambit has been fulfilled already. <br><br>Outside, Roger-demon sneers when Fred makes her bid for her parents’ lives. His nostrils flare and his body tenses at the request not to put them in Pylea. There’s little room for any of it. He takes delight in her pleading, and he doesn’t lose that edge of torment as he laughs, “I will see that every day of their life and beyond they are in agony. And the agony will never cease. Not once. Not ever.” <br><br>But the murmuring of the Latin causes his knees to buckle. His black eyes cannot handle the Latin the way the white eyes can. He falls onto his hands. He bats the ground as the words continue to spill from Fred’s lips and he begins to cough as his soul begins to be banished into the pit beyond. <br><br>Trish-demon, meanwhile has begun to recover. She forces herself to a stand and walks to where Roger and Fred are. <br><br>There will be consequences for Alistar returning to Sam’s radar. “I’m counting on it,” Dean replies gruffly. Amusement tugs at each edge of Dean’s face. His eyes crinkle with delight, his lips turn upwards, and the white of his eyes seems downright delighted. But the delight begins to change when Sam reaches out his hand. <br><br>At first, Alistair spreads Dean’s arms, inviting the change. But then the pressure changes. The white-eyed demon fights, demanding even more juice to be expensed and Dean’s body buckles beneath the war, stumbling towards the ground. Sam pulls on Alistair’s soul, forcing him from Dean’s body. And, because he can, he claws at the edges of Dean’s consciousness. <br><br>Dean’s chin lifts towards the sky and his mouth opens as a white thick cloud of smoke floats into the sky. It billows above, disappearing into nothing as it moves. <br><br>Dean collapses when the smoke disappears, causing his body to fall into the fetal position with his stomach falling to the ground. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cough. Emptily, he remains there frozen in place. <br><br>Ash screams in agony when the shell hits his thigh. He collapses to his knees. “You bitch!” he seethes loudly. “She agonizes every day because of what you did! And she will come back to haunt you--I swear that you will suffer tenfold!” <br><br>The demon wearing him keeps black eyes shining as he reaches out to counter her. He sends a burst of telekinetic towards her to thrust her against a rusty looking dumpster. But as he does so, he also begins to be willed from the body he’s occupying. His lips part and thick black smoke begins to billow up to the sky. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's difficult to hear much of what's happening outside - just the muffled noises that indicate not everything is ok in Kansas, Toto. Jo's blue eyes flick uncertainly in that direction but Ellen-mon's words have her focussing again. <br><br>Do they work? Does the demon manage to plant the seed of doubt in the blondes mind? What she has with Dean ... it's fledgling. They'd made no promises to each other, had they? Wasn't he really 'Mister Right Now' rather than 'Mister Right'? Maybe. Time will tell the effect those words truly have. <br><br>"You can have me if you can catch me." Jo's voice trembles as she moves further into the house. It is too easy, baiting the creature like this and she shoots a quick look to Bobby trying to convey that. <br><br>"I've chosen Ellen over Dean, so I guess we're even on that score." she tells her corrupted mothers form. "Blood is, after all, thicker than water." <br><br>It's getting hot in here and a trickle of sweat runs down her forehead but still, she leads the demon on. Ellen-mon. Gotta catch them all. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred, pinned against the car like a butterfly to a board, keeps reciting. She can hear the spiteful words of the demon holding her father promising them pain. It only spurs her to recite faster, to try and literally release that demon. The same fear Sam has is lodged in the back of her head - the teenager face down in a lawn that would never move again. The one Sam wrapped in a tarp and drove elsewhere. Is that the future for her parents? Will she not only be the reason for their possession, but their death? <br><br>The words slow slightly as she thinks about that, a soft sob interjecting itself in her recitation in between lines. Her eyes close as she continues, seeing her father drop to his knees and choke. The approach of her mother is unable to be seen. She simply can’t stand it. She has little of the training or outward fortitude of May. Every word clearly cuts her deeply. Still, though, she speaks through unbearable pressure and the pain. <br><br>Determined, aching and devastated, she finishes the exorcism. Despite the dangers, the fact that she knows there are enemies still around, she cannot bear to open her eyes, to see if she succeeded - and if she did - to see what that means. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Dean!” <br><br>Sam darts forward to gather Dean into his arms. He wants to check for a pulse, he wants to offer some food or water or medical care, but they are still very much in the middle of a crisis here. And Fred is still being menaced. He sees Mr. Burkle’s demon smoke out, but here comes Mrs. Burkle. <br><br>He flings his hand in that direction, jaw firming with determination. After Alistair, this should be nothing. He was unable to force the white-eyed monster back to Hell, he’s still out there. But a black-eyes? <br><br>Should be easy enough. <br><br>He pushes the soul out like it’s nothing, leaving, briefly, a black fiery burn mark on the ground beneath her feet. It takes a moment of concentration, but compared to Alistair it’s as easy as simply thumping a piece of paper away with his thumb and forefinger. Gentler on Mrs. Burkle’s body than the exorcism, though there are still no guarantees. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May get slammed back against a rusty old dumpster, and that finally elicits a reaction from her. She growls at the pain and frustration of being stuck, but then as the demon ghosts out of the young man’s body and the hold on her releases, she takes a breath and then says to the black smoke, “You first.” <br><br>Then, grimacing slightly as she steps away from the dumpster and feels like someone just pulled a rusty knife out of her back, she takes a very quick stock of the goings on and turns to run for the farmhouse. As much as seeing what Sam is doing disturbs her, she can’t exactly argue it now. But she CAN go help Jo with whatever is going on inside the house. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, Ellen follows Jo through to the living room. She lifts a hand to telekinetically hit the girl, but the shotgun fire grants her pause. Bobby has few (if any) concerns about damaging his home. It’s already going up in flames anyways. While Jo may be acting as live bait, the yellow-eyed demon seems to take it. The plan may be known, but something seems to inspire Ellen-mon forward. <br><br>And sure enough, the living room is a veritable myriad of demon traps. The ceiling, walls, and floor underneath the carpet all act as demon traps. Yellow eyes is stuck. Ellen, however, just smiles at the others, strangely pleased with herself at this turn of events. “You’re both aware that you’ve won nothing today, aren’t you? All of this went according to plan.” Her yellow eyes track towards Jo. <br><br>Bobby’s expression remains neutral. He’s been dealing with monsters for decades and he won’t let himself be rattled by another. He does, however, look towards Jo. “Send the bitch home, Kid,” intending her to exorcise her own mother. <br><br>When May finds the pair inside the home, Bobby casts her a long look as he levels his shotgun towards her. A glance is given Jo, silently asking about the woman standing in front of him. <br><br>Outside, Fred’s agony gets emphasized as her mother continues what her father had begun. Trish lifts her fingers to slowly, telekinetically, wrench Fred’s skull. She applies pressure, exerting more with every passing instant to literally crush her brain. But it’s all for naught. She’s ripped from the mortal she’s residing in by Sam’s will. In an array of black smoke, she leaves Trish’s body on the ground in a mess of nothing. <br><br>Ellie smirks as Trish is exorcised, and in a second, she’s gone to parts unknown to fight another day. <br><br>Unconscious, both of Fred’s parents lay there with no movement. It’s a wonder if they’re alive. <br><br>Not far away, Dean’s body resembles a corpse. Pallid skin. Cold. Empty. His eyes don’t flicker, his breath doesn’t steady. And in a way, he’s nearly vacant. The light seems comforting. Peaceful. He knows it leads nowhere good, but his mind struggles to return to the present. <br><br>The rocking had been peaceful. The sound of her humming a comfort even before he’d seen her face. But she never stuck to humming. Her voice echoes in his mind. “Hey Jude, refrain, don’t carry the world upon your shoulders~’ <br><br>She didn’t like lullabies. She liked the Beatles. They would rock in the rocking chair of the nursery. Time and time again. “For well you know that it’s a fool~ Who plays it cool~ By making this world a little colder~” <br><br>“You need to wake up, Dean,” she says softly. He can almost feel her fingers on his cheek. The way she’d gently woken him many times when they had somewhere to be. <br><br>In the real world, Dean gasps for breath, inhaling a face full of dirt, causing him to push up slightly to cough the dirt back into the ground before collapsing against it again. He’s alive. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus... " Jo starts to intone as she hits the living room. Bobby didn't need to tell her twice. "omnis satanig--" <br><br>She stutters as the yellowed eye demon taunts them further and draws in a gasping breath. <br><br>"He'll survive. They'll survive..." She mutters to herself. Who's she's talking about isn't clear, perhaps not even to herself. She knows better than to respond to the creature but it's hard, oh so hard. <br><br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis satanicus potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii..." <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>Holy water is added to the moment mix of this recipe. <br><br>"omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura," <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>"tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, AUDI NOS!" <br><br>The final words of the rite have her voice rising as sweat pours down her face. She's breathing heavily by the time she finishes. Who knew reciting a few words could be so taxing? <br><br>Ellen-mon smokes, or is it steams?, as the water hits her and her body trembles terribly at the words. Those eyes fix Jo with deadly intent as yellow smoke rises from her body. <br><br>"Is it over, Bobby?" she grates out. Not once thinking to question if this truly is the Hunter and not some other meat-suit wearing Demon. <br><br>Um. They should probably take Ellen's body and get the hell out of Dodge. <br><br>"Dean...." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The pressure against her is felt exponentially. Fred’s eyes remain closed as the pain increases, her head shoved against the junkyard car further and further. There’s only so long it will last before it might burst. She starts to try again, the words gritted through her teeth, through the excruciating pain. “Exorci….zamus….te….” <br><br>Suddenly, though, the pain is gone. Fred drops to the ground in a pile of limbs, gasping at the sudden release of pressure against her body. Her eyes remain closed for a few moments until they open to glance upward. She takes in the scene, blinking at the sudden brightness after squeezing her eyes shut for so long. <br><br>There’s Sam holding Dean and then, there is her parents, lying motionless on the ground. Scrambling, tripping in her hurry to get up, she scurries to them. The bag of mystical weapons are left behind broken and filled with water. It might be a mistake, but she isn’t thinking about that right now. Instead, she needs to get to her parents, to check on them. <br><br>“Mom? Dad?” Terrified, she reaches for them, checking for a pulse, gently assessing them to try and see if they have any wounds that need to be tended. “Please, please, wake up. Please be okay. I’m sorry.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester has never felt so relieved in his life as he feels when Dean wakes up in his arms. He lifts him up a little to try to get him out of the dirt, rolls him over, sees Fred fussing over her parents. Some of the demons exited, stage left. Now he turns his attention to Bobby’s home, gasping, worried. <br><br>He is no healer, but there are still things he can do. He knows this might well use nearly all of what he’s got. He is already going to need a dose much faster than usual. He’s already out of them. New York is far, far away. <br><br>He’ll just have to trust that he’ll pull through, because he can’t let Bobby’s house burn. Father, uncle, whatever one wants to call him, Bobby Singer is family. <br><br>He could never try this if he weren’t high on the rush of demonic blood. But now he lifts his hand and focuses on the fire. Focuses on pulling it first to a single point outside the house, telekinetically trying to draw flames together into one long finger-like torrent, stretching it out and out and out until he can get it away from Bobby’s home. <br><br>It works, to his shock. But he doesn’t revel in it for long. There’s a watery ditch, a culvert he played in as a kid. He slams the fire into it, leaving only a hiss of steam in the distance. It’s probably a Hell of a thing to watch. In more ways than one. <br><br>He keeps his arm tightly around his brother the entire time, pressing his chest to his brother’s back to keep him in spiritual contact with the anti-possession ward tattoo’d deeply into his own skin. He doesn’t have time to grab that final necklace from his pocket right now, and he won’t risk another possession. They won’t get this lucky twice. <br><br>“Fred,” he asks hoarsely, a one-word request for a status report on her parents. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May bursts into the farmhouse and stops abruptly when the older man (though really, he’s probably the same age she is) turns his shotgun on her. “We need to go,” she says to the younger Harvelle after seeing the woman freed of possession. She’s guessing that that’s Jo’s mother, and while keeping a wary eye on Bobby, she moves cautiously closer to check on the now unconscious woman and in doing so passes straight through at least two devil’s traps without realizing they’re there. <br><br>She checks Ellen’s pulse and finds that she’s out for the count, but not on the verge of dying, which is a relief. She starts to heft the unconscious woman into a fireman’s carry when the fire suddenly just … goes away. She is going to have WORDS with Sam after this. But, the house may very well still be structurally compromised so she keeps on with the getting Ellen out. “Let’s move, Jo. Now.” <br><br>Her eyes land on Bobby again for a moment as if to see if he’s going to follow or continue standing there being openly curmudgeonly. But only for a moment. The smoke is now more dangerous than the flames were, so she’s getting out and she’s taking Ellen with her. <br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Looking to the skies reveals that the omens have shifted. The skies have cleared and blue takes over from the swirl of orange, red, and white. It’s relieving. The locusts have cleared--something they will notice when they drive out of here. <br><br>Bobby casts a long look to Jo as May enters the demon traps. His shotguns drop and his own bloodied body nods once at the young blonde when May moves to get Ellen out. In no time, he’s walking out of his home, semi-intact and looking out on the yard. His head shakes once while he assumes silence. His eyes train on the boys and linger on Sam for a long while. <br><br>Fred’s parents remain unresponsive. Assessing her mother yields a strong pulse and breathing. Her body doesn’t look ridden hard--likely because it wasn’t ridden long. Alistair had some last minute additions to his hostage entourage. It’s good to be at the tail end of the possessions. Her father’s pulse, however, is weak. Barely there. His breathing is shallow. Undoubtedly the exorcism had unwanted secondary effects. Both are alive though. <br><br>Dean’s vision can’t come into focus. His body refuses to cooperate as he tries to regain some semblance of muscle control. He wants to stand. He can’t even motivate himself to wriggle out of Sam’s grasp. And so he stays there. His eyes burn, prompting him to close them again. His very breath rakes against his throat, scratching with dryness like sandpaper. Mary’s voice continues to sing over him in this place. He can sense her. Feel her. And it moves him. <br><br>Years of hunting have made Dean hard. He knows to maintain himself. To carry his composure. His life has been threatened many times before. He’s sold his soul. He’s died and come back to life. Seven times. <br><br>Maybe it’s the lack of nourishment, dehydration, or the sheer magnitude of being possessed for days, but something breaks. And, underneath his arm, Sam can feel Dean’s chest heave. <br><br>Dean Winchester is crying. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"A friend..." Jo grates out as May bursts through the door "... sort of..." she ammends. "SHIELD agent." Which should speak volumes for Bobby and warn him. No matter what she's been through, and her face shows the fear, the panic, the terror she feels, Jo won't leave Bobby out to dry. <br><br>Wiping her hand across her forehead, smearing grime and soot as she does, the blonde nods once to May, dips and helps her left Ellen, leaving the house and out into the yard. <br><br>"... Dean ..." Poor May is left with Ellens weight as the Hunter's daugher, now Hunter herself, takes a faltering step forward. Yellow eyes words play in her head like a bad song stuck on repeat. It takes a moment for her to push the doubt down. It's not gone - and the pair will have to deal with that ... later. <br><br>Hopefully much, much, later. <br><br>Standing there, between May and the men, hands clenched, Jo finally surveys the turmoil. "Fred? Ar... " she swallows "Are they ... " she can't finish the statement. She heard the womans' plaintive plea to the downed pair. <br><br>She hasn't looked for Ash yet. There's too much to take in, as her eyes return to the Winchester brothers. No place for her there. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>As her mother is closest to her, Fred checks her pulse first, finding it steady, though the woman has yet to wake up. A slight warmth of relief starts flood its way through until she reaches her father. His breathing is shallow, his pulse weak. The blood in her ears pounds as she quickly tries whatever she can to steady him, to heal him. There’s a look to her mother, still lying there. She feels terrible about leaving her there, but it’s Roger that is in the most dire straits. <br><br>“Dad, Dad, come on. You gotta stay strong, okay?” The question from Sam, from Jo, they’re both only heard as if from far away, barely recognized. All her attention is on her father, lying here. Her hands remain on him as she finally looks up, towards the others. She might not have heard their questions, but she knows Sam is there, that Dean is there. There’s almost surprise as she sees Jo and May, as well as two others she doesn’t know. Ellen may be unconscious, but the previously unseen form of Bobby stands with them and there is a brief wariness that fades to her greater concerns. <br><br>“Help him,” she pleads. “He’s...he’s weak. I think I...I don’t know. We gotta get him out of here. Please.” Panic has clearly set in. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Bobby is staring at him, and Sam looks away, flushing with sudden shame. And that makes him angry, because look. There they are. All alive. <br><br>But not all well. Dean is weak, Fred’s parents are weak, Ash is weak, Ellen is no doubt weak. His mouth sets into a tight line. He hefts Dean up as if he were hefting up a small child. He doesn’t even strain to do it. It doesn’t occur to him that Jo might be feeling uneasy about her place in that right now, or he’d be more considerate, but right now he’s in crisis mode. He fishes out that necklace, puts it firmly around Dean’s neck. <br><br>He sees Dean’s tears but won’t address them. It would mortify his brother. If anything he turns Dean into his body just a little bit, so the man can shed what he needs to shed without anyone seeing. A protective gesture, though not a traditional one. <br><br>“How fast can you get a SHIELD medical team to us, Agent May?” Sam asks. “Or us to a SHIELD medical team? Everyone needs help.” His words, when they come out, are grim, taut, and utterly professional, showing no hint of any emotion at all. His irises remain flat black. No telling if they’re going back. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>With Jo’s help, May gets Ellen out of the farmhouse only to have to take all of her weight when the blonde moves toward the brothers. She’s starting to feel where she took that dumpster to the back, so before she’s at risk of dropping the unconscious woman she moves to set her down somewhere central-ish. Doing so might reveal that she didn’t get out of this unscathed, and it was something bad enough to tear through her jacket. <br><br>“Depends on if,” she pauses and forces herself to not wince as she pulls her cell phone from a pocket. Please work, please work, “my phone is working now.” She starts trying to dial out and looks at Bobby again. “There’s a young man over that way. Sleeveless shirt. Mullet.” She doesn’t know if he’s okay or not, though. <br><br>Glancing over at Sam, she reaches into her jacket again and pulls the water flask that Dean had declined before. It’s at best four ounces of water, but it’s better than nothing and Dean looks like he’ll need any bit of sustenance they can manage. <br><br>Oh thank goodness. “HQ. May. Require immediate medical teams or exfil at my location. Four civilians down, one asset, one agent.” She doesn’t bother to get up from where she’s sitting on the ground next to Ellen. She’s not sure her back will take it. “Have Medical check my file, I’ll likely need another tetanus booster.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Bobby’s gaze finally peels away from the brothers, it rests on Ellen a few beats and then he moves to find Ash and assess the kid. “What a mess,” he mutters softly to himself. But he’s pleased enough to find the body with a heartbeat and signs of life. His eyes turn up to the sky for a moment, taking in the blue stillness and he exhales a long breath. “And it’s just gonna get worse,” he murmurs to no one in particular. <br><br>But on that note, SHIELD medical arrives. The quinjet is fully prepared to take all for transport. And while at least one patient objects, a lot of sedative eats the objection. In short order everyone is receiving treatment. And when they’re alert, five will wake up in a place they don’t recall going to sleep. <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Third_Option&diff=1573Third Option2017-09-19T02:21:21Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/13<br />
|Location=Sioux Falls, South Dakota<br />
|Synopsis=After receiving word of Dean's possession, a team goes out of their way to get White Eyes out of the Elder Winchester's body. Things don't go as planned.<br />
|Thanks=Dean Winchester<br />
|Cast of Characters=Dean Winchester, 1379, Winifred Burkle, Sam Winchester, 5<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The road gifted more than tortured time. The drive from Hell’s Kitchen to rural South Dakota was long, but thanks to Alistair’s actions against the Impala, it also provided Sam and Fred two allies along the way. The black Impala on the side of the road was unmistakable. It had garnered attention immediately, and both May and Jo joined the foray. <br><br>While discussion had been short thanks to not really knowing what they’re getting into, the details seemed to align. Something had Dean. It occupied his body with its flat-white eyes and sadistic smile. Whoever it is has little regard for kindness and, presumably, roughed him up before choosing to take up residence. <br><br>It also became clear that the creature’s machinations had some intent. Those encountering demons regularly know full-well they ride their vessels hard. But many just seemed to want power. Something about this particular demon seemed different--purposive, even. <br><br>But after those details had been exchanged, there was little else to say. It was hard to plan without knowing what they faced… <br><br>Hours passed before they saw its first indication. Any who’d visited Bobby in South Dakota before would know the oddity of the prairie’s big open skies. Today, however, the sky itself dreads whatever will happen here. A swirl of grey, orange, pink, and red calls upwards in an incredibly odd storm. No rain falls. No wind blows. Yet the sky swirls in impossibility overhead. <br><b>Driving down the rural range road kicks up dust as the car moves, but something else hits hard against the car with each passing moment. The faint clunk of something meeting metal presents at a strange pace. Random enough not to be something wrong with the car, but loud enough to know that outside they’re hitting something.. Or something is hitting them. <br><br>The number of them grows as does the sound. The barrage of brown-green bugs--locusts that have presumably infested the area--pushes against the windshield. And should the driver just continue on their course, they pass the warning as quickly as they’d come to it, producing a house in the distance. <br><br>If they didn’t know better, a passerby would assume the people outside are enjoying a barbeque, a true wonder with skies like these. They see five figures for certain. It’s impossible to know if there’s more kicking around. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's a quiet Jo Harvelle who huddles on the back seat of the Impala. She's worried about Dean, and about Sam (given what Dean had told her before), and trying not to show it. She's failing - not badly but enough. <br><br>The swarm of locusts has the blonde leaning forward, against the seat belt, and peering out the window. "If I was more devout than I am, I'd probably be able to quote a bible verse or two." She mutters, eyes narrowing as she takes the upcoming house in. "Well they probably ain't Riders, given there's five of them but they're likely trouble all the same." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s been hours on the road from New York City to here for Fred and Sam. The time have been tense, with bursts of conversation and planning and then anxious silence. They know only some of what awaits them at Bobby’s house. The demon’s purpose and what he’s done with Bobby is still a mystery. At least they now know that May and Jo are alright, despite the unmoveable Impala on the side of the road. <br><br>Acquiring two more allies as well as the sleepy bomb from Fred’s stash that she left in the car from the Crossroads fight is certainly a boon in her opinion. <br><br>Fred is not one of the people who have visited Bobby before. Or South Dakota, even. However, she makes an educated guess that they’re getting close when locusts start to hit against the car and windshield. Behind the wheel, the physicist slows but does not stop the car. She’s not as skilled a driver as Sam is, but she manages to push them through the almost biblical plague intact. “It’s not a Bible verse, but I’m starting to think the most appropriate one is, ‘When Moses was in Egypt’s Land, ‘Let my people go.’’ ‘Course the last part is actually a Bible verse, so that’s really a twofor. Either way, that wasn’t pleasant and doesn’t really much bode well for what else he can do. Last thing we want are boils. Or frogs. I didn’t even like dissecting them in class. Locusts were at the end of the plagues, yeah? After that came darkness?” It’s been a little while since Fred rambled quite like this. It’s either a testament to leaving the Winchester apartment or how close they are to the anticipated showdown. <br><br>Once through the bugs, the slowing of the car turns into a stop. She scans the five figures in the distance. “They’re probably expecting us from the front. Buncha places to hide, for them and us.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The road always brings gifts. <br><br>It’s a distant thought that Sam had experienced when he’d spotted that Impala and had asked Fred to stop the car. <br><br>But hearing the demon had white eyes had cast him into a pensive silence, folded him up in the front passenger’s seat with his hand over his eyes. He conducts his grapple with despair in silence. He’d passed out two more anti-possession necklaces prior to slipping off into this dark inner world. <br><br>But when the first locust hits the windshield he sits up with narrowed eyes. Fred’s observation casts him into Professional Mode, and it’s as if he had never had a doubt in his life. Because now that he can see some of what they’re up against, a plan is starting to present itself. <br><br>“Park there,” he says, tense, pointing to an old open barn off the side of the road. “The property’s up ahead. Park before they can see us.” <br><br>Then the young man half turns around to look at May and Jo. <br><br>The oddity of Sam’s upbringing has had a profound effect on him. Sometimes his youth is obvious: he is uncertain and hopeful all at once. Sometimes, he is twice or even three times as old behind the eyes as he really is. Now he looks ancient, someone who has gone beyond “seen too much”, gone beyond “experienced too much.” He hasn’t stared into the Abyss; he’s sat in the passenger’s seat of a classic car while other men drove straight through it. Or, in this case, a woman, through a cloud of locusts. <br><br>That weight is in his eyes now. They’re flat, hazel reflecting mostly the color green today, emotion pushed far from him. At the least, the matte black the irises (though not the sclera) have been known to display in response to anger lately is missing. <br><b>“White-eyes doesn’t know you three are coming. He only knows for sure that I am.” <br><br>He removes a salt shotgun from beneath his feet. Cocks it. Loads it. “So. I go in obvious. You ladies go in stealth. Attack when the time seems right. I imagine it will want to talk to me before the violence starts. Agent May will know the right moment.” <br><br>It’s Agent May’s eyes he looks into now, because he knows several things. He knows Fred and Jo will hate this plan. He also knows it’s probably their only chance. He knows May will get that. He knows that she’ll get them out of there if she has to. There are senior agents who have never displayed the kind of grim, knowing bleakness that sits in his eyes now. He’s counting on her to make the hard calls and to make these two women her priority if it comes to that. And to lead them to some sort of successful conclusion, if she can. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Being stranded on the side of the highway with all dead electronics and a stalled out Impala and a MISSING DEAN does not a happy May make. She’d been fully prepared to leave Jo with the car and walk to the nearest phone, but that’s about when Sam and Fred pull up. Her first words to the pair are to demand Sam’s cell phone, and then she spends the next several minutes talking with someone in SHIELD as they transfer whatever they need from the Impala’s trunk to Fred’s car and get underway again. <br><br>“Sam, Another senior agent is going to see that the Impala is returned to New York and any damages are repaired. He’s taken care of her for Dean before.” And, Sam might have seen Lola in passing. <br><br>Upon reaching the city with an airport, May directs them toward it, where she meets up with the SHIELD personnel waiting there beside a quinjet. There’s body armor and comms and gear for everyone as well as replacement electronics for May, and despite it being a VERY close fit, Fred’s car is loaded into the jet and they’re underway again with May doing the piloting. <br><br>The atmospheric situation forces them to land several miles away from their target location and drive the rest of the way. The locusts have May muttering something in Cantonese, and then Sam lays out the plan. Her reply is to simply nod and then look at Fred and Jo. Both have seen her at work before, though under completely different situations. This should be interesting. <br><br>May can’t help but wish a sniper had been available to join them. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s fortunate they park away from the house as it enables them the element of surprise--at least to some extent. The figures outside don’t seem to have taken notice. Not yet, anyways. While the heroes plan some distance away, the house-posse lingers watching the front road. The people on the lawn almost look familiar. But it’s hard to really notice from this distance. <br><br>Make no mistake, it’s a trap of their making. <br><br>A few beats pass and when everyone looks away for a second--only to look back moments later--and another figure in a camo-green jacket joins them. Near silence comes over the people while eyes turn up to the sky. <br><br>And in a single second, the swirling sky stills. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>“Sounds more like a musical to me…” Jo’s snark comes out when she’s worried and poor Fred, who’s just met the blonde, gets the full force of it. “... sorry… I’m just … worried.” She falls silent as the car pulls up and just stares at Sams STUPID plan. <br><br>Damn Winchesters and their stupid plans. <br><br>Yet she can’t think of a better one. Not at all. “I ain’t no lady …” it’s the best she can do as she slips from the back of the car and pops the trunk. It’s a veritable treasure trove of weapons they’ve collected there. The Impala was certainly well stocked and combined with what the other other two had … they could go in loaded for bear. <br><br>Pity it’s //not// bear they’re hunting. That would be sooooo much easier. <br><br>Silently, blue eyes flicking to the figures at the house, Jo arms herself. Salt loaded rounds, holy water, silver, iron. Whatever she can carry, she’ll take. As the sixth figure arrives and the sky literally starts opening, she shakes her head. <br><br>“Guess it’s now or never.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam is quite right in thinking Fred will hate his plan - it leaves him going in alone with a creature that can apparently summon swarms of locusts. Demon locusts. “No way.” Fred shakes her head. “I’m not letting you go in there alone. If that thing knows what Dean’s thinking, he knows I wouldn’t let you do this by yourself, I’ll go with you.” It’s not just her being leery of splitting up, it does make logical sense. Her eyes flick toward the SHIELD agent as she says this before they return to Sam. She knows how good May is, having seen her in action during Sam’s rescue, but she is also stubborn on this issue. <br><br>As they start to gather the weapons, Jo’s snark is met with an innocent blink from the brunette. “Actually, yeah, I think it’s a song,” she agrees, a bit guileless. The apology is given a confused nod. “It’s alright, me too.” Worried about Dean, worried about Sam, worried about all of them. <br><br>She makes sure she has some of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt as well as the sleepy-time bomb, passing out other items as needed. The stillness of the sky, when before it was agitated catches Fred’s attention. Much like the other figures, she looks up and then looks back to the yard to see the green jacketed figure now amongst the others. Dean. Or whatever it is that has possessed him. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>He’d nodded about Lola; he’d seen it. An impressive car. But too flashy. Cop magnet. <br><br>“Now or never is a song too,” Sam points out, distracted. Or maybe he’s just going ahead and trying to lighten the mood somewhat. It’s hard to tell. There’s a flash of a tired smile on his face, there and gone again. <br><br>/I ain’t gonna live forever. I just wanna live while I’m alive./ <br><br>Fred makes some sense too. His eyes close for just a moment. But he chose her because he saw an equal, and if she’s ready to step out and partner up and face this with him...well. He has no right to stop her, not when her comment makes tactical sense. He reaches out. Takes her hand. Squeezes once. <br><br>“Together, then,” he says softly. <br><br>They might die together. It might be the last time they are together, because he’s fairly sure what Fred’s destination will be, and he /knows/ what his will be already. <br><br>/But this world is shit. You carve out every last. Damned. Good moment. You. Can./ <br><br>Right now, there’s a little good in the feel of her softer, smaller hand in his broader, more calloused one. <br><br>“Good luck, you two.” This to Jo and Agent May. “And...thanks.” <br><br>And then he takes a deep breath. Steels his spine. Gets out of the car. He’ll wait for Fred. <br><br>And then, hand in hand with her still, if she’ll allow it...he takes what seems to be an endless walk towards the 6 demons he can see, shotgun aimed, for the moment, groundward in his unoccupied hand. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May can only nod as Fred insists on sticking with Sam and he agrees. She’s not in charge of this mission, so she’ll do what’s asked of her and not argue unless she thinks it’s a suicidally stupid idea. And, well, this WHOLE DAY has been suicidally stupid. So, really, it’s all the same anymore. <br><br>Wishing her blades had even a hint of usefulness against demons, she checks the rounds in the pistol in her hands again then looks at Jo. “Let’s go.” She plans to lead the blonde around to flank the demons. At the same time, she’s mentally reviewing other possibilities for getting these demons to leave HER agents the F* alone. <br><br>“How big can a devil’s trap be made?” she asks of the Hunter as they run. She’s now also contemplating the accuracy of, say, those red lasers that Iron Man uses from time to time. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Sam and Fred draw near, the people outside begin to come into focus. The first, with curly red hair, freckles, and a fit figure looks undeniably familiar to Sam. But from years past. If he watches her now-black eyes long enough he might draw some faint memory. When he’d known her, she’d been one of the odd kids in school. While twelve-year-old Sam was new to school, Ellie had been an outcast already. They’d saved her from the Backahasten nine years ago. Evidently she lived well into adulthood. To now be possessed here. Her forehead oozes blood as do her arms and legs. It’s a wonder whether she’s still alive and in her body at all. <br><br>Adjacent to her, the pale mulleted brunette man in the jean vest also has an air of familiarity. His jaw tightens and his eyes level at Sam and Fred in turn. The demon wearing the Roadhouse employee, Ash, stares blandly at the pair. Unlike his female comrade with the black eyes, he has a guise of being human. He’s not. But the guise is there. Ash’s hands are bloodied, bruised, and his shoulder has a strange angle. <br><br>Behind Ash, a pair familiar to Fred lingers. Their eyes follow the woman in particular as she walks by. The faces of her parents staring at her with open amusement eye Fred. She was right--she was expected. Her parents’ lips curve upwards with recognition as their eyes roll to black. Bruising lines her mother’s cheeks and her father’s clothes are soaked in blood.The Deanmon knew that Fred would come along. And it put Fred and her obvious loved ones on the radar. <br><br>And as they walk on, it becomes ever clearer, the Deanmon spent time rooting around through Dean’s thoughts and using each to make a very calculated move. While this demon may not have managed to take May and Jo, he had made other efforts to collect plenty of hostages by dressing his allies in them. Most put up a fight of some kind, but the result had been the same. Those that knew him were lulled into easy complacency while Dean made a trap for them. Swiftly. Easily. <br><br>Finally, adjacent to whoever wears Dean, a small girl. Her light blonde hair, fair almost-invisible eyebrows, and flat-white eyes stare blankly at the pair while her lips press into a thin line. It’s a stand-off. And even children are available to the masses. <br><br>And then there’s Dean. His lips quirk at Sam and Fred’s presence. His hands tuck into his pockets and he stares into Sam’s eyes, trying to make eye contact with the younger Winchester. His lips pull with pride as his teeth flash towards the pair. “Sammy,” the greeting has familiarity that this thing shouldn’t have. But then he has all of Dean’s memories, all of his feelings, and every nuance of the body at his disposal. Dean looks worse for wear. His skin is pale. His eyes, sunken and hollow. And his clothes have blood splatters across them. It’s hard to tell whether the blood is Dean’s or someone else’s but it remains. Dean Winchester is not in good shape--even worse than when Jo and May saw him last. <br><br>Inside the house a loud crash clatters loudly followed by a blood curdling scream. Dean shrugs his shoulders as if to ask //Whatcha gonna do?//. He lifts both of his hands and with a gentle move of his fingers aims to telekinetically throw Fred in one direction and Sam in the other. <br><br>Should anyone try to use electronics, they fail. Utterly and completely. The omens above and the opening in the sky has caused everything to short out. Entirely. There are no cell phone signals, no radio transmissions, and no satellite signals. <br><br>They are in a dead zone. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Thought it was from a musical, to be honest. Y'know the one the Donny Osmond as Joseph..." Jo shrugs at Fred. She might have watched it a time or two and she's deflecting her worry with dumb jokes. <br><br>That, or she simply hasn't eaten enough. That does that too. <br><br>"Be careful." Is all she mutters as the pair head off towards Deanmon and his crew. <br><br>"Soak your blades if you don' think it will negate anything that's been done to them already." The blonde hands over a flask of holy water. It's ... not much, but it's something right. Then they're at a run, skirting round the back of the house whilst Sam and Fred run distraction. <br><br>"How big? If we had the time, we could probably cover the yard and the house." she frowns at the Agent "What are you thinkin' though?" There's a copse of trees not far from the structure, it will obscure their approach, at least for the moment. <br><br>That is, if the demons don't sense their humanity. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Two white-eyed demons. A host of hostages important to them both. <br><br>They are utterly fucked. Even with May and Jo. Especially with May and Jo, who Sam is beginning to think will just be the other hostages taken one way or another today. The state of his brother breaks his heart, ramps up his desperation. <br><br>A shudder runs over him as the white-eyed demon in Dean greets him. His hand tightens on Fred’s hand until it might well hurt. He meets those eyes, then is flung hard into the nearest telephone pole. It bruises him, but that’s not what rips him apart next. <br><br>Because he met those eyes, and even as he staggers up to his feet, his own widen in recognition. Somewhere in his mind, a dam starts to crack. <br><br>“No…” <br><br>At first he doesn’t understand the source of his own mortal terror. But then a name comes to him. The dread he says it with, the sheer, crushing dread, ought to be enough to worry anyone. <br><br>“Alistair.” <br><br>As soon as he says the name the crack becomes a flood. As Alistair no doubt intended when he looked into Sam’s eyes, he breaks Crowley’s weaker memory manipulations easily. It’s like a very talented college basketball player made an incredible three point shot, only to be defeated with ease by an Olympian basketball player on the defense. <br><br>A flash before Sam’s eyes, a /flicker/… <br><br>And… <br><br>Stretched out on the rack, perceiving all as if he were in a body still. Limbs pulled unnaturally long and tight, hooks digging into his flesh, blood slicking them down, unable to move, unable to free himself. <br><br>Flicker. He’s in South Dakota. <br><br>“E--exorcizamus...t-te,” Sam stammers. Is it a serious effort at exorcism? Really? Here? Like this? Or is it a fearful prayer? <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Alistair leans over him, his smile a mockery of something loving as Sammy screams. Something in his hand. The boy has lost track of it. The demon just peeled a layer of skin off of his arm, shoulder to wrist. He holds it up for Sam to see. It’s soulstuff, not skin, Sam understands this, but it feels like skin, looks like skin, is gruesome and bloody like skin. Only if someone had done that to him on Earth, he’d die and escape. Here there is no death. Never death, never an escape. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>The memories are almost too much. His soul twists in agony as if it were all happening here and now. <br><br>“O-omnis,” he whispers, tears flowing down his face, body convulsing. His shotgun hits the dirt. Useless as the words he’s speaking. He grabs his head with both hands, panting, eyes wide, barely seeing anything here anymore because… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He has been here just five days, and he can’t stop weeping, even for a moment. The brand that his tormenter slowly presses into exposed muscle turns tears to howls. Alistair presses hideous lips against his temple, strokes his hair. “You’re my favorite, Sammy.” <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>“Omnis satanica!” It’s almost defiant, until the scream rips out of him, a moment and a flash of pain. The lack of memory had meant that he never felt the damage to his own soul. Now the buffer is gone, and he feels it in live flesh. He falls back to his knees, curling over into a ball, hands pulling fitfully at his hair, screams pouring out of him, twenty days of torment, relived in a few short seconds. <br><br>Just as Alistair intended. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred takes Sam’s hand, looking to Jo and May as they prepare and then separate for this mission. There’s a quick smile to them as thanks before they head straight forward. It may be a stupid idea for her to go in with Sam straight away, she can be quite stealthy from her years scavenging and hiding from demons who wished to capture and behead her. However, she also knows she’s far too close to the situation to hide and wait for a signal. If something happened to Sam, she’d charge in. <br><br>Her hand remains in Sam’s, clutching to him in this moment, knowing how dangerous this is and that they may not make it out alive, but at least in this they’ll face it together. Her bottles and bomb remain tucked in a bag over her shoulder. While she generally feels more comfortable with a crossbow, the second shotgun with its salt shells is cradled in her other arm. <br><br>It’s probably for the best that Fred didn’t stay with May and Jo. As they approach the gathering of individuals, it’s not Sam she would rush forward toward - it’s a pair of very familiar faces. <br><br>“…Mom? Dad?” Fred’s voice breaks as she sees their eyes shift to black. Her attention immediately narrows to the blood on her father’s shirt, the bruises on her mother’s cheeks. Her mind drifts to the young teenager motionless on a yard the night she met Sam. It’s his voice in her head telling her in sympathetic, yet matter of fact voice, ‘Sometimes they use bodies so hard they become walking corpses.’ Is that what she is looking at? <br><br>“No. No!” It’s a denial of both that inner voice and the fact of the matter: her parents might be dead and standing in front of her. Her hand leaves Sam’s as she rushes to them. The shotgun drops at her feet as she reaches out to grasp them on opposite arms, pleading. “Mom, Dad, please.” <br><br>Behind her, as if from a different room, she can hear Sam screaming. <br><br>They shouldn’t have come here. They shouldn’t have done this. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Bigger than we have time to make.” So that idea is discarded promptly. As much as it rankled, May is seeing her potential options dwindling, and quickly. She leads the blonde Hunter through to as close to the others as they can manage without having to leave the cover of the stand of trees they’re in. And again, she wishes they’d asked for a sniper. Or that she’d bothered to spend more time on sniper training. <br><br>With the comms to Fred and Sam suddenly gone quiet, there’s no way to tell that anyone in there is familiar to the Hunters, and when Sam’s screams carry to them, she knows they’re out of time. She’s got one last thing to try, and it’s a long shot. <br><br>Speaking in the ancient and overly formal-sounding Mandarin, she calls for King Wuguan of the Courts of Hell to reclaim the souls that have left Hell before their punishments for their sins were completed. She’s focused specifically on the ones that had been there originally, not Dean or the little girl standing next to him. <br><br>Do exorcisms work when one is out of earshot of the target demons? <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>As May and Jo move around the back of the house, the scent of sulphur becomes increasingly powerful. Its pungent scent of rotten eggs overwhelms as they get closer. Moving to flank the demons out front means passing the windows of the home on the way there thanks to the abandoned cars that surround the junkyard. Bobby had taken care to ensure he would see the goings-on around his house, a necessity as a hunter aiming to stay on in one spot. <br><br>Before they even get to the window, they can smell it: the distinct scent of flames licking wood. But combined with the already sulphuric aroma floating from the area? Fire and brimstone reign here. <br><br>May and Jo can feel the heat of flame as they draw closer to the house. It burns hot and angry as it begins to lick the ceiling inside. And as they pass the window, they see a middle aged woman with dirty blonde hair staring up at the ceiling. While they can’t see what’s on the ceiling, it’s clear that Ellen Harvelle isn’t herself today. <br><br>Her sadistic smile, yellow eyes, and extended hand admire some handiwork out of scope. But within scope. A bevy of unconscious (or dead?) children strewn about the floor. She looks down the hall. “Any movement yet?” she calls. <br><br>“Not yet,” a voice calls back. <br><br>“Then show him a goddamned picture of this. Use your suit’s cellphone,” Ellen scoffs. “Knock on the door and call him out.” <br><br>As far as May’s words are concerned, they don’t seem to have any effect as of yet. But expediency isn’t a feature of all spirits. <br><br>Outside, in the front yard, things aren’t going well. But most of the torture hasn’t been physical as of yet. <br><br>“Hello sweetie,” Fred’s mother’s voice cuts through the little stillness that exists. Alluringly--not at all with an air of maternal warmth--she strides towards Fred. Her long, slender fingers reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind Fred’s ear, an action her mother took many times as a comfort. But the smile is wrong. Her expressions are wrong. Even the tone is wrong. And in an instant, comfort turns tides. <br><br>The demon wearing Fred’s mother reaches out her hand to push Fred back. “We are here for you,” while it might come off as warmth or support, it’s cold and angry. She reaches those slender fingers to grab a mitt-full of Fred’s hair in an effort to drag the girl to her father. <br><br>“Winifred Burkle needs punishment,” Fred’s mother allays to her father. <br><br>Fred’s father’s eyes crease with delight. He looks towards her bag. “You brought us gifts? Oh little girl… we do like presents,” he jeers. He walks around her, assessing her as he does so. “You’ve been very naughty. Your mother just said as much.” And then with the condescending tone of an animal owner reprimanding their pet, he asks, “What did you do?” <br><br>“She wants to hurt us, darling~” Fred’s mother virtually sings. “She wants us to pop and sizzle and burn. She came here with fire in her eyes to smite us, but now? She remembers she’s just a lost little girl.” <br><br>Her father nods curtly. “Of course none of this is real. Sam isn’t real. You made him up, Fred. We’re not really here. None of us. You’re alone. A slave dressed in rags with a heavy collar bound to your neck for eternity. They won’t tell you this, but you don’t die. And you never leave. Not there. Not really. You get to live day after day enslaved to them, their world, and their servitude. To their whirls, wants, and whimsies.” <br><br>A giggle emits from Dean’s lips as Sam begins the words that could put any of them out of commission. “That tickles,” he notes with another quirk of his lips. <br><br>Dean’s face lights with unbridled pleasure. His eyes lid and his lips quirk as if experiencing some other ecstasy at Sam’s pain. A shiver of delight passes over him. But if anyone is paying attention, something, however briefly, changes in the tide. His hand moves towards the inside of his jacket. It’s slow, cautioned, and purposive. It tugs at the inner pocket and draws out a strange looking knife. <br><br>The picture has oddities of its own: Dean basking in revelrie while his hand utilizes the opportunity. With the little girl near, and Alistair’s pleasure continuing, the knife moves to stab the little girl, another white-eyed demon, in the back. Hard. Her body flickers yellow and her occupant twists around to face Alistair. It’s not enough to kill her--not one as powerful as she is, but its effect speaks volumes of what the weapon is. She screams in pain. <br><br>The knife misses her heart, its intended target. <br><br>“I have this handled,” Dean’s voice hisses to the girl. <br><br>“I’ll be fine,” she returns with a smirk. Undoubtedly, whatever that weapon was, hurt. But evidently she doesn’t want to be eliminated from this stand-off. <br><br>The knife rests on the ground in the dust. And for a moment flat-white eyes turn green. They soften. They stare at Sam. And, with a drop of Dean’s chin, they look at the knife. And then back to Sam. In a moment the message is given. One can only hope that in his agony, Sam got it. <br><br>And as quickly as those eyes had softened, they harden again. “So,” Alistair begins. “Tell me, Sammy, do you remember all our fun?” There’s a pause. “I do. I remember the chorus of your screams amongst the others, the way you cried each and every time you awoke the next morning, how you called out for your brother as you hung there.” His eyebrows draw together, “Of course, you also called out for Dad. But we both knew /he’d/ never come.” <br><br>Dean’s body treads to where Sam remains in a ball. “Because he never would. He doesn’t care for you. For either of you.” He lifts a finger. “But. Big brother made a deal to get you out of there.” His expression sours and he looks towards Lilith as he seems to put something together. Between Dean’s memories and the space between them, something is becoming increasingly obvious in their efforts to control Hell. The Faustians are actively undermining their efforts. Alistair sneers. “They stole you from me,” he seethes. <br><br>“You were mine.” There’s a long pause. “And you’re mine again,” his lips edge into a smile. “And this time? There’s nothing big brother can do to stop me. You’re on your own, Sammy.” <br><br>“You. Are. Mine.” <br><br>And then, ominously like a revelation has just come to him, he pats Dean’s chest. <br><br>“And so is he.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>No way to tell that anyone is familiar to the Hunters except for the hitch in Jo's step as she spies Ash through the trees. "... Ash ..." She hisses and glares at the SHIELD agent - heavens knows why, it's not May's fault. <br><br>The look turns to horror as Sam's screams ring out through the area and she squints at the tableau unfolding. "What... is she doing .... " Of course, she doesn't recognise Freds parents but she does recognise Dean, the man who ... well who she's become quite fond of. <br><br>"Keep moving..." What they're going to do, she's no idea but one of her Dads Hunter friend had once said //No plan, no matter how good, survives first contact.// This one, the one of Sam's making, doesn't look like it ever really deployed. <br><br>Despite the heat emanating from the house. Despite the smell of rotten eggs, her steps bring them closer to that window and now the blonde freezes. "Mom..." She breathes, breath hitching in terror. "... they've got Mom ... we have to save her... " <br><br>Can she? Can they? Can they truly save Ellen from the Demon that possesses her. Jo doesn't know, but she's going to try. Probably much to May's dismay. Untrained, undisciplined and potentially, just plain stupid - might be some of the words that the blonde gets labelled with. <br><br>"... and Bobby." That has to be who they're trying to bait out. <br><br>One last glance to the older agent and the blonde takes off at a run, right to the door, throwing it open. "Hey Mom... fancy meeting you here ...." <br><br>//Splash// there's some holy water just for good measure. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There was no one else Alistair could have stolen that would have a worse impact on Fred. Angel, Wesley, even Sam...she would be upset and enraged by their possession. However, she also knows that they live in this world and signed up to be a part of its dangers and accepted those consequences. Her parents? They might know about demons and vampires now, but they live on a farm in Texas. They were away from all this, going about their own normal lives. This could have only happened to them because someone wished to hurt her and that makes this her fault. <br><br>She already knows it is a horrible idea as she runs to them, but she can’t stop herself, wanting to shake them, //make// them okay. Trish tucks her hair behind her ear and for a brief heartbeat of a moment, she hopes. Unfortunately, the voice - while unmistakably her mother’s voice - is wrong. <br><br>The hand easily curls into her long hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling her forward. Fred almost topples and does fall to one knee in front of her father as it happens, wincing at the pain of that yank. “I’m sorry,” she says, heartfelt, through the pain. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you both better. I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t know if they can hear her, but she says it anyway. The words about this being a different world, one that she has made up cause a hitch in her throat, a taunt as to how she dealt with five years in Pylea. How she dealt with the spell that just recently sent her into a spiral. She’s weak, she can’t handle the dangers, she couldn’t protect her parents. <br><br>They ask her what is in her bag, what she’s brought them. It clinks to the ground as she falls, the bottles inside rattling against each other, but don’t break. There is no way she will use any force against her parents, but she has to do something. “H-here…” she says, unzipping the bag just a bit, still looped over one arm. “I’ll show you.” <br><br>A hand reaches in to grab one of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt. Squeezing her eyes shut, taking a deep breath, she pulls it out to smash against the leg of her mother. There are tears in her eyes as she she swings. Five years in Pylea cemented a survivor’s spirit, one that instinctively knows that to save her parents, she has to stay alive, too. If they’re not already dead. No, she can’t think like that. She can’t. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The screams do stop. Sam gets himself under control, bit by bit. <br><br>First, it's because he can hear, distantly, the demons taunting Fred. A flame of fury ignites in him. He's spent many nights reassuring her he was real, and some bastard black-eye pissants think they're going to undo her? Even now, her heart-felt apologies to them rip at his heart. It's a sentiment he more than understands, really. <br><br>That's the moment where he raises his head, panting softly in fear, pain, and fury all at once. His irises slowly turn. Hazel to light green, light green to dark green, dark green to pitch black. He can still feel the throbbing pain as he watches his brother keep right on fighting, and feels such pride in Winchester the Elder that it helps to snap a new memory into place. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Life is pain, Princess," says the smooth-talking pirate on the flickering television screen. "Anyone who says differently is selling something." <br><br>The TBS logo appears briefly at the bottom of the screen, signalling a switch to commercial. Sometimes nothing good is on TV, but today, at the Motel Picayune on MS Hwy 5, they luck out. Sammy is four years old, and he is in his favorite spot: snuggled up to his brother on the couch, one of the only places he ever feels safe. He's sucking his thumb, and Dean notices and gently draws it out of his mouth. <br><br>"Stop that," says the older boy, but with no heat. And then, thoughtfully, "He's right you know, Sammy. The Dread Pirate. Life is pain." <br><br>Sammy shifts uneasily and says nothing. He kind of knows some of this already. Life had Been Pain just yesterday, when he'd spilled his milk in the diner, broken a glass, and had inspired Dad to smack him and berate him for being careless in front of everyone. It was his fault. He shouldn't have been so clumsy. <br><br>Dean seems to sense his unease, and sets his mouth into a grim line. At 8, Dean always looks so grown-up, so tough. Sammy emulates the expression as best he can. <br><br>"But you know what you can do, Sammy? You can /fight/. Fight for the people who can't fight for themselves, and most of all fight against any son of a bitch who tries to hurt anyone you care about. I'm going to teach you. You'll see." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He gets the signal. He sees it. Now he has to figure out how to exploit it. Alistair steps right up to him, taunts him, and Sam starts putting his brain to work. Why is it going down like this, specifically? Why draw him all the way out there for hours? Why gather everyone he's ever known, and Fred's parents? Why attack Bobby? What do they want here? Getting Dean's body alone was enough to have Sam ready to give himself up to them, but that's not what they want. Alistair had been angry, in fact, when Sam had seemed meek. Sam gets the impression he'd have been angrier still if he'd tried to bow his head for his brother's life. It tracks with what he remembers, now. Some tormenters grew angry at defiance, threats, but Alistair had never seemed so proud as the day that-- <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" Sam screams, his voice cracking not because it was ready to take on the new tones of manhood, but simply under the strain. Day 14. "I'm going to carve out your KIDNEYS and I'm going to FEED THEM TO YOU, do you understand? You better HOPE I never get out of here, because I am going to KICK YOUR DEMON ASS!" <br><br>"Goood," Alistair coos. "That's good, Sammy." <br><br>And he rewards him with a drink of water, the first his parched throat had seen in two weeks. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Of course. Alistair wants him to /change/. Soon after that… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"All you have to do is take the knife, Sammy. Take the knife, and run it down her foot, and I'll let you off the rack. I'll give you a whole day off for that one little cut. It's so sharp, it'll cut her like nothing. Like running a butter knife through mashed potatoes." <br><br>"No. I won't." <br><br>"Then I guess I'll have to run it down /your/ feet." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Sam's throat burns, parched. He can sense he doesn't have nearly enough juice to pull the only trick that gets any of their possessed friends out. He doesn't have enough for Alistair for sure. He needs more. Which was the point. Goad him into saving Dean at the expense of Ellie, Ash, Fred's parents. Save Dean, and possibly Fred from her infected parents, and Bobby...or save nobody at all. A sadistic choice. May and Jo are here, but they're vastly outnumbered. And /something/ awful is happening inside the house, too. <br><br>Sam is not a fan of sadistic choices. <br><br>He is, however, a fan of third options. The knife won't be enough, he knows, because he just saw for himself it wasn't. But he has a theory. Two theories, really. <br><br>One. <br><br>The strength of the demon MUST matter to the potency of the blood. He hadn't entirely been honest with Claire, though it was only cause he hadn't thought about it at the time. The Crossroads demon he'd eaten had been so much more satisfying and had lasted so much longer than the black-eyes he'd first taken. Vengeance demons were also crazy powerful, and that's what he'd been mostly sipping on, but he would rank them about on the scale of a Crossroads...they both had that wish-granting ability and power, and just used it differently. The rush was more the rush of NEEDING something and getting it. Like feeding a caffiene addiction. Or his alcohol addiction. As he'd said. The rush of a black-eyes? Practically non-existent. The rush, and the power. The power of a white-eyes, a literal ruler of Hell? That's going to be immense. So will, dangerously, the rush, but one problem at a time. <br><br>Two. <br><br>That he can inject it, or he can drink it. He'd had some dreams about simply drinking gallon after gallon of demon blood. He'd had dreams of ripping demons open with his /teeth/, during that first hellish week where demon blood had suddenly become nearly all he could think of. Which was...to the good, really, because he has no time whatsoever to set up a neat, clean drip. This again tracked with the set-up; if they'd hoped he wouldn't see through this they couldn't exactly set it up so he could go after each of those people with a needle. <br><br>So. Third option. Dangerous, difficult to pull off, disgusting in the extreme, uncomfortable for both him and Dean because there is no way to do this in a way that isn't. But fitting, too, because this will mean he and Dean took care of this son of a bitch together. And really, there is no universe where Sam Winchester ever wants Dean to be an unwilling victim. Dean has put himself a little bit back in the ring; Sam decides to keep him there. <br><br>He times the test of the theory though. Times it for the moment that Fred decides she's not going to cave. That she's going to fight. The moment she smashes holy water and salt into the demon wearing her beloved mother. He synchs up with them, moves with them, adding Fred to the synchronous fighting flow that he's always shared with Dean. This is appropriate. On a number of levels. <br><br>He stretches out his hand, as if he is going to try his trick of forcing a soul out of the body without the juice-up. But instead, he exercises the barest hint of his power, yanking that knife to his hand with a burst of telekinetic force. <br><br>"Watch those kidneys, Al," Sam hisses, as if they were already succeeding, as if he'd be willing to kill his brother to spare him… <br><br>Only to feint at them...and instead plunge the demon knife into Alistair's calf, right into where Sam thinks he remembered a superficial system called the great saphenous vein would be. He has read up on anatomy, as it happens, precisely /because/ he tries to spare the vessels of the possessed. If he finds his mark he's hit a vein that would bleed like a son of a bitch, and /hurt/ like a son of a bitch, but won't threaten Dean's life. He hopes the shock of the obviously magical weapon, Dean's own desire to take the reins, and the location itself will buy him the time to do what he needs to do. Because the next thing he does is withdraw the knife, launch himself forward, seize Alistair's leg, and clamp his mouth around it. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Pulling the still salt-saturated sash whip, May looks up and curses when Jo darts off toward the house proper. She can’t watch over everyone if they’re running all over the place willy-nilly. She wastes a moment trying to decide if she can help Jo with the farmhouse, then decides, no, the young woman has proven herself pretty well able to handle things. It’s the multiple demons that she’s concerned with. <br><br>This whole day has been beyond screwed up. Moving as quietly as she can she takes a breath, then charges out at the group of demons all together. She doesn’t know any of the people they’re possessing, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to just mow through them. Anything she can do to lock them down and hopefully banish the demons will be good enough. <br><br>Her sash whip snaps out at the closest black-eyed demon (Ash) the moment she’s within range. <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside, the dramatic interruption of a the blonde hunter sees holy water steam from Ellen’s back. The demon wearing her, however, is powerful and strong. Ellen twists around to see her daughter’s face, and yellow eyes sparkle at the sight. “You look like her--thought that when I got access to your mother’s thoughts,” yellow-eyes taunts. “Dean is just looking for his mama again and again and again,” she muses with a sadistic turn of her lips. With the fire burning above, lighting multiple bodies as it billows, she lifts a hand--a burst of telekinetic energy to push Jo back, hard. Her head tilts. “I would’ve liked to wait until Alistair could bring his suit here,” the smooth cadence of her mother’s voice mixed with the pure venom of Azazel’s malice chills the air. “But, as they say, time is of the essence.” <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>The shotgun fire of salt loaded bullets distracts enough to have the telekinetic move last just a moment, giving Jo release as Bobby’s house continues to go up in flames. “Let go of Ellen, you son of a bitch,” Bobby’s flat tone cuts into the room. The salt rounds won’t be enough to stop her, but it might serve as a distraction. “Kid, we need to round her off back towards the living room,” he states. Bobby’s house is most definitely full of demon traps. The trick is getting this thing into one of them. <br><br>Outside, Fred finds her fight, and the holy water burns her mother’s skin. The demon wearing her screeches in pain, falling forward as steam rises from her body. Her father reacts in kind, forcing her backwards with a burst of telekinetic energy to throw her against a car. “Winifred, you’ve been a very naughty girl,” he repeats from before. While Trish-demon tries to recover, Roger-demon takes point. <br><br>He paces towards her and allows his head to cant to the side, examining her. “There was a time when you were young that your father gifted you something of comfort. That you wouldn’t be afraid. Somehow you thought a rabbit would calm the storm. A stuffed bunny that your father believed would help you relate better to others.” He taps his temple. “I remember. Or, he does. He almost felt bad about it. Giving you a bunny instead of helping you find a friend. You were always such a sweet child.” He motions towards Trish. “That’s what your mother always said. So sweet. So innocent. So alone. Still alone. Always alone.” <br><br>“Nothing can comfort you here.” His tone flattens, “Not your beloved knight in shining whatever,” his nostrils flare, “not your mother’s touch,” his nose wrinkles and his lips quirk, “and not even that damned bunny. No one can make sense of the chaos.” <br><br>“That place you were at, it’s real. It’s not just in your mind, and you can bet that we will find a way to return you to it. Or,” he smiles faintly, “at least, leave dear old Mom and Dad there.” His black eyes shimmer with unbridled amusement. He’s thrilled. Pleased with his latest consideration. “I bet these bodies aren’t even necessary for our plans.” <br><br>The knife into Dean’s calf cuts true. And, sure enough, Sam finds the vein easily. If, however, he opens his eyes, he can see his brother has been subjected to numerous other cuts down his leg--all in various states of disarray thanks to the lack of nutrition that Alistair has provided him. Healing requires basic blocks of life, and Dean has had none. Yet none of those would’ve granted or <br><br>The sound that emits from Dean’s lips is somewhere between pain and ecstasy. Sam gets an ample dose before Alistair manages to lift a hand to push him back because another will buried inside him continues to exert itself where it can, even in exhaustion, malnutrition, and injury. Of course, it doesn’t take much of Alistair’s blood to make the younger Winchester dosed up. Oddly, none of the other demons rush the situation. None try to draw Sam away. The child in the distance even smiles. Softly. As if she’s experiencing a puppet show or play. Her eyes flit towards the others, and with a small smile, she disappears. <br><br>“I didn’t think you had it in you, Sammy,” Alistair states with a wry smile as he flexes Dean’s leg to continue to let the blood pour out. He is really not kind to this body. “You know, I wonder how much /anyone/,” Crowley for one, “will want my sloppy seconds.” <br><br>The sash draws towards Ash and catches his skin causing it to steam and burn, but doesn’t wrap around the demon before he’s onto the ploy. His hand lifts and it turns back towards May. Vacantly, his head tilts to the side. “Handy trick,” he states evenly while he lifts a hand to . “Bet it helped when you ganked that little girl in Bahrain.” His lips curve into a smile. “Alistair tortures her day after day after day in Hell. If you ever wonder what that’s like, I suggest talking to Sam.” <br><br>He strides forward to close the distance again. His hands lift in want. “She was pretty though, wasn’t she?”<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo grimaces as Ellen back steams. As much as she'd expected it, it was still a shock. "Mom..." is that plea or just simple sorrow? Hard to tell, given the blonde is rocketed backwards. <br><br>//Thump// <br><br>"Nggggnh. He's not, you know, looking for his Mom..." A weak protest indeed. The words have cut through the blonde like a knife. Far more dangerous than any physical torment Ellen-demon could subject her to. <br><br>Eyes wide, there's still fight in the woman even though she's held tight. The first blast from the shotgun causes her to jump - that's not how they're supposed to take her, is it? Oh wait. That's Bobby's voice she's hearing as she slides to ground, hand rising to massage her throat. <br><br>It takes a moment - several very long moments really - for Bobby's words to sink in. "Living room, right. Come and get me you bitch if you want me..." her other hand delves into the pouch on her hip and salt is strewn to one side Ellen-mon. It won't hold her for long but Bobby should be able to ride herd as Jo acts as bait. <br><br>OK. It might not be the best plan - but it's far from the worst she's had today. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Wincing in sympathy pain as she hears her mother shriek, Fred pushes herself upward to standing. Her hand grips the neck of another bottle to toss onto her possessed father, but she never gets a chance to throw it. The telekenetic shove whips her against the car and she gives a short, soft cry of pain. Some of the beer bottles shatter on impact, shards of glass and holy salt water now pooling in the bottom of its fabric. <br><br>Pinned there, Fred is forced to listen to the demon holding her father as he recounts exactly why he gave her Feigenbaum in the first place. It attempts to twist a fond memory into something sad and tainted. Hearing her father’s voice talk to her in a way that is nothing like her father twists a knot in her stomach. Desperately, she shoves against the supernatural hold that keeps her helplessly in place, unable to move and unable to stop listening to the horrible words and threats. <br><br>The threat of Pylea - finding a way to send her or her parents back there - sends a cold stroke of fear down her back. “Don’t,” she says, softly. The thought of her parents on Pylea, scrounging to survive, causes her eyes to glass over with more tears. “Please leave them out of this.” She has to do something, has to stop this. <br><br>Trapped against the junked car, there is little she can do. She can’t toss any of the holy water, can’t do anything. Except talk. She takes a shallow breath - all she is able to do against the horrible pressure - and starts to quietly recite. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It feels amazing. For a moment Sammy is just...lost. The power flows into his mouth, down his throat, into his body. He feels the glory of every swallow. The taste on his tongue. Not bitter, or salty, or coppery. Sweet. He feels like he's floating in a sea of white. It feels surprisingly unthreatening. Exhaustion, gone. Uncertainty gone. Fear, gone. Nothing but the absolute certainty that he is unstoppable. <br><br>Being pushed off is a blessing. To Sam, it feels almost intolerable. But it keeps him from madly draining his brother dry, which he surely would have done if he'd been allowed to feed without reservation or restraint. <br><br>Only a bare trickle of blood runs from the corner of his lips, stained a rich color from the exchange. His eyes shift a little too. Black? Or are they closer to red now? Is his demon half moving subtlely up the hierarchy? It fades back to black a second later, he'd have to do a lot more feeding, a lot more regularly, to unleash /that/ fresh Hell. Probably nobody's looking at that but Alistair himself. <br><br>Alistair says he didn't think he had it in him. <br><br>Sam stands. He's not doing this on his knees. He wipes the trickle on the back of his hand. He watches Alistair as he slurps it up, licking that last little bit away. Nothing wasted. Nothing. There will be consequences for this, but they feel so distant. So. Unimportant. He rolls his tongue over his lips, over his teeth, cleaning the blood away, mostly intent on getting it all inside of him as fast as he can make it happen. But there's still a very disturbing quality to his smile. It's slight. Hard, as Sammy's smiles never are. Holding an edge that hints at something within him that is more than capable of cruelty, if pushed to it. Cruelty in equal measure, as it happens, to his vast empathy. <br><br>"You shouldn't have put yourself back on my radar, Alistair," Sam says, in a low, too-calm voice. "There will be consequences for that. But for now?" <br><br>His hand forms into a sort of claw. He rears it back. Though the other demons are right on his priority list, Fred's parents in particular, he's going to trust May and Fred to keep fighting while he initiates what has been, with every other demon, a battle of wills. Fred might achieve what she needs to with the exorcism anyway. Distantly, he hopes they're in good enough shape to survive the process. Distantly, he wonders what's happening to Jo and Bobby. <br><br>But he can only do one thing at a time. <br><br>He flings his will into his brother's form, shoving with all his might, doing his dead level best to use his stolen power to force his former tormenter straight back to Hell, and to hit him hard enough with that force that he won't have the strength to come seeking a new host for quite some time. <br><br>"Give me back my brother, you sorry son of a bitch." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>If there’s one thing that May has learned only too well in her years at SHIELD, it’s the ability to NOT let it show when something affects her. Thus, Ash’s comments about the little girl and Bahrain appear to fall upon deaf ears as she sidesteps the sash whip coming back at her then whirls around, pulling the weapon back into a whirring spin. She also doesn’t waste time with talking. <br><br>Setting the whip to spin blurringly fast, she flicks it out at Ash-demon again, knowing it’s exactly what he’ll expect and with her other hand pulls the salt-loaded pistol from the Impala’s trunk and shoots at the redneck demon. She’s aiming only to wound and annoy, though, by shooting at his right thigh. Sorry… whoever you are. <br><br>Then she does start to toss out words, again using the ancient Mandarin to call upon one of the Kings of Diyu to pull these souls back to Hell to complete their punishments. <br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, “He’s been looking for his mom since I stole her,” Ellen counters to Jo. Bobby receives a small tilt of her head as she stumbles backwards from the shells. It won’t stop her, and it won’t send her back to hell, but it certainly has some impact, enough to grant a death stare towards the gentleman-hunter. “Decided to leave your solace to have some fun?” her yellow eyes flash with amusement. <br><br>Bobby looks worse for wear. His head has been bandaged many times over. His clothes are blood soaked. His wrists are bound with bandages. He’s been through something vile--that much is clear. But the anger in his eyes doesn’t dissipate. He shoots the gun again, this time towards the demon’s head. “Get. Out,” he says again. <br><br>Ellen’s eyes glimmer as Jo begins to lead her away. She knows what’s up. She also knows the house is going up in flames. Even from the outside the flames can be seen. Time is short. “I took her, you know. I took Sam’s fiance. And it’s only a matter of time until I take you. And make no mistake, Jo, I will get you.” She manages a small smile. “But in the meantime, know that he doesn’t love you. Not really. He doesn’t know how. Even your mother knows that.” There’s a pause. “Unless it’s Sam. Sam will always come first. He sold his soul for Sam--do you think he would ever do that for you? If you think so, you know you’re lying to yourself…” <br><br>“Shut up, you Idjit!” Bobby fires again to herd the demon towards Jo. “Don’t listen to him, Kid. They spew anything and everything to get inside yer ‘ead,” he fires the shotgun again. <br><br>And it seems to be working for the time being, but it’s easier than it should be. It’s possible the demon wants to get caught or its gambit has been fulfilled already. <br><br>Outside, Roger-demon sneers when Fred makes her bid for her parents’ lives. His nostrils flare and his body tenses at the request not to put them in Pylea. There’s little room for any of it. He takes delight in her pleading, and he doesn’t lose that edge of torment as he laughs, “I will see that every day of their life and beyond they are in agony. And the agony will never cease. Not once. Not ever.” <br><br>But the murmuring of the Latin causes his knees to buckle. His black eyes cannot handle the Latin the way the white eyes can. He falls onto his hands. He bats the ground as the words continue to spill from Fred’s lips and he begins to cough as his soul begins to be banished into the pit beyond. <br><br>Trish-demon, meanwhile has begun to recover. She forces herself to a stand and walks to where Roger and Fred are. <br><br>There will be consequences for Alistar returning to Sam’s radar. “I’m counting on it,” Dean replies gruffly. Amusement tugs at each edge of Dean’s face. His eyes crinkle with delight, his lips turn upwards, and the white of his eyes seems downright delighted. But the delight begins to change when Sam reaches out his hand. <br><br>At first, Alistair spreads Dean’s arms, inviting the change. But then the pressure changes. The white-eyed demon fights, demanding even more juice to be expensed and Dean’s body buckles beneath the war, stumbling towards the ground. Sam pulls on Alistair’s soul, forcing him from Dean’s body. And, because he can, he claws at the edges of Dean’s consciousness. <br><br>Dean’s chin lifts towards the sky and his mouth opens as a white thick cloud of smoke floats into the sky. It billows above, disappearing into nothing as it moves. <br><br>Dean collapses when the smoke disappears, causing his body to fall into the fetal position with his stomach falling to the ground. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cough. Emptily, he remains there frozen in place. <br><br>Ash screams in agony when the shell hits his thigh. He collapses to his knees. “You bitch!” he seethes loudly. “She agonizes every day because of what you did! And she will come back to haunt you--I swear that you will suffer tenfold!” <br><br>The demon wearing him keeps black eyes shining as he reaches out to counter her. He sends a burst of telekinetic towards her to thrust her against a rusty looking dumpster. But as he does so, he also begins to be willed from the body he’s occupying. His lips part and thick black smoke begins to billow up to the sky. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's difficult to hear much of what's happening outside - just the muffled noises that indicate not everything is ok in Kansas, Toto. Jo's blue eyes flick uncertainly in that direction but Ellen-mon's words have her focussing again. <br><br>Do they work? Does the demon manage to plant the seed of doubt in the blondes mind? What she has with Dean ... it's fledgling. They'd made no promises to each other, had they? Wasn't he really 'Mister Right Now' rather than 'Mister Right'? Maybe. Time will tell the effect those words truly have. <br><br>"You can have me if you can catch me." Jo's voice trembles as she moves further into the house. It is too easy, baiting the creature like this and she shoots a quick look to Bobby trying to convey that. <br><br>"I've chosen Ellen over Dean, so I guess we're even on that score." she tells her corrupted mothers form. "Blood is, after all, thicker than water." <br><br>It's getting hot in here and a trickle of sweat runs down her forehead but still, she leads the demon on. Ellen-mon. Gotta catch them all. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred, pinned against the car like a butterfly to a board, keeps reciting. She can hear the spiteful words of the demon holding her father promising them pain. It only spurs her to recite faster, to try and literally release that demon. The same fear Sam has is lodged in the back of her head - the teenager face down in a lawn that would never move again. The one Sam wrapped in a tarp and drove elsewhere. Is that the future for her parents? Will she not only be the reason for their possession, but their death? <br><br>The words slow slightly as she thinks about that, a soft sob interjecting itself in her recitation in between lines. Her eyes close as she continues, seeing her father drop to his knees and choke. The approach of her mother is unable to be seen. She simply can’t stand it. She has little of the training or outward fortitude of May. Every word clearly cuts her deeply. Still, though, she speaks through unbearable pressure and the pain. <br><br>Determined, aching and devastated, she finishes the exorcism. Despite the dangers, the fact that she knows there are enemies still around, she cannot bear to open her eyes, to see if she succeeded - and if she did - to see what that means. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Dean!” <br><br>Sam darts forward to gather Dean into his arms. He wants to check for a pulse, he wants to offer some food or water or medical care, but they are still very much in the middle of a crisis here. And Fred is still being menaced. He sees Mr. Burkle’s demon smoke out, but here comes Mrs. Burkle. <br><br>He flings his hand in that direction, jaw firming with determination. After Alistair, this should be nothing. He was unable to force the white-eyed monster back to Hell, he’s still out there. But a black-eyes? <br><br>Should be easy enough. <br><br>He pushes the soul out like it’s nothing, leaving, briefly, a black fiery burn mark on the ground beneath her feet. It takes a moment of concentration, but compared to Alistair it’s as easy as simply thumping a piece of paper away with his thumb and forefinger. Gentler on Mrs. Burkle’s body than the exorcism, though there are still no guarantees. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May get slammed back against a rusty old dumpster, and that finally elicits a reaction from her. She growls at the pain and frustration of being stuck, but then as the demon ghosts out of the young man’s body and the hold on her releases, she takes a breath and then says to the black smoke, “You first.” <br><br>Then, grimacing slightly as she steps away from the dumpster and feels like someone just pulled a rusty knife out of her back, she takes a very quick stock of the goings on and turns to run for the farmhouse. As much as seeing what Sam is doing disturbs her, she can’t exactly argue it now. But she CAN go help Jo with whatever is going on inside the house. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, Ellen follows Jo through to the living room. She lifts a hand to telekinetically hit the girl, but the shotgun fire grants her pause. Bobby has few (if any) concerns about damaging his home. It’s already going up in flames anyways. While Jo may be acting as live bait, the yellow-eyed demon seems to take it. The plan may be known, but something seems to inspire Ellen-mon forward. <br><br>And sure enough, the living room is a veritable myriad of demon traps. The ceiling, walls, and floor underneath the carpet all act as demon traps. Yellow eyes is stuck. Ellen, however, just smiles at the others, strangely pleased with herself at this turn of events. “You’re both aware that you’ve won nothing today, aren’t you? All of this went according to plan.” Her yellow eyes track towards Jo. <br><br>Bobby’s expression remains neutral. He’s been dealing with monsters for decades and he won’t let himself be rattled by another. He does, however, look towards Jo. “Send the bitch home, Kid,” intending her to exorcise her own mother. <br><br>When May finds the pair inside the home, Bobby casts her a long look as he levels his shotgun towards her. A glance is given Jo, silently asking about the woman standing in front of him. <br><br>Outside, Fred’s agony gets emphasized as her mother continues what her father had begun. Trish lifts her fingers to slowly, telekinetically, wrench Fred’s skull. She applies pressure, exerting more with every passing instant to literally crush her brain. But it’s all for naught. She’s ripped from the mortal she’s residing in by Sam’s will. In an array of black smoke, she leaves Trish’s body on the ground in a mess of nothing. <br><br>Ellie smirks as Trish is exorcised, and in a second, she’s gone to parts unknown to fight another day. <br><br>Unconscious, both of Fred’s parents lay there with no movement. It’s a wonder if they’re alive. <br><br>Not far away, Dean’s body resembles a corpse. Pallid skin. Cold. Empty. His eyes don’t flicker, his breath doesn’t steady. And in a way, he’s nearly vacant. The light seems comforting. Peaceful. He knows it leads nowhere good, but his mind struggles to return to the present. <br><br>The rocking had been peaceful. The sound of her humming a comfort even before he’d seen her face. But she never stuck to humming. Her voice echoes in his mind. “Hey Jude, refrain, don’t carry the world upon your shoulders~’ <br><br>She didn’t like lullabies. She liked the Beatles. They would rock in the rocking chair of the nursery. Time and time again. “For well you know that it’s a fool~ Who plays it cool~ By making this world a little colder~” <br><br>“You need to wake up, Dean,” she says softly. He can almost feel her fingers on his cheek. The way she’d gently woken him many times when they had somewhere to be. <br><br>In the real world, Dean gasps for breath, inhaling a face full of dirt, causing him to push up slightly to cough the dirt back into the ground before collapsing against it again. He’s alive. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus... " Jo starts to intone as she hits the living room. Bobby didn't need to tell her twice. "omnis satanig--" <br><br>She stutters as the yellowed eye demon taunts them further and draws in a gasping breath. <br><br>"He'll survive. They'll survive..." She mutters to herself. Who's she's talking about isn't clear, perhaps not even to herself. She knows better than to respond to the creature but it's hard, oh so hard. <br><br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis satanicus potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii..." <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>Holy water is added to the moment mix of this recipe. <br><br>"omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura," <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>"tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, AUDI NOS!" <br><br>The final words of the rite have her voice rising as sweat pours down her face. She's breathing heavily by the time she finishes. Who knew reciting a few words could be so taxing? <br><br>Ellen-mon smokes, or is it steams?, as the water hits her and her body trembles terribly at the words. Those eyes fix Jo with deadly intent as yellow smoke rises from her body. <br><br>"Is it over, Bobby?" she grates out. Not once thinking to question if this truly is the Hunter and not some other meat-suit wearing Demon. <br><br>Um. They should probably take Ellen's body and get the hell out of Dodge. <br><br>"Dean...." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The pressure against her is felt exponentially. Fred’s eyes remain closed as the pain increases, her head shoved against the junkyard car further and further. There’s only so long it will last before it might burst. She starts to try again, the words gritted through her teeth, through the excruciating pain. “Exorci….zamus….te….” <br><br>Suddenly, though, the pain is gone. Fred drops to the ground in a pile of limbs, gasping at the sudden release of pressure against her body. Her eyes remain closed for a few moments until they open to glance upward. She takes in the scene, blinking at the sudden brightness after squeezing her eyes shut for so long. <br><br>There’s Sam holding Dean and then, there is her parents, lying motionless on the ground. Scrambling, tripping in her hurry to get up, she scurries to them. The bag of mystical weapons are left behind broken and filled with water. It might be a mistake, but she isn’t thinking about that right now. Instead, she needs to get to her parents, to check on them. <br><br>“Mom? Dad?” Terrified, she reaches for them, checking for a pulse, gently assessing them to try and see if they have any wounds that need to be tended. “Please, please, wake up. Please be okay. I’m sorry.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester has never felt so relieved in his life as he feels when Dean wakes up in his arms. He lifts him up a little to try to get him out of the dirt, rolls him over, sees Fred fussing over her parents. Some of the demons exited, stage left. Now he turns his attention to Bobby’s home, gasping, worried. <br><br>He is no healer, but there are still things he can do. He knows this might well use nearly all of what he’s got. He is already going to need a dose much faster than usual. He’s already out of them. New York is far, far away. <br><br>He’ll just have to trust that he’ll pull through, because he can’t let Bobby’s house burn. Father, uncle, whatever one wants to call him, Bobby Singer is family. <br><br>He could never try this if he weren’t high on the rush of demonic blood. But now he lifts his hand and focuses on the fire. Focuses on pulling it first to a single point outside the house, telekinetically trying to draw flames together into one long finger-like torrent, stretching it out and out and out until he can get it away from Bobby’s home. <br><br>It works, to his shock. But he doesn’t revel in it for long. There’s a watery ditch, a culvert he played in as a kid. He slams the fire into it, leaving only a hiss of steam in the distance. It’s probably a Hell of a thing to watch. In more ways than one. <br><br>He keeps his arm tightly around his brother the entire time, pressing his chest to his brother’s back to keep him in spiritual contact with the anti-possession ward tattoo’d deeply into his own skin. He doesn’t have time to grab that final necklace from his pocket right now, and he won’t risk another possession. They won’t get this lucky twice. <br><br>“Fred,” he asks hoarsely, a one-word request for a status report on her parents. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May bursts into the farmhouse and stops abruptly when the older man (though really, he’s probably the same age she is) turns his shotgun on her. “We need to go,” she says to the younger Harvelle after seeing the woman freed of possession. She’s guessing that that’s Jo’s mother, and while keeping a wary eye on Bobby, she moves cautiously closer to check on the now unconscious woman and in doing so passes straight through at least two devil’s traps without realizing they’re there. <br><br>She checks Ellen’s pulse and finds that she’s out for the count, but not on the verge of dying, which is a relief. She starts to heft the unconscious woman into a fireman’s carry when the fire suddenly just … goes away. She is going to have WORDS with Sam after this. But, the house may very well still be structurally compromised so she keeps on with the getting Ellen out. “Let’s move, Jo. Now.” <br><br>Her eyes land on Bobby again for a moment as if to see if he’s going to follow or continue standing there being openly curmudgeonly. But only for a moment. The smoke is now more dangerous than the flames were, so she’s getting out and she’s taking Ellen with her. <br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Looking to the skies reveals that the omens have shifted. The skies have cleared and blue takes over from the swirl of orange, red, and white. It’s relieving. The locusts have cleared--something they will notice when they drive out of here. <br><br>Bobby casts a long look to Jo as May enters the demon traps. His shotguns drop and his own bloodied body nods once at the young blonde when May moves to get Ellen out. In no time, he’s walking out of his home, semi-intact and looking out on the yard. His head shakes once while he assumes silence. His eyes train on the boys and linger on Sam for a long while. <br><br>Fred’s parents remain unresponsive. Assessing her mother yields a strong pulse and breathing. Her body doesn’t look ridden hard--likely because it wasn’t ridden long. Alistair had some last minute additions to his hostage entourage. It’s good to be at the tail end of the possessions. Her father’s pulse, however, is weak. Barely there. His breathing is shallow. Undoubtedly the exorcism had unwanted secondary effects. Both are alive though. <br><br>Dean’s vision can’t come into focus. His body refuses to cooperate as he tries to regain some semblance of muscle control. He wants to stand. He can’t even motivate himself to wriggle out of Sam’s grasp. And so he stays there. His eyes burn, prompting him to close them again. His very breath rakes against his throat, scratching with dryness like sandpaper. Mary’s voice continues to sing over him in this place. He can sense her. Feel her. And it moves him. <br><br>Years of hunting have made Dean hard. He knows to maintain himself. To carry his composure. His life has been threatened many times before. He’s sold his soul. He’s died and come back to life. Seven times. <br><br>Maybe it’s the lack of nourishment, dehydration, or the sheer magnitude of being possessed for days, but something breaks. And, underneath his arm, Sam can feel Dean’s chest heave. <br><br>Dean Winchester is crying. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"A friend..." Jo grates out as May bursts through the door "... sort of..." she ammends. "SHIELD agent." Which should speak volumes for Bobby and warn him. No matter what she's been through, and her face shows the fear, the panic, the terror she feels, Jo won't leave Bobby out to dry. <br><br>Wiping her hand across her forehead, smearing grime and soot as she does, the blonde nods once to May, dips and helps her left Ellen, leaving the house and out into the yard. <br><br>"... Dean ..." Poor May is left with Ellens weight as the Hunter's daugher, now Hunter herself, takes a faltering step forward. Yellow eyes words play in her head like a bad song stuck on repeat. It takes a moment for her to push the doubt down. It's not gone - and the pair will have to deal with that ... later. <br><br>Hopefully much, much, later. <br><br>Standing there, between May and the men, hands clenched, Jo finally surveys the turmoil. "Fred? Ar... " she swallows "Are they ... " she can't finish the statement. She heard the womans' plaintive plea to the downed pair. <br><br>She hasn't looked for Ash yet. There's too much to take in, as her eyes return to the Winchester brothers. No place for her there. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>As her mother is closest to her, Fred checks her pulse first, finding it steady, though the woman has yet to wake up. A slight warmth of relief starts flood its way through until she reaches her father. His breathing is shallow, his pulse weak. The blood in her ears pounds as she quickly tries whatever she can to steady him, to heal him. There’s a look to her mother, still lying there. She feels terrible about leaving her there, but it’s Roger that is in the most dire straits. <br><br>“Dad, Dad, come on. You gotta stay strong, okay?” The question from Sam, from Jo, they’re both only heard as if from far away, barely recognized. All her attention is on her father, lying here. Her hands remain on him as she finally looks up, towards the others. She might not have heard their questions, but she knows Sam is there, that Dean is there. There’s almost surprise as she sees Jo and May, as well as two others she doesn’t know. Ellen may be unconscious, but the previously unseen form of Bobby stands with them and there is a brief wariness that fades to her greater concerns. <br><br>“Help him,” she pleads. “He’s...he’s weak. I think I...I don’t know. We gotta get him out of here. Please.” Panic has clearly set in. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Bobby is staring at him, and Sam looks away, flushing with sudden shame. And that makes him angry, because look. There they are. All alive. <br><br>But not all well. Dean is weak, Fred’s parents are weak, Ash is weak, Ellen is no doubt weak. His mouth sets into a tight line. He hefts Dean up as if he were hefting up a small child. He doesn’t even strain to do it. It doesn’t occur to him that Jo might be feeling uneasy about her place in that right now, or he’d be more considerate, but right now he’s in crisis mode. He fishes out that necklace, puts it firmly around Dean’s neck. <br><br>He sees Dean’s tears but won’t address them. It would mortify his brother. If anything he turns Dean into his body just a little bit, so the man can shed what he needs to shed without anyone seeing. A protective gesture, though not a traditional one. <br><br>“How fast can you get a SHIELD medical team to us, Agent May?” Sam asks. “Or us to a SHIELD medical team? Everyone needs help.” His words, when they come out, are grim, taut, and utterly professional, showing no hint of any emotion at all. His irises remain flat black. No telling if they’re going back. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>With Jo’s help, May gets Ellen out of the farmhouse only to have to take all of her weight when the blonde moves toward the brothers. She’s starting to feel where she took that dumpster to the back, so before she’s at risk of dropping the unconscious woman she moves to set her down somewhere central-ish. Doing so might reveal that she didn’t get out of this unscathed, and it was something bad enough to tear through her jacket. <br><br>“Depends on if,” she pauses and forces herself to not wince as she pulls her cell phone from a pocket. Please work, please work, “my phone is working now.” She starts trying to dial out and looks at Bobby again. “There’s a young man over that way. Sleeveless shirt. Mullet.” She doesn’t know if he’s okay or not, though. <br><br>Glancing over at Sam, she reaches into her jacket again and pulls the water flask that Dean had declined before. It’s at best four ounces of water, but it’s better than nothing and Dean looks like he’ll need any bit of sustenance they can manage. <br><br>Oh thank goodness. “HQ. May. Require immediate medical teams or exfil at my location. Four civilians down, one asset, one agent.” She doesn’t bother to get up from where she’s sitting on the ground next to Ellen. She’s not sure her back will take it. “Have Medical check my file, I’ll likely need another tetanus booster.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Bobby’s gaze finally peels away from the brothers, it rests on Ellen a few beats and then he moves to find Ash and assess the kid. “What a mess,” he mutters softly to himself. But he’s pleased enough to find the body with a heartbeat and signs of life. His eyes turn up to the sky for a moment, taking in the blue stillness and he exhales a long breath. “And it’s just gonna get worse,” he murmurs to no one in particular. <br><br>But on that note, SHIELD medical arrives. The quinjet is fully prepared to take all for transport. And while at least one patient objects, a lot of sedative eats the objection. In short order everyone is receiving treatment. And when they’re alert, five will wake up in a place they don’t recall going to sleep. <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Third_Option&diff=1572Third Option2017-09-19T02:20:55Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/13<br />
|Location=Sioux Falls, South Dakota<br />
|Synopsis=After receiving word of Dean's possession, a team goes out of their way to get White Eyes out of the Elder Winchester's body. Things don't go as planned.<br />
|Thanks=Dean Winchester<br />
|Cast of Characters=Dean Winchester, 1379, Winifred Burkle, Sam Winchester, 5<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The road gifted more than tortured time. The drive from Hell’s Kitchen to rural South Dakota was long, but thanks to Alistair’s actions against the Impala, it also provided Sam and Fred two allies along the way. The black Impala on the side of the road was unmistakable. It had garnered attention immediately, and both May and Jo joined the foray. <br><br>While discussion had been short thanks to not really knowing what they’re getting into, the details seemed to align. Something had Dean. It occupied his body with its flat-white eyes and sadistic smile. Whoever it is has little regard for kindness and, presumably, roughed him up before choosing to take up residence. <br><br>It also became clear that the creature’s machinations had some intent. Those encountering demons regularly know full-well they ride their vessels hard. But many just seemed to want power. Something about this particular demon seemed different--purposive, even. <br><br>But after those details had been exchanged, there was little else to say. It was hard to plan without knowing what they faced… <br><br>Hours passed before they saw its first indication. Any who’d visited Bobby in South Dakota before would know the oddity of the prairie’s big open skies. Today, however, the sky itself dreads whatever will happen here. A swirl of grey, orange, pink, and red calls upwards in an incredibly odd storm. No rain falls. No wind blows. Yet the sky swirls in impossibility overhead. <br><b>Driving down the rural range road kicks up dust as the car moves, but something else hits hard against the car with each passing moment. The faint clunk of something meeting metal presents at a strange pace. Random enough not to be something wrong with the car, but loud enough to know that outside they’re hitting something.. Or something is hitting them. <br><br>The number of them grows as does the sound. The barrage of brown-green bugs--locusts that have presumably infested the area--pushes against the windshield. And should the driver just continue on their course, they pass the warning as quickly as they’d come to it, producing a house in the distance. <br><br>If they didn’t know better, a passerby would assume the people outside are enjoying a barbeque, a true wonder with skies like these. They see five figures for certain. It’s impossible to know if there’s more kicking around. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's a quiet Jo Harvelle who huddles on the back seat of the Impala. She's worried about Dean, and about Sam (given what Dean had told her before), and trying not to show it. She's failing - not badly but enough. <br><b>The swarm of locusts has the blonde leaning forward, against the seat belt, and peering out the window. "If I was more devout than I am, I'd probably be able to quote a bible verse or two." She mutters, eyes narrowing as she takes the upcoming house in. "Well they probably ain't Riders, given there's five of them but they're likely trouble all the same." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s been hours on the road from New York City to here for Fred and Sam. The time have been tense, with bursts of conversation and planning and then anxious silence. They know only some of what awaits them at Bobby’s house. The demon’s purpose and what he’s done with Bobby is still a mystery. At least they now know that May and Jo are alright, despite the unmoveable Impala on the side of the road. <br><br>Acquiring two more allies as well as the sleepy bomb from Fred’s stash that she left in the car from the Crossroads fight is certainly a boon in her opinion. <br><br>Fred is not one of the people who have visited Bobby before. Or South Dakota, even. However, she makes an educated guess that they’re getting close when locusts start to hit against the car and windshield. Behind the wheel, the physicist slows but does not stop the car. She’s not as skilled a driver as Sam is, but she manages to push them through the almost biblical plague intact. “It’s not a Bible verse, but I’m starting to think the most appropriate one is, ‘When Moses was in Egypt’s Land, ‘Let my people go.’’ ‘Course the last part is actually a Bible verse, so that’s really a twofor. Either way, that wasn’t pleasant and doesn’t really much bode well for what else he can do. Last thing we want are boils. Or frogs. I didn’t even like dissecting them in class. Locusts were at the end of the plagues, yeah? After that came darkness?” It’s been a little while since Fred rambled quite like this. It’s either a testament to leaving the Winchester apartment or how close they are to the anticipated showdown. <br><br>Once through the bugs, the slowing of the car turns into a stop. She scans the five figures in the distance. “They’re probably expecting us from the front. Buncha places to hide, for them and us.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The road always brings gifts. <br><br>It’s a distant thought that Sam had experienced when he’d spotted that Impala and had asked Fred to stop the car. <br><br>But hearing the demon had white eyes had cast him into a pensive silence, folded him up in the front passenger’s seat with his hand over his eyes. He conducts his grapple with despair in silence. He’d passed out two more anti-possession necklaces prior to slipping off into this dark inner world. <br><br>But when the first locust hits the windshield he sits up with narrowed eyes. Fred’s observation casts him into Professional Mode, and it’s as if he had never had a doubt in his life. Because now that he can see some of what they’re up against, a plan is starting to present itself. <br><br>“Park there,” he says, tense, pointing to an old open barn off the side of the road. “The property’s up ahead. Park before they can see us.” <br><br>Then the young man half turns around to look at May and Jo. <br><br>The oddity of Sam’s upbringing has had a profound effect on him. Sometimes his youth is obvious: he is uncertain and hopeful all at once. Sometimes, he is twice or even three times as old behind the eyes as he really is. Now he looks ancient, someone who has gone beyond “seen too much”, gone beyond “experienced too much.” He hasn’t stared into the Abyss; he’s sat in the passenger’s seat of a classic car while other men drove straight through it. Or, in this case, a woman, through a cloud of locusts. <br><br>That weight is in his eyes now. They’re flat, hazel reflecting mostly the color green today, emotion pushed far from him. At the least, the matte black the irises (though not the sclera) have been known to display in response to anger lately is missing. <br><b>“White-eyes doesn’t know you three are coming. He only knows for sure that I am.” <br><br>He removes a salt shotgun from beneath his feet. Cocks it. Loads it. “So. I go in obvious. You ladies go in stealth. Attack when the time seems right. I imagine it will want to talk to me before the violence starts. Agent May will know the right moment.” <br><br>It’s Agent May’s eyes he looks into now, because he knows several things. He knows Fred and Jo will hate this plan. He also knows it’s probably their only chance. He knows May will get that. He knows that she’ll get them out of there if she has to. There are senior agents who have never displayed the kind of grim, knowing bleakness that sits in his eyes now. He’s counting on her to make the hard calls and to make these two women her priority if it comes to that. And to lead them to some sort of successful conclusion, if she can. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Being stranded on the side of the highway with all dead electronics and a stalled out Impala and a MISSING DEAN does not a happy May make. She’d been fully prepared to leave Jo with the car and walk to the nearest phone, but that’s about when Sam and Fred pull up. Her first words to the pair are to demand Sam’s cell phone, and then she spends the next several minutes talking with someone in SHIELD as they transfer whatever they need from the Impala’s trunk to Fred’s car and get underway again. <br><br>“Sam, Another senior agent is going to see that the Impala is returned to New York and any damages are repaired. He’s taken care of her for Dean before.” And, Sam might have seen Lola in passing. <br><br>Upon reaching the city with an airport, May directs them toward it, where she meets up with the SHIELD personnel waiting there beside a quinjet. There’s body armor and comms and gear for everyone as well as replacement electronics for May, and despite it being a VERY close fit, Fred’s car is loaded into the jet and they’re underway again with May doing the piloting. <br><br>The atmospheric situation forces them to land several miles away from their target location and drive the rest of the way. The locusts have May muttering something in Cantonese, and then Sam lays out the plan. Her reply is to simply nod and then look at Fred and Jo. Both have seen her at work before, though under completely different situations. This should be interesting. <br><br>May can’t help but wish a sniper had been available to join them. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s fortunate they park away from the house as it enables them the element of surprise--at least to some extent. The figures outside don’t seem to have taken notice. Not yet, anyways. While the heroes plan some distance away, the house-posse lingers watching the front road. The people on the lawn almost look familiar. But it’s hard to really notice from this distance. <br><br>Make no mistake, it’s a trap of their making. <br><br>A few beats pass and when everyone looks away for a second--only to look back moments later--and another figure in a camo-green jacket joins them. Near silence comes over the people while eyes turn up to the sky. <br><br>And in a single second, the swirling sky stills. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>“Sounds more like a musical to me…” Jo’s snark comes out when she’s worried and poor Fred, who’s just met the blonde, gets the full force of it. “... sorry… I’m just … worried.” She falls silent as the car pulls up and just stares at Sams STUPID plan. <br><br>Damn Winchesters and their stupid plans. <br><br>Yet she can’t think of a better one. Not at all. “I ain’t no lady …” it’s the best she can do as she slips from the back of the car and pops the trunk. It’s a veritable treasure trove of weapons they’ve collected there. The Impala was certainly well stocked and combined with what the other other two had … they could go in loaded for bear. <br><br>Pity it’s //not// bear they’re hunting. That would be sooooo much easier. <br><br>Silently, blue eyes flicking to the figures at the house, Jo arms herself. Salt loaded rounds, holy water, silver, iron. Whatever she can carry, she’ll take. As the sixth figure arrives and the sky literally starts opening, she shakes her head. <br><br>“Guess it’s now or never.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam is quite right in thinking Fred will hate his plan - it leaves him going in alone with a creature that can apparently summon swarms of locusts. Demon locusts. “No way.” Fred shakes her head. “I’m not letting you go in there alone. If that thing knows what Dean’s thinking, he knows I wouldn’t let you do this by yourself, I’ll go with you.” It’s not just her being leery of splitting up, it does make logical sense. Her eyes flick toward the SHIELD agent as she says this before they return to Sam. She knows how good May is, having seen her in action during Sam’s rescue, but she is also stubborn on this issue. <br><br>As they start to gather the weapons, Jo’s snark is met with an innocent blink from the brunette. “Actually, yeah, I think it’s a song,” she agrees, a bit guileless. The apology is given a confused nod. “It’s alright, me too.” Worried about Dean, worried about Sam, worried about all of them. <br><br>She makes sure she has some of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt as well as the sleepy-time bomb, passing out other items as needed. The stillness of the sky, when before it was agitated catches Fred’s attention. Much like the other figures, she looks up and then looks back to the yard to see the green jacketed figure now amongst the others. Dean. Or whatever it is that has possessed him. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>He’d nodded about Lola; he’d seen it. An impressive car. But too flashy. Cop magnet. <br><br>“Now or never is a song too,” Sam points out, distracted. Or maybe he’s just going ahead and trying to lighten the mood somewhat. It’s hard to tell. There’s a flash of a tired smile on his face, there and gone again. <br><br>/I ain’t gonna live forever. I just wanna live while I’m alive./ <br><br>Fred makes some sense too. His eyes close for just a moment. But he chose her because he saw an equal, and if she’s ready to step out and partner up and face this with him...well. He has no right to stop her, not when her comment makes tactical sense. He reaches out. Takes her hand. Squeezes once. <br><br>“Together, then,” he says softly. <br><br>They might die together. It might be the last time they are together, because he’s fairly sure what Fred’s destination will be, and he /knows/ what his will be already. <br><br>/But this world is shit. You carve out every last. Damned. Good moment. You. Can./ <br><br>Right now, there’s a little good in the feel of her softer, smaller hand in his broader, more calloused one. <br><br>“Good luck, you two.” This to Jo and Agent May. “And...thanks.” <br><br>And then he takes a deep breath. Steels his spine. Gets out of the car. He’ll wait for Fred. <br><br>And then, hand in hand with her still, if she’ll allow it...he takes what seems to be an endless walk towards the 6 demons he can see, shotgun aimed, for the moment, groundward in his unoccupied hand. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May can only nod as Fred insists on sticking with Sam and he agrees. She’s not in charge of this mission, so she’ll do what’s asked of her and not argue unless she thinks it’s a suicidally stupid idea. And, well, this WHOLE DAY has been suicidally stupid. So, really, it’s all the same anymore. <br><br>Wishing her blades had even a hint of usefulness against demons, she checks the rounds in the pistol in her hands again then looks at Jo. “Let’s go.” She plans to lead the blonde around to flank the demons. At the same time, she’s mentally reviewing other possibilities for getting these demons to leave HER agents the F* alone. <br><br>“How big can a devil’s trap be made?” she asks of the Hunter as they run. She’s now also contemplating the accuracy of, say, those red lasers that Iron Man uses from time to time. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Sam and Fred draw near, the people outside begin to come into focus. The first, with curly red hair, freckles, and a fit figure looks undeniably familiar to Sam. But from years past. If he watches her now-black eyes long enough he might draw some faint memory. When he’d known her, she’d been one of the odd kids in school. While twelve-year-old Sam was new to school, Ellie had been an outcast already. They’d saved her from the Backahasten nine years ago. Evidently she lived well into adulthood. To now be possessed here. Her forehead oozes blood as do her arms and legs. It’s a wonder whether she’s still alive and in her body at all. <br><br>Adjacent to her, the pale mulleted brunette man in the jean vest also has an air of familiarity. His jaw tightens and his eyes level at Sam and Fred in turn. The demon wearing the Roadhouse employee, Ash, stares blandly at the pair. Unlike his female comrade with the black eyes, he has a guise of being human. He’s not. But the guise is there. Ash’s hands are bloodied, bruised, and his shoulder has a strange angle. <br><br>Behind Ash, a pair familiar to Fred lingers. Their eyes follow the woman in particular as she walks by. The faces of her parents staring at her with open amusement eye Fred. She was right--she was expected. Her parents’ lips curve upwards with recognition as their eyes roll to black. Bruising lines her mother’s cheeks and her father’s clothes are soaked in blood.The Deanmon knew that Fred would come along. And it put Fred and her obvious loved ones on the radar. <br><br>And as they walk on, it becomes ever clearer, the Deanmon spent time rooting around through Dean’s thoughts and using each to make a very calculated move. While this demon may not have managed to take May and Jo, he had made other efforts to collect plenty of hostages by dressing his allies in them. Most put up a fight of some kind, but the result had been the same. Those that knew him were lulled into easy complacency while Dean made a trap for them. Swiftly. Easily. <br><br>Finally, adjacent to whoever wears Dean, a small girl. Her light blonde hair, fair almost-invisible eyebrows, and flat-white eyes stare blankly at the pair while her lips press into a thin line. It’s a stand-off. And even children are available to the masses. <br><br>And then there’s Dean. His lips quirk at Sam and Fred’s presence. His hands tuck into his pockets and he stares into Sam’s eyes, trying to make eye contact with the younger Winchester. His lips pull with pride as his teeth flash towards the pair. “Sammy,” the greeting has familiarity that this thing shouldn’t have. But then he has all of Dean’s memories, all of his feelings, and every nuance of the body at his disposal. Dean looks worse for wear. His skin is pale. His eyes, sunken and hollow. And his clothes have blood splatters across them. It’s hard to tell whether the blood is Dean’s or someone else’s but it remains. Dean Winchester is not in good shape--even worse than when Jo and May saw him last. <br><br>Inside the house a loud crash clatters loudly followed by a blood curdling scream. Dean shrugs his shoulders as if to ask //Whatcha gonna do?//. He lifts both of his hands and with a gentle move of his fingers aims to telekinetically throw Fred in one direction and Sam in the other. <br><br>Should anyone try to use electronics, they fail. Utterly and completely. The omens above and the opening in the sky has caused everything to short out. Entirely. There are no cell phone signals, no radio transmissions, and no satellite signals. <br><br>They are in a dead zone. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Thought it was from a musical, to be honest. Y'know the one the Donny Osmond as Joseph..." Jo shrugs at Fred. She might have watched it a time or two and she's deflecting her worry with dumb jokes. <br><br>That, or she simply hasn't eaten enough. That does that too. <br><br>"Be careful." Is all she mutters as the pair head off towards Deanmon and his crew. <br><br>"Soak your blades if you don' think it will negate anything that's been done to them already." The blonde hands over a flask of holy water. It's ... not much, but it's something right. Then they're at a run, skirting round the back of the house whilst Sam and Fred run distraction. <br><br>"How big? If we had the time, we could probably cover the yard and the house." she frowns at the Agent "What are you thinkin' though?" There's a copse of trees not far from the structure, it will obscure their approach, at least for the moment. <br><br>That is, if the demons don't sense their humanity. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Two white-eyed demons. A host of hostages important to them both. <br><br>They are utterly fucked. Even with May and Jo. Especially with May and Jo, who Sam is beginning to think will just be the other hostages taken one way or another today. The state of his brother breaks his heart, ramps up his desperation. <br><br>A shudder runs over him as the white-eyed demon in Dean greets him. His hand tightens on Fred’s hand until it might well hurt. He meets those eyes, then is flung hard into the nearest telephone pole. It bruises him, but that’s not what rips him apart next. <br><br>Because he met those eyes, and even as he staggers up to his feet, his own widen in recognition. Somewhere in his mind, a dam starts to crack. <br><br>“No…” <br><br>At first he doesn’t understand the source of his own mortal terror. But then a name comes to him. The dread he says it with, the sheer, crushing dread, ought to be enough to worry anyone. <br><br>“Alistair.” <br><br>As soon as he says the name the crack becomes a flood. As Alistair no doubt intended when he looked into Sam’s eyes, he breaks Crowley’s weaker memory manipulations easily. It’s like a very talented college basketball player made an incredible three point shot, only to be defeated with ease by an Olympian basketball player on the defense. <br><br>A flash before Sam’s eyes, a /flicker/… <br><br>And… <br><br>Stretched out on the rack, perceiving all as if he were in a body still. Limbs pulled unnaturally long and tight, hooks digging into his flesh, blood slicking them down, unable to move, unable to free himself. <br><br>Flicker. He’s in South Dakota. <br><br>“E--exorcizamus...t-te,” Sam stammers. Is it a serious effort at exorcism? Really? Here? Like this? Or is it a fearful prayer? <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Alistair leans over him, his smile a mockery of something loving as Sammy screams. Something in his hand. The boy has lost track of it. The demon just peeled a layer of skin off of his arm, shoulder to wrist. He holds it up for Sam to see. It’s soulstuff, not skin, Sam understands this, but it feels like skin, looks like skin, is gruesome and bloody like skin. Only if someone had done that to him on Earth, he’d die and escape. Here there is no death. Never death, never an escape. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>The memories are almost too much. His soul twists in agony as if it were all happening here and now. <br><br>“O-omnis,” he whispers, tears flowing down his face, body convulsing. His shotgun hits the dirt. Useless as the words he’s speaking. He grabs his head with both hands, panting, eyes wide, barely seeing anything here anymore because… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He has been here just five days, and he can’t stop weeping, even for a moment. The brand that his tormenter slowly presses into exposed muscle turns tears to howls. Alistair presses hideous lips against his temple, strokes his hair. “You’re my favorite, Sammy.” <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>“Omnis satanica!” It’s almost defiant, until the scream rips out of him, a moment and a flash of pain. The lack of memory had meant that he never felt the damage to his own soul. Now the buffer is gone, and he feels it in live flesh. He falls back to his knees, curling over into a ball, hands pulling fitfully at his hair, screams pouring out of him, twenty days of torment, relived in a few short seconds. <br><br>Just as Alistair intended. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred takes Sam’s hand, looking to Jo and May as they prepare and then separate for this mission. There’s a quick smile to them as thanks before they head straight forward. It may be a stupid idea for her to go in with Sam straight away, she can be quite stealthy from her years scavenging and hiding from demons who wished to capture and behead her. However, she also knows she’s far too close to the situation to hide and wait for a signal. If something happened to Sam, she’d charge in. <br><br>Her hand remains in Sam’s, clutching to him in this moment, knowing how dangerous this is and that they may not make it out alive, but at least in this they’ll face it together. Her bottles and bomb remain tucked in a bag over her shoulder. While she generally feels more comfortable with a crossbow, the second shotgun with its salt shells is cradled in her other arm. <br><br>It’s probably for the best that Fred didn’t stay with May and Jo. As they approach the gathering of individuals, it’s not Sam she would rush forward toward - it’s a pair of very familiar faces. <br><br>“…Mom? Dad?” Fred’s voice breaks as she sees their eyes shift to black. Her attention immediately narrows to the blood on her father’s shirt, the bruises on her mother’s cheeks. Her mind drifts to the young teenager motionless on a yard the night she met Sam. It’s his voice in her head telling her in sympathetic, yet matter of fact voice, ‘Sometimes they use bodies so hard they become walking corpses.’ Is that what she is looking at? <br><br>“No. No!” It’s a denial of both that inner voice and the fact of the matter: her parents might be dead and standing in front of her. Her hand leaves Sam’s as she rushes to them. The shotgun drops at her feet as she reaches out to grasp them on opposite arms, pleading. “Mom, Dad, please.” <br><br>Behind her, as if from a different room, she can hear Sam screaming. <br><br>They shouldn’t have come here. They shouldn’t have done this. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Bigger than we have time to make.” So that idea is discarded promptly. As much as it rankled, May is seeing her potential options dwindling, and quickly. She leads the blonde Hunter through to as close to the others as they can manage without having to leave the cover of the stand of trees they’re in. And again, she wishes they’d asked for a sniper. Or that she’d bothered to spend more time on sniper training. <br><br>With the comms to Fred and Sam suddenly gone quiet, there’s no way to tell that anyone in there is familiar to the Hunters, and when Sam’s screams carry to them, she knows they’re out of time. She’s got one last thing to try, and it’s a long shot. <br><br>Speaking in the ancient and overly formal-sounding Mandarin, she calls for King Wuguan of the Courts of Hell to reclaim the souls that have left Hell before their punishments for their sins were completed. She’s focused specifically on the ones that had been there originally, not Dean or the little girl standing next to him. <br><br>Do exorcisms work when one is out of earshot of the target demons? <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>As May and Jo move around the back of the house, the scent of sulphur becomes increasingly powerful. Its pungent scent of rotten eggs overwhelms as they get closer. Moving to flank the demons out front means passing the windows of the home on the way there thanks to the abandoned cars that surround the junkyard. Bobby had taken care to ensure he would see the goings-on around his house, a necessity as a hunter aiming to stay on in one spot. <br><br>Before they even get to the window, they can smell it: the distinct scent of flames licking wood. But combined with the already sulphuric aroma floating from the area? Fire and brimstone reign here. <br><br>May and Jo can feel the heat of flame as they draw closer to the house. It burns hot and angry as it begins to lick the ceiling inside. And as they pass the window, they see a middle aged woman with dirty blonde hair staring up at the ceiling. While they can’t see what’s on the ceiling, it’s clear that Ellen Harvelle isn’t herself today. <br><br>Her sadistic smile, yellow eyes, and extended hand admire some handiwork out of scope. But within scope. A bevy of unconscious (or dead?) children strewn about the floor. She looks down the hall. “Any movement yet?” she calls. <br><br>“Not yet,” a voice calls back. <br><br>“Then show him a goddamned picture of this. Use your suit’s cellphone,” Ellen scoffs. “Knock on the door and call him out.” <br><br>As far as May’s words are concerned, they don’t seem to have any effect as of yet. But expediency isn’t a feature of all spirits. <br><br>Outside, in the front yard, things aren’t going well. But most of the torture hasn’t been physical as of yet. <br><br>“Hello sweetie,” Fred’s mother’s voice cuts through the little stillness that exists. Alluringly--not at all with an air of maternal warmth--she strides towards Fred. Her long, slender fingers reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind Fred’s ear, an action her mother took many times as a comfort. But the smile is wrong. Her expressions are wrong. Even the tone is wrong. And in an instant, comfort turns tides. <br><br>The demon wearing Fred’s mother reaches out her hand to push Fred back. “We are here for you,” while it might come off as warmth or support, it’s cold and angry. She reaches those slender fingers to grab a mitt-full of Fred’s hair in an effort to drag the girl to her father. <br><br>“Winifred Burkle needs punishment,” Fred’s mother allays to her father. <br><br>Fred’s father’s eyes crease with delight. He looks towards her bag. “You brought us gifts? Oh little girl… we do like presents,” he jeers. He walks around her, assessing her as he does so. “You’ve been very naughty. Your mother just said as much.” And then with the condescending tone of an animal owner reprimanding their pet, he asks, “What did you do?” <br><br>“She wants to hurt us, darling~” Fred’s mother virtually sings. “She wants us to pop and sizzle and burn. She came here with fire in her eyes to smite us, but now? She remembers she’s just a lost little girl.” <br><br>Her father nods curtly. “Of course none of this is real. Sam isn’t real. You made him up, Fred. We’re not really here. None of us. You’re alone. A slave dressed in rags with a heavy collar bound to your neck for eternity. They won’t tell you this, but you don’t die. And you never leave. Not there. Not really. You get to live day after day enslaved to them, their world, and their servitude. To their whirls, wants, and whimsies.” <br><br>A giggle emits from Dean’s lips as Sam begins the words that could put any of them out of commission. “That tickles,” he notes with another quirk of his lips. <br><br>Dean’s face lights with unbridled pleasure. His eyes lid and his lips quirk as if experiencing some other ecstasy at Sam’s pain. A shiver of delight passes over him. But if anyone is paying attention, something, however briefly, changes in the tide. His hand moves towards the inside of his jacket. It’s slow, cautioned, and purposive. It tugs at the inner pocket and draws out a strange looking knife. <br><br>The picture has oddities of its own: Dean basking in revelrie while his hand utilizes the opportunity. With the little girl near, and Alistair’s pleasure continuing, the knife moves to stab the little girl, another white-eyed demon, in the back. Hard. Her body flickers yellow and her occupant twists around to face Alistair. It’s not enough to kill her--not one as powerful as she is, but its effect speaks volumes of what the weapon is. She screams in pain. <br><br>The knife misses her heart, its intended target. <br><br>“I have this handled,” Dean’s voice hisses to the girl. <br><br>“I’ll be fine,” she returns with a smirk. Undoubtedly, whatever that weapon was, hurt. But evidently she doesn’t want to be eliminated from this stand-off. <br><br>The knife rests on the ground in the dust. And for a moment flat-white eyes turn green. They soften. They stare at Sam. And, with a drop of Dean’s chin, they look at the knife. And then back to Sam. In a moment the message is given. One can only hope that in his agony, Sam got it. <br><br>And as quickly as those eyes had softened, they harden again. “So,” Alistair begins. “Tell me, Sammy, do you remember all our fun?” There’s a pause. “I do. I remember the chorus of your screams amongst the others, the way you cried each and every time you awoke the next morning, how you called out for your brother as you hung there.” His eyebrows draw together, “Of course, you also called out for Dad. But we both knew /he’d/ never come.” <br><br>Dean’s body treads to where Sam remains in a ball. “Because he never would. He doesn’t care for you. For either of you.” He lifts a finger. “But. Big brother made a deal to get you out of there.” His expression sours and he looks towards Lilith as he seems to put something together. Between Dean’s memories and the space between them, something is becoming increasingly obvious in their efforts to control Hell. The Faustians are actively undermining their efforts. Alistair sneers. “They stole you from me,” he seethes. <br><br>“You were mine.” There’s a long pause. “And you’re mine again,” his lips edge into a smile. “And this time? There’s nothing big brother can do to stop me. You’re on your own, Sammy.” <br><br>“You. Are. Mine.” <br><br>And then, ominously like a revelation has just come to him, he pats Dean’s chest. <br><br>“And so is he.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>No way to tell that anyone is familiar to the Hunters except for the hitch in Jo's step as she spies Ash through the trees. "... Ash ..." She hisses and glares at the SHIELD agent - heavens knows why, it's not May's fault. <br><br>The look turns to horror as Sam's screams ring out through the area and she squints at the tableau unfolding. "What... is she doing .... " Of course, she doesn't recognise Freds parents but she does recognise Dean, the man who ... well who she's become quite fond of. <br><br>"Keep moving..." What they're going to do, she's no idea but one of her Dads Hunter friend had once said //No plan, no matter how good, survives first contact.// This one, the one of Sam's making, doesn't look like it ever really deployed. <br><br>Despite the heat emanating from the house. Despite the smell of rotten eggs, her steps bring them closer to that window and now the blonde freezes. "Mom..." She breathes, breath hitching in terror. "... they've got Mom ... we have to save her... " <br><br>Can she? Can they? Can they truly save Ellen from the Demon that possesses her. Jo doesn't know, but she's going to try. Probably much to May's dismay. Untrained, undisciplined and potentially, just plain stupid - might be some of the words that the blonde gets labelled with. <br><br>"... and Bobby." That has to be who they're trying to bait out. <br><br>One last glance to the older agent and the blonde takes off at a run, right to the door, throwing it open. "Hey Mom... fancy meeting you here ...." <br><br>//Splash// there's some holy water just for good measure. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There was no one else Alistair could have stolen that would have a worse impact on Fred. Angel, Wesley, even Sam...she would be upset and enraged by their possession. However, she also knows that they live in this world and signed up to be a part of its dangers and accepted those consequences. Her parents? They might know about demons and vampires now, but they live on a farm in Texas. They were away from all this, going about their own normal lives. This could have only happened to them because someone wished to hurt her and that makes this her fault. <br><br>She already knows it is a horrible idea as she runs to them, but she can’t stop herself, wanting to shake them, //make// them okay. Trish tucks her hair behind her ear and for a brief heartbeat of a moment, she hopes. Unfortunately, the voice - while unmistakably her mother’s voice - is wrong. <br><br>The hand easily curls into her long hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling her forward. Fred almost topples and does fall to one knee in front of her father as it happens, wincing at the pain of that yank. “I’m sorry,” she says, heartfelt, through the pain. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you both better. I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t know if they can hear her, but she says it anyway. The words about this being a different world, one that she has made up cause a hitch in her throat, a taunt as to how she dealt with five years in Pylea. How she dealt with the spell that just recently sent her into a spiral. She’s weak, she can’t handle the dangers, she couldn’t protect her parents. <br><br>They ask her what is in her bag, what she’s brought them. It clinks to the ground as she falls, the bottles inside rattling against each other, but don’t break. There is no way she will use any force against her parents, but she has to do something. “H-here…” she says, unzipping the bag just a bit, still looped over one arm. “I’ll show you.” <br><br>A hand reaches in to grab one of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt. Squeezing her eyes shut, taking a deep breath, she pulls it out to smash against the leg of her mother. There are tears in her eyes as she she swings. Five years in Pylea cemented a survivor’s spirit, one that instinctively knows that to save her parents, she has to stay alive, too. If they’re not already dead. No, she can’t think like that. She can’t. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The screams do stop. Sam gets himself under control, bit by bit. <br><br>First, it's because he can hear, distantly, the demons taunting Fred. A flame of fury ignites in him. He's spent many nights reassuring her he was real, and some bastard black-eye pissants think they're going to undo her? Even now, her heart-felt apologies to them rip at his heart. It's a sentiment he more than understands, really. <br><br>That's the moment where he raises his head, panting softly in fear, pain, and fury all at once. His irises slowly turn. Hazel to light green, light green to dark green, dark green to pitch black. He can still feel the throbbing pain as he watches his brother keep right on fighting, and feels such pride in Winchester the Elder that it helps to snap a new memory into place. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Life is pain, Princess," says the smooth-talking pirate on the flickering television screen. "Anyone who says differently is selling something." <br><br>The TBS logo appears briefly at the bottom of the screen, signalling a switch to commercial. Sometimes nothing good is on TV, but today, at the Motel Picayune on MS Hwy 5, they luck out. Sammy is four years old, and he is in his favorite spot: snuggled up to his brother on the couch, one of the only places he ever feels safe. He's sucking his thumb, and Dean notices and gently draws it out of his mouth. <br><br>"Stop that," says the older boy, but with no heat. And then, thoughtfully, "He's right you know, Sammy. The Dread Pirate. Life is pain." <br><br>Sammy shifts uneasily and says nothing. He kind of knows some of this already. Life had Been Pain just yesterday, when he'd spilled his milk in the diner, broken a glass, and had inspired Dad to smack him and berate him for being careless in front of everyone. It was his fault. He shouldn't have been so clumsy. <br><br>Dean seems to sense his unease, and sets his mouth into a grim line. At 8, Dean always looks so grown-up, so tough. Sammy emulates the expression as best he can. <br><br>"But you know what you can do, Sammy? You can /fight/. Fight for the people who can't fight for themselves, and most of all fight against any son of a bitch who tries to hurt anyone you care about. I'm going to teach you. You'll see." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He gets the signal. He sees it. Now he has to figure out how to exploit it. Alistair steps right up to him, taunts him, and Sam starts putting his brain to work. Why is it going down like this, specifically? Why draw him all the way out there for hours? Why gather everyone he's ever known, and Fred's parents? Why attack Bobby? What do they want here? Getting Dean's body alone was enough to have Sam ready to give himself up to them, but that's not what they want. Alistair had been angry, in fact, when Sam had seemed meek. Sam gets the impression he'd have been angrier still if he'd tried to bow his head for his brother's life. It tracks with what he remembers, now. Some tormenters grew angry at defiance, threats, but Alistair had never seemed so proud as the day that-- <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" Sam screams, his voice cracking not because it was ready to take on the new tones of manhood, but simply under the strain. Day 14. "I'm going to carve out your KIDNEYS and I'm going to FEED THEM TO YOU, do you understand? You better HOPE I never get out of here, because I am going to KICK YOUR DEMON ASS!" <br><br>"Goood," Alistair coos. "That's good, Sammy." <br><br>And he rewards him with a drink of water, the first his parched throat had seen in two weeks. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Of course. Alistair wants him to /change/. Soon after that… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"All you have to do is take the knife, Sammy. Take the knife, and run it down her foot, and I'll let you off the rack. I'll give you a whole day off for that one little cut. It's so sharp, it'll cut her like nothing. Like running a butter knife through mashed potatoes." <br><br>"No. I won't." <br><br>"Then I guess I'll have to run it down /your/ feet." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Sam's throat burns, parched. He can sense he doesn't have nearly enough juice to pull the only trick that gets any of their possessed friends out. He doesn't have enough for Alistair for sure. He needs more. Which was the point. Goad him into saving Dean at the expense of Ellie, Ash, Fred's parents. Save Dean, and possibly Fred from her infected parents, and Bobby...or save nobody at all. A sadistic choice. May and Jo are here, but they're vastly outnumbered. And /something/ awful is happening inside the house, too. <br><br>Sam is not a fan of sadistic choices. <br><br>He is, however, a fan of third options. The knife won't be enough, he knows, because he just saw for himself it wasn't. But he has a theory. Two theories, really. <br><br>One. <br><br>The strength of the demon MUST matter to the potency of the blood. He hadn't entirely been honest with Claire, though it was only cause he hadn't thought about it at the time. The Crossroads demon he'd eaten had been so much more satisfying and had lasted so much longer than the black-eyes he'd first taken. Vengeance demons were also crazy powerful, and that's what he'd been mostly sipping on, but he would rank them about on the scale of a Crossroads...they both had that wish-granting ability and power, and just used it differently. The rush was more the rush of NEEDING something and getting it. Like feeding a caffiene addiction. Or his alcohol addiction. As he'd said. The rush of a black-eyes? Practically non-existent. The rush, and the power. The power of a white-eyes, a literal ruler of Hell? That's going to be immense. So will, dangerously, the rush, but one problem at a time. <br><br>Two. <br><br>That he can inject it, or he can drink it. He'd had some dreams about simply drinking gallon after gallon of demon blood. He'd had dreams of ripping demons open with his /teeth/, during that first hellish week where demon blood had suddenly become nearly all he could think of. Which was...to the good, really, because he has no time whatsoever to set up a neat, clean drip. This again tracked with the set-up; if they'd hoped he wouldn't see through this they couldn't exactly set it up so he could go after each of those people with a needle. <br><br>So. Third option. Dangerous, difficult to pull off, disgusting in the extreme, uncomfortable for both him and Dean because there is no way to do this in a way that isn't. But fitting, too, because this will mean he and Dean took care of this son of a bitch together. And really, there is no universe where Sam Winchester ever wants Dean to be an unwilling victim. Dean has put himself a little bit back in the ring; Sam decides to keep him there. <br><br>He times the test of the theory though. Times it for the moment that Fred decides she's not going to cave. That she's going to fight. The moment she smashes holy water and salt into the demon wearing her beloved mother. He synchs up with them, moves with them, adding Fred to the synchronous fighting flow that he's always shared with Dean. This is appropriate. On a number of levels. <br><br>He stretches out his hand, as if he is going to try his trick of forcing a soul out of the body without the juice-up. But instead, he exercises the barest hint of his power, yanking that knife to his hand with a burst of telekinetic force. <br><br>"Watch those kidneys, Al," Sam hisses, as if they were already succeeding, as if he'd be willing to kill his brother to spare him… <br><br>Only to feint at them...and instead plunge the demon knife into Alistair's calf, right into where Sam thinks he remembered a superficial system called the great saphenous vein would be. He has read up on anatomy, as it happens, precisely /because/ he tries to spare the vessels of the possessed. If he finds his mark he's hit a vein that would bleed like a son of a bitch, and /hurt/ like a son of a bitch, but won't threaten Dean's life. He hopes the shock of the obviously magical weapon, Dean's own desire to take the reins, and the location itself will buy him the time to do what he needs to do. Because the next thing he does is withdraw the knife, launch himself forward, seize Alistair's leg, and clamp his mouth around it. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Pulling the still salt-saturated sash whip, May looks up and curses when Jo darts off toward the house proper. She can’t watch over everyone if they’re running all over the place willy-nilly. She wastes a moment trying to decide if she can help Jo with the farmhouse, then decides, no, the young woman has proven herself pretty well able to handle things. It’s the multiple demons that she’s concerned with. <br><br>This whole day has been beyond screwed up. Moving as quietly as she can she takes a breath, then charges out at the group of demons all together. She doesn’t know any of the people they’re possessing, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to just mow through them. Anything she can do to lock them down and hopefully banish the demons will be good enough. <br><br>Her sash whip snaps out at the closest black-eyed demon (Ash) the moment she’s within range. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside, the dramatic interruption of a the blonde hunter sees holy water steam from Ellen’s back. The demon wearing her, however, is powerful and strong. Ellen twists around to see her daughter’s face, and yellow eyes sparkle at the sight. “You look like her--thought that when I got access to your mother’s thoughts,” yellow-eyes taunts. “Dean is just looking for his mama again and again and again,” she muses with a sadistic turn of her lips. With the fire burning above, lighting multiple bodies as it billows, she lifts a hand--a burst of telekinetic energy to push Jo back, hard. Her head tilts. “I would’ve liked to wait until Alistair could bring his suit here,” the smooth cadence of her mother’s voice mixed with the pure venom of Azazel’s malice chills the air. “But, as they say, time is of the essence.” <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>The shotgun fire of salt loaded bullets distracts enough to have the telekinetic move last just a moment, giving Jo release as Bobby’s house continues to go up in flames. “Let go of Ellen, you son of a bitch,” Bobby’s flat tone cuts into the room. The salt rounds won’t be enough to stop her, but it might serve as a distraction. “Kid, we need to round her off back towards the living room,” he states. Bobby’s house is most definitely full of demon traps. The trick is getting this thing into one of them. <br><br>Outside, Fred finds her fight, and the holy water burns her mother’s skin. The demon wearing her screeches in pain, falling forward as steam rises from her body. Her father reacts in kind, forcing her backwards with a burst of telekinetic energy to throw her against a car. “Winifred, you’ve been a very naughty girl,” he repeats from before. While Trish-demon tries to recover, Roger-demon takes point. <br><br>He paces towards her and allows his head to cant to the side, examining her. “There was a time when you were young that your father gifted you something of comfort. That you wouldn’t be afraid. Somehow you thought a rabbit would calm the storm. A stuffed bunny that your father believed would help you relate better to others.” He taps his temple. “I remember. Or, he does. He almost felt bad about it. Giving you a bunny instead of helping you find a friend. You were always such a sweet child.” He motions towards Trish. “That’s what your mother always said. So sweet. So innocent. So alone. Still alone. Always alone.” <br><br>“Nothing can comfort you here.” His tone flattens, “Not your beloved knight in shining whatever,” his nostrils flare, “not your mother’s touch,” his nose wrinkles and his lips quirk, “and not even that damned bunny. No one can make sense of the chaos.” <br><br>“That place you were at, it’s real. It’s not just in your mind, and you can bet that we will find a way to return you to it. Or,” he smiles faintly, “at least, leave dear old Mom and Dad there.” His black eyes shimmer with unbridled amusement. He’s thrilled. Pleased with his latest consideration. “I bet these bodies aren’t even necessary for our plans.” <br><br>The knife into Dean’s calf cuts true. And, sure enough, Sam finds the vein easily. If, however, he opens his eyes, he can see his brother has been subjected to numerous other cuts down his leg--all in various states of disarray thanks to the lack of nutrition that Alistair has provided him. Healing requires basic blocks of life, and Dean has had none. Yet none of those would’ve granted or <br><br>The sound that emits from Dean’s lips is somewhere between pain and ecstasy. Sam gets an ample dose before Alistair manages to lift a hand to push him back because another will buried inside him continues to exert itself where it can, even in exhaustion, malnutrition, and injury. Of course, it doesn’t take much of Alistair’s blood to make the younger Winchester dosed up. Oddly, none of the other demons rush the situation. None try to draw Sam away. The child in the distance even smiles. Softly. As if she’s experiencing a puppet show or play. Her eyes flit towards the others, and with a small smile, she disappears. <br><br>“I didn’t think you had it in you, Sammy,” Alistair states with a wry smile as he flexes Dean’s leg to continue to let the blood pour out. He is really not kind to this body. “You know, I wonder how much /anyone/,” Crowley for one, “will want my sloppy seconds.” <br><br>The sash draws towards Ash and catches his skin causing it to steam and burn, but doesn’t wrap around the demon before he’s onto the ploy. His hand lifts and it turns back towards May. Vacantly, his head tilts to the side. “Handy trick,” he states evenly while he lifts a hand to . “Bet it helped when you ganked that little girl in Bahrain.” His lips curve into a smile. “Alistair tortures her day after day after day in Hell. If you ever wonder what that’s like, I suggest talking to Sam.” <br><br>He strides forward to close the distance again. His hands lift in want. “She was pretty though, wasn’t she?”<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo grimaces as Ellen back steams. As much as she'd expected it, it was still a shock. "Mom..." is that plea or just simple sorrow? Hard to tell, given the blonde is rocketed backwards. <br><br>//Thump// <br><br>"Nggggnh. He's not, you know, looking for his Mom..." A weak protest indeed. The words have cut through the blonde like a knife. Far more dangerous than any physical torment Ellen-demon could subject her to. <br><br>Eyes wide, there's still fight in the woman even though she's held tight. The first blast from the shotgun causes her to jump - that's not how they're supposed to take her, is it? Oh wait. That's Bobby's voice she's hearing as she slides to ground, hand rising to massage her throat. <br><br>It takes a moment - several very long moments really - for Bobby's words to sink in. "Living room, right. Come and get me you bitch if you want me..." her other hand delves into the pouch on her hip and salt is strewn to one side Ellen-mon. It won't hold her for long but Bobby should be able to ride herd as Jo acts as bait. <br><br>OK. It might not be the best plan - but it's far from the worst she's had today. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Wincing in sympathy pain as she hears her mother shriek, Fred pushes herself upward to standing. Her hand grips the neck of another bottle to toss onto her possessed father, but she never gets a chance to throw it. The telekenetic shove whips her against the car and she gives a short, soft cry of pain. Some of the beer bottles shatter on impact, shards of glass and holy salt water now pooling in the bottom of its fabric. <br><br>Pinned there, Fred is forced to listen to the demon holding her father as he recounts exactly why he gave her Feigenbaum in the first place. It attempts to twist a fond memory into something sad and tainted. Hearing her father’s voice talk to her in a way that is nothing like her father twists a knot in her stomach. Desperately, she shoves against the supernatural hold that keeps her helplessly in place, unable to move and unable to stop listening to the horrible words and threats. <br><br>The threat of Pylea - finding a way to send her or her parents back there - sends a cold stroke of fear down her back. “Don’t,” she says, softly. The thought of her parents on Pylea, scrounging to survive, causes her eyes to glass over with more tears. “Please leave them out of this.” She has to do something, has to stop this. <br><br>Trapped against the junked car, there is little she can do. She can’t toss any of the holy water, can’t do anything. Except talk. She takes a shallow breath - all she is able to do against the horrible pressure - and starts to quietly recite. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It feels amazing. For a moment Sammy is just...lost. The power flows into his mouth, down his throat, into his body. He feels the glory of every swallow. The taste on his tongue. Not bitter, or salty, or coppery. Sweet. He feels like he's floating in a sea of white. It feels surprisingly unthreatening. Exhaustion, gone. Uncertainty gone. Fear, gone. Nothing but the absolute certainty that he is unstoppable. <br><br>Being pushed off is a blessing. To Sam, it feels almost intolerable. But it keeps him from madly draining his brother dry, which he surely would have done if he'd been allowed to feed without reservation or restraint. <br><br>Only a bare trickle of blood runs from the corner of his lips, stained a rich color from the exchange. His eyes shift a little too. Black? Or are they closer to red now? Is his demon half moving subtlely up the hierarchy? It fades back to black a second later, he'd have to do a lot more feeding, a lot more regularly, to unleash /that/ fresh Hell. Probably nobody's looking at that but Alistair himself. <br><br>Alistair says he didn't think he had it in him. <br><br>Sam stands. He's not doing this on his knees. He wipes the trickle on the back of his hand. He watches Alistair as he slurps it up, licking that last little bit away. Nothing wasted. Nothing. There will be consequences for this, but they feel so distant. So. Unimportant. He rolls his tongue over his lips, over his teeth, cleaning the blood away, mostly intent on getting it all inside of him as fast as he can make it happen. But there's still a very disturbing quality to his smile. It's slight. Hard, as Sammy's smiles never are. Holding an edge that hints at something within him that is more than capable of cruelty, if pushed to it. Cruelty in equal measure, as it happens, to his vast empathy. <br><br>"You shouldn't have put yourself back on my radar, Alistair," Sam says, in a low, too-calm voice. "There will be consequences for that. But for now?" <br><br>His hand forms into a sort of claw. He rears it back. Though the other demons are right on his priority list, Fred's parents in particular, he's going to trust May and Fred to keep fighting while he initiates what has been, with every other demon, a battle of wills. Fred might achieve what she needs to with the exorcism anyway. Distantly, he hopes they're in good enough shape to survive the process. Distantly, he wonders what's happening to Jo and Bobby. <br><br>But he can only do one thing at a time. <br><br>He flings his will into his brother's form, shoving with all his might, doing his dead level best to use his stolen power to force his former tormenter straight back to Hell, and to hit him hard enough with that force that he won't have the strength to come seeking a new host for quite some time. <br><br>"Give me back my brother, you sorry son of a bitch." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>If there’s one thing that May has learned only too well in her years at SHIELD, it’s the ability to NOT let it show when something affects her. Thus, Ash’s comments about the little girl and Bahrain appear to fall upon deaf ears as she sidesteps the sash whip coming back at her then whirls around, pulling the weapon back into a whirring spin. She also doesn’t waste time with talking. <br><br>Setting the whip to spin blurringly fast, she flicks it out at Ash-demon again, knowing it’s exactly what he’ll expect and with her other hand pulls the salt-loaded pistol from the Impala’s trunk and shoots at the redneck demon. She’s aiming only to wound and annoy, though, by shooting at his right thigh. Sorry… whoever you are. <br><br>Then she does start to toss out words, again using the ancient Mandarin to call upon one of the Kings of Diyu to pull these souls back to Hell to complete their punishments. <br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, “He’s been looking for his mom since I stole her,” Ellen counters to Jo. Bobby receives a small tilt of her head as she stumbles backwards from the shells. It won’t stop her, and it won’t send her back to hell, but it certainly has some impact, enough to grant a death stare towards the gentleman-hunter. “Decided to leave your solace to have some fun?” her yellow eyes flash with amusement. <br><br>Bobby looks worse for wear. His head has been bandaged many times over. His clothes are blood soaked. His wrists are bound with bandages. He’s been through something vile--that much is clear. But the anger in his eyes doesn’t dissipate. He shoots the gun again, this time towards the demon’s head. “Get. Out,” he says again. <br><br>Ellen’s eyes glimmer as Jo begins to lead her away. She knows what’s up. She also knows the house is going up in flames. Even from the outside the flames can be seen. Time is short. “I took her, you know. I took Sam’s fiance. And it’s only a matter of time until I take you. And make no mistake, Jo, I will get you.” She manages a small smile. “But in the meantime, know that he doesn’t love you. Not really. He doesn’t know how. Even your mother knows that.” There’s a pause. “Unless it’s Sam. Sam will always come first. He sold his soul for Sam--do you think he would ever do that for you? If you think so, you know you’re lying to yourself…” <br><br>“Shut up, you Idjit!” Bobby fires again to herd the demon towards Jo. “Don’t listen to him, Kid. They spew anything and everything to get inside yer ‘ead,” he fires the shotgun again. <br><br>And it seems to be working for the time being, but it’s easier than it should be. It’s possible the demon wants to get caught or its gambit has been fulfilled already. <br><br>Outside, Roger-demon sneers when Fred makes her bid for her parents’ lives. His nostrils flare and his body tenses at the request not to put them in Pylea. There’s little room for any of it. He takes delight in her pleading, and he doesn’t lose that edge of torment as he laughs, “I will see that every day of their life and beyond they are in agony. And the agony will never cease. Not once. Not ever.” <br><br>But the murmuring of the Latin causes his knees to buckle. His black eyes cannot handle the Latin the way the white eyes can. He falls onto his hands. He bats the ground as the words continue to spill from Fred’s lips and he begins to cough as his soul begins to be banished into the pit beyond. <br><br>Trish-demon, meanwhile has begun to recover. She forces herself to a stand and walks to where Roger and Fred are. <br><br>There will be consequences for Alistar returning to Sam’s radar. “I’m counting on it,” Dean replies gruffly. Amusement tugs at each edge of Dean’s face. His eyes crinkle with delight, his lips turn upwards, and the white of his eyes seems downright delighted. But the delight begins to change when Sam reaches out his hand. <br><br>At first, Alistair spreads Dean’s arms, inviting the change. But then the pressure changes. The white-eyed demon fights, demanding even more juice to be expensed and Dean’s body buckles beneath the war, stumbling towards the ground. Sam pulls on Alistair’s soul, forcing him from Dean’s body. And, because he can, he claws at the edges of Dean’s consciousness. <br><br>Dean’s chin lifts towards the sky and his mouth opens as a white thick cloud of smoke floats into the sky. It billows above, disappearing into nothing as it moves. <br><br>Dean collapses when the smoke disappears, causing his body to fall into the fetal position with his stomach falling to the ground. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cough. Emptily, he remains there frozen in place. <br><br>Ash screams in agony when the shell hits his thigh. He collapses to his knees. “You bitch!” he seethes loudly. “She agonizes every day because of what you did! And she will come back to haunt you--I swear that you will suffer tenfold!” <br><br>The demon wearing him keeps black eyes shining as he reaches out to counter her. He sends a burst of telekinetic towards her to thrust her against a rusty looking dumpster. But as he does so, he also begins to be willed from the body he’s occupying. His lips part and thick black smoke begins to billow up to the sky. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's difficult to hear much of what's happening outside - just the muffled noises that indicate not everything is ok in Kansas, Toto. Jo's blue eyes flick uncertainly in that direction but Ellen-mon's words have her focussing again. <br><br>Do they work? Does the demon manage to plant the seed of doubt in the blondes mind? What she has with Dean ... it's fledgling. They'd made no promises to each other, had they? Wasn't he really 'Mister Right Now' rather than 'Mister Right'? Maybe. Time will tell the effect those words truly have. <br><br>"You can have me if you can catch me." Jo's voice trembles as she moves further into the house. It is too easy, baiting the creature like this and she shoots a quick look to Bobby trying to convey that. <br><br>"I've chosen Ellen over Dean, so I guess we're even on that score." she tells her corrupted mothers form. "Blood is, after all, thicker than water." <br><br>It's getting hot in here and a trickle of sweat runs down her forehead but still, she leads the demon on. Ellen-mon. Gotta catch them all. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred, pinned against the car like a butterfly to a board, keeps reciting. She can hear the spiteful words of the demon holding her father promising them pain. It only spurs her to recite faster, to try and literally release that demon. The same fear Sam has is lodged in the back of her head - the teenager face down in a lawn that would never move again. The one Sam wrapped in a tarp and drove elsewhere. Is that the future for her parents? Will she not only be the reason for their possession, but their death? <br><br>The words slow slightly as she thinks about that, a soft sob interjecting itself in her recitation in between lines. Her eyes close as she continues, seeing her father drop to his knees and choke. The approach of her mother is unable to be seen. She simply can’t stand it. She has little of the training or outward fortitude of May. Every word clearly cuts her deeply. Still, though, she speaks through unbearable pressure and the pain. <br><br>Determined, aching and devastated, she finishes the exorcism. Despite the dangers, the fact that she knows there are enemies still around, she cannot bear to open her eyes, to see if she succeeded - and if she did - to see what that means. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Dean!” <br><br>Sam darts forward to gather Dean into his arms. He wants to check for a pulse, he wants to offer some food or water or medical care, but they are still very much in the middle of a crisis here. And Fred is still being menaced. He sees Mr. Burkle’s demon smoke out, but here comes Mrs. Burkle. <br><br>He flings his hand in that direction, jaw firming with determination. After Alistair, this should be nothing. He was unable to force the white-eyed monster back to Hell, he’s still out there. But a black-eyes? <br><br>Should be easy enough. <br><br>He pushes the soul out like it’s nothing, leaving, briefly, a black fiery burn mark on the ground beneath her feet. It takes a moment of concentration, but compared to Alistair it’s as easy as simply thumping a piece of paper away with his thumb and forefinger. Gentler on Mrs. Burkle’s body than the exorcism, though there are still no guarantees. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May get slammed back against a rusty old dumpster, and that finally elicits a reaction from her. She growls at the pain and frustration of being stuck, but then as the demon ghosts out of the young man’s body and the hold on her releases, she takes a breath and then says to the black smoke, “You first.” <br><br>Then, grimacing slightly as she steps away from the dumpster and feels like someone just pulled a rusty knife out of her back, she takes a very quick stock of the goings on and turns to run for the farmhouse. As much as seeing what Sam is doing disturbs her, she can’t exactly argue it now. But she CAN go help Jo with whatever is going on inside the house. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, Ellen follows Jo through to the living room. She lifts a hand to telekinetically hit the girl, but the shotgun fire grants her pause. Bobby has few (if any) concerns about damaging his home. It’s already going up in flames anyways. While Jo may be acting as live bait, the yellow-eyed demon seems to take it. The plan may be known, but something seems to inspire Ellen-mon forward. <br><br>And sure enough, the living room is a veritable myriad of demon traps. The ceiling, walls, and floor underneath the carpet all act as demon traps. Yellow eyes is stuck. Ellen, however, just smiles at the others, strangely pleased with herself at this turn of events. “You’re both aware that you’ve won nothing today, aren’t you? All of this went according to plan.” Her yellow eyes track towards Jo. <br><br>Bobby’s expression remains neutral. He’s been dealing with monsters for decades and he won’t let himself be rattled by another. He does, however, look towards Jo. “Send the bitch home, Kid,” intending her to exorcise her own mother. <br><br>When May finds the pair inside the home, Bobby casts her a long look as he levels his shotgun towards her. A glance is given Jo, silently asking about the woman standing in front of him. <br><br>Outside, Fred’s agony gets emphasized as her mother continues what her father had begun. Trish lifts her fingers to slowly, telekinetically, wrench Fred’s skull. She applies pressure, exerting more with every passing instant to literally crush her brain. But it’s all for naught. She’s ripped from the mortal she’s residing in by Sam’s will. In an array of black smoke, she leaves Trish’s body on the ground in a mess of nothing. <br><br>Ellie smirks as Trish is exorcised, and in a second, she’s gone to parts unknown to fight another day. <br><br>Unconscious, both of Fred’s parents lay there with no movement. It’s a wonder if they’re alive. <br><br>Not far away, Dean’s body resembles a corpse. Pallid skin. Cold. Empty. His eyes don’t flicker, his breath doesn’t steady. And in a way, he’s nearly vacant. The light seems comforting. Peaceful. He knows it leads nowhere good, but his mind struggles to return to the present. <br><br>The rocking had been peaceful. The sound of her humming a comfort even before he’d seen her face. But she never stuck to humming. Her voice echoes in his mind. “Hey Jude, refrain, don’t carry the world upon your shoulders~’ <br><br>She didn’t like lullabies. She liked the Beatles. They would rock in the rocking chair of the nursery. Time and time again. “For well you know that it’s a fool~ Who plays it cool~ By making this world a little colder~” <br><br>“You need to wake up, Dean,” she says softly. He can almost feel her fingers on his cheek. The way she’d gently woken him many times when they had somewhere to be. <br><br>In the real world, Dean gasps for breath, inhaling a face full of dirt, causing him to push up slightly to cough the dirt back into the ground before collapsing against it again. He’s alive. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus... " Jo starts to intone as she hits the living room. Bobby didn't need to tell her twice. "omnis satanig--" <br><br>She stutters as the yellowed eye demon taunts them further and draws in a gasping breath. <br><br>"He'll survive. They'll survive..." She mutters to herself. Who's she's talking about isn't clear, perhaps not even to herself. She knows better than to respond to the creature but it's hard, oh so hard. <br><br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis satanicus potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii..." <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>Holy water is added to the moment mix of this recipe. <br><br>"omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura," <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>"tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, AUDI NOS!" <br><br>The final words of the rite have her voice rising as sweat pours down her face. She's breathing heavily by the time she finishes. Who knew reciting a few words could be so taxing? <br><br>Ellen-mon smokes, or is it steams?, as the water hits her and her body trembles terribly at the words. Those eyes fix Jo with deadly intent as yellow smoke rises from her body. <br><br>"Is it over, Bobby?" she grates out. Not once thinking to question if this truly is the Hunter and not some other meat-suit wearing Demon. <br><br>Um. They should probably take Ellen's body and get the hell out of Dodge. <br><br>"Dean...." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The pressure against her is felt exponentially. Fred’s eyes remain closed as the pain increases, her head shoved against the junkyard car further and further. There’s only so long it will last before it might burst. She starts to try again, the words gritted through her teeth, through the excruciating pain. “Exorci….zamus….te….” <br><br>Suddenly, though, the pain is gone. Fred drops to the ground in a pile of limbs, gasping at the sudden release of pressure against her body. Her eyes remain closed for a few moments until they open to glance upward. She takes in the scene, blinking at the sudden brightness after squeezing her eyes shut for so long. <br><br>There’s Sam holding Dean and then, there is her parents, lying motionless on the ground. Scrambling, tripping in her hurry to get up, she scurries to them. The bag of mystical weapons are left behind broken and filled with water. It might be a mistake, but she isn’t thinking about that right now. Instead, she needs to get to her parents, to check on them. <br><br>“Mom? Dad?” Terrified, she reaches for them, checking for a pulse, gently assessing them to try and see if they have any wounds that need to be tended. “Please, please, wake up. Please be okay. I’m sorry.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester has never felt so relieved in his life as he feels when Dean wakes up in his arms. He lifts him up a little to try to get him out of the dirt, rolls him over, sees Fred fussing over her parents. Some of the demons exited, stage left. Now he turns his attention to Bobby’s home, gasping, worried. <br><br>He is no healer, but there are still things he can do. He knows this might well use nearly all of what he’s got. He is already going to need a dose much faster than usual. He’s already out of them. New York is far, far away. <br><br>He’ll just have to trust that he’ll pull through, because he can’t let Bobby’s house burn. Father, uncle, whatever one wants to call him, Bobby Singer is family. <br><br>He could never try this if he weren’t high on the rush of demonic blood. But now he lifts his hand and focuses on the fire. Focuses on pulling it first to a single point outside the house, telekinetically trying to draw flames together into one long finger-like torrent, stretching it out and out and out until he can get it away from Bobby’s home. <br><br>It works, to his shock. But he doesn’t revel in it for long. There’s a watery ditch, a culvert he played in as a kid. He slams the fire into it, leaving only a hiss of steam in the distance. It’s probably a Hell of a thing to watch. In more ways than one. <br><br>He keeps his arm tightly around his brother the entire time, pressing his chest to his brother’s back to keep him in spiritual contact with the anti-possession ward tattoo’d deeply into his own skin. He doesn’t have time to grab that final necklace from his pocket right now, and he won’t risk another possession. They won’t get this lucky twice. <br><br>“Fred,” he asks hoarsely, a one-word request for a status report on her parents. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May bursts into the farmhouse and stops abruptly when the older man (though really, he’s probably the same age she is) turns his shotgun on her. “We need to go,” she says to the younger Harvelle after seeing the woman freed of possession. She’s guessing that that’s Jo’s mother, and while keeping a wary eye on Bobby, she moves cautiously closer to check on the now unconscious woman and in doing so passes straight through at least two devil’s traps without realizing they’re there. <br><br>She checks Ellen’s pulse and finds that she’s out for the count, but not on the verge of dying, which is a relief. She starts to heft the unconscious woman into a fireman’s carry when the fire suddenly just … goes away. She is going to have WORDS with Sam after this. But, the house may very well still be structurally compromised so she keeps on with the getting Ellen out. “Let’s move, Jo. Now.” <br><br>Her eyes land on Bobby again for a moment as if to see if he’s going to follow or continue standing there being openly curmudgeonly. But only for a moment. The smoke is now more dangerous than the flames were, so she’s getting out and she’s taking Ellen with her. <br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Looking to the skies reveals that the omens have shifted. The skies have cleared and blue takes over from the swirl of orange, red, and white. It’s relieving. The locusts have cleared--something they will notice when they drive out of here. <br><br>Bobby casts a long look to Jo as May enters the demon traps. His shotguns drop and his own bloodied body nods once at the young blonde when May moves to get Ellen out. In no time, he’s walking out of his home, semi-intact and looking out on the yard. His head shakes once while he assumes silence. His eyes train on the boys and linger on Sam for a long while. <br><br>Fred’s parents remain unresponsive. Assessing her mother yields a strong pulse and breathing. Her body doesn’t look ridden hard--likely because it wasn’t ridden long. Alistair had some last minute additions to his hostage entourage. It’s good to be at the tail end of the possessions. Her father’s pulse, however, is weak. Barely there. His breathing is shallow. Undoubtedly the exorcism had unwanted secondary effects. Both are alive though. <br><br>Dean’s vision can’t come into focus. His body refuses to cooperate as he tries to regain some semblance of muscle control. He wants to stand. He can’t even motivate himself to wriggle out of Sam’s grasp. And so he stays there. His eyes burn, prompting him to close them again. His very breath rakes against his throat, scratching with dryness like sandpaper. Mary’s voice continues to sing over him in this place. He can sense her. Feel her. And it moves him. <br><br>Years of hunting have made Dean hard. He knows to maintain himself. To carry his composure. His life has been threatened many times before. He’s sold his soul. He’s died and come back to life. Seven times. <br><br>Maybe it’s the lack of nourishment, dehydration, or the sheer magnitude of being possessed for days, but something breaks. And, underneath his arm, Sam can feel Dean’s chest heave. <br><br>Dean Winchester is crying. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"A friend..." Jo grates out as May bursts through the door "... sort of..." she ammends. "SHIELD agent." Which should speak volumes for Bobby and warn him. No matter what she's been through, and her face shows the fear, the panic, the terror she feels, Jo won't leave Bobby out to dry. <br><br>Wiping her hand across her forehead, smearing grime and soot as she does, the blonde nods once to May, dips and helps her left Ellen, leaving the house and out into the yard. <br><br>"... Dean ..." Poor May is left with Ellens weight as the Hunter's daugher, now Hunter herself, takes a faltering step forward. Yellow eyes words play in her head like a bad song stuck on repeat. It takes a moment for her to push the doubt down. It's not gone - and the pair will have to deal with that ... later. <br><br>Hopefully much, much, later. <br><br>Standing there, between May and the men, hands clenched, Jo finally surveys the turmoil. "Fred? Ar... " she swallows "Are they ... " she can't finish the statement. She heard the womans' plaintive plea to the downed pair. <br><br>She hasn't looked for Ash yet. There's too much to take in, as her eyes return to the Winchester brothers. No place for her there. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>As her mother is closest to her, Fred checks her pulse first, finding it steady, though the woman has yet to wake up. A slight warmth of relief starts flood its way through until she reaches her father. His breathing is shallow, his pulse weak. The blood in her ears pounds as she quickly tries whatever she can to steady him, to heal him. There’s a look to her mother, still lying there. She feels terrible about leaving her there, but it’s Roger that is in the most dire straits. <br><br>“Dad, Dad, come on. You gotta stay strong, okay?” The question from Sam, from Jo, they’re both only heard as if from far away, barely recognized. All her attention is on her father, lying here. Her hands remain on him as she finally looks up, towards the others. She might not have heard their questions, but she knows Sam is there, that Dean is there. There’s almost surprise as she sees Jo and May, as well as two others she doesn’t know. Ellen may be unconscious, but the previously unseen form of Bobby stands with them and there is a brief wariness that fades to her greater concerns. <br><br>“Help him,” she pleads. “He’s...he’s weak. I think I...I don’t know. We gotta get him out of here. Please.” Panic has clearly set in. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Bobby is staring at him, and Sam looks away, flushing with sudden shame. And that makes him angry, because look. There they are. All alive. <br><br>But not all well. Dean is weak, Fred’s parents are weak, Ash is weak, Ellen is no doubt weak. His mouth sets into a tight line. He hefts Dean up as if he were hefting up a small child. He doesn’t even strain to do it. It doesn’t occur to him that Jo might be feeling uneasy about her place in that right now, or he’d be more considerate, but right now he’s in crisis mode. He fishes out that necklace, puts it firmly around Dean’s neck. <br><br>He sees Dean’s tears but won’t address them. It would mortify his brother. If anything he turns Dean into his body just a little bit, so the man can shed what he needs to shed without anyone seeing. A protective gesture, though not a traditional one. <br><br>“How fast can you get a SHIELD medical team to us, Agent May?” Sam asks. “Or us to a SHIELD medical team? Everyone needs help.” His words, when they come out, are grim, taut, and utterly professional, showing no hint of any emotion at all. His irises remain flat black. No telling if they’re going back. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>With Jo’s help, May gets Ellen out of the farmhouse only to have to take all of her weight when the blonde moves toward the brothers. She’s starting to feel where she took that dumpster to the back, so before she’s at risk of dropping the unconscious woman she moves to set her down somewhere central-ish. Doing so might reveal that she didn’t get out of this unscathed, and it was something bad enough to tear through her jacket. <br><br>“Depends on if,” she pauses and forces herself to not wince as she pulls her cell phone from a pocket. Please work, please work, “my phone is working now.” She starts trying to dial out and looks at Bobby again. “There’s a young man over that way. Sleeveless shirt. Mullet.” She doesn’t know if he’s okay or not, though. <br><br>Glancing over at Sam, she reaches into her jacket again and pulls the water flask that Dean had declined before. It’s at best four ounces of water, but it’s better than nothing and Dean looks like he’ll need any bit of sustenance they can manage. <br><br>Oh thank goodness. “HQ. May. Require immediate medical teams or exfil at my location. Four civilians down, one asset, one agent.” She doesn’t bother to get up from where she’s sitting on the ground next to Ellen. She’s not sure her back will take it. “Have Medical check my file, I’ll likely need another tetanus booster.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Bobby’s gaze finally peels away from the brothers, it rests on Ellen a few beats and then he moves to find Ash and assess the kid. “What a mess,” he mutters softly to himself. But he’s pleased enough to find the body with a heartbeat and signs of life. His eyes turn up to the sky for a moment, taking in the blue stillness and he exhales a long breath. “And it’s just gonna get worse,” he murmurs to no one in particular. <br><br>But on that note, SHIELD medical arrives. The quinjet is fully prepared to take all for transport. And while at least one patient objects, a lot of sedative eats the objection. In short order everyone is receiving treatment. And when they’re alert, five will wake up in a place they don’t recall going to sleep. <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Third_Option&diff=1571Third Option2017-09-19T02:20:26Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/09/13 |Location=Sioux Falls, South Dakota |Synopsis=After receiving word of Dean's possession, a team goes out of their way to get White Eyes..."</p>
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<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/13<br />
|Location=Sioux Falls, South Dakota<br />
|Synopsis=After receiving word of Dean's possession, a team goes out of their way to get White Eyes out of the Elder Winchester's body. Things don't go as planned.<br />
|Thanks=306<br />
|Cast of Characters=Dean Winchester, 1379, Winifred Burkle, Sam Winchester, 5<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The road gifted more than tortured time. The drive from Hell’s Kitchen to rural South Dakota was long, but thanks to Alistair’s actions against the Impala, it also provided Sam and Fred two allies along the way. The black Impala on the side of the road was unmistakable. It had garnered attention immediately, and both May and Jo joined the foray. <br><br>While discussion had been short thanks to not really knowing what they’re getting into, the details seemed to align. Something had Dean. It occupied his body with its flat-white eyes and sadistic smile. Whoever it is has little regard for kindness and, presumably, roughed him up before choosing to take up residence. <br><br>It also became clear that the creature’s machinations had some intent. Those encountering demons regularly know full-well they ride their vessels hard. But many just seemed to want power. Something about this particular demon seemed different--purposive, even. <br><br>But after those details had been exchanged, there was little else to say. It was hard to plan without knowing what they faced… <br><br>Hours passed before they saw its first indication. Any who’d visited Bobby in South Dakota before would know the oddity of the prairie’s big open skies. Today, however, the sky itself dreads whatever will happen here. A swirl of grey, orange, pink, and red calls upwards in an incredibly odd storm. No rain falls. No wind blows. Yet the sky swirls in impossibility overhead. <br><b>Driving down the rural range road kicks up dust as the car moves, but something else hits hard against the car with each passing moment. The faint clunk of something meeting metal presents at a strange pace. Random enough not to be something wrong with the car, but loud enough to know that outside they’re hitting something.. Or something is hitting them. <br><br>The number of them grows as does the sound. The barrage of brown-green bugs--locusts that have presumably infested the area--pushes against the windshield. And should the driver just continue on their course, they pass the warning as quickly as they’d come to it, producing a house in the distance. <br><br>If they didn’t know better, a passerby would assume the people outside are enjoying a barbeque, a true wonder with skies like these. They see five figures for certain. It’s impossible to know if there’s more kicking around. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's a quiet Jo Harvelle who huddles on the back seat of the Impala. She's worried about Dean, and about Sam (given what Dean had told her before), and trying not to show it. She's failing - not badly but enough. <br><b>The swarm of locusts has the blonde leaning forward, against the seat belt, and peering out the window. "If I was more devout than I am, I'd probably be able to quote a bible verse or two." She mutters, eyes narrowing as she takes the upcoming house in. "Well they probably ain't Riders, given there's five of them but they're likely trouble all the same." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s been hours on the road from New York City to here for Fred and Sam. The time have been tense, with bursts of conversation and planning and then anxious silence. They know only some of what awaits them at Bobby’s house. The demon’s purpose and what he’s done with Bobby is still a mystery. At least they now know that May and Jo are alright, despite the unmoveable Impala on the side of the road. <br><br>Acquiring two more allies as well as the sleepy bomb from Fred’s stash that she left in the car from the Crossroads fight is certainly a boon in her opinion. <br><br>Fred is not one of the people who have visited Bobby before. Or South Dakota, even. However, she makes an educated guess that they’re getting close when locusts start to hit against the car and windshield. Behind the wheel, the physicist slows but does not stop the car. She’s not as skilled a driver as Sam is, but she manages to push them through the almost biblical plague intact. “It’s not a Bible verse, but I’m starting to think the most appropriate one is, ‘When Moses was in Egypt’s Land, ‘Let my people go.’’ ‘Course the last part is actually a Bible verse, so that’s really a twofor. Either way, that wasn’t pleasant and doesn’t really much bode well for what else he can do. Last thing we want are boils. Or frogs. I didn’t even like dissecting them in class. Locusts were at the end of the plagues, yeah? After that came darkness?” It’s been a little while since Fred rambled quite like this. It’s either a testament to leaving the Winchester apartment or how close they are to the anticipated showdown. <br><br>Once through the bugs, the slowing of the car turns into a stop. She scans the five figures in the distance. “They’re probably expecting us from the front. Buncha places to hide, for them and us.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The road always brings gifts. <br><br>It’s a distant thought that Sam had experienced when he’d spotted that Impala and had asked Fred to stop the car. <br><br>But hearing the demon had white eyes had cast him into a pensive silence, folded him up in the front passenger’s seat with his hand over his eyes. He conducts his grapple with despair in silence. He’d passed out two more anti-possession necklaces prior to slipping off into this dark inner world. <br><br>But when the first locust hits the windshield he sits up with narrowed eyes. Fred’s observation casts him into Professional Mode, and it’s as if he had never had a doubt in his life. Because now that he can see some of what they’re up against, a plan is starting to present itself. <br><br>“Park there,” he says, tense, pointing to an old open barn off the side of the road. “The property’s up ahead. Park before they can see us.” <br><br>Then the young man half turns around to look at May and Jo. <br><br>The oddity of Sam’s upbringing has had a profound effect on him. Sometimes his youth is obvious: he is uncertain and hopeful all at once. Sometimes, he is twice or even three times as old behind the eyes as he really is. Now he looks ancient, someone who has gone beyond “seen too much”, gone beyond “experienced too much.” He hasn’t stared into the Abyss; he’s sat in the passenger’s seat of a classic car while other men drove straight through it. Or, in this case, a woman, through a cloud of locusts. <br><br>That weight is in his eyes now. They’re flat, hazel reflecting mostly the color green today, emotion pushed far from him. At the least, the matte black the irises (though not the sclera) have been known to display in response to anger lately is missing. <br><b>“White-eyes doesn’t know you three are coming. He only knows for sure that I am.” <br><br>He removes a salt shotgun from beneath his feet. Cocks it. Loads it. “So. I go in obvious. You ladies go in stealth. Attack when the time seems right. I imagine it will want to talk to me before the violence starts. Agent May will know the right moment.” <br><br>It’s Agent May’s eyes he looks into now, because he knows several things. He knows Fred and Jo will hate this plan. He also knows it’s probably their only chance. He knows May will get that. He knows that she’ll get them out of there if she has to. There are senior agents who have never displayed the kind of grim, knowing bleakness that sits in his eyes now. He’s counting on her to make the hard calls and to make these two women her priority if it comes to that. And to lead them to some sort of successful conclusion, if she can. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Being stranded on the side of the highway with all dead electronics and a stalled out Impala and a MISSING DEAN does not a happy May make. She’d been fully prepared to leave Jo with the car and walk to the nearest phone, but that’s about when Sam and Fred pull up. Her first words to the pair are to demand Sam’s cell phone, and then she spends the next several minutes talking with someone in SHIELD as they transfer whatever they need from the Impala’s trunk to Fred’s car and get underway again. <br><br>“Sam, Another senior agent is going to see that the Impala is returned to New York and any damages are repaired. He’s taken care of her for Dean before.” And, Sam might have seen Lola in passing. <br><br>Upon reaching the city with an airport, May directs them toward it, where she meets up with the SHIELD personnel waiting there beside a quinjet. There’s body armor and comms and gear for everyone as well as replacement electronics for May, and despite it being a VERY close fit, Fred’s car is loaded into the jet and they’re underway again with May doing the piloting. <br><br>The atmospheric situation forces them to land several miles away from their target location and drive the rest of the way. The locusts have May muttering something in Cantonese, and then Sam lays out the plan. Her reply is to simply nod and then look at Fred and Jo. Both have seen her at work before, though under completely different situations. This should be interesting. <br><br>May can’t help but wish a sniper had been available to join them. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s fortunate they park away from the house as it enables them the element of surprise--at least to some extent. The figures outside don’t seem to have taken notice. Not yet, anyways. While the heroes plan some distance away, the house-posse lingers watching the front road. The people on the lawn almost look familiar. But it’s hard to really notice from this distance. <br><br>Make no mistake, it’s a trap of their making. <br><br>A few beats pass and when everyone looks away for a second--only to look back moments later--and another figure in a camo-green jacket joins them. Near silence comes over the people while eyes turn up to the sky. <br><br>And in a single second, the swirling sky stills. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>“Sounds more like a musical to me…” Jo’s snark comes out when she’s worried and poor Fred, who’s just met the blonde, gets the full force of it. “... sorry… I’m just … worried.” She falls silent as the car pulls up and just stares at Sams STUPID plan. <br><br>Damn Winchesters and their stupid plans. <br><br>Yet she can’t think of a better one. Not at all. “I ain’t no lady …” it’s the best she can do as she slips from the back of the car and pops the trunk. It’s a veritable treasure trove of weapons they’ve collected there. The Impala was certainly well stocked and combined with what the other other two had … they could go in loaded for bear. <br><br>Pity it’s //not// bear they’re hunting. That would be sooooo much easier. <br><br>Silently, blue eyes flicking to the figures at the house, Jo arms herself. Salt loaded rounds, holy water, silver, iron. Whatever she can carry, she’ll take. As the sixth figure arrives and the sky literally starts opening, she shakes her head. <br><br>“Guess it’s now or never.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam is quite right in thinking Fred will hate his plan - it leaves him going in alone with a creature that can apparently summon swarms of locusts. Demon locusts. “No way.” Fred shakes her head. “I’m not letting you go in there alone. If that thing knows what Dean’s thinking, he knows I wouldn’t let you do this by yourself, I’ll go with you.” It’s not just her being leery of splitting up, it does make logical sense. Her eyes flick toward the SHIELD agent as she says this before they return to Sam. She knows how good May is, having seen her in action during Sam’s rescue, but she is also stubborn on this issue. <br><br>As they start to gather the weapons, Jo’s snark is met with an innocent blink from the brunette. “Actually, yeah, I think it’s a song,” she agrees, a bit guileless. The apology is given a confused nod. “It’s alright, me too.” Worried about Dean, worried about Sam, worried about all of them. <br><br>She makes sure she has some of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt as well as the sleepy-time bomb, passing out other items as needed. The stillness of the sky, when before it was agitated catches Fred’s attention. Much like the other figures, she looks up and then looks back to the yard to see the green jacketed figure now amongst the others. Dean. Or whatever it is that has possessed him. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>He’d nodded about Lola; he’d seen it. An impressive car. But too flashy. Cop magnet. <br><br>“Now or never is a song too,” Sam points out, distracted. Or maybe he’s just going ahead and trying to lighten the mood somewhat. It’s hard to tell. There’s a flash of a tired smile on his face, there and gone again. <br><br>/I ain’t gonna live forever. I just wanna live while I’m alive./ <br><br>Fred makes some sense too. His eyes close for just a moment. But he chose her because he saw an equal, and if she’s ready to step out and partner up and face this with him...well. He has no right to stop her, not when her comment makes tactical sense. He reaches out. Takes her hand. Squeezes once. <br><br>“Together, then,” he says softly. <br><br>They might die together. It might be the last time they are together, because he’s fairly sure what Fred’s destination will be, and he /knows/ what his will be already. <br><br>/But this world is shit. You carve out every last. Damned. Good moment. You. Can./ <br><br>Right now, there’s a little good in the feel of her softer, smaller hand in his broader, more calloused one. <br><br>“Good luck, you two.” This to Jo and Agent May. “And...thanks.” <br><br>And then he takes a deep breath. Steels his spine. Gets out of the car. He’ll wait for Fred. <br><br>And then, hand in hand with her still, if she’ll allow it...he takes what seems to be an endless walk towards the 6 demons he can see, shotgun aimed, for the moment, groundward in his unoccupied hand. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May can only nod as Fred insists on sticking with Sam and he agrees. She’s not in charge of this mission, so she’ll do what’s asked of her and not argue unless she thinks it’s a suicidally stupid idea. And, well, this WHOLE DAY has been suicidally stupid. So, really, it’s all the same anymore. <br><br>Wishing her blades had even a hint of usefulness against demons, she checks the rounds in the pistol in her hands again then looks at Jo. “Let’s go.” She plans to lead the blonde around to flank the demons. At the same time, she’s mentally reviewing other possibilities for getting these demons to leave HER agents the F* alone. <br><br>“How big can a devil’s trap be made?” she asks of the Hunter as they run. She’s now also contemplating the accuracy of, say, those red lasers that Iron Man uses from time to time. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Sam and Fred draw near, the people outside begin to come into focus. The first, with curly red hair, freckles, and a fit figure looks undeniably familiar to Sam. But from years past. If he watches her now-black eyes long enough he might draw some faint memory. When he’d known her, she’d been one of the odd kids in school. While twelve-year-old Sam was new to school, Ellie had been an outcast already. They’d saved her from the Backahasten nine years ago. Evidently she lived well into adulthood. To now be possessed here. Her forehead oozes blood as do her arms and legs. It’s a wonder whether she’s still alive and in her body at all. <br><br>Adjacent to her, the pale mulleted brunette man in the jean vest also has an air of familiarity. His jaw tightens and his eyes level at Sam and Fred in turn. The demon wearing the Roadhouse employee, Ash, stares blandly at the pair. Unlike his female comrade with the black eyes, he has a guise of being human. He’s not. But the guise is there. Ash’s hands are bloodied, bruised, and his shoulder has a strange angle. <br><br>Behind Ash, a pair familiar to Fred lingers. Their eyes follow the woman in particular as she walks by. The faces of her parents staring at her with open amusement eye Fred. She was right--she was expected. Her parents’ lips curve upwards with recognition as their eyes roll to black. Bruising lines her mother’s cheeks and her father’s clothes are soaked in blood.The Deanmon knew that Fred would come along. And it put Fred and her obvious loved ones on the radar. <br><br>And as they walk on, it becomes ever clearer, the Deanmon spent time rooting around through Dean’s thoughts and using each to make a very calculated move. While this demon may not have managed to take May and Jo, he had made other efforts to collect plenty of hostages by dressing his allies in them. Most put up a fight of some kind, but the result had been the same. Those that knew him were lulled into easy complacency while Dean made a trap for them. Swiftly. Easily. <br><br>Finally, adjacent to whoever wears Dean, a small girl. Her light blonde hair, fair almost-invisible eyebrows, and flat-white eyes stare blankly at the pair while her lips press into a thin line. It’s a stand-off. And even children are available to the masses. <br><br>And then there’s Dean. His lips quirk at Sam and Fred’s presence. His hands tuck into his pockets and he stares into Sam’s eyes, trying to make eye contact with the younger Winchester. His lips pull with pride as his teeth flash towards the pair. “Sammy,” the greeting has familiarity that this thing shouldn’t have. But then he has all of Dean’s memories, all of his feelings, and every nuance of the body at his disposal. Dean looks worse for wear. His skin is pale. His eyes, sunken and hollow. And his clothes have blood splatters across them. It’s hard to tell whether the blood is Dean’s or someone else’s but it remains. Dean Winchester is not in good shape--even worse than when Jo and May saw him last. <br><br>Inside the house a loud crash clatters loudly followed by a blood curdling scream. Dean shrugs his shoulders as if to ask //Whatcha gonna do?//. He lifts both of his hands and with a gentle move of his fingers aims to telekinetically throw Fred in one direction and Sam in the other. <br><br>Should anyone try to use electronics, they fail. Utterly and completely. The omens above and the opening in the sky has caused everything to short out. Entirely. There are no cell phone signals, no radio transmissions, and no satellite signals. <br><br>They are in a dead zone. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Thought it was from a musical, to be honest. Y'know the one the Donny Osmond as Joseph..." Jo shrugs at Fred. She might have watched it a time or two and she's deflecting her worry with dumb jokes. <br><br>That, or she simply hasn't eaten enough. That does that too. <br><br>"Be careful." Is all she mutters as the pair head off towards Deanmon and his crew. <br><br>"Soak your blades if you don' think it will negate anything that's been done to them already." The blonde hands over a flask of holy water. It's ... not much, but it's something right. Then they're at a run, skirting round the back of the house whilst Sam and Fred run distraction. <br><br>"How big? If we had the time, we could probably cover the yard and the house." she frowns at the Agent "What are you thinkin' though?" There's a copse of trees not far from the structure, it will obscure their approach, at least for the moment. <br><br>That is, if the demons don't sense their humanity. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Two white-eyed demons. A host of hostages important to them both. <br><br>They are utterly fucked. Even with May and Jo. Especially with May and Jo, who Sam is beginning to think will just be the other hostages taken one way or another today. The state of his brother breaks his heart, ramps up his desperation. <br><br>A shudder runs over him as the white-eyed demon in Dean greets him. His hand tightens on Fred’s hand until it might well hurt. He meets those eyes, then is flung hard into the nearest telephone pole. It bruises him, but that’s not what rips him apart next. <br><br>Because he met those eyes, and even as he staggers up to his feet, his own widen in recognition. Somewhere in his mind, a dam starts to crack. <br><br>“No…” <br><br>At first he doesn’t understand the source of his own mortal terror. But then a name comes to him. The dread he says it with, the sheer, crushing dread, ought to be enough to worry anyone. <br><br>“Alistair.” <br><br>As soon as he says the name the crack becomes a flood. As Alistair no doubt intended when he looked into Sam’s eyes, he breaks Crowley’s weaker memory manipulations easily. It’s like a very talented college basketball player made an incredible three point shot, only to be defeated with ease by an Olympian basketball player on the defense. <br><br>A flash before Sam’s eyes, a /flicker/… <br><br>And… <br><br>Stretched out on the rack, perceiving all as if he were in a body still. Limbs pulled unnaturally long and tight, hooks digging into his flesh, blood slicking them down, unable to move, unable to free himself. <br><br>Flicker. He’s in South Dakota. <br><br>“E--exorcizamus...t-te,” Sam stammers. Is it a serious effort at exorcism? Really? Here? Like this? Or is it a fearful prayer? <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Alistair leans over him, his smile a mockery of something loving as Sammy screams. Something in his hand. The boy has lost track of it. The demon just peeled a layer of skin off of his arm, shoulder to wrist. He holds it up for Sam to see. It’s soulstuff, not skin, Sam understands this, but it feels like skin, looks like skin, is gruesome and bloody like skin. Only if someone had done that to him on Earth, he’d die and escape. Here there is no death. Never death, never an escape. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>The memories are almost too much. His soul twists in agony as if it were all happening here and now. <br><br>“O-omnis,” he whispers, tears flowing down his face, body convulsing. His shotgun hits the dirt. Useless as the words he’s speaking. He grabs his head with both hands, panting, eyes wide, barely seeing anything here anymore because… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He has been here just five days, and he can’t stop weeping, even for a moment. The brand that his tormenter slowly presses into exposed muscle turns tears to howls. Alistair presses hideous lips against his temple, strokes his hair. “You’re my favorite, Sammy.” <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>“Omnis satanica!” It’s almost defiant, until the scream rips out of him, a moment and a flash of pain. The lack of memory had meant that he never felt the damage to his own soul. Now the buffer is gone, and he feels it in live flesh. He falls back to his knees, curling over into a ball, hands pulling fitfully at his hair, screams pouring out of him, twenty days of torment, relived in a few short seconds. <br><br>Just as Alistair intended. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred takes Sam’s hand, looking to Jo and May as they prepare and then separate for this mission. There’s a quick smile to them as thanks before they head straight forward. It may be a stupid idea for her to go in with Sam straight away, she can be quite stealthy from her years scavenging and hiding from demons who wished to capture and behead her. However, she also knows she’s far too close to the situation to hide and wait for a signal. If something happened to Sam, she’d charge in. <br><br>Her hand remains in Sam’s, clutching to him in this moment, knowing how dangerous this is and that they may not make it out alive, but at least in this they’ll face it together. Her bottles and bomb remain tucked in a bag over her shoulder. While she generally feels more comfortable with a crossbow, the second shotgun with its salt shells is cradled in her other arm. <br><br>It’s probably for the best that Fred didn’t stay with May and Jo. As they approach the gathering of individuals, it’s not Sam she would rush forward toward - it’s a pair of very familiar faces. <br><br>“…Mom? Dad?” Fred’s voice breaks as she sees their eyes shift to black. Her attention immediately narrows to the blood on her father’s shirt, the bruises on her mother’s cheeks. Her mind drifts to the young teenager motionless on a yard the night she met Sam. It’s his voice in her head telling her in sympathetic, yet matter of fact voice, ‘Sometimes they use bodies so hard they become walking corpses.’ Is that what she is looking at? <br><br>“No. No!” It’s a denial of both that inner voice and the fact of the matter: her parents might be dead and standing in front of her. Her hand leaves Sam’s as she rushes to them. The shotgun drops at her feet as she reaches out to grasp them on opposite arms, pleading. “Mom, Dad, please.” <br><br>Behind her, as if from a different room, she can hear Sam screaming. <br><br>They shouldn’t have come here. They shouldn’t have done this. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Bigger than we have time to make.” So that idea is discarded promptly. As much as it rankled, May is seeing her potential options dwindling, and quickly. She leads the blonde Hunter through to as close to the others as they can manage without having to leave the cover of the stand of trees they’re in. And again, she wishes they’d asked for a sniper. Or that she’d bothered to spend more time on sniper training. <br><br>With the comms to Fred and Sam suddenly gone quiet, there’s no way to tell that anyone in there is familiar to the Hunters, and when Sam’s screams carry to them, she knows they’re out of time. She’s got one last thing to try, and it’s a long shot. <br><br>Speaking in the ancient and overly formal-sounding Mandarin, she calls for King Wuguan of the Courts of Hell to reclaim the souls that have left Hell before their punishments for their sins were completed. She’s focused specifically on the ones that had been there originally, not Dean or the little girl standing next to him. <br><br>Do exorcisms work when one is out of earshot of the target demons? <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>As May and Jo move around the back of the house, the scent of sulphur becomes increasingly powerful. Its pungent scent of rotten eggs overwhelms as they get closer. Moving to flank the demons out front means passing the windows of the home on the way there thanks to the abandoned cars that surround the junkyard. Bobby had taken care to ensure he would see the goings-on around his house, a necessity as a hunter aiming to stay on in one spot. <br><br>Before they even get to the window, they can smell it: the distinct scent of flames licking wood. But combined with the already sulphuric aroma floating from the area? Fire and brimstone reign here. <br><br>May and Jo can feel the heat of flame as they draw closer to the house. It burns hot and angry as it begins to lick the ceiling inside. And as they pass the window, they see a middle aged woman with dirty blonde hair staring up at the ceiling. While they can’t see what’s on the ceiling, it’s clear that Ellen Harvelle isn’t herself today. <br><br>Her sadistic smile, yellow eyes, and extended hand admire some handiwork out of scope. But within scope. A bevy of unconscious (or dead?) children strewn about the floor. She looks down the hall. “Any movement yet?” she calls. <br><br>“Not yet,” a voice calls back. <br><br>“Then show him a goddamned picture of this. Use your suit’s cellphone,” Ellen scoffs. “Knock on the door and call him out.” <br><br>As far as May’s words are concerned, they don’t seem to have any effect as of yet. But expediency isn’t a feature of all spirits. <br><br>Outside, in the front yard, things aren’t going well. But most of the torture hasn’t been physical as of yet. <br><br>“Hello sweetie,” Fred’s mother’s voice cuts through the little stillness that exists. Alluringly--not at all with an air of maternal warmth--she strides towards Fred. Her long, slender fingers reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind Fred’s ear, an action her mother took many times as a comfort. But the smile is wrong. Her expressions are wrong. Even the tone is wrong. And in an instant, comfort turns tides. <br><br>The demon wearing Fred’s mother reaches out her hand to push Fred back. “We are here for you,” while it might come off as warmth or support, it’s cold and angry. She reaches those slender fingers to grab a mitt-full of Fred’s hair in an effort to drag the girl to her father. <br><br>“Winifred Burkle needs punishment,” Fred’s mother allays to her father. <br><br>Fred’s father’s eyes crease with delight. He looks towards her bag. “You brought us gifts? Oh little girl… we do like presents,” he jeers. He walks around her, assessing her as he does so. “You’ve been very naughty. Your mother just said as much.” And then with the condescending tone of an animal owner reprimanding their pet, he asks, “What did you do?” <br><br>“She wants to hurt us, darling~” Fred’s mother virtually sings. “She wants us to pop and sizzle and burn. She came here with fire in her eyes to smite us, but now? She remembers she’s just a lost little girl.” <br><br>Her father nods curtly. “Of course none of this is real. Sam isn’t real. You made him up, Fred. We’re not really here. None of us. You’re alone. A slave dressed in rags with a heavy collar bound to your neck for eternity. They won’t tell you this, but you don’t die. And you never leave. Not there. Not really. You get to live day after day enslaved to them, their world, and their servitude. To their whirls, wants, and whimsies.” <br><br>A giggle emits from Dean’s lips as Sam begins the words that could put any of them out of commission. “That tickles,” he notes with another quirk of his lips. <br><br>Dean’s face lights with unbridled pleasure. His eyes lid and his lips quirk as if experiencing some other ecstasy at Sam’s pain. A shiver of delight passes over him. But if anyone is paying attention, something, however briefly, changes in the tide. His hand moves towards the inside of his jacket. It’s slow, cautioned, and purposive. It tugs at the inner pocket and draws out a strange looking knife. <br><br>The picture has oddities of its own: Dean basking in revelrie while his hand utilizes the opportunity. With the little girl near, and Alistair’s pleasure continuing, the knife moves to stab the little girl, another white-eyed demon, in the back. Hard. Her body flickers yellow and her occupant twists around to face Alistair. It’s not enough to kill her--not one as powerful as she is, but its effect speaks volumes of what the weapon is. She screams in pain. <br><br>The knife misses her heart, its intended target. <br><br>“I have this handled,” Dean’s voice hisses to the girl. <br><br>“I’ll be fine,” she returns with a smirk. Undoubtedly, whatever that weapon was, hurt. But evidently she doesn’t want to be eliminated from this stand-off. <br><br>The knife rests on the ground in the dust. And for a moment flat-white eyes turn green. They soften. They stare at Sam. And, with a drop of Dean’s chin, they look at the knife. And then back to Sam. In a moment the message is given. One can only hope that in his agony, Sam got it. <br><br>And as quickly as those eyes had softened, they harden again. “So,” Alistair begins. “Tell me, Sammy, do you remember all our fun?” There’s a pause. “I do. I remember the chorus of your screams amongst the others, the way you cried each and every time you awoke the next morning, how you called out for your brother as you hung there.” His eyebrows draw together, “Of course, you also called out for Dad. But we both knew /he’d/ never come.” <br><br>Dean’s body treads to where Sam remains in a ball. “Because he never would. He doesn’t care for you. For either of you.” He lifts a finger. “But. Big brother made a deal to get you out of there.” His expression sours and he looks towards Lilith as he seems to put something together. Between Dean’s memories and the space between them, something is becoming increasingly obvious in their efforts to control Hell. The Faustians are actively undermining their efforts. Alistair sneers. “They stole you from me,” he seethes. <br><br>“You were mine.” There’s a long pause. “And you’re mine again,” his lips edge into a smile. “And this time? There’s nothing big brother can do to stop me. You’re on your own, Sammy.” <br><br>“You. Are. Mine.” <br><br>And then, ominously like a revelation has just come to him, he pats Dean’s chest. <br><br>“And so is he.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>No way to tell that anyone is familiar to the Hunters except for the hitch in Jo's step as she spies Ash through the trees. "... Ash ..." She hisses and glares at the SHIELD agent - heavens knows why, it's not May's fault. <br><br>The look turns to horror as Sam's screams ring out through the area and she squints at the tableau unfolding. "What... is she doing .... " Of course, she doesn't recognise Freds parents but she does recognise Dean, the man who ... well who she's become quite fond of. <br><br>"Keep moving..." What they're going to do, she's no idea but one of her Dads Hunter friend had once said //No plan, no matter how good, survives first contact.// This one, the one of Sam's making, doesn't look like it ever really deployed. <br><br>Despite the heat emanating from the house. Despite the smell of rotten eggs, her steps bring them closer to that window and now the blonde freezes. "Mom..." She breathes, breath hitching in terror. "... they've got Mom ... we have to save her... " <br><br>Can she? Can they? Can they truly save Ellen from the Demon that possesses her. Jo doesn't know, but she's going to try. Probably much to May's dismay. Untrained, undisciplined and potentially, just plain stupid - might be some of the words that the blonde gets labelled with. <br><br>"... and Bobby." That has to be who they're trying to bait out. <br><br>One last glance to the older agent and the blonde takes off at a run, right to the door, throwing it open. "Hey Mom... fancy meeting you here ...." <br><br>//Splash// there's some holy water just for good measure. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There was no one else Alistair could have stolen that would have a worse impact on Fred. Angel, Wesley, even Sam...she would be upset and enraged by their possession. However, she also knows that they live in this world and signed up to be a part of its dangers and accepted those consequences. Her parents? They might know about demons and vampires now, but they live on a farm in Texas. They were away from all this, going about their own normal lives. This could have only happened to them because someone wished to hurt her and that makes this her fault. <br><br>She already knows it is a horrible idea as she runs to them, but she can’t stop herself, wanting to shake them, //make// them okay. Trish tucks her hair behind her ear and for a brief heartbeat of a moment, she hopes. Unfortunately, the voice - while unmistakably her mother’s voice - is wrong. <br><br>The hand easily curls into her long hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling her forward. Fred almost topples and does fall to one knee in front of her father as it happens, wincing at the pain of that yank. “I’m sorry,” she says, heartfelt, through the pain. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you both better. I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t know if they can hear her, but she says it anyway. The words about this being a different world, one that she has made up cause a hitch in her throat, a taunt as to how she dealt with five years in Pylea. How she dealt with the spell that just recently sent her into a spiral. She’s weak, she can’t handle the dangers, she couldn’t protect her parents. <br><br>They ask her what is in her bag, what she’s brought them. It clinks to the ground as she falls, the bottles inside rattling against each other, but don’t break. There is no way she will use any force against her parents, but she has to do something. “H-here…” she says, unzipping the bag just a bit, still looped over one arm. “I’ll show you.” <br><br>A hand reaches in to grab one of the beer bottles filled with holy water and salt. Squeezing her eyes shut, taking a deep breath, she pulls it out to smash against the leg of her mother. There are tears in her eyes as she she swings. Five years in Pylea cemented a survivor’s spirit, one that instinctively knows that to save her parents, she has to stay alive, too. If they’re not already dead. No, she can’t think like that. She can’t. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The screams do stop. Sam gets himself under control, bit by bit. <br><br>First, it's because he can hear, distantly, the demons taunting Fred. A flame of fury ignites in him. He's spent many nights reassuring her he was real, and some bastard black-eye pissants think they're going to undo her? Even now, her heart-felt apologies to them rip at his heart. It's a sentiment he more than understands, really. <br><br>That's the moment where he raises his head, panting softly in fear, pain, and fury all at once. His irises slowly turn. Hazel to light green, light green to dark green, dark green to pitch black. He can still feel the throbbing pain as he watches his brother keep right on fighting, and feels such pride in Winchester the Elder that it helps to snap a new memory into place. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Life is pain, Princess," says the smooth-talking pirate on the flickering television screen. "Anyone who says differently is selling something." <br><br>The TBS logo appears briefly at the bottom of the screen, signalling a switch to commercial. Sometimes nothing good is on TV, but today, at the Motel Picayune on MS Hwy 5, they luck out. Sammy is four years old, and he is in his favorite spot: snuggled up to his brother on the couch, one of the only places he ever feels safe. He's sucking his thumb, and Dean notices and gently draws it out of his mouth. <br><br>"Stop that," says the older boy, but with no heat. And then, thoughtfully, "He's right you know, Sammy. The Dread Pirate. Life is pain." <br><br>Sammy shifts uneasily and says nothing. He kind of knows some of this already. Life had Been Pain just yesterday, when he'd spilled his milk in the diner, broken a glass, and had inspired Dad to smack him and berate him for being careless in front of everyone. It was his fault. He shouldn't have been so clumsy. <br><br>Dean seems to sense his unease, and sets his mouth into a grim line. At 8, Dean always looks so grown-up, so tough. Sammy emulates the expression as best he can. <br><br>"But you know what you can do, Sammy? You can /fight/. Fight for the people who can't fight for themselves, and most of all fight against any son of a bitch who tries to hurt anyone you care about. I'm going to teach you. You'll see." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>He gets the signal. He sees it. Now he has to figure out how to exploit it. Alistair steps right up to him, taunts him, and Sam starts putting his brain to work. Why is it going down like this, specifically? Why draw him all the way out there for hours? Why gather everyone he's ever known, and Fred's parents? Why attack Bobby? What do they want here? Getting Dean's body alone was enough to have Sam ready to give himself up to them, but that's not what they want. Alistair had been angry, in fact, when Sam had seemed meek. Sam gets the impression he'd have been angrier still if he'd tried to bow his head for his brother's life. It tracks with what he remembers, now. Some tormenters grew angry at defiance, threats, but Alistair had never seemed so proud as the day that-- <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" Sam screams, his voice cracking not because it was ready to take on the new tones of manhood, but simply under the strain. Day 14. "I'm going to carve out your KIDNEYS and I'm going to FEED THEM TO YOU, do you understand? You better HOPE I never get out of here, because I am going to KICK YOUR DEMON ASS!" <br><br>"Goood," Alistair coos. "That's good, Sammy." <br><br>And he rewards him with a drink of water, the first his parched throat had seen in two weeks. <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Of course. Alistair wants him to /change/. Soon after that… <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>"All you have to do is take the knife, Sammy. Take the knife, and run it down her foot, and I'll let you off the rack. I'll give you a whole day off for that one little cut. It's so sharp, it'll cut her like nothing. Like running a butter knife through mashed potatoes." <br><br>"No. I won't." <br><br>"Then I guess I'll have to run it down /your/ feet." <br><br>Flicker. <br><br>Sam's throat burns, parched. He can sense he doesn't have nearly enough juice to pull the only trick that gets any of their possessed friends out. He doesn't have enough for Alistair for sure. He needs more. Which was the point. Goad him into saving Dean at the expense of Ellie, Ash, Fred's parents. Save Dean, and possibly Fred from her infected parents, and Bobby...or save nobody at all. A sadistic choice. May and Jo are here, but they're vastly outnumbered. And /something/ awful is happening inside the house, too. <br><br>Sam is not a fan of sadistic choices. <br><br>He is, however, a fan of third options. The knife won't be enough, he knows, because he just saw for himself it wasn't. But he has a theory. Two theories, really. <br><br>One. <br><br>The strength of the demon MUST matter to the potency of the blood. He hadn't entirely been honest with Claire, though it was only cause he hadn't thought about it at the time. The Crossroads demon he'd eaten had been so much more satisfying and had lasted so much longer than the black-eyes he'd first taken. Vengeance demons were also crazy powerful, and that's what he'd been mostly sipping on, but he would rank them about on the scale of a Crossroads...they both had that wish-granting ability and power, and just used it differently. The rush was more the rush of NEEDING something and getting it. Like feeding a caffiene addiction. Or his alcohol addiction. As he'd said. The rush of a black-eyes? Practically non-existent. The rush, and the power. The power of a white-eyes, a literal ruler of Hell? That's going to be immense. So will, dangerously, the rush, but one problem at a time. <br><br>Two. <br><br>That he can inject it, or he can drink it. He'd had some dreams about simply drinking gallon after gallon of demon blood. He'd had dreams of ripping demons open with his /teeth/, during that first hellish week where demon blood had suddenly become nearly all he could think of. Which was...to the good, really, because he has no time whatsoever to set up a neat, clean drip. This again tracked with the set-up; if they'd hoped he wouldn't see through this they couldn't exactly set it up so he could go after each of those people with a needle. <br><br>So. Third option. Dangerous, difficult to pull off, disgusting in the extreme, uncomfortable for both him and Dean because there is no way to do this in a way that isn't. But fitting, too, because this will mean he and Dean took care of this son of a bitch together. And really, there is no universe where Sam Winchester ever wants Dean to be an unwilling victim. Dean has put himself a little bit back in the ring; Sam decides to keep him there. <br><br>He times the test of the theory though. Times it for the moment that Fred decides she's not going to cave. That she's going to fight. The moment she smashes holy water and salt into the demon wearing her beloved mother. He synchs up with them, moves with them, adding Fred to the synchronous fighting flow that he's always shared with Dean. This is appropriate. On a number of levels. <br><br>He stretches out his hand, as if he is going to try his trick of forcing a soul out of the body without the juice-up. But instead, he exercises the barest hint of his power, yanking that knife to his hand with a burst of telekinetic force. <br><br>"Watch those kidneys, Al," Sam hisses, as if they were already succeeding, as if he'd be willing to kill his brother to spare him… <br><br>Only to feint at them...and instead plunge the demon knife into Alistair's calf, right into where Sam thinks he remembered a superficial system called the great saphenous vein would be. He has read up on anatomy, as it happens, precisely /because/ he tries to spare the vessels of the possessed. If he finds his mark he's hit a vein that would bleed like a son of a bitch, and /hurt/ like a son of a bitch, but won't threaten Dean's life. He hopes the shock of the obviously magical weapon, Dean's own desire to take the reins, and the location itself will buy him the time to do what he needs to do. Because the next thing he does is withdraw the knife, launch himself forward, seize Alistair's leg, and clamp his mouth around it. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Pulling the still salt-saturated sash whip, May looks up and curses when Jo darts off toward the house proper. She can’t watch over everyone if they’re running all over the place willy-nilly. She wastes a moment trying to decide if she can help Jo with the farmhouse, then decides, no, the young woman has proven herself pretty well able to handle things. It’s the multiple demons that she’s concerned with. <br><br>This whole day has been beyond screwed up. Moving as quietly as she can she takes a breath, then charges out at the group of demons all together. She doesn’t know any of the people they’re possessing, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to just mow through them. Anything she can do to lock them down and hopefully banish the demons will be good enough. <br><br>Her sash whip snaps out at the closest black-eyed demon (Ash) the moment she’s within range. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside, the dramatic interruption of a the blonde hunter sees holy water steam from Ellen’s back. The demon wearing her, however, is powerful and strong. Ellen twists around to see her daughter’s face, and yellow eyes sparkle at the sight. “You look like her--thought that when I got access to your mother’s thoughts,” yellow-eyes taunts. “Dean is just looking for his mama again and again and again,” she muses with a sadistic turn of her lips. With the fire burning above, lighting multiple bodies as it billows, she lifts a hand--a burst of telekinetic energy to push Jo back, hard. Her head tilts. “I would’ve liked to wait until Alistair could bring his suit here,” the smooth cadence of her mother’s voice mixed with the pure venom of Azazel’s malice chills the air. “But, as they say, time is of the essence.” <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>The shotgun fire of salt loaded bullets distracts enough to have the telekinetic move last just a moment, giving Jo release as Bobby’s house continues to go up in flames. “Let go of Ellen, you son of a bitch,” Bobby’s flat tone cuts into the room. The salt rounds won’t be enough to stop her, but it might serve as a distraction. “Kid, we need to round her off back towards the living room,” he states. Bobby’s house is most definitely full of demon traps. The trick is getting this thing into one of them. <br><br>Outside, Fred finds her fight, and the holy water burns her mother’s skin. The demon wearing her screeches in pain, falling forward as steam rises from her body. Her father reacts in kind, forcing her backwards with a burst of telekinetic energy to throw her against a car. “Winifred, you’ve been a very naughty girl,” he repeats from before. While Trish-demon tries to recover, Roger-demon takes point. <br><br>He paces towards her and allows his head to cant to the side, examining her. “There was a time when you were young that your father gifted you something of comfort. That you wouldn’t be afraid. Somehow you thought a rabbit would calm the storm. A stuffed bunny that your father believed would help you relate better to others.” He taps his temple. “I remember. Or, he does. He almost felt bad about it. Giving you a bunny instead of helping you find a friend. You were always such a sweet child.” He motions towards Trish. “That’s what your mother always said. So sweet. So innocent. So alone. Still alone. Always alone.” <br><br>“Nothing can comfort you here.” His tone flattens, “Not your beloved knight in shining whatever,” his nostrils flare, “not your mother’s touch,” his nose wrinkles and his lips quirk, “and not even that damned bunny. No one can make sense of the chaos.” <br><br>“That place you were at, it’s real. It’s not just in your mind, and you can bet that we will find a way to return you to it. Or,” he smiles faintly, “at least, leave dear old Mom and Dad there.” His black eyes shimmer with unbridled amusement. He’s thrilled. Pleased with his latest consideration. “I bet these bodies aren’t even necessary for our plans.” <br><br>The knife into Dean’s calf cuts true. And, sure enough, Sam finds the vein easily. If, however, he opens his eyes, he can see his brother has been subjected to numerous other cuts down his leg--all in various states of disarray thanks to the lack of nutrition that Alistair has provided him. Healing requires basic blocks of life, and Dean has had none. Yet none of those would’ve granted or <br><br>The sound that emits from Dean’s lips is somewhere between pain and ecstasy. Sam gets an ample dose before Alistair manages to lift a hand to push him back because another will buried inside him continues to exert itself where it can, even in exhaustion, malnutrition, and injury. Of course, it doesn’t take much of Alistair’s blood to make the younger Winchester dosed up. Oddly, none of the other demons rush the situation. None try to draw Sam away. The child in the distance even smiles. Softly. As if she’s experiencing a puppet show or play. Her eyes flit towards the others, and with a small smile, she disappears. <br><br>“I didn’t think you had it in you, Sammy,” Alistair states with a wry smile as he flexes Dean’s leg to continue to let the blood pour out. He is really not kind to this body. “You know, I wonder how much /anyone/,” Crowley for one, “will want my sloppy seconds.” <br><br>The sash draws towards Ash and catches his skin causing it to steam and burn, but doesn’t wrap around the demon before he’s onto the ploy. His hand lifts and it turns back towards May. Vacantly, his head tilts to the side. “Handy trick,” he states evenly while he lifts a hand to . “Bet it helped when you ganked that little girl in Bahrain.” His lips curve into a smile. “Alistair tortures her day after day after day in Hell. If you ever wonder what that’s like, I suggest talking to Sam.” <br><br>He strides forward to close the distance again. His hands lift in want. “She was pretty though, wasn’t she?”<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo grimaces as Ellen back steams. As much as she'd expected it, it was still a shock. "Mom..." is that plea or just simple sorrow? Hard to tell, given the blonde is rocketed backwards. <br><br>//Thump// <br><br>"Nggggnh. He's not, you know, looking for his Mom..." A weak protest indeed. The words have cut through the blonde like a knife. Far more dangerous than any physical torment Ellen-demon could subject her to. <br><br>Eyes wide, there's still fight in the woman even though she's held tight. The first blast from the shotgun causes her to jump - that's not how they're supposed to take her, is it? Oh wait. That's Bobby's voice she's hearing as she slides to ground, hand rising to massage her throat. <br><br>It takes a moment - several very long moments really - for Bobby's words to sink in. "Living room, right. Come and get me you bitch if you want me..." her other hand delves into the pouch on her hip and salt is strewn to one side Ellen-mon. It won't hold her for long but Bobby should be able to ride herd as Jo acts as bait. <br><br>OK. It might not be the best plan - but it's far from the worst she's had today. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Wincing in sympathy pain as she hears her mother shriek, Fred pushes herself upward to standing. Her hand grips the neck of another bottle to toss onto her possessed father, but she never gets a chance to throw it. The telekenetic shove whips her against the car and she gives a short, soft cry of pain. Some of the beer bottles shatter on impact, shards of glass and holy salt water now pooling in the bottom of its fabric. <br><br>Pinned there, Fred is forced to listen to the demon holding her father as he recounts exactly why he gave her Feigenbaum in the first place. It attempts to twist a fond memory into something sad and tainted. Hearing her father’s voice talk to her in a way that is nothing like her father twists a knot in her stomach. Desperately, she shoves against the supernatural hold that keeps her helplessly in place, unable to move and unable to stop listening to the horrible words and threats. <br><br>The threat of Pylea - finding a way to send her or her parents back there - sends a cold stroke of fear down her back. “Don’t,” she says, softly. The thought of her parents on Pylea, scrounging to survive, causes her eyes to glass over with more tears. “Please leave them out of this.” She has to do something, has to stop this. <br><br>Trapped against the junked car, there is little she can do. She can’t toss any of the holy water, can’t do anything. Except talk. She takes a shallow breath - all she is able to do against the horrible pressure - and starts to quietly recite. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It feels amazing. For a moment Sammy is just...lost. The power flows into his mouth, down his throat, into his body. He feels the glory of every swallow. The taste on his tongue. Not bitter, or salty, or coppery. Sweet. He feels like he's floating in a sea of white. It feels surprisingly unthreatening. Exhaustion, gone. Uncertainty gone. Fear, gone. Nothing but the absolute certainty that he is unstoppable. <br><br>Being pushed off is a blessing. To Sam, it feels almost intolerable. But it keeps him from madly draining his brother dry, which he surely would have done if he'd been allowed to feed without reservation or restraint. <br><br>Only a bare trickle of blood runs from the corner of his lips, stained a rich color from the exchange. His eyes shift a little too. Black? Or are they closer to red now? Is his demon half moving subtlely up the hierarchy? It fades back to black a second later, he'd have to do a lot more feeding, a lot more regularly, to unleash /that/ fresh Hell. Probably nobody's looking at that but Alistair himself. <br><br>Alistair says he didn't think he had it in him. <br><br>Sam stands. He's not doing this on his knees. He wipes the trickle on the back of his hand. He watches Alistair as he slurps it up, licking that last little bit away. Nothing wasted. Nothing. There will be consequences for this, but they feel so distant. So. Unimportant. He rolls his tongue over his lips, over his teeth, cleaning the blood away, mostly intent on getting it all inside of him as fast as he can make it happen. But there's still a very disturbing quality to his smile. It's slight. Hard, as Sammy's smiles never are. Holding an edge that hints at something within him that is more than capable of cruelty, if pushed to it. Cruelty in equal measure, as it happens, to his vast empathy. <br><br>"You shouldn't have put yourself back on my radar, Alistair," Sam says, in a low, too-calm voice. "There will be consequences for that. But for now?" <br><br>His hand forms into a sort of claw. He rears it back. Though the other demons are right on his priority list, Fred's parents in particular, he's going to trust May and Fred to keep fighting while he initiates what has been, with every other demon, a battle of wills. Fred might achieve what she needs to with the exorcism anyway. Distantly, he hopes they're in good enough shape to survive the process. Distantly, he wonders what's happening to Jo and Bobby. <br><br>But he can only do one thing at a time. <br><br>He flings his will into his brother's form, shoving with all his might, doing his dead level best to use his stolen power to force his former tormenter straight back to Hell, and to hit him hard enough with that force that he won't have the strength to come seeking a new host for quite some time. <br><br>"Give me back my brother, you sorry son of a bitch." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>If there’s one thing that May has learned only too well in her years at SHIELD, it’s the ability to NOT let it show when something affects her. Thus, Ash’s comments about the little girl and Bahrain appear to fall upon deaf ears as she sidesteps the sash whip coming back at her then whirls around, pulling the weapon back into a whirring spin. She also doesn’t waste time with talking. <br><br>Setting the whip to spin blurringly fast, she flicks it out at Ash-demon again, knowing it’s exactly what he’ll expect and with her other hand pulls the salt-loaded pistol from the Impala’s trunk and shoots at the redneck demon. She’s aiming only to wound and annoy, though, by shooting at his right thigh. Sorry… whoever you are. <br><br>Then she does start to toss out words, again using the ancient Mandarin to call upon one of the Kings of Diyu to pull these souls back to Hell to complete their punishments. <br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, “He’s been looking for his mom since I stole her,” Ellen counters to Jo. Bobby receives a small tilt of her head as she stumbles backwards from the shells. It won’t stop her, and it won’t send her back to hell, but it certainly has some impact, enough to grant a death stare towards the gentleman-hunter. “Decided to leave your solace to have some fun?” her yellow eyes flash with amusement. <br><br>Bobby looks worse for wear. His head has been bandaged many times over. His clothes are blood soaked. His wrists are bound with bandages. He’s been through something vile--that much is clear. But the anger in his eyes doesn’t dissipate. He shoots the gun again, this time towards the demon’s head. “Get. Out,” he says again. <br><br>Ellen’s eyes glimmer as Jo begins to lead her away. She knows what’s up. She also knows the house is going up in flames. Even from the outside the flames can be seen. Time is short. “I took her, you know. I took Sam’s fiance. And it’s only a matter of time until I take you. And make no mistake, Jo, I will get you.” She manages a small smile. “But in the meantime, know that he doesn’t love you. Not really. He doesn’t know how. Even your mother knows that.” There’s a pause. “Unless it’s Sam. Sam will always come first. He sold his soul for Sam--do you think he would ever do that for you? If you think so, you know you’re lying to yourself…” <br><br>“Shut up, you Idjit!” Bobby fires again to herd the demon towards Jo. “Don’t listen to him, Kid. They spew anything and everything to get inside yer ‘ead,” he fires the shotgun again. <br><br>And it seems to be working for the time being, but it’s easier than it should be. It’s possible the demon wants to get caught or its gambit has been fulfilled already. <br><br>Outside, Roger-demon sneers when Fred makes her bid for her parents’ lives. His nostrils flare and his body tenses at the request not to put them in Pylea. There’s little room for any of it. He takes delight in her pleading, and he doesn’t lose that edge of torment as he laughs, “I will see that every day of their life and beyond they are in agony. And the agony will never cease. Not once. Not ever.” <br><br>But the murmuring of the Latin causes his knees to buckle. His black eyes cannot handle the Latin the way the white eyes can. He falls onto his hands. He bats the ground as the words continue to spill from Fred’s lips and he begins to cough as his soul begins to be banished into the pit beyond. <br><br>Trish-demon, meanwhile has begun to recover. She forces herself to a stand and walks to where Roger and Fred are. <br><br>There will be consequences for Alistar returning to Sam’s radar. “I’m counting on it,” Dean replies gruffly. Amusement tugs at each edge of Dean’s face. His eyes crinkle with delight, his lips turn upwards, and the white of his eyes seems downright delighted. But the delight begins to change when Sam reaches out his hand. <br><br>At first, Alistair spreads Dean’s arms, inviting the change. But then the pressure changes. The white-eyed demon fights, demanding even more juice to be expensed and Dean’s body buckles beneath the war, stumbling towards the ground. Sam pulls on Alistair’s soul, forcing him from Dean’s body. And, because he can, he claws at the edges of Dean’s consciousness. <br><br>Dean’s chin lifts towards the sky and his mouth opens as a white thick cloud of smoke floats into the sky. It billows above, disappearing into nothing as it moves. <br><br>Dean collapses when the smoke disappears, causing his body to fall into the fetal position with his stomach falling to the ground. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cough. Emptily, he remains there frozen in place. <br><br>Ash screams in agony when the shell hits his thigh. He collapses to his knees. “You bitch!” he seethes loudly. “She agonizes every day because of what you did! And she will come back to haunt you--I swear that you will suffer tenfold!” <br><br>The demon wearing him keeps black eyes shining as he reaches out to counter her. He sends a burst of telekinetic towards her to thrust her against a rusty looking dumpster. But as he does so, he also begins to be willed from the body he’s occupying. His lips part and thick black smoke begins to billow up to the sky. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's difficult to hear much of what's happening outside - just the muffled noises that indicate not everything is ok in Kansas, Toto. Jo's blue eyes flick uncertainly in that direction but Ellen-mon's words have her focussing again. <br><br>Do they work? Does the demon manage to plant the seed of doubt in the blondes mind? What she has with Dean ... it's fledgling. They'd made no promises to each other, had they? Wasn't he really 'Mister Right Now' rather than 'Mister Right'? Maybe. Time will tell the effect those words truly have. <br><br>"You can have me if you can catch me." Jo's voice trembles as she moves further into the house. It is too easy, baiting the creature like this and she shoots a quick look to Bobby trying to convey that. <br><br>"I've chosen Ellen over Dean, so I guess we're even on that score." she tells her corrupted mothers form. "Blood is, after all, thicker than water." <br><br>It's getting hot in here and a trickle of sweat runs down her forehead but still, she leads the demon on. Ellen-mon. Gotta catch them all. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred, pinned against the car like a butterfly to a board, keeps reciting. She can hear the spiteful words of the demon holding her father promising them pain. It only spurs her to recite faster, to try and literally release that demon. The same fear Sam has is lodged in the back of her head - the teenager face down in a lawn that would never move again. The one Sam wrapped in a tarp and drove elsewhere. Is that the future for her parents? Will she not only be the reason for their possession, but their death? <br><br>The words slow slightly as she thinks about that, a soft sob interjecting itself in her recitation in between lines. Her eyes close as she continues, seeing her father drop to his knees and choke. The approach of her mother is unable to be seen. She simply can’t stand it. She has little of the training or outward fortitude of May. Every word clearly cuts her deeply. Still, though, she speaks through unbearable pressure and the pain. <br><br>Determined, aching and devastated, she finishes the exorcism. Despite the dangers, the fact that she knows there are enemies still around, she cannot bear to open her eyes, to see if she succeeded - and if she did - to see what that means. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Dean!” <br><br>Sam darts forward to gather Dean into his arms. He wants to check for a pulse, he wants to offer some food or water or medical care, but they are still very much in the middle of a crisis here. And Fred is still being menaced. He sees Mr. Burkle’s demon smoke out, but here comes Mrs. Burkle. <br><br>He flings his hand in that direction, jaw firming with determination. After Alistair, this should be nothing. He was unable to force the white-eyed monster back to Hell, he’s still out there. But a black-eyes? <br><br>Should be easy enough. <br><br>He pushes the soul out like it’s nothing, leaving, briefly, a black fiery burn mark on the ground beneath her feet. It takes a moment of concentration, but compared to Alistair it’s as easy as simply thumping a piece of paper away with his thumb and forefinger. Gentler on Mrs. Burkle’s body than the exorcism, though there are still no guarantees. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May get slammed back against a rusty old dumpster, and that finally elicits a reaction from her. She growls at the pain and frustration of being stuck, but then as the demon ghosts out of the young man’s body and the hold on her releases, she takes a breath and then says to the black smoke, “You first.” <br><br>Then, grimacing slightly as she steps away from the dumpster and feels like someone just pulled a rusty knife out of her back, she takes a very quick stock of the goings on and turns to run for the farmhouse. As much as seeing what Sam is doing disturbs her, she can’t exactly argue it now. But she CAN go help Jo with whatever is going on inside the house. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Inside the house, Ellen follows Jo through to the living room. She lifts a hand to telekinetically hit the girl, but the shotgun fire grants her pause. Bobby has few (if any) concerns about damaging his home. It’s already going up in flames anyways. While Jo may be acting as live bait, the yellow-eyed demon seems to take it. The plan may be known, but something seems to inspire Ellen-mon forward. <br><br>And sure enough, the living room is a veritable myriad of demon traps. The ceiling, walls, and floor underneath the carpet all act as demon traps. Yellow eyes is stuck. Ellen, however, just smiles at the others, strangely pleased with herself at this turn of events. “You’re both aware that you’ve won nothing today, aren’t you? All of this went according to plan.” Her yellow eyes track towards Jo. <br><br>Bobby’s expression remains neutral. He’s been dealing with monsters for decades and he won’t let himself be rattled by another. He does, however, look towards Jo. “Send the bitch home, Kid,” intending her to exorcise her own mother. <br><br>When May finds the pair inside the home, Bobby casts her a long look as he levels his shotgun towards her. A glance is given Jo, silently asking about the woman standing in front of him. <br><br>Outside, Fred’s agony gets emphasized as her mother continues what her father had begun. Trish lifts her fingers to slowly, telekinetically, wrench Fred’s skull. She applies pressure, exerting more with every passing instant to literally crush her brain. But it’s all for naught. She’s ripped from the mortal she’s residing in by Sam’s will. In an array of black smoke, she leaves Trish’s body on the ground in a mess of nothing. <br><br>Ellie smirks as Trish is exorcised, and in a second, she’s gone to parts unknown to fight another day. <br><br>Unconscious, both of Fred’s parents lay there with no movement. It’s a wonder if they’re alive. <br><br>Not far away, Dean’s body resembles a corpse. Pallid skin. Cold. Empty. His eyes don’t flicker, his breath doesn’t steady. And in a way, he’s nearly vacant. The light seems comforting. Peaceful. He knows it leads nowhere good, but his mind struggles to return to the present. <br><br>The rocking had been peaceful. The sound of her humming a comfort even before he’d seen her face. But she never stuck to humming. Her voice echoes in his mind. “Hey Jude, refrain, don’t carry the world upon your shoulders~’ <br><br>She didn’t like lullabies. She liked the Beatles. They would rock in the rocking chair of the nursery. Time and time again. “For well you know that it’s a fool~ Who plays it cool~ By making this world a little colder~” <br><br>“You need to wake up, Dean,” she says softly. He can almost feel her fingers on his cheek. The way she’d gently woken him many times when they had somewhere to be. <br><br>In the real world, Dean gasps for breath, inhaling a face full of dirt, causing him to push up slightly to cough the dirt back into the ground before collapsing against it again. He’s alive. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus... " Jo starts to intone as she hits the living room. Bobby didn't need to tell her twice. "omnis satanig--" <br><br>She stutters as the yellowed eye demon taunts them further and draws in a gasping breath. <br><br>"He'll survive. They'll survive..." She mutters to herself. Who's she's talking about isn't clear, perhaps not even to herself. She knows better than to respond to the creature but it's hard, oh so hard. <br><br>"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis satanicus potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii..." <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>Holy water is added to the moment mix of this recipe. <br><br>"omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura," <br><br>//SPLASH// <br><br>"tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, AUDI NOS!" <br><br>The final words of the rite have her voice rising as sweat pours down her face. She's breathing heavily by the time she finishes. Who knew reciting a few words could be so taxing? <br><br>Ellen-mon smokes, or is it steams?, as the water hits her and her body trembles terribly at the words. Those eyes fix Jo with deadly intent as yellow smoke rises from her body. <br><br>"Is it over, Bobby?" she grates out. Not once thinking to question if this truly is the Hunter and not some other meat-suit wearing Demon. <br><br>Um. They should probably take Ellen's body and get the hell out of Dodge. <br><br>"Dean...." <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The pressure against her is felt exponentially. Fred’s eyes remain closed as the pain increases, her head shoved against the junkyard car further and further. There’s only so long it will last before it might burst. She starts to try again, the words gritted through her teeth, through the excruciating pain. “Exorci….zamus….te….” <br><br>Suddenly, though, the pain is gone. Fred drops to the ground in a pile of limbs, gasping at the sudden release of pressure against her body. Her eyes remain closed for a few moments until they open to glance upward. She takes in the scene, blinking at the sudden brightness after squeezing her eyes shut for so long. <br><br>There’s Sam holding Dean and then, there is her parents, lying motionless on the ground. Scrambling, tripping in her hurry to get up, she scurries to them. The bag of mystical weapons are left behind broken and filled with water. It might be a mistake, but she isn’t thinking about that right now. Instead, she needs to get to her parents, to check on them. <br><br>“Mom? Dad?” Terrified, she reaches for them, checking for a pulse, gently assessing them to try and see if they have any wounds that need to be tended. “Please, please, wake up. Please be okay. I’m sorry.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester has never felt so relieved in his life as he feels when Dean wakes up in his arms. He lifts him up a little to try to get him out of the dirt, rolls him over, sees Fred fussing over her parents. Some of the demons exited, stage left. Now he turns his attention to Bobby’s home, gasping, worried. <br><br>He is no healer, but there are still things he can do. He knows this might well use nearly all of what he’s got. He is already going to need a dose much faster than usual. He’s already out of them. New York is far, far away. <br><br>He’ll just have to trust that he’ll pull through, because he can’t let Bobby’s house burn. Father, uncle, whatever one wants to call him, Bobby Singer is family. <br><br>He could never try this if he weren’t high on the rush of demonic blood. But now he lifts his hand and focuses on the fire. Focuses on pulling it first to a single point outside the house, telekinetically trying to draw flames together into one long finger-like torrent, stretching it out and out and out until he can get it away from Bobby’s home. <br><br>It works, to his shock. But he doesn’t revel in it for long. There’s a watery ditch, a culvert he played in as a kid. He slams the fire into it, leaving only a hiss of steam in the distance. It’s probably a Hell of a thing to watch. In more ways than one. <br><br>He keeps his arm tightly around his brother the entire time, pressing his chest to his brother’s back to keep him in spiritual contact with the anti-possession ward tattoo’d deeply into his own skin. He doesn’t have time to grab that final necklace from his pocket right now, and he won’t risk another possession. They won’t get this lucky twice. <br><br>“Fred,” he asks hoarsely, a one-word request for a status report on her parents. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May bursts into the farmhouse and stops abruptly when the older man (though really, he’s probably the same age she is) turns his shotgun on her. “We need to go,” she says to the younger Harvelle after seeing the woman freed of possession. She’s guessing that that’s Jo’s mother, and while keeping a wary eye on Bobby, she moves cautiously closer to check on the now unconscious woman and in doing so passes straight through at least two devil’s traps without realizing they’re there. <br><br>She checks Ellen’s pulse and finds that she’s out for the count, but not on the verge of dying, which is a relief. She starts to heft the unconscious woman into a fireman’s carry when the fire suddenly just … goes away. She is going to have WORDS with Sam after this. But, the house may very well still be structurally compromised so she keeps on with the getting Ellen out. “Let’s move, Jo. Now.” <br><br>Her eyes land on Bobby again for a moment as if to see if he’s going to follow or continue standing there being openly curmudgeonly. But only for a moment. The smoke is now more dangerous than the flames were, so she’s getting out and she’s taking Ellen with her. <br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Looking to the skies reveals that the omens have shifted. The skies have cleared and blue takes over from the swirl of orange, red, and white. It’s relieving. The locusts have cleared--something they will notice when they drive out of here. <br><br>Bobby casts a long look to Jo as May enters the demon traps. His shotguns drop and his own bloodied body nods once at the young blonde when May moves to get Ellen out. In no time, he’s walking out of his home, semi-intact and looking out on the yard. His head shakes once while he assumes silence. His eyes train on the boys and linger on Sam for a long while. <br><br>Fred’s parents remain unresponsive. Assessing her mother yields a strong pulse and breathing. Her body doesn’t look ridden hard--likely because it wasn’t ridden long. Alistair had some last minute additions to his hostage entourage. It’s good to be at the tail end of the possessions. Her father’s pulse, however, is weak. Barely there. His breathing is shallow. Undoubtedly the exorcism had unwanted secondary effects. Both are alive though. <br><br>Dean’s vision can’t come into focus. His body refuses to cooperate as he tries to regain some semblance of muscle control. He wants to stand. He can’t even motivate himself to wriggle out of Sam’s grasp. And so he stays there. His eyes burn, prompting him to close them again. His very breath rakes against his throat, scratching with dryness like sandpaper. Mary’s voice continues to sing over him in this place. He can sense her. Feel her. And it moves him. <br><br>Years of hunting have made Dean hard. He knows to maintain himself. To carry his composure. His life has been threatened many times before. He’s sold his soul. He’s died and come back to life. Seven times. <br><br>Maybe it’s the lack of nourishment, dehydration, or the sheer magnitude of being possessed for days, but something breaks. And, underneath his arm, Sam can feel Dean’s chest heave. <br><br>Dean Winchester is crying. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"A friend..." Jo grates out as May bursts through the door "... sort of..." she ammends. "SHIELD agent." Which should speak volumes for Bobby and warn him. No matter what she's been through, and her face shows the fear, the panic, the terror she feels, Jo won't leave Bobby out to dry. <br><br>Wiping her hand across her forehead, smearing grime and soot as she does, the blonde nods once to May, dips and helps her left Ellen, leaving the house and out into the yard. <br><br>"... Dean ..." Poor May is left with Ellens weight as the Hunter's daugher, now Hunter herself, takes a faltering step forward. Yellow eyes words play in her head like a bad song stuck on repeat. It takes a moment for her to push the doubt down. It's not gone - and the pair will have to deal with that ... later. <br><br>Hopefully much, much, later. <br><br>Standing there, between May and the men, hands clenched, Jo finally surveys the turmoil. "Fred? Ar... " she swallows "Are they ... " she can't finish the statement. She heard the womans' plaintive plea to the downed pair. <br><br>She hasn't looked for Ash yet. There's too much to take in, as her eyes return to the Winchester brothers. No place for her there. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>As her mother is closest to her, Fred checks her pulse first, finding it steady, though the woman has yet to wake up. A slight warmth of relief starts flood its way through until she reaches her father. His breathing is shallow, his pulse weak. The blood in her ears pounds as she quickly tries whatever she can to steady him, to heal him. There’s a look to her mother, still lying there. She feels terrible about leaving her there, but it’s Roger that is in the most dire straits. <br><br>“Dad, Dad, come on. You gotta stay strong, okay?” The question from Sam, from Jo, they’re both only heard as if from far away, barely recognized. All her attention is on her father, lying here. Her hands remain on him as she finally looks up, towards the others. She might not have heard their questions, but she knows Sam is there, that Dean is there. There’s almost surprise as she sees Jo and May, as well as two others she doesn’t know. Ellen may be unconscious, but the previously unseen form of Bobby stands with them and there is a brief wariness that fades to her greater concerns. <br><br>“Help him,” she pleads. “He’s...he’s weak. I think I...I don’t know. We gotta get him out of here. Please.” Panic has clearly set in. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Bobby is staring at him, and Sam looks away, flushing with sudden shame. And that makes him angry, because look. There they are. All alive. <br><br>But not all well. Dean is weak, Fred’s parents are weak, Ash is weak, Ellen is no doubt weak. His mouth sets into a tight line. He hefts Dean up as if he were hefting up a small child. He doesn’t even strain to do it. It doesn’t occur to him that Jo might be feeling uneasy about her place in that right now, or he’d be more considerate, but right now he’s in crisis mode. He fishes out that necklace, puts it firmly around Dean’s neck. <br><br>He sees Dean’s tears but won’t address them. It would mortify his brother. If anything he turns Dean into his body just a little bit, so the man can shed what he needs to shed without anyone seeing. A protective gesture, though not a traditional one. <br><br>“How fast can you get a SHIELD medical team to us, Agent May?” Sam asks. “Or us to a SHIELD medical team? Everyone needs help.” His words, when they come out, are grim, taut, and utterly professional, showing no hint of any emotion at all. His irises remain flat black. No telling if they’re going back. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>With Jo’s help, May gets Ellen out of the farmhouse only to have to take all of her weight when the blonde moves toward the brothers. She’s starting to feel where she took that dumpster to the back, so before she’s at risk of dropping the unconscious woman she moves to set her down somewhere central-ish. Doing so might reveal that she didn’t get out of this unscathed, and it was something bad enough to tear through her jacket. <br><br>“Depends on if,” she pauses and forces herself to not wince as she pulls her cell phone from a pocket. Please work, please work, “my phone is working now.” She starts trying to dial out and looks at Bobby again. “There’s a young man over that way. Sleeveless shirt. Mullet.” She doesn’t know if he’s okay or not, though. <br><br>Glancing over at Sam, she reaches into her jacket again and pulls the water flask that Dean had declined before. It’s at best four ounces of water, but it’s better than nothing and Dean looks like he’ll need any bit of sustenance they can manage. <br><br>Oh thank goodness. “HQ. May. Require immediate medical teams or exfil at my location. Four civilians down, one asset, one agent.” She doesn’t bother to get up from where she’s sitting on the ground next to Ellen. She’s not sure her back will take it. “Have Medical check my file, I’ll likely need another tetanus booster.” <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>When Bobby’s gaze finally peels away from the brothers, it rests on Ellen a few beats and then he moves to find Ash and assess the kid. “What a mess,” he mutters softly to himself. But he’s pleased enough to find the body with a heartbeat and signs of life. His eyes turn up to the sky for a moment, taking in the blue stillness and he exhales a long breath. “And it’s just gonna get worse,” he murmurs to no one in particular. <br><br>But on that note, SHIELD medical arrives. The quinjet is fully prepared to take all for transport. And while at least one patient objects, a lot of sedative eats the objection. In short order everyone is receiving treatment. And when they’re alert, five will wake up in a place they don’t recall going to sleep. <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=2476/Virginia_Blues&diff=15662476/Virginia Blues2017-09-17T02:21:36Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/09<br />
|Location=Virginia<br />
|Synopsis=Things go horribly, horribly wrong in Virginia for Jo Harvelle, Dean Winchester, and Agent Mom... er.. May.<br />
|Cast of Characters=306, 1379,5<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>/Somewhere on Route 66// <br><br>The small Virginia town off the beaten path has been an odd one as of late. Over a month ago, a stranger blazed into the next town over, claimed they had a hellhound infestation, and proceeded to deal with said problem... by tracking a 'coven' to this place. Law enforcement hadn't exactly been okay with the explanation, and, as usual, Dean ended up in prison. <br><br>It's what had kept him from responding to Sam's kidnapping faster. In many ways he'd had extreme guilt over his most recent stint in lock-up. If only because it kept him from helping out Sam. Which is likely why he never told Sam about the arraignment scheduled for today. <br><br>Jo, on the other hand, along with Ellen, had put up his bail. Between the reminders and the recently acquired Impala-passenger, he wasn't going to miss the date. Ironically, any plans to go back to Hell's Kitchen before now had been eaten by the road and its plans for the Harvelle-Winchester duo. <br><br>It's fortunate that time in court went as expected and all charges were dropped on insufficient evidence. It's equally fortunate that the town has one of the best burger joints in the State--at least according to Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives, and is a great place for a break. <br><br>Dean, in his cheap, rather ill-fitting suit, leans back in the chair and smugly smirks as he takes a too-large bite into his too-big burger. "Worth it," he murmurs around the meat, talking around the patty instead of actually focusing on chewing, a habit that Sam said would get him killed. Choking is a hazard. <br><br>Greedily, he peels back the paper and takes an even larger bite. He speaks around the burger in his trap, "...told ... ya... " he was right. There wasn't enough evidence. "You know though..." he finally swallows, "...one thing bothers me about the job..." but of course he doesn't say what, instead he tucks back into the burger. His company is so fortunate that he's so forthcoming.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo, the blue eyed blonde, sitting opposite the Hunter raises a pale eyebrow at the atrocious table manners. "You'd think I'd be used to this by now..." she grumbles as she shakes her head. "I'm not speaking to you, till finish that mouthful. Say it, don't spray it, Dean...."<br><br>Her own burger, in comparison is laid out on a plate in front of her and being eaten in a far more dainty manner. More dainty, but no less heartily, mind you. Taking a bite and wiping the corner of her mouth with a serviette, Jo gives Dean a very dry look as he makes his last observation.<br><br>"I'm sure you'll regale me with the wisdom of your experience in the fullness of time, but I'll bite. What is it that bothers you about the job?" <br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>It did not go unnoticed that Dean was not there to help rescue Sam from Hydra, and May took it upon herself to find out why. Even with SHIELD’s resources at hand, tracking down someone skilled at staying off the grid is not instantaneous. But, finally, they got a hit. A court hearing in Virginia regarding a young man matching Dean’s description and some very unusual circumstances. May has the intel experts lock that file, then goes to speak with Dean herself. <br><br>As Jo is commenting on Dean’s table manners or lack thereof, the simply dressed Asian woman steps into the diner, looking at first glance just like any other traveller stopping in for a bite to eat before getting back on the road. She doesn’t even glance toward where the two Hunters are seated as the waitress leads her to a table nearby. <br><br>Of course, to anyone used to having to keep an eye out, May practically screams ‘Fed’. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A smirk follows Jo's assessment of his table manners. Dean waggles his burger and watches her, "Aw, c'mon. It's fine," he basically raised himself--probably makes sense why his manners are what they are. Then again, he claims to have raised Sam too, and Sam seems fine. Who knows? <br><br>He eyes the room once over and then lowers his voice, "It was too easy." He actually shrugs at that. "A few weeks back we go deal with Stepford, Virginia after I dealt with //this//," the witch problem, "in the same relative vicinity. Yeah, I think something more is going on here. Plus it was almost too easy. I mean," he takes another bite of his burger, and then speaks around the food again, "I'm... good. But I'm not //that// good." He issues her a one shouldered shrug and a pointed look. <br><br>Slowly, he twists around the room and his eyes train on the casually dressed woman before he glances away and shrugs at Jo again with an extremely saccharine smile.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Is Jo a Hunter? She's a Hunters daughter that's for sure - she probably is now though, given who she's thrown her lot in with. <br><br>"I don't like wearing your food, Dean..." she shoots back but can't help but smile a bit. His demeanour ... well, it's not exactly charming, but she does have a soft spot for the man. Heavens knows why.<br><br>"If you call being held up by your throat whilst a demon possessed old woman tries to choke you and I run over the others in your car, simple... sure?" The blonde frowns though and glances at the casually dressed asian woman who walks through the door. She doesn't know this 'Agent Mom' but the frown deepens. "What do you make of her ..." she asks quietly raising her chin. Deans been keeping her on her feet with little tests like this since hit the road.<br><br>"And I know just how //good// you are. Trust me. Your technique could do with some work..." Can't have the Hunter's ego getting too big now, can she?<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Still behaving like just another tourist, May asks for a glass of water before proceeding to try to find anything on the menu that isn’t either deep fried or drowning in fat. She’s not hopeful. She also uses the time to quietly check the building for exits (three: the front door, the kitchen, and the plate glass windows), defensible positions (two: the main counter and behind what sounds like fairly solid cooking surfaces based on the sheer amount of banging and clanging the short order cook is making), and potential threats in the room. <br><br>The last is just one. The blonde woman sitting across from Dean. She’s very likely a hunter just like Winchester, based on her posture, choice of clothing, and the pistol she thinks is adequately concealed on her person. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>"Yeah... should've figured a way to make a demon trap for that one," Dean replies about the woman who held him by his throat. He rubs his chin. "Parading teens through town for some ritual? Doesn't lend itself to a trap." His lips purse at that. "Bobby thinks she'll be fine, by the way. But it's not enough. Something else is up." <br><br>His eyes scan the room slowly, lingering on one corner longer than he ought to--remembering more than actually seeing. He inhales a half-breath at the question, and shrugs once. "Tourist," clearly. "You? Think there's more going on?" <br><br>But despite himself, his eyes turn back to the corner and he clears his throat. "I think these cases are related. But I don't know what's up. Coven here. Cult there. They're not really different. Not //really//."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo probably has a pistol on her. At least. Dean probably hadn't let her out of the car without it. Not that Ellen would have either. Her blue eyes watch the asian 'tourist' and frown at the Hunter as he brushes her off.<br><br>"I don't know, Dean. I think you're testing me. See what I can do. I've seen you do it with Sammy." There's another dry look at the Hunter as the blonde takes a bite from her burger. It's getting a bit cold now, she'll probably have to eat faster.<br><br>As to making a demon trap, the blond snorts derivisely. "Parading teens through town ... Stepforded Teens ... didn't set off any alarms for you, at all?" To be fair, Dean had thought they were dealing with a Coven but Jo's not one to let the moment pass.<br><br>"They're different enough, but they're motives all seem to be the same, right? World domination, incredibly power .... itty bitty living spaces ..." she can't help but add the last. Maybe the Hunter will get the reference.<br><br>Seeing the 'tourist' looking at her, Jo raises pale eyebrows again and salutes the woman with her cup. "Nice place here, ain't it?" she calls out before brushing her hair back from her face and sighing at Dean. <br><br>"Yeah, I think there's something going on. Too much activity. Too much //similar// activity and it's too easy ..." she shakes her head "... can't believe I'm saying that."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“It’s certainly quaint,” is the Asian woman’s reply to Jo’s words. She finally decides that maybe (hopefully) the roast chicken plate will be the least offensive thing on the menu, and requests that from the waitress. Then, as if to further try to sell the tourist cover, she pulls her phone out of one pocket and starts to tinker with it. <br><br>She’s of course not idly checking Facebook. She’s sending a text back to some interested party or other. That, or she’s typing a firmly worded email to someone. Like… Darcy. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean leans forward in his seat. "Yeah, I sound like a real charmer." The constant tester. The ever-on-his toes Hunter aiming to create much the same in those he associates with. His jaw tightens and his chin tucks towards his chest pensively, but as he does so, his eyes hone in on the door and a vehicle outside. <br><br>"You know that car?" he asks slowly. It's possible he's just experiencing deja vu. His lips twist upwards on one side and he slowly shifts in his seat. Jo might remember it from the bowling alley when they'd had some 'good, clean, fun' bowling with demons. Because what else is there to do in small towns? <br><br>His hand reaches slowly into his jacket, finding the grip of his pistol. "Got any rock salt?" He carefully slides off his chair and gives his jacket a tug. "Something isn't right..."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"You should get out of here, lady..." Jo mutters to May and busies herself with her own ketchup bottle. She's nowhere near as practiced as Dean, or Sam ... leading a somewhat more sheltered childhood than the two Winchesters, and it's possible her construct isn't as ... solid.<br><br>"Don't need to hide them..." the blonde looks at Dean as she moves to make the second trap. Her footsteps falter as Mae appears and she moves to near the trap she just "painted". "My mama taught me it was rude to try to strangle people. Leavin' in the middle of the conversation doesn't even stack up to that."<br><br>She's going do something really, really stupid. Like Winchester stupid... she's going to try and bait Mae through her trap. Well she was ... until she finds her hurled across the room, over the trap and against the wall. "Is that the best you've got, you old hag?"<br><br>Winchester stupid, indeed.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>The moment Dean goes on the alert, May does as well. She doesn’t know exactly yet what alerted him, but she knows it’s not her -- he’d have called her out already if he had had the intention of doing so. Unlike the Hunter, though, she doesn’t start carefully preparing for a fight. Instead, she takes a casual sip of water before getting up and approaching the waitress, asking her a seemingly innocent question before leading the woman toward the kitchen. <br><br>She shows the waitress her SHIELD badge as she ushers her through the doors, and they both disappear into the kitchen proper. A moment later, the short order cook’s noisy food preparations abruptly stop and leave the restaurant almost eerily quiet. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A nod follows Jo’s display of rock salt. “Get the window frames,” Dean instructs. Relief tinges his expression when he sees May chatting with the waitress, and hones in on basic strategy to deal with whatever has shown up to see them. He reaches for his own pouch of rock salt and salts the frame of the door. <br><br>He begins to move to the windows opposite Jo, spreading the salt once again along the frame’s base. His eyes train on the car as he does so. It’s empty. He blinks blankly and his head turns askance towards Jo. “We need paint,” it’s in the Impala. “We need a trap. And we gotta get that son of a--” the sound of shattered glass has his eyes narrowing, and his hands reaching for chalk in his pocket. It’s not his writing utensil of choice. <br><br>The sound comes from the bathroom, prompting a loud groan from the back of his throat as he tries to speed up. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo watches as May ushers the waitress out, eyes narrowing at the badge that's displayed. She can't see it fully, but the response is enough. She opens her mouth to say something but snaps it shut again.<br><br>It doesn't take long to salt the windows but she looks at Dean with a frown at the mention of paint. She reaches for the Ketchup bottles and tosses one at the Hunter. "Improvise ..." It's a question as much as instruction.<br><br>The shattering glass has her looking as well "Sounds like we don't have much time ..."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Once May has the waitress, cook, and dishwasher safely ensconced in the manager’s office and the doorway liberally salted, May looks around the kitchen then fills a bowl with hot water and a lot of salt. Her sash whip is added and left to soak while she quickly salts the back exit. The sound of glass shattering has her look toward the dining area. Time’s up. <br><br>Returning to the dining area with the bowl and a large sack of salt in her hands, she looks to the other two. “How long do you need?” She grabs a coffee carafe and adds a handful of salt to it while taking a quick visual stock of the contents of the shelves behind the counter. More salt. Good. That gets put on the counter as well. <br><br>And right about now, May is wishing she’d bothered to study Latin. Or at least insisted that Sam teach her a few key phrases. Though last time she tried speaking something other than an Asian language, Romanoff accused her of sounding like Margaret Cho. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Longer than we have!” Dean states as he unscrews the lid of the ketchup bottle. “The more we can make the better--we’re going to have to get them in the traps and--” the rustling in the bathroom continues as Dean calls over the din “--there’s no time to hide them and no way to do it anyways!” Thanks to the ketchup. He’s not even sure the traps will work. <br><br>He’s drawn demon traps for years. He’s not remotely novice when it comes to drawing demon traps. He learned the pattern when he was seven the first time John Winchester saw fit to leave his kids alone for an extended period of time. His father had virtually burned the shape into his mind. <br><br>“Jo, draw one over there!” he urges. “We’re going to have to push them into one of the traps--” but it’s too late. The door to the ladies room swings open. <br><br>The elderly woman recognizable to both Jo and Dean as Mae, steps out and tilts her head at the group and her lips quirk into a vague smile. “Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to leave a conversation with your elders?” she looks pointedly at Winchester who continues go about his work. “Oh yes. She died, didn’t she? All in service to a greater purpose.” <br><br>More glass shatters in the bathroom. Dean inhales a deep breath and begins another demon trap but anyone paying attention can see that him visibly twitch. He begins to mumble several lines of Latin. This was never his forte--Sam had always been better at the exorcisms. <br><br>Mae reaches out with telekinetic energy and swings her arm across the bunch to force them against the wall. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"You should get out of here, lady..." Jo mutters to May and busies herself with her own ketchup bottle. She's nowhere near as practiced as Dean, or Sam ... leading a somewhat more sheltered childhood than the two Winchesters, and it's possible her construct isn't as ... solid. <br><br>"Don't need to hide them..." the blonde looks at Dean as she moves to make the second trap. Her footsteps falter as Mae appears and she moves to near the trap she just "painted". "My mama taught me it was rude to try to strangle people. Leavin' in the middle of the conversation doesn't even stack up to that." <br><br>She's going do something really, really stupid. Like Winchester stupid... she's going to try and bait Mae through her trap. Well she was ... until she finds her hurled across the room, over the trap and against the wall. "Is that the best you've got, you old hag?" <br><br>Winchester stupid, indeed. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>With a nod to Dean, May simply keeps prepping salt-laden objects and setting them on the counter, so that when the elderly woman steps out from the bathroom, May instantly reaches for the bowl of saltwater. <br><br>She slings the contents of the bowl at the woman -- one hand already on her sash whip that had been in the bowl soaking -- just as they’re all slammed back against walls. That is honestly annoying. But, May is nothing if not prepared. And this was something she researched independently of the Winchesters. They wouldn’t have had the resources or linguistic ability. <br><br>Speaking in an archaic and highly formal version of Mandarin, May invokes a member of the Celestial Bureaucracy known as Zhong Kui to demand that the demon possessing the elderly woman depart or face bureaucratic consequences. It’s … far too simplistic compared to a Roman ritual or even some of the Chinese rituals she read about, but… fingers crossed that her words and the small talisman of Zhong Kui hidden under the neckline of her shirt are enough. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The baiting seems to have its effect. Mae lurches towards Jo, but is interrupted. The bowl of saltwater meets flesh in a boiling effect like that of dry ice. It steams away from her face, searing her flesh and causing her to scream in pain. The sound echoes through the restaurant. <br><br>Dean grunts when he’s flung against the wall. He continues to murmur in Latin, “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” but he struggles to remember the next line. He really needs to study more and silently curses his faulty student status. <br><br>And as the woman shrieks, everyone pressed against the walls gets some reprieve. She bends over at May’s Mandarin--it seems to be working. Behind her another figure steps out of the washroom. This time, instead of drawing more demon traps, Dean fires a shell of salt from his hand gun. The fellow staggers backwards, but the bullet barely makes a dent as his eyes change red and black. He starts his words over again, “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii….” he frowns and his gaze sweeps the room as if trying to find the Latin written on the walls. He really longs for his book... <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo grunts as she's held against the wall but manages to turn her head to glare at Dean "Are you kidding me, you can't remember? Try ... omnis satanica potestas ...." Maybe she's a better student than the Hunter? It's easy when you're safe behind a bar, right? <br><br>When the pressure lessens, she slides to the ground and reaches into the pouch at her side. As the next demon comes at them, a fistful of salt is flung in it's face and she draws the pistol from the back of her jeans. "I'm glad I maintained this piece and not you..." she snarks. She's actually scared, not that anyone would not know it - false bravado for the win. <br><br>Another sigh as Dean falters the words again "omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica" she feeds ... "I swear Dean, when we get out of here I'm going to program you while you sleep..." <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Huh. Seeing the elderly woman react to her words and the telekinetic effects disappear, May doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of the moment of freedom. She charges toward the demons, launching the length of soaked silk fabric at the closer of the two and if it successfully wraps around the second demon, she’ll put in a good rodeo roper effort and try to drag them into the nearest devil’s trap. <br><br>Fingers crossed, the salt soaked into the silk will help. <br><br>Mental note to self: have the biochem group develop ICER rounds specifically designed for demons. <br><br> <br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Black smoke emits from the woman’s mouth as May’s recitation stops. One exorcised, one to go. The second gets pulled into the ketchup demon trap with the sash causing Dean to cringe when ketchup smears but doesn’t break the symbol. He’s visibly relieved when it looks to be holding. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll study Latin in the car or something,” his eyes roll. “You sound like Sam,” which, in this case, is probably a good thing. “Not sure you can motivate me any better than dad or baby bro.” <br><br>“Mental note,” he mutters, “in a pinch, ketchup works.” They can breathe easier now that the demons are either exorcised or caught. When Jo finishes the exorcism, the second draws out in a cloud of dark smoke. Dean inhales a long breath and then looks between May and Jo. “Uh. Jo Harvelle, this is Agent May. May,” his head ticks towards Jo, “Jo Harvelle.” His hand rakes through his hair and he looks towards Jo, “You remember how you didn’t think that badge was real…” and really, why would she? <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Then Sam must sound very smart then ..." Jo snarks back but her blue eyes widen as May charges the remaining demon. "Well ... that's different..." beat " ... and effective." <br><br>Deans smart ass response gets a smirk from the blonde, she's a bit grimy and her hands are covered in ketchup. "I might know how to motivate you to learn Latin better than your Dad or Sammy ..." She coughs when she remembers they're not alone. <br><br>"Of course ketchup works. Soy Sauce isn't so great though. You might want to note that." The pistol is shoved back in the band of her trouser and she turns to regard the "tourist". "This ... is Agent Mom?" May is given a nod and Dean a sideways glance "I didn't say it wasn't real. I asked where you lifted it from ..." <br><br>"Uh ... pleased to meet you?" <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>As soon as the second demon is exorcised, May releases the sash whip from the second person and moves to check to see if either former meatsuit is in need of medical attention. The Hunters are done with their part of the job, this is where May’s experience and training take precedence. <br><br>“Dean, go check on the employees, and have one of them call an ambulance.” The elderly woman has contact burns from the salt water, and might have injured herself when she collapsed. The other person doesn’t appear to have taken as much damage. <br><br>“Likewise, Jo. Now help me clean this up.” Because she does NOT want to have to explain ketchup symbols and salted coffee to the authorities. The Agent Mom comment is being ignored for the moment, because there are more important things to attend to right now.<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“The one and only,” Dean replies gruffly with a smug smile. But as far as the clean-up is concerned, it’s more foreign than he’d admit. This is the part the Winchesters typically bail for. Not having to disappear, and having an iota of legitimacy causes Dean’s eyebrows to lift and his head to tilt to the side. It’s a wonder. <br><br>His weight shifts and he trails to the back to check on the employees. <br><br>When May checks on the meat suits, one is clearly breathing and the other completely toast. Not all demons leave easily or readily. Mae has died, leaving more questions than answers--particularly around what on earth was going on in that town. The fellow though is in obvious shock. He trembles and continues to murmur the same indecipherable phrase, “Forty… dogs… forty… dogs…” <br><br>Whatever he means by it isn’t likely to be known. If he means anything. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"So..." Jo bends to help with the cleanup. She helped Ellen with the bar, this is nothing new. In fact, this might be a bit cleaner than dealing with the detritus of rowdy Hunters kicking back. Surprisingly less blood ... more bits though... <br><br>"... do I call you Agent Mom?" Yeah, the blonde is pushing but she watches as Dean disappears out the back. "What's the bet he tries to shoot through? He's not used to this. Normally he and Sammy are smoke by this time." Which would certainly make things awkward for the Hunters daughter. <br><br> Dean wouldn't do that. Would he? <br><br>With the ketchup scrubbed from the floor and the chairs and tables set to rights, Jo looks over the mumbling man and then frowns at the Agent "Is he sayin' forty dogs?" Where the hell is Dean, he knows this stuff better than she. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Only if you don’t value your trachea.” May frowns faintly at finding that the elderly woman is dead, and actually feels like she’s been dead for a while. Very unpleasant. Nothing to be done, though. The other, though, is given a cursory check for any neck or spinal injuries and once he’s deemed intact enough, she moves to heft him up and into a booth so he’s at least not laying on the floor. <br><br>“He’d better not if he wants to retain his consultant privileges.” And there May proves that the badge Dean used and the cash he had on him was all completely legit. Shocking. She listens to the man’s mumbling for a bit, then nods to Jo. This is where SHIELD’s analysts earn their keep. “I can call this in and see what intel we can glean about it.” And Dean had damned well better return very quickly here. <br><br>“Sir, lie still. The authorities are on their way.” Yeah, probably not the most reassuring person in the world, but there’s no one else here so May says what’s necessary. That task completed, she moves to clear the counter of all of the salt-items she’d been assembling, including that coffee carafe. Because leaving it for someone to find the hard way would just be cruel. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Emergency services arrive moments after May promises that they’re on their way. In short order the second meat suit is gone. It’s good that quiet has returned to the restaurant. Although, strangely, it’s //very// quiet. <br><br>For a staff that was supposed to be resolved in mere moments, the silence may be more puzzling than any noise. <br><br>Also of note: Dean hasn’t come back. But the Impala is still definitely parked out front. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"My trachea, huh?" Those blue eyes land on the Agent again. "So .... Agent May, I suppose? And you really did hire him oh. Huh. Go figure." beat "You don't know him real well, do you? He doesn't respond to authority and ..." she sighs "... he's lived without the perks all this long. I don't know if he knows any other way of being." <br><br>Still. There's little more for Jo to do but watch as the bodies are hauled away. <br><br>It's the silence that gets her causing her to peer out into the parking lot (not Carpark). "Awful quiet in here, ain't it?" she turns back to the Agent "Somethings wrong ..." she starts out the back, the way Dean had gone, drawing her pistol as she does. <br><br>Winchester stupid must be rubbing off. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yes, and that is preferrable.” Wow, Vulcan much? “I’ve worked alongside him a few times before.” Of course, on those occasions everything was such a mess it was better to have the Winchesters just leave while she dealt with everything. She’s trying to break them of that habit, though. <br><br>After dealing with the authorities and making sure the former meatsuits are dealt with, May looks at Jo with an ever-so-faint frown. Dean should have been back by now. Or at the very least the employees should be out of that office and making more noise. <br><br>Jo’s assessment that it’s too quiet only gets a nod of agreement, and May heads out the front door, but not before calling after the blonde, “Let the employees out of the manager’s office while you’re passing by.” If Dean wants to leave and take his Baby with him, he’ll have to explain to her why he just rabbited. Otherwise, May will call to have someone from the local field office pick up the SUV she drove here, and she’s taking the Impala back to the Triskelion herself. <br><br>Maybe he’ll show up to protest if she calls in a quinjet to carry the vintage car off. She was too nice last time asking another senior agent to drive the car. <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Walking to the back gives more the same. Ironically, however, inspection of the door to the Manager’s office demonstrates a break in the salt. The door was opened. It’s closed again. Curious. <br><br>When it’s reopened, there’s no sign of anyone in the room. But there is a circle of sorts along the floor with flickering candles, several dusty books, and an array of cushions. The smell of incense fills the air. The lights have been turned down and a metal pot rests in the centre of the circle. <br><br>It’s possible Dean didn’t break up the entire Coven in July. It’s equally possible they’re not too happy with him.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo just glances at May and shakes her head "An' I though my Ma could be cold ..." Of course, Ellen isn't anything on John Winchester but still, the woman is ... strict. <br><br>Pointing to the salt with the end of her pistol, the blondes lips twist in a grimace. "Maybe Deans been in there ..." she doesn't sound too hopeful about that. Still it doesn't stop her nudging the door open again and peering inside. <br><br>"Well... damn." she breathes, stepping carefully inside. <br><br>"Ritual. Maybe witches. Maybe demons. Hard to tell really... " she mutters to herself, moving around the room to that bowl and peeking over the rim. "Oh, this ain't good. Would you say that was blood?" <br><br>And where the hell is Dean? <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>No sign of Dean out front. And Jo or the restaurant employees haven’t returned either. Actually looking a bit displeased, May turns and heads back in toward the kitchen in time to hear Jo’s assessment of what she found in the office. That elicits a faint but harsh curse in Japanese. Stepping gingerly, she crouches down to examine the contents of the metal pot without touching anything. <br><br>“Yes. Can’t tell if it’s human or not.” She straightens again and looks at Jo seriously. “Do you have other resources nearby?” She pulls her phone and steps back to take a photo of the objects and circle. If Sam isn’t available, hopefully a WAND agent over at the Triskelion will be able to make sense of this. <br><br>Photo taken, she touches one ear with her hand. “Ops, this is May. I need a WAND analyst to study incoming data, top priority. Also, track Dean Winchester’s cell phone. Now.” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The voice on the other end of the earpiece answers crisply and quickly. “Of course, Agent May. Send the data. Do you need us to dispatch someone?” because they can. That isn’t necessary on their end, but it certainly is an option if she should want the extra hands. <br><br>There’s a pause at the mention of Dean Winchester’s cell phone. “Apparently it’s… in Hell’s Kitchen. At his apartment. Or, the one he’s apparently been in for weeks. While we know he hasn’t been there.” A few beats go by. “I’ve been tracking him for the better part of a couple weeks, yeah? I think… I think he picked up a burner phone along the way. Can track that if you like?” <br><br>And even without May giving the affirmative, the agent on the other end goes to work. “Burner phone is two blocks from you. Sending you the address. Can’t pinpoint where it is in the building, but it looks like a community hall…” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"He left his phone in his apartment..." Jo murmurs as she looks into that bowl. "I can't tell either but let's just assume it's an animal, hmmm?" <br><br>Is she ... squeamish? Maybe. <br><br>As May gets the information through her phone, Jo continues to poke around the room, flipping through the books - very carefully. Trying to make head or tail or what might have been happening here. She'll take those books with her, when they go. <br><br>"Anything?" she asks the Agent hopefully. There's a degree of concern there. More than usual for just a friendship. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Sending off the photo, May makes a mental note of information the analyst on the phone provided. “Yes. He’s two blocks away. Let’s go.” <br><br>Without bothering to wait for Jo’s agreement or anything, she heads back out to the Impala and picks the lock to the trunk while waiting for the blonde Hunter to catch up to her. Don’t even bother complaining about the mistreatment of the car, she’ll make it up to Dean later, because right now it’s a matter of keeping him from ending up in a crossroads demon’s hands too early. <br><br>She looks at the contents of the trunk and once Jo’s there asks, “What out of this do we need to get him back?” She’d rather just go in with her own weapons, but there’s no telling if steel and dendrotoxin will be sufficient. And she’ll be damned if she doesn’t go in adequately prepared. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The trunk provides a bevy of Supernatural fighting paraphernalia. Crowbars, guns (mostly loaded with salt rounds), holy water, iron tools, and… oddly several bombs (a sleepy bomb, one EMP bomb, and two magnet bombs--where did those come from?!) can be found in the trunk of the car. <br><br>As May looks through the tools and posits the question to Jo, the analyst gets back to May. “Alright. WAND thinks it’s human. They suspect witches, and it’s some kind of ritual. Evidently it’s blood magic,” May can virtually hear the analyst squint. “It predates word-based magic and actually can be far more powerful. I can’t tell you much more. But they think it’s powerful stuff. We’d need to get an actual sample to give you more info. That said, watch out for wards. Use lots of iron--it represses witches’ magic. Most witches are fallible because they are human. Normal weaponry typically works on them, but it’s important they don’t see you coming. WAND seems to think you’re dealing with borrowers. That means they’re in contract with some demon who’s giving them powers. Be careful.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>By the time Jo catches up with May, she just raises an eyebrow at the trunk being popped. "You'll have to teach me how to do that..." Maybe she's playing coy and knows how to do it. Well, she probably does - given whose daughter she is. <br><br>"All the iron. The salt. The holy water. We don't know what we're really dealing with ...." As she speaks, she starts stuffing her pockets and taking up weapons. Jo's going in loaded for bear ... ahem ... so to speak. <br><br>"Wards too..." she's repeating what the analyst is saying, not that she can hear him. "They'll be hard to see, if we can see that at all, but any strange markings, be wary of it. Let's go ..." She slides into the drivers seat of the car ... If May can pop the trunk, Jo can drive! <br><br>It doesn't take long to reach the community hall and the Impala rumbles to a halt. "Do your people have any schematics? Or do we just in the front or side doors?" <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>As both the analyst over the comms and Jo state basically the same things, May also starts pulling things she deems are useful. Oddly, though, instead of just adding them to what she’s already got on her -- and really, it’s only the soggy sash whip that she’s revealed -- she starts swapping objects out for things she apparently already had on her person. <br><br>An odd-looking sidearm is swapped out for one from the trunk, because these people have messed with one of HER agents. She’s not going to be gentle with them. <br><br>No less than three blades are swapped out for iron equivalents, disappearing into her jacket where the shinier counterparts came from. <br><br>The bombs are left alone, if only because May didn’t have a chance to ask Mercy which ones do what, and she’s not willing to find out right now. <br><br>On the drive over as short as it is, May gets a download to her phone of the building blueprints. Apparently, the analyst on her comm was able to hear Jo. Handy, that. <br><br>“This is the building’s layout, but the signal wasn’t able to pinpoint anymore accurately that somewhere inside.” She looks at the low building consideringly. “How’s your parkour?” <br><br><br />
<br />
----<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The community hall looks altogether unimpressive when they pull up. The cement exterior seems strangely normal alongside the green yard, well kept-garden, and playground to the side. <br><br>One oddity, however, might draw attention. The parking lot is packed. In the middle of the day. This might beg some obvious questions. <br><br>Like whether anyone in this town works. <br><br>The schematics May receives reveal a pretty standard looking community hall. The main floor includes a kitchen space, public washrooms, and a large ceilinged gym. <br><br>The far west corridor, however, includes a staircase down into a basement. The basement itself has little to offer aside from another kitchen, a large open space, and a utility room. <br><br>* * * * * * * * * * * * * <br><br>Green eyes blink slowly as Dean starts coming to. Some forms of magic contain power that can bring people to their knees. The throbbing pain in his head causes his face to scrunch while his mind tries to process where he is. <br><Br>But the processing halts as a very familiar smell enters his nose. His face turns to a scowl. <br><br>Sulphur. <br><br>He shakes his head, trying to will away the dullness of his mind, and instinctively, he aims to lift his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. But his hand doesn’t move. His chin drops. He’s restrained to a surface. His lips purse and his head turns as his eyes slowly come into focus. <br>,br>The room is dark. Cold. And he can hear something dripping close by. His eyebrows lift. That’s not a sound he’s come to appreciate as a Hunter. Dripping faucets have become a trigger over the years. Mostly because a lot of other things drip, and while hunting, Dean has encountered them all. He swallows hard and squints through the dark… to see a wall adjacent to him. But it’s not the wall that’s of interest. The symbol painted on it in blood causes his lips to turn downwards. He doesn’t know it, but he commits it to memory. <br><br>Having identified one wall, his head turns to view the other side of the room. The tool tray next to the table causes him to frown. “That’s… not good…” he mutters to himself and struggles against the restraints. It’s possible they left him one weapon by accident--he always had plenty hidden away. <br><br>But his voice draws the attention of someone on the other side of the room. The figure stalks forward, shuffling against cement. When he turns around he doesn’t look remotely menacing. Instead, he’s unshaven, unkempt, and skinny like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. “You’re awake,” he actually smiles. His voice has the tone of a predator. <br><br>Dean manages a saccharine smile, “Nah. I’m still asleep. No demon coward would knock out a would-be victim and then take them //here//. Nope. That’s changeling bullshit. But,” his nose wrinkles as he inhales the sulphuric scent again, “all evidence says you’re wearing that poor schmuck. Suspect you’re not nearly as pretty under the facade.” <br><br>The man’s brown eyes flicker, rolling to the back of his head, exposing a very different set of flat-white eyes beneath them. <br><br>“...Yeah,” Dean says again, “...you’re one ugly motherfucker.” <br><br>“Oh,” the demon replies, “this is going to be fun. Shall we get started?” <br><br>“...Sure,” Dean replies. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus … omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio…” He really needs to study his Latin. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Looks like we're about to interrupt a Bar Mitzvah." Jo shakes her head as she looks at all the cars. "Parkour? Not sure. I excelled at B & E though... Think we should check the main hall out and then the basement. Everyone knows that any self respecting demon or witch keeps their prisoners underground." <br><br>She's snarking - not at May - but she is. She's worried and it's starting to show, even though she's trying to keep her cool and remain detached. <br><br>The blonde slides from the car and, after conferring with May, heads to the side of the building. It's going to take a bit to get in ... something about using the playground equipment to balance enough to reach the roof and then break in through a service door. All without making too much noise. <br><br>As they descend from the roof into the building, Jo stops and listens "Where is everyone? I would expect it to be noisier than this, given all the cars out the front." The main hall is just up ahead on the left. That door leading to the basement, is a few feet past that. Part of the blonde hopes that there's no one there … <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Getting in would have been easier if Jo didn’t clomp about like a kid wearing their first ever pair of boots, but May works with it. She probably makes climbing the playground and going from there to the roof seem almost too easy. <br><br>Once they’re inside the building, May goes into full stealth mode. Because, really, she does not want to have fight through the ENTIRE town’s worth of people. Going with Jo’s assessment, she’s aiming for the basement door. But. There’s the door to the main hall that they have to get past. <br><br>Is the door open? How tall is the ceiling in this hall way? May has an idea, and she’s not sure Jo would be capable of keeping up. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Sure enough, a wedge doorstop props the door to the main hall. But the building itself lacks noise. Its nearly clandestine quiet presents an odd quandry. But the smell of incense and burning wax fill the room. The rumble of voices chanting slowly cuts through the silence, gaining momentum like a storm. <br><br>First only one or two voices. Then more. The noise of the chant thrums across the open space, vibrating as it reaches destinations. It’s possible the pair may be able to sneak by. It’s equally possible that won’t happen. <br><br>Glowing runes appear along the expanse of the cement floor. The runes move in circular patterns about the room, and begin to glow brilliant blue upon the walls. In the pair’s periphery, a figure seems to appear. <br><br>The blonde little girl with brilliant blue eyes and pale skin opens her mouth and releases a blood-curdling scream. She runs towards the pair, aiming to inflict injury upon either or both as she wills it. Should she get close, her chilling grasp with its ghostly touch will leave anyone in want of warmth, comfort, or hope. <br><br>Children should never be ghosts. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo doesn't clomp. Well. Not much, anyway. She's just not a lithe asian woman who's clearly had some 'other' training. <br><br>The chanting gets a soft sigh from the blonde and she glances at May. Then there's the cute little girl - well, she would be cute, if she doesn't ... you know ... dead and screaming the scream of a banshee. <br><br>Thank goodness it's not a banshee. They're much harder to be rid of. <br><br>Muscle memory kicks in and the blonde pulls a handful of salt from her pouch, flinging in the poor childs face. Her other hand closes around the flask of holy water - the contents of which are splashed liberally in the same direction. <br><br>"Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino per caelum, caelum antiquos glori Patri" The words are rushed and the cadence might be off, but surely ... that should do that trick… <br><br>Problem is, the ones in the hall likely know they're here now. With an apologetic shrug to Agent Mom, the blonde makes a dash for the door at the end. If they can get through it and shut it, they should be ok, shouldn't they?<br />
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<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May stops just short of the propped-open door when the chanting starts and looks at Jo… and then at the ghost child. Well, shit. As Jo is flinging salt, holy water, and words at the ghost, May kicks the wedge out of the doorway and slams the door closed. If it’s lockable, she’ll lock it as well, but she’s not banking on it. “Go, go.” <br><br>Pulling one of the blades she’s sure is iron, she pushes Jo to head for that basement door, putting herself in the path of the ghost child if she’s still there after all of the countermeasures. <br><br>Is it wrong that she’s seriously considering calling in an air strike on this building as soon as they’re clear? <br><br> <br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The salt is enough. The ghost dissipates in a film in the air like a puff of smoke. But the damage has already happened. The witches calling their incantations wake from their othered state and are on the move thanks to the girl’s alert. <br><br>//BANG// <br><br>The slam of the door gives the pair a head start. But there’s no question that a lot of people are on their tails--or very soon will be. <br><br>The door is lockable, but it’s not a particularly effective mechanism. Regardless, the action buys extra time, granting them the ability to descend down the stairs into the black, dark abyss. <br><br>The stairs leading down to the basement have the musty dusty smell of concrete. With each descending step, the air cools further in their lungs, and a strange chill comes over the space. <br><br>Drip. Drip. Drip. <br><br>The sound echoes through the space. The constant dripping of something begs questions if the room has a piping problem. The concrete walls of the basement, lined in strange red symbols (likely wards), are almost dizzying. But the smell of decay and dying in this space wafts through. <br><br>And sulphur. <br><brSo much sulphur. <br><br>The scent of rotting eggs consumes every facets of the space. And, if anything, the smell strengthens as they move through the space. But there’s no signs of life over here. <br><br>The schematics of the building, however, did suggest that the kitchen lays North and a utility room beyond it. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"Come on, Agent Mom... uh May..." Jo urges the SHIELD agent to follow her through the door, throwing it shut and leaning against it for a moment. It's dark here and gets darker as the stair descend which means the blonde needs a moment for her eyes to adjust - and to find the flashlight that should be in one of the pouches on her belt. <br><br>The thin, pale, beam of light cuts the darkness as they head down those stairs and Jo wrinkles her nose at the smell. Damp ... well, not earth, but its close .... and the sweet, sickly scent of decay and death; and now rotten eggs. "Well, it //smells/ like we're in the right place at least ..." she observes quietly, though her voice bounces off the walls and sounds deafening. <br><br>"We can't go back the way came in. Let's hope there's a way out ahead ... " her voice is lower this time, as they make the Kitchen door. "Shall we then? Straight through to the room on the other side? Watch out for traps - and if you see any ketchup, maybe grab it?" <br><br>Is she joking? <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May closes the door behind them and just for good measure jams a blade into the doorframe, hopefully making getting through after them more challenging for everyone outside. That also gives her eyes a little time to adjust to the near-total darkness in the basement area. <br><br>As they walk, she mentally registers the smells -- some familiar, some recognizable but out of context like the sulfur -- and then she frowns faintly at Jo when he voice echoes loudly. This kid needs SERIOUS stealth training. It’s a wonder she’s not already been eaten by something. <br><br>She has been watching for traps already, it’s kind of habit by this point. “Straight through.” And no, she is NOT going to stop to collect any ketchup along the way. Salt, yes, but not ketchup. Though she’s pretty sure there won’t be any salt around here. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The dripping gets louder as they near the kitchen. <br><br>When they open the door, blood--which has already formed a pool along the kitchen floor--spills further into the hallway. Small black bags (which on inspection are filled with herbs, ridiculously old looking bones, and objects) line the kitchen counter. <br><br>Large circular symbols created in blood that look like runes line the walls and glow yellow when they step into the space. <br><br>The summon happens quickly. <br><br>First the room seems empty, but the moment the pair blink, it’s filled with hollowed-out looking teens. Their eyes glaze over and angrily they aim to take their vengeance out on the living that never bothered find them in their darkest hour. <br><br>The echoes of the room though yield something else beyond it. <br><br>* * * * * * * * * * * * * <br><br>The scream starts out quietly and then emits louder until the demon presses a hand to Dean’s mouth effectively stifling it. Blood oozes from each of the open wounds WInchester has already incurred. <br><br>When the moment ends and the demon drops his hand, Dean spits blood back in his face. Yet the demon merely smiles in response. Dean’s gaze flattens. Any warmth behind his eyes has disappeared. <br><br>“So, you’re what? Some witch-bitch doing their bidding?” only a Winchester would try to interrogate a monster while under such circumstances. <br><br>“Oh,” the fellow’s eyes widen, “no, not exactly.” His smile takes on a feline edge. “You made them very angry, Dean Winchester.” The smile grows. Yes, he knows Dean’s name. Much of hell knows Dean’s name. “The sacrifice needed to summon me? Extreme. But the rewards for hurting an enemy?” he clucks his tongue and his delight reflects in his eyes. “But for me? This is a pleasure. And I look forward to doing it again. And again. And again.” He pats the side of Dean’s bloodied face. <br><br>“Again?” he manages to have bravado even while strapped to a table. “Last I checked humans only die once,” Dean replies gruffly. <br><br>The demon laughs. “What do you think hell is, Dean?” He pauses and watches Dean. “You know, you’d make a pretty suit for awhile…” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>It's a good thing that Jo took the supply of salt from the Impala, as well as the supply of Holy Water. She doesn't stop and moves quickly through the room to the door on the other side, pausing then to take a deep breath and step right on through. <br><br>"Oh crap..." The symbol glows yellow and she's faced with a roomful of teens. "What's wrong. Did Mommy send y'all to bed without any supper?" It's an indication of how scared she is, the snarking. She might borrowing some of Deans bravado. "Why don't y'all go listen to some emo music and let a girl through?" <br><br>"No? Well then ... let me assault you." It's a bad pun, she knows that it is as she flings another handful salt in their direction. Can she throw fast enough to get through the throng relatively unharmed and to the other side? There's only one thing on her mind. //Save Dean.// <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May would frown at Jo’s snark, but she’s more concerned by the passageway suddenly filled with what look like extras from a zombie movie. Studying the various individuals, she pulls a pair of what she hopes are cold iron blades at the same time that Jo is flinging salt. And then she launches herself at the undead teens, determined to fight them back to give Jo an opening to get through to Dean. <br><br>“Go, Harvelle. Now!” She’s not pulling her punches with these things, either. So Jo just might catch a glimpse of her particular fighting style. Hint: markedly different from Winchester fisticuffs. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The teen ghosts--a sacrifice made in another place as service to this one--aren’t receptive to the puns. But the salt? That definitely carries some advantage. The salt pushes them back. When it touches them, it effectively banishes them, albeit, temporarily, from the area. The salt round weapons could be particularly effective on these ghouls. <br><br>That said, May’s salt soaked sash-whip burns them out of existence (again, temporarily, but certainly long enough to get through). The children scream when the salt hits them, agonizing against the salt that drives them backwards. <br><br>Joint efforts make it easy enough for Jo to get through to the door. And when it opens, the room reeks of sulfur. A scrawny mans lays in a heap on the floor and Dean strapped to a table in the utility room’s centre. He’s bloodied, bruised, and unresponsive to the sound of someone entering the room. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>“It’s Jo…” Jo mutters at May, a frown of worry for Dean creasing her brow. With the ghouls and ghosts disappearing, she can see a way through. It won’t be easy and if one of those ghosts should rematerialise on top of her, things could get particularly hairy. <br><br>It’s the smell that hits her first, the smell of rotting eggs and hot springs. She gags, her arm rising to cover her nose as she looks first to the body and then to Dean. One step, then two, towards the Hunter strapped on the table but the blonde hesitates and draws in a deep breath. “Focus Jo. This might be a trap … “ Her blue eyes drop to the body on the floor and she draws the pistol from the back of her pants, sprinkling salt and splashing holy water over the poor downed creature. <br><br>She’s not taking any chances. <br><br>Keeping the body in view, the blonde skirts around - watching for symbols and markings that might indicate wards or traps - until she reaches the table that Deans strapped on. “Dean …” she taps at his face whilst checking to see what might ail him and how to release his restraints. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Making sure that there’s an opening for Jo to get through, May ignores the quip from the blonde about her name -- there is no way he was going to yell out a rhyme in the middle of a tense situation. That would be beyond distracting. She just remains focused on dissipating the ghosts as they reappear, giving Jo time to get Dean up and moving so they can get out of here. <br><br>If any of the spirits do manage to touch her, her only visible reaction is to attack all the more viciously for a moment. But even she can’t keep this up indefinitely. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The downed creature seems to be legitimately down. The sound of his name causes Dean’s face to scrunch and his eyes to slowly flutter open. “Jesus,” he murmurs as he groans. “We… should get out of here…” he turns down to look at the mess of a human on the floor. He groans again, “In a real pinch I can remember Latin.” There’s a pause and he casts Jo a long look. “You’re a sight for sore eyes…” he murmurs again while slowly sliding off the table and rubbing at one of the open wounds on his cheek. <br><br>“You any good with a needle and thread?” because he’s going to need stitches. He manages a very tired, not all present smile, “Would hate to stop looking so damned pretty?” he almost laughs. It’s a hollow sound. He’s easily guided out of the room. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo could kiss him and smack him - all at the same time but she doesn’t, just keeps frowning. “At least you’re with us. Is it really you?” There’s some more salt and holy water that gets sprinkled over the Hunter - some might get in that wound. But Jo’s heard the stories and doesn’t want to become a statistic. <br><br>As long as the Hunter doesn’t scream or smoke, errr smoke starts coming off his body that is, she slips a shoulder under his arm “Of course I am. A sight for a sore eyes. And it’s a good thing that I //can// remember Latin, isn’t it?’ <br><br>“Got him Agent Mo… May.” she calls out, frowning towards that exit once more. “I can’t see a back door here and we’re too low for there to be windows…” Which means they have to go back out the way they came. <br><br>Through the teen ghosts and the witches at the door. That’s if they’re still at the door and not got through it. Because that’s a possibility - a really bad one at that. <br><br>“Come on. Let’s go…” she mutters, dragging the Hunter with her and handing him her pistol “I can stitch you up good enough and scars never hurt no-one. I might like it, on my man.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May dissipates one of the teen ghosts yet again as Jo and Dean emerge from the other room. “Get to the door, be ready to move when I say. You’re going to have to keep these ghosts off of our back.” <br><br>While still snapping her sash whip out at ghosts with one hand, May pulls … one of Dean’s pistols out of her jacket. Damnit, that’s right. She left her ICER in the car. This is going to be particularly messy, especially since she’d not planned to need WAND backup. And this will be the LAST time she tracks either Winchester down without preparing for the worst. This pistol will have to do. <br><br>“Now.” And May promptly steps past them to lead the way back toward and up the stairs to the basement door several steps ahead of the pair. It might seem like she’s not waiting for them to keep up. And in a way, she isn’t. This is practically Bahrain all over again for her, and she will mow through everyone in this community hall to get the Hunters out. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean visibly winces when the salt and water hit him. “Hey! Don’t you know how much that stings?!” his voice comes as a hiss. He shudders in an effort to will away the memory of this place as well as the burn of the salt. He shudders again. Evidently he’s more of a baby than he lets on. He manages to accept the shoulder and groans again. <br><br>The notion of liking it on her man wins Jo a crooked hitch of Dean’s lips like he aims to say something but he leaves it for the time being. They need to plow through an obstacle course of ghosts, ghouls, and witches. Never a dull moment in the life of a hunter. “Just… make the stitches small.” <br><br>Ironically, Dean’s pistol filled with salt rounds is strangely effective against these creatures. He had filled it before they’d ventured through. <br><br>The ghosts aren’t deterred by the group’s ability to move through them. Each of the tools at their disposal are effective, but the barrage of ghouls continues to be on them as they move through the community centre. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>“Better it sting you as a man and a human than somethin’ else.” Jo shoots back, grunting under Deans weight. She might be strong, but he’s not light…. Yes, yes, it’s all muscle - not all the burgers he consumes. Still… “Maybe you should lay off the burgers a bit…” <br><br>“Don’t tell me how to stitch you up - you’ll get what you get.” Her blue eyes are focussed on the room ahead and she simply nods to May as the Agent growls at her. <br><br>She starts intoning the words of a chant that she thinks will work. She hopes will work, at least between her salt, Deans salt rounds and Mays salt soaked sash, they might get out here relatively unharmed. <br><br>“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.” A ghoulish looking teen comes at her, nails extended like it wants to rake her face, gets a handful of salt in its face. Jo’s not sure if the visage is //because// it’s a ghost or whether the hapless teen looked like that in life. <br><br>Another ghost materialises beside them, more salt is flung “Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te...cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare…” beat “I swear Dean, I’m gonna make you remember these words if it’s the last thing I do…” <br><br>Slowly, painful step by painful step, the pair hopefully with May following make their way to the door. “Get the damn door, Dean.” <br><br>She’s bossy, isn’t she? <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>By the time the others catch up to her, May simply shoves the pistol at Jo and pulls a double-bladed knife-like setup from behind her back Crocodile Dundee style -- and this clearly eminently functional blade would make even that fictional character agree that it’s a knife. <br><br>“Be ready.” Then May yanks the knife free that had been keeping the door wedged closed and steps back, expecting the door to be shoved open by the people on the other side. And indeed, the moment that door slams open, May is charging up and through, using her blades -- the matched pair together in one hand, the door-wedge knife in the other -- to very Kill Bill like effect. <br><br>If Dean manages to get a look at May’s expression, she’s completely shut down to the point that even her eyes are flatly emotionless. She might as well be mowing through a bunch of mannequins for all of her reaction to the havoc she’s wreaking. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The clearing of the nasties goes really well with the pair’s efforts. Dean, however, seems far too out of it to really help. His eyes even look nearly distant when they find the door. He coughs. Lightly. “Tickle in my throat,” he rasps as he reaches for the door. <br><br>His eyes linger on May longer than they ought, and it’s only when he looks away that he seems to recognize he’s being awkward. <br><br>He props it open and leans against it as he fishes for his keys in his jacket. “I’m driving,” despite barely standing up. Evidently some things never change. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>“Dean.” Jo actually snaps at the Hunter “Get with the game… What would your father say about this?” That’s a really low blow and she’ll apologise for it later but she’s worried and they have to get out there. <br><br>Is Dean really alright? She’s no idea what was done to him - the salt and the holy water is only a partial test. Maybe she’s going to need Bobby to help with this. She doubts Agent Mom, despite her fighting prowess, is really equipped to deal with the nastier things they have to. She might be surprised though. <br><br>With the door propped open, the blonde turns to cover Mays retreat and snags the keys from the Hunters hand. “Not today, you’re not…” She’ll knock him out if she has to once they get to the car. Right now, he doesn’t seem like he could fight his way out of a wet paper bag. <br><br>“Let’s go…” She tugs the Hunter out the door and into the corridor. Where the hell have the witches gone? The corridor is long enough and they still have to get past the hall but she doesn’t stop, tugging Dean along with her. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May again leads the way, her shark-like gaze watching for attacks from all quarters. They reach the door to the main hall and she pauses there to look at the Hunters. There is NO way that Dean is going to manage the roof the way she and Jo did. Front door it is. <br><br>“Both of you, when I say go, go. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.” She pulls a burner cell phone from a pocket and tucks it into Jo’s jacket pocket. “Call speed dial one when you’re clear, he’ll direct you to the nearest SHIELD facility with medical staff, and I’ll meet you there.” She pauses for a moment longer, dropping the small blade and separating the two larger blades into a matched pair of something that would fit into a kung fu movie. Then, after a VERY brief glance through the doorway, she turns and charges through. <br><br>“GO!”<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The snap of his name causes Dean to arch a wry eyebrow at Jo in return. And the mention of his father actually steeles his expression. There’s no trace of anything remotely weakened in it. Daddy’s blonde little warrior carries on, it seems. Which, for the moment, likely has the desired effect. <br><br>The mention of SHIELD medical has him lifting both his eyebrows, but he’s not exactly in any shape to argue. Not really. He inhales a long breath in preparation for needing to move. His eyes trail back to where Jo has taken his keys and his expression flattens further. There’s an implied //don’t mess with Baby// in there, but he never gives it words. Instead, when told to run like a bat out of hell, he does. Well, he does as best he can, which, strangely, is better than maybe even he expected. <br><br>The opening of the door also yields an array of witches bent on their revenge. The magic itself, borrowed from some other power still thriving in this space, grants them extra abilities--those seen among meta-humans more than cultists or witches. The barrage of magics that the group faces reflect the mystical. <br><br>Tongues of fire lick their way through the hall. But even with the magic present, the physical attack still presents a challenge. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Yeeeeah. Jo’s going to give Dean up to SHIELD medical. The ‘feds’. Of course she is. Not. She nods to May though and lets the Agent thinks she will. Besides, they’ve got bigger … witches … to fry than that. <br><br>“Don’t worry about your car, I’ve driven it recently remember…” When she ran over the cultists back in Stepford, Nowhere. <br><br>As Dean bolts, so does she, levelling the pistol she holds and fires. Right at the first witch target she can find - the largest part of them, making it harder to miss. The salt for the moment is forgotten. She needs both hands for that weapon. <br><br>As one redheaded bi---, ahem witch, lunges for the blonde, Jo ducks and kicks a leg out. If May thought Deans technique was bad, Jo’s is attrocious. There’s no finesse, just pure bar-fight brawl but it’s effective. <br><br>//Crunch// <br><br>That’s a knee that her foot connects with. The redhead goes down as Jo’s fist comes up. Nighty night to that one at least. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo’s technique is indeed crude but effective. May is going about twenty steps further, her polished steel blades clearly not just show pieces. She doesn’t hesitate to slash throats, chop off fingers, and in one woman’s case as she tries to target Dean, a perfectly parallel pair of slices across the abdomen that let the woman’s inside abruptly become outsides. <br><br>Unlike the other two, she does not try to head for the exit, instead meeting the evildoers in the hall straight on. It’s now well and truly like a Kill Bill movie all up in here. <br><br>While she’s fighting like a dervish, though, May is keeping alert for any one of this group that seems more leader-like than the rest, and she’ll target him or her specifically. <br><br>These stupid yokels wanted blood? They’re getting blood. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>But strangely there doesn’t seem to be a leader. There doesn’t seem to be one person leading the rest. Any coven worth their mettle tends to have one, but this one, sadly, seems without. <br><br>Of course, this also hasn’t been the only weird thing in Virginia. It’s possible there are more. And, if Dean ever bothers to write a report, it’s likely that they’ll ping the radar. Regardless, the blood bath continues and Kill Bill style seems to be the only way the ladies stay down--a fact that landed Dean in the clinker in the first place. <br><br>But the decimation isn’t unnecessary. Perhaps the small comfort of witches is the mortals involved chose to exercise their actions. <br><br>“We should just nuke this place and be done with it,” Dean states quietly with a frown. “What is up with Virginia?” he mutters to no one as they make it to the exit. He rubs absently at the gash on his face and casts Jo a long look. “You can drive,” like he has a say in the matter, “and you can patch me up.” There’s a pause. “Roadhouse and then Hell’s Kitchen?” He swallows hard. “...I need to see my brother.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo doesn’t watch May, she’s to involved in getting them free. “Light the damn building up…” she grunts as they exit. “Make sure they don’t rise again.” She might agree about blowing Virginia up, she’s seen enough and she’s only just started. <br><br>“So nice of you to give me your permission…” she says dryly to Dean, finally turning to watch May emerge from the building. “Get in the car, we’ll get somewhere safe and then I’ll patch you up. Agent Mom said something about SHIELD Medical.” <br><br>Her blue eyes rest on the Hunter. He’s going to have to make the call otherwise she’s heading back to the Roadhouse and then to Hell’s Kitchen. She doesn’t trust ‘feds’. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May does emerge from the building a few moments later and just as she reaches the Impala multiple windows in the building burst outwards and gout flames. Still holding her kinda gorey blades in one hand, she gets into the car while being mindful to not smear too much blood around. <br><br>The shark-like flatness to her eyes has faded and now she looks tired, though still as emotionless as ever… unless you count the tenseness to her posture as an indication of emotion. <br><br>She didn’t hear Jo’s mistrust of Medical, or she would have things to say about that. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean scrubs his face, rubbing at the open wound along it with just a hint of masochism. It’s unlikely he’ll talk about it. And even less that anyone will ever get the full story of whatever happened in the basement. But even then, his eyes have flattened and their usual good humour seems to have drained from them. <br><br>He inhales a long breath. And as May gets into the backseat of the Impala, he actually nods. And then, in a way everyone has likely come to expect, adds, “Don’t get blood on the upholstery. I mean, I know how to get it out,” but why. With that, he nods again. <br><br>He casts a long look towards Jo. “Hell’s Kitchen first. I gotta see Sam before these motherfuckers drag me to hell.” It’s been way too long. “I’m not going to bleed out in the car, but I need to get there,” his voice doesn’t waffle on the point. “Besides, I don’t think he cut very deep. Bastard seemed to know what he was doing.” <br><br>A glance is given to the backseat. “And then the Roadhouse. Or SHIELD medical.” Evidently he’s not particular. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo stares at the wound and at Dean. He can expect words from the blonde later, when they’re alone. “You alright, Agent Mo… May?” The engine roars to life and she floors it. The Impala peels out of there. <br><br>“Then you go to SHIELD medical. I want to see how true all this is…” She still doesn’t quite believe it’s real, still. <br><br>“What happened?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Fine.” Even more terse than usual, May sets her swords onto the floorboards of the Impala very gingerly after they’re off and away and reaches into a pocket of her jacket and pulls a small plastic bag. She removes the scentless equivalent of a baby wipe from the bag and starts working on cleaning her hands and face. It’s an old coping mechanism, and one she hasn’t had to employ in a long time. <br><br>Even though she says nothing else as they drive, she’s wondering just as much as Jo is what happened to Dean in that room. Clearly, nothing good, but she won’t be able to help him deal with it if she doesn’t know the particulars. ...not that she’s going to press him for the intel either. She knows how much she’d detest if someone tried to pressure her to talk about something bad. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The question actually causes Dean’s posture to change. His hands drop from his face and wrap tightly around his chest. His eyes harden. Everything about him hardens. And while Jo has known Dean for a long stretch, and has seen him shut down many times, this isn’t his usual strategy. He normally goes for humour. Or pie. Today it’s just plain as day stonewalling. <br><br>His mind works to process what happened and finally he issues Jo a long look. “Nothing worth talking about.” There. That seems like enough. But something in him must know it’s not, and so he offers other insight, “The bastard said I made someone mad. That’s all. That the bitches,” because that’s what he’ll call this Coven, “summoned him because they really hate me.” But whatever happened doesn’t get a great deal of detail. Perhaps for their benefit. Perhaps for Dean’s. It’s difficult to tell.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo casts Dean a worried look and raises her eyes to the mirror, trying to catch Mays. Something’s wrong, very wrong and she knows it. But now isn’t the time to do anything about it. <br><br>“First aid kit under the passengers seat if you need it, Agent May…” she says instead. Another look to Dean and then her eyes are back on the road and her foot presses down on the accelerator. First stop Hell’s Kitchen, probably to find Sammy, then onto to SHIELD medical. <br><br>Hoo boy. What a ride.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>The offer of a first aid kit gets only a nod of a reply from May, and as she cleans off her face and hands, it looks like she managed to get out of there with nothing much worse than a few minor scratches and bruises. She is sorely tempted to pull the pen-injector of pain killer from her jacket and stab Dean with it, but she knows he would NOT react well for multiple reasons. However… <br><br>Pulling the first aid kit, she looks for -- and finds, unsurprisingly -- a small bottle of superglue. Poor man’s liquid bandage. She pulls that and another antiseptic wipe from her personal collection. “Dean, I can fix that cut on your face without stitches. It’ll hurt. Do you want me to try?” <br><br>If he says yes, she directs Jo to avoid any sudden bumps or swerves then uses the wipe and glue to clean and then close the cut on the young man’s face. And she’ll forgive any cussing that ensues. She knows from extensive personal experience that this crap burns something awful. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The offer has Dean rubbing his cheek again as if somehow the gash will magically disappear through sheer will. His green eyes narrow with some unspoken thought, and then after a moment, he nods. “Please,” it’s an easy response. His lips pull up grimly into something likely akin to a grimace, already prepared for whatever pain will come his way. <br><br>The touch of the antiseptic to his face causes a sharp inhalation of air and a quiet, “Son of a bitch.” But the pain is nearly revelled. At least a little. His eyes clamp shut and he exhales a long slow breath to control any further reactions to May’s machinations. “No scars,” he repeats some version of his earlier thoughts on the matter. “I’ve got to keep this face pretty,” and then with a nearly maniacal laugh in his voice he quips, “Never know how long I’ll need it.” <br><br>The near-smile--grim rather than merry doesn’t fade, gritting through the process.<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo just keeps driving. Deans answer to her question was unsatisfactory but she'll take him to task for it when they're private. But "Who was he?" That gave Dean that information, she means. "Agent May, did you notice a leader? I didn't and that's strange." <br><br>How long is this drive to Hells Kitchen going to take, anyway? <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Not anyone clearly in charge, no.” Once that cut on Dean’s face is dealt with, May settles back but only long enough to shake a couple of pills out of the first aid kit and pull a slim metal flask from her jacket. She leans forward again to offer both to Dean. <br><br>If the Hunter ignores her offer of the mild painkillers, she’ll nudge him until he accepts them. “But I’ll get WAND started researching this. That entire town is a liability we can’t afford to leave unaddressed.” Especially considering the way they were clearly playing with forces that are exceedingly dangerous. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“I don’t know,” Dean answers Jo. “Some demon they summoned.” The mention of no one being in charge earns a lift of Dean’s eyebrows. He twists around and looks at the flask and the pills. After a couple moments he merely shakes his head. “I’ll be fine,” he mutters before sinking back into his seat to stare out the window. And then, with all the good humour he can muster, he adds, “Looks worse than it is, I think.” <br><br>As far as getting WAND to deal with the town, Dean frowns. “Well they’ll to deal with more. I’ve been around the counties in the area and all have infestations. Problems. I only ended up here because those bitches summoned a hellhound to a county over. No idea how they did that.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"He didn't gloat on who he was?" Jo frowns and uses the mirror to watch May tend Dean. "Looks like there won't be any scarring. More's the pity." the snark is there, never far from the surface. She's still worried, nothing adds up. <br><br>"What wand and how's it going to help?" Clearly she's misunderstood something here but Dean's follow up has her nodding "He's right. Feels like something's brewing... Just don't know what." beat "Why do you need to see Sam?" <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo’s snark isn’t really appreciated by May, and the questions even less. Especially the last. But, it’s not her place to deflect, so she’s going to leave that one for Dean to figure out. She’ll answer the first question. <br><br>“WAND is SHIELD’s Wizardry, Alchemy, and Necromancy Division.” So, yeah, Jo pegged her correctly as a Fed. “Created to deal with the increasing numbers of unexplained and unexplainable things out there.” Anything more than that is need to know only. <br><br>Guessing that this is likely going to be a long drive, May pulls a cellphone out of her jacket. “If you want, Dean, I can call Sam and have him meet us at Medical.” She doesn’t mention that the younger WInchester might already be at SHIELD HQ, in some training class or other. Does the elder sibling know that Sam signed to be WAND full time instead of just a consultant? She suspects not. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s becoming ever clearer that things aren’t going according to plan. The change comes subtly at first. The flash of light in the car that emits from Dean’s hand follows with a sharp spark of electricity. When the light relieves, the Impala has lost all system control and every electronic device in the vehicle fails, including homing devices and cellphones of any kind. The steering stiffens and the car essentially shorts out, causing all of the systems to flash angrily. <br><br>While Jo gets to manage the vehicle and its newfound quirks that Dean himself will curse if he should ever get his body back, the front passenger seat sees something entirely different. Flat-white eyes have replaced Dean’s usually green ones as his mouth grimly flattens into a line. <br><br>While the vehicle pulls across the highway, the Deanmon vanishes. Destination unknown.<br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=2476/Virginia_Blues&diff=15652476/Virginia Blues2017-09-17T01:39:20Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/09/09 |Location=Virginia |Synopsis=Things go horribly, horribly wrong in Virginia for Jo Harvelle, Dean Winchester, and Agent Mom... er.. May...."</p>
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<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/09/09<br />
|Location=Virginia<br />
|Synopsis=Things go horribly, horribly wrong in Virginia for Jo Harvelle, Dean Winchester, and Agent Mom... er.. May.<br />
|Cast of Characters=306, 1379,5<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>/Somewhere on Route 66// <br><br>The small Virginia town off the beaten path has been an odd one as of late. Over a month ago, a stranger blazed into the next town over, claimed they had a hellhound infestation, and proceeded to deal with said problem... by tracking a 'coven' to this place. Law enforcement hadn't exactly been okay with the explanation, and, as usual, Dean ended up in prison. <br><br>It's what had kept him from responding to Sam's kidnapping faster. In many ways he'd had extreme guilt over his most recent stint in lock-up. If only because it kept him from helping out Sam. Which is likely why he never told Sam about the arraignment scheduled for today. <br><br>Jo, on the other hand, along with Ellen, had put up his bail. Between the reminders and the recently acquired Impala-passenger, he wasn't going to miss the date. Ironically, any plans to go back to Hell's Kitchen before now had been eaten by the road and its plans for the Harvelle-Winchester duo. <br><br>It's fortunate that time in court went as expected and all charges were dropped on insufficient evidence. It's equally fortunate that the town has one of the best burger joints in the State--at least according to Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives, and is a great place for a break. <br><br>Dean, in his cheap, rather ill-fitting suit, leans back in the chair and smugly smirks as he takes a too-large bite into his too-big burger. "Worth it," he murmurs around the meat, talking around the patty instead of actually focusing on chewing, a habit that Sam said would get him killed. Choking is a hazard. <br><br>Greedily, he peels back the paper and takes an even larger bite. He speaks around the burger in his trap, "...told ... ya... " he was right. There wasn't enough evidence. "You know though..." he finally swallows, "...one thing bothers me about the job..." but of course he doesn't say what, instead he tucks back into the burger. His company is so fortunate that he's so forthcoming.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo, the blue eyed blonde, sitting opposite the Hunter raises a pale eyebrow at the atrocious table manners. "You'd think I'd be used to this by now..." she grumbles as she shakes her head. "I'm not speaking to you, till finish that mouthful. Say it, don't spray it, Dean...."<br><br>Her own burger, in comparison is laid out on a plate in front of her and being eaten in a far more dainty manner. More dainty, but no less heartily, mind you. Taking a bite and wiping the corner of her mouth with a serviette, Jo gives Dean a very dry look as he makes his last observation.<br><br>"I'm sure you'll regale me with the wisdom of your experience in the fullness of time, but I'll bite. What is it that bothers you about the job?" <br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>It did not go unnoticed that Dean was not there to help rescue Sam from Hydra, and May took it upon herself to find out why. Even with SHIELD’s resources at hand, tracking down someone skilled at staying off the grid is not instantaneous. But, finally, they got a hit. A court hearing in Virginia regarding a young man matching Dean’s description and some very unusual circumstances. May has the intel experts lock that file, then goes to speak with Dean herself. <br><br>As Jo is commenting on Dean’s table manners or lack thereof, the simply dressed Asian woman steps into the diner, looking at first glance just like any other traveller stopping in for a bite to eat before getting back on the road. She doesn’t even glance toward where the two Hunters are seated as the waitress leads her to a table nearby. <br><br>Of course, to anyone used to having to keep an eye out, May practically screams ‘Fed’. <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A smirk follows Jo's assessment of his table manners. Dean waggles his burger and watches her, "Aw, c'mon. It's fine," he basically raised himself--probably makes sense why his manners are what they are. Then again, he claims to have raised Sam too, and Sam seems fine. Who knows? <br><br>He eyes the room once over and then lowers his voice, "It was too easy." He actually shrugs at that. "A few weeks back we go deal with Stepford, Virginia after I dealt with //this//," the witch problem, "in the same relative vicinity. Yeah, I think something more is going on here. Plus it was almost too easy. I mean," he takes another bite of his burger, and then speaks around the food again, "I'm... good. But I'm not //that// good." He issues her a one shouldered shrug and a pointed look. <br><br>Slowly, he twists around the room and his eyes train on the casually dressed woman before he glances away and shrugs at Jo again with an extremely saccharine smile.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Is Jo a Hunter? She's a Hunters daughter that's for sure - she probably is now though, given who she's thrown her lot in with. <br><br>"I don't like wearing your food, Dean..." she shoots back but can't help but smile a bit. His demeanour ... well, it's not exactly charming, but she does have a soft spot for the man. Heavens knows why.<br><br>"If you call being held up by your throat whilst a demon possessed old woman tries to choke you and I run over the others in your car, simple... sure?" The blonde frowns though and glances at the casually dressed asian woman who walks through the door. She doesn't know this 'Agent Mom' but the frown deepens. "What do you make of her ..." she asks quietly raising her chin. Deans been keeping her on her feet with little tests like this since hit the road.<br><br>"And I know just how //good// you are. Trust me. Your technique could do with some work..." Can't have the Hunter's ego getting too big now, can she?<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Still behaving like just another tourist, May asks for a glass of water before proceeding to try to find anything on the menu that isn’t either deep fried or drowning in fat. She’s not hopeful. She also uses the time to quietly check the building for exits (three: the front door, the kitchen, and the plate glass windows), defensible positions (two: the main counter and behind what sounds like fairly solid cooking surfaces based on the sheer amount of banging and clanging the short order cook is making), and potential threats in the room. <br><br>The last is just one. The blonde woman sitting across from Dean. She’s very likely a hunter just like Winchester, based on her posture, choice of clothing, and the pistol she thinks is adequately concealed on her person. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>"Yeah... should've figured a way to make a demon trap for that one," Dean replies about the woman who held him by his throat. He rubs his chin. "Parading teens through town for some ritual? Doesn't lend itself to a trap." His lips purse at that. "Bobby thinks she'll be fine, by the way. But it's not enough. Something else is up." <br><br>His eyes scan the room slowly, lingering on one corner longer than he ought to--remembering more than actually seeing. He inhales a half-breath at the question, and shrugs once. "Tourist," clearly. "You? Think there's more going on?" <br><br>But despite himself, his eyes turn back to the corner and he clears his throat. "I think these cases are related. But I don't know what's up. Coven here. Cult there. They're not really different. Not //really//."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo probably has a pistol on her. At least. Dean probably hadn't let her out of the car without it. Not that Ellen would have either. Her blue eyes watch the asian 'tourist' and frown at the Hunter as he brushes her off.<br><br>"I don't know, Dean. I think you're testing me. See what I can do. I've seen you do it with Sammy." There's another dry look at the Hunter as the blonde takes a bite from her burger. It's getting a bit cold now, she'll probably have to eat faster.<br><br>As to making a demon trap, the blond snorts derivisely. "Parading teens through town ... Stepforded Teens ... didn't set off any alarms for you, at all?" To be fair, Dean had thought they were dealing with a Coven but Jo's not one to let the moment pass.<br><br>"They're different enough, but they're motives all seem to be the same, right? World domination, incredibly power .... itty bitty living spaces ..." she can't help but add the last. Maybe the Hunter will get the reference.<br><br>Seeing the 'tourist' looking at her, Jo raises pale eyebrows again and salutes the woman with her cup. "Nice place here, ain't it?" she calls out before brushing her hair back from her face and sighing at Dean. <br><br>"Yeah, I think there's something going on. Too much activity. Too much //similar// activity and it's too easy ..." she shakes her head "... can't believe I'm saying that."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“It’s certainly quaint,” is the Asian woman’s reply to Jo’s words. She finally decides that maybe (hopefully) the roast chicken plate will be the least offensive thing on the menu, and requests that from the waitress. Then, as if to further try to sell the tourist cover, she pulls her phone out of one pocket and starts to tinker with it. <br><br>She’s of course not idly checking Facebook. She’s sending a text back to some interested party or other. That, or she’s typing a firmly worded email to someone. Like… Darcy. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean leans forward in his seat. "Yeah, I sound like a real charmer." The constant tester. The ever-on-his toes Hunter aiming to create much the same in those he associates with. His jaw tightens and his chin tucks towards his chest pensively, but as he does so, his eyes hone in on the door and a vehicle outside. <br><br>"You know that car?" he asks slowly. It's possible he's just experiencing deja vu. His lips twist upwards on one side and he slowly shifts in his seat. Jo might remember it from the bowling alley when they'd had some 'good, clean, fun' bowling with demons. Because what else is there to do in small towns? <br><br>His hand reaches slowly into his jacket, finding the grip of his pistol. "Got any rock salt?" He carefully slides off his chair and gives his jacket a tug. "Something isn't right..."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>"You should get out of here, lady..." Jo mutters to May and busies herself with her own ketchup bottle. She's nowhere near as practiced as Dean, or Sam ... leading a somewhat more sheltered childhood than the two Winchesters, and it's possible her construct isn't as ... solid.<br><br>"Don't need to hide them..." the blonde looks at Dean as she moves to make the second trap. Her footsteps falter as Mae appears and she moves to near the trap she just "painted". "My mama taught me it was rude to try to strangle people. Leavin' in the middle of the conversation doesn't even stack up to that."<br><br>She's going do something really, really stupid. Like Winchester stupid... she's going to try and bait Mae through her trap. Well she was ... until she finds her hurled across the room, over the trap and against the wall. "Is that the best you've got, you old hag?"<br><br>Winchester stupid, indeed.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>The moment Dean goes on the alert, May does as well. She doesn’t know exactly yet what alerted him, but she knows it’s not her -- he’d have called her out already if he had had the intention of doing so. Unlike the Hunter, though, she doesn’t start carefully preparing for a fight. Instead, she takes a casual sip of water before getting up and approaching the waitress, asking her a seemingly innocent question before leading the woman toward the kitchen. <br><br>She shows the waitress her SHIELD badge as she ushers her through the doors, and they both disappear into the kitchen proper. A moment later, the short order cook’s noisy food preparations abruptly stop and leave the restaurant almost eerily quiet. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A nod follows Jo’s display of rock salt. “Get the window frames,” Dean instructs. Relief tinges his expression when he sees May chatting with the waitress, and hones in on basic strategy to deal with whatever has shown up to see them. He reaches for his own pouch of rock salt and salts the frame of the door. <br><br>He begins to move to the windows opposite Jo, spreading the salt once again along the frame’s base. His eyes train on the car as he does so. It’s empty. He blinks blankly and his head turns askance towards Jo. “We need paint,” it’s in the Impala. “We need a trap. And we gotta get that son of a--” the sound of shattered glass has his eyes narrowing, and his hands reaching for chalk in his pocket. It’s not his writing utensil of choice. <br><br>The sound comes from the bathroom, prompting a loud groan from the back of his throat as he tries to speed up. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1379|Jo Harvelle (1379)}} has posed:'''<br>Jo watches as May ushers the waitress out, eyes narrowing at the badge that's displayed. She can't see it fully, but the response is enough. She opens her mouth to say something but snaps it shut again.<br><br>It doesn't take long to salt the windows but she looks at Dean with a frown at the mention of paint. She reaches for the Ketchup bottles and tosses one at the Hunter. "Improvise ..." It's a question as much as instruction.<br><br>The shattering glass has her looking as well "Sounds like we don't have much time ..."<br> <br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=2188/Pie_Guy&diff=14332188/Pie Guy2017-08-27T12:17:23Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/08/26 |Location=The Roadhouse |Synopsis=A guy can make pie appear from nowhere... what kind of witchcraft is this? |Cast of Characters=306, 12..."</p>
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<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/08/26<br />
|Location=The Roadhouse<br />
|Synopsis=A guy can make pie appear from nowhere... what kind of witchcraft is this?<br />
|Cast of Characters=306, 1281<br />
|Tinyplot=Blood on My Name<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It'd been a long lonely trip to the Roadhouse. Dean had fallen into Jo's arms and Ellen's (albeit temporary) ire. His bruised face--made that way by his father rather than any hunt gone awry had elicited questions, but he hadn't answered them. He's unusually raw for this place. When he comes here, he usually wears airs. But he hadn't even found the heart to tell them. Any of them. <br><br>The weight of his choices hasn't been lost on him. Slowly, he reaches for the double neat whiskey in front of him and brings it to his lips, nursing the liquor as a means to nurse his equally bruised ego. <br><br>The booth he sits at near the back doesn't exactly scream that he wants company, yet with a lot of the bar filled up tonight, it's likely he's going to get it anyways.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1281|Fredrik (1281)}} has posed:'''<br>"Hey, hey now! You know the saying! 'Flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo'. Loosely translated? If I cannot move heaven, I will move hell!" The young looking man chuckles and waves a hand at the group he was talking to, moving himself to a table near the back, plopping himself down in a chair. If the Latin didn't set him apart in the bar, his suit probably will. It's nice and neat, the shoes a shiny black with barely a scuff upon them. <br><br>The besuited young man takes a long sip of beer from the bottle in his hand and lets out a sigh. It was a long, and rather uneventful, day at his office. He had a total of three patients, and a lot of research for his next paper. <br><br>Glancing about, he nods to Dean, sitting in a nearby booth, lifting his beer in a sort of salute. "Evenin', boss." Is his simple greeting.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The sound of Latin causes Dean's attention to move away from his amber fluid to... the besuited young man. His eyes narrow and his lips part to say something before his gaze quickly turns to the bar, asking an unspoken question to the woman behind it. But he doesn't get any answers, nonverbal or otherwise, and mutters quietly to himself, "You've got to be kidding me." <br><br>There's nothing further from his experience than a fellow in a suit speaking Latina bout moving heaven and hell. His head shakes slightly and he lifts his glass into the air to cheers nobody before downing his whiskey in a long gulp. The burn causes his eyes to close which is why when the fellow addresses him that his eyebrows draw together in either pain or surprise. <br><br>His green eyes narrow and his head cants to the side to inspect the man with clear scrutiny. "...hey." He frowns slightly. "You from around here then?" because people don't typically just venture to the Roadhouse.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1281|Fredrik (1281)}} has posed:'''<br>"Not too far from here." Fredrik shrugs, swishing the beer around the bottle. "But far enough." Probably suspicious phrasing to Dean. "I like the prices." He explains. "They charge just the right amount to allow me to drink just enough, know what I mean?" He furrows his brow, looking Dean over. "Of course you know what I mean." <br><br>He leans back in his chair and takes another sip. "It's just the right combo to either have fun or to forget. Or both." Forget //what//, however, is the question. "Come here often?" He asks, glancing back at Dean.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The question causes Dean's head to cant further to the side to inspect Fredrik thoroughly. "I don't swing that way," he says blandly before managing a tight-lipped smile. "But... good to know I've still got it." He shrugs once. Evidently /come here often/ reads like a pick-up line. <br><br>But then, in the event that Fred2 wants to know, he offers a one shouldered shrug, "Not often enough." His gaze turns back towards the bar; a reminiscent and wholly longing quality rings through it. <br><br>"You?" he sucks on the inside of his cheek and wonders if Fredrik comes for more than the drinks and a pang of jealousy shoots through him. He banishes it as quickly as it'd come. Raw emotions remain raw. <br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1281|Fredrik (1281)}} has posed:'''<br>"Huh? Oh! Ha, ah, no I wasn't..." Fredrik chuckles softly and shakes his head, seemingly not embarrassed at all by the mistake. "No. I wasn't uh, I wasn't hitting on you. Sorry. I can understand why it might have come across that way. Could've picked better words." An eyebrow is raised. "Not that you're not...anyway." He clears his throat softly. "You look like you've been through a rough day." <br><br>He points the top of the bottle toward Dean's face. "Everything all right?" There is some genuine concern voiced in the question. Fredrik, for all he's worth, can't seem to stop caring about people. Maybe it's why he went into the profession that he chose. <br><br>He shrugs, sipping his beer again. "I come here every now and then. It's a decent place. A little out of the way, but worth it after a long day."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>"And you look like you've had a long day directing funerals," Dean replies with a crooked grin. "We can't all be funeral directors." His lips purse and his fingers curl around his now-empty glass. Hilariously though, he lifts his eyebrows at Fredrik's awkward comment and he notes, "I know I'm adorable." He actually winks at that before glancing back to his empty glass. <br><br>"Just peachy," he answers the question whether everything is alright. "It's why I'm sitting here alone drinking whiskey." His eyebrows knit together a little tighter. "You kind of stick out around here." There's a pause. "You're one of those shrinks, aren't you? Shouldn't ask too many questions of these folks. Surefire way to get hurt."<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1281|Fredrik (1281)}} has posed:'''<br>"Hey now, don't dig on funeral directors, pun intended by the way. They do the jobs that others don't. They're real hard workers, those guys!" Fredrik looks toward the bartender and gets their attention, indicating Dean's empty glass and to get them two empty plates and forks. <br><br>"Hey now, when a guy's good looking, he's good looking. There's no need to deny it." He smirks, moving his eyebrows up and down. He chuckles and shakes his head. <br><br>"Yeah, yeah. I'm a shrink. I could probably do without asking people in bars so many questions. Force of habit, I suppose." He suddenly turns serious. "Let me guess, it was personal? Someone you know? That's why you're sitting here all alone right now, instead of being with people? You're brooding? Fuming?"<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The bartender comes and sets the forks, plates, and issues Dean another drink with a very silent shrug. He's likely getting cut off after this one, better make it count. When the bartender is a safe distance, Dean casts Fredrik a long-suffering stare. "Look. Here? In this place? It's always personal. Someone's always brooding. And it's always for good reason." There's a long pause. "We just don't ask each other about it." <br><br>He leans back in the seat and stares at the empty plate. "Dude. Uh... Doc dude?" he lifts an eyebrow, not entirely sure what he should be calling the shrink, "I know you think I'm a head case and all, but you're the one who just ordered empty plates. Not sure I should spill all my secrets to someone so... unhinged." He smiles smugly. It's not likely he'd loose his secrets anyways.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:1281|Fredrik (1281)}} has posed:'''<br>"Oh, I know that people are always brooding here. You just seem extra broodful. Like you //really// needed to brood, so you chose this place, this particular bar, and this particular part of the bar. Nothing says 'I'm better at brooding than you are' than sitting far away from most people at a bar known for brooding clientele." Fredrik responds quickly, placing his nearly empty bottle of beer down on the table. <br><br>He takes one plate and looks at it closely. "I'm no normal Doc Dude. And sure, there could be some cases to be made that I'm not all there, but there's no way you can use empty plates against me." Hiding a plate behind his back, he hums for a moment before bringing the plate back out in front of him, filled with a generous slice of apple pie. "Something tells me you're a pie guy, am I right?" He holds out the plate and fork for Dean.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>"Yeah, I'm just the broodiest of the brooding, Doc Dude," Dean smiles at that, allowing his fingers to curl around his new drink as the unhinged doctor produces... pie. His expression flattens. The smile loses its lustre, smoothing out into a solid straight line. In Dean Winchester's life, pie is serious business. <br><br>Pie that appears out of nowhere? <br><br>It's either angels or demons. And he has no idea which. <br><br>His lips part as he stares at the slice of apple pie. His lips quirk at the edges and he manages that almost ever-present smug smile, "Forgot the ice cream, pumpkin." He actually winks. But even under layers of bravado, his eyes reflect something far more sinister at play in his life.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1281|Fredrik (1281)}} has posed:'''<br>"Aha, looks like I caught Mister Broody Bravado off guard, hmm?" Fredrik may have caught on that Dean seemed to emit this sense of self-confidence that was perhaps hiding something...more. But he had to leave //something// for later. He can't scare off everyone at the bar, they'd kick him out for losing them business. <br><br>Rolling his eyes, he places the plate of pie behind his back once more for a moment. "Aren't we the indulgent once, hmm?" After a moment, the plate is brought forth, unhidden from his back, and the pie has three scoops of vanilla ice cream on top. "Better?" He places one of the forks on the side of the plate and holds it out toward Dean.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A hollow laugh follows the ice cream on the pie as Dean's eyebrows arch at the puzzle in front of him. Randomly appearing pie. That's quite the dream come true. He takes the fork and lifts it to cut into the pie. It could be poison. It could be a trap. It could be Crowley messing with him. Regardless of what it is, he takes the plunge. <br><br>And as the fork travels into his mouth, his eyes drift closed in his complete and total pie reverie. Around his mouthful he manages to speak, "Worth it." While Fredrik may not get the full meaning because most of the debate happened in his mind, it's pretty easy to see that trust isn't high on Dean's list.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1281|Fredrik (1281)}} has posed:'''<br>"Glad you could find it in yourself to trust me. I know I'm a stranger, a Doc Dude." Fredrik says, smiling gently, as he pulls the same 'trick' on the second plate, creating pie for himself. As he starts eating his pie, he takes Dean into consideration. "You were really suspicious of the pie, weren't you? Do you mind if I ask why?" <br><br>He laughs softly. "Then again, maybe I shouldn't ruin your enjoyment of it by asking you, should I?" He raises an eyebrow, nibbling on his pie some more. "Did I at least pick a good option? Apple?"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's eyes narrow at the Doctor Dude. His lips pucker slightly and then, he finally answers one of the questions that makes him the least uncomfortable, "Just like mom used to make." He shoots Fredrik a smug smile, but even the mention of mom--his own mention of mom in a joke--isn't that funny to him, and his eyes train on the pie once again. <br><br>"Strangers do things to each other, doc. Like I said, this isn't that kind of bar. We don't sit around and talk about our feelings. I think you're looking for Cheers." He smirks. "Bit before my time, but I hear everybody knows your name. That's the rumour anyways." He winks.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1281|Fredrik (1281)}} has posed:'''<br>"Like your mom //used// to make? Must be hard, not to have her around." Fredrik assumes. The use of 'used to' suggests to him that she's not around any longer, for one reason or another. "I'm sorry. As much as I talk and shrink, I don't mean to bring up unhappy memories." He chews on a bit of pie for a moment, and then sighs. <br><br>Out of an inside jacket pocket, he pulls a card. He stands up briefly and places it on Dean's table. It reads: 'Dr. Fredrik Stone, PhD Psychologist' and in //very, very// fine bring near the bottom it says, 'Expert in Parapsychology, Myths, Legends, and the Occult'. The card also has an address and phone number. "That's me. I assume you'll probably end up just tearing up the card, I'm around if you want to, you know, talk. And not in a bar where everybody knows your name. Because I am not Frasier, and the people in that show had a lot of issues, perhaps more so than the people in this bar, and that's saying something!"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>In no time flat, Dean's expression changes. The merriment gives way to flatness. His expression flattens. His eyes deaden. And the apology doesn't quite cut it. Green eyes narrow and he sets the fork down. "Yeah," he agrees. It's hard not having her around. But there's more and it's written plainly across Dean's face. <br><br>The card is taken and slide across the table. He scratches his eyebrow and then casts a long look at Fredrik. "You know anything about Crossroad demons?" Pause. "More specifically Crossroad contracts." His lips purse involuntarily.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1281|Fredrik (1281)}} has posed:'''<br>"Oh boy, I've done it again. Drudged up bad memories." Or was that on purpose? Fredrik's own subconcious wanting him to know more, so that he can help? "You know what happened to her, don't know?" His brow furrows. "Whatever happened, it's not your fault. But I'm way overstepping here." He stops and looks down for a moment. <br><br>"Crossroad demons?" Fred looks up at Dean quizzically. "And...and their contracts?" His eyes dart left and right, back and forth, as if attempting to bring up a memory. "Yeesssss..." It's somewhat hesitant. "What about them?" This conversation certainly isn't going where he expected.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean actually laughs at the first. "Doc, you don't even know me. For all you know I killed my own mother. That would be my fault now, wouldn't it?" his expression edges on grim. But there's still a quality to it, a vague appreciation at being told he didn't make it happen. <br><br>The hesitation has Dean arching an eyebrow. "Breaking them. Are they ever breakable? People break contracts here, what about there?"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:1281|Fredrik (1281)}} has posed:'''<br>"Well, I suppose you got a point, there." Fredrik clicks his tongue. "I don't know you from Barney the Purple Dinosaur." He tilts his head and smiles kindly. "But from how you talked about her pie, those aren't the words of a guy who would've done that to his mother. No, you might be capable of a few things, but that wouldn't have been one of them, I shouldn't think." Of course this is all just guess work from his short conversation with the other young man. <br><br>He frowns at the question of breaking a contract with a Crossroad Demon. "That's a tough one." He scratches his head, thinking on it for a moment. "I'll come right out and say that I've never heard a story about them being broken. The legends I've heard of them? They don't end well for the mere mortals who make them. But..." With a psychologist like him, there's always a 'but', "I'd imagine there are ways around that. It'd be tricky. The demon would probably have to be offered something greater than the soul it's already getting, and that's no easy task." He chews the inside of his cheek. "Then again, this is just speculation. I can't say for certain that this is how it would work. Of course, you could always have a psychologist make a read on the Crossroad Demon, see what they make of it." He laughs at his comment, seeming to find it the funniest thing ever. <br><br>He sighs, a goofy grin on his face. It fades quickly, however, when he looks back to Dean. "Why do you ask?"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean manages a stiff smile at the last question. He reaches into his pocket and lays a few bills down on the table and then he lifts the drink to his lips and downs it in one burning gulp. "No reason," he offers in return. "See ya around, Doc." And with that he retreats to the room in the back. He'd sleep in his car, but Jo won't have it, so he's bound for a good night's rest.<br> <br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Captain_America&diff=1421Captain America2017-08-27T03:16:41Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{CharacterNew<br />
|NameOnMUSH=Captain America<br />
|Color=#333<br />
|TextColor=#c1c1c1<br />
|Char_id=112<br />
|Img=https://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/agentsofshield/images/5/59/Cap.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20170223160841<br />
|FullName=Steven Grant Rogers<br />
|Gender=Male<br />
|Species=Human<br />
|Theme=Marvel<br />
|Chartype=EFC<br />
|Active=Active<br />
|Occupation=Agent of SHIELD<br />
|Groups=Avengers, Justice League, SHIELD, Adventurers<br />
|Quote=We must all live in the real world... and sometimes that world can be pretty grim. But it is the [American] Dream... the hope... that makes the reality worth living. In the early 1940's, I made a personal pledge to uphold the Dream... And as long as the Dream remains even partially unfulfilled, I cannot abandon it!<br />
|PAge=25<br />
|AAge=107<br />
|DOB=July 4, 1918<br />
|Height=188 cm<br />
|Weight=100 kg<br />
|Hair=Dark Blonde<br />
|Eyes=Blue<br />
|Actor=Chris Evans<br />
|Song=The Star Spangled Man<br />
|Profile=Captain America, the 'first' super-soldier, and the one who got all the movie deals. Cap's a soldier from a different time who was unfrozen in the modern day. He's been called many things, but at the end of the day he's just a man who doesn't like bullies. He's punched Hitler a few hundred times and lived to tell the tale, he's a rough and tumble man with ideals that he sticks to, even if the rest of the world has forgotten them.<br />
|Abilities=-------------------------------------------< Halted Aging >-------------------------------------------<br />
Cap no longer ages, the serum in his blood keeping him eternally the same ripe fighting age he was when injected with it. He'll be at his peak till the day he dies.<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------< Indomitable Will >------------------------------------------<br />
Cap has an almost unrivaled force of will behind him. The will to keep going that can keep him standing when lesser men might die from their wounds, the will to hold out against the fiercest, and most inhumane of interrogation methods, the ability to hold out against mind-control itself.<br />
<br />
-------------------------------------------< Peak Humanity >-------------------------------------------<br />
Strength to lift up to 4 tonnes, Endurance to take beatings that would kill any normal man, Speed to reach a top sprinting speed of 50 miles per hour, Durability to shrug off small caliber rounds, Stamina to run for days at a time, Reflexes of a kung fu master, Agility of the worlds finest acrobats, Human Senses of the finest caliber, Mental Processing of a computer, and healing enough to mend a broken bone in hours not weeks, all bodily functions pushed to the absolute peak of human potential, thanks to the serum running through his veins.<br />
|Skills=----------------------------------------< Expert Marksmanship >----------------------------------------<br />
With the aid of his serum Cap has been able to greatly hone his skill with a weapon, capable of making far reaching, and trick shots with ease. His skills allow him to pick up most any conventional firearm, and put it to good use. Thanks to his extensive military training.<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------< Expert Swordsman >------------------------------------------<br />
Cap has a masterful ability with a blade, able to put it to good use as a part of his experience with martial arts.<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------< Master Martial artist >---------------------------------------<br />
Specifically a master of World War II combatives, taught to him directly by Rex Applegate and William Ewart Fairbairn. This combat focused on quickly disabling the enemy at all costs, and the use of knife, bayonet, and improvised weaponry, with roots in boxing, and judo. It makes use of a great deal of 'dirty' fighting techniques.<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------< Master Shield Fighter >---------------------------------------<br />
Cap knows every inch of his personal shield, down to the very grams it weighs. He's skilled beyond measure at making it do exactly what he needs it to do when he needs to, able to throw it and bounce it in such a way as it returns right back to him. This skill allows him to pull of bizarre feats of strength and skill with the shield otherwise all but impossible.<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------------< Polyglot >----------------------------------------------<br />
Rogers is completely fluent in: English, German, Russian, Spanish, Japanese, French, and Italian<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------------< Sketching >---------------------------------------------<br />
A true artist, Rogers is a sketch artist, keeping many of his own sketches on his person. He sketches anything and everything when the mood hits, and has a great deal of skill in it, enough to be almost professional.<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------< Special Ops >--------------------------------------------<br />
An expertly trained soldier cap is a master of the art of soldiery with a full grasp on everything that could be needed of a soldier(Circa 1943). Hunting, demolitions, survival in most any conditions, cartography, interrogation, Computers (Circa 1940), vehicle operations (Boat, plane, tank, etc. (All circa 1940)), anything a special operations officer might need for the time.<br />
|Resources=-------------------------------------------< Mighty Shield >-------------------------------------------<br />
Hand crafted from a vibranium-steel compound this shield is neigh indestructible. Its construction makes it a perfect throwing weapon able to function as a boomerang, and even bound off of surfaces in ways normally impossible. It can also absorb extreme heat or cold without changing the temperature of the opposite side, as well as nullify most kinetic impact.<br />
<br />
-------------------------------------------< Utility Belt >--------------------------------------------<br />
A small collection of tools and munitions containing: A first aid kit, smoke, flash, and fragmentation grenades, a lockpick set, military cable, repelling kit, and a gun cleaning kit.<br />
|Weaknesses=-----------------------------------------< Fish Out of Water >-----------------------------------------<br />
A man out of time, lost to his own era now so far from home that he doesn't even recognize it. The world has completely left him behind, and Cap knows it. He's not even sure if he wants to join back into the world, or just fade from it. He can't even find solace in the retirement homes.<br />
<br />
------------------------------------------< Symbol of Hope >-------------------------------------------<br />
Cap's become more then he ever wanted to. A legacy spiralled out of control with films, books toys, and TV shows. He wants to live up to the hype surrounding him, but he's not sure he ever can. It also means that it's next to impossible for him to go without being recognized by someone. His whole identity even as Steve Rogers has been turned into a pop culture symbol.<br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Captain_America&diff=1420Captain America2017-08-27T03:15:48Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{CharacterNew |NameOnMUSH=Captain America |Color=#333 |TextColor=#c1c1c1 |Char_id=112 |Img=https://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/agentsofshield/images/5/59/Cap.jpg/revision/la..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{CharacterNew<br />
|NameOnMUSH=Captain America<br />
|Color=#333<br />
|TextColor=#c1c1c1<br />
|Char_id=112<br />
|Img=https://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/agentsofshield/images/5/59/Cap.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20170223160841<br />
|FullName=Steven Grant Rogers<br />
|Gender=Male<br />
|Species=Human<br />
|Theme=Marvel<br />
|Chartype=FC<br />
|Active=Active<br />
|Occupation=Agent of SHIELD<br />
|Groups=Avengers, Justice League, SHIELD, Adventurers<br />
|Quote=We must all live in the real world... and sometimes that world can be pretty grim. But it is the [American] Dream... the hope... that makes the reality worth living. In the early 1940's, I made a personal pledge to uphold the Dream... And as long as the Dream remains even partially unfulfilled, I cannot abandon it!<br />
|PAge=25<br />
|AAge=107<br />
|DOB=July 4, 1918<br />
|Height=188 cm<br />
|Weight=100 kg<br />
|Hair=Dark Blonde<br />
|Eyes=Blue<br />
|Actor=Chris Evans<br />
|Song=The Star Spangled Man<br />
|Profile=Captain America, the 'first' super-soldier, and the one who got all the movie deals. Cap's a soldier from a different time who was unfrozen in the modern day. He's been called many things, but at the end of the day he's just a man who doesn't like bullies. He's punched Hitler a few hundred times and lived to tell the tale, he's a rough and tumble man with ideals that he sticks to, even if the rest of the world has forgotten them.<br />
|Abilities=-------------------------------------------< Halted Aging >-------------------------------------------<br />
Cap no longer ages, the serum in his blood keeping him eternally the same ripe fighting age he was when injected with it. He'll be at his peak till the day he dies.<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------< Indomitable Will >------------------------------------------<br />
Cap has an almost unrivaled force of will behind him. The will to keep going that can keep him standing when lesser men might die from their wounds, the will to hold out against the fiercest, and most inhumane of interrogation methods, the ability to hold out against mind-control itself.<br />
<br />
-------------------------------------------< Peak Humanity >-------------------------------------------<br />
Strength to lift up to 4 tonnes, Endurance to take beatings that would kill any normal man, Speed to reach a top sprinting speed of 50 miles per hour, Durability to shrug off small caliber rounds, Stamina to run for days at a time, Reflexes of a kung fu master, Agility of the worlds finest acrobats, Human Senses of the finest caliber, Mental Processing of a computer, and healing enough to mend a broken bone in hours not weeks, all bodily functions pushed to the absolute peak of human potential, thanks to the serum running through his veins.<br />
|Skills=----------------------------------------< Expert Marksmanship >----------------------------------------<br />
With the aid of his serum Cap has been able to greatly hone his skill with a weapon, capable of making far reaching, and trick shots with ease. His skills allow him to pick up most any conventional firearm, and put it to good use. Thanks to his extensive military training.<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------< Expert Swordsman >------------------------------------------<br />
Cap has a masterful ability with a blade, able to put it to good use as a part of his experience with martial arts.<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------< Master Martial artist >---------------------------------------<br />
Specifically a master of World War II combatives, taught to him directly by Rex Applegate and William Ewart Fairbairn. This combat focused on quickly disabling the enemy at all costs, and the use of knife, bayonet, and improvised weaponry, with roots in boxing, and judo. It makes use of a great deal of 'dirty' fighting techniques.<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------< Master Shield Fighter >---------------------------------------<br />
Cap knows every inch of his personal shield, down to the very grams it weighs. He's skilled beyond measure at making it do exactly what he needs it to do when he needs to, able to throw it and bounce it in such a way as it returns right back to him. This skill allows him to pull of bizarre feats of strength and skill with the shield otherwise all but impossible.<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------------< Polyglot >----------------------------------------------<br />
Rogers is completely fluent in: English, German, Russian, Spanish, Japanese, French, and Italian<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------------< Sketching >---------------------------------------------<br />
A true artist, Rogers is a sketch artist, keeping many of his own sketches on his person. He sketches anything and everything when the mood hits, and has a great deal of skill in it, enough to be almost professional.<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------< Special Ops >--------------------------------------------<br />
An expertly trained soldier cap is a master of the art of soldiery with a full grasp on everything that could be needed of a soldier(Circa 1943). Hunting, demolitions, survival in most any conditions, cartography, interrogation, Computers (Circa 1940), vehicle operations (Boat, plane, tank, etc. (All circa 1940)), anything a special operations officer might need for the time.<br />
|Resources=-------------------------------------------< Mighty Shield >-------------------------------------------<br />
Hand crafted from a vibranium-steel compound this shield is neigh indestructible. Its construction makes it a perfect throwing weapon able to function as a boomerang, and even bound off of surfaces in ways normally impossible. It can also absorb extreme heat or cold without changing the temperature of the opposite side, as well as nullify most kinetic impact.<br />
<br />
-------------------------------------------< Utility Belt >--------------------------------------------<br />
A small collection of tools and munitions containing: A first aid kit, smoke, flash, and fragmentation grenades, a lockpick set, military cable, repelling kit, and a gun cleaning kit.<br />
|Weaknesses=-----------------------------------------< Fish Out of Water >-----------------------------------------<br />
A man out of time, lost to his own era now so far from home that he doesn't even recognize it. The world has completely left him behind, and Cap knows it. He's not even sure if he wants to join back into the world, or just fade from it. He can't even find solace in the retirement homes.<br />
<br />
------------------------------------------< Symbol of Hope >-------------------------------------------<br />
Cap's become more then he ever wanted to. A legacy spiralled out of control with films, books toys, and TV shows. He wants to live up to the hype surrounding him, but he's not sure he ever can. It also means that it's next to impossible for him to go without being recognized by someone. His whole identity even as Steve Rogers has been turned into a pop culture symbol.<br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=2176/Wandering_Souls&diff=14192176/Wandering Souls2017-08-27T02:43:14Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/08/26 |Location=Greenwich Village |Synopsis=A chance encounter of the weird kind has Violet and Dean fighting an artist... who collects golems..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/08/26<br />
|Location=Greenwich Village<br />
|Synopsis=A chance encounter of the weird kind has Violet and Dean fighting an artist... who collects golems.<br />
|Cast of Characters=132, 306<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>The Greenwich Village, the place in New York where all the art happens, where new trends are born and where our scene most definitely does not take place. Nope. Violet /could/ have gone to some ultra-trendy art installation there, but instead, for some twist of fate, a friend of hers recommended she visits this 'absolutely lovely alternative working-class-street-art-fusion-joint', decision which she is, if not regretting already, at the very least reconsidering the wisdom of. "Greasy Zeke's Gas Station, Car Wash, Grease Joint and Art Gallery", located at a mostly industrial junction outside town where people not only pretty much do not go, but also actively try not to think about, due to the sheer sense of boredom and bleakness it evokes, is... not your average place, indeed.<br><br>After the chimes atop the door announce the entrance of another customer slash art aficionado, she looks around the diner-like building in mild confusion, trying to tell which items of interior decoration are supposed to be the stools and which are supposed to be the sculptures (invariably made from recycled materials. Including old stools).<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Sitting atop one of the many stools intended as art rather than an actual seat, Dean Winchester nurses some strange looking drink that he is supposed to be a double whiskey, neat. His eyes hone in on one of the objects on the wall and he can't help but frown. A glance is given to the newcomer and he straightens a bit, almost as if giving more room at the would-be bar. <br><br>His head turns and he emits a high pitched whistle, "What do you think that is?" he motions towards one of the pictures and shakes his head slowly. "Not sure if anything in here is meant to be sat on." He looks down at the art he's perched on and manages a one-shouldered shrug.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Violet O'Mara is startled a bit at being addressed directly, but after a moment of hesitation, she squints with all her might, concentrates for a few, endless seconds, and finally attempts an uncertain, "Uh... I'm not sure if it's supposed to be Laocoon and his children being devoured by giant serpents, or some fisherman friend of the artist who got caught in a freak live bait accident" She takes a tentative look at all the stool and stool-like installations, and finally smirks. "...I think I'll just stand. I've been on a bus until now, I can use a little change." She approaches the counter and says, "My name's Violet by the way."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>"Couldn't we all?" Dean asks with a lift of his eyebrows. "Use a little change, I mean." He shoots her a crooked grin and then refers to her decision to stand. "Will," he introduces himself easily. His lips twitch and he shoots her an easier smile. "I think the former is a better picture and more worth sending." He winks. He motions towards his drink, "Also note, this is supposed to be a whiskey, neat." It's red hued and bubbling. "I'm certain this isn't a whiskey."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Violet O'Mara eyes the suspicious liquid. "...maybe it could use a little change? It left its safe but unrewarding career as aged liquor to become a snazzy bubble artist who performs in obscure diners for an unappreciative audience, but it's what it loves doing, so..." She faces down, and shakes her head with her eyes closed. "Ah, er... sorry. I tend to make up stories about things." She looks up at Dean again and grins. "Pleased to meet you, Will." She remains in reflexive thought for abit, then casts a glance at the two stools next to Dean's non-stool, and clambers onto the one that looks the least like it is supposed to be a sculpture. "...I think I will stick to the tried and true, after all. You know, maybe this thing about change is all nonsense. You start off standing instead of sitting, and before you know, you're all red and bubbling. Suspiciously so."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean smirks. "Even the whiskey," he mutters softly. He emits a long suffering sigh. "Some things shouldn't change," he says with a wink. He watches as she clambers onto one of the stools. "So. What's a normal," he inspects her and shrugs, "...ish gal like you in a weird place like this?" His eyebrows lift as he considers his own motivations. It's not a line despite how it sounds.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Violet O'Mara smirks mischievously at Dean. "Ish? You think I'm not normal?" It's obvious she took no offense, but her interest is piqued. Then, all of a sudden, she stiffens, her burrow frowning a little. Her eyes dart sideways in both directions, and she goes silent. "Just looking around for artsy places, that's all." she says, trying to resume the same cheerful tone as earlier, but anyone experienced in picking up nuances will notice the barest hint of distraction in her voice, as if she was thinking of something else entierely, but trying not to let it show. "I'm an artist by trade, and by passion. Friend told me they had this recycled-metal installation and... given your comment about the whisky, I deduce you do not come here often, either?" She says casually, the barest hint of distraction in her voice. Someone who's experienced in picking nuances could she's thinking of something else completely at the moment, but trying not to show it.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>"You're here aren't you?" Dean offers with a wry grin. His eyes follow her movements and his eyebrow arches curiously. He laughs hollowly when she notes he doesn't come here often either. "Well Violet," he actually uses her name, "I'm definitely not an artist and this is not my scene." He swallows hard and then sniffs quietly. "Just... found myself here. Needed a drink. Some food," the lie is easy. "Trying something new," that's almost truthful. His green eyes turn towards the door and he studies it for a few beats before his gaze returns to Violet. "So what kind of art do you do?"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Violet O'Mara replies with a smirk, "I am a an artist of wide interests but with a clear focus. In other words, I'll do anything as long as that puts bread on the table" She looks all around the bar, and keeps on sketching various items around the place, sometimes returning to a previous item. "I've done illustration, a portrait or two... but most of the time I do web stuff, actually. That's where one can hope to earn something at the moment." She looks up at Will. "And you? What do you do for a liv-" This is when some gray-haired, yet still quite fit, man walks in from the back, and heads to where Violet is sitting, just across the counter. "Sorry for the delay... you wanted anything?" Violet's question is interrupted, and she promptly says, "I'll take an orange soda. Plain." And after looking around, she asks. "I see you've a retro-cycling installation going on." "Oh, a connoisseur!" Grins the man, straightening his back. Violet glances away instinctively, and adds, "Oh, I don't know much about it... for instance, are you doing straight retro-cycling with, you know, its total eschew of anything that is not pure junk, to make completely static sculptures for that, you know, 'death' part of the death-and-rebirth symbolism, or are you... " She hesitates for a moment, as if for thinking of the right words. "...doing some variation on the theme?"<br><br>The man grins even wider, and shakes his head. "Nope. Pure, plain, absolutely by-the-book. Scraps of old metal, leather and plastic, nailed, screwed, bolted or welded together. None of that fancy adding plants, or bugs, or mechanical contraptions or stuff to it like those /posers/ there do!" He say, squinting in disapproval at some direction in the distance. Possibly towards the Greenwich Village. "And, sir..." he says, turning to glance at Dean, "...please don't sit on the art."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean watches Violet carefully as she poses the questions about the death part of the death-and-rebirth symbolism. His face takes on a pinched quality, this really isn' his scene, but he does pay attention to Violet's expression. In fact, he doesn't belong here and is so wholly aware of it.He does, however, manage to get a sheepish smile when he's instructed to not sit on the art. "Sorry," he apologizes lightly as he brings himself to a stand. "Do you have any chairs in here?" he asks with a knit of his eyebrows. <br><br>A glance is given to the fellow. "You mentioned somewhere that doesn't do it by the book?" His lips purse slightly. "Where would they be?" His hands lift defensively, "I'm new to all this. Would like to do some comparison to see what purists do and who isn't a purist..."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Violet O'Mara points three maybe-stools down the line from where Dean is sitting. "THAT is a chair. And I am NOT endorsing that kind of abomination! I'll have you know, sir, that despite this being an open space where anyone can just drop their art at will, I make /personally/ sure that none of that non-static nonsense gets in! I've checked every statue in this room ten times. Retro-cycling requires /minimal/ simplicity in build. It's about /statues/, not /robots/ or /ant-farms/.", he finally exclaims in a huff, before leaving.<br><br>Violet looks at the departing man, and scribbles something down on her notebook, very quickly, and slides it over the counter to Dean. Open at the page where she was doodling.<br><br>The page displays a bunch of various statues, sketched quickly, yet, despite the simple and nervous lines, the resemblance is uncanny. One particular set of sketches is circled and pointed to by an arrow: sketches of statue, which Dean might recognise as being right across the room from them, is repeated three times. In three different poses. As if it was starting to walk. Foot on the ground, foot slightly lifted, slightly leaning forward, foot lifted further, leaning further forward. Below it, Violet has scribbled "IT MOVES!" Below it, a bullet list: "- No mechanics - No plants - No bugs - No technology - Personally checked - HOW?!" The 'HOW?!' is circled twice. Violet just looks at Dean, worried. She glances sideways, at the statue, whose too-slow-to-be-noticed walking movement has advanced further from the last picture, and then back at Dean.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The reprimand prompts a too-cute smile. Dean lifts his eyebrows at the assertion. "Right. I wasn't looking for an endorsement," he replies evenly. "Just some clarification." His smile eases, "Well thanks for your puritanical ways." <br><br>Both of his eyebrows lift to punctuate the point. The fellow's retreat have him muttering, "That's a whole different kind of nut job." His head turns and he catches sight of the notebook. Slowly, he allows his eyes to scan the room and fall on the object in question. His green eyes narrow and he can feel the frown pulling at his features. Dean ticks his head towards the object in question and treads over to it. It's theoretically ill-advised, but he does it just the same. <br><br>Heavy boots have him sliding up to the object. His lips twitch uncertainly and he reaches into his jacket. The flask of holy water is given a quick twist in his grasp and he lifts it to gently spray the object. Nothing like haphazard reaching into the dark.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Violet O'Mara follows uncertainly, snaking much more quietly, standing a short distance behind Dean.<br><br>When the object is sprayed, the metal shakes slightly, and some quivering later...<br><br>...with an audible *POOF*, a cloud of bluish-white smoke raises from the object! Hanging in mid-air just above it, the aethereal form of a semi-transparent young woman, floats, more confused than anything else, the wisps that compose her form barely visible to the naked eye. Yes, ladies and gentlement. We have your textbook ghost. A dead person who, for some reason, cannot yet cross over. In other words...<br><br>...a wandering soul.<br><br>Violet squeals and jumps to hide behind Dean, while the ethereal form's face twists in a parallel voiceless scream of fear. Seems like she's the most scared of the three.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean reaches for the salt in his jacket, but hesitates. This ghost isn't attacking anyone. No one seems to be dying. The box of salt is poured in a line between them and the ethereal creature. His hands lift in an armed way. He doesn't have a salt bullet handy, so sending her back to where she came from isn't an option... unless he can find her bones to salt and burn. <br><br>"Hey," he says lowly as his green eyes flit towards Violet. "I'm... Will. This is Violet. What are you doing here?" he frowns. She needs to go somewhere to find peace.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Violet O'Mara does a little wave while looking absolutely terrified, breath choked in her throat.<br><br>The swirling, gaseous woman breathes in and... well, she seems unable to produce any sound. She doesn't move, she just floats there, but extending one hand forward , she mouths a 'HELP' worth of a pantomime artist. If... pantomime artists mouthed words, that is.<br><br>Violet just peeks from behind Dean and, unsure of what to do, she tries to help in any way she can.<br><br>She picks a pepper shaker from the counter, and starts sprinkling it between herself and Dean, looking at the latter quizzically, looking for approval.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's smile twists into a grim frown. He looks towards Violet and shakes his head. "Restless spirits are after something or need something from us to help them find rest." His lips hitch up on one side and he steps over the salt line--an ill-advised action in general, but she asked for his help. <br><br>He rubs his chin and begins to stare at the statue. "Violet, do you see anything weird about this?" He's not an artist. He's not even sure what the statue is supposed to look like or even what it's made of. There's an unsettledness about him as his fingers run across the surface of the statue.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Violet O'Mara looks at the statue. "Well, not really. As said, it's supposed to be a Retro-Cycling piece. Realtively new movement. Don't know /much/ about it myself. Just the basics and major exponents." She looks at the sculpture again. "Competent manufacture. Good command of proportions anatomy and proportions. See the structure?" She points. "It's not just a child's stick figure. It's actually a version of human anatomy stripped down to the basic. It's a... stick figure drawn by someone who had a dang good training in art. And there's... tiny little touches everywhere. Look here, for instance, at these nails made with bits of bent steel. Whoever did this, wasn't just trying to churn out /just/ a barely functional coat hanger for ghosts. Hm. Actually..." She scratches her head. "There /is/ something different about this statue, with respect to the other. Something nagging at the edge of my consciousness, but I can't quite put my finger on it..."<br><br>While Violet goes on giving an in-depth review of the sculpture, the ghost zips away on the opposite side (i.e., away from Dean, and the salt line), as soon as Dean crosses it. At first it might seem she's scared of Dean, but shortly after, she stops just above a different sculpture. Another humanoid, this one 'sitting' on an actual stool (or is it an art-stool?), and leanding on the counter. She points at Dean, then to the other statue. She makes sprinkling gestures.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean can feel his lips twitch into a frown as Violet relays information about the statue. This is definitely not his thing. Not remotely. "Basically it's detailed," he says quietly. "Is there..." his gaze darkens, "some material that shouldn't be there. Something that looks... human? Hair. Skin. Nails. Teeth. Anything? She haunted /that/. Why?" <br><br>Yet there's something in it that niggles at him more. The reaction to the up cycling. His eyes follow the ghost around the room. His jaw tightens. His hands move to the flask again and his head shakes slightly as he traipses over to the other statue. He shakes the flask of holy water onto the figure and takes a step back, nearly expectantly.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Indeed, expectations are met. This time it is a big nosed middle-aged fellow with an impressive mustache that springs up, ethereal and wispy as the other. This one looks even more confused and dazed. Stunned one might even say, completely unresponsive.<br><br>"...well, let me see... uh... hm. Well, if there is anything like that, I'm ready to bet it's inside this locked box here.", she says, reaching across bent bars into the rib-cage, and knocking against a leather-rimmed locked box placed where the heart should be, resembling the kind that are used to store jewels, bolted and reinforced, with a keyhole in the front. One of those large, old keyholes, for wrought iron keys. "Hidden behind the... uh... 'ribs'. Not immediately visible at first. Let me see if I can pull it out..." She starts fiddling with it, at first pulling like crazy, and failing, but then she exclaims, "Wait, I think this thing actually comes off if you just..." She starts turning and pushing and attemping to slide the box in various directions. There is some wobbling, so the endeavour is promising.<br><br>"Hold it right there," comes a voce from behind. It's the elderly server from before, holding a gun leveled at the duo. "Step away from the sculptures. Now." He sweeps the barrel of the gun to point at the corner of the room at the opposite end with respect to the entrance. The only corner of the bar without statues, just a few (really ugly) paintings.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The familiar push of a ghost appearing from the object has every muscle in Dean's body tensing. He returns the flask to his jacket and his eyes trail the room, trying to identify any others. His hands tuck deeply into his pockets as he inspects the second statue, not touching any of it, just trying to find something that dictates why a ghost haunted this piece. <br><br>But the voice of the elderly server causes him to pause. He slowly turns around, hands still tucked into his pockets. "Well, this is a weird way to return business." He smiles as cutely as he can manage. His lips tick up on one side into a crooked smile, "Or, maybe it's a way to create unfinished business." Slowly, his hands lift from his pockets, demonstrating he's unarmed for the time being. <br><br>His throat clears. "You know. There's a funny thing about ghosts... they seek revenge on the living. But typically it's living that had a hand in their death." His expression evens out. "And we've woke two. Question is, they got unfinished business with you?"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>The elderly man smirks. "Oh, no. It's actually a pretty clever way to run business. See, the problem with this economy is not that there are not enough work to do. The problem is that there is not enough money to pay for the work. So, some very clever people figured out a way to stick dead humans into worker golems. You don't have to pay them, you don't have to feed them, you have no troubles with unions or the law because... well, the dead don't fall under their jurisdiction." He smirks. "The key is organizing your business rationally. So, someone makes the ghosts. Someone else binds them to neat little human shaped shells." He glances towards the statues. "Neat trick. We've found out that if the shell is humanlike enough, the ghosts don't even realize they're ghosts at all. They get so obsessed with trying to control their 'body' they forget everything else."<br><br>Violet mutters under her breath, "...you guys are talking about /ghosts/ as if it was nothing? Ok, now we're officially out of /my/ area."<br><br>The elderly man continues, calm, "They wait here a few days, until someone else comes to pick them up, and ships them to someone who needs to make worker golems. By that time the poor souls are so exhausted by trying to move multiple times their former body's weight in steel, the next processing step goes without a hitch." He smirks and glances at the barely conscious mustached man, who looks completely drained of energy. "He probably tried to straighten his back, or stand up, or talk for all this time. They just /don't/ give up." He glances at the woman. "Of course, we have very specific instructions for our artists: No. Joints. Or, if they try hard enough, they might actually get to move. But, noooooooooo. They have to be artsy and add them, and then complain about how we're hindering their 'vision', and yadda yadda yadda." He grunts. "You know, sometimes you have deadlines and have to take... ah... flawed deliveries. Hm. I suppose he'll have to join you two now." He raises his gun and levels it at Dean and, indirectly, Violet, who's peeking out from behind him. "Oh, didn't I mention that?" He grins. "Congratulations! You two are going to have a new job soon!"<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's eyes shift towards Violet, but his head doesn't turn. Instead, he remains straight-faced and nonchalant enough. "So. Basically," he keeps his words slow and tempered, "you're a serial killer. For the sake of your art." His tongue clucks. "I've heard a lot of things over the years. Believe me. It's kind of my job." He smirks at his name choice, suddenly the identity /Will Graham/ seems too on-point. <br><br>He should probably stand still. He shouldn't make any sudden movements. But decked out in his SHIELD tactical fabric that looks like normal clothing gives him a sense of safety--and between that and his death deal with Crowley, he's on borrowed time anyways. <br><br>And so with a sudden motion, he leaps towards the gun wielding senior to try to steal the weapon, yelling to Violet as he moves, "Get down!!!"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Violet O'Mara drops to the floor face-down, and covers her head with her arms.<br><br>With a BANG, a shot is fired from the gun, luckily away from any living person (and it doesn't really matter whether or not it goes through ghosts anyway). The man proves a bit tougher than expected. It looks like it might be possible to steal his weapon, in the end, but he's certainly not giving it up easily. "NO, you fool! I kill them for /money/! Someone else kills them, someone else packages them in sculptures, and I sell them to golem-makers! Sheesh. I'm a practical, productive man, not a time-wasting no good tree-hugging..." His face curls in a sneer of disdain, "/artist/."<br><br>"HEY! I resent that!", Violet can't help but interject, despite her being terrified and her attempts to roll to safety, where 'safety' is loosely defined as 'away from the fight and towards the front door'. Yes, she got some salt on her in the process.<br><br>The gun is finally taken, but as this happen, the elderly man is quick to launch his knee towards Dean's stomach, hoping he's too distracted with the gun to notice.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Literal decades of training as a hunter fighting large demon-possessed creatures has made Dean an apt fighter. He twists away from the knee, catching only a piece of it as aims the hilt of the gun to crack down hard against the other man's head. He doesn't kill people. It's one of his rules of order. <br><br>He calls back to Violet, "Get the box! These people can't rest without--" they need to burn their bones or whatever remnants keep them tied to the statues. But if there aren't any... the pair are going to have to take the golems.<br> <br><br />
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:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Noticing the elderly man has been subdued, Violet starts going around the statues. It takes some fiddling, shifting, twisting and turning, but eventually it turns out there's some sort of rail-based sliding mechanism that requires very specific moves to unlock the boxes. After touring all the five humanoid statues in the room, she returns to Dean, holding a stack of cases she has to keep in place with her chin. "All cases gotten! But they seem to be /locked/..."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean nods and reaches into one of his pockets to extract his trust lock pick. He shoots Violet a coy lopsided smile. "Fortunately, getting into things is something of a specialty," he actually winks at that. He begins to work at the lock with the pick. "We gotta find a way to get this guy arrested," he says lowly. "Because no cop in New York is going to charge him with accessory to murder based on this evidence." He actually rolls his eyes at that. "SHIELD maybe," he shoots her an easier grin. There's a long pause and he finally offers, "Uh... I'm Dean." Real name acquired. "I know I said I was Will... it's just a thing I do."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Violet O'Mara says, "Oh," sounding embarrassed. Not the 'this guy lied to me' kind of embarrassed, more like the 'oh, no! A social situation I am not prepared to handle! What is a socially acceptable, non-offensive thing to say when someone changes the name they've introduced themselves with?' kind of embarrassed. "...I'm Violet." She says. And winces. You already said that, save, save! "...I know I said the same thing earlier, it's just a thing I am." She then blurts out. Great going, Master Public Speaker.<br><br> The first box opens and... would one look at that. Perfectly preserved hearts, still beating, floating in some sort of bubbling liquid and kept 'alive' inside sleek, futuristic miniature life-support devices, barely large enough to contain them and the required hydraulics and electronics. Apparently, given the expenses that went into this, the golem-making process requires some high-quality products to work with.<br><br>Violet looks in amazement at the contents of the first open box. "...how about organ trafficking?" She asks, pointing.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's lips pull up on one side. "Organ trafficking," he actually manages a grin--only to ironically recognize this isn't the kind of thing people usually smile about, prompting a more somber expression. "Man, my life is weird." He manages another smile in her direction followed by a small shrug of his shoulders. "Take it you don't really spend a lot of time with ghouls?" Because she didn't seem terribly experienced. <br><br>"We can call this in shortly. Seems like we have a smoking gun and a way to get the cops involved." He inhales a long breath and reaches for the SHIELD consultant badge safely tucked into his pocket. "At least we have enough to get an arrest and keep it from happening again." Pause. "But there's probably more of these things out there. You any good at research, Violet?"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:132|Violet O'Mara (132)}} has posed:'''<br>Violet O'Mara thinks for a moment. "Well... uh... yeah, life is weird, but tondight I've learnt that death is weirder." She casts a glance at the female ghost. Tired, but she seems to be smiling, and, if not completely, more at peace already.<br><br>"...well, art requires a /lot/ of it. I'm not sure what kind of research you have in mind, but..." She goes silent as she finally notices the SHIELD consultant badge. She points at it, and casts an interrogative glance at Dean.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean shrugs. "I'm just a consultant. Not a real agent," he offers in return as the badge gets tucked away. "But help would be good. They can give us resources we wouldn't have otherwise. I'm not a believer in a lot of oversight, but..." he shrugs. "In this case, it'd be good to, you know, get the help." <br><br>"We need to track if any other similar statues have been sold or funnelled through this place. I imagine a tortured golem could actually be pretty deadly once they wake up to the reality that they can go full on Swayze with things in the environment." He lifts his fingers to explain, "They can interact with inanimate things."<br> <br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Wasted_Years&diff=1418Wasted Years2017-08-27T01:45:52Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/08/24<br />
|Location=Hell’s Kitchen, NY<br />
|Synopsis=Dean gets home after a particularly rough day to find his father perfectly fine. May comes to check on the younger Winchester. John gets an earful.<br />
|Cast of Characters=5, 306<br />
|Tinyplot=Blood on My Name<br />
|Tinyplot2=Tayaniye<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>As the noise of Dean’s phone clattering to the floor comes through, May startles enough to stop in the middle of the Triskelion hallway, earning her more than a few concerned glances. It’s NOT like her to do anything like that. She’s listening as intently as she can again, and faintly hears the deeper voice that is answered by Dean. <br><br>Did he just say ‘Dad’? <br><br>“见他的鬼 (jiàn tā de guǐ).” She continues toward the quinjet hangar bay ahead, now walking at that pace that makes everyone else in the area get the hell out of her way and the flight deck crew just let her board the nearest already prepped jet. (Clearly, someone called ahead and said she’d be needing to take one.) <br><br>Switching the phone call to her earpiece, she buckles into the pilot’s seat and and with a series of hasty commands entered into the jet’s systems as well as spoken over the vehicle’s headset, she has the bird in the air and on the way to Hell’s Kitchen in record time. <br><br>Oh, and while she’s doing so, she also puts in a request to have Sam’s cell phone tracked and Lewis sent out to retrieve him and Fred. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s breath rakes in his throat and like a statue he freezes in the doorway. His eyebrows draw together and his lips twitch into a small frown. The demon traps that protect the apartment aren’t enough to grant him any sense of assurance, and the sound of heavy booted steps along creaky floors demonstrate the speed he closes the distance to his father. The flask of holy water that he’d so unceremoniously flung at his brother is tossed towards his father and mixed with a mitt full of salt. <br><br>And John just sits there as his son does each of these actions; nearly proud with the lack of trust Dean displays. His lips curve at the edges and he actually nods. “Smart,” he offers with a smug smile. “Where’s your brother?” <br><br>When nothing happens, Dean’s shoulders droop. “So… you’re fine,” he hisses angrily. “//Totally fine.//” Crowley’s departing words linger over his mind and his head shakes, “You did it, didn’t you?” <br><br>“Come on Dean. Man up,” his eyebrows lift expectantly as he remains fixed in the chair at the kitchen table. “I expected this from your brother. You know what this fight is. This is an all out war.” <br><br>Dean’s jaw tightens. His eyes turn back towards the door and the phone he’d dropped just moments ago, but he’s too angry to move to it, instead lunging towards his father’s collar. “You put Sammy on a wild goose chase to find me, didn’t you? You left me to be tortured for //a year//--” disbelief colours his expression, pulling at the edges of his eyes, lips, cheeks. Everything draws downwards as he finally puts it together “--all for what?!” <br><br>“To make you better. Harder. Stronger. To bring Sam back--we need him if we’re gonna--” John asserts evenly, too-calmly. <br><br>“What… win?!” Dean finally lets go of John’s collar and turns on his heel, forgetting about the phone as he retreats into the bedroom. Madly he begins to pack the black duffle bag. “You fucked it up, old man,” he calls back to the other room. “All of it.” <br><br>“Dean, you’re ready for this. We can get yellow eyes together. All three of us. Sammy is finally capable of doing this, you are strong enough to handle it--we can do this,” John replies. “We’ve waited decades to get that thing, and we’re in a position to do it. Together. Without that year in the ocean, Sam wouldn’t be ready, you know that.” He quirks a side-smile, “Besides, it’s not like you’re married to this place, are ya? This isn’t who you are. We both know that. We’ll get the two of you packed and we can find that son of a bitch.” <br><br>When Dean reappears in the main space, he swallows hard. With the black duffle bag around his shoulder, it might look like Dean is ready to follow John anywhere. But the glisten of his eyes and the way they train on the floor speaks volumes otherwise. “Fuck you.” He actually spits on the floor, only to immediately regret it. He’s going to have to clean that up. His eyes roll and he walks to the sink to grab a cloth only to catch sight of the phone on the way back. His shoulders slump and he plucks it from the floor and presses it to his ear. “...May…” There’s a long pause as he looks back towards John and shakes his head. “Sam and Fred are at the Crossroads by the junkyard near Mercy’s garage.” He frowns. <br><br>John shrugs. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Better. Stronger. Harder. May’s expression darkens as she picks up snippets of their conversation around the clomping of their boots on the floor which the phone is only too happy to translate. The man sounds more like a damned Daft Punk song than a father. And even May -- who has never been a parent -- can tell that. <br><br>Then finally someone picks the phone up again, and it’s Dean. “I already put a trace on Sam, and Lewis is on her way to get them. Stay where you are.” She sounds utterly and completely emotionless, which Dean might or might not already recognize as a Bad Thing™. <br><br>And for those with good hearing -- and the phone in their hand -- the still rather faint sound of a aircraft’s engines echoing the sound coming from outside. And overhead. Very shortly followed by a more felt than heard sensation of something settling onto the building’s roof. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Normally, Dean would just keep doing what he’s doing. Ordinarily, he’d not heed such an order from anyone. But today he stays put, save for scrubbing his own contempt from the floor’s surface. He sets the phone down again. This time choosing not to hang up. There’s rebellion in the action. <br><br>“You are a soldier,” John states evenly to his son without moving from his spot at the table. “And now Sam is too,” a grim smile pulls at all of John’s features. <br><br>But even with his decision already made, all he can do is shake his head. “No. No, Dad. I’m not.” His lips quirk into a self-deprecating grin--merriless, empty, but present. “I’m a slave.” His lips twitch and he turns his head towards the door. “And a whore.” His nose wrinkles as he spits out the next, “And a cheater.” He laughs. The sound is empty. “And it’s all because of you.” <br><br>Dean takes two steps towards John. His teeth clench and he hisses between them, “//You// did this. You didn’t parent me, you sure as hell didn’t parent Sammy. No, I got to do that.” His eyebrows draw together. “Sammy //died// when he was twelve. It was an accident. Kind of,” he emits an audible breath from the back of his throat, “We were hunting something and he drowned.” <br><br>“...he’s alive now,” John observes. <br><br>“Yeah. He’s alive now,” Dean agrees coolly. “No thanks to you.”<br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May sets the jet’s engines to low idle and disembarks as quickly and quietly as possible, still listening to what she can, then pulling a gadget from her pocket to more closely zero in on the Winchesters’ exact location -- she made a point of not asking for this apartment’s location, another gesture to help earn Dean’s trust. She’s got it for sure now, and she’s hoping it’s not too little, too late. <br><br>Upon reaching the correct door, she picks the lock with the ease of MUCH practice (if Dean even bothered locking it behind himself), and slips inside. Now is a test of both men’s situational awareness and reflexes. She’s palmed a couple of Natasha’s shocker discs just in case. She’s kind of hoping she won’t need to use them… and kind of hoping she does. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“I was never a kid to you,” Dean observes. His voice drops several octaves, “//Take care of Sammy. Watch out for Sammy. Keep the windows closed. Check that they’re locked three times. Don’t invite anyone in.//” His eyebrows lift. “//Don’t invite anyone over. Man up. Walk it off.//” He manages another flicker of a smile--not remotely convincing as he does so. “I was only ever a soldier. Your blond little warrior. Not a kid. Just another tool in your damned toolbox. Need your blunt instrument? Yeah, just call Dean.” Pause. “I’m not a person to you. I never was.” He’s too angry to pay attention to the sound of the door opening, and it definitely wasn’t locked. The shock of seeing John had consumed all of his attention. <br><br>John stares at Dean long after his son has spoken. But when he finally does talk, it’s with deft authority, “And now you’re ready. This is your fight too. Remember that, Dean. This thing stole your mother from us.” There’s a long pause. “And I don’t care how many Crossroads demons you kissed to seal the deal. You did what you had to do to be part of that fight. To tip the scales in our favour.” <br><br>Dean’s eyes widen, “You’re obsessed! What I did had nothing to do with this war and everything to do with taking care of Sam!” he blinks hard as his eyes redden from unshed tears. He sniffs equally hard to push down the emotions that demand release. “Be a father for once! I do what I do to protect //my family//! You’re the one that can’t take care of //any// of us! You’re the one that couldn’t protect mom! The one that wasn’t there when Sam died! I was sixteen years old and I didn’t even have a number to call! I called the Roadhouse to get us out of that house because I couldn’t handle it. I tried to talk to you about this for nine years--I only had ten after it happened and you stole one from me! All for your fight?! You’re a shit father.” <br><br>John finally shifts, sliding from the chair. His gaze deadens and he treads towards the younger Winchester. Gruffly, grimly, he closes the distance between them. “Say that again.” <br><br>And while Dean won’t lift a hand to his dad, he also won’t back down. “You’re a shit dad.” <br><br>The right hook that Dean takes to the face creams him against the floor. He breathes hard, trying to collect himself as he does so. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May was willing to stand by the door and let Dean finally get out everything his father deserved to hear. But when the man stands and then his Dean for standing up to him, she’s done being an impartial observer. Moving quickly but still near-silently, she flicks one of the shocker disks at the nearer of John Winchester’s calves then puts herself squarely between the two men. <br><br>“Touch him again and you’ll wish I’d stuck to electricity.” Her voice is level, but pitched angry-low, and she’s staring at the elder hunter with a look like a cobra just waiting for its prey to move so she can strike. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The electric shock to John’s calf has his crumpling to the ground with a low-sounding curse. He tugs at his calf, trying to soothe out the muscle as he continues to emit a string of similar sounding words. <br><br>Hot tears stream down Dean’s face. He wasn’t prepared to deal with this today. Sell his soul again? Sure. Punch Sam? If necessary. Yell at his father for letting him lose a whole precious year? Not a chance. He chokes them back as he breaks the cardinal rule for surviving the Winchester house: don’t cry. But it’s unsuccessful. His back heaves with gasps for air in between the emotions he’s finally processing. He slides his legs towards his hands and forces himself to look up at May, once again mopping his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. <br><br>Dean’s expression steels some, scrunching into an indiscernible mess as he looks up at her. “Hi, May.” His throat clears and his gaze trains on the floor. <br><br>“You’ve gone soft,” John observes as he continues to massage his calf. And then a glance towards May, “Not like you to let someone else take your fight. Take it you know this bitch.” <br><br>“...don’t call her that,” the warning in Dean’s voice is unmissable. He pushes himself to a sit and presses his hand to the eye that just took the hit. <br><br><br />
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:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Better ‘bitch’ than ‘The Cavalry’. May can think of all kinds of cutting things to quip at this man -- she HAS been around Darcy increasingly of late -- but she keeps it all to herself. She knows he’ll only use them to further cement his deluded opinions about everyone and everything. <br><br>“Let Dean talk, Corporal Winchester, or I’ll tase you and then let him talk while you drool into the carpet.” She stays very decidedly between them until the man chooses to back down. If he chooses to. <br><br>“Dean, Lewis has reported back. They’re safe and headed back to the Hyperion.” Dean can’t NOT know she’s wearing a comm link in one ear. John can just wonder how the hell she knows that. She couldn’t care less. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean takes another long breath and releases it slowly. He’s finally locked down the tears. His hand motions towards Agent May, “May.” And then towards his father, “John Winchester.” His eyes actually roll at that. The relief in Dean’s expression is palpable when May says that they were heading to the Hyperion. “Good,” he mumbles. He doesn’t feel like playing referee tonight, especially with everything feeling so raw. It has the bonus of buying him time before he needs to jet as well. <br><br>John brings himself back to a stand. His eyebrows lift at May and a sly smile spreads over his lips. “No ties, Dean,” he almost coos as he treads back to the table. He doesn’t see the need to be tased. <br><br>“Shove it, Dad,” Dean deadpans back. He looks towards May. The defeat in his eyes can’t be missed. “Lewis say if Sam was mad?” his eyes actually narrow at that. His dad can punch him and not get an iota of concern, but Sam’s anger isn’t something he wants. He swallows hard and levels a look at John. “Why are you even here?” <br><br>“I told you. We need to rally and get yellow eyes now that you’re both ready--” <br><br>Dean’s tongue licks his lips. “I all but told you I have a year to live--I’ve been telling you for years that my time is short. Can you just stop?” His eyes flit towards May for a moment only to turn back to John. “Just stop. Sam is in legit trouble--” <br><br>John interrupts, “--because you weren’t watching out for him. I always told you to keep an eye on Sammy. You know that’s what you were supposed to be doing.” <br><br>Wordlessly Dean casts another look towards May. Helplessly, his hands press to his forehead. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“She didn’t.” And considering Darcy’s tendency to blather on about everything, there’s no way it would have gone unmentioned. She watches the man stand and return to the table then, as if to make the promise of stepping in again clear, she pulls her ICER and sets it on the counter above Dean’s head as she passes him into the kitchen. Her goal: to get him an ice pack for that eye. <br><br>John’s interrupting earns him another death glare. “Shut up and let him talk.” It might be exactly the sort of thing that Ellen Harvelle might tell the man, but the VERY clear promise of violence in her deadpan words are likely unique. <br><br>Damn. No wonder these boys are some of the most stubborn little punks she’s ever had to deal with. They’re actually not as bad as their father. By far. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean nods at May’s response. That, at least, gives him small comfort. And then decidedly, he levels a look at John, “You can’t be here.” That’s the long and short of it. “You found us. Good for you, but as I was trying to tell you, Sammy isn’t okay. When he was a baby A--” no, John does not get Azazel’s name “--yellow eyes,” his eyebrows lift pointedly, “gave him demon blood.” His eyes turn towards May, “He’s hooked. Been doping… somehow,” he actually shrugs at that, not knowing Sam’s source still. He stares at John, “If you talk to him like this, Sam will tear you apart.” <br><br>The freezer is painfully barren save for a ridiculously large box of burgers and a bag of peas that Dean had called rabbit food when Sam had actually cooked it. There are reasons the peas were tucked so far back behind the box of burgers. <br><br>Dean’s head shakes. “I’m not staying anyways. I have to go.” <br><br>“To get yellow eyes. We have a trail to blaze, Dean. I’m hot on--” John begins again. <br><br>“...No. I have to go because I changed my deal.” He shoots May a semi-apologetic look. “I bought more time so I can help Sam navigate--” his eyes lid and he emits a soft breath “--whatever he’s going through. But there’s a deadline. And I need to… apologize to someone in advance.” <br><br>John looks towards May a moment and then squints at Dean. “No ties. You know the rules. Ties just bog you down. They’re liabilities. They get killed. They get you killed.” <br><br>Dean’s lips twitch. “Or they make life worth living.” There’s a long pause and his eyebrows draw together sharply, “Good to know what you think of us, Dad.” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Hooked. On demon blood. “流口水的婊子和猴子的笨儿子。 (liú kǒushuǐ de biǎozǐ hé hóuzǐ de bèn érzǐ。)” There’s another softly uttered Chinese phrase, the inflections clearly implying that it’s a curse. THAT’s what was in those injections that Hydra was plying Sam with, and why they didn’t come up on any tox screens. <br><br>Hearing that Dean changed his deal makes May turn and frown openly, though she finds herself to be completely unsurprised by WHY he did so. That does explain some of the other comments she’s heard from him and John, and from that as yet unidentified voice that had been in the car. <br><br>And, seeing as Dean’s planning on cutting out, she doesn’t bother with trying to make that bag of peas into a cold compress. She turns back to pick up her ICER -- which undoubtedly looks nothing like any sidearm John has ever seen before unless he’s been stealing from SHIELD -- and aims it squarely at the elder Hunter. Two of the people in this room know the weapon isn’t lethal. Is the third going to bet on it? <br><br>“Go do what you need to do,” she tells Dean. “Your father and I need to have a chat.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean nods at May. “Can you… could you just make sure he’s not here when Sam gets back? Please.” His eyebrows draw together, but he’s trusting her enough to do the simple task of showing John Winchester the door. He brings himself up to a stand, takes a long breath, shaking his head all the while, and slips out of the apartment, all the while wondering how on earth he’s going to explain this. He only just took this leap. He’s convinced she won’t forgive him. But, despite his instincts, he wants to tell her. It’s exactly what John Winchester wouldn’t do. <br><br>The weapon levelled at him earns stiff, but arrogant stoicness from the elder Winchester. He eyes May evenly from his spot on the chair. “Didn’t think Dean ever needed anyone else to fight for him.” His lips purse. “That seemed more like Sammy’s territory.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>She keeps the weapon trained on John for a solid five minutes after Dean slips out the door. “I’m not fighting, unless you really want me to. What I am doing is protecting him from the biggest negative influence he’s had to deal with his entire life.” She doesn’t mention that one of the first things that SHIELD teaches anyone that receives combat training is how to NOT fight. It’s the more difficult skill to learn, by far. And in May’s mind, Sam has proven that he has already learned it well. Entirely because of Dean’s influence. <br><br>In fact, she can detect very little of John Winchester’s arrogance and bravado when she thinks about the youngest Winchester. Just the stubbornness. In spades. <br><br>“Tell me everything you know about demons, of the crossroads variety and otherwise.” Maybe he’ll say something that will help her identify that voice from the phone conversation in the car. She’s fairly certain that the man was a crossroads demon, but there has to be something more. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“I don’t need to fight you, Lady,” John replies with a smirk. “And anything good in either of those boys came from me. I raised them alone,” the way he says it suggests he actually believes it. “I made sure they were fed, clothed. I taught them to be independent. To be aware of what goes bump in the night. That was me. No one else was there for them. At all.” <br><br>John actually squints at May at the last. “Demons are all very different. Crossroads demons though? They’re their own brand of special. Salespeople. All they’re about is collecting souls. It’s like Doctor Faustus if you ever read it. People make deals with them in order to get something--in Dean’s case, sounds like Sam’s life.” His eyebrows lift as if to suggest it a perfectly normal practice. “It’s not advisable, but it’s real. Normally the deal is sealed with a kiss.” <br><br>His lips hitch up smugly on one side. “In general though? Most demons have black eyes behind those they possess. From what I know they used to be people,” his lips purse at the last. “That’s why the collecting is so important to them.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May tucks the ICER away inside her jacket, though she is still VERY much prepared to take the man down if he decides to resort to violence. “I don’t know. The way it looks to me, Dean was the one that made sure Sam was fed and clothed and attending school.” Again, she implies that she knows more but doesn’t outright say it. But it most definitely cements in her mind that she wants to go speak with one Robert Singer. <br><br>She listens to John as he discusses the crossroads demons, and mostly it only confirms what she’d already gleaned on her own over the past several days. The mention of the kiss reminds her of that unidentified voice again. And, being more familiar with the Chinese version of Hell than Western, she latches onto that small loophole. <br><br>“If the deal isn’t sealed in that manner, can it be contested?” That might be a way to get Dean free while minimizing consequences. She’s still not counting out taking more drastic measures such as tracking down and speaking with an Asgardian. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Where do you think Dean learned to do those things?” John asks gruffly. He rubs his cheek and hums quietly. “Anything they are, I did.” He swallows hard around the thought. It’s entirely possible it’s just what he tells himself at night in order to sleep. “And yeah, Dean did a lot, but he was equipped for it.” His head motions towards the door, “He’s still looking out for Sammy. I’d count that a win.” His eyebrows lift. “Only time he didn’t seems that Sam got himself into some real trouble. Kid shouldn’t have gone off to school.” Except John left one son with the ocean people to be tortured while leading the other on the weirdest wild goose chase… with the goal of strengthening them both. <br><br>The question about the deal being contested earns May a sharp cant of John’s head. “Depends. I’ve heard of some contracts being signed. Physical signature would be imminently important in that case if there’s no kiss. Verbal contracts?” His head shakes. “Don’t think it’d hold up. For either party. No resurrection of the dead. No sacrifice later on.” <br><br>Which implies that Dean’s original contract stands. It’d be useful if Dean knew that. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>At that confirmation, May curses again, though it sounds a bit different this time -- because it’s Japanese. She pulls her phone and dials, and … the phone on the counter rings. Which elicits another curse. And then she touches the comm link in her ear. “Ops. May. Trace Dean Winchester’s vehicle and get me his current location.” She knows that this is going to take time, as the SHIELD analysts will have to use traffic cameras to try and spot the Impala. <br><br>She looks at John Winchester again squarely. “What do you know about addiction to demon blood?” Might as well pull as much intel as she can out of the man while he’s here. Though, he might clam up now that she’s openly revealed that she’s a fed of some sort. She remembers only too well how Sam reacted. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>John frowns at May. “Demon blood for most of us is just… unsanitary and really gross. I have no idea why Dean seems to think his brother is hooked.” His frown deepens, “But if yellow eyes gave it to him as a baby?” he shrugs. “Could explain some things.” His lips twist to the side. “A lot of things,” while he may be a grifter, May knows how to read people. He knows more than he lets on. A lot more. <br><br>And knowing full well that May is packing something, he cringes, “Look. Agent whatever you are,” because she’s clearly a fed, “yellow eyes has some plan for Sam. I know that. He killed Mary for it. If,” and the way he says it implies a big if, but his eyes don’t speak the same truth, “Sam got demon blood as a baby, it’s possible he reacts to it differently now.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Then it sounds like you need to get back to tracking that demon down. Leave your sons to fend for themselves, it seems to be what you and they are best at.” Of course, now they also have May watching out for them, and John can take that however he sees fit. She, again, could not care less. <br><br>“Now, are you going to leave, or will I need to show you out?” She’s got other places to be. And if that’s all the intel the man has, he’s wasting her time. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Oh, I’ll go,” John manages a nearly feline smile as he stands from his chair. “But be sure to tell Sammy I said hi.” He shoots her a sidelong glance, “Dean won’t. You’ve seen how much those two keep from each other.” There’s a pause. “And if no one tells him, he’ll be mad.” John may or may not be right about that. <br><br>“Good meeting you, agent.” His eyebrows lift and he treads to the door, all the more determined to find the youngest Winchester. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May stays where she is and watches John Winchester leave, then after giving him about a thirty second lead she also leaves the apartment, but not without first taking a moment to lock the door behind herself. What? Never heard of using lock picks to lock a door? <br><br>Back on the roof she gets the quinjet into the air. “Ops. May. Notify me the moment you have Dean Winchester’s location.” She then contacts Darcy to get Sam’s whereabouts from her and sets the quinjet moving. Let’s see whatever car Winchester is using now beat the fact that she is completely circumventing traffic. <br><br>Because she’ll be damned if that ass drops in and surprises Sam. That would be the worst possible thing that could happen. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Aye, May,” a Scottish voice returns through the earpiece. “This is not an easy one, yeah? I’m tellin’ you, you could get these agents to get the subdermal tracker. No one will know it’s there. Heck, they don’t need to know it’s there. We can do it next time they’re here. Just ask Simmons. Would save a lot of time, yeah?” the voice is chipper enough. <br><br>“If it’s easier, we can even do it while they’re out. I mean… of consciousness. The pair of them seem to get hurt enough.” The observation is easy. “But yeah, I’ll let you know when we have progress.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Fitz,” May says curtly, “no.” <br><br>The flight over to this Hyperion place is a matter of just a few minutes, and she determines that the building itself is likely not structurally sound enough to support the quinjet, so she lands the aircraft on the top of a parking garage about a block away and cloaks it. It’s necessary, but has her mentally cursing the delay the whole way. <br><br>Now there’s just four flights of stairs and a block to run to get to Sam. He’d better still be there or she will be very. Put. Out. <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Wasted_Years&diff=1417Wasted Years2017-08-27T01:45:15Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/08/24 |Location=Hell's Kitchen--Winchester Apartment |Synopsis=Dean returns home after a particularly rough day to an uninvited guest. |Cast o..."</p>
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<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/08/24<br />
|Location=Hell's Kitchen--Winchester Apartment<br />
|Synopsis=Dean returns home after a particularly rough day to an uninvited guest.<br />
|Cast of Characters=5, Dean Winchester,<br />
|Tinyplot=Blood on My Name<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>As the noise of Dean’s phone clattering to the floor comes through, May startles enough to stop in the middle of the Triskelion hallway, earning her more than a few concerned glances. It’s NOT like her to do anything like that. She’s listening as intently as she can again, and faintly hears the deeper voice that is answered by Dean. <br><br>Did he just say ‘Dad’? <br><br>“见他的鬼 (jiàn tā de guǐ).” She continues toward the quinjet hangar bay ahead, now walking at that pace that makes everyone else in the area get the hell out of her way and the flight deck crew just let her board the nearest already prepped jet. (Clearly, someone called ahead and said she’d be needing to take one.) <br><br>Switching the phone call to her earpiece, she buckles into the pilot’s seat and and with a series of hasty commands entered into the jet’s systems as well as spoken over the vehicle’s headset, she has the bird in the air and on the way to Hell’s Kitchen in record time. <br><br>Oh, and while she’s doing so, she also puts in a request to have Sam’s cell phone tracked and Lewis sent out to retrieve him and Fred. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s breath rakes in his throat and like a statue he freezes in the doorway. His eyebrows draw together and his lips twitch into a small frown. The demon traps that protect the apartment aren’t enough to grant him any sense of assurance, and the sound of heavy booted steps along creaky floors demonstrate the speed he closes the distance to his father. The flask of holy water that he’d so unceremoniously flung at his brother is tossed towards his father and mixed with a mitt full of salt. <br><br>And John just sits there as his son does each of these actions; nearly proud with the lack of trust Dean displays. His lips curve at the edges and he actually nods. “Smart,” he offers with a smug smile. “Where’s your brother?” <br><br>When nothing happens, Dean’s shoulders droop. “So… you’re fine,” he hisses angrily. “//Totally fine.//” Crowley’s departing words linger over his mind and his head shakes, “You did it, didn’t you?” <br><br>“Come on Dean. Man up,” his eyebrows lift expectantly as he remains fixed in the chair at the kitchen table. “I expected this from your brother. You know what this fight is. This is an all out war.” <br><br>Dean’s jaw tightens. His eyes turn back towards the door and the phone he’d dropped just moments ago, but he’s too angry to move to it, instead lunging towards his father’s collar. “You put Sammy on a wild goose chase to find me, didn’t you? You left me to be tortured for //a year//--” disbelief colours his expression, pulling at the edges of his eyes, lips, cheeks. Everything draws downwards as he finally puts it together “--all for what?!” <br><br>“To make you better. Harder. Stronger. To bring Sam back--we need him if we’re gonna--” John asserts evenly, too-calmly. <br><br>“What… win?!” Dean finally lets go of John’s collar and turns on his heel, forgetting about the phone as he retreats into the bedroom. Madly he begins to pack the black duffle bag. “You fucked it up, old man,” he calls back to the other room. “All of it.” <br><br>“Dean, you’re ready for this. We can get yellow eyes together. All three of us. Sammy is finally capable of doing this, you are strong enough to handle it--we can do this,” John replies. “We’ve waited decades to get that thing, and we’re in a position to do it. Together. Without that year in the ocean, Sam wouldn’t be ready, you know that.” He quirks a side-smile, “Besides, it’s not like you’re married to this place, are ya? This isn’t who you are. We both know that. We’ll get the two of you packed and we can find that son of a bitch.” <br><br>When Dean reappears in the main space, he swallows hard. With the black duffle bag around his shoulder, it might look like Dean is ready to follow John anywhere. But the glisten of his eyes and the way they train on the floor speaks volumes otherwise. “Fuck you.” He actually spits on the floor, only to immediately regret it. He’s going to have to clean that up. His eyes roll and he walks to the sink to grab a cloth only to catch sight of the phone on the way back. His shoulders slump and he plucks it from the floor and presses it to his ear. “...May…” There’s a long pause as he looks back towards John and shakes his head. “Sam and Fred are at the Crossroads by the junkyard near Mercy’s garage.” He frowns. <br><br>John shrugs. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Better. Stronger. Harder. May’s expression darkens as she picks up snippets of their conversation around the clomping of their boots on the floor which the phone is only too happy to translate. The man sounds more like a damned Daft Punk song than a father. And even May -- who has never been a parent -- can tell that. <br><br>Then finally someone picks the phone up again, and it’s Dean. “I already put a trace on Sam, and Lewis is on her way to get them. Stay where you are.” She sounds utterly and completely emotionless, which Dean might or might not already recognize as a Bad Thing™. <br><br>And for those with good hearing -- and the phone in their hand -- the still rather faint sound of a aircraft’s engines echoing the sound coming from outside. And overhead. Very shortly followed by a more felt than heard sensation of something settling onto the building’s roof. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Normally, Dean would just keep doing what he’s doing. Ordinarily, he’d not heed such an order from anyone. But today he stays put, save for scrubbing his own contempt from the floor’s surface. He sets the phone down again. This time choosing not to hang up. There’s rebellion in the action. <br><br>“You are a soldier,” John states evenly to his son without moving from his spot at the table. “And now Sam is too,” a grim smile pulls at all of John’s features. <br><br>But even with his decision already made, all he can do is shake his head. “No. No, Dad. I’m not.” His lips quirk into a self-deprecating grin--merriless, empty, but present. “I’m a slave.” His lips twitch and he turns his head towards the door. “And a whore.” His nose wrinkles as he spits out the next, “And a cheater.” He laughs. The sound is empty. “And it’s all because of you.” <br><br>Dean takes two steps towards John. His teeth clench and he hisses between them, “//You// did this. You didn’t parent me, you sure as hell didn’t parent Sammy. No, I got to do that.” His eyebrows draw together. “Sammy //died// when he was twelve. It was an accident. Kind of,” he emits an audible breath from the back of his throat, “We were hunting something and he drowned.” <br><br>“...he’s alive now,” John observes. <br><br>“Yeah. He’s alive now,” Dean agrees coolly. “No thanks to you.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May sets the jet’s engines to low idle and disembarks as quickly and quietly as possible, still listening to what she can, then pulling a gadget from her pocket to more closely zero in on the Winchesters’ exact location -- she made a point of not asking for this apartment’s location, another gesture to help earn Dean’s trust. She’s got it for sure now, and she’s hoping it’s not too little, too late. <br><br>Upon reaching the correct door, she picks the lock with the ease of MUCH practice (if Dean even bothered locking it behind himself), and slips inside. Now is a test of both men’s situational awareness and reflexes. She’s palmed a couple of Natasha’s shocker discs just in case. She’s kind of hoping she won’t need to use them… and kind of hoping she does. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“I was never a kid to you,” Dean observes. His voice drops several octaves, “//Take care of Sammy. Watch out for Sammy. Keep the windows closed. Check that they’re locked three times. Don’t invite anyone in.//” His eyebrows lift. “//Don’t invite anyone over. Man up. Walk it off.//” He manages another flicker of a smile--not remotely convincing as he does so. “I was only ever a soldier. Your blond little warrior. Not a kid. Just another tool in your damned toolbox. Need your blunt instrument? Yeah, just call Dean.” Pause. “I’m not a person to you. I never was.” He’s too angry to pay attention to the sound of the door opening, and it definitely wasn’t locked. The shock of seeing John had consumed all of his attention. <br><br>John stares at Dean long after his son has spoken. But when he finally does talk, it’s with deft authority, “And now you’re ready. This is your fight too. Remember that, Dean. This thing stole your mother from us.” There’s a long pause. “And I don’t care how many Crossroads demons you kissed to seal the deal. You did what you had to do to be part of that fight. To tip the scales in our favour.” <br><br>Dean’s eyes widen, “You’re obsessed! What I did had nothing to do with this war and everything to do with taking care of Sam!” he blinks hard as his eyes redden from unshed tears. He sniffs equally hard to push down the emotions that demand release. “Be a father for once! I do what I do to protect //my family//! You’re the one that can’t take care of //any// of us! You’re the one that couldn’t protect mom! The one that wasn’t there when Sam died! I was sixteen years old and I didn’t even have a number to call! I called the Roadhouse to get us out of that house because I couldn’t handle it. I tried to talk to you about this for nine years--I only had ten after it happened and you stole one from me! All for your fight?! You’re a shit father.” <br><br>John finally shifts, sliding from the chair. His gaze deadens and he treads towards the younger Winchester. Gruffly, grimly, he closes the distance between them. “Say that again.” <br><br>And while Dean won’t lift a hand to his dad, he also won’t back down. “You’re a shit dad.” <br><br>The right hook that Dean takes to the face creams him against the floor. He breathes hard, trying to collect himself as he does so. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May was willing to stand by the door and let Dean finally get out everything his father deserved to hear. But when the man stands and then his Dean for standing up to him, she’s done being an impartial observer. Moving quickly but still near-silently, she flicks one of the shocker disks at the nearer of John Winchester’s calves then puts herself squarely between the two men. <br><br>“Touch him again and you’ll wish I’d stuck to electricity.” Her voice is level, but pitched angry-low, and she’s staring at the elder hunter with a look like a cobra just waiting for its prey to move so she can strike. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The electric shock to John’s calf has his crumpling to the ground with a low-sounding curse. He tugs at his calf, trying to soothe out the muscle as he continues to emit a string of similar sounding words. <br><br>Hot tears stream down Dean’s face. He wasn’t prepared to deal with this today. Sell his soul again? Sure. Punch Sam? If necessary. Yell at his father for letting him lose a whole precious year? Not a chance. He chokes them back as he breaks the cardinal rule for surviving the Winchester house: don’t cry. But it’s unsuccessful. His back heaves with gasps for air in between the emotions he’s finally processing. He slides his legs towards his hands and forces himself to look up at May, once again mopping his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. <br><br>Dean’s expression steels some, scrunching into an indiscernible mess as he looks up at her. “Hi, May.” His throat clears and his gaze trains on the floor. <br><br>“You’ve gone soft,” John observes as he continues to massage his calf. And then a glance towards May, “Not like you to let someone else take your fight. Take it you know this bitch.” <br><br>“...don’t call her that,” the warning in Dean’s voice is unmissable. He pushes himself to a sit and presses his hand to the eye that just took the hit. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Better ‘bitch’ than ‘The Cavalry’. May can think of all kinds of cutting things to quip at this man -- she HAS been around Darcy increasingly of late -- but she keeps it all to herself. She knows he’ll only use them to further cement his deluded opinions about everyone and everything. <br><br>“Let Dean talk, Corporal Winchester, or I’ll tase you and then let him talk while you drool into the carpet.” She stays very decidedly between them until the man chooses to back down. If he chooses to. <br><br>“Dean, Lewis has reported back. They’re safe and headed back to the Hyperion.” Dean can’t NOT know she’s wearing a comm link in one ear. John can just wonder how the hell she knows that. She couldn’t care less. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean takes another long breath and releases it slowly. He’s finally locked down the tears. His hand motions towards Agent May, “May.” And then towards his father, “John Winchester.” His eyes actually roll at that. The relief in Dean’s expression is palpable when May says that they were heading to the Hyperion. “Good,” he mumbles. He doesn’t feel like playing referee tonight, especially with everything feeling so raw. It has the bonus of buying him time before he needs to jet as well. <br><br>John brings himself back to a stand. His eyebrows lift at May and a sly smile spreads over his lips. “No ties, Dean,” he almost coos as he treads back to the table. He doesn’t see the need to be tased. <br><br>“Shove it, Dad,” Dean deadpans back. He looks towards May. The defeat in his eyes can’t be missed. “Lewis say if Sam was mad?” his eyes actually narrow at that. His dad can punch him and not get an iota of concern, but Sam’s anger isn’t something he wants. He swallows hard and levels a look at John. “Why are you even here?” <br><br>“I told you. We need to rally and get yellow eyes now that you’re both ready--” <br><br>Dean’s tongue licks his lips. “I all but told you I have a year to live--I’ve been telling you for years that my time is short. Can you just stop?” His eyes flit towards May for a moment only to turn back to John. “Just stop. Sam is in legit trouble--” <br><br>John interrupts, “--because you weren’t watching out for him. I always told you to keep an eye on Sammy. You know that’s what you were supposed to be doing.” <br><br>Wordlessly Dean casts another look towards May. Helplessly, his hands press to his forehead. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“She didn’t.” And considering Darcy’s tendency to blather on about everything, there’s no way it would have gone unmentioned. She watches the man stand and return to the table then, as if to make the promise of stepping in again clear, she pulls her ICER and sets it on the counter above Dean’s head as she passes him into the kitchen. Her goal: to get him an ice pack for that eye. <br><br>John’s interrupting earns him another death glare. “Shut up and let him talk.” It might be exactly the sort of thing that Ellen Harvelle might tell the man, but the VERY clear promise of violence in her deadpan words are likely unique. <br><br>Damn. No wonder these boys are some of the most stubborn little punks she’s ever had to deal with. They’re actually not as bad as their father. By far. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean nods at May’s response. That, at least, gives him small comfort. And then decidedly, he levels a look at John, “You can’t be here.” That’s the long and short of it. “You found us. Good for you, but as I was trying to tell you, Sammy isn’t okay. When he was a baby A--” no, John does not get Azazel’s name “--yellow eyes,” his eyebrows lift pointedly, “gave him demon blood.” His eyes turn towards May, “He’s hooked. Been doping… somehow,” he actually shrugs at that, not knowing Sam’s source still. He stares at John, “If you talk to him like this, Sam will tear you apart.” <br><br>The freezer is painfully barren save for a ridiculously large box of burgers and a bag of peas that Dean had called rabbit food when Sam had actually cooked it. There are reasons the peas were tucked so far back behind the box of burgers. <br><br>Dean’s head shakes. “I’m not staying anyways. I have to go.” <br><br>“To get yellow eyes. We have a trail to blaze, Dean. I’m hot on--” John begins again. <br><br>“...No. I have to go because I changed my deal.” He shoots May a semi-apologetic look. “I bought more time so I can help Sam navigate--” his eyes lid and he emits a soft breath “--whatever he’s going through. But there’s a deadline. And I need to… apologize to someone in advance.” <br><br>John looks towards May a moment and then squints at Dean. “No ties. You know the rules. Ties just bog you down. They’re liabilities. They get killed. They get you killed.” <br><br>Dean’s lips twitch. “Or they make life worth living.” There’s a long pause and his eyebrows draw together sharply, “Good to know what you think of us, Dad.” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Hooked. On demon blood. “流口水的婊子和猴子的笨儿子。 (liú kǒushuǐ de biǎozǐ hé hóuzǐ de bèn érzǐ。)” There’s another softly uttered Chinese phrase, the inflections clearly implying that it’s a curse. THAT’s what was in those injections that Hydra was plying Sam with, and why they didn’t come up on any tox screens. <br><br>Hearing that Dean changed his deal makes May turn and frown openly, though she finds herself to be completely unsurprised by WHY he did so. That does explain some of the other comments she’s heard from him and John, and from that as yet unidentified voice that had been in the car. <br><br>And, seeing as Dean’s planning on cutting out, she doesn’t bother with trying to make that bag of peas into a cold compress. She turns back to pick up her ICER -- which undoubtedly looks nothing like any sidearm John has ever seen before unless he’s been stealing from SHIELD -- and aims it squarely at the elder Hunter. Two of the people in this room know the weapon isn’t lethal. Is the third going to bet on it? <br><br>“Go do what you need to do,” she tells Dean. “Your father and I need to have a chat.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean nods at May. “Can you… could you just make sure he’s not here when Sam gets back? Please.” His eyebrows draw together, but he’s trusting her enough to do the simple task of showing John Winchester the door. He brings himself up to a stand, takes a long breath, shaking his head all the while, and slips out of the apartment, all the while wondering how on earth he’s going to explain this. He only just took this leap. He’s convinced she won’t forgive him. But, despite his instincts, he wants to tell her. It’s exactly what John Winchester wouldn’t do. <br><br>The weapon levelled at him earns stiff, but arrogant stoicness from the elder Winchester. He eyes May evenly from his spot on the chair. “Didn’t think Dean ever needed anyone else to fight for him.” His lips purse. “That seemed more like Sammy’s territory.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>She keeps the weapon trained on John for a solid five minutes after Dean slips out the door. “I’m not fighting, unless you really want me to. What I am doing is protecting him from the biggest negative influence he’s had to deal with his entire life.” She doesn’t mention that one of the first things that SHIELD teaches anyone that receives combat training is how to NOT fight. It’s the more difficult skill to learn, by far. And in May’s mind, Sam has proven that he has already learned it well. Entirely because of Dean’s influence. <br><br>In fact, she can detect very little of John Winchester’s arrogance and bravado when she thinks about the youngest Winchester. Just the stubbornness. In spades. <br><br>“Tell me everything you know about demons, of the crossroads variety and otherwise.” Maybe he’ll say something that will help her identify that voice from the phone conversation in the car. She’s fairly certain that the man was a crossroads demon, but there has to be something more. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“I don’t need to fight you, Lady,” John replies with a smirk. “And anything good in either of those boys came from me. I raised them alone,” the way he says it suggests he actually believes it. “I made sure they were fed, clothed. I taught them to be independent. To be aware of what goes bump in the night. That was me. No one else was there for them. At all.” <br><br>John actually squints at May at the last. “Demons are all very different. Crossroads demons though? They’re their own brand of special. Salespeople. All they’re about is collecting souls. It’s like Doctor Faustus if you ever read it. People make deals with them in order to get something--in Dean’s case, sounds like Sam’s life.” His eyebrows lift as if to suggest it a perfectly normal practice. “It’s not advisable, but it’s real. Normally the deal is sealed with a kiss.” <br><br>His lips hitch up smugly on one side. “In general though? Most demons have black eyes behind those they possess. From what I know they used to be people,” his lips purse at the last. “That’s why the collecting is so important to them.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May tucks the ICER away inside her jacket, though she is still VERY much prepared to take the man down if he decides to resort to violence. “I don’t know. The way it looks to me, Dean was the one that made sure Sam was fed and clothed and attending school.” Again, she implies that she knows more but doesn’t outright say it. But it most definitely cements in her mind that she wants to go speak with one Robert Singer. <br><br>She listens to John as he discusses the crossroads demons, and mostly it only confirms what she’d already gleaned on her own over the past several days. The mention of the kiss reminds her of that unidentified voice again. And, being more familiar with the Chinese version of Hell than Western, she latches onto that small loophole. <br><br>“If the deal isn’t sealed in that manner, can it be contested?” That might be a way to get Dean free while minimizing consequences. She’s still not counting out taking more drastic measures such as tracking down and speaking with an Asgardian. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Where do you think Dean learned to do those things?” John asks gruffly. He rubs his cheek and hums quietly. “Anything they are, I did.” He swallows hard around the thought. It’s entirely possible it’s just what he tells himself at night in order to sleep. “And yeah, Dean did a lot, but he was equipped for it.” His head motions towards the door, “He’s still looking out for Sammy. I’d count that a win.” His eyebrows lift. “Only time he didn’t seems that Sam got himself into some real trouble. Kid shouldn’t have gone off to school.” Except John left one son with the ocean people to be tortured while leading the other on the weirdest wild goose chase… with the goal of strengthening them both. <br><br>The question about the deal being contested earns May a sharp cant of John’s head. “Depends. I’ve heard of some contracts being signed. Physical signature would be imminently important in that case if there’s no kiss. Verbal contracts?” His head shakes. “Don’t think it’d hold up. For either party. No resurrection of the dead. No sacrifice later on.” <br><br>Which implies that Dean’s original contract stands. It’d be useful if Dean knew that. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>At that confirmation, May curses again, though it sounds a bit different this time -- because it’s Japanese. She pulls her phone and dials, and … the phone on the counter rings. Which elicits another curse. And then she touches the comm link in her ear. “Ops. May. Trace Dean Winchester’s vehicle and get me his current location.” She knows that this is going to take time, as the SHIELD analysts will have to use traffic cameras to try and spot the Impala. <br><br>She looks at John Winchester again squarely. “What do you know about addiction to demon blood?” Might as well pull as much intel as she can out of the man while he’s here. Though, he might clam up now that she’s openly revealed that she’s a fed of some sort. She remembers only too well how Sam reacted. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>John frowns at May. “Demon blood for most of us is just… unsanitary and really gross. I have no idea why Dean seems to think his brother is hooked.” His frown deepens, “But if yellow eyes gave it to him as a baby?” he shrugs. “Could explain some things.” His lips twist to the side. “A lot of things,” while he may be a grifter, May knows how to read people. He knows more than he lets on. A lot more. <br><br>And knowing full well that May is packing something, he cringes, “Look. Agent whatever you are,” because she’s clearly a fed, “yellow eyes has some plan for Sam. I know that. He killed Mary for it. If,” and the way he says it implies a big if, but his eyes don’t speak the same truth, “Sam got demon blood as a baby, it’s possible he reacts to it differently now.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Then it sounds like you need to get back to tracking that demon down. Leave your sons to fend for themselves, it seems to be what you and they are best at.” Of course, now they also have May watching out for them, and John can take that however he sees fit. She, again, could not care less. <br><br>“Now, are you going to leave, or will I need to show you out?” She’s got other places to be. And if that’s all the intel the man has, he’s wasting her time. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Oh, I’ll go,” John manages a nearly feline smile as he stands from his chair. “But be sure to tell Sammy I said hi.” He shoots her a sidelong glance, “Dean won’t. You’ve seen how much those two keep from each other.” There’s a pause. “And if no one tells him, he’ll be mad.” John may or may not be right about that. <br><br>“Good meeting you, agent.” His eyebrows lift and he treads to the door, all the more determined to find the youngest Winchester. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May stays where she is and watches John Winchester leave, then after giving him about a thirty second lead she also leaves the apartment, but not without first taking a moment to lock the door behind herself. What? Never heard of using lock picks to lock a door? <br><br>Back on the roof she gets the quinjet into the air. “Ops. May. Notify me the moment you have Dean Winchester’s location.” She then contacts Darcy to get Sam’s whereabouts from her and sets the quinjet moving. Let’s see whatever car Winchester is using now beat the fact that she is completely circumventing traffic. <br><br>Because she’ll be damned if that ass drops in and surprises Sam. That would be the worst possible thing that could happen. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Aye, May,” a Scottish voice returns through the earpiece. “This is not an easy one, yeah? I’m tellin’ you, you could get these agents to get the subdermal tracker. No one will know it’s there. Heck, they don’t need to know it’s there. We can do it next time they’re here. Just ask Simmons. Would save a lot of time, yeah?” the voice is chipper enough. <br><br>“If it’s easier, we can even do it while they’re out. I mean… of consciousness. The pair of them seem to get hurt enough.” The observation is easy. “But yeah, I’ll let you know when we have progress.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>“Fitz,” May says curtly, “no.” <br><br>The flight over to this Hyperion place is a matter of just a few minutes, and she determines that the building itself is likely not structurally sound enough to support the quinjet, so she lands the aircraft on the top of a parking garage about a block away and cloaks it. It’s necessary, but has her mentally cursing the delay the whole way. <br><br>Now there’s just four flights of stairs and a block to run to get to Sam. He’d better still be there or she will be very. Put. Out. <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Wanted&diff=1415Wanted2017-08-27T01:25:00Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/08/24<br />
|Location=Crossroads<br />
|Synopsis=After Sam uses his telekinesis to help capture the Winter Soldier, emotions run high and truth bombs are dropped.<br />
|Cast of Characters=294, 306, 160, 5<br />
|Tinyplot=Blood on My Name<br />
|Tinyplot2=Tayaniye<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>August 24, 2025 <br><br>The Winter Soldier has been tranqed twice with werewolf darts and shot six times with ICER bullets, then transported to be chained up in Mercy’s garage with, one at least hopes, his arm out of commission. Sam had avoided looking too closely at anyone after confirming that Fred was, indeed, not permanently damaged by the soldier’s attack. <br><br>In truth, he’s still shaking with fury. It hasn’t quite subsided yet. Fury and fear, feeling like he almost lost two of the people he cares about most in the world, along with a friend to whom he owes his life. The worst part is, this is mostly his fault. He and Claire were the ones who were all gung ho about saving the Soldier; everyone else had a lot more reservations. <br><br>His anger and, more than that, the overwhelming filthiness and shame he’s feeling are enough to send him to the back of the Impala, to let him offer the shotgun seat to Fred. For one thing, he does have a dull headache. He needs a dose now, though he’s hardly going to complain about that to them. Instead, he just stretches out back there, his hand on his head, not particularly caring where they go so long as it has a bathroom where he can shoot up. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>While Sam slumps into the back of the Impala and presumably Fred is gonna ride shot gun, Dean opens the trunk and rather unceremoniously begins to disarm himself. The tactical jacket comes off and for the first time in a very long time, he removes one weapon after another and unloads it into the trunk, all the while muttering to himself under his breath about one thing or another. Once in awhile, a good listener might catch the occasional word, “...Azazel… “ His eyes sting as he chokes on emotion. He knows more than he should; more than he has any right to. <br><br>He then unbuttons his next shirt and does the same. The pattern repeats itself a third time until he’s in nothing but his faded jeans and a tank. The clothes don’t feel remotely natural nor does the lack of weight, but he does it just the same. And once he’s stripped down, he grabs the large container of salt and the bottle of holy water from the back. His head shakes and he opens the driver’s side door and promptly tosses a handful of salt towards his brother followed by a holy water chaser. <br><br>A pointed look follows both. <br><br>After that’s finished, he puts the car into drive and the Impala sails down the road. <br><br>When the car comes to a stop, it’s at a nearby Crossroads. He proceeds to get out of the car, slamming the door behind him. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It took Fred a little while to recover from the attack. While the Winter Soldier was tranqued and chained, she coughed and started to breathe normally. Already, purple finger shaped bruises are starting to rise on her neck, but it doesn’t seem as if she needs to be taken to the hospital. For awhile, her attention is put squarely on the Soldier as they load him - chained - into a car to take to some place safe and out of the way. <br><br>However, once the immediate danger is out of the way, the shaken physicist is immediately by Sam’s side. The smell of sulphur is strong and she realizes she’s smelled it, weaker, before. Perhaps it’s for the best that Sam isn’t explaining right now because talking hurts. Instead, she studies him, curious and worried. He just threw an assassin onto a scrap yard magnet with his mind and now he won’t look at them. <br><br>A part of her wishes to slip into the back seat with Sam, but she realizes that he might need his space. Instead, she settles into the front seat with a wince and feeling like she’s bruised all over. Her eyes track the stalking Dean Winchester as he unarms himself and mutters. What is an Azazel? The toss of water and salt onto Sam furrows her brows. “What’re you doing?” she asks Dean, her voice a bit raspy, but there’s a bit of fear tinged in there. She knows what dousing someone in holy water and salt means. Through the ride, she’s twisted in her seat to keep an eye on Sam, so she’s not quite paying attention to where they’re being driven. She assumed Dean was driving back to their apartment. <br><br>When the Impala stops at a Crossroads, she looks even more worried and confused. “What is going on?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>An indignant, “Dude!” <br><br>That is the only result of salt and holy water on one Sam Winchester. But then he realizes what Dean is about and his mouth flattens. He reaches out to squeeze Fred’s shoulder. <br><br>“I’ll explain everything but I think Dean is about to make a bad deal with a worse demon. Help me talk him down, please.” <br><br>Then, pain or not, he is out of the car. <br><br>“Dean, we gotta find a way to get you out of this deal, man, not get you more entangled.” His voice is soft, earnest. “You don't need to enslave yourself to some high up crossroads demon. There is some other answer.” <br><br>Which of course means he knows more about Dean’s deals than he should. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred’s question receive little response save one basic thought: “Just stay in the car,” before the door slams shut. He trails to the trunk and pulls out the effects for the spell he’s been pondering for days. And it’s only when Sam is outside the car that he frowns and really reacts. <br><br>But his brother’s words leave more upset than he intends. Dean’s eyes darken. His lips press into a thin line. “I should’ve already taken it,” he hisses. “Then you wouldn’t have even remembered.” His eyes roll at his own decisions, too wholly aware that somehow he’s allowed fate to bring them to this point. <br><br>The small box is removed from the trunk. Already prepped save a few last items required. <br><br>“Get back in the car,” he deadpans. And for one of the first times in his life, his tone seems to mirror John’s.<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>That furrowed brow is not going to ease up anytime soon, it seems. He’ll explain later, they have to save Dean from a deal with a demon, Dean wants everyone to stay in the car? One thing is certain, the last order from Dean is not followed. With a squeak of metal, the Impala’s doors open and she gets out. <br><br>“What deal?” Fred asks, moving up to stand next to Sam as she studies both brothers. Clearly there is something going on here of which she has yet to even scratch the surface. “Can someone please start making some sense?” Her voice isn’t very loud - she can’t raise it too much without it hurting - but luckily there isn’t any traffic about them and her words can carry. <br><br>“Dean, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have to be telling you this, but making deals with demons is a bad thing. I learned that from church before I even knew they could be real.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sounding like John is a good way to turn Sam’s attitude. Ditto for looking like him. Sam’s nostrils flare and his mouth flattens into a tight, grim line. <br><br>“I drowned at 12,” he tells Fred. “I am not even supposed to be alive. Dean saved my life by making a deal. In less than a year, a hellhound is scheduled to drag him to the pit. But this demon he made the deal with wants to amend the deal. Some sort of slave arrangement in return for extended life.” <br><br>He turns to face Dean. “I don't want you doing this. Not for me. I’m not worth it. I failed to save you from the ocean people. I ran off to Stanford and abandoned you. I’ve never been anything but a disappointment. If they had been willing to deal with me I’d already have this handled!” <br><br>He sounds, by the end, a little desperate...and he has definitely revealed more than he meant to. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s expression turns stony. His eyes steel. His jaw tightens. His free hand balls into fist while the other works at the materials he’d already gathered to summon what needs to be summoned. His gaze flits towards Fred, “You wouldn’t have your boyfriend if I didn’t make a deal. You’d never have met. He’d never have gone to school. We wouldn't be here.” His nostrils flare, but he otherwise stays strangely stoic. “None of us.” <br><br>His throat clears. He’s choking around something altogether invisible. But he can feel it. Thick. Heavy. His eyes narrow and he turns towards Sam, “So… what? You were just going to die? Not say anything, not tell anyone, just here and then gone?” There’s some irony to Dean being critical about death deals, yet the critique remains. “And the new deal is fine. Clearly this balance between your natures is all kinds of fucked. He,” Crowley, “was right. You need me. Alive, probably.” <br><br>His expression turns pinched. “You don’t get a say in this. I should’ve just taken the deal in the first place.” He’s managing to keep it together, channelling those small things he’d learned from a lifetime of watching his hardened father--nuances in expression keep him tempered, including the way his face takes on a pinched quality. <br><br>The challenge in Dean’s gaze remains. He tosses his driver’s license into the box. His gaze turns to the Crossroads themselves. And then he states plainly once again, “Get back in the car both of you.” <br><br>He walks towards the dirt. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There is quite a bit of information from both Sam and Dean that takes Fred a few moments to unpack. It’s a lot for someone whose windpipe was nearly crushed less than an hour ago. First, unsurprisingly, her eyes go to Sam at the knowledge that he died at the age of twelve and Dean made some sort of deal to save him feels like a solid punch to the chest. “You died?” Her eyes shift to Dean, remembering their conversation in the kitchen not too long ago. “That’s why you wanted Sam to have more ties? ‘Cause you didn’t think you were going to be around?” <br><br>The implications of Sam’s own pleading for Dean to stop hit her, too. He would have handled this if the demons would deal with him. Her attention shifts back to him. “What?” The question is asked softly, not due to her injury but with an emotion closer to fear. “When did you do that?” A part of her hopes it was long before they met, something he didn’t tell Dean until just now. <br><br>A sliver of cold washes through Fred as she watches the brothers fight and Dean insist they get back in the car. As he turns to walk to the dirt, a flash of anger crosses her face. Striding forward, wincing as she does so, she attempts to get right in front of Dean and smack the box right out of his hands. <br><br>“Now, you...you both stop this!” Her voice is raised, raspy, but unmistakably filled with determination, even if she’s not used to taking charge in this manner. “Stop it right now!” The angrier she gets, the more Texas slips through her accent. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam looks away from them both. “I was going to leave explanations,” he mumbles. “I just-- it didn’t feel right. I’m some sort of-- there’s something wrong with me anyway so. It just didn’t feel right.” <br><br>Sam, of course, has been pushing back against John Winchester for years, and none of these expressions work. Certainly being told to get in the car doesn’t work. To Fred he says, “This...was all part of what I was going to talk to you about, but...everything came to a head before I got the chance. I don’t want to leave you, but…” <br><br>To Dean, exasperated, “And of course I need you, that’s not even the point, the point is we need to comb the lore and-- and just fix this.” <br><br>But then Fred is losing her temper at both of them, and his mouth snaps shut. His eyes widen slightly. He hasn’t really seen her angry, not really. He slides his hands uncomfortably into his pockets and looks down. <br><br>He stops. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred tries to hit the box from Dean’s hands and he draws it closer to himself like some deeply guarded possession. “What the hell?” Pointedly, he looks between the pair. “You don’t get a say in my decisions! Neither of you! I’ve been making my own choices since I was… what? Four?” It might be an exaggeration, but the meaning is readily apparent. <br><br>He nods at Sam’s assertion that he doesn’t want to leave Fred. “Then fucking don’t. I’ve got this,” because it’s already decided anyways. “Hell already owns my soul, I may as well just make it final.” But he doesn’t start digging the necessary hole. He doesn’t put the box where it belongs. His eyes train back on the car, and then remain there for several beats. <br><br>“There is no way to ‘fix this’. I’ve been trying for the better part of nine years when I figured out that ten years is nothing. Ten years is the blink of an eye,” he hisses. “When I asked Dad about deals with the Crossroads. When I went to Angel Investigations to ask about it. There is no way.” His lips curve upwards, but it’s not anything close to a smile. “And you can’t take it back. I didn’t make this choice for no reason. It wasn’t some selfish bid to stay out of trouble because you died on my watch. I was sixteen and it was the right decision. //Is// the right decision. No twelve year old deserves to go to hell for what happened to you! Do you not understand that!? Can’t you trust that I’m making a decision on the best information I’ve got?!” <br><br>His eyes redden as he fights against the emotions that threaten to surface. He cinches his eyes shut, shifts his weight and shakes his head. “I don’t have a future. I fucking bought you one, can you just live it?!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>He was going to leave an explanation. That adds into the fierceness in her gait, her stance. There’s a strange brew of emotions roiling about inside her: anger, fear, worry. Sam thinks there’s something wrong with him and he also just tossed a Winter Soldier right into a large magnet while smelling like sulphur. However, she does know he wanted to talk to her after her episode at Mercy’s garage. They simply didn’t get the time in their preparations. “This is what you were going to talk to me about.” A movement of her chin indicates the Winchester brothers and the Crossroads they currently stand in. He warned her so many times about the secrets, the Need to Know way he was raised. The concealment still hurts, but at the moment, there are more pressing things to deal with. <br><br>Instead, her gaze returns to Dean, that smouldering anger still readily visible. It’s true, Fred doesn’t get angry often, or at least she doesn’t tend to lose her temper like this. “Call me crazy,” and people have! Often! “But I don’t think you should be just signing over any more of yourself to some demon without talking it out with Sam, too. Look, I get it, you don’t know me from a hole in the ground,” poor analogy, but she doesn’t really get what’s necessary to summon a Crossroads Demon, “and so you might not care about what I’ve got to say, but I should hope you’d care about what your brother’s trying to.” <br><br>There’s a shake of her head and a clench of her fists. “We’ve still got time, Dean. We’ve got options. You do this now? We’ve got less of them. I’m sorry you had to make that deal, but I’m real glad Sam’s alive, so I’ve got to say that it was probably worth it. You’ve been working close to nine years on this alone! You’ve known Angel maybe a week? He’s found ways to cross dimensions, he pulled me outta one. We can figure it out. I’ve known ya’ll only a few months and I know Sam wouldn’t be able to live down losing you! Don’t toss the baby out with the bathwater, ‘cause it sounds like right now you don’t have any trust in us to be able to help you!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The meaning of that four years /is/ apparent, and it makes Sam flinch. His shoulders sag and he looks away. It certainly doesn’t make much more of a case for why he deserves to live at Dean’s expense. <br><br>Still, he lets both Dean and Fred have their say before he speaks up again. <br><br>“It never even crossed my mind that you thought you’d get in trouble,” he says softly. “Where did you even get that from? The only thing that crossed my mind, Dean, is how you’ve always sacrificed for me, and how I’ve never deserved it, and that I can’t lose you, and I can’t be one more reason why you’re hurt. I appreciate what you did, I love you more for it man, but Fred’s right. I really won’t be able to live with myself.” <br><br>He’s having enough trouble as it is. <br><br>/I may not have deserved to go to Hell at 12,/ he thinks bitterly, /but what am I now? No, what was I always? Dean lost his Mom because of me./ He’s never said it out loud, but the truth is he’s never felt like he had a mother. Dean had one, one that Sam basically killed by...what? Existing? Pretty much. <br><br>“My thought was...when I um. Came to my senses...New Orleans, Savannah...they’re both good sources of crossroads lore. We might be able to run down some leads there. No offense, man, but um...running down the lore wasn’t ever your thing. It was always mine.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean squints while Fred speaks. His jaw tightens. His nostrils flare. He clings to the box. “You don’t know me,” he says plainly to Fred. “We met //literally// months ago, and we talked for the first time last week.” His expression steels. “So no, I don’t care what you have to say.” He looks pointedly at Fred, “And it’s becoming clearer you don’t know Sam as well as you think you do.” He turns on his heel to push passed them back to the car. “So yeah, lady, I am damned well going to stay that course.” There’s a pause. “Do you know what it is to /know/ you have ten years to live and keep that secret? Eight? Six?” His eyebrows knit together. “One? Do you know how that changes what you do or don’t do? I’ve given up everything for this. Willingly.” His lips twitch. “So no, you don’t get to tell me the weight of my decisions. I’ve lived with this secret for nine years. It stalks every decision. It reiterates the utter futility of major life change. Of commitments. Of anything sustained. So no, you don’t get to lecture me on what someone can or can’t live with. I’ve been constantly boned for nine years.” He stares through her. “You don’t know. And if you did? Maybe you’d understand that I want to keep my investment safe.” <br><br>And as he does so, he shakes his head as he moves, hands holding tightly to the box. “I’m not… this isn’t…” his voice cracks and he drops his chin to his chest. “...I can’t… the new deal expires... “ he’d said no. He’d resolved not to do it, but it’s not something he can deal with now. He sniffs hard, pushing back the emotions that bubble faster. “No. It’s not your choice.” <br><br>“You’re going to have to find a way to live with it,” Dean finally resolves. “I’ll buy more time,” with this new deal, “but I’m still marked. It’s not going away.” His hands rake through his hair and he leans against his car. And as far as waiting is concerned, “I’m dying. Even with the new deal, it’s just a matter of time before--” his head shakes. “You’re supposed to live, Sammy. That’s how this works. You need to sort out your own shit. Get off the demon blood. Refuse that other nature. That’s what you need to research. Not this. This is done.” Or it will be. “Find out what the hell Azazel,” a name that has haunted him for nine years almost as much as Crowley, “wants, why he did it, and stop it. It’s next level shit.” <br><br>The notion of not having trust to let them help him, he actually cracks a smile as his eyes well with tears. “Nine years and no one even knew anything was wrong. Or cared. A year with ocean folks.” His head shakes and he laughs mirthlessly. <br><br>“Look. You two do your thing. Do you. Forget what you know.” He blinks hard, but one tear trails down his cheek. “It’s not worth remembering.” //I’m not worth remembering.//<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred stays silent when Sam speaks. Her being here seems a matter of happenstance. This is between the Winchester brothers. However, because she is here? She isn’t about to stand in the background without a say. This effects her because it affects Dean and Sam - she knows what happens to the one will reverberate through the other. She wants to speak to that, to illuminate how Dean’s choice is hurting Sam despite his hope of saving him. Instead? She focuses on a single thing. <br><br>“What someone can and can’t live with.” Her voice is, strangely devoid of emotion for a moment. “Choices.” Something snaps in Fred and she stalks forward to Dean. “No you don’t know me. And I don’t know you, even if you wanted me to look after Sam. But, you know what I can do? I can tell you what’s in store for you. <br><br>“You want to know what hell is? I can tell you. I lived it for five years. You pick up a book in the library you work and you say some words out of it ‘cause you’re curious. Sure, it’s not as noble as saving a brother from death, but guess what, you made a choice you didn’t realize was one and then you’re on a plane where humans are slaves. I didn’t even realize there was such a thing as other planes! So, congratulations, you’re actually better off than I was, you went in with eyes open. But, anyway, hypothetically, you’re terrified, pulled through a vortex and there’s nothing to hold on to, it’s just being pulled apart and then put back together again in a world where you’re less than nothing and it hurts. They take you, they put you in a collar and they say if you do anything they don’t like? It will detonate and your head will explode. If you touch it, it will explode. If you tamper with it, it will explode. If it randomly malfunctions ‘cause they don’t really care about maintenance, it’ll explode. <br><br>“You stay there for about a year and they don’t feed you, they beat you and they demean you, the call you cow and treat you like it. At night you hear others try to run away and are beheaded for doing so, or you see their heads explode. Sometimes they do it just ‘cause they’re bored and they think the sound it makes is funny. Sometimes, at night, they prod at you, try to see how you bleed. Then, you try to run, but you can’t get back home. There’s nowhere you can go but a dark forest where there’s wild animals you’ve never heard of, but what is the alternative? And there’s still a collar on your head that can be blown up at a moment’s notice, whenever they feel like it. It’s remote controlled, I forgot to mention that. It takes you a bit to disarm it, but you have to keep it on, ‘cause if anyone randomly saw you without a collar? They’d execute you. So, you stay there for four more years. You forget who you are, what you are, where you came from. This?” she gestures wildly about her. “This is a nightmare you wake up from on the bad days because it feel so real but you know you can never go back there and you know it. It makes you remember things you can’t believe because you can’t ever imagine a place without fear. Thinking about //here//? It makes you wake up screaming ‘cause you know that it just doesn’t make sense. This world has to be a lie ‘cause otherwise why would you still be here.” <br><br>There’s a breath, a pause. That came out in a rush of anger and emotion. She’s hinted at parts of this to Sam over their time together. The living in the woods, the collars, the fact that she was there for five years. This, though? It’s a rundown of it all, the emotion, the fear. Then, she very pointedly says, “I’m real sorry you had to live with the //idea// of that over your head for nine years. I can’t imagine what that’s like.” <br><br>Fred’s eyes narrow at Dean. “Ya’ll’s secrets have secrets, Dean. If you’re pissed that Sam didn’t know you did this? Well, you just told us you wiped his goddamn memory so how can you be mad at him for that?” An emphatic shake of her head and a cough erupts from her. She talked too much. “We’re trying to //help// you. We can do that if you let us. We //want// to do that. When does that deal expire?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Emotions are running high. Too high. When that happens Sam’s default mode is to try to soothe things over. It’s hard, though, because Fred’s no-holds-barred description of Pylea makes him sick for her, and what Dean says makes him sick for Dean. He looks it, sick and sad and helpless. <br><br>He steps between them. <br><br>His right hand stretches out to land on Dean’s shoulder. His left, on Fred’s. <br><br>“Please don’t fight,” he says quietly. He drops his head, looks down at the ground between them. <br><br>Then, he looks at Dean, and there’s anguish in his eyes. “I did look for you. By my calculations I realized you were missing almost within 3 days of you being taken. I just didn’t have any leads. I looked and I looked and I looked. I just didn’t find you, but it consumed my every waking hour. I’m sorry I didn’t realize there was something wrong when we were kids. You hid it well.” <br><br>/It was Dad who should have realized different, not me. He was the god damn parent./ <br><br>But Dean idolizes their father, and Sam cannot possibly think of a bigger miscalculation than saying a single word against him, especially not right now. <br><br>“I understand that you feel like you’ve already invested everything into keeping me alive,” he says quietly. “But I am /begging you/ to listen to Fred. To me. To try to find another way. I don’t have the strength to face this-- Azazel?-- thing-- and lose you too.” <br><br>/I’m the worthless one. I don’t even begin to know how I can get off the blood. I think trying might kill me. I know it hurts more than I can take./ <br><br>“Let’s find Dad. Let’s find a way to get some leverage over this demon. There may be no supernatural method, but if we get him over a barrel he’ll have to renegotiate. With the three of us working together anything’s possible. I’m sorry I’ve led you to believe that I’m the kind of person who can just cheerfully accept my own brother falling on his sword for me.” <br><br>He can’t keep the hurt out of his voice that Dean thinks that, or that Dean thinks that he didn’t try to find him when he went missing. But he tries. He tries to keep his words quiet, steady, even. But his eyes go red-rimmed with unshed tears as he drops his gaze to the ground once more. <br><br>“It /is/ your choice, Dean. I’m just asking you with everything I’ve got to make a different one. Please.” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean silences and stares at Fred. His head shakes. His body tenses and his free hand bids away the tears that have managed to fall while the other clings to the box. His head turns and even with the hand on his shoulder urging him not to fight, at the moment he feels like that’s all he has. Fight. Tears and fight, and Dean will not cry right now. Instead, he starts slowly. “Look. I get it. You had a shit deal. You ended up there through some accident. /This/ isn’t accidental. My brother died and I tried CPR for the better part of an hour. I dove after him in the water alone as the brook horse decided he was theirs. I went to where we were squatting and smashed the windows one by one until I was called out for being the damned Squirrel I was by /him/. He sat there watching me. He’d shown up. Uninvited. I didn’t call him. My twelve year old brother was dead and I was gonna lay him to rest. I wasn’t going to the Crossroads. I wasn’t going to make some ill-conceived deal. I was figuring out how to deal with my brother’s death. Logistically. I was gearing up to salt and burn his bones.” He looks pointedly at Fred. “Alone. Because that’s what our lives looked like. I signed a contract in my own blood. Alone. I screamed Sam’s name into the fog-filled night. Alone. There wasn’t anyone to call. Ever. And there hasn’t been for the better part of two decades.” <br><br>“So yeah, I get it. You had a raw deal. But if you’d known it was coming? If you’d known what would happen ten years before--you’d have had the pleasure of suffering twice. If you’d done it for one of the extreme few people you love, the number of which you can count on less than one hand, to save them from it, to keep them safe because you know you’ve done way worse than they possibly could have? If you’d done it and ensured they had enough time to grow up before you were gone because you knew you were the only sense of stability in their life?” His head shakes. “You don’t get to waltz in here and critique me. You don’t know me. You don’t know anything. You don’t know what it is to reject someone you care about because you’re marked. You don’t know what it is to almost bring this up with your supposed parent,” his eyebrows lift at that, “over the course of years and realize they really don’t care. And never have.” His throat clears, “You don’t know what it is to be four years old and see your mother dead on the ceiling. To be handed your baby brother to the smell of sulphur and fire. To be haunted by that image your entire life,” a memory he stills has nightmares about, “and then to be told you have one job and one job only. You don’t know what it is to fail at that one job. So no. You don’t get to tell me what’s what. I can handle myself. I look after myself. I fucking raised myself.” <br><br>He emits a huff of breath, a near scoff, but there’s no words attached to it. He has so much more he could say. The things he’s been holding too long are pushed down more. <br><br>He shudders beneath his brother’s hand. He sniffs hard, cutting of the emotions at their knees. And, with a weird kind of revelation, something seems to finally make sense to him. There’s a strange twist to his lips and his voice actually cracks, “Moose. I finally get it,” involuntarily his lips curve upwards but there’s no other markings of the smile on his face. He presses a hand to his forehead to bid away his most base emotions. He longs to cry. And to Sam’s apology, he frowns. “...Wh.. Why do you think I kept it a secret so long? I’m not stupid. And I don’t want an apology from you.” <br><br>And instead of staying there, he takes a step back, rather purposively shrugging the hand off his shoulder. “/Which/ demon Sam?” he asks, a little too quietly. “The one trying to make you his hellspawn or the one that holds my contract?” And the moment he’s said it he regrets it. He’s said way too much. His eyes flit between them. <br><br>And in saying too much he has one response--it’s one learned through years of exposure. He shuts down and it happens over the course of seconds. Even his posture changes. Sam’s plea sees his head ducking back to the car. “I gotta go.” And the tone Dean uses sounds all too final. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>When Sam puts his hand on Fred’s shoulder, he can feel the tension there. It practically radiates off of her. There’s more fight in her, but his request to stop it cuts off any more of those words. She pauses, gathering control of what she was going to say and rethinking it. Instead, she waits till both Sam and Dean have said their piece. <br><br>When she does speak, there’s no apology, no taking back of what she said, she doesn’t regret any of it. But, recounting all her memories of Pylea has left her shaking just slightly. “I’m not trying to critique you,” she says. “I’m trying to help you. I’m not saying I’d’ve done that first deal any differently. You were alone and didn’t have any options. I’m sorry you had to go through all that. But, you’ve got us now and you don’t have to do it yourself. You coulda gone out here alone, but you brought us along. Maybe it’s ‘cause deep down you wanted us to try and stop you.” <br><br>The plea from Sam is heard and she looks at him for a moment, but doesn’t add anything else. She’s not going to follow him if he says he has to go. From what he’s said she knows she wouldn’t be welcome. Instead, she looks to Sam, seeing if he’ll try to stop Dean from leaving. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Grim determination on his face says that Sam is briefly considering grabbing Dean, decking him much as Dean decked him the other night, and sitting on him until he sees sense. <br><br>There’s a time limit on the deal, Dean said, so all he has to do is keep Dean out for...how many more hours? <br><br>So yes, he does try to stop him. He grabs for Dean’s shoulder with the most apologetic look in all the world, and attempts to spin him around and deck him in the face. <br><br>Because this is how healthy families solve problems! <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred’s words fall on deaf ears determined to maintain their course. The hand at Dean’s shoulder successfully has him spin around, but the punch only makes half-purchase, connecting with a piece of Dean’s jaw thanks to Dean’s relatively quick reflexes that have him stepping out of the punch. <br><br>He counters just as hard with a mean right hook that he’d used only a week earlier to force Sam to the ground. “Dammit Sam! Can’t you see I’m doing this for you?! I have one job! Let me just do it, man!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s not like she was expecting her words to have Dean turn in his tracks and admit his wrongdoings, but a part of Fred did hope he’d listen to her. When she looks to Sam to see if he’s going to follow, she is unsurprised that he does. What does surprise her is that he doesn’t put a hand on Dean’s shoulder for comfort, but to deck Dean across the face. <br><br>“Sam!” she shouts, moving forward. However, what does she do in this situation? She’s not a brawler by any sense of the word. As much as she hates the idea of being the woman who stands on the sidelines of a fight wringing her hands, that’s pretty much what she does for the time being. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>This time Sam is ready for that right hook. He raises his arm in a simple block to take the punch, and grimly tries to deck Dean right back in the solar plexus, pulling it a bit. He’s only trying to wind his brother and knock him out, not seriously hurt him. <br><br>“I know you’re doing it for me,” he says, with the grimmest determination. “That’s why I can’t let you do it.” <br><br>He’s got a few advantages in this fight. Reach and, if he’d use it, superior strength among them. But Dean has ferocity on his side, superior skill, and the warrior’s spirit that Sam, for all his training, frankly doesn’t share. Sam is a scholar first and a fighter second. These things might be the deciding factor yet again, but this doesn’t stop him from trying with all his might to do what he thinks is right in this situation...just as, ironically, Dean is. <br><br>He sounds so sorry, but so maddeningly /calm/ too. He’s not angry. He’s not doing this because he’s pissed. He’s doing this because Dean wouldn’t listen to words, and fists is what’s left. <br><br>So he grunts, “It’s okay, Fred. This is kind of our thing.” <br><br>Poor Fred. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The hit to Dean’s solar plexus catches his shoulder instead as he twists into it, knowing well enough to protect those sensitive spots. He follows the block up with a sharp jab towards Sam’s nose and a cross to his brother’s chin. He’s far more comfortable fighting than talking and it has the bonus of being far more fulfilling. <br><br>His lips twitch into a frown. “You need me. I can’t just die and leave you to figure this out! That son of a bitch killed mom, he’s not getting his dirty claws on you too!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam whips his head out of the way of the jab to the nose, only to take it right on the chin. He staggers back a few steps, feeling that one all the way to his teeth. His anger slips, and he just goes to bear tackle Dean instead of trying to punch him. <br><br>“So we enslave you to a different son of a bitch who makes you do dozens of terrible things? How can that be right?” <br><br>Granted, tackling isn’t a very great strategy for the nimble Dean; Sam momentarily leaves himself wide open as he goes to try to take advantage of his size. He’s relatively new to having size to take advantage of, really, having sprouted up mostly within the past year, but he’s enjoyed the benefits. He just forgets how much experience Dean has fighting all sorts of things that are bigger and stronger.<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The opening granted strikes as an opportunity. Dean has a mean uppercut and his brother gets the full force of it. He actually ducks back to the car immediately following, seeing full well intention at the opportunity he’s taken. His hand presses against the car and he trails around it before getting to the driver’s side to slide in. <br><br>“We don’t have a choice. There isn’t enough time,” he hisses again. “And it’s not our choice anyways. It’s mine.” <br><br>The engine starts and he puts the car into reverse. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Slowly, Fred has been making her way toward the car in a wide arc around the brothers attempting to work out their problems through a fist fight. If she can get to her bag, she can get to the sleep bomb she and Mercy constructed in order to try and contain the Winter Soldier. It wasn’t quite as effective on Barnes, but with the Winchesters? She imagines it will knock them out enough for her to figure out what to do next. <br><br>Unfortunately, the fighting prowess of Dean versus his brother means she doesn’t have enough time to make it to passenger side of the car and into her bag with the leftover bombs. For a moment, she’s brightly illuminated in the headlights as it’s clear she was making her way toward the other side of the car. She’s not about to toss herself in front of his pathway - especially as he’s reversing instead of driving forward. <br><br>“We can figure a way out of this, Dean!” she calls out after him over the engine, staying where she is. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam has hit the dirt square in the middle of the crossroads, and for a moment all he’s seeing is stars. He puts his hand to his head, trying to recover, and by the time he does he’s illuminated in the glare of headlights. Fred is calling after Dean and… <br><br>And… <br><br>He staggers to his feet, though it’s not going to do any good; there’s no way to fight the Impala. As it is, he also gets out of Dean’s way. The expression on his face is mostly scared now, though he quickly clears it to something grimmer. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The yell over the Impala, the way it hangs in the air only causes Dean to back up further. He reaches for the radio to blare Bon Jovi loudly. <br><br>The tune is loud enough that others can hear it outside the vehicle. <br><br>//It’s all the same, only the names will change// <br>//Everyday, it seems we’re wastin’ away// <br>//Another place where the faces are so cold// <br>//I drive all night just to get back home// <br>//I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride// <br>//I’m wanted dead or alive.// <br><br>Dean doesn’t miss his brother’s expression. His own hardens as the car lurches backwards. But it falters momentarily when the other figure enters his periphery. His eyes roll as he turns the car, giving full view of the dark haired passenger with the shit eating grin to those still at the Crossroads. The Impala drives away. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>As the Impala reverses and the Bon Jovi blasts, Fred starts to move toward Sam. There’s nothing she can do now to stop the car, she knows that. Her own expression matches his - grim. <br><br>The sudden appearance of the dark haired man in the passenger seat causes Fred to blink, studying that face with her own look of surprise. “Who is that?” she asks. She has a theory, of course, but she wants to know if Sam already knows the person who randomly appeared in Dean’s car. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“No idea, but I aim to find out,” Sam says grimly. <br><br>Of course. There’s no way to do that here, and now, and he hasn’t been too successful thus far, all things he’s well aware of as he steps off the road and sits down with his back to a tree. They’re stuck there till Dean remembers he’s basically stranded them. Until he’s done doing what he wants to do. <br><br>His adrenaline was pretty high, and he is breathing a bit heavily, but he rests his elbows over his knees and looks down, shaggy long hair concealing his eyes. <br><br>“This was,” he adds, “exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, yes.” <br><br>He knows very well that he has fucked up. Capital F, capital U. <br><br>//In the Impala// <br><br>Crowley, King of the Crossroads, sits smugly for a moment as the music blares. <br><br>Then he reaches over to simply turn it down again, once they’re well out of sight of the two meddling children. Moose and Waif don’t even realize what they’re meddling with. Don’t even realize that in his way, he’s even trying to help them. <br />
But it’s neither here nor there. He makes a show of checking his Rolex. <br><br>“Cut it rather close to the wire, didn’t you, Squirrel?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s nostrils flare and his breath rakes his throat. He doesn’t admit anything. He doesn’t give anything. Instead, he hisses through his teeth, “We need to talks terms.” His gaze remains trained on the road, focused on the world in front of him instead of his passenger. <br><br>They barrel down the highway back towards Hell’s Kitchen. And then, with a sniff, he asks, “Enjoy the show?” His gaze deadens. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The pair of them are rather stranded until they can either hitch a ride - unlikely - or Dean returns for them. Following his example, Fred steps out of the road and moves to sit next to him. <br><br>“I can see why,” she says softly. It’s hard to tell whether she can see why he concealed all this from her or whether she can see why he wanted to tell her. There’s a sigh, a lot of her earlier anger expended in her recounting of what happened to her on Pylea. There’s still frustration, there, though. There’s fear. <br><br>“How long have you known about all this?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam half shakes his head. <br><br>“I got it in pieces. I--” <br><br>He tries to figure out how to explain it to her, how to put the timeline together. <br><br>“I found out about Dean’s contract, that I died, right before we faced those vengeance demons. But you were so upset that night that I didn’t want to get into it then. The rest...sort of in bits and pieces. I never heard the name Azazel till tonight. I figured out what Hydra was injecting me with, and…”<br />
He lowers his head again. “Fred, all of this gets worse, and every time I tried to figure out how to put it into words I just felt so…” <br><br>He shakes his head, but his body language perhaps says it for him, because he looks rather like someone who thinks he’s shit on the shoe of the world. <br><br>//Impala// <br><br>“Top notch entertainment is one of the perks of the job,” Crowley says, his low-key voice reflecting cheer all the same, the slightest of smiles still lingering there. <br><br>Terms, Dean says, and he seems even more amused. <br><br>“Spoken like a man who thinks he has some sort of bargaining position, but as I was so fantastically entertained I can’t wait to hear all about them.” <br><br>He makes a show of getting comfortable in Sam’s seat, even reaching down to adjust the lever so the back position is a bit more to //his// liking. Or...he tries. When he realizes it’s a bucket seat, set only to the driver’s settings, he scowls a little and settles back as if he hadn’t tried to do a thing. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Here’s the thing Crowley,” Dean speaks to the road, “something’s bothered me for awhile,” his lips purse weirdly, “but you came to me that night. It’s gnawed at me for years.” His jaw clenches. “I didn’t go to the Crossroads. You. Came. To. Me.” <br><br>“And with the horse thing? You came to me.” His eyebrows quirk. “I have no idea what the hell you want with me, but it’s something.” His fingers tap on the wheel absently. “So. Terms.” <br><br>His throat clears. “I take this, and you don’t get to talk to Sam. Ever. Even after my death.” He emits a long breath. “I refuse to do something I go to the pit. I die, the contract ends. And… inevitably I go to the pit.” <br><br>His teeth worry his bottom lip. “And after I do three of your favours? You help me find Azazel.” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There’s a delicate line to be walked here. Fred sits next to Sam, looking first to him and then to the empty road in front of them. While she doesn’t lean against him right now, what she does do is reach out a hand, attempting to take his in hers. <br><br>For the moment, she doesn’t excuse the concealing. Instead, she pauses. It’s so easy to see that he’s in pain and the last thing she wants to do is add to that. There’s not much she thinks she can say in order to assuage him. So, she simply says, “It’s okay, Sam. You can tell me.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester takes the hand of the woman he loves, and for a long moment that’s all he can do. He swallows and he looks out into the distance. <br><br>“They were injecting me with demon blood, Fred,” he says. <br><br>He shivers. “I started looking forward to them. Because they felt good. They washed pain away, they made me feel stronger, they made the hunger not matter as much. Gave me a rush of pleasure, like heroin. And it’s crazy, because that’s not anything demon blood does to people. You inject the average person with demon blood, they just...it’s nothing. It’s just gross and unsanitary. But the Yellow Eyed Demon...Azazel, I guess...did something to me.” <br><br>He swallows. <br><br>“After you guys got me I still didn’t know, but I started fantasizing about it. I couldn’t stop. And by the end of the week I was trying not to show it, but I was in terrible pain. Like every muscle was cramping up, like a full body migraine, like I was hungry but nauseated at the same time...so I found a demon, went on a hunt, got some and tried it and it...It was what I needed. It was fantastic.” <br><br>He squeezes her hand in a way that warns there’s even more. <br><br>//Impala// <br><br>Crowley strokes his beard. <br><br>He cannot, as it happens, tell Dean a thing. If he does, all will be absolutely lost. <br><br>But he does smile faintly. “You’ve gotten a bit more savvy in your old age. And here I thought that you were simply a functioning moron at best. But. You can rest assured I have no interest in talking to Sam. And going after Azazel...yes, I think that will do nicely.” <br><br>He tilts his finger at Dean. <br><br>“But. I have my first little task for you today.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A mirthless smile extends across Dean’s features. “Thanks. Everyone assumes I’m Daddy’s blond little warrior and nothing else. Nothing going on upstairs. Pretty sure Dad and Sam think that too,” his smile has the edges expected of someone far more sinister. The car continues to barrel back to the Hell’s Kitchen apartment. <br><br>“Then you have a deal. Three favours. You help me find Azazel. And if that son of a bitch kills me at least I’ll know there’s nothing else I could’ve done,” to protect Sam. His fingers white knuckle. <br><br>“What’s the task?” <br><br>He stares straight at the road, never turning to look at Crowley as he drives. <br><br><br />
<br />
'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>For a little while, the two of them just sit there, holding hands at a crossroads. When Sam finally does speak, she doesn’t say anything. There’s clearly surprise on her face and then a glimpse of anger returning, then shock. <br><br>They injected him with demon blood. It does something to him, meaning whoever Azazel is changed something inside of him. The Winter Soldier not only took Sam, but they experimented on him. The anger returns, this time directed at the man chained up in Mercy’s garage. There will be words. She’s thinking through what can be done with that when Sam drops the last bomb. <br><br>The shock is clear on her face as he says that he found a demon and then used its blood. That he is addicted to it. However, the hand doesn’t attempt to pull out of his. Nor does she look disgusted by him or like she is about to run away. When he squeezes her hand, she nods, not trusting herself to speak, but indicating that he should continue. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam swallows hard. The fact that she accepts him means more than he can even express. It brings a few tears to his eyes, though they remain unshed. He drops his gaze again after a brief, sick, sad, and loving one in her direction. <br><br>He exhales. <br><br>“I captured one of those revenge demons instead of banishing it. As far as I know they only shape human bodies out of their magic rather than possessing one-- though my lore sources are fuzzy on that point-- and it seemed ideal. Because that way a human isn’t held captive right along with the demon. She gives me a.” He clears his throat. “Well. A predictable supply. She’s well secured, but…” <br><br>But it’s sick, and wrong, and strange, and awful, and dangerous. And Sam knows it. Yet he doesn’t have a better solution, either. <br><br>//Impala// <br><br>Crowley produces a picture of a dark haired young lady, about Sam’s age. She’s got bouncing black curls and big green eyes. “I need you to seduce her,” he says. Affable as his brand of evil is, there’s still coldness beneath the tone. <br><br>And he doesn’t bother to explain why. <br><br>“The specific time and place I need you to close the deal are written on the back of the photo.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>And for the first time, Dean’s eyes peel away from the road and his head turns towards Crowley. “...did you just objectify me?” He rubs his forehead and his expression turns grim. Out of all the things he’d envisioned doing for Crowley, seducing some unsuspecting brunette was definitely not one of them. <br><br>“Are you seriously having me trade sexual favours to stay out of Hell awhile longer?” he asks the road in front of him as his eyebrows draw together. “...I’m a hooker. A hooker for hell. A hell hooker,” everything in his tone is deadpanned. “I haven’t… I’m not… That’s not something I do anymore. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?” <br><br>But objections all die at the thought of finally being able to protect Sam once Azazel is dead. He plucks the photo from Crowley’s fingers. <br><br>After doing so, he grabs the cellphone from his pocket. “...Agent May… Sam and Fred need a ride…” <br><br>He glances towards Crowley and lifts his eyebrows as he puts the car into park in front of the Hell’s Kitchen apartment. <br><br><br />
<br />
'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The last bombshell that Sam drops is quite the doozy. For a long while Fred doesn’t speak, though she squeezes his hand. The surprise returns. She’d never expect him to do something like that. It’s...so cold and calculated. There’s silence as she tries to figure out what to say. <br><br>“Sam…” she sighs, shaking her head. Her other hand reaches out to take his. “We’re going to figure this out.” Her words are a bit halting as she tries to think about what to say before she actually does so. “But...keeping a vengeance demon…” she trails off again, trying to say the right thing. “That’s not the way. You can’t do that. That’s not you.” <br><br>Her voice remains soft as she continues, “I’m sorry I didn’t see you were in pain like that for so long. I thought you needed space after everything. I know you’ve told me that you were taught to hide everything, but I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. You’ve gotta let me in.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“I told you I was fine 600 times, I don’t know why you’d apologize for believing me,” Sam says quietly. <br><br>He plucks up some grass and tosses the stems to one side with his free hand, glancing up at the sky. “I’m trying, Fred. I’m letting you in right now. I’ve felt like there was something wrong with me all my life. Getting confirmation hasn’t been...easy.” <br><br>He looks off down the road. “What Dean is doing-- it’s-- he shouldn’t have.” <br><br>He looks back at her. “I was drunk that night,” he explains. “When I thought to summon the crossroads demon for myself. I was drunk, and all I could think was that all I’ve ever done is ruin everything for Dean, and that I was supposed to have died 9 years ago, and how much better off Dean would be on virtually every level if I were gone. But I was rash, and wrong, and I should have talked things out with you.” <br><br>//Hell’s Kitchen// <br><br>“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. Usually deals-- and riders to deals-- are sealed with a kiss,” Crowley says, with a flirtatious lean in that puts his face very close to Dean’s. “But we have an understanding now, so I let you off with a verbal contract. And we both know you’ll whore yourself out, lie, steal, cheat, torture or murder to protect Sammy.” <br><br>He leans back and tap taps his mouth thoughtfully. As if something has occurred to him. <br><br>“That kind of devotion does deserve some sort of reward, so you should know...he /did/ look. He’d have found you under the ocean within six weeks...if not for a series of cryptic clues, false trails, and strange coordinates that took him on a cross-country wild goose chase, throwing him into hunt after hunt, each hunt seeming to bring you closer while never managing to do so. Shame about that.” <br><br>And then he tips his fingers to his forehead in salute. <br><br>“Ciao.” <br><br>He’s gone. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>// Triskelion// <br><br>May answers her phone when it rings. She figured out very quickly that if either of the Winchesters were calling her, it would very likely be a life or death situation. She barely gets her name out when Dean tells her that Sam and Fred need a ride, and she turns to let someone know she’s needed elsewhere she she faintly hears a different voice over the line. <br><br>Frowning, she listens more carefully as the voice suddenly becomes much clearer then backs off again, gesturing to her current companion to record the call and process it. Luckily, the silent hand gestures are something the two have long since mastered so she doesn’t have to explain. <br><br>Waiting a second or two after the other voice’s last word, she finally speaks up. “Dean. Tell me what’s going on. Now.” She’s on her way to claim a vehicle, and no, she’s not heading to the motor pool. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Crowley earns a sharp knit of Dean’s eyebrows. “Dude. I ain’t kissing you.” Because there’s no way that’s happening. “It’s enough that you’re whoring me out.” He has more to say, more to wax poetic on, but Crowley is gone, and May is on the phone, he can feel the frown creep into his tone, wholly aware she heard so much more than he’d intended. “...May…” <br><br>Dean treads through the convenience store under their apartment, pausing at the store to nab a bottle of whiskey from the counter, leaving some bills on the counter. “Look. Sam is hellspawn. I gotta fix it.” <br><br>The woman at the counter arches her eyebrows at him as he talks into the phone. “Uh… keep the change,” he turns on his heel and then turns to the stairs with a wince. “When we were kids a demon named Azazel fed him demon blood and killed our mother. Hydra exploited that and he’s doping demon blood.” <br><br>It’s been an eventful week. “Look. I bought myself more time to do this, but I need to… I need to go. I need to find a way to kill demons, find Azazel,” he doesn’t add the bit about how Crowley is helping to that end, “all before I bite the dust. So. I need to head to the Roadhouse and…” he frowns. “...Jo.” That horrible sinking feeling enters the pit of his stomach. “Fuuuuuck.” His eyes clamp shut just shy of the door. <br><br>He forces them open when he finally needs his keys. “I need you to watch Sam. He’ll be fine. He has Fred. And I gotta--” he proceeds to unlock the latch on the door and it swings open. He drops the phone. <br><br>“Dean,” a low familiar voice greets. <br><br>Dean stiffens visibly. He stares at the figure sitting at the table. His cheeks puff out irritably, “...Dad.” <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Wanted&diff=1414Wanted2017-08-27T01:22:14Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/08/16<br />
|Location=Beacon, NY<br />
|Synopsis=The Backahasten begins a series of murders along the Hudson River with the aim of capturing one of the Brothers Winchester at last. Did she get a little nudge from a certain King of the Crossroads? Or is his latest offer just an attack of opportunity?<br />
|Cast of Characters=294, 306<br />
|Tinyplot=Blood on My Name<br />
|Tinyplot2=Tayaniye<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>August 24, 2025 <br><br>The Winter Soldier has been tranqed twice with werewolf darts and shot six times with ICER bullets, then transported to be chained up in Mercy’s garage with, one at least hopes, his arm out of commission. Sam had avoided looking too closely at anyone after confirming that Fred was, indeed, not permanently damaged by the soldier’s attack. <br><br>In truth, he’s still shaking with fury. It hasn’t quite subsided yet. Fury and fear, feeling like he almost lost two of the people he cares about most in the world, along with a friend to whom he owes his life. The worst part is, this is mostly his fault. He and Claire were the ones who were all gung ho about saving the Soldier; everyone else had a lot more reservations. <br><br>His anger and, more than that, the overwhelming filthiness and shame he’s feeling are enough to send him to the back of the Impala, to let him offer the shotgun seat to Fred. For one thing, he does have a dull headache. He needs a dose now, though he’s hardly going to complain about that to them. Instead, he just stretches out back there, his hand on his head, not particularly caring where they go so long as it has a bathroom where he can shoot up. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>While Sam slumps into the back of the Impala and presumably Fred is gonna ride shot gun, Dean opens the trunk and rather unceremoniously begins to disarm himself. The tactical jacket comes off and for the first time in a very long time, he removes one weapon after another and unloads it into the trunk, all the while muttering to himself under his breath about one thing or another. Once in awhile, a good listener might catch the occasional word, “...Azazel… “ His eyes sting as he chokes on emotion. He knows more than he should; more than he has any right to. <br><br>He then unbuttons his next shirt and does the same. The pattern repeats itself a third time until he’s in nothing but his faded jeans and a tank. The clothes don’t feel remotely natural nor does the lack of weight, but he does it just the same. And once he’s stripped down, he grabs the large container of salt and the bottle of holy water from the back. His head shakes and he opens the driver’s side door and promptly tosses a handful of salt towards his brother followed by a holy water chaser. <br><br>A pointed look follows both. <br><br>After that’s finished, he puts the car into drive and the Impala sails down the road. <br><br>When the car comes to a stop, it’s at a nearby Crossroads. He proceeds to get out of the car, slamming the door behind him. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It took Fred a little while to recover from the attack. While the Winter Soldier was tranqued and chained, she coughed and started to breathe normally. Already, purple finger shaped bruises are starting to rise on her neck, but it doesn’t seem as if she needs to be taken to the hospital. For awhile, her attention is put squarely on the Soldier as they load him - chained - into a car to take to some place safe and out of the way. <br><br>However, once the immediate danger is out of the way, the shaken physicist is immediately by Sam’s side. The smell of sulphur is strong and she realizes she’s smelled it, weaker, before. Perhaps it’s for the best that Sam isn’t explaining right now because talking hurts. Instead, she studies him, curious and worried. He just threw an assassin onto a scrap yard magnet with his mind and now he won’t look at them. <br><br>A part of her wishes to slip into the back seat with Sam, but she realizes that he might need his space. Instead, she settles into the front seat with a wince and feeling like she’s bruised all over. Her eyes track the stalking Dean Winchester as he unarms himself and mutters. What is an Azazel? The toss of water and salt onto Sam furrows her brows. “What’re you doing?” she asks Dean, her voice a bit raspy, but there’s a bit of fear tinged in there. She knows what dousing someone in holy water and salt means. Through the ride, she’s twisted in her seat to keep an eye on Sam, so she’s not quite paying attention to where they’re being driven. She assumed Dean was driving back to their apartment. <br><br>When the Impala stops at a Crossroads, she looks even more worried and confused. “What is going on?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>An indignant, “Dude!” <br><br>That is the only result of salt and holy water on one Sam Winchester. But then he realizes what Dean is about and his mouth flattens. He reaches out to squeeze Fred’s shoulder. <br><br>“I’ll explain everything but I think Dean is about to make a bad deal with a worse demon. Help me talk him down, please.” <br><br>Then, pain or not, he is out of the car. <br><br>“Dean, we gotta find a way to get you out of this deal, man, not get you more entangled.” His voice is soft, earnest. “You don't need to enslave yourself to some high up crossroads demon. There is some other answer.” <br><br>Which of course means he knows more about Dean’s deals than he should. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred’s question receive little response save one basic thought: “Just stay in the car,” before the door slams shut. He trails to the trunk and pulls out the effects for the spell he’s been pondering for days. And it’s only when Sam is outside the car that he frowns and really reacts. <br><br>But his brother’s words leave more upset than he intends. Dean’s eyes darken. His lips press into a thin line. “I should’ve already taken it,” he hisses. “Then you wouldn’t have even remembered.” His eyes roll at his own decisions, too wholly aware that somehow he’s allowed fate to bring them to this point. <br><br>The small box is removed from the trunk. Already prepped save a few last items required. <br><br>“Get back in the car,” he deadpans. And for one of the first times in his life, his tone seems to mirror John’s.<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>That furrowed brow is not going to ease up anytime soon, it seems. He’ll explain later, they have to save Dean from a deal with a demon, Dean wants everyone to stay in the car? One thing is certain, the last order from Dean is not followed. With a squeak of metal, the Impala’s doors open and she gets out. <br><br>“What deal?” Fred asks, moving up to stand next to Sam as she studies both brothers. Clearly there is something going on here of which she has yet to even scratch the surface. “Can someone please start making some sense?” Her voice isn’t very loud - she can’t raise it too much without it hurting - but luckily there isn’t any traffic about them and her words can carry. <br><br>“Dean, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have to be telling you this, but making deals with demons is a bad thing. I learned that from church before I even knew they could be real.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sounding like John is a good way to turn Sam’s attitude. Ditto for looking like him. Sam’s nostrils flare and his mouth flattens into a tight, grim line. <br><br>“I drowned at 12,” he tells Fred. “I am not even supposed to be alive. Dean saved my life by making a deal. In less than a year, a hellhound is scheduled to drag him to the pit. But this demon he made the deal with wants to amend the deal. Some sort of slave arrangement in return for extended life.” <br><br>He turns to face Dean. “I don't want you doing this. Not for me. I’m not worth it. I failed to save you from the ocean people. I ran off to Stanford and abandoned you. I’ve never been anything but a disappointment. If they had been willing to deal with me I’d already have this handled!” <br><br>He sounds, by the end, a little desperate...and he has definitely revealed more than he meant to. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s expression turns stony. His eyes steel. His jaw tightens. His free hand balls into fist while the other works at the materials he’d already gathered to summon what needs to be summoned. His gaze flits towards Fred, “You wouldn’t have your boyfriend if I didn’t make a deal. You’d never have met. He’d never have gone to school. We wouldn't be here.” His nostrils flare, but he otherwise stays strangely stoic. “None of us.” <br><br>His throat clears. He’s choking around something altogether invisible. But he can feel it. Thick. Heavy. His eyes narrow and he turns towards Sam, “So… what? You were just going to die? Not say anything, not tell anyone, just here and then gone?” There’s some irony to Dean being critical about death deals, yet the critique remains. “And the new deal is fine. Clearly this balance between your natures is all kinds of fucked. He,” Crowley, “was right. You need me. Alive, probably.” <br><br>His expression turns pinched. “You don’t get a say in this. I should’ve just taken the deal in the first place.” He’s managing to keep it together, channelling those small things he’d learned from a lifetime of watching his hardened father--nuances in expression keep him tempered, including the way his face takes on a pinched quality. <br><br>The challenge in Dean’s gaze remains. He tosses his driver’s license into the box. His gaze turns to the Crossroads themselves. And then he states plainly once again, “Get back in the car both of you.” <br><br>He walks towards the dirt. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There is quite a bit of information from both Sam and Dean that takes Fred a few moments to unpack. It’s a lot for someone whose windpipe was nearly crushed less than an hour ago. First, unsurprisingly, her eyes go to Sam at the knowledge that he died at the age of twelve and Dean made some sort of deal to save him feels like a solid punch to the chest. “You died?” Her eyes shift to Dean, remembering their conversation in the kitchen not too long ago. “That’s why you wanted Sam to have more ties? ‘Cause you didn’t think you were going to be around?” <br><br>The implications of Sam’s own pleading for Dean to stop hit her, too. He would have handled this if the demons would deal with him. Her attention shifts back to him. “What?” The question is asked softly, not due to her injury but with an emotion closer to fear. “When did you do that?” A part of her hopes it was long before they met, something he didn’t tell Dean until just now. <br><br>A sliver of cold washes through Fred as she watches the brothers fight and Dean insist they get back in the car. As he turns to walk to the dirt, a flash of anger crosses her face. Striding forward, wincing as she does so, she attempts to get right in front of Dean and smack the box right out of his hands. <br><br>“Now, you...you both stop this!” Her voice is raised, raspy, but unmistakably filled with determination, even if she’s not used to taking charge in this manner. “Stop it right now!” The angrier she gets, the more Texas slips through her accent. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam looks away from them both. “I was going to leave explanations,” he mumbles. “I just-- it didn’t feel right. I’m some sort of-- there’s something wrong with me anyway so. It just didn’t feel right.” <br><br>Sam, of course, has been pushing back against John Winchester for years, and none of these expressions work. Certainly being told to get in the car doesn’t work. To Fred he says, “This...was all part of what I was going to talk to you about, but...everything came to a head before I got the chance. I don’t want to leave you, but…” <br><br>To Dean, exasperated, “And of course I need you, that’s not even the point, the point is we need to comb the lore and-- and just fix this.” <br><br>But then Fred is losing her temper at both of them, and his mouth snaps shut. His eyes widen slightly. He hasn’t really seen her angry, not really. He slides his hands uncomfortably into his pockets and looks down. <br><br>He stops. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred tries to hit the box from Dean’s hands and he draws it closer to himself like some deeply guarded possession. “What the hell?” Pointedly, he looks between the pair. “You don’t get a say in my decisions! Neither of you! I’ve been making my own choices since I was… what? Four?” It might be an exaggeration, but the meaning is readily apparent. <br><br>He nods at Sam’s assertion that he doesn’t want to leave Fred. “Then fucking don’t. I’ve got this,” because it’s already decided anyways. “Hell already owns my soul, I may as well just make it final.” But he doesn’t start digging the necessary hole. He doesn’t put the box where it belongs. His eyes train back on the car, and then remain there for several beats. <br><br>“There is no way to ‘fix this’. I’ve been trying for the better part of nine years when I figured out that ten years is nothing. Ten years is the blink of an eye,” he hisses. “When I asked Dad about deals with the Crossroads. When I went to Angel Investigations to ask about it. There is no way.” His lips curve upwards, but it’s not anything close to a smile. “And you can’t take it back. I didn’t make this choice for no reason. It wasn’t some selfish bid to stay out of trouble because you died on my watch. I was sixteen and it was the right decision. //Is// the right decision. No twelve year old deserves to go to hell for what happened to you! Do you not understand that!? Can’t you trust that I’m making a decision on the best information I’ve got?!” <br><br>His eyes redden as he fights against the emotions that threaten to surface. He cinches his eyes shut, shifts his weight and shakes his head. “I don’t have a future. I fucking bought you one, can you just live it?!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>He was going to leave an explanation. That adds into the fierceness in her gait, her stance. There’s a strange brew of emotions roiling about inside her: anger, fear, worry. Sam thinks there’s something wrong with him and he also just tossed a Winter Soldier right into a large magnet while smelling like sulphur. However, she does know he wanted to talk to her after her episode at Mercy’s garage. They simply didn’t get the time in their preparations. “This is what you were going to talk to me about.” A movement of her chin indicates the Winchester brothers and the Crossroads they currently stand in. He warned her so many times about the secrets, the Need to Know way he was raised. The concealment still hurts, but at the moment, there are more pressing things to deal with. <br><br>Instead, her gaze returns to Dean, that smouldering anger still readily visible. It’s true, Fred doesn’t get angry often, or at least she doesn’t tend to lose her temper like this. “Call me crazy,” and people have! Often! “But I don’t think you should be just signing over any more of yourself to some demon without talking it out with Sam, too. Look, I get it, you don’t know me from a hole in the ground,” poor analogy, but she doesn’t really get what’s necessary to summon a Crossroads Demon, “and so you might not care about what I’ve got to say, but I should hope you’d care about what your brother’s trying to.” <br><br>There’s a shake of her head and a clench of her fists. “We’ve still got time, Dean. We’ve got options. You do this now? We’ve got less of them. I’m sorry you had to make that deal, but I’m real glad Sam’s alive, so I’ve got to say that it was probably worth it. You’ve been working close to nine years on this alone! You’ve known Angel maybe a week? He’s found ways to cross dimensions, he pulled me outta one. We can figure it out. I’ve known ya’ll only a few months and I know Sam wouldn’t be able to live down losing you! Don’t toss the baby out with the bathwater, ‘cause it sounds like right now you don’t have any trust in us to be able to help you!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The meaning of that four years /is/ apparent, and it makes Sam flinch. His shoulders sag and he looks away. It certainly doesn’t make much more of a case for why he deserves to live at Dean’s expense. <br><br>Still, he lets both Dean and Fred have their say before he speaks up again. <br><br>“It never even crossed my mind that you thought you’d get in trouble,” he says softly. “Where did you even get that from? The only thing that crossed my mind, Dean, is how you’ve always sacrificed for me, and how I’ve never deserved it, and that I can’t lose you, and I can’t be one more reason why you’re hurt. I appreciate what you did, I love you more for it man, but Fred’s right. I really won’t be able to live with myself.” <br><br>He’s having enough trouble as it is. <br><br>/I may not have deserved to go to Hell at 12,/ he thinks bitterly, /but what am I now? No, what was I always? Dean lost his Mom because of me./ He’s never said it out loud, but the truth is he’s never felt like he had a mother. Dean had one, one that Sam basically killed by...what? Existing? Pretty much. <br><br>“My thought was...when I um. Came to my senses...New Orleans, Savannah...they’re both good sources of crossroads lore. We might be able to run down some leads there. No offense, man, but um...running down the lore wasn’t ever your thing. It was always mine.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean squints while Fred speaks. His jaw tightens. His nostrils flare. He clings to the box. “You don’t know me,” he says plainly to Fred. “We met //literally// months ago, and we talked for the first time last week.” His expression steels. “So no, I don’t care what you have to say.” He looks pointedly at Fred, “And it’s becoming clearer you don’t know Sam as well as you think you do.” He turns on his heel to push passed them back to the car. “So yeah, lady, I am damned well going to stay that course.” There’s a pause. “Do you know what it is to /know/ you have ten years to live and keep that secret? Eight? Six?” His eyebrows knit together. “One? Do you know how that changes what you do or don’t do? I’ve given up everything for this. Willingly.” His lips twitch. “So no, you don’t get to tell me the weight of my decisions. I’ve lived with this secret for nine years. It stalks every decision. It reiterates the utter futility of major life change. Of commitments. Of anything sustained. So no, you don’t get to lecture me on what someone can or can’t live with. I’ve been constantly boned for nine years.” He stares through her. “You don’t know. And if you did? Maybe you’d understand that I want to keep my investment safe.” <br><br>And as he does so, he shakes his head as he moves, hands holding tightly to the box. “I’m not… this isn’t…” his voice cracks and he drops his chin to his chest. “...I can’t… the new deal expires... “ he’d said no. He’d resolved not to do it, but it’s not something he can deal with now. He sniffs hard, pushing back the emotions that bubble faster. “No. It’s not your choice.” <br><br>“You’re going to have to find a way to live with it,” Dean finally resolves. “I’ll buy more time,” with this new deal, “but I’m still marked. It’s not going away.” His hands rake through his hair and he leans against his car. And as far as waiting is concerned, “I’m dying. Even with the new deal, it’s just a matter of time before--” his head shakes. “You’re supposed to live, Sammy. That’s how this works. You need to sort out your own shit. Get off the demon blood. Refuse that other nature. That’s what you need to research. Not this. This is done.” Or it will be. “Find out what the hell Azazel,” a name that has haunted him for nine years almost as much as Crowley, “wants, why he did it, and stop it. It’s next level shit.” <br><br>The notion of not having trust to let them help him, he actually cracks a smile as his eyes well with tears. “Nine years and no one even knew anything was wrong. Or cared. A year with ocean folks.” His head shakes and he laughs mirthlessly. <br><br>“Look. You two do your thing. Do you. Forget what you know.” He blinks hard, but one tear trails down his cheek. “It’s not worth remembering.” //I’m not worth remembering.//<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred stays silent when Sam speaks. Her being here seems a matter of happenstance. This is between the Winchester brothers. However, because she is here? She isn’t about to stand in the background without a say. This effects her because it affects Dean and Sam - she knows what happens to the one will reverberate through the other. She wants to speak to that, to illuminate how Dean’s choice is hurting Sam despite his hope of saving him. Instead? She focuses on a single thing. <br><br>“What someone can and can’t live with.” Her voice is, strangely devoid of emotion for a moment. “Choices.” Something snaps in Fred and she stalks forward to Dean. “No you don’t know me. And I don’t know you, even if you wanted me to look after Sam. But, you know what I can do? I can tell you what’s in store for you. <br><br>“You want to know what hell is? I can tell you. I lived it for five years. You pick up a book in the library you work and you say some words out of it ‘cause you’re curious. Sure, it’s not as noble as saving a brother from death, but guess what, you made a choice you didn’t realize was one and then you’re on a plane where humans are slaves. I didn’t even realize there was such a thing as other planes! So, congratulations, you’re actually better off than I was, you went in with eyes open. But, anyway, hypothetically, you’re terrified, pulled through a vortex and there’s nothing to hold on to, it’s just being pulled apart and then put back together again in a world where you’re less than nothing and it hurts. They take you, they put you in a collar and they say if you do anything they don’t like? It will detonate and your head will explode. If you touch it, it will explode. If you tamper with it, it will explode. If it randomly malfunctions ‘cause they don’t really care about maintenance, it’ll explode. <br><br>“You stay there for about a year and they don’t feed you, they beat you and they demean you, the call you cow and treat you like it. At night you hear others try to run away and are beheaded for doing so, or you see their heads explode. Sometimes they do it just ‘cause they’re bored and they think the sound it makes is funny. Sometimes, at night, they prod at you, try to see how you bleed. Then, you try to run, but you can’t get back home. There’s nowhere you can go but a dark forest where there’s wild animals you’ve never heard of, but what is the alternative? And there’s still a collar on your head that can be blown up at a moment’s notice, whenever they feel like it. It’s remote controlled, I forgot to mention that. It takes you a bit to disarm it, but you have to keep it on, ‘cause if anyone randomly saw you without a collar? They’d execute you. So, you stay there for four more years. You forget who you are, what you are, where you came from. This?” she gestures wildly about her. “This is a nightmare you wake up from on the bad days because it feel so real but you know you can never go back there and you know it. It makes you remember things you can’t believe because you can’t ever imagine a place without fear. Thinking about //here//? It makes you wake up screaming ‘cause you know that it just doesn’t make sense. This world has to be a lie ‘cause otherwise why would you still be here.” <br><br>There’s a breath, a pause. That came out in a rush of anger and emotion. She’s hinted at parts of this to Sam over their time together. The living in the woods, the collars, the fact that she was there for five years. This, though? It’s a rundown of it all, the emotion, the fear. Then, she very pointedly says, “I’m real sorry you had to live with the //idea// of that over your head for nine years. I can’t imagine what that’s like.” <br><br>Fred’s eyes narrow at Dean. “Ya’ll’s secrets have secrets, Dean. If you’re pissed that Sam didn’t know you did this? Well, you just told us you wiped his goddamn memory so how can you be mad at him for that?” An emphatic shake of her head and a cough erupts from her. She talked too much. “We’re trying to //help// you. We can do that if you let us. We //want// to do that. When does that deal expire?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Emotions are running high. Too high. When that happens Sam’s default mode is to try to soothe things over. It’s hard, though, because Fred’s no-holds-barred description of Pylea makes him sick for her, and what Dean says makes him sick for Dean. He looks it, sick and sad and helpless. <br><br>He steps between them. <br><br>His right hand stretches out to land on Dean’s shoulder. His left, on Fred’s. <br><br>“Please don’t fight,” he says quietly. He drops his head, looks down at the ground between them. <br><br>Then, he looks at Dean, and there’s anguish in his eyes. “I did look for you. By my calculations I realized you were missing almost within 3 days of you being taken. I just didn’t have any leads. I looked and I looked and I looked. I just didn’t find you, but it consumed my every waking hour. I’m sorry I didn’t realize there was something wrong when we were kids. You hid it well.” <br><br>/It was Dad who should have realized different, not me. He was the god damn parent./ <br><br>But Dean idolizes their father, and Sam cannot possibly think of a bigger miscalculation than saying a single word against him, especially not right now. <br><br>“I understand that you feel like you’ve already invested everything into keeping me alive,” he says quietly. “But I am /begging you/ to listen to Fred. To me. To try to find another way. I don’t have the strength to face this-- Azazel?-- thing-- and lose you too.” <br><br>/I’m the worthless one. I don’t even begin to know how I can get off the blood. I think trying might kill me. I know it hurts more than I can take./ <br><br>“Let’s find Dad. Let’s find a way to get some leverage over this demon. There may be no supernatural method, but if we get him over a barrel he’ll have to renegotiate. With the three of us working together anything’s possible. I’m sorry I’ve led you to believe that I’m the kind of person who can just cheerfully accept my own brother falling on his sword for me.” <br><br>He can’t keep the hurt out of his voice that Dean thinks that, or that Dean thinks that he didn’t try to find him when he went missing. But he tries. He tries to keep his words quiet, steady, even. But his eyes go red-rimmed with unshed tears as he drops his gaze to the ground once more. <br><br>“It /is/ your choice, Dean. I’m just asking you with everything I’ve got to make a different one. Please.” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean silences and stares at Fred. His head shakes. His body tenses and his free hand bids away the tears that have managed to fall while the other clings to the box. His head turns and even with the hand on his shoulder urging him not to fight, at the moment he feels like that’s all he has. Fight. Tears and fight, and Dean will not cry right now. Instead, he starts slowly. “Look. I get it. You had a shit deal. You ended up there through some accident. /This/ isn’t accidental. My brother died and I tried CPR for the better part of an hour. I dove after him in the water alone as the brook horse decided he was theirs. I went to where we were squatting and smashed the windows one by one until I was called out for being the damned Squirrel I was by /him/. He sat there watching me. He’d shown up. Uninvited. I didn’t call him. My twelve year old brother was dead and I was gonna lay him to rest. I wasn’t going to the Crossroads. I wasn’t going to make some ill-conceived deal. I was figuring out how to deal with my brother’s death. Logistically. I was gearing up to salt and burn his bones.” He looks pointedly at Fred. “Alone. Because that’s what our lives looked like. I signed a contract in my own blood. Alone. I screamed Sam’s name into the fog-filled night. Alone. There wasn’t anyone to call. Ever. And there hasn’t been for the better part of two decades.” <br><br>“So yeah, I get it. You had a raw deal. But if you’d known it was coming? If you’d known what would happen ten years before--you’d have had the pleasure of suffering twice. If you’d done it for one of the extreme few people you love, the number of which you can count on less than one hand, to save them from it, to keep them safe because you know you’ve done way worse than they possibly could have? If you’d done it and ensured they had enough time to grow up before you were gone because you knew you were the only sense of stability in their life?” His head shakes. “You don’t get to waltz in here and critique me. You don’t know me. You don’t know anything. You don’t know what it is to reject someone you care about because you’re marked. You don’t know what it is to almost bring this up with your supposed parent,” his eyebrows lift at that, “over the course of years and realize they really don’t care. And never have.” His throat clears, “You don’t know what it is to be four years old and see your mother dead on the ceiling. To be handed your baby brother to the smell of sulphur and fire. To be haunted by that image your entire life,” a memory he stills has nightmares about, “and then to be told you have one job and one job only. You don’t know what it is to fail at that one job. So no. You don’t get to tell me what’s what. I can handle myself. I look after myself. I fucking raised myself.” <br><br>He emits a huff of breath, a near scoff, but there’s no words attached to it. He has so much more he could say. The things he’s been holding too long are pushed down more. <br><br>He shudders beneath his brother’s hand. He sniffs hard, cutting of the emotions at their knees. And, with a weird kind of revelation, something seems to finally make sense to him. There’s a strange twist to his lips and his voice actually cracks, “Moose. I finally get it,” involuntarily his lips curve upwards but there’s no other markings of the smile on his face. He presses a hand to his forehead to bid away his most base emotions. He longs to cry. And to Sam’s apology, he frowns. “...Wh.. Why do you think I kept it a secret so long? I’m not stupid. And I don’t want an apology from you.” <br><br>And instead of staying there, he takes a step back, rather purposively shrugging the hand off his shoulder. “/Which/ demon Sam?” he asks, a little too quietly. “The one trying to make you his hellspawn or the one that holds my contract?” And the moment he’s said it he regrets it. He’s said way too much. His eyes flit between them. <br><br>And in saying too much he has one response--it’s one learned through years of exposure. He shuts down and it happens over the course of seconds. Even his posture changes. Sam’s plea sees his head ducking back to the car. “I gotta go.” And the tone Dean uses sounds all too final. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>When Sam puts his hand on Fred’s shoulder, he can feel the tension there. It practically radiates off of her. There’s more fight in her, but his request to stop it cuts off any more of those words. She pauses, gathering control of what she was going to say and rethinking it. Instead, she waits till both Sam and Dean have said their piece. <br><br>When she does speak, there’s no apology, no taking back of what she said, she doesn’t regret any of it. But, recounting all her memories of Pylea has left her shaking just slightly. “I’m not trying to critique you,” she says. “I’m trying to help you. I’m not saying I’d’ve done that first deal any differently. You were alone and didn’t have any options. I’m sorry you had to go through all that. But, you’ve got us now and you don’t have to do it yourself. You coulda gone out here alone, but you brought us along. Maybe it’s ‘cause deep down you wanted us to try and stop you.” <br><br>The plea from Sam is heard and she looks at him for a moment, but doesn’t add anything else. She’s not going to follow him if he says he has to go. From what he’s said she knows she wouldn’t be welcome. Instead, she looks to Sam, seeing if he’ll try to stop Dean from leaving. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Grim determination on his face says that Sam is briefly considering grabbing Dean, decking him much as Dean decked him the other night, and sitting on him until he sees sense. <br><br>There’s a time limit on the deal, Dean said, so all he has to do is keep Dean out for...how many more hours? <br><br>So yes, he does try to stop him. He grabs for Dean’s shoulder with the most apologetic look in all the world, and attempts to spin him around and deck him in the face. <br><br>Because this is how healthy families solve problems! <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred’s words fall on deaf ears determined to maintain their course. The hand at Dean’s shoulder successfully has him spin around, but the punch only makes half-purchase, connecting with a piece of Dean’s jaw thanks to Dean’s relatively quick reflexes that have him stepping out of the punch. <br><br>He counters just as hard with a mean right hook that he’d used only a week earlier to force Sam to the ground. “Dammit Sam! Can’t you see I’m doing this for you?! I have one job! Let me just do it, man!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s not like she was expecting her words to have Dean turn in his tracks and admit his wrongdoings, but a part of Fred did hope he’d listen to her. When she looks to Sam to see if he’s going to follow, she is unsurprised that he does. What does surprise her is that he doesn’t put a hand on Dean’s shoulder for comfort, but to deck Dean across the face. <br><br>“Sam!” she shouts, moving forward. However, what does she do in this situation? She’s not a brawler by any sense of the word. As much as she hates the idea of being the woman who stands on the sidelines of a fight wringing her hands, that’s pretty much what she does for the time being. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>This time Sam is ready for that right hook. He raises his arm in a simple block to take the punch, and grimly tries to deck Dean right back in the solar plexus, pulling it a bit. He’s only trying to wind his brother and knock him out, not seriously hurt him. <br><br>“I know you’re doing it for me,” he says, with the grimmest determination. “That’s why I can’t let you do it.” <br><br>He’s got a few advantages in this fight. Reach and, if he’d use it, superior strength among them. But Dean has ferocity on his side, superior skill, and the warrior’s spirit that Sam, for all his training, frankly doesn’t share. Sam is a scholar first and a fighter second. These things might be the deciding factor yet again, but this doesn’t stop him from trying with all his might to do what he thinks is right in this situation...just as, ironically, Dean is. <br><br>He sounds so sorry, but so maddeningly /calm/ too. He’s not angry. He’s not doing this because he’s pissed. He’s doing this because Dean wouldn’t listen to words, and fists is what’s left. <br><br>So he grunts, “It’s okay, Fred. This is kind of our thing.” <br><br>Poor Fred. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The hit to Dean’s solar plexus catches his shoulder instead as he twists into it, knowing well enough to protect those sensitive spots. He follows the block up with a sharp jab towards Sam’s nose and a cross to his brother’s chin. He’s far more comfortable fighting than talking and it has the bonus of being far more fulfilling. <br><br>His lips twitch into a frown. “You need me. I can’t just die and leave you to figure this out! That son of a bitch killed mom, he’s not getting his dirty claws on you too!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam whips his head out of the way of the jab to the nose, only to take it right on the chin. He staggers back a few steps, feeling that one all the way to his teeth. His anger slips, and he just goes to bear tackle Dean instead of trying to punch him. <br><br>“So we enslave you to a different son of a bitch who makes you do dozens of terrible things? How can that be right?” <br><br>Granted, tackling isn’t a very great strategy for the nimble Dean; Sam momentarily leaves himself wide open as he goes to try to take advantage of his size. He’s relatively new to having size to take advantage of, really, having sprouted up mostly within the past year, but he’s enjoyed the benefits. He just forgets how much experience Dean has fighting all sorts of things that are bigger and stronger.<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The opening granted strikes as an opportunity. Dean has a mean uppercut and his brother gets the full force of it. He actually ducks back to the car immediately following, seeing full well intention at the opportunity he’s taken. His hand presses against the car and he trails around it before getting to the driver’s side to slide in. <br><br>“We don’t have a choice. There isn’t enough time,” he hisses again. “And it’s not our choice anyways. It’s mine.” <br><br>The engine starts and he puts the car into reverse. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Slowly, Fred has been making her way toward the car in a wide arc around the brothers attempting to work out their problems through a fist fight. If she can get to her bag, she can get to the sleep bomb she and Mercy constructed in order to try and contain the Winter Soldier. It wasn’t quite as effective on Barnes, but with the Winchesters? She imagines it will knock them out enough for her to figure out what to do next. <br><br>Unfortunately, the fighting prowess of Dean versus his brother means she doesn’t have enough time to make it to passenger side of the car and into her bag with the leftover bombs. For a moment, she’s brightly illuminated in the headlights as it’s clear she was making her way toward the other side of the car. She’s not about to toss herself in front of his pathway - especially as he’s reversing instead of driving forward. <br><br>“We can figure a way out of this, Dean!” she calls out after him over the engine, staying where she is. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam has hit the dirt square in the middle of the crossroads, and for a moment all he’s seeing is stars. He puts his hand to his head, trying to recover, and by the time he does he’s illuminated in the glare of headlights. Fred is calling after Dean and… <br><br>And… <br><br>He staggers to his feet, though it’s not going to do any good; there’s no way to fight the Impala. As it is, he also gets out of Dean’s way. The expression on his face is mostly scared now, though he quickly clears it to something grimmer. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The yell over the Impala, the way it hangs in the air only causes Dean to back up further. He reaches for the radio to blare Bon Jovi loudly. <br><br>The tune is loud enough that others can hear it outside the vehicle. <br><br>//It’s all the same, only the names will change// <br>//Everyday, it seems we’re wastin’ away// <br>//Another place where the faces are so cold// <br>//I drive all night just to get back home// <br>//I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride// <br>//I’m wanted dead or alive.// <br><br>Dean doesn’t miss his brother’s expression. His own hardens as the car lurches backwards. But it falters momentarily when the other figure enters his periphery. His eyes roll as he turns the car, giving full view of the dark haired passenger with the shit eating grin to those still at the Crossroads. The Impala drives away. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>As the Impala reverses and the Bon Jovi blasts, Fred starts to move toward Sam. There’s nothing she can do now to stop the car, she knows that. Her own expression matches his - grim. <br><br>The sudden appearance of the dark haired man in the passenger seat causes Fred to blink, studying that face with her own look of surprise. “Who is that?” she asks. She has a theory, of course, but she wants to know if Sam already knows the person who randomly appeared in Dean’s car. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“No idea, but I aim to find out,” Sam says grimly. <br><br>Of course. There’s no way to do that here, and now, and he hasn’t been too successful thus far, all things he’s well aware of as he steps off the road and sits down with his back to a tree. They’re stuck there till Dean remembers he’s basically stranded them. Until he’s done doing what he wants to do. <br><br>His adrenaline was pretty high, and he is breathing a bit heavily, but he rests his elbows over his knees and looks down, shaggy long hair concealing his eyes. <br><br>“This was,” he adds, “exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, yes.” <br><br>He knows very well that he has fucked up. Capital F, capital U. <br><br>//In the Impala// <br><br>Crowley, King of the Crossroads, sits smugly for a moment as the music blares. <br><br>Then he reaches over to simply turn it down again, once they’re well out of sight of the two meddling children. Moose and Waif don’t even realize what they’re meddling with. Don’t even realize that in his way, he’s even trying to help them. <br />
But it’s neither here nor there. He makes a show of checking his Rolex. <br><br>“Cut it rather close to the wire, didn’t you, Squirrel?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s nostrils flare and his breath rakes his throat. He doesn’t admit anything. He doesn’t give anything. Instead, he hisses through his teeth, “We need to talks terms.” His gaze remains trained on the road, focused on the world in front of him instead of his passenger. <br><br>They barrel down the highway back towards Hell’s Kitchen. And then, with a sniff, he asks, “Enjoy the show?” His gaze deadens. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The pair of them are rather stranded until they can either hitch a ride - unlikely - or Dean returns for them. Following his example, Fred steps out of the road and moves to sit next to him. <br><br>“I can see why,” she says softly. It’s hard to tell whether she can see why he concealed all this from her or whether she can see why he wanted to tell her. There’s a sigh, a lot of her earlier anger expended in her recounting of what happened to her on Pylea. There’s still frustration, there, though. There’s fear. <br><br>“How long have you known about all this?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam half shakes his head. <br><br>“I got it in pieces. I--” <br><br>He tries to figure out how to explain it to her, how to put the timeline together. <br><br>“I found out about Dean’s contract, that I died, right before we faced those vengeance demons. But you were so upset that night that I didn’t want to get into it then. The rest...sort of in bits and pieces. I never heard the name Azazel till tonight. I figured out what Hydra was injecting me with, and…”<br />
He lowers his head again. “Fred, all of this gets worse, and every time I tried to figure out how to put it into words I just felt so…” <br><br>He shakes his head, but his body language perhaps says it for him, because he looks rather like someone who thinks he’s shit on the shoe of the world. <br><br>//Impala// <br><br>“Top notch entertainment is one of the perks of the job,” Crowley says, his low-key voice reflecting cheer all the same, the slightest of smiles still lingering there. <br><br>Terms, Dean says, and he seems even more amused. <br><br>“Spoken like a man who thinks he has some sort of bargaining position, but as I was so fantastically entertained I can’t wait to hear all about them.” <br><br>He makes a show of getting comfortable in Sam’s seat, even reaching down to adjust the lever so the back position is a bit more to //his// liking. Or...he tries. When he realizes it’s a bucket seat, set only to the driver’s settings, he scowls a little and settles back as if he hadn’t tried to do a thing. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Here’s the thing Crowley,” Dean speaks to the road, “something’s bothered me for awhile,” his lips purse weirdly, “but you came to me that night. It’s gnawed at me for years.” His jaw clenches. “I didn’t go to the Crossroads. You. Came. To. Me.” <br><br>“And with the horse thing? You came to me.” His eyebrows quirk. “I have no idea what the hell you want with me, but it’s something.” His fingers tap on the wheel absently. “So. Terms.” <br><br>His throat clears. “I take this, and you don’t get to talk to Sam. Ever. Even after my death.” He emits a long breath. “I refuse to do something I go to the pit. I die, the contract ends. And… inevitably I go to the pit.” <br><br>His teeth worry his bottom lip. “And after I do three of your favours? You help me find Azazel.” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There’s a delicate line to be walked here. Fred sits next to Sam, looking first to him and then to the empty road in front of them. While she doesn’t lean against him right now, what she does do is reach out a hand, attempting to take his in hers. <br><br>For the moment, she doesn’t excuse the concealing. Instead, she pauses. It’s so easy to see that he’s in pain and the last thing she wants to do is add to that. There’s not much she thinks she can say in order to assuage him. So, she simply says, “It’s okay, Sam. You can tell me.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester takes the hand of the woman he loves, and for a long moment that’s all he can do. He swallows and he looks out into the distance. <br><br>“They were injecting me with demon blood, Fred,” he says. <br><br>He shivers. “I started looking forward to them. Because they felt good. They washed pain away, they made me feel stronger, they made the hunger not matter as much. Gave me a rush of pleasure, like heroin. And it’s crazy, because that’s not anything demon blood does to people. You inject the average person with demon blood, they just...it’s nothing. It’s just gross and unsanitary. But the Yellow Eyed Demon...Azazel, I guess...did something to me.” <br><br>He swallows. <br><br>“After you guys got me I still didn’t know, but I started fantasizing about it. I couldn’t stop. And by the end of the week I was trying not to show it, but I was in terrible pain. Like every muscle was cramping up, like a full body migraine, like I was hungry but nauseated at the same time...so I found a demon, went on a hunt, got some and tried it and it...It was what I needed. It was fantastic.” <br><br>He squeezes her hand in a way that warns there’s even more. <br><br>//Impala// <br><br>Crowley strokes his beard. <br><br>He cannot, as it happens, tell Dean a thing. If he does, all will be absolutely lost. <br><br>But he does smile faintly. “You’ve gotten a bit more savvy in your old age. And here I thought that you were simply a functioning moron at best. But. You can rest assured I have no interest in talking to Sam. And going after Azazel...yes, I think that will do nicely.” <br><br>He tilts his finger at Dean. <br><br>“But. I have my first little task for you today.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A mirthless smile extends across Dean’s features. “Thanks. Everyone assumes I’m Daddy’s blond little warrior and nothing else. Nothing going on upstairs. Pretty sure Dad and Sam think that too,” his smile has the edges expected of someone far more sinister. The car continues to barrel back to the Hell’s Kitchen apartment. <br><br>“Then you have a deal. Three favours. You help me find Azazel. And if that son of a bitch kills me at least I’ll know there’s nothing else I could’ve done,” to protect Sam. His fingers white knuckle. <br><br>“What’s the task?” <br><br>He stares straight at the road, never turning to look at Crowley as he drives. <br><br><br />
<br />
'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>For a little while, the two of them just sit there, holding hands at a crossroads. When Sam finally does speak, she doesn’t say anything. There’s clearly surprise on her face and then a glimpse of anger returning, then shock. <br><br>They injected him with demon blood. It does something to him, meaning whoever Azazel is changed something inside of him. The Winter Soldier not only took Sam, but they experimented on him. The anger returns, this time directed at the man chained up in Mercy’s garage. There will be words. She’s thinking through what can be done with that when Sam drops the last bomb. <br><br>The shock is clear on her face as he says that he found a demon and then used its blood. That he is addicted to it. However, the hand doesn’t attempt to pull out of his. Nor does she look disgusted by him or like she is about to run away. When he squeezes her hand, she nods, not trusting herself to speak, but indicating that he should continue. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam swallows hard. The fact that she accepts him means more than he can even express. It brings a few tears to his eyes, though they remain unshed. He drops his gaze again after a brief, sick, sad, and loving one in her direction. <br><br>He exhales. <br><br>“I captured one of those revenge demons instead of banishing it. As far as I know they only shape human bodies out of their magic rather than possessing one-- though my lore sources are fuzzy on that point-- and it seemed ideal. Because that way a human isn’t held captive right along with the demon. She gives me a.” He clears his throat. “Well. A predictable supply. She’s well secured, but…” <br><br>But it’s sick, and wrong, and strange, and awful, and dangerous. And Sam knows it. Yet he doesn’t have a better solution, either. <br><br>//Impala// <br><br>Crowley produces a picture of a dark haired young lady, about Sam’s age. She’s got bouncing black curls and big green eyes. “I need you to seduce her,” he says. Affable as his brand of evil is, there’s still coldness beneath the tone. <br><br>And he doesn’t bother to explain why. <br><br>“The specific time and place I need you to close the deal are written on the back of the photo.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>And for the first time, Dean’s eyes peel away from the road and his head turns towards Crowley. “...did you just objectify me?” He rubs his forehead and his expression turns grim. Out of all the things he’d envisioned doing for Crowley, seducing some unsuspecting brunette was definitely not one of them. <br><br>“Are you seriously having me trade sexual favours to stay out of Hell awhile longer?” he asks the road in front of him as his eyebrows draw together. “...I’m a hooker. A hooker for hell. A hell hooker,” everything in his tone is deadpanned. “I haven’t… I’m not… That’s not something I do anymore. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?” <br><br>But objections all die at the thought of finally being able to protect Sam once Azazel is dead. He plucks the photo from Crowley’s fingers. <br><br>After doing so, he grabs the cellphone from his pocket. “...Agent May… Sam and Fred need a ride…” <br><br>He glances towards Crowley and lifts his eyebrows as he puts the car into park in front of the Hell’s Kitchen apartment. <br><br><br />
<br />
'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The last bombshell that Sam drops is quite the doozy. For a long while Fred doesn’t speak, though she squeezes his hand. The surprise returns. She’d never expect him to do something like that. It’s...so cold and calculated. There’s silence as she tries to figure out what to say. <br><br>“Sam…” she sighs, shaking her head. Her other hand reaches out to take his. “We’re going to figure this out.” Her words are a bit halting as she tries to think about what to say before she actually does so. “But...keeping a vengeance demon…” she trails off again, trying to say the right thing. “That’s not the way. You can’t do that. That’s not you.” <br><br>Her voice remains soft as she continues, “I’m sorry I didn’t see you were in pain like that for so long. I thought you needed space after everything. I know you’ve told me that you were taught to hide everything, but I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. You’ve gotta let me in.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“I told you I was fine 600 times, I don’t know why you’d apologize for believing me,” Sam says quietly. <br><br>He plucks up some grass and tosses the stems to one side with his free hand, glancing up at the sky. “I’m trying, Fred. I’m letting you in right now. I’ve felt like there was something wrong with me all my life. Getting confirmation hasn’t been...easy.” <br><br>He looks off down the road. “What Dean is doing-- it’s-- he shouldn’t have.” <br><br>He looks back at her. “I was drunk that night,” he explains. “When I thought to summon the crossroads demon for myself. I was drunk, and all I could think was that all I’ve ever done is ruin everything for Dean, and that I was supposed to have died 9 years ago, and how much better off Dean would be on virtually every level if I were gone. But I was rash, and wrong, and I should have talked things out with you.” <br><br>//Hell’s Kitchen// <br><br>“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. Usually deals-- and riders to deals-- are sealed with a kiss,” Crowley says, with a flirtatious lean in that puts his face very close to Dean’s. “But we have an understanding now, so I let you off with a verbal contract. And we both know you’ll whore yourself out, lie, steal, cheat, torture or murder to protect Sammy.” <br><br>He leans back and tap taps his mouth thoughtfully. As if something has occurred to him. <br><br>“That kind of devotion does deserve some sort of reward, so you should know...he /did/ look. He’d have found you under the ocean within six weeks...if not for a series of cryptic clues, false trails, and strange coordinates that took him on a cross-country wild goose chase, throwing him into hunt after hunt, each hunt seeming to bring you closer while never managing to do so. Shame about that.” <br><br>And then he tips his fingers to his forehead in salute. <br><br>“Ciao.” <br><br>He’s gone. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>// Triskelion// <br><br>May answers her phone when it rings. She figured out very quickly that if either of the Winchesters were calling her, it would very likely be a life or death situation. She barely gets her name out when Dean tells her that Sam and Fred need a ride, and she turns to let someone know she’s needed elsewhere she she faintly hears a different voice over the line. <br><br>Frowning, she listens more carefully as the voice suddenly becomes much clearer then backs off again, gesturing to her current companion to record the call and process it. Luckily, the silent hand gestures are something the two have long since mastered so she doesn’t have to explain. <br><br>Waiting a second or two after the other voice’s last word, she finally speaks up. “Dean. Tell me what’s going on. Now.” She’s on her way to claim a vehicle, and no, she’s not heading to the motor pool. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Crowley earns a sharp knit of Dean’s eyebrows. “Dude. I ain’t kissing you.” Because there’s no way that’s happening. “It’s enough that you’re whoring me out.” He has more to say, more to wax poetic on, but Crowley is gone, and May is on the phone, he can feel the frown creep into his tone, wholly aware she heard so much more than he’d intended. “...May…” <br><br>Dean treads through the convenience store under their apartment, pausing at the store to nab a bottle of whiskey from the counter, leaving some bills on the counter. “Look. Sam is hellspawn. I gotta fix it.” <br><br>The woman at the counter arches her eyebrows at him as he talks into the phone. “Uh… keep the change,” he turns on his heel and then turns to the stairs with a wince. “When we were kids a demon named Azazel fed him demon blood and killed our mother. Hydra exploited that and he’s doping demon blood.” <br><br>It’s been an eventful week. “Look. I bought myself more time to do this, but I need to… I need to go. I need to find a way to kill demons, find Azazel,” he doesn’t add the bit about how Crowley is helping to that end, “all before I bite the dust. So. I need to head to the Roadhouse and…” he frowns. “...Jo.” That horrible sinking feeling enters the pit of his stomach. “Fuuuuuck.” His eyes clamp shut just shy of the door. <br><br>He forces them open when he finally needs his keys. “I need you to watch Sam. He’ll be fine. He has Fred. And I gotta--” he proceeds to unlock the latch on the door and it swings open. He drops the phone. <br><br>“Dean,” a low familiar voice greets. <br><br>Dean stiffens visibly. He stares at the figure sitting at the table. His cheeks puff out irritably, “...Dad.” <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Wanted&diff=1413Wanted2017-08-27T01:13:55Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/08/24<br />
|Location=Crossroads<br />
|Synopsis=After Sam Winchester uses telekinesis to capture the Winter Soldier, emotions run high, and a lot of truth bombs are dropped.<br />
|Cast of Characters=Sam Winchester, Winifred Burkle, Dean Winchester, May<br />
|Tinyplot=Blood on My Name<br />
|Tinyplot2=Tayaniye<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>August 24, 2025 <br><br>The Winter Soldier has been tranqed twice with werewolf darts and shot six times with ICER bullets, then transported to be chained up in Mercy’s garage with, one at least hopes, his arm out of commission. Sam had avoided looking too closely at anyone after confirming that Fred was, indeed, not permanently damaged by the soldier’s attack. <br><br>In truth, he’s still shaking with fury. It hasn’t quite subsided yet. Fury and fear, feeling like he almost lost two of the people he cares about most in the world, along with a friend to whom he owes his life. The worst part is, this is mostly his fault. He and Claire were the ones who were all gung ho about saving the Soldier; everyone else had a lot more reservations. <br><br>His anger and, more than that, the overwhelming filthiness and shame he’s feeling are enough to send him to the back of the Impala, to let him offer the shotgun seat to Fred. For one thing, he does have a dull headache. He needs a dose now, though he’s hardly going to complain about that to them. Instead, he just stretches out back there, his hand on his head, not particularly caring where they go so long as it has a bathroom where he can shoot up. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>While Sam slumps into the back of the Impala and presumably Fred is gonna ride shot gun, Dean opens the trunk and rather unceremoniously begins to disarm himself. The tactical jacket comes off and for the first time in a very long time, he removes one weapon after another and unloads it into the trunk, all the while muttering to himself under his breath about one thing or another. Once in awhile, a good listener might catch the occasional word, “...Azazel… “ His eyes sting as he chokes on emotion. He knows more than he should; more than he has any right to. <br><br>He then unbuttons his next shirt and does the same. The pattern repeats itself a third time until he’s in nothing but his faded jeans and a tank. The clothes don’t feel remotely natural nor does the lack of weight, but he does it just the same. And once he’s stripped down, he grabs the large container of salt and the bottle of holy water from the back. His head shakes and he opens the driver’s side door and promptly tosses a handful of salt towards his brother followed by a holy water chaser. <br><br>A pointed look follows both. <br><br>After that’s finished, he puts the car into drive and the Impala sails down the road. <br><br>When the car comes to a stop, it’s at a nearby Crossroads. He proceeds to get out of the car, slamming the door behind him. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It took Fred a little while to recover from the attack. While the Winter Soldier was tranqued and chained, she coughed and started to breathe normally. Already, purple finger shaped bruises are starting to rise on her neck, but it doesn’t seem as if she needs to be taken to the hospital. For awhile, her attention is put squarely on the Soldier as they load him - chained - into a car to take to some place safe and out of the way. <br><br>However, once the immediate danger is out of the way, the shaken physicist is immediately by Sam’s side. The smell of sulphur is strong and she realizes she’s smelled it, weaker, before. Perhaps it’s for the best that Sam isn’t explaining right now because talking hurts. Instead, she studies him, curious and worried. He just threw an assassin onto a scrap yard magnet with his mind and now he won’t look at them. <br><br>A part of her wishes to slip into the back seat with Sam, but she realizes that he might need his space. Instead, she settles into the front seat with a wince and feeling like she’s bruised all over. Her eyes track the stalking Dean Winchester as he unarms himself and mutters. What is an Azazel? The toss of water and salt onto Sam furrows her brows. “What’re you doing?” she asks Dean, her voice a bit raspy, but there’s a bit of fear tinged in there. She knows what dousing someone in holy water and salt means. Through the ride, she’s twisted in her seat to keep an eye on Sam, so she’s not quite paying attention to where they’re being driven. She assumed Dean was driving back to their apartment. <br><br>When the Impala stops at a Crossroads, she looks even more worried and confused. “What is going on?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>An indignant, “Dude!” <br><br>That is the only result of salt and holy water on one Sam Winchester. But then he realizes what Dean is about and his mouth flattens. He reaches out to squeeze Fred’s shoulder. <br><br>“I’ll explain everything but I think Dean is about to make a bad deal with a worse demon. Help me talk him down, please.” <br><br>Then, pain or not, he is out of the car. <br><br>“Dean, we gotta find a way to get you out of this deal, man, not get you more entangled.” His voice is soft, earnest. “You don't need to enslave yourself to some high up crossroads demon. There is some other answer.” <br><br>Which of course means he knows more about Dean’s deals than he should. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred’s question receive little response save one basic thought: “Just stay in the car,” before the door slams shut. He trails to the trunk and pulls out the effects for the spell he’s been pondering for days. And it’s only when Sam is outside the car that he frowns and really reacts. <br><br>But his brother’s words leave more upset than he intends. Dean’s eyes darken. His lips press into a thin line. “I should’ve already taken it,” he hisses. “Then you wouldn’t have even remembered.” His eyes roll at his own decisions, too wholly aware that somehow he’s allowed fate to bring them to this point. <br><br>The small box is removed from the trunk. Already prepped save a few last items required. <br><br>“Get back in the car,” he deadpans. And for one of the first times in his life, his tone seems to mirror John’s.<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>That furrowed brow is not going to ease up anytime soon, it seems. He’ll explain later, they have to save Dean from a deal with a demon, Dean wants everyone to stay in the car? One thing is certain, the last order from Dean is not followed. With a squeak of metal, the Impala’s doors open and she gets out. <br><br>“What deal?” Fred asks, moving up to stand next to Sam as she studies both brothers. Clearly there is something going on here of which she has yet to even scratch the surface. “Can someone please start making some sense?” Her voice isn’t very loud - she can’t raise it too much without it hurting - but luckily there isn’t any traffic about them and her words can carry. <br><br>“Dean, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have to be telling you this, but making deals with demons is a bad thing. I learned that from church before I even knew they could be real.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sounding like John is a good way to turn Sam’s attitude. Ditto for looking like him. Sam’s nostrils flare and his mouth flattens into a tight, grim line. <br><br>“I drowned at 12,” he tells Fred. “I am not even supposed to be alive. Dean saved my life by making a deal. In less than a year, a hellhound is scheduled to drag him to the pit. But this demon he made the deal with wants to amend the deal. Some sort of slave arrangement in return for extended life.” <br><br>He turns to face Dean. “I don't want you doing this. Not for me. I’m not worth it. I failed to save you from the ocean people. I ran off to Stanford and abandoned you. I’ve never been anything but a disappointment. If they had been willing to deal with me I’d already have this handled!” <br><br>He sounds, by the end, a little desperate...and he has definitely revealed more than he meant to. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s expression turns stony. His eyes steel. His jaw tightens. His free hand balls into fist while the other works at the materials he’d already gathered to summon what needs to be summoned. His gaze flits towards Fred, “You wouldn’t have your boyfriend if I didn’t make a deal. You’d never have met. He’d never have gone to school. We wouldn't be here.” His nostrils flare, but he otherwise stays strangely stoic. “None of us.” <br><br>His throat clears. He’s choking around something altogether invisible. But he can feel it. Thick. Heavy. His eyes narrow and he turns towards Sam, “So… what? You were just going to die? Not say anything, not tell anyone, just here and then gone?” There’s some irony to Dean being critical about death deals, yet the critique remains. “And the new deal is fine. Clearly this balance between your natures is all kinds of fucked. He,” Crowley, “was right. You need me. Alive, probably.” <br><br>His expression turns pinched. “You don’t get a say in this. I should’ve just taken the deal in the first place.” He’s managing to keep it together, channelling those small things he’d learned from a lifetime of watching his hardened father--nuances in expression keep him tempered, including the way his face takes on a pinched quality. <br><br>The challenge in Dean’s gaze remains. He tosses his driver’s license into the box. His gaze turns to the Crossroads themselves. And then he states plainly once again, “Get back in the car both of you.” <br><br>He walks towards the dirt. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There is quite a bit of information from both Sam and Dean that takes Fred a few moments to unpack. It’s a lot for someone whose windpipe was nearly crushed less than an hour ago. First, unsurprisingly, her eyes go to Sam at the knowledge that he died at the age of twelve and Dean made some sort of deal to save him feels like a solid punch to the chest. “You died?” Her eyes shift to Dean, remembering their conversation in the kitchen not too long ago. “That’s why you wanted Sam to have more ties? ‘Cause you didn’t think you were going to be around?” <br><br>The implications of Sam’s own pleading for Dean to stop hit her, too. He would have handled this if the demons would deal with him. Her attention shifts back to him. “What?” The question is asked softly, not due to her injury but with an emotion closer to fear. “When did you do that?” A part of her hopes it was long before they met, something he didn’t tell Dean until just now. <br><br>A sliver of cold washes through Fred as she watches the brothers fight and Dean insist they get back in the car. As he turns to walk to the dirt, a flash of anger crosses her face. Striding forward, wincing as she does so, she attempts to get right in front of Dean and smack the box right out of his hands. <br><br>“Now, you...you both stop this!” Her voice is raised, raspy, but unmistakably filled with determination, even if she’s not used to taking charge in this manner. “Stop it right now!” The angrier she gets, the more Texas slips through her accent. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam looks away from them both. “I was going to leave explanations,” he mumbles. “I just-- it didn’t feel right. I’m some sort of-- there’s something wrong with me anyway so. It just didn’t feel right.” <br><br>Sam, of course, has been pushing back against John Winchester for years, and none of these expressions work. Certainly being told to get in the car doesn’t work. To Fred he says, “This...was all part of what I was going to talk to you about, but...everything came to a head before I got the chance. I don’t want to leave you, but…” <br><br>To Dean, exasperated, “And of course I need you, that’s not even the point, the point is we need to comb the lore and-- and just fix this.” <br><br>But then Fred is losing her temper at both of them, and his mouth snaps shut. His eyes widen slightly. He hasn’t really seen her angry, not really. He slides his hands uncomfortably into his pockets and looks down. <br><br>He stops. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred tries to hit the box from Dean’s hands and he draws it closer to himself like some deeply guarded possession. “What the hell?” Pointedly, he looks between the pair. “You don’t get a say in my decisions! Neither of you! I’ve been making my own choices since I was… what? Four?” It might be an exaggeration, but the meaning is readily apparent. <br><br>He nods at Sam’s assertion that he doesn’t want to leave Fred. “Then fucking don’t. I’ve got this,” because it’s already decided anyways. “Hell already owns my soul, I may as well just make it final.” But he doesn’t start digging the necessary hole. He doesn’t put the box where it belongs. His eyes train back on the car, and then remain there for several beats. <br><br>“There is no way to ‘fix this’. I’ve been trying for the better part of nine years when I figured out that ten years is nothing. Ten years is the blink of an eye,” he hisses. “When I asked Dad about deals with the Crossroads. When I went to Angel Investigations to ask about it. There is no way.” His lips curve upwards, but it’s not anything close to a smile. “And you can’t take it back. I didn’t make this choice for no reason. It wasn’t some selfish bid to stay out of trouble because you died on my watch. I was sixteen and it was the right decision. //Is// the right decision. No twelve year old deserves to go to hell for what happened to you! Do you not understand that!? Can’t you trust that I’m making a decision on the best information I’ve got?!” <br><br>His eyes redden as he fights against the emotions that threaten to surface. He cinches his eyes shut, shifts his weight and shakes his head. “I don’t have a future. I fucking bought you one, can you just live it?!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>He was going to leave an explanation. That adds into the fierceness in her gait, her stance. There’s a strange brew of emotions roiling about inside her: anger, fear, worry. Sam thinks there’s something wrong with him and he also just tossed a Winter Soldier right into a large magnet while smelling like sulphur. However, she does know he wanted to talk to her after her episode at Mercy’s garage. They simply didn’t get the time in their preparations. “This is what you were going to talk to me about.” A movement of her chin indicates the Winchester brothers and the Crossroads they currently stand in. He warned her so many times about the secrets, the Need to Know way he was raised. The concealment still hurts, but at the moment, there are more pressing things to deal with. <br><br>Instead, her gaze returns to Dean, that smouldering anger still readily visible. It’s true, Fred doesn’t get angry often, or at least she doesn’t tend to lose her temper like this. “Call me crazy,” and people have! Often! “But I don’t think you should be just signing over any more of yourself to some demon without talking it out with Sam, too. Look, I get it, you don’t know me from a hole in the ground,” poor analogy, but she doesn’t really get what’s necessary to summon a Crossroads Demon, “and so you might not care about what I’ve got to say, but I should hope you’d care about what your brother’s trying to.” <br><br>There’s a shake of her head and a clench of her fists. “We’ve still got time, Dean. We’ve got options. You do this now? We’ve got less of them. I’m sorry you had to make that deal, but I’m real glad Sam’s alive, so I’ve got to say that it was probably worth it. You’ve been working close to nine years on this alone! You’ve known Angel maybe a week? He’s found ways to cross dimensions, he pulled me outta one. We can figure it out. I’ve known ya’ll only a few months and I know Sam wouldn’t be able to live down losing you! Don’t toss the baby out with the bathwater, ‘cause it sounds like right now you don’t have any trust in us to be able to help you!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The meaning of that four years /is/ apparent, and it makes Sam flinch. His shoulders sag and he looks away. It certainly doesn’t make much more of a case for why he deserves to live at Dean’s expense. <br><br>Still, he lets both Dean and Fred have their say before he speaks up again. <br><br>“It never even crossed my mind that you thought you’d get in trouble,” he says softly. “Where did you even get that from? The only thing that crossed my mind, Dean, is how you’ve always sacrificed for me, and how I’ve never deserved it, and that I can’t lose you, and I can’t be one more reason why you’re hurt. I appreciate what you did, I love you more for it man, but Fred’s right. I really won’t be able to live with myself.” <br><br>He’s having enough trouble as it is. <br><br>/I may not have deserved to go to Hell at 12,/ he thinks bitterly, /but what am I now? No, what was I always? Dean lost his Mom because of me./ He’s never said it out loud, but the truth is he’s never felt like he had a mother. Dean had one, one that Sam basically killed by...what? Existing? Pretty much. <br><br>“My thought was...when I um. Came to my senses...New Orleans, Savannah...they’re both good sources of crossroads lore. We might be able to run down some leads there. No offense, man, but um...running down the lore wasn’t ever your thing. It was always mine.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean squints while Fred speaks. His jaw tightens. His nostrils flare. He clings to the box. “You don’t know me,” he says plainly to Fred. “We met //literally// months ago, and we talked for the first time last week.” His expression steels. “So no, I don’t care what you have to say.” He looks pointedly at Fred, “And it’s becoming clearer you don’t know Sam as well as you think you do.” He turns on his heel to push passed them back to the car. “So yeah, lady, I am damned well going to stay that course.” There’s a pause. “Do you know what it is to /know/ you have ten years to live and keep that secret? Eight? Six?” His eyebrows knit together. “One? Do you know how that changes what you do or don’t do? I’ve given up everything for this. Willingly.” His lips twitch. “So no, you don’t get to tell me the weight of my decisions. I’ve lived with this secret for nine years. It stalks every decision. It reiterates the utter futility of major life change. Of commitments. Of anything sustained. So no, you don’t get to lecture me on what someone can or can’t live with. I’ve been constantly boned for nine years.” He stares through her. “You don’t know. And if you did? Maybe you’d understand that I want to keep my investment safe.” <br><br>And as he does so, he shakes his head as he moves, hands holding tightly to the box. “I’m not… this isn’t…” his voice cracks and he drops his chin to his chest. “...I can’t… the new deal expires... “ he’d said no. He’d resolved not to do it, but it’s not something he can deal with now. He sniffs hard, pushing back the emotions that bubble faster. “No. It’s not your choice.” <br><br>“You’re going to have to find a way to live with it,” Dean finally resolves. “I’ll buy more time,” with this new deal, “but I’m still marked. It’s not going away.” His hands rake through his hair and he leans against his car. And as far as waiting is concerned, “I’m dying. Even with the new deal, it’s just a matter of time before--” his head shakes. “You’re supposed to live, Sammy. That’s how this works. You need to sort out your own shit. Get off the demon blood. Refuse that other nature. That’s what you need to research. Not this. This is done.” Or it will be. “Find out what the hell Azazel,” a name that has haunted him for nine years almost as much as Crowley, “wants, why he did it, and stop it. It’s next level shit.” <br><br>The notion of not having trust to let them help him, he actually cracks a smile as his eyes well with tears. “Nine years and no one even knew anything was wrong. Or cared. A year with ocean folks.” His head shakes and he laughs mirthlessly. <br><br>“Look. You two do your thing. Do you. Forget what you know.” He blinks hard, but one tear trails down his cheek. “It’s not worth remembering.” //I’m not worth remembering.//<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred stays silent when Sam speaks. Her being here seems a matter of happenstance. This is between the Winchester brothers. However, because she is here? She isn’t about to stand in the background without a say. This effects her because it affects Dean and Sam - she knows what happens to the one will reverberate through the other. She wants to speak to that, to illuminate how Dean’s choice is hurting Sam despite his hope of saving him. Instead? She focuses on a single thing. <br><br>“What someone can and can’t live with.” Her voice is, strangely devoid of emotion for a moment. “Choices.” Something snaps in Fred and she stalks forward to Dean. “No you don’t know me. And I don’t know you, even if you wanted me to look after Sam. But, you know what I can do? I can tell you what’s in store for you. <br><br>“You want to know what hell is? I can tell you. I lived it for five years. You pick up a book in the library you work and you say some words out of it ‘cause you’re curious. Sure, it’s not as noble as saving a brother from death, but guess what, you made a choice you didn’t realize was one and then you’re on a plane where humans are slaves. I didn’t even realize there was such a thing as other planes! So, congratulations, you’re actually better off than I was, you went in with eyes open. But, anyway, hypothetically, you’re terrified, pulled through a vortex and there’s nothing to hold on to, it’s just being pulled apart and then put back together again in a world where you’re less than nothing and it hurts. They take you, they put you in a collar and they say if you do anything they don’t like? It will detonate and your head will explode. If you touch it, it will explode. If you tamper with it, it will explode. If it randomly malfunctions ‘cause they don’t really care about maintenance, it’ll explode. <br><br>“You stay there for about a year and they don’t feed you, they beat you and they demean you, the call you cow and treat you like it. At night you hear others try to run away and are beheaded for doing so, or you see their heads explode. Sometimes they do it just ‘cause they’re bored and they think the sound it makes is funny. Sometimes, at night, they prod at you, try to see how you bleed. Then, you try to run, but you can’t get back home. There’s nowhere you can go but a dark forest where there’s wild animals you’ve never heard of, but what is the alternative? And there’s still a collar on your head that can be blown up at a moment’s notice, whenever they feel like it. It’s remote controlled, I forgot to mention that. It takes you a bit to disarm it, but you have to keep it on, ‘cause if anyone randomly saw you without a collar? They’d execute you. So, you stay there for four more years. You forget who you are, what you are, where you came from. This?” she gestures wildly about her. “This is a nightmare you wake up from on the bad days because it feel so real but you know you can never go back there and you know it. It makes you remember things you can’t believe because you can’t ever imagine a place without fear. Thinking about //here//? It makes you wake up screaming ‘cause you know that it just doesn’t make sense. This world has to be a lie ‘cause otherwise why would you still be here.” <br><br>There’s a breath, a pause. That came out in a rush of anger and emotion. She’s hinted at parts of this to Sam over their time together. The living in the woods, the collars, the fact that she was there for five years. This, though? It’s a rundown of it all, the emotion, the fear. Then, she very pointedly says, “I’m real sorry you had to live with the //idea// of that over your head for nine years. I can’t imagine what that’s like.” <br><br>Fred’s eyes narrow at Dean. “Ya’ll’s secrets have secrets, Dean. If you’re pissed that Sam didn’t know you did this? Well, you just told us you wiped his goddamn memory so how can you be mad at him for that?” An emphatic shake of her head and a cough erupts from her. She talked too much. “We’re trying to //help// you. We can do that if you let us. We //want// to do that. When does that deal expire?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Emotions are running high. Too high. When that happens Sam’s default mode is to try to soothe things over. It’s hard, though, because Fred’s no-holds-barred description of Pylea makes him sick for her, and what Dean says makes him sick for Dean. He looks it, sick and sad and helpless. <br><br>He steps between them. <br><br>His right hand stretches out to land on Dean’s shoulder. His left, on Fred’s. <br><br>“Please don’t fight,” he says quietly. He drops his head, looks down at the ground between them. <br><br>Then, he looks at Dean, and there’s anguish in his eyes. “I did look for you. By my calculations I realized you were missing almost within 3 days of you being taken. I just didn’t have any leads. I looked and I looked and I looked. I just didn’t find you, but it consumed my every waking hour. I’m sorry I didn’t realize there was something wrong when we were kids. You hid it well.” <br><br>/It was Dad who should have realized different, not me. He was the god damn parent./ <br><br>But Dean idolizes their father, and Sam cannot possibly think of a bigger miscalculation than saying a single word against him, especially not right now. <br><br>“I understand that you feel like you’ve already invested everything into keeping me alive,” he says quietly. “But I am /begging you/ to listen to Fred. To me. To try to find another way. I don’t have the strength to face this-- Azazel?-- thing-- and lose you too.” <br><br>/I’m the worthless one. I don’t even begin to know how I can get off the blood. I think trying might kill me. I know it hurts more than I can take./ <br><br>“Let’s find Dad. Let’s find a way to get some leverage over this demon. There may be no supernatural method, but if we get him over a barrel he’ll have to renegotiate. With the three of us working together anything’s possible. I’m sorry I’ve led you to believe that I’m the kind of person who can just cheerfully accept my own brother falling on his sword for me.” <br><br>He can’t keep the hurt out of his voice that Dean thinks that, or that Dean thinks that he didn’t try to find him when he went missing. But he tries. He tries to keep his words quiet, steady, even. But his eyes go red-rimmed with unshed tears as he drops his gaze to the ground once more. <br><br>“It /is/ your choice, Dean. I’m just asking you with everything I’ve got to make a different one. Please.” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean silences and stares at Fred. His head shakes. His body tenses and his free hand bids away the tears that have managed to fall while the other clings to the box. His head turns and even with the hand on his shoulder urging him not to fight, at the moment he feels like that’s all he has. Fight. Tears and fight, and Dean will not cry right now. Instead, he starts slowly. “Look. I get it. You had a shit deal. You ended up there through some accident. /This/ isn’t accidental. My brother died and I tried CPR for the better part of an hour. I dove after him in the water alone as the brook horse decided he was theirs. I went to where we were squatting and smashed the windows one by one until I was called out for being the damned Squirrel I was by /him/. He sat there watching me. He’d shown up. Uninvited. I didn’t call him. My twelve year old brother was dead and I was gonna lay him to rest. I wasn’t going to the Crossroads. I wasn’t going to make some ill-conceived deal. I was figuring out how to deal with my brother’s death. Logistically. I was gearing up to salt and burn his bones.” He looks pointedly at Fred. “Alone. Because that’s what our lives looked like. I signed a contract in my own blood. Alone. I screamed Sam’s name into the fog-filled night. Alone. There wasn’t anyone to call. Ever. And there hasn’t been for the better part of two decades.” <br><br>“So yeah, I get it. You had a raw deal. But if you’d known it was coming? If you’d known what would happen ten years before--you’d have had the pleasure of suffering twice. If you’d done it for one of the extreme few people you love, the number of which you can count on less than one hand, to save them from it, to keep them safe because you know you’ve done way worse than they possibly could have? If you’d done it and ensured they had enough time to grow up before you were gone because you knew you were the only sense of stability in their life?” His head shakes. “You don’t get to waltz in here and critique me. You don’t know me. You don’t know anything. You don’t know what it is to reject someone you care about because you’re marked. You don’t know what it is to almost bring this up with your supposed parent,” his eyebrows lift at that, “over the course of years and realize they really don’t care. And never have.” His throat clears, “You don’t know what it is to be four years old and see your mother dead on the ceiling. To be handed your baby brother to the smell of sulphur and fire. To be haunted by that image your entire life,” a memory he stills has nightmares about, “and then to be told you have one job and one job only. You don’t know what it is to fail at that one job. So no. You don’t get to tell me what’s what. I can handle myself. I look after myself. I fucking raised myself.” <br><br>He emits a huff of breath, a near scoff, but there’s no words attached to it. He has so much more he could say. The things he’s been holding too long are pushed down more. <br><br>He shudders beneath his brother’s hand. He sniffs hard, cutting of the emotions at their knees. And, with a weird kind of revelation, something seems to finally make sense to him. There’s a strange twist to his lips and his voice actually cracks, “Moose. I finally get it,” involuntarily his lips curve upwards but there’s no other markings of the smile on his face. He presses a hand to his forehead to bid away his most base emotions. He longs to cry. And to Sam’s apology, he frowns. “...Wh.. Why do you think I kept it a secret so long? I’m not stupid. And I don’t want an apology from you.” <br><br>And instead of staying there, he takes a step back, rather purposively shrugging the hand off his shoulder. “/Which/ demon Sam?” he asks, a little too quietly. “The one trying to make you his hellspawn or the one that holds my contract?” And the moment he’s said it he regrets it. He’s said way too much. His eyes flit between them. <br><br>And in saying too much he has one response--it’s one learned through years of exposure. He shuts down and it happens over the course of seconds. Even his posture changes. Sam’s plea sees his head ducking back to the car. “I gotta go.” And the tone Dean uses sounds all too final. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>When Sam puts his hand on Fred’s shoulder, he can feel the tension there. It practically radiates off of her. There’s more fight in her, but his request to stop it cuts off any more of those words. She pauses, gathering control of what she was going to say and rethinking it. Instead, she waits till both Sam and Dean have said their piece. <br><br>When she does speak, there’s no apology, no taking back of what she said, she doesn’t regret any of it. But, recounting all her memories of Pylea has left her shaking just slightly. “I’m not trying to critique you,” she says. “I’m trying to help you. I’m not saying I’d’ve done that first deal any differently. You were alone and didn’t have any options. I’m sorry you had to go through all that. But, you’ve got us now and you don’t have to do it yourself. You coulda gone out here alone, but you brought us along. Maybe it’s ‘cause deep down you wanted us to try and stop you.” <br><br>The plea from Sam is heard and she looks at him for a moment, but doesn’t add anything else. She’s not going to follow him if he says he has to go. From what he’s said she knows she wouldn’t be welcome. Instead, she looks to Sam, seeing if he’ll try to stop Dean from leaving. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Grim determination on his face says that Sam is briefly considering grabbing Dean, decking him much as Dean decked him the other night, and sitting on him until he sees sense. <br><br>There’s a time limit on the deal, Dean said, so all he has to do is keep Dean out for...how many more hours? <br><br>So yes, he does try to stop him. He grabs for Dean’s shoulder with the most apologetic look in all the world, and attempts to spin him around and deck him in the face. <br><br>Because this is how healthy families solve problems! <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred’s words fall on deaf ears determined to maintain their course. The hand at Dean’s shoulder successfully has him spin around, but the punch only makes half-purchase, connecting with a piece of Dean’s jaw thanks to Dean’s relatively quick reflexes that have him stepping out of the punch. <br><br>He counters just as hard with a mean right hook that he’d used only a week earlier to force Sam to the ground. “Dammit Sam! Can’t you see I’m doing this for you?! I have one job! Let me just do it, man!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s not like she was expecting her words to have Dean turn in his tracks and admit his wrongdoings, but a part of Fred did hope he’d listen to her. When she looks to Sam to see if he’s going to follow, she is unsurprised that he does. What does surprise her is that he doesn’t put a hand on Dean’s shoulder for comfort, but to deck Dean across the face. <br><br>“Sam!” she shouts, moving forward. However, what does she do in this situation? She’s not a brawler by any sense of the word. As much as she hates the idea of being the woman who stands on the sidelines of a fight wringing her hands, that’s pretty much what she does for the time being. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>This time Sam is ready for that right hook. He raises his arm in a simple block to take the punch, and grimly tries to deck Dean right back in the solar plexus, pulling it a bit. He’s only trying to wind his brother and knock him out, not seriously hurt him. <br><br>“I know you’re doing it for me,” he says, with the grimmest determination. “That’s why I can’t let you do it.” <br><br>He’s got a few advantages in this fight. Reach and, if he’d use it, superior strength among them. But Dean has ferocity on his side, superior skill, and the warrior’s spirit that Sam, for all his training, frankly doesn’t share. Sam is a scholar first and a fighter second. These things might be the deciding factor yet again, but this doesn’t stop him from trying with all his might to do what he thinks is right in this situation...just as, ironically, Dean is. <br><br>He sounds so sorry, but so maddeningly /calm/ too. He’s not angry. He’s not doing this because he’s pissed. He’s doing this because Dean wouldn’t listen to words, and fists is what’s left. <br><br>So he grunts, “It’s okay, Fred. This is kind of our thing.” <br><br>Poor Fred. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The hit to Dean’s solar plexus catches his shoulder instead as he twists into it, knowing well enough to protect those sensitive spots. He follows the block up with a sharp jab towards Sam’s nose and a cross to his brother’s chin. He’s far more comfortable fighting than talking and it has the bonus of being far more fulfilling. <br><br>His lips twitch into a frown. “You need me. I can’t just die and leave you to figure this out! That son of a bitch killed mom, he’s not getting his dirty claws on you too!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam whips his head out of the way of the jab to the nose, only to take it right on the chin. He staggers back a few steps, feeling that one all the way to his teeth. His anger slips, and he just goes to bear tackle Dean instead of trying to punch him. <br><br>“So we enslave you to a different son of a bitch who makes you do dozens of terrible things? How can that be right?” <br><br>Granted, tackling isn’t a very great strategy for the nimble Dean; Sam momentarily leaves himself wide open as he goes to try to take advantage of his size. He’s relatively new to having size to take advantage of, really, having sprouted up mostly within the past year, but he’s enjoyed the benefits. He just forgets how much experience Dean has fighting all sorts of things that are bigger and stronger.<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The opening granted strikes as an opportunity. Dean has a mean uppercut and his brother gets the full force of it. He actually ducks back to the car immediately following, seeing full well intention at the opportunity he’s taken. His hand presses against the car and he trails around it before getting to the driver’s side to slide in. <br><br>“We don’t have a choice. There isn’t enough time,” he hisses again. “And it’s not our choice anyways. It’s mine.” <br><br>The engine starts and he puts the car into reverse. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Slowly, Fred has been making her way toward the car in a wide arc around the brothers attempting to work out their problems through a fist fight. If she can get to her bag, she can get to the sleep bomb she and Mercy constructed in order to try and contain the Winter Soldier. It wasn’t quite as effective on Barnes, but with the Winchesters? She imagines it will knock them out enough for her to figure out what to do next. <br><br>Unfortunately, the fighting prowess of Dean versus his brother means she doesn’t have enough time to make it to passenger side of the car and into her bag with the leftover bombs. For a moment, she’s brightly illuminated in the headlights as it’s clear she was making her way toward the other side of the car. She’s not about to toss herself in front of his pathway - especially as he’s reversing instead of driving forward. <br><br>“We can figure a way out of this, Dean!” she calls out after him over the engine, staying where she is. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam has hit the dirt square in the middle of the crossroads, and for a moment all he’s seeing is stars. He puts his hand to his head, trying to recover, and by the time he does he’s illuminated in the glare of headlights. Fred is calling after Dean and… <br><br>And… <br><br>He staggers to his feet, though it’s not going to do any good; there’s no way to fight the Impala. As it is, he also gets out of Dean’s way. The expression on his face is mostly scared now, though he quickly clears it to something grimmer. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The yell over the Impala, the way it hangs in the air only causes Dean to back up further. He reaches for the radio to blare Bon Jovi loudly. <br><br>The tune is loud enough that others can hear it outside the vehicle. <br><br>//It’s all the same, only the names will change// <br>//Everyday, it seems we’re wastin’ away// <br>//Another place where the faces are so cold// <br>//I drive all night just to get back home// <br>//I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride// <br>//I’m wanted dead or alive.// <br><br>Dean doesn’t miss his brother’s expression. His own hardens as the car lurches backwards. But it falters momentarily when the other figure enters his periphery. His eyes roll as he turns the car, giving full view of the dark haired passenger with the shit eating grin to those still at the Crossroads. The Impala drives away. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>As the Impala reverses and the Bon Jovi blasts, Fred starts to move toward Sam. There’s nothing she can do now to stop the car, she knows that. Her own expression matches his - grim. <br><br>The sudden appearance of the dark haired man in the passenger seat causes Fred to blink, studying that face with her own look of surprise. “Who is that?” she asks. She has a theory, of course, but she wants to know if Sam already knows the person who randomly appeared in Dean’s car. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“No idea, but I aim to find out,” Sam says grimly. <br><br>Of course. There’s no way to do that here, and now, and he hasn’t been too successful thus far, all things he’s well aware of as he steps off the road and sits down with his back to a tree. They’re stuck there till Dean remembers he’s basically stranded them. Until he’s done doing what he wants to do. <br><br>His adrenaline was pretty high, and he is breathing a bit heavily, but he rests his elbows over his knees and looks down, shaggy long hair concealing his eyes. <br><br>“This was,” he adds, “exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, yes.” <br><br>He knows very well that he has fucked up. Capital F, capital U. <br><br>//In the Impala// <br><br>Crowley, King of the Crossroads, sits smugly for a moment as the music blares. <br><br>Then he reaches over to simply turn it down again, once they’re well out of sight of the two meddling children. Moose and Waif don’t even realize what they’re meddling with. Don’t even realize that in his way, he’s even trying to help them. <br />
But it’s neither here nor there. He makes a show of checking his Rolex. <br><br>“Cut it rather close to the wire, didn’t you, Squirrel?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s nostrils flare and his breath rakes his throat. He doesn’t admit anything. He doesn’t give anything. Instead, he hisses through his teeth, “We need to talks terms.” His gaze remains trained on the road, focused on the world in front of him instead of his passenger. <br><br>They barrel down the highway back towards Hell’s Kitchen. And then, with a sniff, he asks, “Enjoy the show?” His gaze deadens. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The pair of them are rather stranded until they can either hitch a ride - unlikely - or Dean returns for them. Following his example, Fred steps out of the road and moves to sit next to him. <br><br>“I can see why,” she says softly. It’s hard to tell whether she can see why he concealed all this from her or whether she can see why he wanted to tell her. There’s a sigh, a lot of her earlier anger expended in her recounting of what happened to her on Pylea. There’s still frustration, there, though. There’s fear. <br><br>“How long have you known about all this?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam half shakes his head. <br><br>“I got it in pieces. I--” <br><br>He tries to figure out how to explain it to her, how to put the timeline together. <br><br>“I found out about Dean’s contract, that I died, right before we faced those vengeance demons. But you were so upset that night that I didn’t want to get into it then. The rest...sort of in bits and pieces. I never heard the name Azazel till tonight. I figured out what Hydra was injecting me with, and…”<br />
He lowers his head again. “Fred, all of this gets worse, and every time I tried to figure out how to put it into words I just felt so…” <br><br>He shakes his head, but his body language perhaps says it for him, because he looks rather like someone who thinks he’s shit on the shoe of the world. <br><br>//Impala// <br><br>“Top notch entertainment is one of the perks of the job,” Crowley says, his low-key voice reflecting cheer all the same, the slightest of smiles still lingering there. <br><br>Terms, Dean says, and he seems even more amused. <br><br>“Spoken like a man who thinks he has some sort of bargaining position, but as I was so fantastically entertained I can’t wait to hear all about them.” <br><br>He makes a show of getting comfortable in Sam’s seat, even reaching down to adjust the lever so the back position is a bit more to //his// liking. Or...he tries. When he realizes it’s a bucket seat, set only to the driver’s settings, he scowls a little and settles back as if he hadn’t tried to do a thing. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Here’s the thing Crowley,” Dean speaks to the road, “something’s bothered me for awhile,” his lips purse weirdly, “but you came to me that night. It’s gnawed at me for years.” His jaw clenches. “I didn’t go to the Crossroads. You. Came. To. Me.” <br><br>“And with the horse thing? You came to me.” His eyebrows quirk. “I have no idea what the hell you want with me, but it’s something.” His fingers tap on the wheel absently. “So. Terms.” <br><br>His throat clears. “I take this, and you don’t get to talk to Sam. Ever. Even after my death.” He emits a long breath. “I refuse to do something I go to the pit. I die, the contract ends. And… inevitably I go to the pit.” <br><br>His teeth worry his bottom lip. “And after I do three of your favours? You help me find Azazel.” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There’s a delicate line to be walked here. Fred sits next to Sam, looking first to him and then to the empty road in front of them. While she doesn’t lean against him right now, what she does do is reach out a hand, attempting to take his in hers. <br><br>For the moment, she doesn’t excuse the concealing. Instead, she pauses. It’s so easy to see that he’s in pain and the last thing she wants to do is add to that. There’s not much she thinks she can say in order to assuage him. So, she simply says, “It’s okay, Sam. You can tell me.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester takes the hand of the woman he loves, and for a long moment that’s all he can do. He swallows and he looks out into the distance. <br><br>“They were injecting me with demon blood, Fred,” he says. <br><br>He shivers. “I started looking forward to them. Because they felt good. They washed pain away, they made me feel stronger, they made the hunger not matter as much. Gave me a rush of pleasure, like heroin. And it’s crazy, because that’s not anything demon blood does to people. You inject the average person with demon blood, they just...it’s nothing. It’s just gross and unsanitary. But the Yellow Eyed Demon...Azazel, I guess...did something to me.” <br><br>He swallows. <br><br>“After you guys got me I still didn’t know, but I started fantasizing about it. I couldn’t stop. And by the end of the week I was trying not to show it, but I was in terrible pain. Like every muscle was cramping up, like a full body migraine, like I was hungry but nauseated at the same time...so I found a demon, went on a hunt, got some and tried it and it...It was what I needed. It was fantastic.” <br><br>He squeezes her hand in a way that warns there’s even more. <br><br>//Impala// <br><br>Crowley strokes his beard. <br><br>He cannot, as it happens, tell Dean a thing. If he does, all will be absolutely lost. <br><br>But he does smile faintly. “You’ve gotten a bit more savvy in your old age. And here I thought that you were simply a functioning moron at best. But. You can rest assured I have no interest in talking to Sam. And going after Azazel...yes, I think that will do nicely.” <br><br>He tilts his finger at Dean. <br><br>“But. I have my first little task for you today.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A mirthless smile extends across Dean’s features. “Thanks. Everyone assumes I’m Daddy’s blond little warrior and nothing else. Nothing going on upstairs. Pretty sure Dad and Sam think that too,” his smile has the edges expected of someone far more sinister. The car continues to barrel back to the Hell’s Kitchen apartment. <br><br>“Then you have a deal. Three favours. You help me find Azazel. And if that son of a bitch kills me at least I’ll know there’s nothing else I could’ve done,” to protect Sam. His fingers white knuckle. <br><br>“What’s the task?” <br><br>He stares straight at the road, never turning to look at Crowley as he drives. <br><br><br />
<br />
'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>For a little while, the two of them just sit there, holding hands at a crossroads. When Sam finally does speak, she doesn’t say anything. There’s clearly surprise on her face and then a glimpse of anger returning, then shock. <br><br>They injected him with demon blood. It does something to him, meaning whoever Azazel is changed something inside of him. The Winter Soldier not only took Sam, but they experimented on him. The anger returns, this time directed at the man chained up in Mercy’s garage. There will be words. She’s thinking through what can be done with that when Sam drops the last bomb. <br><br>The shock is clear on her face as he says that he found a demon and then used its blood. That he is addicted to it. However, the hand doesn’t attempt to pull out of his. Nor does she look disgusted by him or like she is about to run away. When he squeezes her hand, she nods, not trusting herself to speak, but indicating that he should continue. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam swallows hard. The fact that she accepts him means more than he can even express. It brings a few tears to his eyes, though they remain unshed. He drops his gaze again after a brief, sick, sad, and loving one in her direction. <br><br>He exhales. <br><br>“I captured one of those revenge demons instead of banishing it. As far as I know they only shape human bodies out of their magic rather than possessing one-- though my lore sources are fuzzy on that point-- and it seemed ideal. Because that way a human isn’t held captive right along with the demon. She gives me a.” He clears his throat. “Well. A predictable supply. She’s well secured, but…” <br><br>But it’s sick, and wrong, and strange, and awful, and dangerous. And Sam knows it. Yet he doesn’t have a better solution, either. <br><br>//Impala// <br><br>Crowley produces a picture of a dark haired young lady, about Sam’s age. She’s got bouncing black curls and big green eyes. “I need you to seduce her,” he says. Affable as his brand of evil is, there’s still coldness beneath the tone. <br><br>And he doesn’t bother to explain why. <br><br>“The specific time and place I need you to close the deal are written on the back of the photo.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>And for the first time, Dean’s eyes peel away from the road and his head turns towards Crowley. “...did you just objectify me?” He rubs his forehead and his expression turns grim. Out of all the things he’d envisioned doing for Crowley, seducing some unsuspecting brunette was definitely not one of them. <br><br>“Are you seriously having me trade sexual favours to stay out of Hell awhile longer?” he asks the road in front of him as his eyebrows draw together. “...I’m a hooker. A hooker for hell. A hell hooker,” everything in his tone is deadpanned. “I haven’t… I’m not… That’s not something I do anymore. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?” <br><br>But objections all die at the thought of finally being able to protect Sam once Azazel is dead. He plucks the photo from Crowley’s fingers. <br><br>After doing so, he grabs the cellphone from his pocket. “...Agent May… Sam and Fred need a ride…” <br><br>He glances towards Crowley and lifts his eyebrows as he puts the car into park in front of the Hell’s Kitchen apartment. <br><br><br />
<br />
'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The last bombshell that Sam drops is quite the doozy. For a long while Fred doesn’t speak, though she squeezes his hand. The surprise returns. She’d never expect him to do something like that. It’s...so cold and calculated. There’s silence as she tries to figure out what to say. <br><br>“Sam…” she sighs, shaking her head. Her other hand reaches out to take his. “We’re going to figure this out.” Her words are a bit halting as she tries to think about what to say before she actually does so. “But...keeping a vengeance demon…” she trails off again, trying to say the right thing. “That’s not the way. You can’t do that. That’s not you.” <br><br>Her voice remains soft as she continues, “I’m sorry I didn’t see you were in pain like that for so long. I thought you needed space after everything. I know you’ve told me that you were taught to hide everything, but I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. You’ve gotta let me in.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“I told you I was fine 600 times, I don’t know why you’d apologize for believing me,” Sam says quietly. <br><br>He plucks up some grass and tosses the stems to one side with his free hand, glancing up at the sky. “I’m trying, Fred. I’m letting you in right now. I’ve felt like there was something wrong with me all my life. Getting confirmation hasn’t been...easy.” <br><br>He looks off down the road. “What Dean is doing-- it’s-- he shouldn’t have.” <br><br>He looks back at her. “I was drunk that night,” he explains. “When I thought to summon the crossroads demon for myself. I was drunk, and all I could think was that all I’ve ever done is ruin everything for Dean, and that I was supposed to have died 9 years ago, and how much better off Dean would be on virtually every level if I were gone. But I was rash, and wrong, and I should have talked things out with you.” <br><br>//Hell’s Kitchen// <br><br>“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. Usually deals-- and riders to deals-- are sealed with a kiss,” Crowley says, with a flirtatious lean in that puts his face very close to Dean’s. “But we have an understanding now, so I let you off with a verbal contract. And we both know you’ll whore yourself out, lie, steal, cheat, torture or murder to protect Sammy.” <br><br>He leans back and tap taps his mouth thoughtfully. As if something has occurred to him. <br><br>“That kind of devotion does deserve some sort of reward, so you should know...he /did/ look. He’d have found you under the ocean within six weeks...if not for a series of cryptic clues, false trails, and strange coordinates that took him on a cross-country wild goose chase, throwing him into hunt after hunt, each hunt seeming to bring you closer while never managing to do so. Shame about that.” <br><br>And then he tips his fingers to his forehead in salute. <br><br>“Ciao.” <br><br>He’s gone. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>// Triskelion// <br><br>May answers her phone when it rings. She figured out very quickly that if either of the Winchesters were calling her, it would very likely be a life or death situation. She barely gets her name out when Dean tells her that Sam and Fred need a ride, and she turns to let someone know she’s needed elsewhere she she faintly hears a different voice over the line. <br><br>Frowning, she listens more carefully as the voice suddenly becomes much clearer then backs off again, gesturing to her current companion to record the call and process it. Luckily, the silent hand gestures are something the two have long since mastered so she doesn’t have to explain. <br><br>Waiting a second or two after the other voice’s last word, she finally speaks up. “Dean. Tell me what’s going on. Now.” She’s on her way to claim a vehicle, and no, she’s not heading to the motor pool. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Crowley earns a sharp knit of Dean’s eyebrows. “Dude. I ain’t kissing you.” Because there’s no way that’s happening. “It’s enough that you’re whoring me out.” He has more to say, more to wax poetic on, but Crowley is gone, and May is on the phone, he can feel the frown creep into his tone, wholly aware she heard so much more than he’d intended. “...May…” <br><br>Dean treads through the convenience store under their apartment, pausing at the store to nab a bottle of whiskey from the counter, leaving some bills on the counter. “Look. Sam is hellspawn. I gotta fix it.” <br><br>The woman at the counter arches her eyebrows at him as he talks into the phone. “Uh… keep the change,” he turns on his heel and then turns to the stairs with a wince. “When we were kids a demon named Azazel fed him demon blood and killed our mother. Hydra exploited that and he’s doping demon blood.” <br><br>It’s been an eventful week. “Look. I bought myself more time to do this, but I need to… I need to go. I need to find a way to kill demons, find Azazel,” he doesn’t add the bit about how Crowley is helping to that end, “all before I bite the dust. So. I need to head to the Roadhouse and…” he frowns. “...Jo.” That horrible sinking feeling enters the pit of his stomach. “Fuuuuuck.” His eyes clamp shut just shy of the door. <br><br>He forces them open when he finally needs his keys. “I need you to watch Sam. He’ll be fine. He has Fred. And I gotta--” he proceeds to unlock the latch on the door and it swings open. He drops the phone. <br><br>“Dean,” a low familiar voice greets. <br><br>Dean stiffens visibly. He stares at the figure sitting at the table. His cheeks puff out irritably, “...Dad.” <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Wanted&diff=1412Wanted2017-08-27T01:12:47Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/08/24 |Location=Crossroads |Synopsis=After Sam Winchester uses telekinesis to capture the Winter Soldier, emotions run high, and a lot of trut..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/08/24<br />
|Location=Crossroads<br />
|Synopsis=After Sam Winchester uses telekinesis to capture the Winter Soldier, emotions run high, and a lot of truth bombs are dropped.<br />
|Cast of Characters=Sam Winchester, Winifred Burkle, Dean Winchester, May<br />
|Tinyplot=Blood On My Name<br />
|Tinyplot2=Tayaniye<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>August 24, 2025 <br><br>The Winter Soldier has been tranqed twice with werewolf darts and shot six times with ICER bullets, then transported to be chained up in Mercy’s garage with, one at least hopes, his arm out of commission. Sam had avoided looking too closely at anyone after confirming that Fred was, indeed, not permanently damaged by the soldier’s attack. <br><br>In truth, he’s still shaking with fury. It hasn’t quite subsided yet. Fury and fear, feeling like he almost lost two of the people he cares about most in the world, along with a friend to whom he owes his life. The worst part is, this is mostly his fault. He and Claire were the ones who were all gung ho about saving the Soldier; everyone else had a lot more reservations. <br><br>His anger and, more than that, the overwhelming filthiness and shame he’s feeling are enough to send him to the back of the Impala, to let him offer the shotgun seat to Fred. For one thing, he does have a dull headache. He needs a dose now, though he’s hardly going to complain about that to them. Instead, he just stretches out back there, his hand on his head, not particularly caring where they go so long as it has a bathroom where he can shoot up. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>While Sam slumps into the back of the Impala and presumably Fred is gonna ride shot gun, Dean opens the trunk and rather unceremoniously begins to disarm himself. The tactical jacket comes off and for the first time in a very long time, he removes one weapon after another and unloads it into the trunk, all the while muttering to himself under his breath about one thing or another. Once in awhile, a good listener might catch the occasional word, “...Azazel… “ His eyes sting as he chokes on emotion. He knows more than he should; more than he has any right to. <br><br>He then unbuttons his next shirt and does the same. The pattern repeats itself a third time until he’s in nothing but his faded jeans and a tank. The clothes don’t feel remotely natural nor does the lack of weight, but he does it just the same. And once he’s stripped down, he grabs the large container of salt and the bottle of holy water from the back. His head shakes and he opens the driver’s side door and promptly tosses a handful of salt towards his brother followed by a holy water chaser. <br><br>A pointed look follows both. <br><br>After that’s finished, he puts the car into drive and the Impala sails down the road. <br><br>When the car comes to a stop, it’s at a nearby Crossroads. He proceeds to get out of the car, slamming the door behind him. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It took Fred a little while to recover from the attack. While the Winter Soldier was tranqued and chained, she coughed and started to breathe normally. Already, purple finger shaped bruises are starting to rise on her neck, but it doesn’t seem as if she needs to be taken to the hospital. For awhile, her attention is put squarely on the Soldier as they load him - chained - into a car to take to some place safe and out of the way. <br><br>However, once the immediate danger is out of the way, the shaken physicist is immediately by Sam’s side. The smell of sulphur is strong and she realizes she’s smelled it, weaker, before. Perhaps it’s for the best that Sam isn’t explaining right now because talking hurts. Instead, she studies him, curious and worried. He just threw an assassin onto a scrap yard magnet with his mind and now he won’t look at them. <br><br>A part of her wishes to slip into the back seat with Sam, but she realizes that he might need his space. Instead, she settles into the front seat with a wince and feeling like she’s bruised all over. Her eyes track the stalking Dean Winchester as he unarms himself and mutters. What is an Azazel? The toss of water and salt onto Sam furrows her brows. “What’re you doing?” she asks Dean, her voice a bit raspy, but there’s a bit of fear tinged in there. She knows what dousing someone in holy water and salt means. Through the ride, she’s twisted in her seat to keep an eye on Sam, so she’s not quite paying attention to where they’re being driven. She assumed Dean was driving back to their apartment. <br><br>When the Impala stops at a Crossroads, she looks even more worried and confused. “What is going on?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>An indignant, “Dude!” <br><br>That is the only result of salt and holy water on one Sam Winchester. But then he realizes what Dean is about and his mouth flattens. He reaches out to squeeze Fred’s shoulder. <br><br>“I’ll explain everything but I think Dean is about to make a bad deal with a worse demon. Help me talk him down, please.” <br><br>Then, pain or not, he is out of the car. <br><br>“Dean, we gotta find a way to get you out of this deal, man, not get you more entangled.” His voice is soft, earnest. “You don't need to enslave yourself to some high up crossroads demon. There is some other answer.” <br><br>Which of course means he knows more about Dean’s deals than he should. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred’s question receive little response save one basic thought: “Just stay in the car,” before the door slams shut. He trails to the trunk and pulls out the effects for the spell he’s been pondering for days. And it’s only when Sam is outside the car that he frowns and really reacts. <br><br>But his brother’s words leave more upset than he intends. Dean’s eyes darken. His lips press into a thin line. “I should’ve already taken it,” he hisses. “Then you wouldn’t have even remembered.” His eyes roll at his own decisions, too wholly aware that somehow he’s allowed fate to bring them to this point. <br><br>The small box is removed from the trunk. Already prepped save a few last items required. <br><br>“Get back in the car,” he deadpans. And for one of the first times in his life, his tone seems to mirror John’s.<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>That furrowed brow is not going to ease up anytime soon, it seems. He’ll explain later, they have to save Dean from a deal with a demon, Dean wants everyone to stay in the car? One thing is certain, the last order from Dean is not followed. With a squeak of metal, the Impala’s doors open and she gets out. <br><br>“What deal?” Fred asks, moving up to stand next to Sam as she studies both brothers. Clearly there is something going on here of which she has yet to even scratch the surface. “Can someone please start making some sense?” Her voice isn’t very loud - she can’t raise it too much without it hurting - but luckily there isn’t any traffic about them and her words can carry. <br><br>“Dean, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have to be telling you this, but making deals with demons is a bad thing. I learned that from church before I even knew they could be real.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sounding like John is a good way to turn Sam’s attitude. Ditto for looking like him. Sam’s nostrils flare and his mouth flattens into a tight, grim line. <br><br>“I drowned at 12,” he tells Fred. “I am not even supposed to be alive. Dean saved my life by making a deal. In less than a year, a hellhound is scheduled to drag him to the pit. But this demon he made the deal with wants to amend the deal. Some sort of slave arrangement in return for extended life.” <br><br>He turns to face Dean. “I don't want you doing this. Not for me. I’m not worth it. I failed to save you from the ocean people. I ran off to Stanford and abandoned you. I’ve never been anything but a disappointment. If they had been willing to deal with me I’d already have this handled!” <br><br>He sounds, by the end, a little desperate...and he has definitely revealed more than he meant to. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s expression turns stony. His eyes steel. His jaw tightens. His free hand balls into fist while the other works at the materials he’d already gathered to summon what needs to be summoned. His gaze flits towards Fred, “You wouldn’t have your boyfriend if I didn’t make a deal. You’d never have met. He’d never have gone to school. We wouldn't be here.” His nostrils flare, but he otherwise stays strangely stoic. “None of us.” <br><br>His throat clears. He’s choking around something altogether invisible. But he can feel it. Thick. Heavy. His eyes narrow and he turns towards Sam, “So… what? You were just going to die? Not say anything, not tell anyone, just here and then gone?” There’s some irony to Dean being critical about death deals, yet the critique remains. “And the new deal is fine. Clearly this balance between your natures is all kinds of fucked. He,” Crowley, “was right. You need me. Alive, probably.” <br><br>His expression turns pinched. “You don’t get a say in this. I should’ve just taken the deal in the first place.” He’s managing to keep it together, channelling those small things he’d learned from a lifetime of watching his hardened father--nuances in expression keep him tempered, including the way his face takes on a pinched quality. <br><br>The challenge in Dean’s gaze remains. He tosses his driver’s license into the box. His gaze turns to the Crossroads themselves. And then he states plainly once again, “Get back in the car both of you.” <br><br>He walks towards the dirt. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There is quite a bit of information from both Sam and Dean that takes Fred a few moments to unpack. It’s a lot for someone whose windpipe was nearly crushed less than an hour ago. First, unsurprisingly, her eyes go to Sam at the knowledge that he died at the age of twelve and Dean made some sort of deal to save him feels like a solid punch to the chest. “You died?” Her eyes shift to Dean, remembering their conversation in the kitchen not too long ago. “That’s why you wanted Sam to have more ties? ‘Cause you didn’t think you were going to be around?” <br><br>The implications of Sam’s own pleading for Dean to stop hit her, too. He would have handled this if the demons would deal with him. Her attention shifts back to him. “What?” The question is asked softly, not due to her injury but with an emotion closer to fear. “When did you do that?” A part of her hopes it was long before they met, something he didn’t tell Dean until just now. <br><br>A sliver of cold washes through Fred as she watches the brothers fight and Dean insist they get back in the car. As he turns to walk to the dirt, a flash of anger crosses her face. Striding forward, wincing as she does so, she attempts to get right in front of Dean and smack the box right out of his hands. <br><br>“Now, you...you both stop this!” Her voice is raised, raspy, but unmistakably filled with determination, even if she’s not used to taking charge in this manner. “Stop it right now!” The angrier she gets, the more Texas slips through her accent. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam looks away from them both. “I was going to leave explanations,” he mumbles. “I just-- it didn’t feel right. I’m some sort of-- there’s something wrong with me anyway so. It just didn’t feel right.” <br><br>Sam, of course, has been pushing back against John Winchester for years, and none of these expressions work. Certainly being told to get in the car doesn’t work. To Fred he says, “This...was all part of what I was going to talk to you about, but...everything came to a head before I got the chance. I don’t want to leave you, but…” <br><br>To Dean, exasperated, “And of course I need you, that’s not even the point, the point is we need to comb the lore and-- and just fix this.” <br><br>But then Fred is losing her temper at both of them, and his mouth snaps shut. His eyes widen slightly. He hasn’t really seen her angry, not really. He slides his hands uncomfortably into his pockets and looks down. <br><br>He stops. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred tries to hit the box from Dean’s hands and he draws it closer to himself like some deeply guarded possession. “What the hell?” Pointedly, he looks between the pair. “You don’t get a say in my decisions! Neither of you! I’ve been making my own choices since I was… what? Four?” It might be an exaggeration, but the meaning is readily apparent. <br><br>He nods at Sam’s assertion that he doesn’t want to leave Fred. “Then fucking don’t. I’ve got this,” because it’s already decided anyways. “Hell already owns my soul, I may as well just make it final.” But he doesn’t start digging the necessary hole. He doesn’t put the box where it belongs. His eyes train back on the car, and then remain there for several beats. <br><br>“There is no way to ‘fix this’. I’ve been trying for the better part of nine years when I figured out that ten years is nothing. Ten years is the blink of an eye,” he hisses. “When I asked Dad about deals with the Crossroads. When I went to Angel Investigations to ask about it. There is no way.” His lips curve upwards, but it’s not anything close to a smile. “And you can’t take it back. I didn’t make this choice for no reason. It wasn’t some selfish bid to stay out of trouble because you died on my watch. I was sixteen and it was the right decision. //Is// the right decision. No twelve year old deserves to go to hell for what happened to you! Do you not understand that!? Can’t you trust that I’m making a decision on the best information I’ve got?!” <br><br>His eyes redden as he fights against the emotions that threaten to surface. He cinches his eyes shut, shifts his weight and shakes his head. “I don’t have a future. I fucking bought you one, can you just live it?!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>He was going to leave an explanation. That adds into the fierceness in her gait, her stance. There’s a strange brew of emotions roiling about inside her: anger, fear, worry. Sam thinks there’s something wrong with him and he also just tossed a Winter Soldier right into a large magnet while smelling like sulphur. However, she does know he wanted to talk to her after her episode at Mercy’s garage. They simply didn’t get the time in their preparations. “This is what you were going to talk to me about.” A movement of her chin indicates the Winchester brothers and the Crossroads they currently stand in. He warned her so many times about the secrets, the Need to Know way he was raised. The concealment still hurts, but at the moment, there are more pressing things to deal with. <br><br>Instead, her gaze returns to Dean, that smouldering anger still readily visible. It’s true, Fred doesn’t get angry often, or at least she doesn’t tend to lose her temper like this. “Call me crazy,” and people have! Often! “But I don’t think you should be just signing over any more of yourself to some demon without talking it out with Sam, too. Look, I get it, you don’t know me from a hole in the ground,” poor analogy, but she doesn’t really get what’s necessary to summon a Crossroads Demon, “and so you might not care about what I’ve got to say, but I should hope you’d care about what your brother’s trying to.” <br><br>There’s a shake of her head and a clench of her fists. “We’ve still got time, Dean. We’ve got options. You do this now? We’ve got less of them. I’m sorry you had to make that deal, but I’m real glad Sam’s alive, so I’ve got to say that it was probably worth it. You’ve been working close to nine years on this alone! You’ve known Angel maybe a week? He’s found ways to cross dimensions, he pulled me outta one. We can figure it out. I’ve known ya’ll only a few months and I know Sam wouldn’t be able to live down losing you! Don’t toss the baby out with the bathwater, ‘cause it sounds like right now you don’t have any trust in us to be able to help you!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The meaning of that four years /is/ apparent, and it makes Sam flinch. His shoulders sag and he looks away. It certainly doesn’t make much more of a case for why he deserves to live at Dean’s expense. <br><br>Still, he lets both Dean and Fred have their say before he speaks up again. <br><br>“It never even crossed my mind that you thought you’d get in trouble,” he says softly. “Where did you even get that from? The only thing that crossed my mind, Dean, is how you’ve always sacrificed for me, and how I’ve never deserved it, and that I can’t lose you, and I can’t be one more reason why you’re hurt. I appreciate what you did, I love you more for it man, but Fred’s right. I really won’t be able to live with myself.” <br><br>He’s having enough trouble as it is. <br><br>/I may not have deserved to go to Hell at 12,/ he thinks bitterly, /but what am I now? No, what was I always? Dean lost his Mom because of me./ He’s never said it out loud, but the truth is he’s never felt like he had a mother. Dean had one, one that Sam basically killed by...what? Existing? Pretty much. <br><br>“My thought was...when I um. Came to my senses...New Orleans, Savannah...they’re both good sources of crossroads lore. We might be able to run down some leads there. No offense, man, but um...running down the lore wasn’t ever your thing. It was always mine.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean squints while Fred speaks. His jaw tightens. His nostrils flare. He clings to the box. “You don’t know me,” he says plainly to Fred. “We met //literally// months ago, and we talked for the first time last week.” His expression steels. “So no, I don’t care what you have to say.” He looks pointedly at Fred, “And it’s becoming clearer you don’t know Sam as well as you think you do.” He turns on his heel to push passed them back to the car. “So yeah, lady, I am damned well going to stay that course.” There’s a pause. “Do you know what it is to /know/ you have ten years to live and keep that secret? Eight? Six?” His eyebrows knit together. “One? Do you know how that changes what you do or don’t do? I’ve given up everything for this. Willingly.” His lips twitch. “So no, you don’t get to tell me the weight of my decisions. I’ve lived with this secret for nine years. It stalks every decision. It reiterates the utter futility of major life change. Of commitments. Of anything sustained. So no, you don’t get to lecture me on what someone can or can’t live with. I’ve been constantly boned for nine years.” He stares through her. “You don’t know. And if you did? Maybe you’d understand that I want to keep my investment safe.” <br><br>And as he does so, he shakes his head as he moves, hands holding tightly to the box. “I’m not… this isn’t…” his voice cracks and he drops his chin to his chest. “...I can’t… the new deal expires... “ he’d said no. He’d resolved not to do it, but it’s not something he can deal with now. He sniffs hard, pushing back the emotions that bubble faster. “No. It’s not your choice.” <br><br>“You’re going to have to find a way to live with it,” Dean finally resolves. “I’ll buy more time,” with this new deal, “but I’m still marked. It’s not going away.” His hands rake through his hair and he leans against his car. And as far as waiting is concerned, “I’m dying. Even with the new deal, it’s just a matter of time before--” his head shakes. “You’re supposed to live, Sammy. That’s how this works. You need to sort out your own shit. Get off the demon blood. Refuse that other nature. That’s what you need to research. Not this. This is done.” Or it will be. “Find out what the hell Azazel,” a name that has haunted him for nine years almost as much as Crowley, “wants, why he did it, and stop it. It’s next level shit.” <br><br>The notion of not having trust to let them help him, he actually cracks a smile as his eyes well with tears. “Nine years and no one even knew anything was wrong. Or cared. A year with ocean folks.” His head shakes and he laughs mirthlessly. <br><br>“Look. You two do your thing. Do you. Forget what you know.” He blinks hard, but one tear trails down his cheek. “It’s not worth remembering.” //I’m not worth remembering.//<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred stays silent when Sam speaks. Her being here seems a matter of happenstance. This is between the Winchester brothers. However, because she is here? She isn’t about to stand in the background without a say. This effects her because it affects Dean and Sam - she knows what happens to the one will reverberate through the other. She wants to speak to that, to illuminate how Dean’s choice is hurting Sam despite his hope of saving him. Instead? She focuses on a single thing. <br><br>“What someone can and can’t live with.” Her voice is, strangely devoid of emotion for a moment. “Choices.” Something snaps in Fred and she stalks forward to Dean. “No you don’t know me. And I don’t know you, even if you wanted me to look after Sam. But, you know what I can do? I can tell you what’s in store for you. <br><br>“You want to know what hell is? I can tell you. I lived it for five years. You pick up a book in the library you work and you say some words out of it ‘cause you’re curious. Sure, it’s not as noble as saving a brother from death, but guess what, you made a choice you didn’t realize was one and then you’re on a plane where humans are slaves. I didn’t even realize there was such a thing as other planes! So, congratulations, you’re actually better off than I was, you went in with eyes open. But, anyway, hypothetically, you’re terrified, pulled through a vortex and there’s nothing to hold on to, it’s just being pulled apart and then put back together again in a world where you’re less than nothing and it hurts. They take you, they put you in a collar and they say if you do anything they don’t like? It will detonate and your head will explode. If you touch it, it will explode. If you tamper with it, it will explode. If it randomly malfunctions ‘cause they don’t really care about maintenance, it’ll explode. <br><br>“You stay there for about a year and they don’t feed you, they beat you and they demean you, the call you cow and treat you like it. At night you hear others try to run away and are beheaded for doing so, or you see their heads explode. Sometimes they do it just ‘cause they’re bored and they think the sound it makes is funny. Sometimes, at night, they prod at you, try to see how you bleed. Then, you try to run, but you can’t get back home. There’s nowhere you can go but a dark forest where there’s wild animals you’ve never heard of, but what is the alternative? And there’s still a collar on your head that can be blown up at a moment’s notice, whenever they feel like it. It’s remote controlled, I forgot to mention that. It takes you a bit to disarm it, but you have to keep it on, ‘cause if anyone randomly saw you without a collar? They’d execute you. So, you stay there for four more years. You forget who you are, what you are, where you came from. This?” she gestures wildly about her. “This is a nightmare you wake up from on the bad days because it feel so real but you know you can never go back there and you know it. It makes you remember things you can’t believe because you can’t ever imagine a place without fear. Thinking about //here//? It makes you wake up screaming ‘cause you know that it just doesn’t make sense. This world has to be a lie ‘cause otherwise why would you still be here.” <br><br>There’s a breath, a pause. That came out in a rush of anger and emotion. She’s hinted at parts of this to Sam over their time together. The living in the woods, the collars, the fact that she was there for five years. This, though? It’s a rundown of it all, the emotion, the fear. Then, she very pointedly says, “I’m real sorry you had to live with the //idea// of that over your head for nine years. I can’t imagine what that’s like.” <br><br>Fred’s eyes narrow at Dean. “Ya’ll’s secrets have secrets, Dean. If you’re pissed that Sam didn’t know you did this? Well, you just told us you wiped his goddamn memory so how can you be mad at him for that?” An emphatic shake of her head and a cough erupts from her. She talked too much. “We’re trying to //help// you. We can do that if you let us. We //want// to do that. When does that deal expire?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Emotions are running high. Too high. When that happens Sam’s default mode is to try to soothe things over. It’s hard, though, because Fred’s no-holds-barred description of Pylea makes him sick for her, and what Dean says makes him sick for Dean. He looks it, sick and sad and helpless. <br><br>He steps between them. <br><br>His right hand stretches out to land on Dean’s shoulder. His left, on Fred’s. <br><br>“Please don’t fight,” he says quietly. He drops his head, looks down at the ground between them. <br><br>Then, he looks at Dean, and there’s anguish in his eyes. “I did look for you. By my calculations I realized you were missing almost within 3 days of you being taken. I just didn’t have any leads. I looked and I looked and I looked. I just didn’t find you, but it consumed my every waking hour. I’m sorry I didn’t realize there was something wrong when we were kids. You hid it well.” <br><br>/It was Dad who should have realized different, not me. He was the god damn parent./ <br><br>But Dean idolizes their father, and Sam cannot possibly think of a bigger miscalculation than saying a single word against him, especially not right now. <br><br>“I understand that you feel like you’ve already invested everything into keeping me alive,” he says quietly. “But I am /begging you/ to listen to Fred. To me. To try to find another way. I don’t have the strength to face this-- Azazel?-- thing-- and lose you too.” <br><br>/I’m the worthless one. I don’t even begin to know how I can get off the blood. I think trying might kill me. I know it hurts more than I can take./ <br><br>“Let’s find Dad. Let’s find a way to get some leverage over this demon. There may be no supernatural method, but if we get him over a barrel he’ll have to renegotiate. With the three of us working together anything’s possible. I’m sorry I’ve led you to believe that I’m the kind of person who can just cheerfully accept my own brother falling on his sword for me.” <br><br>He can’t keep the hurt out of his voice that Dean thinks that, or that Dean thinks that he didn’t try to find him when he went missing. But he tries. He tries to keep his words quiet, steady, even. But his eyes go red-rimmed with unshed tears as he drops his gaze to the ground once more. <br><br>“It /is/ your choice, Dean. I’m just asking you with everything I’ve got to make a different one. Please.” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean silences and stares at Fred. His head shakes. His body tenses and his free hand bids away the tears that have managed to fall while the other clings to the box. His head turns and even with the hand on his shoulder urging him not to fight, at the moment he feels like that’s all he has. Fight. Tears and fight, and Dean will not cry right now. Instead, he starts slowly. “Look. I get it. You had a shit deal. You ended up there through some accident. /This/ isn’t accidental. My brother died and I tried CPR for the better part of an hour. I dove after him in the water alone as the brook horse decided he was theirs. I went to where we were squatting and smashed the windows one by one until I was called out for being the damned Squirrel I was by /him/. He sat there watching me. He’d shown up. Uninvited. I didn’t call him. My twelve year old brother was dead and I was gonna lay him to rest. I wasn’t going to the Crossroads. I wasn’t going to make some ill-conceived deal. I was figuring out how to deal with my brother’s death. Logistically. I was gearing up to salt and burn his bones.” He looks pointedly at Fred. “Alone. Because that’s what our lives looked like. I signed a contract in my own blood. Alone. I screamed Sam’s name into the fog-filled night. Alone. There wasn’t anyone to call. Ever. And there hasn’t been for the better part of two decades.” <br><br>“So yeah, I get it. You had a raw deal. But if you’d known it was coming? If you’d known what would happen ten years before--you’d have had the pleasure of suffering twice. If you’d done it for one of the extreme few people you love, the number of which you can count on less than one hand, to save them from it, to keep them safe because you know you’ve done way worse than they possibly could have? If you’d done it and ensured they had enough time to grow up before you were gone because you knew you were the only sense of stability in their life?” His head shakes. “You don’t get to waltz in here and critique me. You don’t know me. You don’t know anything. You don’t know what it is to reject someone you care about because you’re marked. You don’t know what it is to almost bring this up with your supposed parent,” his eyebrows lift at that, “over the course of years and realize they really don’t care. And never have.” His throat clears, “You don’t know what it is to be four years old and see your mother dead on the ceiling. To be handed your baby brother to the smell of sulphur and fire. To be haunted by that image your entire life,” a memory he stills has nightmares about, “and then to be told you have one job and one job only. You don’t know what it is to fail at that one job. So no. You don’t get to tell me what’s what. I can handle myself. I look after myself. I fucking raised myself.” <br><br>He emits a huff of breath, a near scoff, but there’s no words attached to it. He has so much more he could say. The things he’s been holding too long are pushed down more. <br><br>He shudders beneath his brother’s hand. He sniffs hard, cutting of the emotions at their knees. And, with a weird kind of revelation, something seems to finally make sense to him. There’s a strange twist to his lips and his voice actually cracks, “Moose. I finally get it,” involuntarily his lips curve upwards but there’s no other markings of the smile on his face. He presses a hand to his forehead to bid away his most base emotions. He longs to cry. And to Sam’s apology, he frowns. “...Wh.. Why do you think I kept it a secret so long? I’m not stupid. And I don’t want an apology from you.” <br><br>And instead of staying there, he takes a step back, rather purposively shrugging the hand off his shoulder. “/Which/ demon Sam?” he asks, a little too quietly. “The one trying to make you his hellspawn or the one that holds my contract?” And the moment he’s said it he regrets it. He’s said way too much. His eyes flit between them. <br><br>And in saying too much he has one response--it’s one learned through years of exposure. He shuts down and it happens over the course of seconds. Even his posture changes. Sam’s plea sees his head ducking back to the car. “I gotta go.” And the tone Dean uses sounds all too final. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>When Sam puts his hand on Fred’s shoulder, he can feel the tension there. It practically radiates off of her. There’s more fight in her, but his request to stop it cuts off any more of those words. She pauses, gathering control of what she was going to say and rethinking it. Instead, she waits till both Sam and Dean have said their piece. <br><br>When she does speak, there’s no apology, no taking back of what she said, she doesn’t regret any of it. But, recounting all her memories of Pylea has left her shaking just slightly. “I’m not trying to critique you,” she says. “I’m trying to help you. I’m not saying I’d’ve done that first deal any differently. You were alone and didn’t have any options. I’m sorry you had to go through all that. But, you’ve got us now and you don’t have to do it yourself. You coulda gone out here alone, but you brought us along. Maybe it’s ‘cause deep down you wanted us to try and stop you.” <br><br>The plea from Sam is heard and she looks at him for a moment, but doesn’t add anything else. She’s not going to follow him if he says he has to go. From what he’s said she knows she wouldn’t be welcome. Instead, she looks to Sam, seeing if he’ll try to stop Dean from leaving. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Grim determination on his face says that Sam is briefly considering grabbing Dean, decking him much as Dean decked him the other night, and sitting on him until he sees sense. <br><br>There’s a time limit on the deal, Dean said, so all he has to do is keep Dean out for...how many more hours? <br><br>So yes, he does try to stop him. He grabs for Dean’s shoulder with the most apologetic look in all the world, and attempts to spin him around and deck him in the face. <br><br>Because this is how healthy families solve problems! <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Fred’s words fall on deaf ears determined to maintain their course. The hand at Dean’s shoulder successfully has him spin around, but the punch only makes half-purchase, connecting with a piece of Dean’s jaw thanks to Dean’s relatively quick reflexes that have him stepping out of the punch. <br><br>He counters just as hard with a mean right hook that he’d used only a week earlier to force Sam to the ground. “Dammit Sam! Can’t you see I’m doing this for you?! I have one job! Let me just do it, man!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s not like she was expecting her words to have Dean turn in his tracks and admit his wrongdoings, but a part of Fred did hope he’d listen to her. When she looks to Sam to see if he’s going to follow, she is unsurprised that he does. What does surprise her is that he doesn’t put a hand on Dean’s shoulder for comfort, but to deck Dean across the face. <br><br>“Sam!” she shouts, moving forward. However, what does she do in this situation? She’s not a brawler by any sense of the word. As much as she hates the idea of being the woman who stands on the sidelines of a fight wringing her hands, that’s pretty much what she does for the time being. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>This time Sam is ready for that right hook. He raises his arm in a simple block to take the punch, and grimly tries to deck Dean right back in the solar plexus, pulling it a bit. He’s only trying to wind his brother and knock him out, not seriously hurt him. <br><br>“I know you’re doing it for me,” he says, with the grimmest determination. “That’s why I can’t let you do it.” <br><br>He’s got a few advantages in this fight. Reach and, if he’d use it, superior strength among them. But Dean has ferocity on his side, superior skill, and the warrior’s spirit that Sam, for all his training, frankly doesn’t share. Sam is a scholar first and a fighter second. These things might be the deciding factor yet again, but this doesn’t stop him from trying with all his might to do what he thinks is right in this situation...just as, ironically, Dean is. <br><br>He sounds so sorry, but so maddeningly /calm/ too. He’s not angry. He’s not doing this because he’s pissed. He’s doing this because Dean wouldn’t listen to words, and fists is what’s left. <br><br>So he grunts, “It’s okay, Fred. This is kind of our thing.” <br><br>Poor Fred. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The hit to Dean’s solar plexus catches his shoulder instead as he twists into it, knowing well enough to protect those sensitive spots. He follows the block up with a sharp jab towards Sam’s nose and a cross to his brother’s chin. He’s far more comfortable fighting than talking and it has the bonus of being far more fulfilling. <br><br>His lips twitch into a frown. “You need me. I can’t just die and leave you to figure this out! That son of a bitch killed mom, he’s not getting his dirty claws on you too!” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam whips his head out of the way of the jab to the nose, only to take it right on the chin. He staggers back a few steps, feeling that one all the way to his teeth. His anger slips, and he just goes to bear tackle Dean instead of trying to punch him. <br><br>“So we enslave you to a different son of a bitch who makes you do dozens of terrible things? How can that be right?” <br><br>Granted, tackling isn’t a very great strategy for the nimble Dean; Sam momentarily leaves himself wide open as he goes to try to take advantage of his size. He’s relatively new to having size to take advantage of, really, having sprouted up mostly within the past year, but he’s enjoyed the benefits. He just forgets how much experience Dean has fighting all sorts of things that are bigger and stronger.<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The opening granted strikes as an opportunity. Dean has a mean uppercut and his brother gets the full force of it. He actually ducks back to the car immediately following, seeing full well intention at the opportunity he’s taken. His hand presses against the car and he trails around it before getting to the driver’s side to slide in. <br><br>“We don’t have a choice. There isn’t enough time,” he hisses again. “And it’s not our choice anyways. It’s mine.” <br><br>The engine starts and he puts the car into reverse. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>Slowly, Fred has been making her way toward the car in a wide arc around the brothers attempting to work out their problems through a fist fight. If she can get to her bag, she can get to the sleep bomb she and Mercy constructed in order to try and contain the Winter Soldier. It wasn’t quite as effective on Barnes, but with the Winchesters? She imagines it will knock them out enough for her to figure out what to do next. <br><br>Unfortunately, the fighting prowess of Dean versus his brother means she doesn’t have enough time to make it to passenger side of the car and into her bag with the leftover bombs. For a moment, she’s brightly illuminated in the headlights as it’s clear she was making her way toward the other side of the car. She’s not about to toss herself in front of his pathway - especially as he’s reversing instead of driving forward. <br><br>“We can figure a way out of this, Dean!” she calls out after him over the engine, staying where she is. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam has hit the dirt square in the middle of the crossroads, and for a moment all he’s seeing is stars. He puts his hand to his head, trying to recover, and by the time he does he’s illuminated in the glare of headlights. Fred is calling after Dean and… <br><br>And… <br><br>He staggers to his feet, though it’s not going to do any good; there’s no way to fight the Impala. As it is, he also gets out of Dean’s way. The expression on his face is mostly scared now, though he quickly clears it to something grimmer. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The yell over the Impala, the way it hangs in the air only causes Dean to back up further. He reaches for the radio to blare Bon Jovi loudly. <br><br>The tune is loud enough that others can hear it outside the vehicle. <br><br>//It’s all the same, only the names will change// <br>//Everyday, it seems we’re wastin’ away// <br>//Another place where the faces are so cold// <br>//I drive all night just to get back home// <br>//I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride// <br>//I’m wanted dead or alive.// <br><br>Dean doesn’t miss his brother’s expression. His own hardens as the car lurches backwards. But it falters momentarily when the other figure enters his periphery. His eyes roll as he turns the car, giving full view of the dark haired passenger with the shit eating grin to those still at the Crossroads. The Impala drives away. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>As the Impala reverses and the Bon Jovi blasts, Fred starts to move toward Sam. There’s nothing she can do now to stop the car, she knows that. Her own expression matches his - grim. <br><br>The sudden appearance of the dark haired man in the passenger seat causes Fred to blink, studying that face with her own look of surprise. “Who is that?” she asks. She has a theory, of course, but she wants to know if Sam already knows the person who randomly appeared in Dean’s car. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“No idea, but I aim to find out,” Sam says grimly. <br><br>Of course. There’s no way to do that here, and now, and he hasn’t been too successful thus far, all things he’s well aware of as he steps off the road and sits down with his back to a tree. They’re stuck there till Dean remembers he’s basically stranded them. Until he’s done doing what he wants to do. <br><br>His adrenaline was pretty high, and he is breathing a bit heavily, but he rests his elbows over his knees and looks down, shaggy long hair concealing his eyes. <br><br>“This was,” he adds, “exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, yes.” <br><br>He knows very well that he has fucked up. Capital F, capital U. <br><br>//In the Impala// <br><br>Crowley, King of the Crossroads, sits smugly for a moment as the music blares. <br><br>Then he reaches over to simply turn it down again, once they’re well out of sight of the two meddling children. Moose and Waif don’t even realize what they’re meddling with. Don’t even realize that in his way, he’s even trying to help them. <br />
But it’s neither here nor there. He makes a show of checking his Rolex. <br><br>“Cut it rather close to the wire, didn’t you, Squirrel?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s nostrils flare and his breath rakes his throat. He doesn’t admit anything. He doesn’t give anything. Instead, he hisses through his teeth, “We need to talks terms.” His gaze remains trained on the road, focused on the world in front of him instead of his passenger. <br><br>They barrel down the highway back towards Hell’s Kitchen. And then, with a sniff, he asks, “Enjoy the show?” His gaze deadens. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The pair of them are rather stranded until they can either hitch a ride - unlikely - or Dean returns for them. Following his example, Fred steps out of the road and moves to sit next to him. <br><br>“I can see why,” she says softly. It’s hard to tell whether she can see why he concealed all this from her or whether she can see why he wanted to tell her. There’s a sigh, a lot of her earlier anger expended in her recounting of what happened to her on Pylea. There’s still frustration, there, though. There’s fear. <br><br>“How long have you known about all this?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam half shakes his head. <br><br>“I got it in pieces. I--” <br><br>He tries to figure out how to explain it to her, how to put the timeline together. <br><br>“I found out about Dean’s contract, that I died, right before we faced those vengeance demons. But you were so upset that night that I didn’t want to get into it then. The rest...sort of in bits and pieces. I never heard the name Azazel till tonight. I figured out what Hydra was injecting me with, and…”<br />
He lowers his head again. “Fred, all of this gets worse, and every time I tried to figure out how to put it into words I just felt so…” <br><br>He shakes his head, but his body language perhaps says it for him, because he looks rather like someone who thinks he’s shit on the shoe of the world. <br><br>//Impala// <br><br>“Top notch entertainment is one of the perks of the job,” Crowley says, his low-key voice reflecting cheer all the same, the slightest of smiles still lingering there. <br><br>Terms, Dean says, and he seems even more amused. <br><br>“Spoken like a man who thinks he has some sort of bargaining position, but as I was so fantastically entertained I can’t wait to hear all about them.” <br><br>He makes a show of getting comfortable in Sam’s seat, even reaching down to adjust the lever so the back position is a bit more to //his// liking. Or...he tries. When he realizes it’s a bucket seat, set only to the driver’s settings, he scowls a little and settles back as if he hadn’t tried to do a thing. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Here’s the thing Crowley,” Dean speaks to the road, “something’s bothered me for awhile,” his lips purse weirdly, “but you came to me that night. It’s gnawed at me for years.” His jaw clenches. “I didn’t go to the Crossroads. You. Came. To. Me.” <br><br>“And with the horse thing? You came to me.” His eyebrows quirk. “I have no idea what the hell you want with me, but it’s something.” His fingers tap on the wheel absently. “So. Terms.” <br><br>His throat clears. “I take this, and you don’t get to talk to Sam. Ever. Even after my death.” He emits a long breath. “I refuse to do something I go to the pit. I die, the contract ends. And… inevitably I go to the pit.” <br><br>His teeth worry his bottom lip. “And after I do three of your favours? You help me find Azazel.” <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>There’s a delicate line to be walked here. Fred sits next to Sam, looking first to him and then to the empty road in front of them. While she doesn’t lean against him right now, what she does do is reach out a hand, attempting to take his in hers. <br><br>For the moment, she doesn’t excuse the concealing. Instead, she pauses. It’s so easy to see that he’s in pain and the last thing she wants to do is add to that. There’s not much she thinks she can say in order to assuage him. So, she simply says, “It’s okay, Sam. You can tell me.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester takes the hand of the woman he loves, and for a long moment that’s all he can do. He swallows and he looks out into the distance. <br><br>“They were injecting me with demon blood, Fred,” he says. <br><br>He shivers. “I started looking forward to them. Because they felt good. They washed pain away, they made me feel stronger, they made the hunger not matter as much. Gave me a rush of pleasure, like heroin. And it’s crazy, because that’s not anything demon blood does to people. You inject the average person with demon blood, they just...it’s nothing. It’s just gross and unsanitary. But the Yellow Eyed Demon...Azazel, I guess...did something to me.” <br><br>He swallows. <br><br>“After you guys got me I still didn’t know, but I started fantasizing about it. I couldn’t stop. And by the end of the week I was trying not to show it, but I was in terrible pain. Like every muscle was cramping up, like a full body migraine, like I was hungry but nauseated at the same time...so I found a demon, went on a hunt, got some and tried it and it...It was what I needed. It was fantastic.” <br><br>He squeezes her hand in a way that warns there’s even more. <br><br>//Impala// <br><br>Crowley strokes his beard. <br><br>He cannot, as it happens, tell Dean a thing. If he does, all will be absolutely lost. <br><br>But he does smile faintly. “You’ve gotten a bit more savvy in your old age. And here I thought that you were simply a functioning moron at best. But. You can rest assured I have no interest in talking to Sam. And going after Azazel...yes, I think that will do nicely.” <br><br>He tilts his finger at Dean. <br><br>“But. I have my first little task for you today.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A mirthless smile extends across Dean’s features. “Thanks. Everyone assumes I’m Daddy’s blond little warrior and nothing else. Nothing going on upstairs. Pretty sure Dad and Sam think that too,” his smile has the edges expected of someone far more sinister. The car continues to barrel back to the Hell’s Kitchen apartment. <br><br>“Then you have a deal. Three favours. You help me find Azazel. And if that son of a bitch kills me at least I’ll know there’s nothing else I could’ve done,” to protect Sam. His fingers white knuckle. <br><br>“What’s the task?” <br><br>He stares straight at the road, never turning to look at Crowley as he drives. <br><br><br />
<br />
'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>For a little while, the two of them just sit there, holding hands at a crossroads. When Sam finally does speak, she doesn’t say anything. There’s clearly surprise on her face and then a glimpse of anger returning, then shock. <br><br>They injected him with demon blood. It does something to him, meaning whoever Azazel is changed something inside of him. The Winter Soldier not only took Sam, but they experimented on him. The anger returns, this time directed at the man chained up in Mercy’s garage. There will be words. She’s thinking through what can be done with that when Sam drops the last bomb. <br><br>The shock is clear on her face as he says that he found a demon and then used its blood. That he is addicted to it. However, the hand doesn’t attempt to pull out of his. Nor does she look disgusted by him or like she is about to run away. When he squeezes her hand, she nods, not trusting herself to speak, but indicating that he should continue. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam swallows hard. The fact that she accepts him means more than he can even express. It brings a few tears to his eyes, though they remain unshed. He drops his gaze again after a brief, sick, sad, and loving one in her direction. <br><br>He exhales. <br><br>“I captured one of those revenge demons instead of banishing it. As far as I know they only shape human bodies out of their magic rather than possessing one-- though my lore sources are fuzzy on that point-- and it seemed ideal. Because that way a human isn’t held captive right along with the demon. She gives me a.” He clears his throat. “Well. A predictable supply. She’s well secured, but…” <br><br>But it’s sick, and wrong, and strange, and awful, and dangerous. And Sam knows it. Yet he doesn’t have a better solution, either. <br><br>//Impala// <br><br>Crowley produces a picture of a dark haired young lady, about Sam’s age. She’s got bouncing black curls and big green eyes. “I need you to seduce her,” he says. Affable as his brand of evil is, there’s still coldness beneath the tone. <br><br>And he doesn’t bother to explain why. <br><br>“The specific time and place I need you to close the deal are written on the back of the photo.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>And for the first time, Dean’s eyes peel away from the road and his head turns towards Crowley. “...did you just objectify me?” He rubs his forehead and his expression turns grim. Out of all the things he’d envisioned doing for Crowley, seducing some unsuspecting brunette was definitely not one of them. <br><br>“Are you seriously having me trade sexual favours to stay out of Hell awhile longer?” he asks the road in front of him as his eyebrows draw together. “...I’m a hooker. A hooker for hell. A hell hooker,” everything in his tone is deadpanned. “I haven’t… I’m not… That’s not something I do anymore. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?” <br><br>But objections all die at the thought of finally being able to protect Sam once Azazel is dead. He plucks the photo from Crowley’s fingers. <br><br>After doing so, he grabs the cellphone from his pocket. “...Agent May… Sam and Fred need a ride…” <br><br>He glances towards Crowley and lifts his eyebrows as he puts the car into park in front of the Hell’s Kitchen apartment. <br><br><br />
<br />
'''{{#var:160|Winifred Burkle (160)}} has posed:'''<br>The last bombshell that Sam drops is quite the doozy. For a long while Fred doesn’t speak, though she squeezes his hand. The surprise returns. She’d never expect him to do something like that. It’s...so cold and calculated. There’s silence as she tries to figure out what to say. <br><br>“Sam…” she sighs, shaking her head. Her other hand reaches out to take his. “We’re going to figure this out.” Her words are a bit halting as she tries to think about what to say before she actually does so. “But...keeping a vengeance demon…” she trails off again, trying to say the right thing. “That’s not the way. You can’t do that. That’s not you.” <br><br>Her voice remains soft as she continues, “I’m sorry I didn’t see you were in pain like that for so long. I thought you needed space after everything. I know you’ve told me that you were taught to hide everything, but I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. You’ve gotta let me in.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“I told you I was fine 600 times, I don’t know why you’d apologize for believing me,” Sam says quietly. <br><br>He plucks up some grass and tosses the stems to one side with his free hand, glancing up at the sky. “I’m trying, Fred. I’m letting you in right now. I’ve felt like there was something wrong with me all my life. Getting confirmation hasn’t been...easy.” <br><br>He looks off down the road. “What Dean is doing-- it’s-- he shouldn’t have.” <br><br>He looks back at her. “I was drunk that night,” he explains. “When I thought to summon the crossroads demon for myself. I was drunk, and all I could think was that all I’ve ever done is ruin everything for Dean, and that I was supposed to have died 9 years ago, and how much better off Dean would be on virtually every level if I were gone. But I was rash, and wrong, and I should have talked things out with you.” <br><br>//Hell’s Kitchen// <br><br>“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. Usually deals-- and riders to deals-- are sealed with a kiss,” Crowley says, with a flirtatious lean in that puts his face very close to Dean’s. “But we have an understanding now, so I let you off with a verbal contract. And we both know you’ll whore yourself out, lie, steal, cheat, torture or murder to protect Sammy.” <br><br>He leans back and tap taps his mouth thoughtfully. As if something has occurred to him. <br><br>“That kind of devotion does deserve some sort of reward, so you should know...he /did/ look. He’d have found you under the ocean within six weeks...if not for a series of cryptic clues, false trails, and strange coordinates that took him on a cross-country wild goose chase, throwing him into hunt after hunt, each hunt seeming to bring you closer while never managing to do so. Shame about that.” <br><br>And then he tips his fingers to his forehead in salute. <br><br>“Ciao.” <br><br>He’s gone. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>// Triskelion// <br><br>May answers her phone when it rings. She figured out very quickly that if either of the Winchesters were calling her, it would very likely be a life or death situation. She barely gets her name out when Dean tells her that Sam and Fred need a ride, and she turns to let someone know she’s needed elsewhere she she faintly hears a different voice over the line. <br><br>Frowning, she listens more carefully as the voice suddenly becomes much clearer then backs off again, gesturing to her current companion to record the call and process it. Luckily, the silent hand gestures are something the two have long since mastered so she doesn’t have to explain. <br><br>Waiting a second or two after the other voice’s last word, she finally speaks up. “Dean. Tell me what’s going on. Now.” She’s on her way to claim a vehicle, and no, she’s not heading to the motor pool. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Crowley earns a sharp knit of Dean’s eyebrows. “Dude. I ain’t kissing you.” Because there’s no way that’s happening. “It’s enough that you’re whoring me out.” He has more to say, more to wax poetic on, but Crowley is gone, and May is on the phone, he can feel the frown creep into his tone, wholly aware she heard so much more than he’d intended. “...May…” <br><br>Dean treads through the convenience store under their apartment, pausing at the store to nab a bottle of whiskey from the counter, leaving some bills on the counter. “Look. Sam is hellspawn. I gotta fix it.” <br><br>The woman at the counter arches her eyebrows at him as he talks into the phone. “Uh… keep the change,” he turns on his heel and then turns to the stairs with a wince. “When we were kids a demon named Azazel fed him demon blood and killed our mother. Hydra exploited that and he’s doping demon blood.” <br><br>It’s been an eventful week. “Look. I bought myself more time to do this, but I need to… I need to go. I need to find a way to kill demons, find Azazel,” he doesn’t add the bit about how Crowley is helping to that end, “all before I bite the dust. So. I need to head to the Roadhouse and…” he frowns. “...Jo.” That horrible sinking feeling enters the pit of his stomach. “Fuuuuuck.” His eyes clamp shut just shy of the door. <br><br>He forces them open when he finally needs his keys. “I need you to watch Sam. He’ll be fine. He has Fred. And I gotta--” he proceeds to unlock the latch on the door and it swings open. He drops the phone. <br><br>“Dean,” a low familiar voice greets. <br><br>Dean stiffens visibly. He stares at the figure sitting at the table. His cheeks puff out irritably, “...Dad.” <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=2039/Backahasten_to_the_Future&diff=13562039/Backahasten to the Future2017-08-19T23:33:44Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/08/16<br />
|Location=Beacon, NY<br />
|Synopsis=The Backahasten begins a series of murders along the Hudson River with the aim of capturing one of the Brothers Winchester at last. Did she get a little nudge from a certain King of the Crossroads? Or is his latest offer just an attack of opportunity?<br />
|Cast of Characters=294, 306<br />
|Tinyplot=Blood on My Name<br />
|Tinyplot2=Tayaniye<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester is fresh from his weekly WAND check-in this morning, which means he's dressed in a suit with no tie. He's also distracted, sitting at the kitchen table with a yellow highlighter and a black marker, as well as a bunch of newspaper articles printed out from his tablet. He goes through each one carefully, making marks on the map, noting a time and a date next to that mark, and then highlighting between marks.<br><br>On the table, untouched, what looks like a peach smoothie. It smells like a peach smoothie too, probably because it is, in fact, a peach smoothie.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean is terrible at weekly check-in. There's no question Dean is terrible at weekly check-in. But this probably isn't a surprise to anyone. He treads in from the hall (and presumably outside?) in a mechanic-jumpsuit--just green enough to make his eyes seem that much greener. An oil stain across the front probably suggests that he's been busy taking care of work. <br><br>He shoots his brother a lopsided grin. "Decided to become a funeral director?" He whistles sharply as he slips towards the refrigerator and nabs a bottle of beer. It's not yet noon.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam ignores the barb, as Sam so often does. Instead of engaging, he just looks up rather seriously. He's even got the SHIELD badge pinned to his chest, still. "I think we have a case, something I picked up from WAND this morning." is his greeting instead. "I can't figure out what's doing it though. I've scoured every lore book I have, I've been all over the Internet. I think I know where it's going and where it will be next though."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's features tighten slightly. "Reeeeally." He's intrigued now. He pops the top off his beer and treads to where his brother is sitting. "So, what makes you think it's a case? I mean, without any of the usual features, it seems difficult confirm." He manages a flicker of a smile at that and then shrugs his shoulders.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>"A series of drownings," Sam explains. "They always happen on foggy nights, always children, and there have been hoof prints at every crime scene. They started in Briarcliff Manor and they've followed the Hudson River. Every three days it seems to hit a new town. Croton-on-Hudson, Peekskill, West Point. I think it's going to hit Beacon next. Because of the Croton connection I thought it was the little-h hydra, but there were no giant snake sightings on any of the kooksites, and nobody had any acid burns. The hydra's patterns aren't so specific, either, it seems like it will pretty much eat anything that moves, so this one has to be different. It can't be another rusalka, those don't move. Can't be a kappa, because when the corpses are recovered they're in perfect shape, instead of mangled and eaten." A pause, and then a grimace. "Man, I don't know what it is with us and water cases lately."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean had taken a long swig of his beer when Sam begins to describe the case. It's unfortunate, because in an instant his face pales and he struggles to catch his breath around the fluid that's already in his mouth. In a strange chain reaction, the beer is spat back towards the sink. Dean coughs hard. He raises his hands, the universal symbol that everything is okay. "Tried to drink too much at once," he virtually wheezes. <br><br>His eyebrows draw together and he finally shakes his head. "Sounds like a Bäckahästen." His lips purse and his nostrils flare. And then with a tick of his head, he sees fit to explain further. "A brook horse. They're white, beautiful creatures that try to entice kids to ride them to their doom. They drown kids." His lips purse and he rubs the back of his neck as the bottle of beer is left to the counter and he clears his throat. As far as why they have so many water cases, "It's crazy. And weirdly coincidental."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>"A Backa-whatsen?" Sam asks.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;And then he shakes his head. Weird. Deja vu. Only not quite right. He ignores said deja vu in favor of saying, "How did you know that, anyway?" After all, Sam has gotten used to being the encyclopedia, but he couldn't find a single thing in any of his memorized knowledge to suggest what a Backahasten was. And here's Dean, talking on it like he's some sort of expert. He frowns. "I don't think I ever saw that one in Dad's journal, either."&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;Still, he finally sweeps up his smoothie, saying, "It's probably going to be in Beacon around midnight tonight."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's head cants to the side while he mulls the question over. How does he know that? "Uh..." that's a good question. "Maybe you don't know Dad's journal as well as you think you do." He puts the whole thing back on Sam, and not on the fact that he destroyed that tome just under nine years ago. As for where the brook horse will be, "Yeaaaah. They like fog. A lot of it. And the only way to kill them is to pierce their heart with steel. We could try to trap it, but again, steel cage." <br><br>He sucks on the inside of his cheek. "It'll aim for one of the weird kids at school too. Like the odd ones."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br> Sam ticks an eyebrow upward, but he doesn't argue. He got a photocopied partial during his year-long hunt, but he was able to tell right away things were missing from it. Either way, it doesn't seem worth arguing about. &lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt; Instead, he taps into his tablet. "There's an old steel mill right on the route," he says. "We might be able to find some useful stuff to work with there. We've got plenty of time to go see before the thing is expected to appear. 'Weird kids' might help us pinpoint the right spot on the river, too...if one of those kids has a house that's pretty close to the water, for example."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's hands clap together and his lips twist to the side. He's quite obviously considering something as he stares at Sam a few beats longer than is probably comfortable. "Right. Well we should go then." And then his eyes light up, as he offers, "I mean, unless you need to talk to your lady friend before you go. I can totally handle this if you're too relationship-y. Just saying." His lips hitch up on one side into a boyish grin. <br><br>But there's no way that Sam is taking that bait and so Dean is already shedding the mechanic jumpsuit. "I'll drive." Clearly.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam gives Dean a milder version of his irritated face. "All Fred asks is that I take back-up," he says. It's almost prim, the way he says it. But of course Dean will drive. He grabs up a few of his things and follows after his brother.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt; And then he decides to give Dean a little shit. With the grin of mischief he only really adopts when he's giving Dean crap he adds, "Though maybe I should call her, just to find out if you count..."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>There's another quirk of Dean's lips at the remark. He does up his seatbelt and hums in turn. "Nah bro, you're the back up. You didn't even know what this thing was." His grin grows as he puts the car into drive and tugs on a pair of sunglasses. <br><br>In no time the impala is cruising down a stretch of highway towards the steel mill listening to Iron Maiden. It's then that Dean turns the music down and turns his head towards Sam. "So... I've been thinking maybe you should learn how to take care of the Impala. I was working on the carburetor this morning so it would start faster." He purses his lips. "I mean, Mercy could probably teach you. Dad taught me. Kind of." His lips curve up at that.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>And that is the moment that Sam Winchester starts having some real suspicions.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;Point of fact, he does have some minor car repair skills of his own. He's nothing like Dean, of course...he gets stumped and usually needs Dean's help. But he took care of his currently-missing Dodge Charger for all that time he was on the road. He got kidnapped, in fact, in part because he stopped to help a woman on the road. He knows basics. Spark plugs, that sort of thing.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;The fact that Dean floats //Mercy// to teach him even before himself sets off some alarm bells in the head of one Winchester the Younger.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;Something is going on. Now how can he find out what it is?&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;"I'm surprised you'd let Mercy touch the Impala," he says evenly. "I mean you barely met her. Have you guys even exchanged a conversation? Even one about cars?"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>"Uh-uh-uh," there's clear admonishment in Dean's voice. "I said Mercy could teach //you//. I didn't say //she// could touch the Impala," Dean objects evenly. "Just thinking aloud." He swallows the growing lump in his throat but manages an incredibly convincing all-too-smug smile when he turns to face Sam with a one shouldered shrug. "But you don't want to learn? Dude, that's entirely your thing. Just don't want you turning your life into one endless chick flick now that you're all joint at the hip and stuff." <br><br>And just for good measure the Impala speeds up. "How far the steel mill?" because the case is easy in comparison. "I'm thinking if we can find something long and sharp. Hunter's knives are pretty ineffective. I mean, it should work," his cheeks puff out with recollection, "but getting close enough to pierce it's heart? It's still a horse. There's a lot of flesh there. And touching it?" he whistles sharply. "That's when it gets you. A person can escape from that. They're stuck until..." he doesn't finish the thought, instead opting to focus on the road.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam rolls his eyes. It seems for the moment that he’s buying it, though. Or, at least, that talk of their current hunt has distracted him sufficiently to keep him from pursuing the subject. It’s a sure bet that this will come up again, though, and Dean will likely have to account for it. Because this is not the first weird thing Dean has said lately.<br><br>“What I’m hoping we’ll find,” Sam muses, “are some of those big steel poles. We could probably use some of the equipment at the mill to make them into spears. Getting in close on a horse seems like it would be tricky business, and if what you say is true we definitely want some reach. Get enough of the poles and we might be able to use them to herd it away from the river, to, cut it off from its power source somehow. Cause yeah, I think a knife sounds like a terrible plan. And we might need to throw something between the horse and its victim that messes with its power too. From what you’re saying, steel does the trick there too right? So…Poles.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Unintentionally, Dean’s shoulders relax with the relief he feels at the subject being, however momentarily, dropped. He’ll have to account later, but maybe he’ll come up with something plausible by then. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, however, as the mention of the brook horse comes up again.<br><br>The mention of the knives being a terrible plan prompts his expression change. His smile becomes masochistic. From one end to the next it has an entirely self-deprecating edge. He can feel its hints of humourlessness, even as it remains plastered on his expression and he feels thankful for his sunglasses. “Right. That seems like a good move. Anything to pierce his heart would be good and the more distance we can get from that thing the better.” And, if Sam is paying attention, he can see his brother actually tremble. <br><br>His smile falters and he shakes his head. “Alright, so we have a plan. Construct spears. Sharpen them. Wield them. Might even be able to drive it into the horse’s heart quickly.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam /is/ paying attention.<br><br>But he misreads the reason for the trembling. His expression softens. “Is this something you and Dad ran into while I was at Stanford? Did the hunt go badly?”<br><br>The steel mill is one of those rust belt casualties. It’s all locked up, with a fence all around the outside of it. This is hardly a real obstacle to a pair of Winchesters to be sure, especially as security really only consists of a big chain and padlock combo. And whatever locks are on the doors. It looks literally like the plant closed down, like there was nobody to sell anything to, and like everyone just walked away from it. <br><br>It may be serving as some tycoon’s tax write-off even now. <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The question earns a strange quirk of Dean’s lips. “Something like that,” he replies as his fingers curl tighter along the steering wheel. “Solo job. Dad wasn’t there,” that’s enough. He doesn’t offer any more about the whole issue.<br><br>The car is put into park. And the engine shuts off. He can’t help but smirk at the poor security. He reaches into his pocket and extracts his lockpick. Carefully his fingers work at the mechanism until he can hear it release. With a lopsided grin he looks back towards Sam, “Child’s play,” but the irony of the words causes his chin to drop to his chest. The brook horse essentially was child’s play.<br><br>Dean tugs the chain and opens the fence. Heavy steps bring him into the steel yard and he turns to catch Sam in his periphery. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam ambles in in unhurried fashion. He does pull out his EMF meter. This place isn’t the case, but old abandoned places like this make him do such things out of routine. Fortunately, the entire spot is dead for supernatural activity, and the tall one exhales with relief and puts it away.<br><br>“I don’t know much about the layout of mills,” he admits, checking the time. “But we’ve got hours yet, so we can probably afford to explore.”<br><br>There’s just a big entry door that’s basically just locked up in exactly the same way. With a “Warning, Danger, Do Not Enter” sign on the door. The type of stuff that the Winchesters just pay total attention to all the time, of course.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean rolls his eyes at the Danger sign. He takes the lockpick to the padlock and fiddles with the mechanism until it gives. He tugs on the chain and lets it drop to the ground. “It’s not breaking and entering if you need the materials, right?” the humour in his voice is unmissable. <br><br>He trails into the main area, giving Sam plenty of time to follow. His hands tuck deeply into his pockets and he casts his brother a vague glance as he takes a long breath, “It wreaks of metal. Gotta be able to find something of use here. Gotta be.” His lips press together and he turns a corner. “Man, bet it gets hot in here fast when things are actually working.” His eyes trail the room, searching for any signs of where he might be able to find the metal.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It takes quite a bit of searching to actually locate the thing that Sam had in mind. They do find a lot of ingots and things, but Sam shakes his head. Too heavy, too bulky, and not sharp. What they finally find are long corkscrew thin, steel bars with sharp tips.<br><br>“Ah!” Sam hefts one up. “These ought to do the trick.”<br><br>It’s worth noting that they’re actually pretty heavy. And while Sam doesn’t exactly heft it up like it’s nothing, neither does he expend much effort doing it. Was he always that strong? He /is/ pretty big. Maybe that’s it.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean watches baby brother have little issue lifting the bar, and anticipates similar ease until he attempts to pluck it from the others. It’s not impossible, but it certainly takes more effort than Sam seemed to put in. His eyebrows draw together slightly, “Been lifting lately, Sammy?” Because that’s a thing that would make some sense. And then he tacks on for good measure with a lopsided quirk of his lips: “Just don’t skip leg day.” He winks.<br><br>He strolls back towards the entrance, metal object in hand. “At least it’s pointy. Someday I’m going to have to invest in a sword for this kind of thing.” His eyebrows lift to punctuate the point. “Suppose that’s a pro with that whole SHIELD thing.” His eyes roll dramatically. “The reporting and constant oversight,” his head shakes. “And the spycraft. They probably track us. Subdermally or whatever. Some kind of high tech implant they just use without anyone knowing.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam clears his throat when asked if he’s been lifting. “Uh...yeah. Seems like a good idea.”<br><br>/Note to self. Start lifting/.<br><br>But Dean goes rambling on about SHIELD, and he says thoughtfully, “I...dunno, Dean. I mean I don’t want to make you mad, but I’ve been thinking it might be simpler to just be an Agent instead of continuing to run around pretending to be FBI Agents. And the real badge would carry more weight than the consultant badge. And we could, in fact, get some real equipment. I mean I fill out the paperwork now, just so we can get paid.”<br><br>He looks away quickly and adds, “But I mean I understand all the objections you’ve raised to it, and I don’t want to do it if you don’t want to do it. I don’t want to abandon you again.”<br><br>A guilty shadow passes over his face, followed by a deeper, more guilty shadow, and he looks down. And gathers up another bar, because they might need more than one a piece.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“You wouldn’t be abandoning me, baby bro,” Dean replies slowly. “I’ll still be a consultant. You don’t need to worry about me. Seriously. I can take care of myself, and it’s not like we wouldn’t be working together anyways. You’d just have a wider array of people you’d work with.” He manages a small smile. <br><br>There’s a long pause where he studies Sam’s face and he exhales a long breath. “Is it that important to you? That I do this too if you take the plunge?” His eyes narrow slightly. “We’d still live together. Nothing would change except you’d be pulling your funeral director routine more often and you’d have different cases--ones they gave you instead of ones we find.” He shrugs.<br><br>“I still need to find Dad,” he offers in turn. “And it’s not because I think he’s in trouble or anything,” although he could be. “I just need the ability to do that. Not sure I’d get that with SHIELD.” Pause. “Besides,” he issues Sam a rogue smile, “if I learned anything from Star Wars it’s that the ladies like scoundrel.” He winks. “SHIELD makes a fellow too legit to quit.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“I wouldn’t abandon the search for Dad,” Sam says quietly. “I’ve been trying but...something’s blocking me. He might be out of range. I just keep getting headaches but I’m,” another clearing of his throat. “I’m sourcing a work-around.”<br><br>Dean asks his questions, and he contemplates it as he grabs up a third bar. “I guess we don’t have to do it together,” he says slowly. “I mean, I like it for all the reasons I’ve said. It gives some stability and legitimacy, while letting me live this life that...that I was born for. I don’t like stealing to finance our hunts. But I also want you to be happy, and I don’t want you to feel like I couldn’t say, dart out to California if I needed to. Actually I could, I’d just log the case and we’d be off, but...you were so opposed to it before. You seemed to really hate May.”<br><br>Is he going to weigh in on what the ladies like?<br><br>No. No he is not.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Sometimes it hurts to get what you wished for. The last few months have involved some incredible planning on Dean’s part. And it seems like it’s amounted to what he’d wanted. “I get the wanting to be paid and walk the straight and narrow. Sam, I couldn’t do it if I tried,” his eyebrows lift at that. “Not successfully.” He sniffs at that. Even so, there’s far more going on, and the pull of his eyebrow echoes with all the things he dares not speak.<br><br>His throat clears at the notion of hating May. “I don’t hate her,” he offers in return and there’s a long pause. She was his phone call when he was broken and beaten. And then perhaps more honestly he clarifies, “It’s not hatred exactly. I just think they did a shitty job of approaching you and then entrapping me. If they wanted a conversation they could’ve had it. People who demonstrate that amount of power? It worries me. Sure, you might have freedom, but within very clear confines.” <br><br>“Don’t worry about my happiness. I find that every time I eat a cheeseburger for breakfast, have a piece of apple pie, or drink a beer before noon. Happiness is fleeting. I know that.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam still looks incredibly worried. When he’d went off to Stanford he’d hardly cared what anyone else wanted. He’d been young and stubborn, a teenager in the height of teenaged self-centeredness.<br><br>Now he does, and something in the way that this is playing out bothers him. Nags at him. For reasons he hasn’t put together yet.<br><br>“I’ll hold off. I can’t unring that bell,” he decides. “We’re doing fine right now. That Hydra mess might be screwing with me a little bit. This might not be the time to make decisions.”<br><br>He turns towards the door. “Think this will be enough? We gotta get to that town’s middle school and high school if we’re going to get likely river locations. You should really stop and do your quote-unquote funeral director routine too, otherwise we might get stonewalled.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A flicker of a smile follows Sam’s decision. “Look, don’t hold off on anything on my account. You were always different from us. You need people, Sam. Dad did this mostly alone. I don’t even know how--” he breaks the thought. It doesn’t even matter so why give it words. “Whatever. No chick flick moments.” His throat clears and he follows Sam to the doorway.<br><br>“And yeah, I’ll pull my James Bond routine. Suit’s in the back,” he notes idly with another quirk of his lips.<br><br>In no time, the pair return to the car and things are loaded up. And, whether or not Sam appreciates it, modesty has never been one of Dean’s virtues. Unsurprisingly, he changes in the open--mostly because the area seems abandoned anyways for the moment.<br><br>“Winchester. Dean Winchester,” he adjusts the collar of the suit and tilts his head to catch Sam’s eye before sliding into the passenger seat. “Let’s get this shit done,” he grins grimly, not wholly convincing, but puts the car into drive to return to the highway.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam just rolls his eyes and looks annoyed as Dean doesn’t so much as take advantage of the abandoned building to go and change in. But neither does he say much about it. Considering the number of times their Dad made them stop on the side of the road and pee in the grass, it’s not exactly like modesty is a huge family trait. As Dean is observing, he’s different.<br><br>He hands Dean his consultant badge, and looks at the clock. “Okay,” he says. “You take the high school, I’ll take the middle school. They’re right down the street from each other. We make a beeline for the counselor. We find out who the troubled kids are who fit the profile--” Because Sammy does have the newspaper articles to look at for more than ‘weird’, and he just assumes Dean knows the profile, “get some addresses, and then we’ll see who lives closest to the river, who might make a good target of opportunity. Cause otherwise we’re going to end up driving up and down the riverfront all night hoping to spot something at the right time.”<br><br>So much more prepared this time. So much more focused, with a much better plan. Last time they did at least have the makeout spot to guide them.<br><br>This time, surely, it’ll all be fine.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“At least we’ve still got time,” Dean offers. He follows the routine of the hunt. Formulate a plan, gather information, execute the plan. But this time he’s reasonably certain the brook horse will also be hunting him. He robbed them. Theft isn’t something they take lightly.<br><br>Regardless, he goes through the motions. Yet even as he leaves the car, Sam might sense something is off. Dean normally dives right into the grifting routine, but this time he’s a little less easy about it.<br><br> He enters the high school and flashes his fake FBI badge at the counselor. Even if he could flash a consultant badge, somehow it feels less official than the fake FBI one. Old habits die hard. “Excuse me, ma’am? I’m Agent Dale Cooper. I have a few questions about some of the students at your school if you have a moment.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam, at least, makes no comment on that whatsoever. He just heads for the middle school with a confident stride. Since Dean has already confirmed his solo hunt for this thing went bad once, he chalks up any signs of uneasiness to that alone. As it is, he’s focusing on the hunt, now, and not so much the bits of the conversation between them that struck him as strange.<br><br>The counselor is a pretty black woman with high cheekbones and a short, natural hair cut. She’s dressed in a green pantsuit. She examines the badge, furrowing her brow faintly. “Agent Cooper. What can I do for you?” She looks more confused than guarded, at least, which is something. She pauses in the act of using one of those massive paper-cutter blades that only the educational set ever seems to bother with, the ones that are kind of creepy to have in classrooms because they could legitimately slice someone’s hand off. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean arches an eyebrow at the paper cutter, but manages a polite smile for the counselor anyways. “I’m working a case. There have been a series of drownings across multiple cities in this area. And it seems that the pattern brought us here where we think our unsub will strike next. We suspect these are not accidental deaths,” his eyebrows lift expectantly. “Our killer seems to target troubled kids.” His chin drops and he tries to clarify what he means, “Those with few friends. Maybe they have strange hobbies or unusual beliefs. The kids that are far from popular.”<br><br>He cringes slightly. “I’m hoping you can help me save lives today by providing me with a list of these kids.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s a good pitch, and the counselor’s face softens. “I heard about some of those deaths,” she says.<br><br>She thinks about it for a moment, then says, “There’s a little club of kids that like to play Dungeons and Dragons and stuff,” she says slowly. “And then there are the ones that like to pierce their face and smoke weed behind the bleachers. And there’s at least one who says she’s Wiccan, but she’s just trying to piss off her parents and anyone who tries to argue with her. Do you want all of those or just some of them? Oh, and the gender-fluid kid, they have a bit of trouble making and keeping friends here too. It’s a small town.”<br><br>She herself seems to be rather fond of everyone she just named, even the weed smokers, and genuine worry dances in and out of her tone as she names them.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Names and addresses of all would be helpful. To be honest, we’re going to narrow it down to anyone that lives near the river. The unsub chooses victims of convenience. Befriends a kid and then,” Dean’s expression turns grim. He emits a soft sigh and offers, “Regardless, we’ll be on patrol keeping an eye out for the lot, but it’d be helpful to know where on the river bank the unsub might find a victim.”<br><br>His lips press together tightly. “I know what it’s like to lose someone that young. Believe me. I… I get the worry. More than you probably can imagine.” It’s a rare moment of genuine empathy, and he’s thankful that Sam isn’t here to see it. “We’ll look out for them and we’ll do our best for them. All of them. I promise.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Okay. Let me get them all for you,” the woman says. It takes her about five minutes to pull all the enrollment files and to copy them for him, but she comes back with a list for Dean. “Should I call their parents and warn them not to let them out or something? Because I can, especially with an-- an unsub?-- in the area?”<br><br>Obviously in her mind unsub now equals serial killer.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>There’s a flicker of a smile that follows. “Yeah, that’s a great idea, actually,” remove the element that could blow the entire thing--the element that blew it last time. Dean shoots her an easier smile now, “It’s good that you’re so willing to be helpful. We’re really trying to protect people here.”<br><br>He takes the list and gives her a small nod of his head. “I’ll be off and checking in on some of these areas. And thanks. I appreciate it.” He manages another smile before treading back to the door with the list in hand.<br><br>In short order he’s in the driver’s seat of the Impala again. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam is already there, and he had less success. Dryly he says, “Mr. Addlestone is of the opinion that all middle schoolers are weird,” he says dryly. “Once I clarified what weird meant, I got a list of about ten possible kids though.” <br><br>He’s already programming their addresses into his GPS. “Any luck on your end?” <br><br>He checks his watch again...the counselors and such do work late, and it’s pushing on towards 5:00 PM. They still have quite a bit of time to use if they want it before the horse is likely to appear, to be sure. On the other hand, it might just be one of those long stretches of nothing that are also common to hunts.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean passes the list to Sam. “I’m pretty sure I convinced the lady that there’s a serial killer on the loose drowning kids,” his lips purse at that in a sorry-not-sorry kind of pout. His head ticks to the side, “She’s going to call the parents and request they keep the kids in tonight. That said, high schoolers are what they are. They’ll do what they want despite their parents efforts.” <br><br>“Not sure how close anyone is to the river though.” His tongue rolls over his lips. And then, sucking a sharp breath, he suggests, “We should get a burger. Big one. And a milkshake. And pie.” <br><br>And even before Sam can object, the car lurches backwards as it’s put into drive to find the nearest drive thru. “So any of the addresses close to the water?”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Three of them,” Sam says, frowning. “Triangulating them gives us an area of about a mile. That’s not unmanageable though, especially if we find some good surveillance points.”<br><br>He makes no objection to the suggestion of dinner. Hunting on an empty stomach is dumb, and the diners are tradition. At home, these days, he’s been trying to vary up Dean’s diet a little...cooking roast chicken and vegetables, and meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans, remembering that he’d heard John and Dean rhapsodize about Mary Winchester’s meatloaf once. But out in the field? He has few objections about the fare.<br><br>“You know what? I might even have a burger this time myself,” he says thoughtfully. Because now, of course…<br><br>Now he’s free to worry at the problem of Dean’s strange statements again. He sounds rather distracted as he opines that he might indulge in one of his very rare cheeseburgers.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Excellent!” Dean actually beams at the prospect. He eats like a manchild, but it’s not often that he can convince anyone to join him. The Impala pulls into the parking lot of a greasy spoon diner--real American classic--and Dean hops out of the driver’s seat.<br><br>In short order, the Winchesters are seated at a booth near the back. The diner looks typical for the area and has a very real 1950s theme. The tiles on the floor are in a black and white checkerboard pattern. The booths white. Everything about it is clean, spotless, and speaks volumes to the quaint place they find themselves.<br><br>When the waitress takes their order, Dean goes for the motherload, “Bacon cheeseburger, fries with gravy, large strawberry milkshake,” not his usual, but milkshakes aren’t generally his fare, “and after that’s all done, apple pie a la mode.” He winks at the woman.<br><br>Bzzzzt.<br><br>Bzzzzt.<Br><br>Bzzzzt.<br><br>In his pocket, his phone rings. Apologetically, he reaches for it and then looks at the name. A small not-quite-convincing smile pulls the edges of his lips as he brings it to his ear. “Hey. Twice in one week, you either miss me or I’m a real pain in your ass,” his voice softens and he actually turns away from the table, moving like he might go stand somewhere else. But he doesn’t. For the moment he’s stuck in place. “Yeah, we’re already on the hunt for it… a Backahasten… no not terribly common. Scandinavian in origin… no I did not hear that from Sam… ask him yourself…” he actually smiles smugly before hearing the caller backpedal. “Yeah, yeah… so anything else… Yeah, I’ll be there. Next week… won’t forget… yeah, you too.” He hangs up without saying goodbye.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam tilts his head at the conversation, but this sounds like…<br><br>He flashes one of those insufferable grins that he so often flashes when he wants to tease his brother, along with that quick chuff-laugh that he sometimes offers. “Got yourself a girlfriend?” <br><br>He orders a regular cheeseburger, waffle fries, a chocolate shake, and a coconut cream pie. It seems he really is going to join Dean in his culinary debauchery this evening. They’re both going for things that aren’t entirely their usual. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam’s teasing earns him a sharp furrowing of his brother’s eyebrow. “That was Jo. Definitely not a girlfriend. Wanted to know what was up with these cities and their drownings. Or her mom did?” He shrugs. But it’s not so easily brushed off. “Look, she did me a solid when the whole thing with the Winter Soldier went down and I owe her. That’s all.” He rubs his nose with his sleeve.<br><br>“You’re the one with the girlfriend. Freddie seems cool. A bit… different. But cool enough.” At that he shrugs again, attempting to brush off any thoughts about him and his relationship status. “Besides, the rules stand for me. No ties. Occasional friend or friendliness, but nothing so…” his hand rocks in the air uncertainly.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Harvelle? I met her and Ellen while I was looking for you this year,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows. Because he had, of course, been following Dean’s trail. “A lot of the other Hunters at the roadhouse, too.”<br><br>But Dean brings up Fred, and he smiles fondly. He touches his coat, as if to make sure Feigenbaum is still there. Feigenbaum is.<br><br>“She got sent to a Hell dimension,” he says quietly. “Five years. She figured out how to get this explosive collar off herself. Lived off the land in a cave. Needed a little external help to get out, but she’s a survivor. She was a physicist student before that. But I think I really fell for her when I watched her rig medical supplies into-- no lie-- a vampire-killing machine gun.” <br><br>He swallows and says, “I’m in love with her, Dean. I’m in love with her, and all I can think is I’m going to let her down the way I--”<br><br>/The way I inevitably let everyone down, always./<br><br>And as if on cue...another hunger starts up, one that can’t be alleviated with milkshakes. But he ignores it for the moment, draining his ice water instead.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah, Harvelle,” but even as he says her last name, tinges of fondness colour his expression. “She calls me Dean-o. Like the Flintstones’ dog.” He rolls his eyes. “But her and her mom are good people.”<br><br>“You won’t let her down,” Dean replies easily. He leans back in his seat and his eyes lid. He wets his lips and he looks towards the calendar on the wall. His eyes train there a few moments. “Geez Sam, we’ve never been stable. I been thinking about,” he swallows and looks towards the calendar, “time lately. A lot actually.” He chews on the inside of his cheek and his jaw works around this idea. <br><br>/I’m going to die a year from tomorrow./<br><br>“Do you remember the ridiculously hot summer when we were in the south? You were twelve. I was sixteen or so.” He sniffs loudly fighting back his impulse to just release the secret that haunts him. “I think about it a lot. The way we lived on peanut butter and jelly. How Dad was gone… pretty much always. It was the first summer I finally got it.”<br><br>He sniffs again and forces a stiff smile. “You don’t let me down. If you want to join SHIELD, join SHIELD. It won’t disappoint me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.” His teeth toy at his bottom lip. “I don’t hate them.”<br><br>He inhales a deep breath and holds it for a second. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Got it. The desire Sam had developed to just be normal.<br><br>He looks down and frowns. Because he’s thinking of another night.<br><br>//Five Years Ago//<br><br>They’d been in Kilgore, Texas for almost a month now, going to the same school. John’s cases take him farther and farther out, and arguably the two boys can take care of themselves. Even if he hasn’t given Dean the Impala yet.<br><br>Sam has disappeared after school every day. He hasn’t joined a club. He hasn’t found a girl. He isn’t even at his go-to, which is the library. At 17 he has sprouted up like a weed, no longer the tiny but fierce little kid that he was. He’s about Dean’s height, with flippy hair and cheekbones that the girls sigh over. He barely ever seems to notice the last part.<br><br>Somehow, he is still a straight A student. An average of 14 schools per year for their entire educational career, and he has managed a 4.0 GPA. It’s summer. It’s nice and hot. He wants to walk the graduation stage. He intends to do so come Hell or high water. <br><br>His after-school forays, though, take him to the UPS store, where he has rented his own PO box. He carefully checks it, holding his breath. And withdraws a thick brown envelope. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s enough to make the elder Winchester suspicious. While Dean doesn’t always seem the sharpest pencil in the box, he notices more than he lets on. The disappearances after school had been noted. And, after some weeks of them, he finally gave into curiosity. He’d taken off early from work at the mechanic’s car repair that he’d taken a legitimate job. Learning a trade seemed important and useful--especially one that would be so helpful on the road.<br><br>Following Sam had been easy enough. While some families talked about things like the desire to move on, the Winchesters are quite the opposite. Why have a discussion if you can avoid it altogether and just spy on each other?<br><br>He trails behind his brother, pausing outside the UPS store to spy through the window. His eyebrows draw together and he feels a frown pulling his lips downwards.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam doesn’t even look at the window. He tears into the envelope with the haste of one who has been waiting and waiting to see one just like it. He reads the letter at the very top of a thick pile of papers, a grin of triumph bolting over his features. He flips quickly through the rest of the pile. It looks like forms. Brochures. His eyes are bright with pleasure, his cheeks flushed with excitement. <br><br>Then he stops, and his face falls. He goes to that little bar that’s ubiquitous in every UPS store ever, the one where people can quickly stamp their envelopes or pack their packages. He doesn’t do either. He just leans against it, shaggy hair obscuring the top half of his features as he lets his head dip forward, his mouth a hard slash of indecision.<br><br>The trash can is right there.<br><br>He picks up the papers, holds them over the trash for a moment, his jaw settling into a firm line as he steels himself to rid himself of all of it.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean frowns. Openly frowns. In a way that a mother might say his face will one day get stuck like that. He shifts his weight from one foot to the next, and then with a duck of his head, slips into the UPS casually as he possibly can.<br><br>The grifter’s smile, practiced and nuanced, pulls at each corner of his expression as he slides beside his brother and clears his throat. “Come here often?” his eyebrows lift expectantly, nearly challenging as those green eyes speak to something he won’t articulate.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Dean!”<br><br>Sam doesn’t really jump high enough to hit the ceiling, but it could seem an awfully near thing given his sudden shock. One of his greatest weaknesses in the field is one of his greatest strengths when researching their various problems on the road: he can, and often does, focus on one thing to the exclusion of all else, killing his situational awareness. It’s landed him in more than one hostage situation. It’s landed him in more than one scenario where his brother has had to pull some monster right off of him. And now? It means that Dean manages to get right next to him before he can hide any of it.<br><br>/Congratulations, Mr. Winchester,/ the letter reads. /Stanford University is proud to inform you that your application for admission has been accepted. In addition, in light of your SAT scores and academic achievements as well as your moving personal statement, we would like to offer you the Thomas B. Gardner Academic Excellence Scholarship, an $225,000 annual scholarship which will cover your tuition, fees, room, board, books, and incidentals during your four-year course of study with our university provided you maintain at least a 3.5 GPA and at least 12 credit hours per semester every year you are enrolled. Please read the enclosed agreements carefully, sign, and return them no later than August 1, 2021, in order to accept this scholarship and claim your place.//<br><br>The rest is a bunch of fluff which talks up the university, as if the Ivy League California school really needs it. It’s signed by the University President of Admissions. <br><br>Sam swallows. His hand had twitched, like he intended to whip it behind his back. “It’s nothing,” he mutters. “I mean it’s something, but I mostly just…”<br><br>He trails off. Clears his throat.<br><br>“I just wanted to see if I could do it. Get in, I mean. And now I know.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The grifter’s smile remains--nearly feline--because Dean really is the cat that caught the canary. He inhales a long breath as Sam explains each of the things, and in many ways, the older of the two just tightens his jaw. He swallows hard and his lips purse like he’s sucked on a lemon. <br><br>“...right.” <br><br>Unwillingly, his arms cross over his chest. In a way, it’s a defense. “I’m probably supposed to congratulate you.” Or something. This was not remotely something he anticipated, but in the moment he feels like he should’ve seen it coming. His chin drops to his chest, and silence rules the day. “From the looks of it you more than got in,” he observes coolly.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Guilt twists over Sam’s face, and he looks down, the papers clutched in his hand, his hand falling to his side. He lets his hair shadow his eyes again. <br><br>“The scholarship application was just part of the main application,” he mutters. “It’s not like I filled out separate paperwork. It was college day at school and I just…”<br><br>School, of course, hasn’t been one of Dean’s problems for two years now, but Sammy still goes, and he doesn’t ditch things like assemblies, career day, college day. He throws himself into them, taking them seriously. Before, it was almost all just a fantasy, a way of grabbing onto something normal for five minutes, ten minutes, an hour. But a teacher had encouraged him, and he’d impulsively grabbed a pen.<br><br>His hand twitches again, like he’s going to go ahead and toss it. But something stubborn firms his jawline. He’s been pushing against John since he was thirteen years old. He didn’t really start pushing against Dean until he turned 16, but lately if Dean wants something it seems like he can guarantee Sam will eventually begin argument for the opposite thing. Dean just gets the polite version. John gets the sarcasm and silent treatment.<br><br>Normal enough. Normal enough when Dean has been Sam’s parent. Probably not any easier to live with, though. <br><br>“You don’t have to congratulate me,” he says, in that way that says anger is starting to wash over the guilt. “I know you think stuff like this is lame. But it’s a good opportunity. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And you know what? I want to take it.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean actually blinks, but his lips still pucker like he’s sucked on a lemon. He hums uncertainly and his chin tucks to his chest. In a way he looks more like a punk kid than his brother in this posture. Head lowered, arms over his chest. After a few beats he shakes his head, “You aren’t normal. You weren’t raised to be normal.”<br><br>His gaze darkens. “Or did I fuck that up too?” It’s not angry. It’s defeatist. His head tilts to the side and something flashes behind his green eyes. His nostrils flare and he takes a deep breath, assuming the silent brother stance. <br><br>He rubs the back of his neck, allowing his posture to change. “We weren’t built for that life, Sam. You know we weren’t. Dad never raised sons. He raised hunters.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s defeatist unhappiness instantly switches Sam’s attitude. It almost always does, activating his natural empathy and bringing that to the forefront instead of defensiveness or anger.<br><br>“Dean, you didn’t fuck anything up,” he says, ever so earnestly. “But I didn’t choose this life. I didn’t want this life. Just because someone was raised to be something doesn’t mean that’s where they have to end up. And you just said it yourself. Dad was trying to raise Hunters, but he didn’t raise anyone. You raised me. And you raised yourself. And I get that you love this life, you feel at home in it, but I--”<br><br>He drops his gaze again. <br><br>“I just feel lost.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean can feel the tension build in each of his muscles. His hands shove into his pockets--it’s retreatist and safe, and he’s all too aware that he takes it whenever he enters a more pensive place. His chin lifts and he stares towards the window. He loves this life, he feels at home in it--both remarks he can respond to: “Wouldn’t be worth thinking about some other future,” that will never come to fruition. “And no point in trying to sugar coat it. I failed. You and Dad, it seems. Dad because he wanted us to be one thing and one thing only. You because you haven’t learned the first thing about family loyalty.” <br><br>His gaze lifts, “Give me six years,” because that’s all he has left. “Six years and then you can walk away from all of this, no argument from me.” <br><br>His throat clears. And his eyebrows draw together sharply. “I promise no argument. And that’s a promise I can keep.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam flinches as if punched when Dean makes that comment about /family loyalty/. His cheeks flush and his jaw firms. His nostrils flare.<br><br>“Wanting something different-- wanting my own life-- has nothing to do with loyalty. And...s- six years? This will be long gone by then!” He holds up the letter, incredulous. <br><br> “You want me to walk away from a million dollar education to...take the Hunting lifestyle for what, a test drive? I think the /nine/ years I’ve already been at it is more than enough to have taught me how bad I hate it. Or even the 17 years, since the going to 140+ schools, the crappy food, the hours and hours on the road, the paranoia, the--” <br><br>Realizing he’s still standing in a UPS store of all things, Sam snaps his mouth shut before he can start his rant about their life of crime. Instead, he glares defensively at his brother. <br><br>“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for /any/ of this. And frankly? Neither did you.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The ache deep in the pit of Dean’s stomach barely registers on his face. He blinks. Hard. His shoulders tighten. He heaviness in his chest exacerbates with the tightness of holding his breath. And it’s only the tightness that registers in his mind.<br><br>/Breathe/.<br><br>He inhales a sharp breath. “Fine,” there’s strength in resolve. “Six years is nothing,” he finally manages. “Hell, ten years is /nothing/. But I guess at sixteen it feels like an eternity.” He finds that strange stoicism he learned from his father. “If the life we’ve given you is so awful, then leave.” The dryness of his mouth won’t be so easily abated. The moisture has disappeared. But even in spitting sawdust, he manages to find some venom, “You know what Sammy, if I’ve been so awful to you, consider this done. You’re grown enough. Hell, I started raising you when I was what, four? Seems like you can finish the job now. You want out, fine. But someone needs to do something about those things that go bump in the night. Someone. You want to be like everyone else? Go ahead. But you know better. I know better.”<br><br>He turns on his heel and treads to the door. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“None of that is fair!” Sammy snaps. “I didn’t even say any--” <br><br>But he gives up. He hangs his head.<br><br>And then, defiant, he signs the papers, his own heart aching, tears hitting the page. He mails it then and there. 2 weeks later he will stride across the stage of his graduation. He’ll be on the bus that afternoon. John will refuse to go to the graduation but will show up to the bus station one more time.<br><br>John will snarl, “If you get on that bus, don’t bother ever coming back.”<br><br>Sam will assume he speaks for both himself, and Dean. Their voices are, so often, one.<br><br>It will be the last time he sees John before…<br><br>//Present Day//Sam Winchester’s eyes narrow. Patterns are his strong suit.<br><br>“Six years are almost up,” he says softly. “And you mentioned ten years the day I got my acceptance letter. And you mentioned a deal with Hell in the hydra pit.”<br><br>His voice is soft and dire. “Dean. /What did you do?/”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>For the first time in nearly a decade, Dean can’t dodge this. He inhales a long breath and presses his hands to his face, letting his fingers rake through his hair as he does so, slowly sliding them to the back of his neck as he forces his gaze back to Sam.<br><br>His lips twitch and his eyes glisten before he finally looks away towards the window, and plays the rest of this conversation in his mind. And as he does so, Crowley’s voice echoes. Twelve year olds shouldn’t remember hell. His jaw works around the thought, but for the moment, the question is met with silence.<br><br>/Take care of Sammy./<br><br>His mouth opens and then shuts again, and that nearly masochistic expression is traded for something almost good humoured. His best guarded secret has become undone in a matter of weeks. Evidently guarding it has become harder the closer he gets to that expiration date.<br><br>When he finally speaks, his voice is gruff, raw, and wholly unconvincing, “It’s not important.” He manages a flicker of a smile at Sam before it fails. He rubs his face as the humour drains from it. All signs of teasing and lightness fade from it. His cheeks puff out with an exhalation of air, a kind of exasperation at finally being called out after literal years of secret keeping. His eyebrows draw together and his eyes hone in on the table, “I need to find dad.” There’s a pause that follows that, “And you need to join SHIELD.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>He’s lying.<br><br>Sam knows he’s lying. <br><br>His mouth tightens. His hazel eyes go flat.<br><br>And then, guilty. Because Sam is also lying. He knows before they leave this diner he’s going to go into the diner. He’s going to take a vial of blood he withdrew from his captive demon just this morning and he’s going to jam it into his arm so he can concentrate tonight. <br><br>For a moment, he considers telling Dean about it so that he can shake loose his brother’s secrets. But a sick wave of shame passes over him, and he drops his gaze, lets his hair cover his face. <br><br>Maybe if he’d listened to Dean and avoided Stanford none of this would have happened. Jessica would still be alive. He’d still be as clean as it was possible to be. He might never have met Fred, but how long? How long before he lets her down like he’s already let Dean down in 1,000 ways?<br><br>“I’ll help you find Dad,” he promises softly. He sounds like there’s a lump in his throat. “And I’ll talk to Agent May.”<br><br>And then:<br><br>“I’m sorry, Dean.”<br><br>Because he’s got a really bad feeling. A bad feeling which says whatever Dean did was //his// fault. <br><br>He’s got to figure out what it is. It sounds like a deal with a crossroads demon. He might be able to summon one. Fix this. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean blinks hard again. He sniffs, choking back emotion that he can’t quite process. His teeth worry his bottom lip, and when he speaks again, he manages another flicker of a smile--fleeting, but present. “Don’t be,” his breath escapes in a near laugh. “You didn’t do anything.”<br><br>His eyes lid, he leans back in the seat, and inhales a long breath, steadying his emotions and nerves. His hands fold on the table in front of him and for a moment he considers speaking it. But he doesn’t. Not really. “Look. Sam,” he leans forward and levels a look at his brother, “I’m fine. I’ll be fine awhile longer. I made a choice. And it’s not one I regret. I’ve had nine years to regret it. And I haven’t. It was the right choice. And for some damned reason, I’m getting sentimental. And maybe it’s dumb but I want--” he frowns before cutting himself off.<br><br>He swallows the growing lump in his throat. “--but never apologize for something you didn’t do. That you had nothing to do with.” His lips press together tightly and his eyebrows knit together in the process.<br><br>And then more honestly, he offers, “I was vetting Agent May. I got myself pummelled to see--” he lifts a hand, the details aren’t important. “She’s good. You can trust her. And I trust her to look out for you.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>This is as much as admitting that he’s going to die.<br><br>Sam decides then and there he’s not going to stand for it. <br><br>He’ll just have to be stronger. To prevent it. “I’m not taking this lying down,” he tells Dean, ready to shake his fist at heaven, hell, and everything in between. “And you’re not either.”<br><br>He stands up.<br><br>“I have to go to the bathroom. And so help me, if you take off and strand me in this stupid diner before I get back I will kick your ass.”<br><br>He’s not usually given to those sorts of threats, but anger and helplessness and shame all do the proper number on him to make sure of it. He fixes Dean with a hard, hazel-eyed gaze.<br><br>Because as much as Dean believes it’s his sole job to look out for Sam, Sammy rather believes it is their job to look after each other. And if he’s the one who has failed to watch Dean’s back again and again, that doesn’t mean this needs to be a pattern that continues.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s expression turns pained. “Sam. Don’t. There’s nothing to be done,” his lips curve on one side. “Don’t think about it.” And then, likely more desperately than he intends, he breathes, “/Please/.” <br><br>Sam’s exit to the bathroom does leave Dean with a choice. He looks out the window towards the Impala and clamps his eyes shut. “Why am I such an idiot?” he mutters to himself. After the case is solved, he resolves to get piss-drunk. It’ll turn off his brain for awhile and keep the demons at bay. Maybe.<br><br>Eyes still lidded, he struggles against the burning sensation behind them. A tear trails down his cheek. And, of course, at that moment the food arrives. The awkward smile he gives the server doesn’t distract from the brush of his knuckles against his face to rub any moisture away. <br><br>While tradition says he should start with the burger, Dean reaches for the apple pie (which wasn’t even supposed to come out at the same time) and jabs his fork into the pastry.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean indulges his addiction.<br><br>Sam indulges his. He locks the door tight behind him and swallows, looking himself in the eyes for a moment.<br><br>He can’t.<br><br>He pulls out the needle and the vial. He takes off his suit jacket and rolls up his sleeve. The track marks that are already there are livid and dark. He’s been lying about them to Fred, saying it’s SHIELD, taking samples.<br><br>He’s going to have to find a better way to handle that soon.<br><br>He jams the needle straight into his vein and depresses the plunger, gasping against the warmth spreading through him. It washes away the sadness. He can do anything like this. He can stop Dean from getting Hellhounded. He can protect Fred. He can protect everyone. He can find Dad and Claire. He just needs to get a little stronger.<br><br>He withdraws the needle, so used to pain that it doesn’t even phase him. He blots at the little blood spot with a paper towel, sick shame rolling through him even as the euphoria dances underneath his skin. He tosses that, rinses the vial, discards the needle. Rolls his sleeves back down. <br><br>He is relieved when he walks out of the bathroom to see his brother sitting there, even if he is eating dessert before dinner like a giant child.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Giant child or not, Dean Winchester’s emotions are firmly locked down by the time Sam returns. He shoots his brother boyish lopsided grin as he downs the pie in far too few bites. And with a kind of veiled humour, he offers, “Not bad. Had better. Had worse.” Pause. “Made worse.” His eyebrows lift, “Do you remember that time I tried to make apple pie? I was what--twelve?” He laughs easily, “We were sick for a week.”<br><br>Dean pretends the last conversation never happened. Ignorance in this case is bliss. He eyes the burger but seems to have lost his appetite (maybe to pie?), pushing it away from him before shaking his head. “You know maybe vomiting stories aren’t that funny. Especially when eating.” He actually shudders at that.<br><br>His eyes drift to the window and his gaze lingers on the car. “So…” his lips twist to the side, “the Impala needs a light touch. I’ve done my best to keep most of the original parts, with the exception of the suspension--definitely made easy work of the last one when a horde of changelings were in pursuit. I think she’ll need a new timing belt in the next couple years. Been starting to click a bit. Thought about replacing it,” his head waffles back and forth once over, “but it’s still early enough.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam listens to Dean spill out this sort of verbal Last Will and Testament when it comes to the Impala. It sparks anger in him, but not necessarily at Dean. He isn’t hungry either, but he picks at his own food just the same. He’s already fortified himself with what he needs to get through the evening. At least the vomit story won’t touch on that.<br><br>“Why didn’t you replace it?” He simply asks that question. “It’s not like you to let even the slightest click slide.”<br><br>His tone is dull, weighted by the things they’re not saying, weighted by the secrets between them, but he seems willing, for his brother’s comfort, to entertain his need to get his affairs in order, so to speak.<br><br>Even though he’ll be //damned// before he allows there to be an actual need for any such thing.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Honestly?” because honesty isn’t really the Winchester’s forte. Dean smirks at the question, “Combination of things. I was aiming to do it in Virginia, but time got away from me.” Including prison time. “And,” dismissively he waves a hand, “I’ve had other things to do.” Like go get his ass kicked by the Winter Soldier. <br><br>“I’ll probably get to it. Soon. Just thought you should be aware.” He manages to sound casual when he says it. <br><br>He stiffens, however, when his eyes trace beyond the car. Fog rolls in. His eyes deaden. So much deja vu.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam was of course paying enough attention to know what the fog means. He pushes his pie aside and drops money to pay for them both.<br><br>At the very least, there’s no tension in doing this. There’s no questions. There’s no hesitation. They both know what to do, so he simply moves to go and do it, heading out to his side of the Impala with a focused look on his face, dropping every last uncomfortable matter in favor of putting his game face on. <br><br>It’s time to hunt something that preys on others. That’s all that matters right this second. Everything else can be put on hold. Everything else can wait until this is done.<br><br>He programs the spot he picked out with his triangulation into the GPS, then starts the program for Dean. “Let’s go get it then,” he says.<br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean slides from his seat and treads to the Impala. But he’s distracted--about everything unspoken that relates too solidly to this case. /Walk it off/. He laughs a scoff at himself, drawing a coy smile in the process when his hands grasp the steering wheel. <br><br>“Yeah, let’s kick some brook horse ass,” he falls into his role well, and allows himself to embrace it fully as the car pulls away from the diner.<br><br>And then, as what will likely come off as a strange reminder, he sees fit to add: “Just don’t touch the damned thing.”<br><br>The Impala speeds to its GPS-determined fate.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yes, I remember,” Sam says, with some annoyance. But it’s distracted annoyance. He pauses to rub at his head…<br><br>But doesn’t really give any indication as to why.<br><br>Meanwhile, the fog comes rolling in, thick and white. The GPS and the headlights make it possible to follow towards that destination, but barely. <br><br>“It’s early,” the Moose comments, frowning out into the night. “I mean it’s only just now getting dark, but the patterns from the other drownings said that they all happened later. Ten PM, midnight. So why is it so early?”<br><br>It’s definitely here though. Dean can almost smell it, thick in his nostrils. Wet horsehair and the smell of the deeps. It’s not possible to see it yet, but he can sure smell it.<br><br>The GPS pipes up. “You have arrived at your destination.” Which is really just a parking spot on the riverfront.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A frown tugs the edges of Dean’s lips when Sam rubs his head. “Hey. You okay, man?” And then, quickly he adds, “If not, I can handle this case.”<br><br>The note about the time though prompts Dean to visibly twitch. His eyes remain fixed on the road despite having parked might give some indication that he knows something more than he lets on. He clears his throat. “Probably found an early victim,” he manages to sound nonchalant. <br><br>But even the best liars struggle to control things like complexion. And for the moment, the elder Winchester looks pale. The driver’s side door opens and Dean slips out. He treads to the trunk and extracts one of the large poles. “We need to get moving. It normally coaxes victims, but I think it’ll be an aggressive predator today.” He hopes his apparent expertise about the Backahasten will be enough to answer the /why/.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam simply nods and unleashes /his/ signature phrase.<br><br>“I’m fine.”<br><br>He will always and ever say that, just as Dean will always say walk it off. But he stubbornly takes the other two poles, carrying them a bit like a Roman centurion might carry a pair of javelins. <br><br>The first thing Dean will notice is that there is no weird kid standing anywhere near the water. No high schoolers or middle schoolers of any kind. At least, not moving towards the water.<br><br>However, the great white shape of the brook horse is standing half in, half out of the water just as Dean remembers him. And as they approach the river, well…<br><br>*You took my new child away from me, Dean Winchester.* The horse whispers into Dean’s mind. *The family has come to take him back.*<br><br>The Hudson River boils. And one by one, they step out. Spirits. Waterlogged spirits, their hair straggly and low, their clothes running the gamut of time periods dating clear back to the 18th century, all seemingly young. Dozens of them, marching towards the Winchesters like a small army.<br><br>Sam speaks in a low, concerned voice. “Uh. Dean?”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>There’s a quirk of Dean’s lips. Self-deprecating, juvenile, and guilty. But instead of replying to his brother, he looks towards the horse, “And my family has come to take you out,” plain and simple. <br><br>His head turns towards Sam, “Yeah, we’re boned.” He tugs on his brother’s arm to pull him to the back of the Impala /quickly/--more provisions are definitely needed. “I may have left a few details out--”<br><br>The trunk of the car opens and the array of equipment presents itself. He nabs the large box of salt, and possibly to Sam’s surprise begins to create a circle of it around his brother. “They want you,” he levels a look at his brother--one that suggests he means business. “Fucking ghost children,” he mutters to himself. He plucks the iron crowbar and shakes his head. And then, in the event that Sam hasn’t clued in, “This thing miiiight have a vendetta against us,” but even as he says the words, he’s releasing more salt on the ground. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“What the-- so I’ll get the salt shotgun and we’ll take them out, you can’t possibly think I’m just going to stand here in safety while you risk your life. I’m not a kid anymore, Dean. I’m a Hunter in my own right.” Sam says, aggrieved. <br><br>/Just like you and Dad always wanted,/ comes the dark, unfair thought, but he lets it go, far more concerned with protecting Dean than with nursing old resentments. <br><br>He in fact moves swiftly, turning back to the Impala. Long legs carry him right back out of the circle to go after the self-same piece of weaponry he just named, even as the children start stepping closer and closer, dripping all over the muddy ground, flickering in and out of the fog. <br><br>He breaks it open to double check for the pellets, working fast to load the weapon when he realizes it’s out. “And then after we’re done here? You can tell me all about it.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Exasperation flashes behind Dean’s green eyes. His shoulders slump. The crowbar clatters to the ground and with a tinge of regret he treads back towards his brother. “I can’t,” tell him about it, “and.. I’m sorry.” He winces before winding up with a punch to deck Sam as hard as he can manage.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean has always managed to deck Sam pretty hard. Sam, for his part, has always decked pretty well right back, but if there’s one thing Dean knows how to deliver it’s a good knock-out punch. That’s actually something Sam has never managed, even though he’s bigger; he usually just whales in.<br><br>He drops like a big sack of Sammy-potatoes, slumping with his back against the Impala. It is fortunate that certain parts of his nature are not entirely done asserting themselves, or Dean might not have had it so easy. But for today, the elder Winchester gets what he needs. A Sammy safe in salt. A-salted Sam.<br><br>And then? There’s a Drowned Child right in front of him, plunging her cold hands directly into his body, sucking life force out of Dean’s body. It’s cold agony, a searing burn that rockets through every one of his veins.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The apology doesn’t disappear from his expression and for the first time in nine years, his regret washes over him. But it’s not the regret he’d anticipated. He should’ve stayed to kill the Backahasten. How many kids died because he was so selfish? But the question doesn’t even get full consideration as the life begins to be sucked out from him. The steel bar clangs to the ground. His fingers can’t hold onto it, and his grip fails. Everything fails as his own life swirls across his vision. <br><br>The agony Dean feels has his knees buckling. He can’t stand through it as he curls into himself, drawing to the ground where his hands, quite luckily, make contact with the iron crowbar. His arm flails upwards, with the iron in hand, mercilessly cutting across the ghost. <br><br>Even momentary reprieve will suffice. When his breath returns to him, raking against his throat, he twists back to Sam. A glance is given to the shotgun, but there are far too many child-ghosts to handle with one shotgun while still needing to take out the brook horse. <br><br>His tongue moistens his lips. And he mumbles to himself, “The only way out is through.” He bends down to grab the steel bar once again, takes a deep breath, and with steel in one hand, and iron in the other, he moves forward, bearing the iron as a bat towards the ghostly kids.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The ghost, of course, disappears in a shower of sparks as Dean rips through her. The kids press forward hungrily, but the iron bar does a fine job of keeping them at bay. They’re coming in from all sides though, in a way that might make Dean have some cause to regret turning down his back up. <br><br>Meanwhile, the horse decides to stop standing there. It breaks from the river, showing it’s perfectly capable of doing so, and comes thundering at one Dean Winchester full speed ahead. Her mane flows like a white, sparkling flag.<br><br>*If I can’t have him, perhaps I’ll just take you! The waters will have their due!* <br><br>Even at the attack she is a thing of beauty, and her voice cajoles him.<br><br>*Death with me will be kinder, Dean. You will never be alone. Your new family will always be loyal. You will escape Hell. You’re going to die anyway. Why not let it be now?*<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>As the horse moves towards him, Dean moves the crowbar to hang at his hip. He wraps both hands around it and poses it defensively like a spike on the edge of a turret. The words, however, cause the fight to drain from his face. The pole remains in place, but consideration colours his expression. <br><br>His throat aches with ragged breath, and he struggles to find words. The taunt works perfectly and gets to the heart of the matter. “Would they always stay?” he asks aloud. <br><br>But even in deals of life and death, John’s voice echoes. <br><br>/Take care of Sammy./ <br><br>And then vaguely he continues his line of questioning, “Would you all leave him alone? Forever?”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>*He will have nothing to fear from us,* the horse soothes. <br><br>And instead of trying to run him down or attack him, instead of flinging herself onto the polearm, she draws to a stop and prances a little bit. A watery wind ruffles through Dean’s hair. <br><br>*We could run together beneath the waves, Dean. You could learn the songs and the secrets of the waters, and they would never bring you pain again. It is not a bad existence. And you’d have so many more siblings to take care of. You’d be the oldest, still. They’d all look up to you.* <br><br>She lowers her head, almost inviting a stroke to her nose. <br><br>*-They- won’t let you down.*<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>With the horse keeping her distance, Dean actually feels his lips curve upwards. There’s acknowledgment there. A sign of thanks for power and decisions made. And the pole, for better or worse, is lowered. Dean slowly rests it on the ground before standing once more. <br><br>“Family,” he says lowly, “is the most important thing. Ever.” His head ticks slightly to the side. His left hand is raised--empty, and he holds it out, a strange sign of surrender. He inches forward cautiously. “But I seem to be the only one who thinks so.” <br><br>“And what about you. You loyal to your family?” his eyes squint. His right hand tucks back into his sleeve. It is awfully cold. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>*My family is everything to me,* the horse whispers. *Come and see, Dean. Come and ride with me. I will make you my Knight, my champion, and your family will grow. An eternal family.* <br><br>All the children sort of form a circle, holding hands with one another, looking hopefully up at Dean. Gazing at him like they look up to him. Like they /need him/ on every level it is possible for a kid to need a brother. Protector, teacher, playmate, comforter. They still look eternally wet, but not so terrifying as all that. They just look like kids. Lonely kids who needed someone, who found someone. <br><br>The horse prances a little closer as Dean lowers his weapon, crooning into his mind, now. <br><br>*And I will be the mother the demons took from you.* <br><br>It’s funny, in fact, how much she sounds like Mary Winchester. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s head ducks down. It’s a sign of assent. His paces continue, slowly. His family is everything to him. He manages a lopsided smile. “You’re not what I expected.” With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he finally asks an important question, “Was Sam ever in Hell, or was he with you?” <br><br>He’s not likely to get an answer as he finishes closing the distance between them. “I’m supposed to get on,” he notes with a sad smile. “And I’m so tired. Geez, I’m so tired.” His eyes turn up to the fog. <br><br>And then left hand still out, he inhales a defeatist breath. “Family is everything to me too.” He swallows hard as his right hand, still curled in his sleeve finds the hilt of the very hunting knife he’d wielded that night. His breath puffs out coolly. <br><br>The motion is quick. The hunter’s knife with all of its deep jags, cuts upwards towards the horse’s heart. And for good measure, Dean braces his other hand on its back. To outsiders looking in, it might appear that he’s hugging the horse, ready to take that deep plunge. He has no idea if such an action will seal his fate with this beast, but he wants to ensure its gone. “But you will never be my mother.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The horse screams. Light flashes in and out of its form as Dean finds its heart with the unerring grace of a master hunter. The kids scream, and become light, spirits zipping up and away one and all. <br><br> He does not, in fact, get an answer as to Sammy’s final destination for the days that he was dead. She might have kept him. The demons might have claimed him. Uncertain. It’s reapers who decide where souls go, and only souls that hang around and choose to stay can be caught as ghosts. There’s no telling what 12-year old Sammy would have done, or why. Sammy himself can’t say. <br><br>The fog is just instantly gone even as the horse becomes nothing but a sort of slimy water, which just soaks Dean down from head to foot. But that’s all that’s left. Now it’s a beautiful, well-maintained touristy riverfront at night. With the fog gone, street lights twinkle merrily overhead. <br><br> Sam stirs, starting to wake up faster than he’s ever woken up in the past… <br><br> But then a man in a black suit is there, pointing down at him. “Shhh,” he says, and...Sammy’s out cold again. <br><br>“Hello, Squirrel.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s gaze turns back to where the man in black and his brother are. He sniffs loudly and with heavy booted steps treads to the Impala. “I prefer Dean,” he hisses. <br><br>He sniffs again as he makes his way to the trunk to wipe the knife to get anything extra from it. There’s irony that nine years ago to the day this horse bested the Winchesters. He’ll think about that more later. As he mills about the trunk, returning items to where they belong, including the crowbar and the shotgun, he mutters “What do you want, Crowley?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Crowley gives Dean a tolerant smile. <br><br>“Well. I couldn’t help but notice that you were engaged in a lot of mopey nonsense. Last wills and testaments, take care of Sammy, very touching sorts of things. But then, it /is/ getting close to time for one of my pets to drag you off into Hell.” <br><br>He nudges Sammy with his foot a little bit, thoughtfully. “Twenty-one is still so young, isn’t it? Adultish. Especially Sam here. Still seeing the good in everyone, and letting himself get stabbed in the back for it. He’s still a bit of a kid, really, isn’t he?” <br><br>He tap taps his finger against his jawline, as if thinking over what could be done about that.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Touching that you noticed,” Dean returns with feigned sweetness. He steps towards his brother and reaches to draw Sammy to the passenger seat of the car. “Don’t touch him,” he says gruffly. “Geez Sam, what do you eat?” he murmurs with his brother’s dead weight against him. <br><br>“Whatever. -I- was raising a kid well before twenty one,” he offers in return. But his thoughts on the matter aren’t particularly veiled. He didn’t even let Sam help with this one, and actions speak louder than words. <br><br>And then finally, Dean looks back towards Crowley. “What’s your point?”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“The point is this. I’m here to offer you what we in the high-end sales business call a ‘modification of terms.’” <br><br> His smile widens. <br><br>“You see, souls are useful, and I certainly have a quota to meet, but I’m upper management and our numbers are up. Sometimes living people are more useful than dead, tortured ones. And you’re more useful than most. And so I’m going to give you a first right of refusal to keep right on living past your ten year deadline. As long as you perform the occasional task for me whenever I ask, you purchase more time. Until the next time I need you. So long as you don’t refuse, and you get it done, you need not worry about Fluffy or the rest of the pack.” <br><br>He pat pats an invisible head right next to him. Something lets out a low, menacing growl. He’s got one of the hellhounds /with/ him, it seems. <br><br>“Often, my requests won’t be particularly onerous. Information. Occasionally finding a bauble or too. Or killing someone who has it coming, but who doesn’t have a deal to put them into my purview. There are rules, you know.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s eyes darken. The last time he made a deal with this fellow, it was impulsively. But that was nine years ago. And teenaged fervour has become even a bit tempered with experience--as much as it can be. <br><br>His lips quirk and his head shakes. “I’m not sixteen anymore,” he offers in return. His hands shove into his pockets. “I’m not blindly entering a new contract.” His eyes roll. “But it’s helpful to know that you thought that would work.” His eyebrows lift at that. “How much more time per task? And can I refuse a task?” <br><br> He rubs the back of his neck and emits a long-suffering sigh. “This probably doesn’t come as a surprise, but you don’t exactly inspire confidence.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“No. You refuse a task, I reserve the right to kill you. And I don’t have to inspire confidence, Dean. I have you over a barrel. Because you don’t really want to die.” <br><br>Crowley tilts his head, smiling. “Because you know, of course, that Hydra’s not done with your brother yet. They cared enough about snatching him to send the Winter bloody Soldier. You don’t think they’re going to try to make another run at him? Are you sure Agent May and Luna Lovegood can handle whatever it is they want with him?” <br><br>He steps back, letting Dean cradle Sam all he wants without interference, and adds, “To say nothing to what’s going on inside him. Visions. Telekinesis. That’s probably not going to end anywhere good.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Or you’ll kill me anyways. I’m not going to become one of these things we hunt.” Dean’s nose wrinkles, “If I did, tonight would’ve been it. That horse thing didn’t seem so bad.” He shoots Crowley a smug smile. But all the bravado in the world can’t conceal his feelings on the matter. He’s terrified. <br><br>But mention of Sam, as usual, changes everything. Dean’s expression deadens. “What did they do to him?” Because the eldest Winchester isn’t playing. “I still have a year,” he rasps. “He could be on solid ground in a year.” <br><br>“May is good,” he offers in turn. “The woman carries an arsenal with her all the time.” He twists to eye Dean in the front seat. “He might be fine.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Mmmm.” Crowley says. “I understand. You don’t want to do anything too terribly evil, and you don’t want to become a supernatural creature.” <br><br>He points at Sam. “I don’t know all the details of what they did, but I will tell you what I do know. We’ve already covered how Sammy got a big bottleful of a Duke of Hell’s blood as a baby. Not his fault. But it means he stopped being human. Your baby brother has been a half-demon from the time you pulled him out of that fire. It’s why, barring extreme circumstances, they won’t ever accept him in Heaven. They don’t care that he’s the nice one. They don’t care about all his empathy. Or how he’ll sacrifice himself for others again and again.” <br><br>Crowley sounds like he has nothing but empathy himself at this moment, though he can’t ever shake that slight, superior air that follows him around at all times. <br><br>“Azazel showed up again and got him all stirred up when he sacrificed Sam’s fiancee. Their doomed betrothal made him perfect. That’s when the powers start, right? Sympathetic magic. Blood tying to blood. A perfect line from the past to the future, plus a hearty dose of negative emotion to spark the whole thing off. But the powers need fuel, which is why, up until Hydra got him, Sam was in terrible pain every time he got the visions, or tried to use his telekinesis.” <br><br> Crowley’s smile is sardonic. “He needs a steady supply of demon blood. Why didn’t the injections show up on the tox screen, Dean?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s green eyes cinch shut. He curses lowly. <br><br>Slowly his brain plays catch-up. His eyes remain closed as his paces shuffle around the car, granting himself a bit of grounding with the motion. <br><br>“He’s still doping on the shit… isn’t he?” the revelation comes as a question but it isn’t one. “He’s not lifting. He didn’t stay down as well as he should’ve.” His hands press to his face. “What do they want with him? Azazel, I mean.” Pause. “And what was Hydra doing getting him amped on demon blood and then letting him--” he stops mid-sentence and frowns. Sam is not okay. Nor is he going to be okay. Ever. <br><br>He falls silent. <br><br>His eyes finally peel open. “I need a week to think it over.” And then he adds, “And there need to be terms on my side. One being that you never talk to Sam. Ever. That you don’t touch him. That you don’t even breathe on him or his vicinity in this life and the next.” He stares at Crowley. <br><br>His eyebrows lift expectantly.<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Crowley spreads his hands. “It’s likely. Imagine, if you will, that someone has forced a heroin addiction on you. Now imagine that parts of you literally need that substance as badly as a human needs food. Now imagine trying to stop on your own.” <br><br>Dean says he needs a week to think about it. “I can certainly arrange to leave your Moose alone. He doesn’t factor into my plans, other than my desire to block other people’s plans for him. Azazel is a madman. He’s got visions. I like the bloody status quo. I’m in sales, for fuck’s sake.” <br><br>But Dean says he needs to think about it, and Crowley’s smile is magnanimous. “I understand. You need to think about it. Just remember, a lot can happen in a week, and you never know how equations might shift and change. I can’t really guarantee that I’ll be able to meet your needs seven days hence. So if you’d like to go ahead and do this deal now, I’ll throw in something else: I’ll remove a bit more of Sam’s memory, unless you like him having figured most of this out. We’ll call it my same-day incentive. Would you like to go ahead and take care of this right now?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Actual humour pulls at Dean’s features for the first time since this conversation started. “You obviously don’t know Sam. He was going to put it together eventually. I just relied on adolescent naivety to make it work early on. He grew out of that.” He swallows hard and then casts Crowley another long look. <br><br>“No. I need a week.” He coughs. “Besides, maybe I should just accept my fate. Maybe.” His head drops towards his shoulder. “We’ve been doing this dance awhile, you and I.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Crowley’s purr is almost flirtatious. “When the partner is worthwhile you dance as long as it takes, darling.” <br><br>But he shrugs. “You know the Crossroads summoning spell. My entire department knows to leave your summons to me. Do the spell in one week if you’re interested. Believe it or not, I do have other things to do.” <br><br>He snaps his fingers, and is gone. <br><br>Sam’s head rolls a little against Dean’s chest. “If you’re dead I’m going to kill you,” he mutters, obviously well aware that his brother decked him to keep him out of that fight. And if the statement is a little nonsensical, well. There it is. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“That’d be a year early,” Dean replies with just enough humour in his voice as he slides into the driver’s seat. He sucks in a sharp breath. His eyes hone on the horizon and the humour in his tone vanishes: “We--we need to get a drink. You need to get a drink.” <br><br>It’s been nine years and Sam is finally piecing it together. It would be so easy to unburden himself now. It would be so easy to leave all of their secrets bare at the foot of a liquor-laden night on the anniversary of when it all started. <br><br>But Dean Winchester, for better or worse, has become more of an island over the last five years. Between John’s constant back and forth, and Sam going to school, Dean has managed on his own. And on top of that, he was alone in the ocean without anyone taking notice. <br><br>His own secrets. <br><br>His own burdens. <br><br>And so when he speaks again, it references one thing only: “We need to talk about where you’re getting the blood and how to get you help...” <br><br> He sniffs and blinks hard as the car lurches into drive. <br><br>“...and about the night you died.” <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=2039/Backahasten_to_the_Future&diff=13552039/Backahasten to the Future2017-08-19T23:31:05Z<p>Justanothername: Formatting edit.</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/08/16<br />
|Location=Beacon, NY<br />
|Synopsis=The Backahasten begins a series of murders along the Hudson River with the aim of capturing one of the Brothers Winchester at last. Did she get a little nudge from a certain King of the Crossroads? Or is his latest offer just an attack of opportunity?<br />
|Cast of Characters=294, 306<br />
|Tinyplot=Blood on My Name<br />
|Tinyplot2=Tayaniye<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam Winchester is fresh from his weekly WAND check-in this morning, which means he's dressed in a suit with no tie. He's also distracted, sitting at the kitchen table with a yellow highlighter and a black marker, as well as a bunch of newspaper articles printed out from his tablet. He goes through each one carefully, making marks on the map, noting a time and a date next to that mark, and then highlighting between marks.<br><br>On the table, untouched, what looks like a peach smoothie. It smells like a peach smoothie too, probably because it is, in fact, a peach smoothie.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean is terrible at weekly check-in. There's no question Dean is terrible at weekly check-in. But this probably isn't a surprise to anyone. He treads in from the hall (and presumably outside?) in a mechanic-jumpsuit--just green enough to make his eyes seem that much greener. An oil stain across the front probably suggests that he's been busy taking care of work. <br><br>He shoots his brother a lopsided grin. "Decided to become a funeral director?" He whistles sharply as he slips towards the refrigerator and nabs a bottle of beer. It's not yet noon.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam ignores the barb, as Sam so often does. Instead of engaging, he just looks up rather seriously. He's even got the SHIELD badge pinned to his chest, still. "I think we have a case, something I picked up from WAND this morning." is his greeting instead. "I can't figure out what's doing it though. I've scoured every lore book I have, I've been all over the Internet. I think I know where it's going and where it will be next though."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's features tighten slightly. "Reeeeally." He's intrigued now. He pops the top off his beer and treads to where his brother is sitting. "So, what makes you think it's a case? I mean, without any of the usual features, it seems difficult confirm." He manages a flicker of a smile at that and then shrugs his shoulders.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>"A series of drownings," Sam explains. "They always happen on foggy nights, always children, and there have been hoof prints at every crime scene. They started in Briarcliff Manor and they've followed the Hudson River. Every three days it seems to hit a new town. Croton-on-Hudson, Peekskill, West Point. I think it's going to hit Beacon next. Because of the Croton connection I thought it was the little-h hydra, but there were no giant snake sightings on any of the kooksites, and nobody had any acid burns. The hydra's patterns aren't so specific, either, it seems like it will pretty much eat anything that moves, so this one has to be different. It can't be another rusalka, those don't move. Can't be a kappa, because when the corpses are recovered they're in perfect shape, instead of mangled and eaten." A pause, and then a grimace. "Man, I don't know what it is with us and water cases lately."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean had taken a long swig of his beer when Sam begins to describe the case. It's unfortunate, because in an instant his face pales and he struggles to catch his breath around the fluid that's already in his mouth. In a strange chain reaction, the beer is spat back towards the sink. Dean coughs hard. He raises his hands, the universal symbol that everything is okay. "Tried to drink too much at once," he virtually wheezes. <br><br>His eyebrows draw together and he finally shakes his head. "Sounds like a Bäckahästen." His lips purse and his nostrils flare. And then with a tick of his head, he sees fit to explain further. "A brook horse. They're white, beautiful creatures that try to entice kids to ride them to their doom. They drown kids." His lips purse and he rubs the back of his neck as the bottle of beer is left to the counter and he clears his throat. As far as why they have so many water cases, "It's crazy. And weirdly coincidental."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>"A Backa-whatsen?" Sam asks.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;And then he shakes his head. Weird. Deja vu. Only not quite right. He ignores said deja vu in favor of saying, "How did you know that, anyway?" After all, Sam has gotten used to being the encyclopedia, but he couldn't find a single thing in any of his memorized knowledge to suggest what a Backahasten was. And here's Dean, talking on it like he's some sort of expert. He frowns. "I don't think I ever saw that one in Dad's journal, either."&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;Still, he finally sweeps up his smoothie, saying, "It's probably going to be in Beacon around midnight tonight."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's head cants to the side while he mulls the question over. How does he know that? "Uh..." that's a good question. "Maybe you don't know Dad's journal as well as you think you do." He puts the whole thing back on Sam, and not on the fact that he destroyed that tome just under nine years ago. As for where the brook horse will be, "Yeaaaah. They like fog. A lot of it. And the only way to kill them is to pierce their heart with steel. We could try to trap it, but again, steel cage." <br><br>He sucks on the inside of his cheek. "It'll aim for one of the weird kids at school too. Like the odd ones."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br> Sam ticks an eyebrow upward, but he doesn't argue. He got a photocopied partial during his year-long hunt, but he was able to tell right away things were missing from it. Either way, it doesn't seem worth arguing about. &lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt; Instead, he taps into his tablet. "There's an old steel mill right on the route," he says. "We might be able to find some useful stuff to work with there. We've got plenty of time to go see before the thing is expected to appear. 'Weird kids' might help us pinpoint the right spot on the river, too...if one of those kids has a house that's pretty close to the water, for example."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's hands clap together and his lips twist to the side. He's quite obviously considering something as he stares at Sam a few beats longer than is probably comfortable. "Right. Well we should go then." And then his eyes light up, as he offers, "I mean, unless you need to talk to your lady friend before you go. I can totally handle this if you're too relationship-y. Just saying." His lips hitch up on one side into a boyish grin. <br><br>But there's no way that Sam is taking that bait and so Dean is already shedding the mechanic jumpsuit. "I'll drive." Clearly.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam gives Dean a milder version of his irritated face. "All Fred asks is that I take back-up," he says. It's almost prim, the way he says it. But of course Dean will drive. He grabs up a few of his things and follows after his brother.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt; And then he decides to give Dean a little shit. With the grin of mischief he only really adopts when he's giving Dean crap he adds, "Though maybe I should call her, just to find out if you count..."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>There's another quirk of Dean's lips at the remark. He does up his seatbelt and hums in turn. "Nah bro, you're the back up. You didn't even know what this thing was." His grin grows as he puts the car into drive and tugs on a pair of sunglasses. <br><br>In no time the impala is cruising down a stretch of highway towards the steel mill listening to Iron Maiden. It's then that Dean turns the music down and turns his head towards Sam. "So... I've been thinking maybe you should learn how to take care of the Impala. I was working on the carburetor this morning so it would start faster." He purses his lips. "I mean, Mercy could probably teach you. Dad taught me. Kind of." His lips curve up at that.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>And that is the moment that Sam Winchester starts having some real suspicions.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;Point of fact, he does have some minor car repair skills of his own. He's nothing like Dean, of course...he gets stumped and usually needs Dean's help. But he took care of his currently-missing Dodge Charger for all that time he was on the road. He got kidnapped, in fact, in part because he stopped to help a woman on the road. He knows basics. Spark plugs, that sort of thing.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;The fact that Dean floats //Mercy// to teach him even before himself sets off some alarm bells in the head of one Winchester the Younger.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;Something is going on. Now how can he find out what it is?&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;"I'm surprised you'd let Mercy touch the Impala," he says evenly. "I mean you barely met her. Have you guys even exchanged a conversation? Even one about cars?"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>"Uh-uh-uh," there's clear admonishment in Dean's voice. "I said Mercy could teach //you//. I didn't say //she// could touch the Impala," Dean objects evenly. "Just thinking aloud." He swallows the growing lump in his throat but manages an incredibly convincing all-too-smug smile when he turns to face Sam with a one shouldered shrug. "But you don't want to learn? Dude, that's entirely your thing. Just don't want you turning your life into one endless chick flick now that you're all joint at the hip and stuff." <br><br>And just for good measure the Impala speeds up. "How far the steel mill?" because the case is easy in comparison. "I'm thinking if we can find something long and sharp. Hunter's knives are pretty ineffective. I mean, it should work," his cheeks puff out with recollection, "but getting close enough to pierce it's heart? It's still a horse. There's a lot of flesh there. And touching it?" he whistles sharply. "That's when it gets you. A person can escape from that. They're stuck until..." he doesn't finish the thought, instead opting to focus on the road.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam rolls his eyes. It seems for the moment that he’s buying it, though. Or, at least, that talk of their current hunt has distracted him sufficiently to keep him from pursuing the subject. It’s a sure bet that this will come up again, though, and Dean will likely have to account for it. Because this is not the first weird thing Dean has said lately.<br><br>“What I’m hoping we’ll find,” Sam muses, “are some of those big steel poles. We could probably use some of the equipment at the mill to make them into spears. Getting in close on a horse seems like it would be tricky business, and if what you say is true we definitely want some reach. Get enough of the poles and we might be able to use them to herd it away from the river, to, cut it off from its power source somehow. Cause yeah, I think a knife sounds like a terrible plan. And we might need to throw something between the horse and its victim that messes with its power too. From what you’re saying, steel does the trick there too right? So…Poles.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Unintentionally, Dean’s shoulders relax with the relief he feels at the subject being, however momentarily, dropped. He’ll have to account later, but maybe he’ll come up with something plausible by then. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, however, as the mention of the brook horse comes up again.<br><br>The mention of the knives being a terrible plan prompts his expression change. His smile becomes masochistic. From one end to the next it has an entirely self-deprecating edge. He can feel its hints of humourlessness, even as it remains plastered on his expression and he feels thankful for his sunglasses. “Right. That seems like a good move. Anything to pierce his heart would be good and the more distance we can get from that thing the better.” And, if Sam is paying attention, he can see his brother actually tremble. <br><br>His smile falters and he shakes his head. “Alright, so we have a plan. Construct spears. Sharpen them. Wield them. Might even be able to drive it into the horse’s heart quickly.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam /is/ paying attention.<br><br>But he misreads the reason for the trembling. His expression softens. “Is this something you and Dad ran into while I was at Stanford? Did the hunt go badly?”<br><br>The steel mill is one of those rust belt casualties. It’s all locked up, with a fence all around the outside of it. This is hardly a real obstacle to a pair of Winchesters to be sure, especially as security really only consists of a big chain and padlock combo. And whatever locks are on the doors. It looks literally like the plant closed down, like there was nobody to sell anything to, and like everyone just walked away from it. <br><br>It may be serving as some tycoon’s tax write-off even now. <br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The question earns a strange quirk of Dean’s lips. “Something like that,” he replies as his fingers curl tighter along the steering wheel. “Solo job. Dad wasn’t there,” that’s enough. He doesn’t offer any more about the whole issue.<br><br>The car is put into park. And the engine shuts off. He can’t help but smirk at the poor security. He reaches into his pocket and extracts his lockpick. Carefully his fingers work at the mechanism until he can hear it release. With a lopsided grin he looks back towards Sam, “Child’s play,” but the irony of the words causes his chin to drop to his chest. The brook horse essentially was child’s play.<br><br>Dean tugs the chain and opens the fence. Heavy steps bring him into the steel yard and he turns to catch Sam in his periphery. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam ambles in in unhurried fashion. He does pull out his EMF meter. This place isn’t the case, but old abandoned places like this make him do such things out of routine. Fortunately, the entire spot is dead for supernatural activity, and the tall one exhales with relief and puts it away.<br><br>“I don’t know much about the layout of mills,” he admits, checking the time. “But we’ve got hours yet, so we can probably afford to explore.”<br><br>There’s just a big entry door that’s basically just locked up in exactly the same way. With a “Warning, Danger, Do Not Enter” sign on the door. The type of stuff that the Winchesters just pay total attention to all the time, of course.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean rolls his eyes at the Danger sign. He takes the lockpick to the padlock and fiddles with the mechanism until it gives. He tugs on the chain and lets it drop to the ground. “It’s not breaking and entering if you need the materials, right?” the humour in his voice is unmissable. <br><br>He trails into the main area, giving Sam plenty of time to follow. His hands tuck deeply into his pockets and he casts his brother a vague glance as he takes a long breath, “It wreaks of metal. Gotta be able to find something of use here. Gotta be.” His lips press together and he turns a corner. “Man, bet it gets hot in here fast when things are actually working.” His eyes trail the room, searching for any signs of where he might be able to find the metal.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It takes quite a bit of searching to actually locate the thing that Sam had in mind. They do find a lot of ingots and things, but Sam shakes his head. Too heavy, too bulky, and not sharp. What they finally find are long corkscrew thin, steel bars with sharp tips.<br><br>“Ah!” Sam hefts one up. “These ought to do the trick.”<br><br>It’s worth noting that they’re actually pretty heavy. And while Sam doesn’t exactly heft it up like it’s nothing, neither does he expend much effort doing it. Was he always that strong? He /is/ pretty big. Maybe that’s it.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean watches baby brother have little issue lifting the bar, and anticipates similar ease until he attempts to pluck it from the others. It’s not impossible, but it certainly takes more effort than Sam seemed to put in. His eyebrows draw together slightly, “Been lifting lately, Sammy?” Because that’s a thing that would make some sense. And then he tacks on for good measure with a lopsided quirk of his lips: “Just don’t skip leg day.” He winks.<br><br>He strolls back towards the entrance, metal object in hand. “At least it’s pointy. Someday I’m going to have to invest in a sword for this kind of thing.” His eyebrows lift to punctuate the point. “Suppose that’s a pro with that whole SHIELD thing.” His eyes roll dramatically. “The reporting and constant oversight,” his head shakes. “And the spycraft. They probably track us. Subdermally or whatever. Some kind of high tech implant they just use without anyone knowing.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam clears his throat when asked if he’s been lifting. “Uh...yeah. Seems like a good idea.”<br><br>/Note to self. Start lifting/.<br><br>But Dean goes rambling on about SHIELD, and he says thoughtfully, “I...dunno, Dean. I mean I don’t want to make you mad, but I’ve been thinking it might be simpler to just be an Agent instead of continuing to run around pretending to be FBI Agents. And the real badge would carry more weight than the consultant badge. And we could, in fact, get some real equipment. I mean I fill out the paperwork now, just so we can get paid.”<br><br>He looks away quickly and adds, “But I mean I understand all the objections you’ve raised to it, and I don’t want to do it if you don’t want to do it. I don’t want to abandon you again.”<br><br>A guilty shadow passes over his face, followed by a deeper, more guilty shadow, and he looks down. And gathers up another bar, because they might need more than one a piece.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“You wouldn’t be abandoning me, baby bro,” Dean replies slowly. “I’ll still be a consultant. You don’t need to worry about me. Seriously. I can take care of myself, and it’s not like we wouldn’t be working together anyways. You’d just have a wider array of people you’d work with.” He manages a small smile. <br><br>There’s a long pause where he studies Sam’s face and he exhales a long breath. “Is it that important to you? That I do this too if you take the plunge?” His eyes narrow slightly. “We’d still live together. Nothing would change except you’d be pulling your funeral director routine more often and you’d have different cases--ones they gave you instead of ones we find.” He shrugs.<br><br>“I still need to find Dad,” he offers in turn. “And it’s not because I think he’s in trouble or anything,” although he could be. “I just need the ability to do that. Not sure I’d get that with SHIELD.” Pause. “Besides,” he issues Sam a rogue smile, “if I learned anything from Star Wars it’s that the ladies like scoundrel.” He winks. “SHIELD makes a fellow too legit to quit.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“I wouldn’t abandon the search for Dad,” Sam says quietly. “I’ve been trying but...something’s blocking me. He might be out of range. I just keep getting headaches but I’m,” another clearing of his throat. “I’m sourcing a work-around.”<br><br>Dean asks his questions, and he contemplates it as he grabs up a third bar. “I guess we don’t have to do it together,” he says slowly. “I mean, I like it for all the reasons I’ve said. It gives some stability and legitimacy, while letting me live this life that...that I was born for. I don’t like stealing to finance our hunts. But I also want you to be happy, and I don’t want you to feel like I couldn’t say, dart out to California if I needed to. Actually I could, I’d just log the case and we’d be off, but...you were so opposed to it before. You seemed to really hate May.”<br><br>Is he going to weigh in on what the ladies like?<br><br>No. No he is not.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Sometimes it hurts to get what you wished for. The last few months have involved some incredible planning on Dean’s part. And it seems like it’s amounted to what he’d wanted. “I get the wanting to be paid and walk the straight and narrow. Sam, I couldn’t do it if I tried,” his eyebrows lift at that. “Not successfully.” He sniffs at that. Even so, there’s far more going on, and the pull of his eyebrow echoes with all the things he dares not speak.<br><br>His throat clears at the notion of hating May. “I don’t hate her,” he offers in return and there’s a long pause. She was his phone call when he was broken and beaten. And then perhaps more honestly he clarifies, “It’s not hatred exactly. I just think they did a shitty job of approaching you and then entrapping me. If they wanted a conversation they could’ve had it. People who demonstrate that amount of power? It worries me. Sure, you might have freedom, but within very clear confines.” <br><br>“Don’t worry about my happiness. I find that every time I eat a cheeseburger for breakfast, have a piece of apple pie, or drink a beer before noon. Happiness is fleeting. I know that.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam still looks incredibly worried. When he’d went off to Stanford he’d hardly cared what anyone else wanted. He’d been young and stubborn, a teenager in the height of teenaged self-centeredness.<br><br>Now he does, and something in the way that this is playing out bothers him. Nags at him. For reasons he hasn’t put together yet.<br><br>“I’ll hold off. I can’t unring that bell,” he decides. “We’re doing fine right now. That Hydra mess might be screwing with me a little bit. This might not be the time to make decisions.”<br><br>He turns towards the door. “Think this will be enough? We gotta get to that town’s middle school and high school if we’re going to get likely river locations. You should really stop and do your quote-unquote funeral director routine too, otherwise we might get stonewalled.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A flicker of a smile follows Sam’s decision. “Look, don’t hold off on anything on my account. You were always different from us. You need people, Sam. Dad did this mostly alone. I don’t even know how--” he breaks the thought. It doesn’t even matter so why give it words. “Whatever. No chick flick moments.” His throat clears and he follows Sam to the doorway.<br><br>“And yeah, I’ll pull my James Bond routine. Suit’s in the back,” he notes idly with another quirk of his lips.<br><br>In no time, the pair return to the car and things are loaded up. And, whether or not Sam appreciates it, modesty has never been one of Dean’s virtues. Unsurprisingly, he changes in the open--mostly because the area seems abandoned anyways for the moment.<br><br>“Winchester. Dean Winchester,” he adjusts the collar of the suit and tilts his head to catch Sam’s eye before sliding into the passenger seat. “Let’s get this shit done,” he grins grimly, not wholly convincing, but puts the car into drive to return to the highway.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam just rolls his eyes and looks annoyed as Dean doesn’t so much as take advantage of the abandoned building to go and change in. But neither does he say much about it. Considering the number of times their Dad made them stop on the side of the road and pee in the grass, it’s not exactly like modesty is a huge family trait. As Dean is observing, he’s different.<br><br>He hands Dean his consultant badge, and looks at the clock. “Okay,” he says. “You take the high school, I’ll take the middle school. They’re right down the street from each other. We make a beeline for the counselor. We find out who the troubled kids are who fit the profile--” Because Sammy does have the newspaper articles to look at for more than ‘weird’, and he just assumes Dean knows the profile, “get some addresses, and then we’ll see who lives closest to the river, who might make a good target of opportunity. Cause otherwise we’re going to end up driving up and down the riverfront all night hoping to spot something at the right time.”<br><br>So much more prepared this time. So much more focused, with a much better plan. Last time they did at least have the makeout spot to guide them.<br><br>This time, surely, it’ll all be fine.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“At least we’ve still got time,” Dean offers. He follows the routine of the hunt. Formulate a plan, gather information, execute the plan. But this time he’s reasonably certain the brook horse will also be hunting him. He robbed them. Theft isn’t something they take lightly.<br><br>Regardless, he goes through the motions. Yet even as he leaves the car, Sam might sense something is off. Dean normally dives right into the grifting routine, but this time he’s a little less easy about it.<br><br> He enters the high school and flashes his fake FBI badge at the counselor. Even if he could flash a consultant badge, somehow it feels less official than the fake FBI one. Old habits die hard. “Excuse me, ma’am? I’m Agent Dale Cooper. I have a few questions about some of the students at your school if you have a moment.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam, at least, makes no comment on that whatsoever. He just heads for the middle school with a confident stride. Since Dean has already confirmed his solo hunt for this thing went bad once, he chalks up any signs of uneasiness to that alone. As it is, he’s focusing on the hunt, now, and not so much the bits of the conversation between them that struck him as strange.<br><br>The counselor is a pretty black woman with high cheekbones and a short, natural hair cut. She’s dressed in a green pantsuit. She examines the badge, furrowing her brow faintly. “Agent Cooper. What can I do for you?” She looks more confused than guarded, at least, which is something. She pauses in the act of using one of those massive paper-cutter blades that only the educational set ever seems to bother with, the ones that are kind of creepy to have in classrooms because they could legitimately slice someone’s hand off. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean arches an eyebrow at the paper cutter, but manages a polite smile for the counselor anyways. “I’m working a case. There have been a series of drownings across multiple cities in this area. And it seems that the pattern brought us here where we think our unsub will strike next. We suspect these are not accidental deaths,” his eyebrows lift expectantly. “Our killer seems to target troubled kids.” His chin drops and he tries to clarify what he means, “Those with few friends. Maybe they have strange hobbies or unusual beliefs. The kids that are far from popular.”<br><br>He cringes slightly. “I’m hoping you can help me save lives today by providing me with a list of these kids.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s a good pitch, and the counselor’s face softens. “I heard about some of those deaths,” she says.<br><br>She thinks about it for a moment, then says, “There’s a little club of kids that like to play Dungeons and Dragons and stuff,” she says slowly. “And then there are the ones that like to pierce their face and smoke weed behind the bleachers. And there’s at least one who says she’s Wiccan, but she’s just trying to piss off her parents and anyone who tries to argue with her. Do you want all of those or just some of them? Oh, and the gender-fluid kid, they have a bit of trouble making and keeping friends here too. It’s a small town.”<br><br>She herself seems to be rather fond of everyone she just named, even the weed smokers, and genuine worry dances in and out of her tone as she names them.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Names and addresses of all would be helpful. To be honest, we’re going to narrow it down to anyone that lives near the river. The unsub chooses victims of convenience. Befriends a kid and then,” Dean’s expression turns grim. He emits a soft sigh and offers, “Regardless, we’ll be on patrol keeping an eye out for the lot, but it’d be helpful to know where on the river bank the unsub might find a victim.”<br><br>His lips press together tightly. “I know what it’s like to lose someone that young. Believe me. I… I get the worry. More than you probably can imagine.” It’s a rare moment of genuine empathy, and he’s thankful that Sam isn’t here to see it. “We’ll look out for them and we’ll do our best for them. All of them. I promise.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Okay. Let me get them all for you,” the woman says. It takes her about five minutes to pull all the enrollment files and to copy them for him, but she comes back with a list for Dean. “Should I call their parents and warn them not to let them out or something? Because I can, especially with an-- an unsub?-- in the area?”<br><br>Obviously in her mind unsub now equals serial killer.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>There’s a flicker of a smile that follows. “Yeah, that’s a great idea, actually,” remove the element that could blow the entire thing--the element that blew it last time. Dean shoots her an easier smile now, “It’s good that you’re so willing to be helpful. We’re really trying to protect people here.”<br><br>He takes the list and gives her a small nod of his head. “I’ll be off and checking in on some of these areas. And thanks. I appreciate it.” He manages another smile before treading back to the door with the list in hand.<br><br>In short order he’s in the driver’s seat of the Impala again. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam is already there, and he had less success. Dryly he says, “Mr. Addlestone is of the opinion that all middle schoolers are weird,” he says dryly. “Once I clarified what weird meant, I got a list of about ten possible kids though.” <br><br>He’s already programming their addresses into his GPS. “Any luck on your end?” <br><br>He checks his watch again...the counselors and such do work late, and it’s pushing on towards 5:00 PM. They still have quite a bit of time to use if they want it before the horse is likely to appear, to be sure. On the other hand, it might just be one of those long stretches of nothing that are also common to hunts.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean passes the list to Sam. “I’m pretty sure I convinced the lady that there’s a serial killer on the loose drowning kids,” his lips purse at that in a sorry-not-sorry kind of pout. His head ticks to the side, “She’s going to call the parents and request they keep the kids in tonight. That said, high schoolers are what they are. They’ll do what they want despite their parents efforts.” <br><br>“Not sure how close anyone is to the river though.” His tongue rolls over his lips. And then, sucking a sharp breath, he suggests, “We should get a burger. Big one. And a milkshake. And pie.” <br><br>And even before Sam can object, the car lurches backwards as it’s put into drive to find the nearest drive thru. “So any of the addresses close to the water?”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Three of them,” Sam says, frowning. “Triangulating them gives us an area of about a mile. That’s not unmanageable though, especially if we find some good surveillance points.”<br><br>He makes no objection to the suggestion of dinner. Hunting on an empty stomach is dumb, and the diners are tradition. At home, these days, he’s been trying to vary up Dean’s diet a little...cooking roast chicken and vegetables, and meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans, remembering that he’d heard John and Dean rhapsodize about Mary Winchester’s meatloaf once. But out in the field? He has few objections about the fare.<br><br>“You know what? I might even have a burger this time myself,” he says thoughtfully. Because now, of course…<br><br>Now he’s free to worry at the problem of Dean’s strange statements again. He sounds rather distracted as he opines that he might indulge in one of his very rare cheeseburgers.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Excellent!” Dean actually beams at the prospect. He eats like a manchild, but it’s not often that he can convince anyone to join him. The Impala pulls into the parking lot of a greasy spoon diner--real American classic--and Dean hops out of the driver’s seat.<br><br>In short order, the Winchesters are seated at a booth near the back. The diner looks typical for the area and has a very real 1950s theme. The tiles on the floor are in a black and white checkerboard pattern. The booths white. Everything about it is clean, spotless, and speaks volumes to the quaint place they find themselves.<br><br>When the waitress takes their order, Dean goes for the motherload, “Bacon cheeseburger, fries with gravy, large strawberry milkshake,” not his usual, but milkshakes aren’t generally his fare, “and after that’s all done, apple pie a la mode.” He winks at the woman.<br><br>Bzzzzt.<br><br><br />
Bzzzzt.<Br><br>Bzzzzt.<br><br>In his pocket, his phone rings. Apologetically, he reaches for it and then looks at the name. A small not-quite-convincing smile pulls the edges of his lips as he brings it to his ear. “Hey. Twice in one week, you either miss me or I’m a real pain in your ass,” his voice softens and he actually turns away from the table, moving like he might go stand somewhere else. But he doesn’t. For the moment he’s stuck in place. “Yeah, we’re already on the hunt for it… a Backahasten… no not terribly common. Scandinavian in origin… no I did not hear that from Sam… ask him yourself…” he actually smiles smugly before hearing the caller backpedal. “Yeah, yeah… so anything else… Yeah, I’ll be there. Next week… won’t forget… yeah, you too.” He hangs up without saying goodbye.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam tilts his head at the conversation, but this sounds like…<br><br>He flashes one of those insufferable grins that he so often flashes when he wants to tease his brother, along with that quick chuff-laugh that he sometimes offers. “Got yourself a girlfriend?” <br><br>He orders a regular cheeseburger, waffle fries, a chocolate shake, and a coconut cream pie. It seems he really is going to join Dean in his culinary debauchery this evening. They’re both going for things that aren’t entirely their usual. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam’s teasing earns him a sharp furrowing of his brother’s eyebrow. “That was Jo. Definitely not a girlfriend. Wanted to know what was up with these cities and their drownings. Or her mom did?” He shrugs. But it’s not so easily brushed off. “Look, she did me a solid when the whole thing with the Winter Soldier went down and I owe her. That’s all.” He rubs his nose with his sleeve.<br><br>“You’re the one with the girlfriend. Freddie seems cool. A bit… different. But cool enough.” At that he shrugs again, attempting to brush off any thoughts about him and his relationship status. “Besides, the rules stand for me. No ties. Occasional friend or friendliness, but nothing so…” his hand rocks in the air uncertainly.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Harvelle? I met her and Ellen while I was looking for you this year,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows. Because he had, of course, been following Dean’s trail. “A lot of the other Hunters at the roadhouse, too.”<br><br>But Dean brings up Fred, and he smiles fondly. He touches his coat, as if to make sure Feigenbaum is still there. Feigenbaum is.<br><br>“She got sent to a Hell dimension,” he says quietly. “Five years. She figured out how to get this explosive collar off herself. Lived off the land in a cave. Needed a little external help to get out, but she’s a survivor. She was a physicist student before that. But I think I really fell for her when I watched her rig medical supplies into-- no lie-- a vampire-killing machine gun.”<br />
He swallows and says, “I’m in love with her, Dean. I’m in love with her, and all I can think is I’m going to let her down the way I--”<br><br>/The way I inevitably let everyone down, always./<br><br>And as if on cue...another hunger starts up, one that can’t be alleviated with milkshakes. But he ignores it for the moment, draining his ice water instead.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yeah, Harvelle,” but even as he says her last name, tinges of fondness colour his expression. “She calls me Dean-o. Like the Flintstones’ dog.” He rolls his eyes. “But her and her mom are good people.”<br><br>“You won’t let her down,” Dean replies easily. He leans back in his seat and his eyes lid. He wets his lips and he looks towards the calendar on the wall. His eyes train there a few moments. “Geez Sam, we’ve never been stable. I been thinking about,” he swallows and looks towards the calendar, “time lately. A lot actually.” He chews on the inside of his cheek and his jaw works around this idea. <br><br>/I’m going to die a year from tomorrow./<br><br>“Do you remember the ridiculously hot summer when we were in the south? You were twelve. I was sixteen or so.” He sniffs loudly fighting back his impulse to just release the secret that haunts him. “I think about it a lot. The way we lived on peanut butter and jelly. How Dad was gone… pretty much always. It was the first summer I finally got it.”<br><br>He sniffs again and forces a stiff smile. “You don’t let me down. If you want to join SHIELD, join SHIELD. It won’t disappoint me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.” His teeth toy at his bottom lip. “I don’t hate them.”<br><br>He inhales a deep breath and holds it for a second. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Got it. The desire Sam had developed to just be normal.<br><br>He looks down and frowns. Because he’s thinking of another night.<br><br>//Five Years Ago//<br><br>They’d been in Kilgore, Texas for almost a month now, going to the same school. John’s cases take him farther and farther out, and arguably the two boys can take care of themselves. Even if he hasn’t given Dean the Impala yet.<br><br>Sam has disappeared after school every day. He hasn’t joined a club. He hasn’t found a girl. He isn’t even at his go-to, which is the library. At 17 he has sprouted up like a weed, no longer the tiny but fierce little kid that he was. He’s about Dean’s height, with flippy hair and cheekbones that the girls sigh over. He barely ever seems to notice the last part.<br><br>Somehow, he is still a straight A student. An average of 14 schools per year for their entire educational career, and he has managed a 4.0 GPA. It’s summer. It’s nice and hot. He wants to walk the graduation stage. He intends to do so come Hell or high water. <br><br>His after-school forays, though, take him to the UPS store, where he has rented his own PO box. He carefully checks it, holding his breath. And withdraws a thick brown envelope. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It’s enough to make the elder Winchester suspicious. While Dean doesn’t always seem the sharpest pencil in the box, he notices more than he lets on. The disappearances after school had been noted. And, after some weeks of them, he finally gave into curiosity. He’d taken off early from work at the mechanic’s car repair that he’d taken a legitimate job. Learning a trade seemed important and useful--especially one that would be so helpful on the road.<br><br>Following Sam had been easy enough. While some families talked about things like the desire to move on, the Winchesters are quite the opposite. Why have a discussion if you can avoid it altogether and just spy on each other?<br><br>He trails behind his brother, pausing outside the UPS store to spy through the window. His eyebrows draw together and he feels a frown pulling his lips downwards.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam doesn’t even look at the window. He tears into the envelope with the haste of one who has been waiting and waiting to see one just like it. He reads the letter at the very top of a thick pile of papers, a grin of triumph bolting over his features. He flips quickly through the rest of the pile. It looks like forms. Brochures. His eyes are bright with pleasure, his cheeks flushed with excitement. <br><br>Then he stops, and his face falls. He goes to that little bar that’s ubiquitous in every UPS store ever, the one where people can quickly stamp their envelopes or pack their packages. He doesn’t do either. He just leans against it, shaggy hair obscuring the top half of his features as he lets his head dip forward, his mouth a hard slash of indecision.<br><br>The trash can is right there.<br><br>He picks up the papers, holds them over the trash for a moment, his jaw settling into a firm line as he steels himself to rid himself of all of it.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean frowns. Openly frowns. In a way that a mother might say his face will one day get stuck like that. He shifts his weight from one foot to the next, and then with a duck of his head, slips into the UPS casually as he possibly can.<br><br>The grifter’s smile, practiced and nuanced, pulls at each corner of his expression as he slides beside his brother and clears his throat. “Come here often?” his eyebrows lift expectantly, nearly challenging as those green eyes speak to something he won’t articulate.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Dean!”<br><br>Sam doesn’t really jump high enough to hit the ceiling, but it could seem an awfully near thing given his sudden shock. One of his greatest weaknesses in the field is one of his greatest strengths when researching their various problems on the road: he can, and often does, focus on one thing to the exclusion of all else, killing his situational awareness. It’s landed him in more than one hostage situation. It’s landed him in more than one scenario where his brother has had to pull some monster right off of him. And now? It means that Dean manages to get right next to him before he can hide any of it.<br><br>/Congratulations, Mr. Winchester,/ the letter reads. /Stanford University is proud to inform you that your application for admission has been accepted. In addition, in light of your SAT scores and academic achievements as well as your moving personal statement, we would like to offer you the Thomas B. Gardner Academic Excellence Scholarship, an $225,000 annual scholarship which will cover your tuition, fees, room, board, books, and incidentals during your four-year course of study with our university provided you maintain at least a 3.5 GPA and at least 12 credit hours per semester every year you are enrolled. Please read the enclosed agreements carefully, sign, and return them no later than August 1, 2021, in order to accept this scholarship and claim your place.//<br><br>The rest is a bunch of fluff which talks up the university, as if the Ivy League California school really needs it. It’s signed by the University President of Admissions. <br><br>Sam swallows. His hand had twitched, like he intended to whip it behind his back. “It’s nothing,” he mutters. “I mean it’s something, but I mostly just…”<br><br>He trails off. Clears his throat.<br><br>“I just wanted to see if I could do it. Get in, I mean. And now I know.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The grifter’s smile remains--nearly feline--because Dean really is the cat that caught the canary. He inhales a long breath as Sam explains each of the things, and in many ways, the older of the two just tightens his jaw. He swallows hard and his lips purse like he’s sucked on a lemon. <br><br>“...right.” <br><br>Unwillingly, his arms cross over his chest. In a way, it’s a defense. “I’m probably supposed to congratulate you.” Or something. This was not remotely something he anticipated, but in the moment he feels like he should’ve seen it coming. His chin drops to his chest, and silence rules the day. “From the looks of it you more than got in,” he observes coolly.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Guilt twists over Sam’s face, and he looks down, the papers clutched in his hand, his hand falling to his side. He lets his hair shadow his eyes again. <br><br>“The scholarship application was just part of the main application,” he mutters. “It’s not like I filled out separate paperwork. It was college day at school and I just…”<br><br>School, of course, hasn’t been one of Dean’s problems for two years now, but Sammy still goes, and he doesn’t ditch things like assemblies, career day, college day. He throws himself into them, taking them seriously. Before, it was almost all just a fantasy, a way of grabbing onto something normal for five minutes, ten minutes, an hour. But a teacher had encouraged him, and he’d impulsively grabbed a pen.<br><br>His hand twitches again, like he’s going to go ahead and toss it. But something stubborn firms his jawline. He’s been pushing against John since he was thirteen years old. He didn’t really start pushing against Dean until he turned 16, but lately if Dean wants something it seems like he can guarantee Sam will eventually begin argument for the opposite thing. Dean just gets the polite version. John gets the sarcasm and silent treatment.<br><br>Normal enough. Normal enough when Dean has been Sam’s parent. Probably not any easier to live with, though. <br><br>“You don’t have to congratulate me,” he says, in that way that says anger is starting to wash over the guilt. “I know you think stuff like this is lame. But it’s a good opportunity. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And you know what? I want to take it.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean actually blinks, but his lips still pucker like he’s sucked on a lemon. He hums uncertainly and his chin tucks to his chest. In a way he looks more like a punk kid than his brother in this posture. Head lowered, arms over his chest. After a few beats he shakes his head, “You aren’t normal. You weren’t raised to be normal.”<br><br>His gaze darkens. “Or did I fuck that up too?” It’s not angry. It’s defeatist. His head tilts to the side and something flashes behind his green eyes. His nostrils flare and he takes a deep breath, assuming the silent brother stance. <br><br>He rubs the back of his neck, allowing his posture to change. “We weren’t built for that life, Sam. You know we weren’t. Dad never raised sons. He raised hunters.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s defeatist unhappiness instantly switches Sam’s attitude. It almost always does, activating his natural empathy and bringing that to the forefront instead of defensiveness or anger.<br><br>“Dean, you didn’t fuck anything up,” he says, ever so earnestly. “But I didn’t choose this life. I didn’t want this life. Just because someone was raised to be something doesn’t mean that’s where they have to end up. And you just said it yourself. Dad was trying to raise Hunters, but he didn’t raise anyone. You raised me. And you raised yourself. And I get that you love this life, you feel at home in it, but I--”<br><br>He drops his gaze again. <br><br>“I just feel lost.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean can feel the tension build in each of his muscles. His hands shove into his pockets--it’s retreatist and safe, and he’s all too aware that he takes it whenever he enters a more pensive place. His chin lifts and he stares towards the window. He loves this life, he feels at home in it--both remarks he can respond to: “Wouldn’t be worth thinking about some other future,” that will never come to fruition. “And no point in trying to sugar coat it. I failed. You and Dad, it seems. Dad because he wanted us to be one thing and one thing only. You because you haven’t learned the first thing about family loyalty.” <br><br>His gaze lifts, “Give me six years,” because that’s all he has left. “Six years and then you can walk away from all of this, no argument from me.” <br><br>His throat clears. And his eyebrows draw together sharply. “I promise no argument. And that’s a promise I can keep.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam flinches as if punched when Dean makes that comment about /family loyalty/. His cheeks flush and his jaw firms. His nostrils flare.<br><br>“Wanting something different-- wanting my own life-- has nothing to do with loyalty. And...s- six years? This will be long gone by then!” He holds up the letter, incredulous. <br><br> “You want me to walk away from a million dollar education to...take the Hunting lifestyle for what, a test drive? I think the /nine/ years I’ve already been at it is more than enough to have taught me how bad I hate it. Or even the 17 years, since the going to 140+ schools, the crappy food, the hours and hours on the road, the paranoia, the--” <br><br>Realizing he’s still standing in a UPS store of all things, Sam snaps his mouth shut before he can start his rant about their life of crime. Instead, he glares defensively at his brother. <br><br>“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for /any/ of this. And frankly? Neither did you.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The ache deep in the pit of Dean’s stomach barely registers on his face. He blinks. Hard. His shoulders tighten. He heaviness in his chest exacerbates with the tightness of holding his breath. And it’s only the tightness that registers in his mind.<br><br>/Breathe/.<br><br>He inhales a sharp breath. “Fine,” there’s strength in resolve. “Six years is nothing,” he finally manages. “Hell, ten years is /nothing/. But I guess at sixteen it feels like an eternity.” He finds that strange stoicism he learned from his father. “If the life we’ve given you is so awful, then leave.” The dryness of his mouth won’t be so easily abated. The moisture has disappeared. But even in spitting sawdust, he manages to find some venom, “You know what Sammy, if I’ve been so awful to you, consider this done. You’re grown enough. Hell, I started raising you when I was what, four? Seems like you can finish the job now. You want out, fine. But someone needs to do something about those things that go bump in the night. Someone. You want to be like everyone else? Go ahead. But you know better. I know better.”<br><br>He turns on his heel and treads to the door. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“None of that is fair!” Sammy snaps. “I didn’t even say any--” <br><br>But he gives up. He hangs his head.<br><br><br />
And then, defiant, he signs the papers, his own heart aching, tears hitting the page. He mails it then and there. 2 weeks later he will stride across the stage of his graduation. He’ll be on the bus that afternoon. John will refuse to go to the graduation but will show up to the bus station one more time.<br><br>John will snarl, “If you get on that bus, don’t bother ever coming back.”<br><br>Sam will assume he speaks for both himself, and Dean. Their voices are, so often, one.<br><br>It will be the last time he sees John before…<br><br>//Present Day//Sam Winchester’s eyes narrow. Patterns are his strong suit.<br><br>“Six years are almost up,” he says softly. “And you mentioned ten years the day I got my acceptance letter. And you mentioned a deal with Hell in the hydra pit.”<br><br>His voice is soft and dire. “Dean. /What did you do?/”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>For the first time in nearly a decade, Dean can’t dodge this. He inhales a long breath and presses his hands to his face, letting his fingers rake through his hair as he does so, slowly sliding them to the back of his neck as he forces his gaze back to Sam.<br><br>His lips twitch and his eyes glisten before he finally looks away towards the window, and plays the rest of this conversation in his mind. And as he does so, Crowley’s voice echoes. Twelve year olds shouldn’t remember hell. His jaw works around the thought, but for the moment, the question is met with silence.<br><br>/Take care of Sammy./<br><br>His mouth opens and then shuts again, and that nearly masochistic expression is traded for something almost good humoured. His best guarded secret has become undone in a matter of weeks. Evidently guarding it has become harder the closer he gets to that expiration date.<br><br>When he finally speaks, his voice is gruff, raw, and wholly unconvincing, “It’s not important.” He manages a flicker of a smile at Sam before it fails. He rubs his face as the humour drains from it. All signs of teasing and lightness fade from it. His cheeks puff out with an exhalation of air, a kind of exasperation at finally being called out after literal years of secret keeping. His eyebrows draw together and his eyes hone in on the table, “I need to find dad.” There’s a pause that follows that, “And you need to join SHIELD.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>He’s lying.<br><br>Sam knows he’s lying. <br><br>His mouth tightens. His hazel eyes go flat.<br><br>And then, guilty. Because Sam is also lying. He knows before they leave this diner he’s going to go into the diner. He’s going to take a vial of blood he withdrew from his captive demon just this morning and he’s going to jam it into his arm so he can concentrate tonight. <br><br>For a moment, he considers telling Dean about it so that he can shake loose his brother’s secrets. But a sick wave of shame passes over him, and he drops his gaze, lets his hair cover his face. <br><br>Maybe if he’d listened to Dean and avoided Stanford none of this would have happened. Jessica would still be alive. He’d still be as clean as it was possible to be. He might never have met Fred, but how long? How long before he lets her down like he’s already let Dean down in 1,000 ways?<br><br>“I’ll help you find Dad,” he promises softly. He sounds like there’s a lump in his throat. “And I’ll talk to Agent May.”<br><br>And then:<br><br>“I’m sorry, Dean.”<br><br>Because he’s got a really bad feeling. A bad feeling which says whatever Dean did was //his// fault. <br><br>He’s got to figure out what it is. It sounds like a deal with a crossroads demon. He might be able to summon one. Fix this. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean blinks hard again. He sniffs, choking back emotion that he can’t quite process. His teeth worry his bottom lip, and when he speaks again, he manages another flicker of a smile--fleeting, but present. “Don’t be,” his breath escapes in a near laugh. “You didn’t do anything.”<br><br>His eyes lid, he leans back in the seat, and inhales a long breath, steadying his emotions and nerves. His hands fold on the table in front of him and for a moment he considers speaking it. But he doesn’t. Not really. “Look. Sam,” he leans forward and levels a look at his brother, “I’m fine. I’ll be fine awhile longer. I made a choice. And it’s not one I regret. I’ve had nine years to regret it. And I haven’t. It was the right choice. And for some damned reason, I’m getting sentimental. And maybe it’s dumb but I want--” he frowns before cutting himself off.<br><br>He swallows the growing lump in his throat. “--but never apologize for something you didn’t do. That you had nothing to do with.” His lips press together tightly and his eyebrows knit together in the process.<br><br>And then more honestly, he offers, “I was vetting Agent May. I got myself pummelled to see--” he lifts a hand, the details aren’t important. “She’s good. You can trust her. And I trust her to look out for you.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>This is as much as admitting that he’s going to die.<br><br>Sam decides then and there he’s not going to stand for it. <br><br>He’ll just have to be stronger. To prevent it. “I’m not taking this lying down,” he tells Dean, ready to shake his fist at heaven, hell, and everything in between. “And you’re not either.”<br><br>He stands up.<br><br>“I have to go to the bathroom. And so help me, if you take off and strand me in this stupid diner before I get back I will kick your ass.”<br><br>He’s not usually given to those sorts of threats, but anger and helplessness and shame all do the proper number on him to make sure of it. He fixes Dean with a hard, hazel-eyed gaze.<br><br>Because as much as Dean believes it’s his sole job to look out for Sam, Sammy rather believes it is their job to look after each other. And if he’s the one who has failed to watch Dean’s back again and again, that doesn’t mean this needs to be a pattern that continues.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s expression turns pained. “Sam. Don’t. There’s nothing to be done,” his lips curve on one side. “Don’t think about it.” And then, likely more desperately than he intends, he breathes, “/Please/.” <br><br>Sam’s exit to the bathroom does leave Dean with a choice. He looks out the window towards the Impala and clamps his eyes shut. “Why am I such an idiot?” he mutters to himself. After the case is solved, he resolves to get piss-drunk. It’ll turn off his brain for awhile and keep the demons at bay. Maybe.<br><br>Eyes still lidded, he struggles against the burning sensation behind them. A tear trails down his cheek. And, of course, at that moment the food arrives. The awkward smile he gives the server doesn’t distract from the brush of his knuckles against his face to rub any moisture away. <br><br>While tradition says he should start with the burger, Dean reaches for the apple pie (which wasn’t even supposed to come out at the same time) and jabs his fork into the pastry.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean indulges his addiction.<br><br>Sam indulges his. He locks the door tight behind him and swallows, looking himself in the eyes for a moment.<br><br>He can’t.<br><br>He pulls out the needle and the vial. He takes off his suit jacket and rolls up his sleeve. The track marks that are already there are livid and dark. He’s been lying about them to Fred, saying it’s SHIELD, taking samples.<br><br>He’s going to have to find a better way to handle that soon.<br><br>He jams the needle straight into his vein and depresses the plunger, gasping against the warmth spreading through him. It washes away the sadness. He can do anything like this. He can stop Dean from getting Hellhounded. He can protect Fred. He can protect everyone. He can find Dad and Claire. He just needs to get a little stronger.<br><br>He withdraws the needle, so used to pain that it doesn’t even phase him. He blots at the little blood spot with a paper towel, sick shame rolling through him even as the euphoria dances underneath his skin. He tosses that, rinses the vial, discards the needle. Rolls his sleeves back down. <br><br>He is relieved when he walks out of the bathroom to see his brother sitting there, even if he is eating dessert before dinner like a giant child.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Giant child or not, Dean Winchester’s emotions are firmly locked down by the time Sam returns. He shoots his brother boyish lopsided grin as he downs the pie in far too few bites. And with a kind of veiled humour, he offers, “Not bad. Had better. Had worse.” Pause. “Made worse.” His eyebrows lift, “Do you remember that time I tried to make apple pie? I was what--twelve?” He laughs easily, “We were sick for a week.”<br><br>Dean pretends the last conversation never happened. Ignorance in this case is bliss. He eyes the burger but seems to have lost his appetite (maybe to pie?), pushing it away from him before shaking his head. “You know maybe vomiting stories aren’t that funny. Especially when eating.” He actually shudders at that.<br><br>His eyes drift to the window and his gaze lingers on the car. “So…” his lips twist to the side, “the Impala needs a light touch. I’ve done my best to keep most of the original parts, with the exception of the suspension--definitely made easy work of the last one when a horde of changelings were in pursuit. I think she’ll need a new timing belt in the next couple years. Been starting to click a bit. Thought about replacing it,” his head waffles back and forth once over, “but it’s still early enough.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam listens to Dean spill out this sort of verbal Last Will and Testament when it comes to the Impala. It sparks anger in him, but not necessarily at Dean. He isn’t hungry either, but he picks at his own food just the same. He’s already fortified himself with what he needs to get through the evening. At least the vomit story won’t touch on that.<br><br>“Why didn’t you replace it?” He simply asks that question. “It’s not like you to let even the slightest click slide.”<br><br>His tone is dull, weighted by the things they’re not saying, weighted by the secrets between them, but he seems willing, for his brother’s comfort, to entertain his need to get his affairs in order, so to speak.<br><br>Even though he’ll be //damned// before he allows there to be an actual need for any such thing.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Honestly?” because honesty isn’t really the Winchester’s forte. Dean smirks at the question, “Combination of things. I was aiming to do it in Virginia, but time got away from me.” Including prison time. “And,” dismissively he waves a hand, “I’ve had other things to do.” Like go get his ass kicked by the Winter Soldier. <br><br>“I’ll probably get to it. Soon. Just thought you should be aware.” He manages to sound casual when he says it. <br><br>He stiffens, however, when his eyes trace beyond the car. Fog rolls in. His eyes deaden. So much deja vu.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam was of course paying enough attention to know what the fog means. He pushes his pie aside and drops money to pay for them both.<br><br>At the very least, there’s no tension in doing this. There’s no questions. There’s no hesitation. They both know what to do, so he simply moves to go and do it, heading out to his side of the Impala with a focused look on his face, dropping every last uncomfortable matter in favor of putting his game face on.<br />
It’s time to hunt something that preys on others. That’s all that matters right this second. Everything else can be put on hold. Everything else can wait until this is done.<br><br>He programs the spot he picked out with his triangulation into the GPS, then starts the program for Dean. “Let’s go get it then,” he says.<br><br><br />
<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean slides from his seat and treads to the Impala. But he’s distracted--about everything unspoken that relates too solidly to this case. /Walk it off/. He laughs a scoff at himself, drawing a coy smile in the process when his hands grasp the steering wheel. <br><br>“Yeah, let’s kick some brook horse ass,” he falls into his role well, and allows himself to embrace it fully as the car pulls away from the diner.<br><br>And then, as what will likely come off as a strange reminder, he sees fit to add: “Just don’t touch the damned thing.”<br><br>The Impala speeds to its GPS-determined fate.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Yes, I remember,” Sam says, with some annoyance. But it’s distracted annoyance. He pauses to rub at his head…<br><br>But doesn’t really give any indication as to why.<br><br>Meanwhile, the fog comes rolling in, thick and white. The GPS and the headlights make it possible to follow towards that destination, but barely. <br><br>“It’s early,” the Moose comments, frowning out into the night. “I mean it’s only just now getting dark, but the patterns from the other drownings said that they all happened later. Ten PM, midnight. So why is it so early?”<br><br>It’s definitely here though. Dean can almost smell it, thick in his nostrils. Wet horsehair and the smell of the deeps. It’s not possible to see it yet, but he can sure smell it.<br><br>The GPS pipes up. “You have arrived at your destination.” Which is really just a parking spot on the riverfront.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A frown tugs the edges of Dean’s lips when Sam rubs his head. “Hey. You okay, man?” And then, quickly he adds, “If not, I can handle this case.”<br><br>The note about the time though prompts Dean to visibly twitch. His eyes remain fixed on the road despite having parked might give some indication that he knows something more than he lets on. He clears his throat. “Probably found an early victim,” he manages to sound nonchalant. <br><br>But even the best liars struggle to control things like complexion. And for the moment, the elder Winchester looks pale. The driver’s side door opens and Dean slips out. He treads to the trunk and extracts one of the large poles. “We need to get moving. It normally coaxes victims, but I think it’ll be an aggressive predator today.” He hopes his apparent expertise about the Backahasten will be enough to answer the /why/.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Sam simply nods and unleashes /his/ signature phrase.<br><br>“I’m fine.”<br><br>He will always and ever say that, just as Dean will always say walk it off. But he stubbornly takes the other two poles, carrying them a bit like a Roman centurion might carry a pair of javelins. <br><br>The first thing Dean will notice is that there is no weird kid standing anywhere near the water. No high schoolers or middle schoolers of any kind. At least, not moving towards the water.<br><br>However, the great white shape of the brook horse is standing half in, half out of the water just as Dean remembers him. And as they approach the river, well…<br><br>*You took my new child away from me, Dean Winchester.* The horse whispers into Dean’s mind. *The family has come to take him back.*<br><br>The Hudson River boils. And one by one, they step out. Spirits. Waterlogged spirits, their hair straggly and low, their clothes running the gamut of time periods dating clear back to the 18th century, all seemingly young. Dozens of them, marching towards the Winchesters like a small army.<br><br>Sam speaks in a low, concerned voice. “Uh. Dean?”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>There’s a quirk of Dean’s lips. Self-deprecating, juvenile, and guilty. But instead of replying to his brother, he looks towards the horse, “And my family has come to take you out,” plain and simple. <br><br>His head turns towards Sam, “Yeah, we’re boned.” He tugs on his brother’s arm to pull him to the back of the Impala /quickly/--more provisions are definitely needed. “I may have left a few details out--”<br><br>The trunk of the car opens and the array of equipment presents itself. He nabs the large box of salt, and possibly to Sam’s surprise begins to create a circle of it around his brother. “They want you,” he levels a look at his brother--one that suggests he means business. “Fucking ghost children,” he mutters to himself. He plucks the iron crowbar and shakes his head. And then, in the event that Sam hasn’t clued in, “This thing miiiight have a vendetta against us,” but even as he says the words, he’s releasing more salt on the ground. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“What the-- so I’ll get the salt shotgun and we’ll take them out, you can’t possibly think I’m just going to stand here in safety while you risk your life. I’m not a kid anymore, Dean. I’m a Hunter in my own right.” Sam says, aggrieved. <br><br>/Just like you and Dad always wanted,/ comes the dark, unfair thought, but he lets it go, far more concerned with protecting Dean than with nursing old resentments. <br><br>He in fact moves swiftly, turning back to the Impala. Long legs carry him right back out of the circle to go after the self-same piece of weaponry he just named, even as the children start stepping closer and closer, dripping all over the muddy ground, flickering in and out of the fog. <br><br>He breaks it open to double check for the pellets, working fast to load the weapon when he realizes it’s out. “And then after we’re done here? You can tell me all about it.”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Exasperation flashes behind Dean’s green eyes. His shoulders slump. The crowbar clatters to the ground and with a tinge of regret he treads back towards his brother. “I can’t,” tell him about it, “and.. I’m sorry.” He winces before winding up with a punch to deck Sam as hard as he can manage.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean has always managed to deck Sam pretty hard. Sam, for his part, has always decked pretty well right back, but if there’s one thing Dean knows how to deliver it’s a good knock-out punch. That’s actually something Sam has never managed, even though he’s bigger; he usually just whales in.<br><br>He drops like a big sack of Sammy-potatoes, slumping with his back against the Impala. It is fortunate that certain parts of his nature are not entirely done asserting themselves, or Dean might not have had it so easy. But for today, the elder Winchester gets what he needs. A Sammy safe in salt. A-salted Sam.<br><br>And then? There’s a Drowned Child right in front of him, plunging her cold hands directly into his body, sucking life force out of Dean’s body. It’s cold agony, a searing burn that rockets through every one of his veins.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The apology doesn’t disappear from his expression and for the first time in nine years, his regret washes over him. But it’s not the regret he’d anticipated. He should’ve stayed to kill the Backahasten. How many kids died because he was so selfish? But the question doesn’t even get full consideration as the life begins to be sucked out from him. The steel bar clangs to the ground. His fingers can’t hold onto it, and his grip fails. Everything fails as his own life swirls across his vision. <br><br>The agony Dean feels has his knees buckling. He can’t stand through it as he curls into himself, drawing to the ground where his hands, quite luckily, make contact with the iron crowbar. His arm flails upwards, with the iron in hand, mercilessly cutting across the ghost. <br><br>Even momentary reprieve will suffice. When his breath returns to him, raking against his throat, he twists back to Sam. A glance is given to the shotgun, but there are far too many child-ghosts to handle with one shotgun while still needing to take out the brook horse. <br><br>His tongue moistens his lips. And he mumbles to himself, “The only way out is through.” He bends down to grab the steel bar once again, takes a deep breath, and with steel in one hand, and iron in the other, he moves forward, bearing the iron as a bat towards the ghostly kids.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The ghost, of course, disappears in a shower of sparks as Dean rips through her. The kids press forward hungrily, but the iron bar does a fine job of keeping them at bay. They’re coming in from all sides though, in a way that might make Dean have some cause to regret turning down his back up.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the horse decides to stop standing there. It breaks from the river, showing it’s perfectly capable of doing so, and comes thundering at one Dean Winchester full speed ahead. Her mane flows like a white, sparkling flag.<br><br>*If I can’t have him, perhaps I’ll just take you! The waters will have their due!* <br><br>Even at the attack she is a thing of beauty, and her voice cajoles him.<br><br>*Death with me will be kinder, Dean. You will never be alone. Your new family will always be loyal. You will escape Hell. You’re going to die anyway. Why not let it be now?*<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>As the horse moves towards him, Dean moves the crowbar to hang at his hip. He wraps both hands around it and poses it defensively like a spike on the edge of a turret. The words, however, cause the fight to drain from his face. The pole remains in place, but consideration colours his expression. <br><br>His throat aches with ragged breath, and he struggles to find words. The taunt works perfectly and gets to the heart of the matter. “Would they always stay?” he asks aloud. <br><br>But even in deals of life and death, John’s voice echoes. <br><br>/Take care of Sammy./ <br><br>And then vaguely he continues his line of questioning, “Would you all leave him alone? Forever?”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>*He will have nothing to fear from us,* the horse soothes. <br><br>And instead of trying to run him down or attack him, instead of flinging herself onto the polearm, she draws to a stop and prances a little bit. A watery wind ruffles through Dean’s hair. <br><br>*We could run together beneath the waves, Dean. You could learn the songs and the secrets of the waters, and they would never bring you pain again. It is not a bad existence. And you’d have so many more siblings to take care of. You’d be the oldest, still. They’d all look up to you.* <br><br>She lowers her head, almost inviting a stroke to her nose. <br><br>*-They- won’t let you down.*<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>With the horse keeping her distance, Dean actually feels his lips curve upwards. There’s acknowledgment there. A sign of thanks for power and decisions made. And the pole, for better or worse, is lowered. Dean slowly rests it on the ground before standing once more. <br><br>“Family,” he says lowly, “is the most important thing. Ever.” His head ticks slightly to the side. His left hand is raised--empty, and he holds it out, a strange sign of surrender. He inches forward cautiously. “But I seem to be the only one who thinks so.” <br><br>“And what about you. You loyal to your family?” his eyes squint. His right hand tucks back into his sleeve. It is awfully cold. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>*My family is everything to me,* the horse whispers. *Come and see, Dean. Come and ride with me. I will make you my Knight, my champion, and your family will grow. An eternal family.* <br><br>All the children sort of form a circle, holding hands with one another, looking hopefully up at Dean. Gazing at him like they look up to him. Like they /need him/ on every level it is possible for a kid to need a brother. Protector, teacher, playmate, comforter. They still look eternally wet, but not so terrifying as all that. They just look like kids. Lonely kids who needed someone, who found someone. <br><br>The horse prances a little closer as Dean lowers his weapon, crooning into his mind, now. <br><br>*And I will be the mother the demons took from you.* <br><br>It’s funny, in fact, how much she sounds like Mary Winchester. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s head ducks down. It’s a sign of assent. His paces continue, slowly. His family is everything to him. He manages a lopsided smile. “You’re not what I expected.” With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he finally asks an important question, “Was Sam ever in Hell, or was he with you?” <br><br>He’s not likely to get an answer as he finishes closing the distance between them. “I’m supposed to get on,” he notes with a sad smile. “And I’m so tired. Geez, I’m so tired.” His eyes turn up to the fog. <br><br>And then left hand still out, he inhales a defeatist breath. “Family is everything to me too.” He swallows hard as his right hand, still curled in his sleeve finds the hilt of the very hunting knife he’d wielded that night. His breath puffs out coolly. <br><br>The motion is quick. The hunter’s knife with all of its deep jags, cuts upwards towards the horse’s heart. And for good measure, Dean braces his other hand on its back. To outsiders looking in, it might appear that he’s hugging the horse, ready to take that deep plunge. He has no idea if such an action will seal his fate with this beast, but he wants to ensure its gone. “But you will never be my mother.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>The horse screams. Light flashes in and out of its form as Dean finds its heart with the unerring grace of a master hunter. The kids scream, and become light, spirits zipping up and away one and all. <br><br> He does not, in fact, get an answer as to Sammy’s final destination for the days that he was dead. She might have kept him. The demons might have claimed him. Uncertain. It’s reapers who decide where souls go, and only souls that hang around and choose to stay can be caught as ghosts. There’s no telling what 12-year old Sammy would have done, or why. Sammy himself can’t say. <br><br>The fog is just instantly gone even as the horse becomes nothing but a sort of slimy water, which just soaks Dean down from head to foot. But that’s all that’s left. Now it’s a beautiful, well-maintained touristy riverfront at night. With the fog gone, street lights twinkle merrily overhead. <br><br> Sam stirs, starting to wake up faster than he’s ever woken up in the past… <br><br> But then a man in a black suit is there, pointing down at him. “Shhh,” he says, and...Sammy’s out cold again. <br><br>“Hello, Squirrel.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s gaze turns back to where the man in black and his brother are. He sniffs loudly and with heavy booted steps treads to the Impala. “I prefer Dean,” he hisses. <br><br>He sniffs again as he makes his way to the trunk to wipe the knife to get anything extra from it. There’s irony that nine years ago to the day this horse bested the Winchesters. He’ll think about that more later. As he mills about the trunk, returning items to where they belong, including the crowbar and the shotgun, he mutters “What do you want, Crowley?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Crowley gives Dean a tolerant smile. <br><br>“Well. I couldn’t help but notice that you were engaged in a lot of mopey nonsense. Last wills and testaments, take care of Sammy, very touching sorts of things. But then, it /is/ getting close to time for one of my pets to drag you off into Hell.” <br><br>He nudges Sammy with his foot a little bit, thoughtfully. “Twenty-one is still so young, isn’t it? Adultish. Especially Sam here. Still seeing the good in everyone, and letting himself get stabbed in the back for it. He’s still a bit of a kid, really, isn’t he?” <br><br>He tap taps his finger against his jawline, as if thinking over what could be done about that.<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Touching that you noticed,” Dean returns with feigned sweetness. He steps towards his brother and reaches to draw Sammy to the passenger seat of the car. “Don’t touch him,” he says gruffly. “Geez Sam, what do you eat?” he murmurs with his brother’s dead weight against him. <br><br>“Whatever. -I- was raising a kid well before twenty one,” he offers in return. But his thoughts on the matter aren’t particularly veiled. He didn’t even let Sam help with this one, and actions speak louder than words. <br><br>And then finally, Dean looks back towards Crowley. “What’s your point?”<br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“The point is this. I’m here to offer you what we in the high-end sales business call a ‘modification of terms.’” <br><br> His smile widens. <br><br>“You see, souls are useful, and I certainly have a quota to meet, but I’m upper management and our numbers are up. Sometimes living people are more useful than dead, tortured ones. And you’re more useful than most. And so I’m going to give you a first right of refusal to keep right on living past your ten year deadline. As long as you perform the occasional task for me whenever I ask, you purchase more time. Until the next time I need you. So long as you don’t refuse, and you get it done, you need not worry about Fluffy or the rest of the pack.” <br><br>He pat pats an invisible head right next to him. Something lets out a low, menacing growl. He’s got one of the hellhounds /with/ him, it seems. <br><br>“Often, my requests won’t be particularly onerous. Information. Occasionally finding a bauble or too. Or killing someone who has it coming, but who doesn’t have a deal to put them into my purview. There are rules, you know.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s eyes darken. The last time he made a deal with this fellow, it was impulsively. But that was nine years ago. And teenaged fervour has become even a bit tempered with experience--as much as it can be. <br><br>His lips quirk and his head shakes. “I’m not sixteen anymore,” he offers in return. His hands shove into his pockets. “I’m not blindly entering a new contract.” His eyes roll. “But it’s helpful to know that you thought that would work.” His eyebrows lift at that. “How much more time per task? And can I refuse a task?” <br><br> He rubs the back of his neck and emits a long-suffering sigh. “This probably doesn’t come as a surprise, but you don’t exactly inspire confidence.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“No. You refuse a task, I reserve the right to kill you. And I don’t have to inspire confidence, Dean. I have you over a barrel. Because you don’t really want to die.” <br><br>Crowley tilts his head, smiling. “Because you know, of course, that Hydra’s not done with your brother yet. They cared enough about snatching him to send the Winter bloody Soldier. You don’t think they’re going to try to make another run at him? Are you sure Agent May and Luna Lovegood can handle whatever it is they want with him?” <br><br>He steps back, letting Dean cradle Sam all he wants without interference, and adds, “To say nothing to what’s going on inside him. Visions. Telekinesis. That’s probably not going to end anywhere good.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“Or you’ll kill me anyways. I’m not going to become one of these things we hunt.” Dean’s nose wrinkles, “If I did, tonight would’ve been it. That horse thing didn’t seem so bad.” He shoots Crowley a smug smile. But all the bravado in the world can’t conceal his feelings on the matter. He’s terrified. <br><br>But mention of Sam, as usual, changes everything. Dean’s expression deadens. “What did they do to him?” Because the eldest Winchester isn’t playing. “I still have a year,” he rasps. “He could be on solid ground in a year.” <br><br>“May is good,” he offers in turn. “The woman carries an arsenal with her all the time.” He twists to eye Dean in the front seat. “He might be fine.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>“Mmmm.” Crowley says. “I understand. You don’t want to do anything too terribly evil, and you don’t want to become a supernatural creature.” <br><br>He points at Sam. “I don’t know all the details of what they did, but I will tell you what I do know. We’ve already covered how Sammy got a big bottleful of a Duke of Hell’s blood as a baby. Not his fault. But it means he stopped being human. Your baby brother has been a half-demon from the time you pulled him out of that fire. It’s why, barring extreme circumstances, they won’t ever accept him in Heaven. They don’t care that he’s the nice one. They don’t care about all his empathy. Or how he’ll sacrifice himself for others again and again.” <br><br>Crowley sounds like he has nothing but empathy himself at this moment, though he can’t ever shake that slight, superior air that follows him around at all times. <br><br>“Azazel showed up again and got him all stirred up when he sacrificed Sam’s fiancee. Their doomed betrothal made him perfect. That’s when the powers start, right? Sympathetic magic. Blood tying to blood. A perfect line from the past to the future, plus a hearty dose of negative emotion to spark the whole thing off. But the powers need fuel, which is why, up until Hydra got him, Sam was in terrible pain every time he got the visions, or tried to use his telekinesis.” <br><br> Crowley’s smile is sardonic. “He needs a steady supply of demon blood. Why didn’t the injections show up on the tox screen, Dean?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean’s green eyes cinch shut. He curses lowly. <br><br>Slowly his brain plays catch-up. His eyes remain closed as his paces shuffle around the car, granting himself a bit of grounding with the motion. <br><br>“He’s still doping on the shit… isn’t he?” the revelation comes as a question but it isn’t one. “He’s not lifting. He didn’t stay down as well as he should’ve.” His hands press to his face. “What do they want with him? Azazel, I mean.” Pause. “And what was Hydra doing getting him amped on demon blood and then letting him--” he stops mid-sentence and frowns. Sam is not okay. Nor is he going to be okay. Ever. <br><br>He falls silent. <br><br>His eyes finally peel open. “I need a week to think it over.” And then he adds, “And there need to be terms on my side. One being that you never talk to Sam. Ever. That you don’t touch him. That you don’t even breathe on him or his vicinity in this life and the next.” He stares at Crowley. <br><br>His eyebrows lift expectantly.<br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Crowley spreads his hands. “It’s likely. Imagine, if you will, that someone has forced a heroin addiction on you. Now imagine that parts of you literally need that substance as badly as a human needs food. Now imagine trying to stop on your own.” <br><br>Dean says he needs a week to think about it. “I can certainly arrange to leave your Moose alone. He doesn’t factor into my plans, other than my desire to block other people’s plans for him. Azazel is a madman. He’s got visions. I like the bloody status quo. I’m in sales, for fuck’s sake.” <br><br>But Dean says he needs to think about it, and Crowley’s smile is magnanimous. “I understand. You need to think about it. Just remember, a lot can happen in a week, and you never know how equations might shift and change. I can’t really guarantee that I’ll be able to meet your needs seven days hence. So if you’d like to go ahead and do this deal now, I’ll throw in something else: I’ll remove a bit more of Sam’s memory, unless you like him having figured most of this out. We’ll call it my same-day incentive. Would you like to go ahead and take care of this right now?” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Actual humour pulls at Dean’s features for the first time since this conversation started. “You obviously don’t know Sam. He was going to put it together eventually. I just relied on adolescent naivety to make it work early on. He grew out of that.” He swallows hard and then casts Crowley another long look. <br><br>“No. I need a week.” He coughs. “Besides, maybe I should just accept my fate. Maybe.” His head drops towards his shoulder. “We’ve been doing this dance awhile, you and I.” <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:294|Sam Winchester (294)}} has posed:'''<br>Crowley’s purr is almost flirtatious. “When the partner is worthwhile you dance as long as it takes, darling.” <br><br>But he shrugs. “You know the Crossroads summoning spell. My entire department knows to leave your summons to me. Do the spell in one week if you’re interested. Believe it or not, I do have other things to do.” <br><br>He snaps his fingers, and is gone. <br><br>Sam’s head rolls a little against Dean’s chest. “If you’re dead I’m going to kill you,” he mutters, obviously well aware that his brother decked him to keep him out of that fight. And if the statement is a little nonsensical, well. There it is. <br><br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>“That’d be a year early,” Dean replies with just enough humour in his voice as he slides into the driver’s seat. He sucks in a sharp breath. His eyes hone on the horizon and the humour in his tone vanishes: “We--we need to get a drink. You need to get a drink.” <br><br>It’s been nine years and Sam is finally piecing it together. It would be so easy to unburden himself now. It would be so easy to leave all of their secrets bare at the foot of a liquor-laden night on the anniversary of when it all started. <br><br>But Dean Winchester, for better or worse, has become more of an island over the last five years. Between John’s constant back and forth, and Sam going to school, Dean has managed on his own. And on top of that, he was alone in the ocean without anyone taking notice. <br><br>His own secrets. <br><br>His own burdens. <br><br>And so when he speaks again, it references one thing only: “We need to talk about where you’re getting the blood and how to get you help...” <br><br> He sniffs and blinks hard as the car lurches into drive. <br><br>“...and about the night you died.” <br><br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=1940/Thoroughly_Vetted&diff=13541940/Thoroughly Vetted2017-08-19T23:15:58Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/08/11<br />
|Location=SHIELD Medical Unit<br />
|Synopsis=Dean comes clean about why he's been such a jerk to May and explains a past that not even Sam knows.<br />
|Cast of Characters=306, 5<br />
|Tinyplot=Blood on My Name<br />
|pretty=yes<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>It had been a quiet couple of days on the Winchester front. Dean hadn't objected to his convalescence and had actually taken a rest for once. Sam had been keeping his brother's vigil. So when Dean's request to speak to May came upstairs, it may have come as a surprise. <br><br>When she arrives, it's clear he's being relatively compliant all things considered. Dean has mostly listened to the advice of the medics around him. He sits on the bed rather than in it, fidgeting with his cellphone. There's an oddness to his movement, a kind of edge that punctuates each and every touch of his fingers to the keys. <br><br>But when he sees the woman he requested meeting, his eyebrows lift and the phone is cast to the side. "Hey," he says with an up-nod towards the Agent. And then with no lack of humour and a curl of his lips he motions to the room, "Welcome to my humble abode." He smirks. He does that a lot.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Filling out reports is a necessary evil in SHIELD. And calling for medical extraction is among the most evil of evil. But, May diligently fills out the requisite forms on behalf of the Winchesters. She's fairly certain that eventually Sam will want to fill them out for himself. He seems the sort. <br><br>Thus, when the request to speak reaches May, she's inwardly a bit surprised -- heaven forbid it show on her face -- but she goes to speak with the young man the first free moment she has. At the very least she can let him know that his car is safely in the garage here waiting for him.<br><br>"Homey," she offers in reply to his greeting. "How can I help you today, Dean?" She stays by the door rather than venturing in further since he didn't actually invite her to do so, and watches the man alertly for any non-verbal clues as to his reasons for sending the request. She's expecting anything from 'stop interfering with me and my brother' with the grammar intentionally incorrect through 'why the HELL didn't you warn me that Scotty would be doing the transport' to 'don't expect me to ever ask for help again'.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's green eyes watch May carefully as she lingers at the door, prompting him to sit up a little taller and then squint for a moment. He glances around the room--a habit he's developed over a lifetime of watching himself before finally requesting, "Can you come in and," his neck cranes to peek as far as he can into the hall, it's one of the rare moments his brother hasn't been seen at his bedside, "... can you close the door?" <br><br>His tongue rolls over his lips and he manages a small smile that doesn't reflect in his gaze when he motions to the large easy chair with the ottoman--Sam's spot. May may as well have a seat. "Nice digs," he remarks with that trademark flash of teeth. His eyes turn upwards to the ceiling and he inhales a long breath, "So," his nose wrinkles, "what are the chances I'm only talking to you here, Agent May?" The smile falters some with a wrinkle in his chin and a matching one in his eyebrows. <br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May nods and closes the door before walking over in her usual near-silent manner and sitting straight-backed on the edge of the easy chair. No, it's not actually because she's got a stick rammed up somewhere. She's got a small arsenal hidden in her jacket, and at the very least the butterfly swords sheathed parallel to her spine make slouching uncomfortable. <br><br>At his roundabout question about the room possibly being monitored, she replies calmly, "Very good, but if you want to erase any doubt, I can ensure it." One hand touches the commlink in her ear and she says just as evenly as everything else, "Ops, this is May. I'm going radio silent and setting Medical room H-2 dark until further notice." She waits for a moment, apparently getting a response from the other end of the comm link before she pulls the little device from her ear and sets it on the ottoman and then pulls a Zippo-sized device from an inside pocket of her jacket and offers it to Dean. "This is a scrambler. Zero signals will be allowed to enter or leave this room while it's on." It seems simple enough, just a single button next to a small, currently-off LED.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The scrambler is taken and Dean flicks it on. He ducks his head in a nod of appreciation at the effort. His hand rubs the back of his neck and his eyes find the wall in front of him. The blank wall yields some semblance of peace as he tries to draw his thoughts together. And then, with a small shake of his head, he begins. "So... uh..." his eyebrows knit together tightly. "First, I want to thank you. For getting me out of... well." He manages a near-smile--a marker of self-deprecation that tugs every corner of his face. "It wasn't nothing." <br><br>His expression changes some, and he presses his hands to his eyes. "Second, I... well..." he blinks hard. "I have a request. And it ain't small. But, Agent May, Sam can't know about it. Any of it. I don't know many people who can keep a secret, but while I've been," his lips curve upwards at the ends, "an ass," he actually rolls his eyes at that, "it wasn't without cause."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Within a second of the device being activated, every wi-fi device in the room -- and several hard-wired -- start to signal communications errors. <br><br>At Dean's thanks, May nods solemnly. "I promised I would do anything in my power to help you and Sam, and I meant it." Though, Liam really deserves more thanks in this case, and May has every intention of tracking him down for that exact reason. "Just don't make me have to do that again. I'd rather you take backup and not need it than the other way around."<br><br>His declaration that Sam can't know about whatever this is earns him a raised eyebrow. "Keeping dangerous secrets never ends well even if you have the best reason in the world." Probably why he's opted to tell her instead of Sam. Which she already disapproves of, but she's keeping that to herself until she hears what this dire secret actually is.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean's eyes clamp shut. "There'd be no good telling Sam," he offers in return. "Not anymore. Not ever." His eyes open and seek out May's much darker ones. "Look, my brother and I have been at this a long time. We're not new to this demon hunting, monster-defeating game. We were born into it. We were abandoned for it. We were told that this, all of this, was some kind of warped birth rite." <br><br>A chuff of air emits from the back of his throat. "And even as kids we were damned good at it. Well," his lips hitch up on one side into a lopsided grin, with all the hallmarks of self-deprecation, "as good as kids could be at it." His eyes glimmer with unbridled mischief that fades as they cut down towards the floor. "Dad went away a lot. And I only ever had one job. I had to take care of Sammy." Those green eyes seek out May's, "I know I haven't been easy," his hand rakes through his blonde hair, "but that's because I needed to know." <br><br>He blinks hard and pinches the bridge of his nose. And in an instant all of the good-humour drains from his eyes, the smile is lost to utter seriousness, and honesty prevails. "I had you pre-programmed in my phone when I went after the Soldier. Not Sam, //you//. I have tested and pushed every button I could imagine to see if you, as a handler could handle it. I needed to know if you could do this--if you can do this. And if you'd take it as damned seriously as I have." <br><br>His tongue wets his lips and for a moment he silences before finally making his request, "I need you people to take care of Sammy. He can't look out for himself. I thought by now that I would've raised him well enough that he wouldn't hold on to such hopeless cases. I didn't." There's another pause. "Dad is unfindable." <br><br>And after another few beats of silence and Dean's gaze cutting downwards, comes the clincher: "And I'm a dead man walking."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>The first part, May had already kind of guessed about. The brothers are too well-practiced at this to have just started on this path. It's sad and infuriating seeing that they were conscripted as children soldiers in their father's war against the supernatural, but what's done is done. She doesn't have a TARDIS. She can't change the past. <br><br>Well, at least that explains why he's been such a grade A ass from the get-go, though her eyebrows draw together in disagreement when he says that Sam's can't look out for himself. But, she still refrains from verbally interrupting. And then he drops the clincher on her and she openly frowns. "Explain this last statement to me. Medical would know if you were terminally ill, and while your eating habits certainly won't do you any favors in the long run, I'm almost positive that's not what you're talking about."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>A smirk follows the remark about eating habits and Dean offers, "Why worry about cholesterol when you aren't going to have a future?" The smirk fades though as he presses a hand to his forehead. He studies May and attempts to read each of the small nuances of her expression, unsure of himself as he straightens in the bed. "I'm not sick. That wouldn't have such definite timeline." But his jaw works around the story that he's never spoken--the one that he's never told a single soul. <br><br>His eyes find comfort in the blanket on the bed and train there as he finally speaks the one thing he's always forbidden himself from saying: "It all started nine years ago." His lips purse like he's sucked on a lemon. He's never relived this memory. And its sting still sears like burning embers in the middle of flame. "Dad was off on a hunt. I was in charge, feeding us peanut and butter and jelly three times a day. And kids were going missing." <br><br>And then, as if to put some perspective on this, he clarifies, "I was sixteen. Sam was twelve. So when kids were going missing, we're not talking about underaged people going missing. We're talking about friends." He finally looks up at her, and obvious fondness enters his tone, "Sammy made fast friends everywhere we went." His head shakes, "Not the case with me." It might not seem like an important detail, but it is. "Sammy lost at least one friend to whatever it was." He chuckles mirthlessly, "And Sammy was such a frigging smart ass back then. He spent days combing the tomes to figure out why the kids were going missing--what happened to his friend." <br><br>His eyes lid and he inhales a long breath. "Bäckahästen. A brook horse from Scandinavian legend. I never knew the word before Sam spoke it. I've never forgotten it since." <br><br>His eyes lid and he visualizes the story. "It was a foggy night and Sam wanted to pursue this motherfucking brook horse. It drowned kids. Befriended them and then took them for a ride..." his voice cracks "...to the river's depths." <br><br>"So we hatched what would amount to the worst thought plan we've ever had," he stares at May. "And it went badly when one of Sam's friends was with the horse and he knocked her off... and got stuck." <br><br>And for the first time since they've met everything about Dean's demeanour changes. His eyes clamp shut and he can feel the intense burning behind them. His shoulders tighten. His chin tucks to his chest. "Sammy drowned," his mouth feels dry; his throat raw. "I kept swimming in the water..." his voice cracks again "...diving... diving..diving... I couldn't... fuck, I almost didn't find him. I couldn't save him." A single tear trails down his cheek. <br><br>He banishes it with the back of his hand, sniffs, and forces his eyes open to meet May's. <br><br>"Sam died."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>If it were anyone else, May would call bullshit on this story. But she's learned how to tell when Dean's lying and when he's not -- mostly by watching Sam's inability to lie convincingly. Their tells are almost identical though Dean's are obviously much more subtle. And, know that this truly happened to him doesn't reassure May in the least. That was without a doubt worse on Dean than Bahrain was on her. <br><br>If she were the demonstrative sort, this is where she'd give in to the inclination to give the kid a hug, busted ribs be damned. But, that's more Darcy's wheelhouse than hers. The best she can do is meet his eyes as squarely as she can, and hopefully the fact that she GETS IT is there in her eyes. <br><br>Also, she knows there's got to be more to this story, because Sam is here and walking around and not craving brains.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>The eye contact earns May a vague turn of Dean's lips. He sniffs again and then nods. "It was my fault. I was in charge. I was the one that was supposed to look out for him." He pinches the bridge of his nose again. "He was the good one. He was the one that had all the potential and the future going for him. I knew it then. Hell, everyone knows it now. And he died on my watch." <br><br>Dean wets his lips again, "I took him back to the house we were staying and put his body on the couch... where the King of the Crossroads, Crowley came to me." He frowns at the next, "He told me he could bring Sam back. And that my twelve year old brother had been fed demon blood by..." and then there's another detail he hasn't told Sam "...someone he called Azazel. We just call him yellow eyes." His gaze darkens. "But because of the demon blood, my twelve year old brother wouldn't be in heaven. No, my precious Sammy was hell-bound," his voice cracks around the last. <br><br>"How could I leave my brother there? Sam... " his lips part and his hands press to his face, "...he's good... " his lips quiver with emotion. He rubs the sleeve of his shirt across his face to catch any stray moisture. "But you and I know nothing is free." He sniffs again. "I got ten years to bring Sammy back. Ten years to raise Sammy and give him self-sufficiency. He's not there." He rubs his temples and lays back on the bed, finally having relayed the pertinent parts of the story. <br><br>"I have one year left. I need someone to take over."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>"You're right. Nothing is free. But you know better than I do if you just accept this path you're on that your brother is going to insist on following you, and there would be nothing that all of SHIELD or WAND could do to stop him. I think a better plan is to use this remaining year to plan and prepare and be ready for this Crowley." <br><br>May is still looking at Dean squarely even as her voice actually softens a bit. "You couldn't handle his death," even though he was truly only a child at the time, "so what makes you think he'll be able to handle yours?"<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>//Meanwhile//<br><br>Omens. Omens make demons easy to find. Bad weather. Electrical disturbances. People losing time. A lot of it the symptoms people associate with "UFOs," only its not. Its demons. And Sammy, with his tablet, can find a demon if it's there to be found. A possession one town away drew him out of Dean's room with a promise to return. He was just going out to 'check in on Fred.'<br><br>But he never got to Fred. He got to a two story house where he arrived dressed as a priest, where a possessed teenage girl was terrorizing her family. He got the mother to let him in, and he fought the demon, being careful of the body. It didn't look too destroyed to him. He got the mother to help him tie her own kid down.<br><br>He'd stared down at the girl, his mouth opening to start the exorcism. But then the compulsion had come over him, too strong to ignore. <br><br>As Dean and May speak, he withdraws it...the shining hypodermic needle, one used to take samples. It's good for stocking dead man's blood, for vampires, but it's good for this too.<br><br>He estimates he can take a good 10 vials before he even hurts her. He takes them rapidly. Then he takes one more. She'll be left a little weak, but as long as the demon, who starts laughing maniacally with her voice, is in her, it's /demon blood/. He isn't even sure where he picked up the rubber touriquet he quickly wraps around his upper arm. He tests the vein thrice, then plunges the needle inside. He gasps with the sheer relief of it. The edge, the hunger, the craving, the /burn beneath his skin/ that has been plaguing him, now, for over a week, gone at last. He'd fought it as long as he could, but he knows now. He has to have it.<br><br>He tilts his head at the girl on the bed. The standard exorcism can be rough on a body too, and he suddenly /feels something/ inside him. He splays his fingers over her, and forces the demon out with will alone. It leaves him gasping, reeling, his head throbbing, his nose bleeding. He didn't do it quite right, and he knows that now too...But the girl is fine. Blinking sleepily up at him. "Father...?" <br><br>He slips the vials into the pockets of his robe and puts a comforting hand on her forehead. "Shhh. It's okay now. Let me get you untied." <br><br>A small enough tax, for her life, isn't it? <br><br>//Back at the Triskelion// <br><br>Dean's eyebrows lift at the notion of being ready for Crowley, "And that's half the problem. Crowley gave a bonus. Sam has no memory of this." He swallows the growing lump his his throat, "I couldn't bear for a twelve year old to carry memory of hell around with him. I can't risk jogging that." <br><br>He emits a soft breath, "If all goes as it should, I'll die naturally enough. No one is going to be able to break the deal; the contract was long and signed in my blood. I didn't even read it--" he sucks on the inside of his cheek. "--he already thinks he owns my ass. He's called me twice since I woke up here." His eyebrows lift. He doesn't have to look for Crowley; that guy is always nearby. <br><br>"He didn't deserve hell. I was the brother who should be damned and it's already done. It was done nine years ago. I didn't even tell Dad."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean could we be right, that there's no way out of this. But May has never been one to give up without fighting for every last possible inch. "WAND has resources that even I'm not fully briefed on. If anyone has a way to get both you and your brother to the other side of this deal alive and sane, WAND is your best chance of figuring out who and how." <br><br>She moves to stand. "Or would you rather just continue to let creatures try to kill you until this deal you made inevitably does?" Maybe, at the very least, she can get this kid to finally start accepting SHIELD and WAND resources to help him on his hunts.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>"Whatever help WAND offers around this, I'm willing to think on. But Sam can't know about it. He'd just worry more. And maybe remember hell." Dean scratches his head and he emits a long breath, "But me accepting help openly? It can't be that easy." His green eyes flick towards May. "Sammy has to choose to become one of you. With or without me. I need someone to look out for him. That girlfriend of his would do it, but she'll tell him everything. All of it." His nose wrinkles. "I can't just flop. But I'll be... better." <br><br>He curls his lips. "The creatures don't scare me. If they did I'd never go into water. Water spirits have a vendetta against me because I traded for Sam's life." He lifts a hand dismissively at that.<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:5|Melinda May (5)}} has posed:'''<br>May nods. "I put in the request to have WAND pull all the research I can on this subject, and there's no reason that Sam would ever know it has any connection to you or him if he even finds out." Yes, she's already mentally percolating plans. <br><br>"I'm going to need something from you in return, Dean. Your brother let us take a preliminary look at a notebook he had with him, but from what WAND's experts mentioned, it was not nearly complete, and it looked like it had been copied from another reference." She crosses her arms. "If we're to have any hint of a chance at making a difference here, whatever you know and whatever references you have access to are going to be invaluable."<br> <br><br />
<br />
:'''{{#var:306|Dean Winchester (306)}} has posed:'''<br>Dean squints at the thought of the book. His eyebrows lift and he shrugs, "Dad's journal." His lips twist to the side, "You can have it, but Sam can't know I gave you what I have." His eyes narrow slightly, "Look, I know we're on the same side here, May," his lips curl upwards, "I just don't need Sammy knowing I know that. Not too quickly. He needs to believe all this." His palms rub together and he notes, "When I'm out of here, I'll arrange to get you a copy when he's busy with Fred." <br><br>There's a knock at the door and Dean perks just before it opens, revealing a very leery looking SHIELD medic who glances between them. "Uh... Mister Winchester--" <br><br>"--Dean," he interrupts for the umpteenth time. <br><br>"...right. Dean needs his meds," she announces. "I'm going to have to stop the..." her eyes flit between them "...meeting?"<br> <br><br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=1940/Thoroughly_Vetted&diff=12251940/Thoroughly Vetted2017-08-13T04:40:23Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/08/12 |Location=SHIELD Medical Bay |Synopsis=Dean requests to see May and finally spills his guts to someone. Watch for special pose from Sam...."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log Header<br />
|Date of Scene=2017/08/12<br />
|Location=SHIELD Medical Bay<br />
|Synopsis=Dean requests to see May and finally spills his guts to someone. Watch for special pose from Sam.<br />
|Cast of Characters=Melinda May, Dean Winchester,<br />
}}<br />
{{Poses<br />
|Poses=Dean Winchester It had been a quiet couple of days on the Winchester front. Dean hadn't objected to his convalescence and had actually taken a rest for once. Sam had been keeping his brother's vigil. So when Dean's request to speak to May came upstairs, it may have come as a surprise. <br />
<br />
When she arrives, it's clear he's being relatively compliant all things considered. Dean has mostly listened to the advice of the medics around him. He sits on the bed rather than in it, fidgeting with his cellphone. There's an oddness to his movement, a kind of edge that punctuates each and every touch of his fingers to the keys. <br />
<br />
But when he sees the woman he requested meeting, his eyebrows lift and the phone is cast to the side. "Hey," he says with an up-nod towards the Agent. And then with no lack of humour and a curl of his lips he motions to the room, "Welcome to my humble abode." He smirks. He does that a lot.<br />
Melinda May Filling out reports is a necessary evil in SHIELD. And calling for medical extraction is among the most evil of evil. But, May diligently fills out the requisite forms on behalf of the Winchesters. She's fairly certain that eventually Sam will want to fill them out for himself. He seems the sort. <br />
<br />
Thus, when the request to speak reaches May, she's inwardly a bit surprised -- heaven forbid it show on her face -- but she goes to speak with the young man the first free moment she has. At the very least she can let him know that his car is safely in the garage here waiting for him.<br />
<br />
"Homey," she offers in reply to his greeting. "How can I help you today, Dean?" She stays by the door rather than venturing in further since he didn't actually invite her to do so, and watches the man alertly for any non-verbal clues as to his reasons for sending the request. She's expecting anything from 'stop interfering with me and my brother' with the grammar intentionally incorrect through 'why the HELL didn't you warn me that Scotty would be doing the transport' to 'don't expect me to ever ask for help again'.<br />
Dean Winchester Dean's green eyes watch May carefully as she lingers at the door, prompting him to sit up a little taller and then squint for a moment. He glances around the room--a habit he's developed over a lifetime of watching himself before finally requesting, "Can you come in and," his neck cranes to peek as far as he can into the hall, it's one of the rare moments his brother hasn't been seen at his bedside, "... can you close the door?" <br />
<br />
His tongue rolls over his lips and he manages a small smile that doesn't reflect in his gaze when he motions to the large easy chair with the ottoman--Sam's spot. May may as well have a seat. "Nice digs," he remarks with that trademark flash of teeth. His eyes turn upwards to the ceiling and he inhales a long breath, "So," his nose wrinkles, "what are the chances I'm only talking to you here, Agent May?" The smile falters some with a wrinkle in his chin and a matching one in his eyebrows.<br />
Melinda May May nods and closes the door before walking over in her usual near-silent manner and sitting straight-backed on the edge of the easy chair. No, it's not actually because she's got a stick rammed up somewhere. She's got a small arsenal hidden in her jacket, and at the very least the butterfly swords sheathed parallel to her spine make slouching uncomfortable. <br />
<br />
At his roundabout question about the room possibly being monitored, she replies calmly, "Very good, but if you want to erase any doubt, I can ensure it." One hand touches the commlink in her ear and she says just as evenly as everything else, "Ops, this is May. I'm going radio silent and setting Medical room H-2 dark until further notice." She waits for a moment, apparently getting a response from the other end of the comm link before she pulls the little device from her ear and sets it on the ottoman and then pulls a Zippo-sized device from an inside pocket of her jacket and offers it to Dean. "This is a scrambler. Zero signals will be allowed to enter or leave this room while it's on." It seems simple enough, just a single button next to a small, currently-off LED.<br />
Dean Winchester The scrambler is taken and Dean flicks it on. He ducks his head in a nod of appreciation at the effort. His hand rubs the back of his neck and his eyes find the wall in front of him. The blank wall yields some semblance of peace as he tries to draw his thoughts together. And then, with a small shake of his head, he begins. "So... uh..." his eyebrows knit together tightly. "First, I want to thank you. For getting me out of... well." He manages a near-smile--a marker of self-deprecation that tugs every corner of his face. "It wasn't nothing." <br />
<br />
His expression changes some, and he presses his hands to his eyes. "Second, I... well..." he blinks hard. "I have a request. And it ain't small. But, Agent May, Sam can't know about it. Any of it. I don't know many people who can keep a secret, but while I've been," his lips curve upwards at the ends, "an ass," he actually rolls his eyes at that, "it wasn't without cause."<br />
Melinda May Within a second of the device being activated, every wi-fi device in the room -- and several hard-wired -- start to signal communications errors. <br />
<br />
At Dean's thanks, May nods solemnly. "I promised I would do anything in my power to help you and Sam, and I meant it." Though, Liam really deserves more thanks in this case, and May has every intention of tracking him down for that exact reason. "Just don't make me have to do that again. I'd rather you take backup and not need it than the other way around."<br />
<br />
His declaration that Sam can't know about whatever this is earns him a raised eyebrow. "Keeping dangerous secrets never ends well even if you have the best reason in the world." Probably why he's opted to tell her instead of Sam. Which she already disapproves of, but she's keeping that to herself until she hears what this dire secret actually is.<br />
Dean Winchester Dean's eyes clamp shut. "There'd be no good telling Sam," he offers in return. "Not anymore. Not ever." His eyes open and seek out May's much darker ones. "Look, my brother and I have been at this a long time. We're not new to this demon hunting, monster-defeating game. We were born into it. We were abandoned for it. We were told that this, all of this, was some kind of warped birth rite." <br />
<br />
A chuff of air emits from the back of his throat. "And even as kids we were damned good at it. Well," his lips hitch up on one side into a lopsided grin, with all the hallmarks of self-deprecation, "as good as kids could be at it." His eyes glimmer with unbridled mischief that fades as they cut down towards the floor. "Dad went away a lot. And I only ever had one job. I had to take care of Sammy." Those green eyes seek out May's, "I know I haven't been easy," his hand rakes through his blonde hair, "but that's because I needed to know." <br />
<br />
He blinks hard and pinches the bridge of his nose. And in an instant all of the good-humour drains from his eyes, the smile is lost to utter seriousness, and honesty prevails. "I had you pre-programmed in my phone when I went after the Soldier. Not Sam, //you//. I have tested and pushed every button I could imagine to see if you, as a handler could handle it. I needed to know if you could do this--if you can do this. And if you'd take it as damned seriously as I have." <br />
<br />
His tongue wets his lips and for a moment he silences before finally making his request, "I need you people to take care of Sammy. He can't look out for himself. I thought by now that I would've raised him well enough that he wouldn't hold on to such hopeless cases. I didn't." There's another pause. "Dad is unfindable." <br />
<br />
And after another few beats of silence and Dean's gaze cutting downwards, comes the clincher: "And I'm a dead man walking."<br />
Melinda May The first part, May had already kind of guessed about. The brothers are too well-practiced at this to have just started on this path. It's sad and infuriating seeing that they were conscripted as children soldiers in their father's war against the supernatural, but what's done is done. She doesn't have a TARDIS. She can't change the past. <br />
<br />
Well, at least that explains why he's been such a grade A ass from the get-go, though her eyebrows draw together in disagreement when he says that Sam's can't look out for himself. But, she still refrains from verbally interrupting. And then he drops the clincher on her and she openly frowns. "Explain this last statement to me. Medical would know if you were terminally ill, and while your eating habits certainly won't do you any favors in the long run, I'm almost positive that's not what you're talking about."<br />
Dean Winchester A smirk follows the remark about eating habits and Dean offers, "Why worry about cholesterol when you aren't going to have a future?" The smirk fades though as he presses a hand to his forehead. He studies May and attempts to read each of the small nuances of her expression, unsure of himself as he straightens in the bed. "I'm not sick. That wouldn't have such definite timeline." But his jaw works around the story that he's never spoken--the one that he's never told a single soul. <br />
<br />
His eyes find comfort in the blanket on the bed and train there as he finally speaks the one thing he's always forbidden himself from saying: "It all started nine years ago." His lips purse like he's sucked on a lemon. He's never relived this memory. And its sting still sears like burning embers in the middle of flame. "Dad was off on a hunt. I was in charge, feeding us peanut and butter and jelly three times a day. And kids were going missing." <br />
<br />
And then, as if to put some perspective on this, he clarifies, "I was sixteen. Sam was twelve. So when kids were going missing, we're not talking about underaged people going missing. We're talking about friends." He finally looks up at her, and obvious fondness enters his tone, "Sammy made fast friends everywhere we went." His head shakes, "Not the case with me." It might not seem like an important detail, but it is. "Sammy lost at least one friend to whatever it was." He chuckles mirthlessly, "And Sammy was such a frigging smart ass back then. He spent days combing the tomes to figure out why the kids were going missing--what happened to his friend." <br />
<br />
His eyes lid and he inhales a long breath. "Bäckahästen. A brook horse from Scandinavian legend. I never knew the word before Sam spoke it. I've never forgotten it since." <br />
<br />
His eyes lid and he visualizes the story. "It was a foggy night and Sam wanted to pursue this motherfucking brook horse. It drowned kids. Befriended them and then took them for a ride..." his voice cracks "...to the river's depths." <br />
<br />
"So we hatched what would amount to the worst thought plan we've ever had," he stares at May. "And it went badly when one of Sam's friends was with the horse and he knocked her off... and got stuck." <br />
<br />
And for the first time since they've met everything about Dean's demeanour changes. His eyes clamp shut and he can feel the intense burning behind them. His shoulders tighten. His chin tucks to his chest. "Sammy drowned," his mouth feels dry; his throat raw. "I kept swimming in the water..." his voice cracks again "...diving... diving..diving... I couldn't... fuck, I almost didn't find him. I couldn't save him." A single tear trails down his cheek. <br />
<br />
He banishes it with the back of his hand, sniffs, and forces his eyes open to meet May's. <br />
<br />
"Sam died."<br />
Melinda May If it were anyone else, May would call bullshit on this story. But she's learned how to tell when Dean's lying and when he's not -- mostly by watching Sam's inability to lie convincingly. Their tells are almost identical though Dean's are obviously much more subtle. And, know that this truly happened to him doesn't reassure May in the least. That was without a doubt worse on Dean than Bahrain was on her. <br />
<br />
If she were the demonstrative sort, this is where she'd give in to the inclination to give the kid a hug, busted ribs be damned. But, that's more Darcy's wheelhouse than hers. The best she can do is meet his eyes as squarely as she can, and hopefully the fact that she GETS IT is there in her eyes. <br />
<br />
Also, she knows there's got to be more to this story, because Sam is here and walking around and not craving brains.<br />
Dean Winchester The eye contact earns May a vague turn of Dean's lips. He sniffs again and then nods. "It was my fault. I was in charge. I was the one that was supposed to look out for him." He pinches the bridge of his nose again. "He was the good one. He was the one that had all the potential and the future going for him. I knew it then. Hell, everyone knows it now. And he died on my watch." <br />
<br />
Dean wets his lips again, "I took him back to the house we were staying and put his body on the couch... where the King of the Crossroads, Crowley came to me." He frowns at the next, "He told me he could bring Sam back. And that my twelve year old brother had been fed demon blood by..." and then there's another detail he hasn't told Sam "...someone he called Azazel. We just call him yellow eyes." His gaze darkens. "But because of the demon blood, my twelve year old brother wouldn't be in heaven. No, my precious Sammy was hell-bound," his voice cracks around the last. <br />
<br />
"How could I leave my brother there? Sam... " his lips part and his hands press to his face, "...he's good... " his lips quiver with emotion. He rubs the sleeve of his shirt across his face to catch any stray moisture. "But you and I know nothing is free." He sniffs again. "I got ten years to bring Sammy back. Ten years to raise Sammy and give him self-sufficiency. He's not there." He rubs his temples and lays back on the bed, finally having relayed the pertinent parts of the story. <br />
<br />
"I have one year left. I need someone to take over."<br />
Melinda May "You're right. Nothing is free. But you know better than I do if you just accept this path you're on that your brother is going to insist on following you, and there would be nothing that all of SHIELD or WAND could do to stop him. I think a better plan is to use this remaining year to plan and prepare and be ready for this Crowley." <br />
<br />
May is still looking at Dean squarely even as her voice actually softens a bit. "You couldn't handle his death," even though he was truly only a child at the time, "so what makes you think he'll be able to handle yours?"<br />
Dean Winchester //Meanwhile//<br />
<br />
Omens. Omens make demons easy to find. Bad weather. Electrical disturbances. People losing time. A lot of it the symptoms people associate with "UFOs," only its not. Its demons. And Sammy, with his tablet, can find a demon if it's there to be found. A possession one town away drew him out of Dean's room with a promise to return. He was just going out to 'check in on Fred.'<br />
<br />
But he never got to Fred. He got to a two story house where he arrived dressed as a priest, where a possessed teenage girl was terrorizing her family. He got the mother to let him in, and he fought the demon, being careful of the body. It didn't look too destroyed to him. He got the mother to help him tie her own kid down.<br />
<br />
He'd stared down at the girl, his mouth opening to start the exorcism. But then the compulsion had come over him, too strong to ignore. <br />
<br />
As Dean and May speak, he withdraws it...the shining hypodermic needle, one used to take samples. It's good for stocking dead man's blood, for vampires, but it's good for this too.<br />
<br />
He estimates he can take a good 10 vials before he even hurts her. He takes them rapidly. Then he takes one more. She'll be left a little weak, but as long as the demon, who starts laughing maniacally with her voice, is in her, it's /demon blood/. He isn't even sure where he picked up the rubber touriquet he quickly wraps around his upper arm. He tests the vein thrice, then plunges the needle inside. He gasps with the sheer relief of it. The edge, the hunger, the craving, the /burn beneath his skin/ that has been plaguing him, now, for over a week, gone at last. He'd fought it as long as he could, but he knows now. He has to have it.<br />
<br />
He tilts his head at the girl on the bed. The standard exorcism can be rough on a body too, and he suddenly /feels something/ inside him. He splays his fingers over her, and forces the demon out with will alone. It leaves him gasping, reeling, his head throbbing, his nose bleeding. He didn't do it quite right, and he knows that now too...But the girl is fine. Blinking sleepily up at him. "Father...?" <br />
<br />
He slips the vials into the pockets of his robe and puts a comforting hand on her forehead. "Shhh. It's okay now. Let me get you untied." <br />
<br />
A small enough tax, for her life, isn't it? <br />
<br />
//Back at the Triskelion// <br />
<br />
Dean's eyebrows lift at the notion of being ready for Crowley, "And that's half the problem. Crowley gave a bonus. Sam has no memory of this." He swallows the growing lump his his throat, "I couldn't bear for a twelve year old to carry memory of hell around with him. I can't risk jogging that." <br />
<br />
He emits a soft breath, "If all goes as it should, I'll die naturally enough. No one is going to be able to break the deal; the contract was long and signed in my blood. I didn't even read it--" he sucks on the inside of his cheek. "--he already thinks he owns my ass. He's called me twice since I woke up here." His eyebrows lift. He doesn't have to look for Crowley; that guy is always nearby. <br />
<br />
"He didn't deserve hell. I was the brother who should be damned and it's already done. It was done nine years ago. I didn't even tell Dad."<br />
Melinda May Dean could we be right, that there's no way out of this. But May has never been one to give up without fighting for every last possible inch. "WAND has resources that even I'm not fully briefed on. If anyone has a way to get both you and your brother to the other side of this deal alive and sane, WAND is your best chance of figuring out who and how." <br />
<br />
She moves to stand. "Or would you rather just continue to let creatures try to kill you until this deal you made inevitably does?" Maybe, at the very least, she can get this kid to finally start accepting SHIELD and WAND resources to help him on his hunts.<br />
Dean Winchester "Whatever help WAND offers around this, I'm willing to think on. But Sam can't know about it. He'd just worry more. And maybe remember hell." Dean scratches his head and he emits a long breath, "But me accepting help openly? It can't be that easy." His green eyes flick towards May. "Sammy has to choose to become one of you. With or without me. I need someone to look out for him. That girlfriend of his would do it, but she'll tell him everything. All of it." His nose wrinkles. "I can't just flop. But I'll be... better." <br />
<br />
He curls his lips. "The creatures don't scare me. If they did I'd never go into water. Water spirits have a vendetta against me because I traded for Sam's life." He lifts a hand dismissively at that.<br />
Melinda May May nods. "I put in the request to have WAND pull all the research I can on this subject, and there's no reason that Sam would ever know it has any connection to you or him if he even finds out." Yes, she's already mentally percolating plans. <br />
<br />
"I'm going to need something from you in return, Dean. Your brother let us take a preliminary look at a notebook he had with him, but from what WAND's experts mentioned, it was not nearly complete, and it looked like it had been copied from another reference." She crosses her arms. "If we're to have any hint of a chance at making a difference here, whatever you know and whatever references you have access to are going to be invaluable."<br />
Dean Winchester Dean squints at the thought of the book. His eyebrows lift and he shrugs, "Dad's journal." His lips twist to the side, "You can have it, but Sam can't know I gave you what I have." His eyes narrow slightly, "Look, I know we're on the same side here, May," his lips curl upwards, "I just don't need Sammy knowing I know that. Not too quickly. He needs to believe all this." His palms rub together and he notes, "When I'm out of here, I'll arrange to get you a copy when he's busy with Fred." <br />
<br />
There's a knock at the door and Dean perks just before it opens, revealing a very leery looking SHIELD medic who glances between them. "Uh... Mister Winchester--" <br />
<br />
"--Dean," he interrupts for the umpteenth time. <br />
<br />
"...right. Dean needs his meds," she announces. "I'm going to have to stop the..." her eyes flit between them "...meeting?"<br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Dean_Winchester&diff=1190Dean Winchester2017-08-11T20:05:28Z<p>Justanothername: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{CharacterNew<br />
|NameOnMUSH=Dean Winchester<br />
|Color=#333<br />
|TextColor=#c1c1c1<br />
|Char_id=306<br />
|Img=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/ac/5f/cc/ac5fccdc0468cef9da0a711df71c3847.jpg<br />
|FullName=Dean<br />
|Gender=Male<br />
|Species=Human<br />
|Theme=DC<br />
|Chartype=FC<br />
|Active=Active<br />
|Occupation=Hunter<br />
|Groups=Just Cause<br />
|Quote=You feel sorry for me, huh? Don't feel sorry for me. You don't know anything about me. I save lives. I'm a hero. A hero!<br />
|PAge=25<br />
|AAge=25<br />
|DOB=January 24, 1999<br />
|Height=182.88<br />
|Weight=74.84<br />
|Hair=Dark Blonde<br />
|Eyes=Green<br />
|Actor=Jensen Ackles<br />
|Song=Iron Maiden--the Trooper<br />
|Profile=He was a normal kid until he lost his mother when he was about 6. After that, his father delved into gathering information on the supernatural and turned himself into a hunter- raising him and his brother the same way. With his father gone often as they were taken around on his hunts, Dean spent a lot of time helping to watch over and raise his little brother. The two were inseparable until Sam decided to make a life for himself outside of 'the hunt', and went to college. Continuing to work close with his father, Dean lived his life on the fringe of 'existence', always using some fake name or scammed identities to get by. He's learned a lot of tricks of the trade and knows how to stay just on that edge. Free. No ties. Always on the road and always something to hunt and someone to save. That is, until a splinter cell of 'Blue' people decided to start murdering parents on the edge of the coast in New York and he went to investigate. This is where he disappeared for almost a year. His father on a long hunt, his brother out of contact- he wasn't really missed, was he? Enduring a long haul of torture of the creatures, he finally was freed. On solid ground and recovering losses, he's getting back on his feet to get back into the game and find his brother and father. This isn't something he can be the lone rider on anymore.<br />
|Abilities=----------------------------------------< Angelic Vessel >----------------------------------------<br />
While not necessarily a power, he is unknowingly wrapped in some heavenly plot that may not have started yet. He is supposed to be the 'vessel' for the ArchAngel Michael.<br />
|Skills=-----------------------------------------< Survivalist >------------------------------------------<br />
Raised on street-smarts and a con artist, Dean knows how to live on the fringe of society and do so well. Credit card scams, cheating, impersonating, hustling, even stealing... Whatever it takes to survive and get the job done. Not to mention, have money for food, the upkeep of his impala and a hotel room to sleep in when he can for a real bed.<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------< Unarmed Combat >----------------------------------------<br />
Another thing that was drilled into him from a young age was fighting unarmed, or Hand to Hand Combat. Trained by his father and various of his hunter network allies along the way, he is able to hold his own in a fight without weapons. This includes a small touch into various martial arts, wrestling, and general scrap-bar fighting.<br />
<br />
-------------------------------------------< Weaponry >-------------------------------------------<br />
Raised as a hunter and expertly trained by his father, Dean is proficient on a variety of weaponry, from common and available weaponry to making his own. This includes knowing how to make special bullets with silver, salt, etc. As well as knowing how to use available weapons around him from ordinary wood to whatever he can get his hands on. Variety of supernatural beings means you have to be well versed on the various ways to repel, expel or defeat them.<br />
|Resources=------------------------------------------< Con Artist >------------------------------------------<br />
Living as he does is its own resource. Credit card scams, hustling, etc. It is his income. He uses fake names, identity theft, whatever he has to (without bringing harm to others, of course), to get by and live 'comfortable' while on the road. He doesn't do anything lavishly expensive, of course. Just enough to comfortably get by and handle supplies when he needs to 'restock'.<br />
----------------------------------------< Dad's Journal >-----------------------------------------<br />
When his father disappeared last time, he left his journal behind. Finding it, there was a message in the back with the coordinates for New York City. It is filled with his father's personal notes and logs of encounters and hunts over his career and is an invaluable resource.<br />
---------------------------------------< Hunter's Network >---------------------------------------<br />
Thanks to his father, he's met a few hunters growing up and still keeps in contact with several of them. It is a great information network, and can connect or call for help if he really needs to.<br />
--------------------------------------------< Impala >--------------------------------------------<br />
His car is his sanctuary. It was his father's, but now his, he takes extremely good care of it. Its how he goes across the country, and also serves as a 'mobile home' of sorts. He has everything he owns pretty much, in that car. A couple bags of clothes, a satchel of first aid items- not to mention the loaded weapons locker in his trunk.<br />
|Weaknesses=--------------------------------------------< Alias >---------------------------------------------<br />
He rarely gives out his real name and living behind fake names and aliases tend to bite you in the backside at times. There have been a few times that stolen identities have landed him in some kind of official custody though he's always managed to get out. Especially in the Supernatural community, he hides his real name as often as he can. But his name or using others- it makes him rather 'non-existant' which presents problems at times.<br />
------------------------------------------< Aviophobia >------------------------------------------<br />
Dean has a serious fear of flying. Partly fueled by what he knows about the world and the fact that a plane is something he can't control. Not to mention- Planes crash. Yes. Cars crash too, but he at least has control of that. But it is a very big reason why he drives everywhere he goes. Also- why he's never left the continental US. Plenty enough for him to do here, thank you very much.<br />
----------------------------------------< Lol, You Mad? >-----------------------------------------<br />
As wrapped into the Supernatural World as Dean is, he's made many enemies. Its not uncommon for a being higher than one he's killed before try to find retribution against him in some fashion. Generally why Hunters don't live long, healthy lives. And the enemies just keep on counting... Pissing off the Demons, for instance? Oh boy... The Winchesters are infamous, to boot. Its been done before that Dean would be targeted just to try and draw out his father, even. Can't catch a break, man.<br />
------------------------------------------< My Brother >------------------------------------------<br />
While he cares for some people, the one that is his biggest weakness is Sam. He feels stronger when they are together and he will protect him the best he can until the bitter end. But because of his sense of obligation to care for his younger brother, Sam can be exploited to force Dean into submission when there is no other choice. He won't hesitate to put his life down for his brother and that may very well be his downfall.<br />
}}</div>Justanothernamehttps://www.unitedheroesmush.com/index.php?title=Dean_Winchester&diff=1189Dean Winchester2017-08-11T20:00:01Z<p>Justanothername: Created page with "{{CharacterNew |NameOnMUSH=Dean Winchester |Color=#333 |TextColor=#c1c1c1 |Char_id=306 |Img=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/ac/5f/cc/ac5fccdc0468cef9da0a711df71..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{CharacterNew<br />
|NameOnMUSH=Dean Winchester<br />
|Color=#333<br />
|TextColor=#c1c1c1<br />
|Char_id=306<br />
|Img=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/ac/5f/cc/ac5fccdc0468cef9da0a711df71c3847.jpg<br />
|FullName=Dean<br />
|Gender=Male<br />
|Species=Human<br />
|Theme=DC<br />
|Chartype=FC<br />
|Active=Active<br />
|Occupation=Hunter<br />
|Groups=Just Cause<br />
|Quote=You feel sorry for me, huh? Don't feel sorry for me. You don't know anything about me. I save lives. I'm a hero. A hero!<br />
|PAge=25<br />
|AAge=25<br />
|DOB=January 24, 1999<br />
|Height=182.88<br />
|Weight=74.84<br />
|Hair=Dark Blonde<br />
|Eyes=Green<br />
|Actor=Jensen Ackles<br />
|Song=Iron Maiden--the Trooper<br />
|Profile=He was a normal kid until he lost his mother when he was about 6. After that, his father delved into gathering information on the supernatural and turned himself into a hunter- raising him and his brother the same way. With his father gone often as they were taken around on his hunts, Dean spent a lot of time helping to watch over and raise his little brother. The two were inseparable until Sam decided to make a life for himself outside of 'the hunt', and went to college. Continuing to work close with his father, Dean lived his life on the fringe of 'existence', always using some fake name or scammed identities to get by. He's learned a lot of tricks of the trade and knows how to stay just on that edge. Free. No ties. Always on the road and always something to hunt and someone to save. That is, until a splinter cell of 'Blue' people decided to start murdering parents on the edge of the coast in New York and he went to investigate. This is where he disappeared for almost a year. His father on a long hunt, his brother out of contact- he wasn't really missed, was he? Enduring a long haul of torture of the creatures, it was Aspen that came to his rescue. On solid ground and recovering losses, he's getting back on his feet to get back into the game and find his brother and father. This isn't something he can be the lone rider on anymore.<br />
|Abilities=----------------------------------------< Angelic Vessel >----------------------------------------<br />
While not necessarily a power, he is unknowingly wrapped in some heavenly plot that may not have started yet. He is supposed to be the 'vessel' for the ArchAngel Michael.<br />
|Skills=-----------------------------------------< Survivalist >------------------------------------------<br />
Raised on street-smarts and a con artist, Dean knows how to live on the fringe of society and do so well. Credit card scams, cheating, impersonating, hustling, even stealing... Whatever it takes to survive and get the job done. Not to mention, have money for food, the upkeep of his impala and a hotel room to sleep in when he can for a real bed.<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------< Unarmed Combat >----------------------------------------<br />
Another thing that was drilled into him from a young age was fighting unarmed, or Hand to Hand Combat. Trained by his father and various of his hunter network allies along the way, he is able to hold his own in a fight without weapons. This includes a small touch into various martial arts, wrestling, and general scrap-bar fighting.<br />
<br />
-------------------------------------------< Weaponry >-------------------------------------------<br />
Raised as a hunter and expertly trained by his father, Dean is proficient on a variety of weaponry, from common and available weaponry to making his own. This includes knowing how to make special bullets with silver, salt, etc. As well as knowing how to use available weapons around him from ordinary wood to whatever he can get his hands on. Variety of supernatural beings means you have to be well versed on the various ways to repel, expel or defeat them.<br />
|Resources=------------------------------------------< Con Artist >------------------------------------------<br />
Living as he does is its own resource. Credit card scams, hustling, etc. It is his income. He uses fake names, identity theft, whatever he has to (without bringing harm to others, of course), to get by and live 'comfortable' while on the road. He doesn't do anything lavishly expensive, of course. Just enough to comfortably get by and handle supplies when he needs to 'restock'.<br />
----------------------------------------< Dad's Journal >-----------------------------------------<br />
When his father disappeared last time, he left his journal behind. Finding it, there was a message in the back with the coordinates for New York City. It is filled with his father's personal notes and logs of encounters and hunts over his career and is an invaluable resource.<br />
---------------------------------------< Hunter's Network >---------------------------------------<br />
Thanks to his father, he's met a few hunters growing up and still keeps in contact with several of them. It is a great information network, and can connect or call for help if he really needs to.<br />
--------------------------------------------< Impala >--------------------------------------------<br />
His car is his sanctuary. It was his father's, but now his, he takes extremely good care of it. Its how he goes across the country, and also serves as a 'mobile home' of sorts. He has everything he owns pretty much, in that car. A couple bags of clothes, a satchel of first aid items- not to mention the loaded weapons locker in his trunk.<br />
|Weaknesses=--------------------------------------------< Alias >---------------------------------------------<br />
He rarely gives out his real name and living behind fake names and aliases tend to bite you in the backside at times. There have been a few times that stolen identities have landed him in some kind of official custody though he's always managed to get out. Especially in the Supernatural community, he hides his real name as often as he can. But his name or using others- it makes him rather 'non-existant' which presents problems at times.<br />
------------------------------------------< Aviophobia >------------------------------------------<br />
Dean has a serious fear of flying. Partly fueled by what he knows about the world and the fact that a plane is something he can't control. Not to mention- Planes crash. Yes. Cars crash too, but he at least has control of that. But it is a very big reason why he drives everywhere he goes. Also- why he's never left the continental US. Plenty enough for him to do here, thank you very much.<br />
----------------------------------------< Lol, You Mad? >-----------------------------------------<br />
As wrapped into the Supernatural World as Dean is, he's made many enemies. Its not uncommon for a being higher than one he's killed before try to find retribution against him in some fashion. Generally why Hunters don't live long, healthy lives. And the enemies just keep on counting... Pissing off the Demons, for instance? Oh boy... The Winchesters are infamous, to boot. Its been done before that Dean would be targeted just to try and draw out his father, even. Can't catch a break, man.<br />
------------------------------------------< My Brother >------------------------------------------<br />
While he cares for some people, the one that is his biggest weakness is Sam. He feels stronger when they are together and he will protect him the best he can until the bitter end. But because of his sense of obligation to care for his younger brother, Sam can be exploited to force Dean into submission when there is no other choice. He won't hesitate to put his life down for his brother and that may very well be his downfall.<br />
}}</div>Justanothername