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mulletrockWHO: Dean Winchester, and anyone crossing his path.
WHERE: The fountain, and the town. Other locations through writing?
WHEN: Night of the 18th.
OPEN TO: ALL.
WARNINGS: Probably profanity. Mentions of violence and death.
The last thing Dean can remember is blinding white light. Whenever Castiel ported him anywhere it was a blur of lights, color, sound and an unparalleled brush with vertigo. Afterward his legs felt like jelly, the earth felt like sand, and the buzzing in his head didn't die down for a good hour. That was the kind of crazy that he could count on.
Instead, the cool rush of water was the first thing to bring him back to reality. On all corners, immersed, and the push up is only part of what moves him to the surface. At this point, the sudden spike in adrenaline is driving him and it's what pulls him higher and higher until he's finally able to break the surface. Did Cas fucking drop him? What the hell was this?
The first sharp inhale rakes against his ribs and rattles around with the cool air outside. It's a painful reminder of the fact that he's alive, this is real, and not another pipe dream of Zachariah's. Even if it could be, this didn't really seem his style. Too decorated, too close to the last shit show.
With good old-fashioned upper body strength, Dean heaves himself out of the water, it's dark, too dark to really get a clear lay of the land. All he knows is that it's nowhere he's ever been before. His phone wasn't gonna do him any good, but some other provisions might. After a second to reign in his breath, Dean double checks his pockets and his fingertips meet the crude set of cheap cotton scrubs. Now he knows somebody screwed the pooch.
"Sonuvabitch!" No weapons. No I.D. No phone - not that it'd matter. No amount of rice was gonna fix whatever the hell just happened to him. He had absolutely no idea where he was or where he needed to go to get some answers. Timbuktu with no map and no geographical comprehension, normally there'd be a lot more screaming but after everything with Sam with Zachariah, himself, and with Cas, he doesn't bother wasting the energy.
An open palm finds the ridge of the fountain and with a muted grunt he uses the force of his blow to the side of it to push him to his feet. Dean doesn't bother wringing out the set of clothes. He lets them trip as he treks toward the soft glow of what he can only hope is charitable civilization and a warm meal.
A warm meal and a drink were all the convincing Dean needed to head toward the inn and tavern to hang his hat for the night. He hadn't heard anything about this kind of hospitality since he was a kid and cowboy shows were his favorite late-night stories, but it was a kind of comfort he hadn't experienced in a while that beat the hell out of a full-scale apocalypse.
Keeping to himself is only part of the game, old habits die hard. It's a lot easier to white knuckle a pint and keep his eyes on the people around him than to just dive ride in. People were easy to read. Body language, laughter, hell- sometimes the eyes said all the things they wouldn't or didn't. So, scoping out the place came naturally to him even if it meant picking a corner seat in a dimly lit area so he could case people and figure out who he should talk to first.
His bedroom is calling his name at this point, after 2014 and the shit that happened there, and the trip back home with Cas that never actually landed him home. He's world-weary and exhausted for more than one reason, even if it is easier to blame it on the swim and the chilly night air. Surveillance had to be prioritized, Sam would be doing the same thing if he were here. If he just ran upstairs Bobby would've had his ass. That kind of negligence got you lifetime ticket ride on the guilt-trip train.
Once he got somewhere quiet he made sure to be root through the bag he showed up with. Nothing useful, besides the provisions and some survivalist items. This is starting to seem more and more like an M. Night Shyamalan film. Besides the fact that the people aren't even interesting to watch. Two beers and he's still coming up goose egg.
WHERE: The fountain, and the town. Other locations through writing?
WHEN: Night of the 18th.
OPEN TO: ALL.
WARNINGS: Probably profanity. Mentions of violence and death.
The Fountain
Instead, the cool rush of water was the first thing to bring him back to reality. On all corners, immersed, and the push up is only part of what moves him to the surface. At this point, the sudden spike in adrenaline is driving him and it's what pulls him higher and higher until he's finally able to break the surface. Did Cas fucking drop him? What the hell was this?
The first sharp inhale rakes against his ribs and rattles around with the cool air outside. It's a painful reminder of the fact that he's alive, this is real, and not another pipe dream of Zachariah's. Even if it could be, this didn't really seem his style. Too decorated, too close to the last shit show.
With good old-fashioned upper body strength, Dean heaves himself out of the water, it's dark, too dark to really get a clear lay of the land. All he knows is that it's nowhere he's ever been before. His phone wasn't gonna do him any good, but some other provisions might. After a second to reign in his breath, Dean double checks his pockets and his fingertips meet the crude set of cheap cotton scrubs. Now he knows somebody screwed the pooch.
"Sonuvabitch!" No weapons. No I.D. No phone - not that it'd matter. No amount of rice was gonna fix whatever the hell just happened to him. He had absolutely no idea where he was or where he needed to go to get some answers. Timbuktu with no map and no geographical comprehension, normally there'd be a lot more screaming but after everything with Sam with Zachariah, himself, and with Cas, he doesn't bother wasting the energy.
An open palm finds the ridge of the fountain and with a muted grunt he uses the force of his blow to the side of it to push him to his feet. Dean doesn't bother wringing out the set of clothes. He lets them trip as he treks toward the soft glow of what he can only hope is charitable civilization and a warm meal.
The Inn
Keeping to himself is only part of the game, old habits die hard. It's a lot easier to white knuckle a pint and keep his eyes on the people around him than to just dive ride in. People were easy to read. Body language, laughter, hell- sometimes the eyes said all the things they wouldn't or didn't. So, scoping out the place came naturally to him even if it meant picking a corner seat in a dimly lit area so he could case people and figure out who he should talk to first.
His bedroom is calling his name at this point, after 2014 and the shit that happened there, and the trip back home with Cas that never actually landed him home. He's world-weary and exhausted for more than one reason, even if it is easier to blame it on the swim and the chilly night air. Surveillance had to be prioritized, Sam would be doing the same thing if he were here. If he just ran upstairs Bobby would've had his ass. That kind of negligence got you lifetime ticket ride on the guilt-trip train.
Once he got somewhere quiet he made sure to be root through the bag he showed up with. Nothing useful, besides the provisions and some survivalist items. This is starting to seem more and more like an M. Night Shyamalan film. Besides the fact that the people aren't even interesting to watch. Two beers and he's still coming up goose egg.
