[Video] || Hunt 7 ||
[So... new years rolled around. Dean sighed and moved off the bed. He'd turned it on earlier, mainly to do the generic 'Happy new year' to everyone, but got distracted by some damn robots. So he'd got rid of them, forgot about that damned communicator being on, and went and sat on the bed, which is where this post was started.]
[He's been in his room for the better part of three days, thinking about Sammy because that's always so healthy for Dean, and the fact that now, not only had he no father or mother - two things he'd never really got over - his stint in heaven had made him realise this, and now (in effect) no brother, no family of any kind (including his kind of adopted roadhouse family), S.A.M.M. had denied him the Impala, he had no connection to Cas, and everyone one else he had known, liked or loved had just... gone from his life. Not that he wasn't used to the people he cared about leaving, but it didn't make it hurt less. That's what alcohol was for. Then he'd started to think about the current situation, and Sammy at home. He'd realised that Sammy couldn't come here, as had been the vague hope in his mind - despite how he appeared to accept this on the surface before - he and freaking Crowley would have a field day. He needed to get back home because Sammy was doing hell knows what to God knows who (not that He'd do a thing about it) and he wouldn't feel a damned thing about it. He needed to put that damned soul back in. He needed the tr- wait... after his last venture with that, that was possibly one thing he didn't need too much of. He also needed to find out what the hell Samuel was up to. And possibly patch things up with Ben, if not Lisa... if that was possible, at all. All things he couldn't do from here.]
[He'd tried to stick around with people, see if they knew any way of getting out, but the only one with any damned clues was the one person he really didn't want to deal with here. But hey, he'd done worse than taking a package from Izaya, so he'd bear with it. He'd done some searching of his own... but there didn't really seem to be anything significant. But then he didn't know what to look for in this damned new world - another fact that pissed him the hell off.]
[He moves off the bed and paces for a short while, before moving over to the nightstand. He looked at the lamp for the longest time, before picking it up, and throwing it to floor, it making a satisfying (to Dean at least) noise as it broke. He pulled the draw out of the hole and threw it against the wall. It disappears off screen, as it hits the wall next to the communicator, but the loud crashing should be enough to tell you it was broken.]
[He set about this task with earnest, not stopping until his room was properly a mess and everything destroyable was destroyed. When it was done, he looked around, and sighed again. It had helped when dad had died, but did it help now? It didn't have the same feel as destroying the impala... but it probably helped. He felt a little easier, at least. then he see the recorder, and noticed for the first time since setting abut his task that it was on. He walked over and picked it up, turning it off.]
[He turns it back on to private, and his voice contains a chuckle] Clean up on aisle 7
[He's been in his room for the better part of three days, thinking about Sammy because that's always so healthy for Dean, and the fact that now, not only had he no father or mother - two things he'd never really got over - his stint in heaven had made him realise this, and now (in effect) no brother, no family of any kind (including his kind of adopted roadhouse family), S.A.M.M. had denied him the Impala, he had no connection to Cas, and everyone one else he had known, liked or loved had just... gone from his life. Not that he wasn't used to the people he cared about leaving, but it didn't make it hurt less. That's what alcohol was for. Then he'd started to think about the current situation, and Sammy at home. He'd realised that Sammy couldn't come here, as had been the vague hope in his mind - despite how he appeared to accept this on the surface before - he and freaking Crowley would have a field day. He needed to get back home because Sammy was doing hell knows what to God knows who (not that He'd do a thing about it) and he wouldn't feel a damned thing about it. He needed to put that damned soul back in. He needed the tr- wait... after his last venture with that, that was possibly one thing he didn't need too much of. He also needed to find out what the hell Samuel was up to. And possibly patch things up with Ben, if not Lisa... if that was possible, at all. All things he couldn't do from here.]
[He'd tried to stick around with people, see if they knew any way of getting out, but the only one with any damned clues was the one person he really didn't want to deal with here. But hey, he'd done worse than taking a package from Izaya, so he'd bear with it. He'd done some searching of his own... but there didn't really seem to be anything significant. But then he didn't know what to look for in this damned new world - another fact that pissed him the hell off.]
[He moves off the bed and paces for a short while, before moving over to the nightstand. He looked at the lamp for the longest time, before picking it up, and throwing it to floor, it making a satisfying (to Dean at least) noise as it broke. He pulled the draw out of the hole and threw it against the wall. It disappears off screen, as it hits the wall next to the communicator, but the loud crashing should be enough to tell you it was broken.]
[He set about this task with earnest, not stopping until his room was properly a mess and everything destroyable was destroyed. When it was done, he looked around, and sighed again. It had helped when dad had died, but did it help now? It didn't have the same feel as destroying the impala... but it probably helped. He felt a little easier, at least. then he see the recorder, and noticed for the first time since setting abut his task that it was on. He walked over and picked it up, turning it off.]
[He turns it back on to private, and his voice contains a chuckle] Clean up on aisle 7