welcome to the bottom. (closed)
Who: Dean, Sam (precogging), and his Mom shaped VC. She'll be npc'd by (refrigeratormom)
What: Killing of the VC. Potential triggers and jearsy moments.
Where: Dean's place of solace.
When: Backdated to the last day of the event.
Warnings: As said above, emotional triggers. Mentions of horrific death. Etc. Etc. The Winchester way.
So, he'd just heard about the outbreak. The viral rash of demon shaped things taking vengeance out on the nearest source. He'd come into the house, which he'd sworn himself away from, in search of a book hidden or in plain sight that would have some information on a quick and dirty exorcism. His mom had been a hunter. She had to have something lying around. His Latin was bad and mispronounced and he didn't want to risk fucking it up at someone else's expense.
He was already tense. His knuckles blanched white over the keys to his impala as he shoved them back into his pocket and walked into the house. The bookcase was just where it had always been. The place was the exact reflection of his childhood before it went to shit. It bore no similarities with the second time he'd come back, despite himself, because of Sam's premonitions. He said he'd never go back, he swore it to himself. Even knowing the place was here he only ever sat on the porch. Breaking his rules twice didn't sit well with him.
If he couldn't find what he was looking for he was going to Sam, even if things were weird since the last time they spoke and he was still being a douche. He thumbed through the books, dust on them from age. His hand hovered over a family photo album for half a second before he convinced himself to move on. He'd give anything to go home. Promenade was still very much the mind fuck and now that Lucifer was here every bit of him was itching to break loose. The street went on forever, sure, but it wasn't the same as home. There wasn't any freedom to it, or that feeling of invigoration. Dreaming things up only went so far.
What: Killing of the VC. Potential triggers and jearsy moments.
Where: Dean's place of solace.
When: Backdated to the last day of the event.
Warnings: As said above, emotional triggers. Mentions of horrific death. Etc. Etc. The Winchester way.
So, he'd just heard about the outbreak. The viral rash of demon shaped things taking vengeance out on the nearest source. He'd come into the house, which he'd sworn himself away from, in search of a book hidden or in plain sight that would have some information on a quick and dirty exorcism. His mom had been a hunter. She had to have something lying around. His Latin was bad and mispronounced and he didn't want to risk fucking it up at someone else's expense.
He was already tense. His knuckles blanched white over the keys to his impala as he shoved them back into his pocket and walked into the house. The bookcase was just where it had always been. The place was the exact reflection of his childhood before it went to shit. It bore no similarities with the second time he'd come back, despite himself, because of Sam's premonitions. He said he'd never go back, he swore it to himself. Even knowing the place was here he only ever sat on the porch. Breaking his rules twice didn't sit well with him.
If he couldn't find what he was looking for he was going to Sam, even if things were weird since the last time they spoke and he was still being a douche. He thumbed through the books, dust on them from age. His hand hovered over a family photo album for half a second before he convinced himself to move on. He'd give anything to go home. Promenade was still very much the mind fuck and now that Lucifer was here every bit of him was itching to break loose. The street went on forever, sure, but it wasn't the same as home. There wasn't any freedom to it, or that feeling of invigoration. Dreaming things up only went so far.