i looked 'round | and i knew there was no turnin' back
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sammy, and Castiel
Rating: PG-13 for language, probably. Dean's not in a good mood.
Time Period: Modern
Location: Landing zone
Relative Date: Current.
Status: PM to join
That's it.
Dean had gone to exorbitant lengths in his life to keep his little brother from harm; lengths that only crazy men would go. But right now, all of that was forgotten, replaced by one single overriding thought, as he gripped the seat for all it was worth.
I'm gonna freakin' kill him myself.
The helicopter lurched unexpectedly - turbulence, probably - but that thought never even occurred to Dean, who leaned forward, clutching the back of the pilot's seat, and shouting: "You sure you know how to fly this thing, buddy?" The total lack of response didn't do a whole lot to soothe his rattled nerves, so he slunk back into his seat, wishing he could meld right into it.
What on earth had possessed Sammy to think this was a good idea? Where could he have possibly gone that Dean couldn't have driven, or taken a boat, or scaled a mountain, or anything short of having to take one of these things way up in the air with nothing between him and the ground but some untrustworthy, unsturdy metal?
It's worth it, he tried to remind himself, if there's really a way to get around this whole vessel BS and still stop Lucifer. He knew, however, it was more likely Sam had been fooled into thinking there was a way, and ran off on some half-cocked quest, straight into the mouth of a big ol' trap. In which case, it was Dean's responsibility to go yank his ass out of it.
And then, he comforted himself, then I can kill him.
He wrapped his arms tightly across his chest, and started humming Metallica, praying it'd be over soon.
-------------------------
"Come on man, aren't you even gonna turn the blades off?" Dean shouted over the roar, when they finally touched ground. No response, and no move to oblige, so Dean took a deep breath, counted to ten, and hopped out on to the sweet, sweet ground, landing more than a little unsteadily. He straightened up in an attempt at composure, but all his muscles were too tight as he took a few awkward steps away from the chopper, duffel bag in hand.
When the helicopter abruptly took off behind him, stirring up dust and a swell of wind, he whipped around in time to throw some colorful curses at the pilot that were lost in the din, only to have to throw an arm up across his face as a shield against the flying dirt.
In the wake of the takeoff, he looked down at himself, coughing puffs of sand out of his lungs. He was covered in dust from head to toe. With a wordless sigh, he ran a hand through his hair, shaking it out as best he could.
Rating: PG-13 for language, probably. Dean's not in a good mood.
Time Period: Modern
Location: Landing zone
Relative Date: Current.
Status: PM to join
That's it.
Dean had gone to exorbitant lengths in his life to keep his little brother from harm; lengths that only crazy men would go. But right now, all of that was forgotten, replaced by one single overriding thought, as he gripped the seat for all it was worth.
I'm gonna freakin' kill him myself.
The helicopter lurched unexpectedly - turbulence, probably - but that thought never even occurred to Dean, who leaned forward, clutching the back of the pilot's seat, and shouting: "You sure you know how to fly this thing, buddy?" The total lack of response didn't do a whole lot to soothe his rattled nerves, so he slunk back into his seat, wishing he could meld right into it.
What on earth had possessed Sammy to think this was a good idea? Where could he have possibly gone that Dean couldn't have driven, or taken a boat, or scaled a mountain, or anything short of having to take one of these things way up in the air with nothing between him and the ground but some untrustworthy, unsturdy metal?
It's worth it, he tried to remind himself, if there's really a way to get around this whole vessel BS and still stop Lucifer. He knew, however, it was more likely Sam had been fooled into thinking there was a way, and ran off on some half-cocked quest, straight into the mouth of a big ol' trap. In which case, it was Dean's responsibility to go yank his ass out of it.
And then, he comforted himself, then I can kill him.
He wrapped his arms tightly across his chest, and started humming Metallica, praying it'd be over soon.
-------------------------
"Come on man, aren't you even gonna turn the blades off?" Dean shouted over the roar, when they finally touched ground. No response, and no move to oblige, so Dean took a deep breath, counted to ten, and hopped out on to the sweet, sweet ground, landing more than a little unsteadily. He straightened up in an attempt at composure, but all his muscles were too tight as he took a few awkward steps away from the chopper, duffel bag in hand.
When the helicopter abruptly took off behind him, stirring up dust and a swell of wind, he whipped around in time to throw some colorful curses at the pilot that were lost in the din, only to have to throw an arm up across his face as a shield against the flying dirt.
In the wake of the takeoff, he looked down at himself, coughing puffs of sand out of his lungs. He was covered in dust from head to toe. With a wordless sigh, he ran a hand through his hair, shaking it out as best he could.