somebody tryin' just to stay alive

[On this incredibly merry Christmas, dearest denizens of Wonderland, you may be privy to two happenings: a shaky video of Dean grinning into the camera and sprinting down to the beach because there is something there waiting for him, or witness him delivering gifts to places of residence.]

You are now Dean Winchester, the DASHING WANDERLUSTER. You decide to deliver THOUGHTFUL GIFTS to ALL YOUR FRIENDS.

> DW: ( SHIT LET'S BE SANTA )

[ Dean is only a little twitchy.  He never really feels like he needs things, but right now he's lacking.  Something.  Something big.  It's not starvation, because when he's hungry, he gets food.  When he wants sex, he finds Cas.  Dean doesn't get cravings because he's always well-fed.

But what he needs right now is people.

So Dean is wandering around the grounds for the most part, trying to locate the people he needs.  He could be in the parlour, fixing a drink.  He could be kicking at the edge of the hedge maze, contemplating going inside but unwilling to risk not being able to find his way out again without a bag of peanut M&Ms to leave as a trail guide.  He could even be in the kitchen, trying (and failing) to cook something to keep his mind off of everything.

He's that restless.

Good luck. ]

Any crit about how I play Dean, please leave it here!

Much obliged. c:

Obscenely loud music is blaring from one of the first floor parlors, and it possesses a remarkable nautical quality that borders on the fucking epic.  You might be wondering the reason for these festive tunes, curious resident.  If you happen to be peering through your communicator or walking down the hall, venturing into the nearest open door, your vision is assaulted by a swath of colorful fabrics draped over the furniture, from the ceilings, along the walls.  The alluring glitter of gold winks up at you from piles on the floor, and a bust of someone who looks suspiciously like Edward Teach is bedecked in jewelry and scarves.
You might even see Dean Winchester, sporting an eyepatch and a large, plumed hat, lounging on a silk divan.  His jeans are tucked into heavy leather boots and he's wielding a flintlock pistol, cleaning the barrel with a chamois rag.  Pausing for one moment, he sets the gun aside and reaches over to pick up one of the gold doubloons scattered across the floor.  He then peels away the leafing and pops the chocolate money into his mouth, enjoying it with obvious relish.  Turning the music down as soon as it breaks to an instrumental interlude, Dean crosses his legs on the divan, getting comfortable.

He pulls out a hip flask, taking a swig and saluting the camera with his left hand - observant residents might notice that he appears to have only four fingers now.  Then he spreads his arms to welcome the adoring audience.

"All aboard, bitches."

[[ooc; Just a wee bit after this.]]



It's a good day.

It's still morning.  The rave is over, the candy-high is gone.  He doesn't have to worry about having pawned off anything valuable just to get a fix.  Sammy's MIA, but Castiel came back from wherever he went.  Probably escaping the techno music.  Speaking of music - there isn't any playing, but there is someone singing.

It's slightly off-key, barely muted by the sound of running water, and very clearly a tribute to The J. Geils Band.  Then the shower shuts off, and every single lyric is discernible for any and all listening in.

"-I was shy, I turned away, before she caught my eye.  I was shakin' in my shoes, whenever she flashed those baby-blues!  Something had a hold on me when angel passed close by."

He slides out of the bathroom and into view like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, sporting a towel and a shampoo bottle-microphone...

...and then promptly dives back into the refrain, hop-skipping across the floor like a man who just got laid.

Because guess what? 

He did.

Never you mind the trench coat draped over the desk chair haphazardly and the clothes all over the floor.  Never you mind at all.

Sam?!

[It's playing on a loop in Dean's head.]

Mom?  Mom!  Dad?!  C'mon, this isn't funny!

[The...the Dean in the television had been screaming.  For an hour.]

Bobby?  Dad!  You guys, please!  Don't just...don't just leave me here.

[Until his voice was raw.  Until he couldn't scream anymore.  Until he curled up and sobbed.  Dean can remember it distinctly enough.  Something that was him.  But not him.  Alone in a room.  It was dark, and quiet.  And no one was answering.  No one was there.  Not even-]

Cas?!

[Dean sucks in a shaky breath, settled in the corner of his childhood room in his old house.  The entire kitschy motel room looks like his house, down to the gash in the paintjob from when Dean ran his Hot Wheels cars into the wall, repeating some movie stunt he'd seen on tv when he was four.  Cradling a small statue of an angel - one of the only things he found in the room that was completely unscathed, and a gift from his mother - Dean sends a terrified, sidelong glance at a family portrait, framed and hung on the wall.

Hairline fractures have snaked through the infrastructure of the bedroom, the window panes split and spider-webbed, the photographs of everyone close to him torn.  His mother is ripped from every single one.  Sammy has slashes through his face; white scrapes made with an Exacto knife in anger.  And Dean isn't even next to his father in any of them.]

Someone...  [He croaks, looking down at the statue of the angel in his hands.  Dean can't remember when he first noticed it was in his room, on his shelf, but he definitely remembers that his father thought it was sort of silly.  His mother believed otherwise.]

It's okay, baby, it's all okay.  Angels are watching over you.

[Dean swallows before trying again.]

...anyone?

[ooc; Just for Dean and Dickface Karofsky, guys. c: ]

"A long, long time ago...'nd I can still remember, when that music used to make me smile..."

Dean is usually singing, or humming, something from his "headbanger repertoire", as Sam so aptly tends to put it.  Metallica isn't on his mind today, though - most of the mullet-rock isn't, as a matter of fact.  He's feeling rather Don McLean, and that tends to happen when Dean's hungry, just as a general rule.

Meandering down to the kitchen in search of the ever-elusive perfect slice of pie, he sidles into the empty room on a mission from God, Hellbent - Well, isn't that ironic? - to procure some quality comestibles to keep his stomach from digesting itself.  Deftly sliding open a drawer and whipping out a fork, he scrutinizes the majestically magical food-cabinet carefully, considering his options.  He usually gets apple.

Time to be adventurous.

Thinking really hard about a steamin' hot slice of peach pie, he's pleased to find as much when he opens the little door, and Dean leans up against the counter in the far corner of the kitchen, digging in.

[ooc; This is just gonna be reserved for The Operator, Dean, and Castiel to write in. But if you enjoy disembowelment, feel free to read~]

There are a lot worse things that Dean Winchester could be doing with his time than hunting down something that he isn't completely, one-hundred percent knowledgeable about.

Vampires are easy.  Cut the head off.

Werewolves shot with a silver bullet.

Ghosts?  Salt and burn the remains.

But reapers...the last time Dean's seen a reaper, he was hanging in limbo, waiting to die in a hospital.  It wasn't so bad, then.  It had taken the form of a young woman named Tessa, startlingly pretty and unfailingly sympathetic to the mortality of humans.  Infinitely wise.  His first experience had been less pleasant.  Dean's first real brush with death was a little over a year ago: heart attack thanks to a fuck-up with a 10,000 Volt stun-gun trying to kill something on the job, and he landed an all-expenses-paid trip to the Great Beyond.  Prognosis wasn't good: Six weeks, at best.  But a local faith healer had cured him, at the price of someone else's life.  Someone controlled a reaper.

Someone was playing God.

In those last moments of consciousness when Faith Healer Roy Le Grange had laid hands upon him, Dean saw a tall, pale man in a dark suit.

The Operator obviously isn't going to play nice.  Dean can't reason with it, like he did with Tessa.  There's the chance that it could be controlled by someone, the way Le Grange's reaper was, but everyone in this godforsaken place is scared of the damn thing, so that's outta the cards.  Maybe it just went rogue.

"Aaaaand I don't even know how the Hell I'm s'posed to kill it," Dean mutters to himself, snapping his father's journal shut and tucking it into his duffel bag.  He's armed with a decent amount of weapons, ranging from salt-rounded shotguns to silver knives - because you can't take any chances with Death - and an angel.

Dean takes a deep breath, staring up at the forbidding woods with a tight frown on his face.

"You ready, Cas?"