dashboardlite: (So freaking tempted...)
All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy.


He types because he can. Not to send, just...to type. Dean isn't sure when it really started. Maybe when he woke up. Maybe it was always there. Maybe it's just cabin fever, the stress of being stuck in one place for too long. Being trapped. Trapped. Trapped.

All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy.


It feels to wrong to just...jusssssssssst just sit around. Waiting. Waiting. People to see. Places to go. Rooms to visit. The hallways are filthy with the promising stench of blood, so much blood he can taste it. I'm not gonna hurt you, no, no, I'd never, I'm just gonna bash your brains in, sweetheart, just hold sti-

All work and no play makes Dean a |


He switches the radio on, clears his throat, and becomes the dull boy.

"Hey! There anyone out there? It's Dean." He sighs, careful not to oversell the act. "The hallways are pretty tricked out, and I got a feeling that none of this is gonna end well for any of us since it ain't like we've got any clues yet. I'm thinkin' we oughta stick together to stay safe. If anybody needs help, radio me. I've dealt with almost everything, so we might as well be prepared."

All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy.


"Over and out."
dashboardlite: (Keep it classy.)
[This program is brought to you by Herpexia: Daily Treatment for Genital Herpes.]

So, uh. It's come to my attention that whenever events roll around, everybody's usually running through the halls like chickens with their friggin' heads cut off. So today we're gonna fix that, 'cause this is what I do for a living.

[It appears that Dean is in the kitchen, and has covered an entire countertop with assorted objets d'hunting.]

Got a coupla basics here. Salt. [He lifts up a canister of the stuff.] Purifying chemical compound. Burns ghosts, but won't keep 'em away for long. You can protect yourself by drawing a circle with it and stayin' inside. Iron- [Dean gestures to the crowbar.] Also purifying, harms malevolent spirits.

[With a click, he's got a Zippo lighter out and lit.] Whole bunch of stuff is gonna hafta be burned. [Out goes the lighter.] Usually the remains of a dead person, so you might get your hands dirty, fair warning.

[Dean pockets the Zippo and leans in for a dramatic close-up on the camera.]

Where I come from, monsters are real. And they're not about to go away - especially not in Wonderland. You can either sit here with your thumbs up your asses, or be ready. I'm gonna take questions about whatever stuff you wanna throw at me, so knock yourselves out. Class is in session.
dashboardlite: (guilty-as-charged)
[Dean is staring at the camera, lips pursed, apparently highly amused by something.  He's sitting in what appears to be an empty lounge room on the lowest level of the mansion.  The Eagles are playing behind him on a (shitty) cassette player.  With a little laugh he looks down at his hands in his lap and laces his fingers together, taking a deep breath.]

Today I remembered why I hated high school so damn much.

[There's a thoughtful pause, the smile slides off his face, and his gaze becomes a little more critical as he plays with the ring on his finger.]

And I remembered why I didn't go to college.

[That one was easy enough - he'd followed in his father's footsteps, always eager for approval, always begging for attention by blindly obeying the man's every order.  Dean leans back in his chair again, the wood creaking a little, his expression firmer, his jaw set.  If anything, he looks...bitter.]

...and I remembered why I haven't had a relationship 'cause I haven't stopped screwing around since then.  [He glances sideways, green eyes sharp.  He's never in one place long enough to get to know people, and this fact appears to be getting to him.]

I wanna leave.  [Quietly.]  I wanna drive.  Just drive.
dashboardlite: (Default)
[There's an unhappy growling sound, a few switches clicking, and the low buzz of electronics warming up.]

C'mon, you fucker.  Jesus, you- Okay. There.  God damn it, didn't think I'd have to leave my own message like a bad zombie apocalypse movie.

[The screen flickers and it clears up to show a man's torso before he bends down to squint into the camera. He's ruggedly good-looking, albeit a little angry at present with the set jaw and furrowed brow. He narrows green eyes at the lens and prods it experimentally before shuffling to one side and scraping a chair across the floor to the table, settling on it and propping his feet up before speaking.]

No goddamn clue where I am.

[He groans, rubbing the back of his neck.]

'M in a room, in a house, and Sammy if you get this broadcast you come and find me, you hear?  For all I know it's the freakin' trickster again tryin' to screw around with me, and this time I don't wanna die chokin' on a taco or getting a desk dropped on my sexy head.

[The man glares at the camera before digging into his leather jacket, pulling out an IMI Desert Eagle semi-automatic pistol and checking the weight and munitions cartridge.  Prying one of the bullets out, he holds it up to the camera briefly.]

See that? Wrought iron.

[Looks rather pleased with himself as he replaces it in its case and reloads the gun.]

If any demons or ghosts come around lookin' for me I'll be ready.

[Quirks a little smile at the gun before tucking it back into his jacket and fingering the amulet around his neck, lost in thought for a moment before mumbling hoarsely.]

...you gotta find me, Sammy. S'not like I had much time left, anyway.

[He reaches over, and there are a few seconds of muffled, bumping noises before he hits the switch and the screen goes black.]

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Dean Winchester

January 2020

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