dashboardlite: (Locked and Loaded)
[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?"
dashboardlite: (It's the...EYE OF THE TIGER)
An extremely heavy, loud bass-beat is thumping down the hallways and spewing out of the library.

Dean has acquired a boombox.

He's also legitimately doing research, for once in his life, plucking books here and there and stacking them in a rather haphazard fashion on the nearest table, all the while singing along to Separate Ways by one of the classic 80's bands, Journey.

Don't judge, you sonsabitches.

"Troubled times, caught between confusion and pain...pain...pain," He bobs his head along with the music, chucking another leather-bound book onto the desk.  "Distant eyes-" Dean spins around, boots skidding along the wood floor, "Promises we made were in vain - In vaaaain, vain."

Never mind how well the lyrics appear to mimic some bits of his own life - they don't matter.  What matters is how he can't find any information on skinny dudes with tentacle-arms in any books relating to supernatural subjects.  "Most of this shit doesn't even make sense," Dean grumbles, leaving the volume up on his music-maker and taking a seat in the nearest armchair.  "Stake a vampir- Who the fuck wrote this?!"
dashboardlite: (Default)
He's been thinking about this for a while.  Let's be honest, here - Castiel is a virgin.  He has to be.  He knows absolutely nothing.  It might do him some good to get out and have someone who's attracted to him crawling all over him.  Someone who isn't Dean all hopped up on clingy Christmas cheer.

That, and this intervention might make Cas stop staring at him so much.  Dean knows he's sexy, but he isn't exactly the most interesting thing in the world to look at.  Staring stupidly is what they invented movies and porn for.

"Fudgin' holidays," He mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck and kicking aside a pile of tinsel on the floor.  He's had better plans in the past, but Santana is his last resort.  Dean doesn't want to go to her, but she probably knows some hot chicks, and she can help him pull Cas out of his shell a little bit.  So he sucks it up and buckles in, knowing it might very well be a bumpy ride.

Dean stops by Santana's door, knocking a couple times and leaning casually on the jamb, hands in his pockets.

Silver lining: Even if he can't touch, he'll still be able to look at his smokin' hot date.  If she accepts.
dashboardlite: (Ohhh that's nice.)
A fast-paced guitar riff is playing, and the comm unit appears to be placed in its usual spot - the hulking desk by the window.  A little light is streaming in, and the room would be fairly dim if not for the tall floor lamp in the corner.  The music, a less-popular piece by Foreigner, thrums around the room and is soon accompanied by a heavy roll of steam from one side of the frame.  It's coming from the bathroom.  Once the lyrics start, though, the vocals are not those of American-born-and-bred singer, Lou Gramm, but Dean Winchester's low, throaty, almost-crooning voice.

"Hey baby, if you're feeeeeeeling down, I know what's good for you all day," The man hop-skips out of the bathroom, steam swirling around his head, clad in nothing more than a towel.  He's got a hairbrush in one hand and is singing into it pretty soulfully.  "Are you worried what your friends see?  Will it ruin your reputation lovin' me?  'Cause I'm a dirty white boy - dirty white boy!"  Dean slides along the wall, still wet, feet squeaking on the polished wood floor.  "Dirty white boy - dirty white boy!  Diiiiirty white booooy!"

He manages to make it through the second verse passably well, tossing clothes out of his bag here and there in search of, no doubt, a particular flannel shirt.  "I've been in trouble since I don't know when, I'm in trouble now, and I know - somehow, I'll find trouble again!  'Cause I'm a dirty white boy, diiiiiiiiiiirty whiiiite boyYeeeaaaaaah!"

Once the instrumental break hits, so does the air-guitaring.

He appears to have noticed nothing at all aside from his singing and fairly poor excuse for dancing, but the show must be amusing.  Dean slides to a finish, whipping his head to one side and wiping his brow, tossing the hairbrush on the bed.  Panting, he glances casually over to the comm unit and realizes that the red RECORDING button is on.

Eyes widening to exponential proportions, he bolts to the camera with a muffled laugh and a well-placed "Shit", offering a broad expanse of chest before switching the camera off with a near-deafening click.
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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