[...]

I BURN WITH A THING I HAVE NO NAME FOR.

[preveils]

SURELY IT IS A PRIVILEGE TO REACH THE END, STILL BELIEVING IN SOMETHING. LUCY JANE LEE, AS WRITTEN INTO THE CW'S SUPERNATURAL (2005). EARLY SEASONS BASED, TRIGGER-HEAVY CONTENT. INSPIRATIONS INCLUDE: ETHEL CAIN'S PREACHER'S DAUGHTER ALBUM, S1E20 OF SUPERNATURAL (DEAD MAN'S BLOOD), SOUTHERN GOTHIC HORROR [...] carrd. characterization sideblog. affiliated with @prewarns.

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[preveils]

it's my birthday :)

[kindofuneven]

there's no timeline that he can quantify yet. terms like risk management and damage control weave tenuously between variables, not enough to bridge any gaps. restless energy clings to her like voltage. it's harder to get a read on her beyond that, but it doesn't take a master of perception to clock that she'd rather be anywhere else. hunters make him cagey on principle. maybe that's all it is, from both sides. maybe he's reading too far into it. her tone's clipped, redirecting his focus with the mild hike of a brow.

" honestly? i think it'd go a lot faster if i could catch a scent, instead of trying to find all of the answers in here. " he folds the book shut, palm flat against the hardcover. " something's not right, about any of this. if it is a werewolf, then they're covering their tracks on purpose. they're being too careful. which means that they know what they're doing, and none of this was an accident. " it isn't like a mindless rampage, is where he's going with that. it isn't just someone who lost control and couldn't pull it back. the thought flickers by in the shape of a frown before his expression shifts again. " look. i'm not gonna pretend that i couldn't use the help, but you don't have to stay if you don't want to. seriously, it's okay. "

[preveils]

it's hard to look at him. not that he's unsightly — more that he's unsettling. lucy loses a whole lotta comfort when she can't figure one side of the fence to the other, the gray areas of their conversation creepin' in over the horizon. an accident, he says: as if any monster is a monster by accident. as if death by a creature isn't somethin' innate, flush to their blood and fueling their carnage. body after body, she's seen it— the unveiling of self. the truth about what these sorta beings can do.

yet, here he is, working the case, same as her. still, oh-so-different. it makes her want to claw at the walls, scratch her own skin off. something's not right, sure, but lucy thinks it has little to do with their hunt— far more to do with them.

"not often that it isn't an accident." muttered, and half a slight. not intentional, really, but she finds it hard to keep these types of things sealed shut. she scrubs at her eyes, runs a hand through tangled strands, and then spares a look his way. "i don't leave jobs unfinished." everything sounds like sharp edges coming out of her mouth these days, and she tries to soften the blow. "'s okay. don't worry 'bout me."

[preveils]

hunting's the type of job that has a rhythm. (pick up, split town; find a case, rip it open. search, investigate, research ... and research some more. find the culprit. kill the monster. banish your own demons in the wake, and—  pick up, split town, do it all again.) it's not for the impatient. ain't for the faint of heart, either. it's a cyclical network, a perpetual haunting, and there's little room for hesitation — but plenty of room for error.

... 'n they've been finding it in spades. for all the gun-slinging gambles, rough 'n tough action, they've been stuck in the search-and-investigate section of the story for far too long. typically, it's simple enough to summarize. this case, though— is complicated enough to screw up.

"trying to think positively, but feeling… less so." — @graveflwers, as tommy flood.

lucy's palm runs over the curve of her face with a sigh. she's leaned forward over the motel desk, a mostly-filled journal centered in front of her as she flips from page to page. "makes one of us." muttered, grumpy with the fatigue of her gaze. she pinches at the bridge of her nose, closes her eyes, and huffs. "i need a break." and a drink, she doesn't add— shoving the journal alongside a stack of library books. a glance back over to tommy, paired with a tiny smile — no matter how strained. "you, um— you wanna get a beer?"

[preveils]

@manenuf.

when it comes to stick-straight, paper-thin, seemingly docile girls like lucy— hunters have a bad habit of assuming. down to the rifles, down to the machetes, down to the are-you-sure's and the get-behind-me's; somehow they all navigate it the same. white knight, savior mentality, playing hero to a girl who doesn't need one. (for the most part, she doesn't mind. it's flattering to be something worth protecting. sure, it's irritating when they think she don't know how to shoot just like they do, but at least they've got her back. at least they'll keep an eye out.) dae-ho's no different, championing through their hunt as if she can barely tie her own shoes, but she shakes it off. lets it go. figures that he's just trying to help, and keeps on moving.

the last gun in her arsenal shoves back into a duffle, cleaned enough to gain any aficionado's approval. lucy zips it shut, spares a peek to dae-ho, and hauls the bag over her shoulder as she stands. "ready to go?" a double checked glance over the motel room. "i figure we can get there by mornin' if we hustle."

[preveils]

@kindofuneven.

this isn't her type of job. correction: this isn't her type of job for a reason, and no matter how far she sinks into research, it doesn't take her mind off the facts. (monsters are always monsters ... except when they're not. shedding skin and reformatting bones, behaving human 'til the eclipse spatters the sky, turning morals all shades of gray with the cross between species.) it's not as simple as black and white. the line between right and wrong becomes blurred. it's enough to make her head spin, and working alongside one of the aforementioned? shit, it's a whole work week on its own.

a page flips between her fingers, almost delicate in the turn of the paper. a flickered gaze up towards the other, lip catching in the bottom of her teeth to weather away momentarily. "how long you think this is gonna take?" blunt, to the point. a glance down at her page, werewolf lore painted across it. a hesitation, then— a lie. "got other jobs to get to."

[preveils]

@chyremn.

heaven is a place on earth, but it's been a long, long while since lucy saw anything worth salvation. could be the scenery: withered fences, hell-binding billboards, the last stretch of highway before the road ends. could be the hunts: monster-to-monster, predator-to-animal, victim-to-prey. or maybe it's just her: tired, worn down, slumped at the side of a bar— slamming a beer like it's the only holy water that'll save her. her head tilts back slightly, a sigh ghosting over a sip of the drink, before she slides the glass back onto the bar-top. a glance to the side. "do i know you?" she sounds rougher than she means to. a clear of her throat, then a soften of her tone. "jus' meant— you look familiar. that's all."

[preveils]

i think i’ll have some free time today, so: starter call <3

[pinkman]

salvation is a scam. forgiveness is a fairytale. the bouncers at the gate of god’s swanky-ass club aren’t interested in giving second chances. go figure. (the only time his parents took him to church — back when they were toying with the possibility of fixing him, vainly searching for a cure to some unnameable disease — jesse conked out twenty minutes into the service.) these days, he sleeps very little. feeds even less. 

mr. white wouldn’t be happy about it. you’re wasting your potential, he’d grumble, standing at his bedside while jesse would try and fail to muster the wherewithal to protest. you don’t understand how lucky you are. because luck tastes like bitter black cherries, coats his throat like molasses, pries his jaw open and tersely commands him to drink— and yeah, he doesn’t understand it, but mr. white isn’t around anymore. his happiness shouldn’t matter. jesse shouldn’t keep looking over his shoulder, expecting to be sundered into a thousand tiny pieces by the sight of him. by the rhythm of his footsteps.  by his withered hands.

the angry vortex of lucy’s thoughts tells him that she’s not a forgive-and-forget kinda girl, either. he’s a killer. he’s a monster. no shit, sherlock. he’s dead, decaying in stop-motion, apologizing to the gaggle of rats residing in his aunt’s medicine cabinet. it’s disgusting. he’s disgusting.

“you’re right.” jesse says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. flicking his lighter on and off, on and off, until the flame starts to nibble at his fingers.  “i had it coming.” his lips twist up into a mirthless, eerie smile. “you looking forward to burnin’ my body after we’re done with this?”

[preveils]

when jesse speaks, lucy doesn't hear anything but a yelp. he's something like a dog, still whining and fussing and clawing at the door of his humanity as if someone's on the other side. newsflash: god don't help sinners. he surely don't help the living dead. makes her sick, a little, to think of him like that— kickin' and breathing like he's got something to sympathize with. (lucy likes dogs. jesse? not so much.) maybe more accurately, he's something like a leech. suckin' off of people's energy like it's his only way to live. a parasitic body, hunched over a corpse. if it weren't for the task at hand, she'd have burnt him to a crisp long ago — put him down, out of his misery, — but even now, she wonders if that's too kind a gesture.

that self-pitying, insufferable stain of existence must be mighty difficult to swallow on the daily. there's always someone like him: wallowing in his stink, suffocated by his own hands, too damn pathetic to get back up and moving. (you want something done? do it your damn self.) she prefers the ones who've got some fight. bearing teeth and knuckle and bone 'til the very end. at least then, they've got some spirit. at least then, there's the ache of something once-alive.

maybe jesse's always been dead. rotting in his blood-beating body long before he kicked the bucket. killing himself, bit by bit, with everything and anything that offered. maybe vampirism didn't change him at all. maybe it just gave him an excuse to give up.

"not what i said." lucy's tone doesn't budge an inch. all calm and collected, despite the curling disgust inside. she drags from her cigarette, the tobacco crackling down to ash, and doesn't spare him a look. "yup." she pops the p. "sure am." a glance, now. "are you?"

[graveflwers]

rather than say thank you, he shaped his gratitude into a bow and held it for longer than was strictly necessary—one second per syllable of his name pronounced correctly. rahn-ta. rahn-ta. for four seconds, he looked like he was praying to her: loo-cee, loo-cee.

' i'm glad it helps. ' it didn't really help. there was no shade on earth that could fend off this heat, no blanketed pocket-universe that could keep out a persistent july breeze.

' japan is very hot, and also very wet. ' humid. ' there, this would not work. there … ' he went on to explain, in roundabout detail, why—back home—hanging some fabric over two car doors wouldn’t be such an innovative idea at all, actually.

he was a strange breed of dog: he sought approval yet would not, could not, accept praise. lucy calls him a good boy and ranta lists, in fitful barks, all the reasons he is not, all the ways he could be better.

and then he expects to be called a good boy anyway.

which he is, of course. especially to lucy. see?

' maybe you need a new car, ' he suggested, glancing between lucy and the steering wheel, which by now had been worn down by two sets of palms: hers and her father’s. ' we will help. ' we, the family and its credit card. ' and then this won’t happen again. '

[preveils]

lucy hasn't ever given much thought to anything new. everything, from clothes to shoes to car, is from a life past lived. a person who no longer exists. (missing: lucy jane lee. five foot six, a hundred and twenty pounds, last seen on march third on the corner of mcrea and ross; if you have any information, call the heflin police department— we miss her. we love her. please come home.) she's a new woman in old garments, a changed girl in bite-marked skin. if anyone, anywhere, was looking for her— they'd be better off markin' a grave. making memorials for what once was.

she's never needed anything new to define that. no wardrobe makeover, no quick-change magic. nothing but her and all the memories she can't let go. the cross on the rearview mirror, the worn t-shirt on her back— the vehicle that growls at the thought of abandonment. that bears its teeth when lucy thinks about starting again.

"no." lucy says, and it's final. there's no chance, no way, anyhow or anywhere that she's leavin' this car to collect dust. (the image of it almost makes her nauseous. death eating away at the insides of the engine. maggots crawling across the dashboard. insects feeding off the oil, when there's nothing else left.) she collects herself, then manages to strain a smile across her features. "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." except it is broke. except it needs fixing. "we'll get this baby back runnin', i promise. jus' needs a lil' love, that's all."

[preveils]

"i push you 'cause i know you can take it." — @unpunish, as john winchester.

hunting's like an elastic band: you pull far enough in one direction, and you snap. she's seen it in hunters before. ones that get too driven, too focused, dead set on their tunnel vision gaze and fixated hues. everything goes from white to gradients to black. it's one long line of revenge that strings them across a decade, until they eventually bite the bullet— or the bullet bites them. she'd say it won't be her, but some days it feels closer than the sun. baking into her skin, pressed firm against her flesh. leaving everything raw. as if she's cut to the bone.

john seems to think differently. he's both drill sergeant and dictator, two-fourths down the line and three-halves on her case, picking everything apart until, somehow, it starts to come back together. maybe it's proof she's not too far gone ... or maybe it's just proof that he is.

she's nursing an ice pack against her elbow, still pink with a bruise-to-come. it'd been the only evidence of a spar session, and it'll be one she wears with pride, too. she can take it. just like any good hunter would. "y'know, makes a girl feel all warm 'n fuzzy when you say things like that." a wry twitch of her lip, shifting to turn towards him an inch more. "i appreciate it, though. feel like you're makin' me better with every day."

[graveflwers]

' rahn-tah. ' he corrected mildly. rah- like fah- like OUR FATHER, WHO ART IN HEAVEN. maybe she would understand it better if he explained it that way, if he invoked the familiarity of her patron, parent, god.

not ran-tuh, miss lee. he wasn’t running from anything except the sun, and even that had been put on hold.

' i apologize. ' for her name. for his impatience. ' ah—and thank you. ' for calling. for answering. for teaching him about turkey vultures.

he picked at the hems of his sleeves, the end of his braid. crouching had been a mistake. it was too hot this close to the ground; the dust was going to dry him out, and then the bird-eaters wouldn't have anything to peck at except bones. he got up again, busied himself with the car. the ants, that had curiously ceased to move under his beaming stare, staggered around in confusion.

he opened the doors, front and back; picked through lucy's various belongings; retrieved a blanket that wasn't hers or his or anyone's at all but had been gleaned from the last motel. upon draping it across the doors, it formed a paltry square of shade that smelled like cheap detergent.

' please come. ' saying it with a smile didn't make it any less of a demand. ' or you'll burn. '

[preveils]

"rahn-tah." lucy repeats after him, and nods her head. (his name feels similar to scripture— sharp at the edges, rounded on the inside. leavin' strings of memory between her teeth for her to pick out later.) it's a little like learning a new language, with him. not just the name, not simply how it feels, but all the routes and avenues that he takes are different. here, in rural america, everything tastes like dirt and beer and dust. over there, — in his mouth — lucy thinks his name might taste a lot cleaner.

maybe that's a defect of hers. something stuck in her ribcage that keeps everything day-old and rotten. lucy glances up to the sky, watching turkey vultures circle them once more, and thinks that if there is anything rotting inside of her— they'd be the ones to pick it out.

her focus returns to ranta, watching as he opens her truck doors and picks through her things. it's a whole lotta mess with a whole lotta organization, but he manages to scrounge out what he needs. "no need for apologies. didn't do nothin' wrong." she replies, absent, and watches him with a curiosity not dissimilar to an animal. questioning. maybe a little concerned.

the blanket pops up like a tent, and lucy's curious-cat features fade to a grin. "innovative." a compliment, and it's genuine. her hand twitches for a cigarette, but then figures that it's much too close for smoke. instead, she follows his instructions (and when doesn't she, really) and huddles beneath the blanket in only a moment. "y'know, rahn-tah—" emphasis on the correction pronunciation, this time. "you're a real smart guy."

[graveflwers]

the road-trip went long but the road went longer—pole to pole, horizon to horizon, in every direction and as far as the eye could see: flat and desolate, pocked with small towns here, billboards there. HELL IS REAL. he understood now why midwestern america was a good place for demons. HELL IS REAL. HELL IS HERE.

he looked up. birds had started to circle them, broken down on the shoulder and waiting for something called triple A, delirious from the heat—muggy late july. turkey vultures, said @preveils. ranta stared at the sky until the sun singed his pupils.

' bird-eaters, ' he said, not-quite-in-response. ranta looked at lucy; the sun’s afterimages shifted with his vision, limning her head with bright and undulating rings. she resembled an angel. or a target. ' how long? ' he sank into a crouch and transferred his attention onto an anthill. ' when you called them, miss lee. how long did they say? '

[preveils]

the heat's enough to make everything sizzle, stuffy 'n stiff with the sort of air that gives lucy nosebleeds in the summer. everything's hot to the touch. even the hood of her truck gave enough of a burn to feel like blisters, her palm leaving the metal pink-hued and warm, but she'd been a little preoccupied— hoping, praying, sending all her strength to god in the faint chance that her engine was still kickin'.

turns out, she ain't all that lucky. now, they're watching the sky: turkey vultures circling around just in case either of 'em collapse from the heat. if she closes her eyes, she can imagine it. (beaks pickin' away at corpses. their sun-baked hands, intertwined.) she blinks open her gaze, and listens to ranta say bird-eaters absently. sure. they could be that.

"ranta," she starts, but her accent leaves the name twisted in her mouth. it's a good enough effort (and really, she does try) but it still sounds funny— the sort of funny that ain't all that funny at all. "i told you before. no callin' me 'miss' nothin'. i ain't that old." she huffs out a breath, flipping open her phone to check the time. "they said an hour. 's only been fifteen minutes."

[perditionable]

dean clicks his tongue, his gaze flickin' sideways. yeah, yeah, don't he know it. pot, kettle. 'course someone's gonna come along and start throwin' out technicalities. he's not like them. at least he tries not to be, even when that bottomless pit he now calls stomach makes that real hard. there's countless arguments he can make, countless reasons he can give, but she'd have a better chance of winnin' the lottery than havin' a heart-to-heart with him.

good thing she's keepin' it all business. makes it easier for him to ignore all the ways she reminds him of a past version of himself. makes him wonder if this is what he used to sound like, too. sure is weird bein' on the other side of things.

"trust me, if i wanted you dead, you'd be dead."

dean dusts off the sleeves of his jacket and rolls his shoulders back slow enough to feel the joints. he can feel her eyes on him as he fixes his cuffs. it brings a crease to his forehead.

"jus' to be clear, this is not a partnership, okay? we ain't comparin' notes or syncin' up our cycles. you promise not to slice my head clean off, i promise not to chew through your neck."

a threat disguised as a reasonable suggestion isn't gonna help his case, but he's gotta drive the point across somehow. plus, he can trust her less than she can.

"we find this guy, we gank him, we go our merry way. sound cool?"

[preveils]

if he wanted her dead, she'd still be alive: she's got plenty of bite marks to prove that. there's a handful of times in her life she's been close to it— bitin' the dust, kickin' the bucket, fading in the dying light of her own vision. death eating at her body like some sort of animal. as if she was only meat. (to them, she supposes, she is. nothing but a bunch of skin and game, a meal on two legs. somethin' similar to fine dining, a dinner bell ringing in the distance every time she moves. this one might think he's different. lucy knows he's not.) but meat or otherwise, she's got plenty of tricks up her sleeve. a body count that's above her age. no vamp, no matter how strong, is taking anything away from her.

especially her life. this delicate, fleshy life. the one that sings on the road and slips in the shower. the one that collects old spoons, and smacks her thigh when she laughs. the one that lives, the one that breathes, the one that smokes and swings and hears the slam of her heart like an old tune on the radio— a memory of something beloved. a reminder of why she fights.

a roll of her eyes. "never thought we'd be linkin' pinkies 'n skipping to freedom, here." he's awful blunt, keeping everything strict and straight to business, but she doesn't mind. (in fact, she's a lil' bit relieved. thank god he can read a room.) "'n i'm not promising you anything. i don't promise anything i can't trust." an emphasis on his humanity— or, really, the lack of.

she swings the machete against her palm again, the blade circling the air before stilling. "we find this guy, we kill him, and then we can figure out the rest." mimicking, now. "sound cool?"

[preveils]

IT'S SAFE LIKE AN AMBULANCE IS SAFE ... (A PRIVATE, MUTUALS ONLY, 21+ WRITING BLOG. [TRIGGER HEAVY CONTENT.] INSPIRATIONS INCLUDE: ETHEL CAIN'S PREACHER'S DAUGHTER ALBUM, S1E20 OF SUPERNATURAL (DEAD MAN'S BLOOD), SOUTHERN GOTHIC HORROR. READ CARRD BEFORE INTERACTING.) ... YOU BEING INSIDE MEANS YOU'RE ALREADY HURT.

[perditionable]

he's the fool, huh? she marches in here, smellin' all human—and ruinin' his immaculate plan, by the way—and when the goddamn bloodsucker runs off, it's his fault? nah. he's not the cheeseburger on legs. she is.

and that walkin' cheeseburger has a hell of a hook.

one advantage about this whole vampire thing? he doesn't feel anythin' that's not pointy enough to cut into him. doesn't mean he appreciates bein' assaulted by a little girl.

when his back collides with the wood, the sound reverberates inside his skull. dean winces, not yet used by the onslaught of the various sensations and noises that come with his enhanced senses. he holds his hands up in the air, his machete sliding off his palm. benefit of the doubt. and if she tries anythin', he'll sweep that baby off the ground faster than she can blink.

"easy, okay?" dean pushes himself off the wall slowly, keeps his hands in view. "you're pissed, i get it. you wanna try and kill me, be my guest. but i think you and i both know that that thing—" he curls all fingers except his index which he points at the exit their mutual prey took, "is the priority right now."

dean quirks a brow.

"whaddaya say? you stay outta my way, i stay outta yours. and if you're still bloodthirsty after, we'll dance."

[preveils]

lucy has half a mind to consider him her new priority. sounds more romantic than it really is when she says it like that— but it's blood and teeth and the swing of a machete when it gets down to it. see, all this adrenaline and rush and high-kick of a response has her reeling— she's ready to kill the first thing in sight. but somewhere through the thick of it, blazin' past her sight of red, she knows that he's right. they both came here for a reason, (whatever his reasons are,) and neither would be much happier scrappin' this out rather than swingin' on the target they showed up for.

still, even through the rage, she can't help but catch it: that thing. as if he isn't one, too. as if he's some sort of comrade. as if he ain't all guts and gore and dirt, two sets of teeth and flashin' eyes, and he's nothing more than a soldier on the street, settlin' in right beside her. her eyes narrow.

... she releases her grip. "got one hell of a nerve to call me bloodthirsty." her hands flex, movin' towards where her machete's scattered — still keepin' both eyes on him as she moves — and plucks it back up to spin against her palm. "in case you're forgettin', that thing?" she tightens her fist around the weapon, stilling. "ain't so different from you."

a flickered gaze toward where the vampire in question had skittered off, jaw tensing for a moment before she navigates her focus back. "you try to kill me? —'n i'll make that clear enough for both of us."

[preveils]

to make a long story short, (and it's a damn long story,) anything approximating a hunt was over the minute he walked in. rather: burst in, uninvited, throwin' the rhythm of her fight so off-kilter that she looked nothin' less than a fool in the face of an enemy. she'd tried to make do with it. tried to break even, despite the unbalanced scales. yet— when his eyes flickered, glintin' like glow-sticks in the dark, she couldn't help but stumble. fumble. trippin' over herself like some fresh-legged fish on a deck, all sea-legs and shaky understanding as if it was her first time on the job.

fuckin' idiot. she didn't have the slightest clue what possessed him to go after one of his kind, hadn't had a lick of understanding to clue her into the cues of his fight, and within minutes — maybe even seconds — all her trackin' and trailin' and tracin' back to a den was snuffed out. stamped over like a cigarette, dying in the dark of the night. again: idiot.

it only takes five, ten, fifteen seconds of her breathing and processing and breathing again to understand a few things. one: she's pissed. two: he is, too. and— three: if someone's gettin' blamed, it sure as hell ain't her.

[deck] lucy decking dean in the face. — @perditionable, as dean winchester.

"you're a damn fool." lucy spits, all heat and flame and impulse reaction. her knuckles ache from the hit, tinted red at the bone, but she's half-tempted to go in for another. instead, she shoves at his shoulders and steps forward to wrap a fist into his shirt. presses him into the wood of the wall. "my hunt, my kill, and you're — what, — playin' superhero?" another shove. "i should kill you where you stand."