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First thing’s first. --Rowena... she gave me your name. I need to ask you a couple questions. That’s all this is.

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@selfdeception
pandorc liked your post
First thing’s first. --Rowena... she gave me your name. I need to ask you a couple questions. That’s all this is.
[ starter call, guise! given no preference, i could pull from any season and/or create an AU so having no opinion is a strong opinion as Negan would say!]
cruenttus:
❜ are we not enemies? hm, looks like i’ve been gettin’ mixed signals. ❜ prey, that was all he saw before him. large, doe eyes yearning for something that would never return— HIS ELDER BROTHER. while he was still the same man, but with a few new adjustments, the younger would never be happy until he dragged him back too their horrific lives.
"Dean, you know we're not. But you can't keep going like this -- it's not you. And whether you're with me or I have to drag you kicking and screaming, it isn't permanent. You can fight this, and you don't have to do it alone."
No, Sam knew better, knew this Dean was too far gone, dangerous, predatory, but he also knew there had to be something, some tiny sliver of g o o d n e s s buried beneath all that poison. Just beyond the devil's trap, he turns to a tray of instruments and swallows, filling his syringe silently, transfixed by the sight, heart slamming in his chest. Unsure what exactly to expect.
cagedbrother:
† s α м †
“‘Ultimate demise’. You really spent some time on that one.“
“Look. Adam, right? –See, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not. The same guy I was when we met. If this was supposed to be a guilt trip, talk to Cas; he’s the one who played favorites. Although, I seem to recall you fighting to take the leap for mommy dearest.”
“Spent all of my time in the Cage thinking up that line.”
“Guilt trip? Why would I do that? I’m not interested in making you cry, if I was you’d be crying right now. I’m here for answers, because I have no other choice. Trust me, I would much rather be elsewhere then hear with you or talking to Dean, or Castiel. I want to know how I got out, then I’m gone.”
" . . . Alright. Maybe this is getting lost in translation: I don't care. I get we're brothers, technically, but we both know that doesn't mean a damn thing. It didn't when we were trying to save your ass, and it hasn't changed just because we were roommates for a couple centuries. Might be able to guilt Dean into helping you out, though."
mxrtalism:
╬ selfdeception
“Well if it isn’t Sam fuckin’ Winchester. What can I do for you? Besides breaking the natural order. Already did that. Still feel like crap about it.”
"-- - yeah. Sorry about that."
"I give my word, once this apocalypse is over, no more special exceptions, and in this life, that means I'll be making it up to you soon enough. Uh. I actually wanted to know whether you know anything about the Darkness. Death-- he was a little sketchy on the details, but he made it clear, it'd be bad. The 'problem' is nothing's happening. At all. It's almost too quiet."
faithlessarchangel:
selfdeception
“What would have been so bad about Paradise, Winchester?” Raphael spared a brief glance at Sam. “Everyone would have been fine, in the end. Humanity, for the most part, would have been in Heaven, in peace for eternity. Angels would have been freed from their duties and allowed rest.“
He shook his head. “Instead, there was war, countless deaths among angel-kind, and you all get to continue to suffer. Why? Why choose suffering over peace?”
"That's a very black-and-white way of seeing the world. Life, it isn't all suffering."
"And do you honestly believe there would have been peace? That all the angels would be content to, just, retire and live happily ever after?" Debating semantics with an archangel was certainly not on his itinerary, but here he is, brows furrowed, refusing to give an inch. As long as Raphael had no interest in sending him to that eternal peace, Sam almost enjoys the open communication. The interest in hearing the other side, for once. "I know you can't really think that, with the way you always seem to find something to fight over; not that we're any different, but, I guess what I'm trying to say is, that's life. War, fighting, 'suffering'. It's the struggle that makes you appreciate the good, and there's a lot of good. More good than bad, I'd argue."
mxrtalism:
“Why are there two grown men having a hair off? Holy shit I’m in a 90s teenage movie aren’t I? Will there be a dance routine?”
"Has anyone ever told you that your hair is fabulous?"
“It’s been mentioned once or twice.”
lovefromthehero:
–Can I at least patch you up? [ please don’t say no. please. ]
"It's a scratch."
Stilted, faraway, Sam slams the car-door shut, eyes riveting on the waking city, the bike that flies around the corner and some distant honk of horns. It's too sunny, the sky so blue, his heart aches for how w r o n g everything is; his gaze falters, blinking away the glossy film. Turning his head to stare out his window, shoulders tense, a physical barrier between his brother and his comfort, and the broken record in between his temples. It's a warm day, breezy, but the car magnifies, too hot, almost suffocating, highlighting the violent silence.
"----- - Drive." The order escapes weak, but firm.
graceinside:
a slight pause in his clicking occurs as blue eyes flick towards the culprit imply he has time for something other than writing. there’s a soft tsk issued from pale red lips, chaffed just slightly from constantly teeth dragging across absentmindedly while he thoughts soar forward. just the smell of food URGES him to take a break, stomach rumbling in response ; perhaps he should eat more often. no matter, he thinks, sammy’s here now. mentally he makes a note to say thank you before he leaves ( maybe he won’t leave ). thoughts like that come as fast as they go, a crush birthed from his own childish actions and sam’s kindness.
how’s it coming? he wants to immediately say fine, good - all is well, but it isn’t the truth. if it was he would have finished already instead of butting up next to the deadline like a new budding novelist instead of the acclaimed one he is. ❛ i think perhaps i’ve … overwhelmed myself. it isn’t… coming along as i should have liked. ❜
Sympathetically, he spares his friend a glance, bearing the second-hand weight of that admission, the knowledge Castiel spends endless hours, forgetting to care for himself, on a novel that's not coming along as he liked. It seems a stressful, unrewarding work to Sam, who works at an IT Center, which is certainly far less rewarding, but his 9-to-5 job consists largely of repeating mindless key-instructions. To imagine devoting every waking hour to one passion is something beyond his imagination, ever the slacker, not particularly unintelligent or unskilled, but . . . unmotivated.
For Sam, life has been hollow from an early age; if asked, he wouldn't be able to explain exactly where the feeling came from. The unfulfillment. Sometimes, he wants to quit his job and drive off into the unknown, find adventure, take a quest, do something extraordinary and worthy of the very books Castiel writes. But, of course, pragmatic, plain, boring Sam Winchester is not a hero, or even a protagonist. If anything, Castiel would make a wonderful character, the way his hair's still mussed from the early morning, or perhaps he woke at four in the morning to slave over his laptop by table-lamp, coffee leaving rings on his notepad. The overworked, literary genius typing the world's next big hit. Cracking a mild smile, he hums in acknowledgment, moving to lay out two platefuls, configuring them according to their individual preferences.
"Maybe you need a fresh perspective." Turning off the stove, he enters the living room / office to set their breakfast on whatever portion of the desk he can nudge clear of papers. Only departing for two cupfuls of water, again making room for them before dragging over his own chair from the kitchen.
classicrockcassettes:
Unidentified? Dean’s curiosity only increased. Was this kid some new kind of monster? He didn’t look threatening, but maybe he was like vampires - he looked perfectly human except for something hidden. Or maybe he just looked human and had super strength or something else along those lines. But how would they know, if he looked perfectly human? Had he done something? Dean’s father chased after monsters that way - he saw the news, and he ran to capture the thing that had hurt or killed someone. Could that be how they’d gotten this kid? He didn’t look like he’d done something, and that was a look Dean was proud to say he knew very well, He looked… Innocent. Scared, but innocent. And he looked much too young to have ever done something truly bad in his life. The kid was, however, Dean reminded himself, a monster, and monsters could never be trusted. Maybe he wasn’t even all that young, maybe his species just looked younger.
Cautiously, Dean sat himself down next to him, trying to get a good look at his face. Maybe, he thought to himself, he was going too far. Maybe it was better for him to stop, keep his distance from this child. But he was sitting down next to a monster and the monster seemed to be afraid of him. That alone made Dean want to burst with excitement, wishing that his father was here to see him be taken seriously by a monster. It was as if he were a real hunter, and he loved it. He couldn’t wait to grow up and go on hunts by himself, bring in his own monsters to FREAK Camp. It was going to be awesome, he just knew it.
For the time being, however, Dean was still a child, and if his father said that he couldn’t go on hunts by himself, he couldn’t go on hunts by himself, which meant that talking to this little monster was the most exciting thing Dean had to do. Talking to him, however, really was quite exciting, and the fact that the child sparked his curiosity made everything even more interesting.“What did you do? Why are you here?” Dean questioned him, picking a few of the millions of questions racing through his mind to ask. “You don’t really seem like a monster.” Dean admitted, moving to try to see the boy’s face.
Once Dean descends, the smaller boy's shoulders huddle to keep himself lower, submissively daring to glance, a nervous fleeting one through the curtain of messy bangs. Knees draw inwards defensively, feeling the weight of the attention, hair on-end, fear charging down his spine and holding his muscles taut, knotted at the base of his spine. Too anxious to dare relax. His shadowed eyes rivet over the ground, searching for a proper answer, knowing too well a lie might mean the difference between life and death. Scouring his brain, reaching back as far as he can, back to another life, when he always had water, and food, and he thinks --thinks it was good.
So long ago, flashes of red decorating the walls, porch, sun beating down on his neck like a hammer, sunburn agonizing compared to the boot that would crush him to the searing hot ground some indiscernible hours later. The shouting and beating, the wailing of a woman, and his mind's an abstract painting, lesioned by white-out and childhood's loose grip on the notion of time. Into focus, he finds the bite of handcuffs, blindfolded, jostled violently in a dark place, and led rather roughly into his new home. Again, he tries to revisit b e f o r e ; ( nothing ) and he wets his lips, fearful, eyes pricking, but he swallows the terrified lump.
"I - ... It was a long time ago, sir. I think-- There was blood. I probably--" Sam doesn't know whether the other wishes to hear his assumption, his guess, so he clamps his mouth shut and shakes his head. The blood, the yelling, and his dislocated shoulder, how the violet, sickly-green color spread, liquid fire throbbing from his collarbone, outward until Rebecca popped it into place. There's only one explanation. He must have. "I'm sorry. I -- hurt someone. I might have killed them. Sir."
unholyhost:
“You’re looking well kiddo.”
" You’re looking f r e e."
"-- It's true, then."
qxeenmother:
selfdeception:
“You know as well as I do, I didn’t break the deal. I would have taken Crowley out free of charge, but it just so happened to be part of the trade. We underestimated him. Our agreement changed. – At this point, you’ll be lucky to get out of this alive, Rowena, and you’re not doing yourself any favors making more enemies. Just fix Castiel, give us the book, and our professional relationship is over.”
Rowena sighs heavily, exaggerated, and looks down at her hands which are clasped delicately in front of her. “I was fine just as I was. Killing the demons that got in my way and getting my justice with the grand high coven. I would have left well enough alone Samuel. I didnae plan on finding my son again nor did I expect to get chained TWICE and used for purposes not my own. No. GIANT. It is YOU that has made an enemy of ME.”
And with a few well chosen whispered words flames appear from nowhere to lick at Sam’s legs and ankles.
The uttered chant could only spell trouble, so takes aim for her calf, in hopes of cutting the spell short; instantly, his own legs bubble with pain, jolting back a step, and then several more, hissing through the piercing throbs. Smacking out the lick of flames uselessly, the blaze seems content to travel with his motions, so he tears his attention from the inferno and fires another shot at her legs, keeping his pain-shaking hand as steady as possible.
mxrtalism:
“Do you, though? Really? Because if you did then you should know that what you’re doing isn’t just you accepting the consequences. It’ll be everyone else you inevitably hurt when you become vengeful. So maybe you mind telling me why we’re not doing this nice and clean?”
"You seriously don't know who I am? I'm Sam Winchester; I know the consequences, but I won't be dead long enough for it to set in. Don't know if you noticed, but right now, the world's on the verge of chaos, and I don't have the luxury of moving on."
mxrtalism:
“Oh shit , eally? My mistake. Here I thought you had just died and I was going to reap your soul as is dictated by my job. Well, have a good day.”
“No, but really let’s get this going. I’m going to miss Black Sails if you keep this up.”
" N o -- "
"I have a right to refuse, and I refuse. Believe me, I know what that means, and I accept the consequences."
[past meme] Did you really have any faith in Jesse the Antichrist kid? Obviously he was strong and could probably have killed you, maybe even on accident, or even Dean for lying. What would you have done if he didn't believe you?
‘The Antichrist kid’? Really?
“Yeah. I did.
— Whatever was decided for him, it didn’t automatically determine what he was, or what his c h o i c e s would be. You’re right; he could have killed me, or Dean, or he could have set the world off like a firecracker just because he could. You know what? He didn’t. He didn’t kill anyone, and he left his parents, his home, everything he knew, to keep the world safe. Are we really going to talk about what if he fulfilled this so-called prophecy when, against all odds, that kid did the right thing?”