open to anyone dylan cooper, she / he / they, nonbinary, 25, bisexual, supernatural storyteller / podcaster
"sometimes, people just smell like gasoline, alright? it means nothing," one hand thrown out between them, a flat, empty palm that offers nothing, this is the explanation dylan gives for their current appearance — fuel soaked converse and hoodie sleeves — and subsequent odor; and it's a nothing explanation, they know that. about a mile away, there's some smoke that would answer this question a lot better than dylan's willing to, but good luck getting them to admit to it. they sit on the edge of the wooden fence behind them, indignant and content to stick with that nothing story. "are you done being a fed? i'm telling you, dude," thumb jutted over their shoulder, towards a long - since abandoned barn, their attention has evidently moved on from the current line of questioning; they'd called them to show them this place, to investigate inside with them. "there's something in there. poltergeist, maybe? demon? — i gotta get closer. you coming, or not?"