#punk;

[tssfs]

THE STORY SO FAR @ CLASH CLUB - 30/01/2016 by Aline Almeida

[tssfs]

THE STORY SO FAR @ CLASH CLUB - 30/01/2016 by Aline Almeida

[tssfs]

THE STORY SO FAR @ CLASH CLUB - 30/01/2016 by Aline Almeida

[unstxblisms-blog]

“That isn’t water in that bottle, is it.”

"What, this?" Dean laughed, shaking the water bottle so that the liquid inside swirled around. "I don't know, man, I think you can maybe make an educated guess. I know the whole straight-edge thing might make it tough, but this one's kind of a no-brainer, you know what I mean?"

[unstxblisms-blog]

@x434

It’s inside of him.  Burrowed in his bones, living in his lungs, slithering slyly under his skin.  Its prey is not the man possessed.  Its true prey is another excuse for human life, an exiled mock-exorcist whom it has been ordered to eradicate.  Its life is long and his is lost...or it will be.

Dean wishes he could say that he has the whole thing under control. That would be awesome. Having to explain to Punk, who had literally been to hell and back, that he made a deal with a goddamn demon, that he'd been completely compliant in his own possession, would he a lot easier if he could say that he has the whole thing under control. And, for that matter, that he didn't make the deal on the verge of a psychotic break. That would be cool. But he can't say that. Well…he can. But how long can he lie to Punk? How long can he keep up the charade of being in control? Sure, he doesn't hallucinate anymore, the demon kept up its end of the bargain there. But he can feel its power working inside him.

All it has to do is twitch a tendon or two. Its power grows stronger every day.

That's how he ended up here, sprawled on the couch, his body contorted in the perfect, unnatural way so to cause agony--the demon has decided that it wants to get to Punk through Dean. That had been the plan all along, he assumes. The demon speaks directly to Punk through Dean, the words choking out of his throat against his will.

"Come home to hell and he will be spared."

[unstxblisms-blog]

❝ i’m freezing cold. ❞

How long have they been on the run, now? Weeks? Months? Dean hasn't been paying attention. You stop noticing the days, eventually, when they're all the same. Pick up, run, settle for a day or two, pick up, run, rinse and repeat. And some of the places they settled were less than savory.

Like this place. An old warehouse in some piece of crap town that nobody's been inside in decades. The air is thick with dust. There's no heat, but there's shelter from the snow, which is about as much as they can ask for, currently.

"I know." Dean says. He doen't know what else to say. "They…I mean, at least they won't find us here. For a while. I think we really threw them off." That really doesn't have anything to do with Punk being cold, but…accentuate the positive? There really isn't much positive about this whole situation. Might as well try to find something.

"Are you--" He realizes, rolling his sleeve up. "Do you need blood? We might, uh, we might be here a while. Ain't no blood banks to steal from around here."

[unstxblisms-blog]

} time was neither wrong nor right { (x434)

Today is bad.

Today is very, very bad.

Dean has been sitting in bed since he got home from the gym…four hours ago. It started on the bus ride home. He'd been seeing dark shapes since he left, but he figured it was a trick of the light, or something. Nope. They were moving around, turning into the shadows of men and women who didn't exist, and nobody else was reacting. He was seeing things that weren't there, again, and it hadn't stopped when he got home. Not by a long shot. Whispers in the back of his mind turned to screams in the front, saying something he can't understand, too loud for him to hear himself think. On top of that, everything seems to be so--so intense, so bright, so loud, like he had a migraine. He's definitely nauseas enough for that to be the case, but no. It's the hallucinations, worse than they've been in weeks.

So, he's been sitting knees-up in bed for the better part of four hours, his eyes trained on a crack in the wall. He's pretty sure he's shaking, and he probably looks a pale, wide-eyed mess, but he can't bring himself to care. Not like anyone is going to see, unless Roman decides to drop by. Not likely, because he usually gives warning for that kind of thing. Dean's peripheral vision is filled with static and moving objects, dark and fleeting and unclear. Monsters. That's the only thing to call them. And, this time, and many of the other times before, Seth's not here to convince him it isn't real.

Damn Seth. Damn him for being the only person who can convince Dean that his visual hallucinations aren't real and damn him for throwing that fact right back in his face on live television.

Dean's thoughts are interrupted by a noise in the hallway. He glances over for a brief second, then dismisses it as him hearing things again. He centers his vision back on the crack in the wall, wrapping his arms tightly around himself as if to stop the shaking. It doesn't work.

He forgets about the noise immediately. Mistake.