#inwire

@inwire for our (second) plotted thing

                                 IMMEDIATELY, HE KNOWS SOMETHING IS WRONG. He's sent enough people back in time (Sam and Dean, for example) to know what it's supposed to feel like, and this isn't it. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees the golden trident Dean (the Elder) touched, which caused this whole issue. It starts to glow and vibrate violently on the library table, and he's barely quick enough to shove the younger Dean to the ground and duck — the trident shoots off the table, misses Castiel's head by half an inch, and embeds itself in the bunker wall. Half a second later, all the lights turn off, though it isn't dark: something about as big as a chest of drawers crashes into one of the bookshelves at the same time. It's vaguely ball-shaped and emits a bright light, but before anyone can react, it releases a high-pitched noise and rolls under the library table.

                                  Castiel thinks one of the Deans says What the fuck, but doesn't pay attention to that. The noise has sounded vaguely familiar, and with growing dread, Castiel walks up to the table farthest away and bends down to peer under it. At least three dozen eyes blink at him. They have the same color as Castiel's vessel. "Ds geh g?" the being asks, its voice making the glass lampshade on the table crack.

THE ROLL OF TIRED EYES is not a subtle thing. it isn’t meant to be. scarred fingers drop from their shaky grip on the rusted doorknob. adam does turn his head to face ellen, but he does not feel apologetic for the sigh that pushes past the gates of his teeth. if adam were to close his eyes - even for a second - he would hear his mother cluck her tongue and fuss over his teenage attitude.

the thing is, adam knows he’s being a jerk. but the right to standoffish-ness and cynicism is the prize won alongside his life in a fight against a ghoul. that is : nobody can force him to do shit, and that includes well-meaning guardians with their concerned looks and kind words.

another sip to the beer swiped, illicit, from the kitchen in lieu of a real midnight snack. it tastes like piss. “ nope. i'm good. just couldn’t sleep. pretty sure that’s a common side effect of something trying to eat you. ” there is another answer, and it goes something like this : adam knows nothing of how to cradle help in his chest, only how to close off the prison of his ribcage and keep what little remains of his heart safe.

his mother had worked the graveyard shift, when she had still been breathing. and adam, before scars and tearing flesh and guardians who hover out of obligation, had put himself to bed and made his own kraft ezy-mac. there had been nobody to help either of them, so it follows that the hands extended by bobby and ellen will waver, too. like a wounded, snarling animal, he will remain feral.

screw being the bigger person. hit a bitch. | @inwire ; Dean

"Girl, I am 5'1, I've never been the bigger person a day in my life." Bern handed Dean his beer before cracking open their own spiked lemonade. They weren't sure why but Dean? He got 'girl' and 'babygirl' a lot. Not disrespectfully, if anything it was with the utmost endearment, but that didn't mean he always loved it. Did that deter them? No, no it did not.

the freckled blond shifts slightly, tension in his jaw easing just a fraction as he meets twinkling fair hues staring down at him. yeah, he's clearly on the verge of giving up, already jaded by the so called 'ultra sensorial' experience @inwire is offering him. spine rests on the soft surface as if he were lying on a makeshift bed --not exactly a bed of roses, but it's not like he plans on sticking around any longer than necessary. still, her honeyed encouragement seems to melt the rigidity clinging to his muscles, shoulders now visibly relaxing as he crosses his feet to make himself comfortable. the incense burns like a quiet prayer, curling through the air && forcing him to wrinkle his nose . . . --it's never too late to find out that you're absolutely not fond of the smell.

❝ right. ❞ he breathes out, calloused hands clasping together over his lap. ❝ i'll play your game . . . close my eyes, breatheee ... let you handle the rest 'cause you're a pro. ❞ he's skeptical, it's transparent in his challenging murmur alone but he's genuinely trying to give this another chance. the veil of his caramel lashes rests on freckled cheeks when he closes his eyes. ❝ come on, do your magic. 'm ready. ❞ the bass in his voice echoes, edged with that signature dry wit of his.

@inwire || send “you okay?” to find my muse sitting alone on a roof at night. || accepting! (bobby!)

metal and glowing dust stretch out far as the key can see. blotted with little sheds and garages or shrubbery that dot a bird's eye view of singer salvage yard. the sun's setting and the colors are so vivid from up there. pinks and purples. oranges and yellows. streaks of white, stringy puffy louds. the night lingers above them, teasing further and further towards the horizon nudging the world towards the dark.

dean sees the same thing when he presses the brunt of his wrists into the hollows of his eyes and rubs them back and forth so hard that dozens of fireworks burst behind the squeezed tight lids. he's tired of crying. all it does is make your chest hurt. your eyes burn and you to feel like a little BITCH! should be enough of that. every time he imagines his brother laying on that bed, though? right back to it. weak. weak. WEAK!

couldn't fucking protect sammy. or take that hit like a man cause your lack of competence got you there! DO whatever it takes to FIX it, screams into the back of his mind. DO something bigger than sitting up here bawling like a baby! same reason why he's up here. right? RIGHT? couldn't stand sitting, staring at what he'd done (or didn't DO!) until his hands were shaking so fucking hard they cramped and his lungs stopped working and bile rose in his throat burning with the heat of a shot of everclear doused with gasoline. nah. ran up here. cold sweat and a million voices in your head screaming what did you do??

a stale cigarette's pulled from the inside of his too big leather coat. the packet's crumpled from age and wear. least it's proof he doesn't smoke too often. orangey sparks fly from his lighter and the smell of tobacco fills the air. a slow couple drags and the ashes are tapped off the ledge. 'are you okay,' bobby's voice is even (dean decides careful is the right word) and quiet. the hunter thinks it's the same tone you'd address a wounded animal before trying to touch it. dashed with a little bit of strength. urging.