Adam Milligan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
halfwinchester) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2013-10-17 11:51 am
halfwinchester) wrote in entrancelogs2013-10-17 11:51 am
OPEN | there's a place i have gone
Who: Adam Milligan (halfwinchester) and anyone who cares to cross his path!
Where: Around the mansion.
When: Oct. 17th.
Rating: PG-13?
Summary: Having been unconscious for most of his stay in Wonderland, when Adam has a lucid moment he takes himself on a tour of the mansion.
The Story:
For someone who'd been in Wonderland for over a week, Adam had seen remarkably little of it since Castiel had brought him indoors. The forest, he remembered in flashes and vague splinters of memory, and that was only in those rare moments of consciousness.
Being awake meant remembering everything. Each time he breathed, he smelled burning skin in Hell's fires. Each time he moved, he felt phantom pain from Hell's ministrations. Each time he closed his eyes, Hell. No matter what the angels had done to him, Hell was still everywhere, and he was still a part of it. Unconsciousness was a blessing in disguise when Hell was all you had to wake up to, and if he’d had a choice, he would have picked oblivion every single time.
But on the ninth day, something changed.
Adam woke up to a sense of clarity he hadn't felt between his pelting through the trees on his first day and the angels playing with his soul like Silly Putty. Not since… no, he couldn't remember. Not since before. Not since he’d had a body and a place in the real, physical world without Michael. As he stared at the ceiling, the fact that the room stayed just a room and didn’t bleed into a place he’d been in his memories, or somewhere in the pit, almost confused him more than the alternative.
For once, lying in a bed (in Wonderland of all places, according to an angel, whatever that counted for) seemed like a possibility and not just a fever dream cobbled together by a sick mind.
Real.
What that possible? Really? He hadn’t believed Castiel about being free, not enough to dare let that hope sink in. Now, the longer he laid there, the more doubt crept in.
Free…?
If he was alive, being alive felt an awful like being on the verge of passing out. Sliding out of bed and convincing his legs to hold him up was a touch-and-go affair, made worse by a floor that didn’t seem to want to stay steady underneath him. Getting across the room was a sheer miracle in and of itself; his need to know just what the fuck was happening to him just barely outweighed his body's desire to pitch him over. He held onto the door frame to rest for a second. Good for him that he didn't have any dignity left to lose.
"Warmed-over shit" was a good way to describe the young man who eventually staggered into the sixth floor hallway that morning, unshaven and unwashed. A kind assessment, given that Hell was still written all over the lines of his face; it was in the glassy cast to his eyes and the purpled skin underneath, in the way he had to steady himself on the occasional section of wall. Absorbed in the push and pull of his own muscles, Adam almost forgot his surroundings entirely. Stairs, more hallways, rooms… Places he didn’t recognize, falling forgotten behind him.
The first time he glimpsed himself in a mirror brought him to a halt, however. Startled, he froze in place before turning back to the mirror, bringing his hands to rest on either side of it.
He saw his face. At the same time, he saw the face of a stranger. The person in it didn't look… right.
Maybe he was alive, after all. Only reality could be this gaunt, and cold, and uncomfortable.
(OOC: It's prose to start, but I'm down with action tags! Feel free to find him anywhere in the mansion you'd like, too.)
halfwinchester) and anyone who cares to cross his path!Where: Around the mansion.
When: Oct. 17th.
Rating: PG-13?
Summary: Having been unconscious for most of his stay in Wonderland, when Adam has a lucid moment he takes himself on a tour of the mansion.
The Story:
For someone who'd been in Wonderland for over a week, Adam had seen remarkably little of it since Castiel had brought him indoors. The forest, he remembered in flashes and vague splinters of memory, and that was only in those rare moments of consciousness.
Being awake meant remembering everything. Each time he breathed, he smelled burning skin in Hell's fires. Each time he moved, he felt phantom pain from Hell's ministrations. Each time he closed his eyes, Hell. No matter what the angels had done to him, Hell was still everywhere, and he was still a part of it. Unconsciousness was a blessing in disguise when Hell was all you had to wake up to, and if he’d had a choice, he would have picked oblivion every single time.
But on the ninth day, something changed.
Adam woke up to a sense of clarity he hadn't felt between his pelting through the trees on his first day and the angels playing with his soul like Silly Putty. Not since… no, he couldn't remember. Not since before. Not since he’d had a body and a place in the real, physical world without Michael. As he stared at the ceiling, the fact that the room stayed just a room and didn’t bleed into a place he’d been in his memories, or somewhere in the pit, almost confused him more than the alternative.
For once, lying in a bed (in Wonderland of all places, according to an angel, whatever that counted for) seemed like a possibility and not just a fever dream cobbled together by a sick mind.
Real.
What that possible? Really? He hadn’t believed Castiel about being free, not enough to dare let that hope sink in. Now, the longer he laid there, the more doubt crept in.
Free…?
If he was alive, being alive felt an awful like being on the verge of passing out. Sliding out of bed and convincing his legs to hold him up was a touch-and-go affair, made worse by a floor that didn’t seem to want to stay steady underneath him. Getting across the room was a sheer miracle in and of itself; his need to know just what the fuck was happening to him just barely outweighed his body's desire to pitch him over. He held onto the door frame to rest for a second. Good for him that he didn't have any dignity left to lose.
"Warmed-over shit" was a good way to describe the young man who eventually staggered into the sixth floor hallway that morning, unshaven and unwashed. A kind assessment, given that Hell was still written all over the lines of his face; it was in the glassy cast to his eyes and the purpled skin underneath, in the way he had to steady himself on the occasional section of wall. Absorbed in the push and pull of his own muscles, Adam almost forgot his surroundings entirely. Stairs, more hallways, rooms… Places he didn’t recognize, falling forgotten behind him.
The first time he glimpsed himself in a mirror brought him to a halt, however. Startled, he froze in place before turning back to the mirror, bringing his hands to rest on either side of it.
He saw his face. At the same time, he saw the face of a stranger. The person in it didn't look… right.
Maybe he was alive, after all. Only reality could be this gaunt, and cold, and uncomfortable.
(OOC: It's prose to start, but I'm down with action tags! Feel free to find him anywhere in the mansion you'd like, too.)
no subject
He could say that Wonderland's time is weird, that it's different, but that's a stall tactic and a cop-out. He knows what the real question is- what year is it back home. He purses his lips, and answers finally- "Twenty thirteen."
Easy route it is.
Less easy is the math.
Ten bucks says the first thing he does with the info is calculate how long he got left rotting in the pit.
no subject
Of course, Adam doesn't know what to make of anything.
Without looking up, he murmurs, "Yeah, that sounds about right."
Hearing the answer a second time doesn't make the reality any less unkind, but it's easier to take by a small fraction. If there's one thing Adam's inherited from John's side of the family, it's that he doesn't beg, not even when everything inside him is screaming for mercy. Begging the only family he has left for a different answer won't change anything.
So why am I back this time? The question is in his throat. Someone must want something from him--another death, another bargaining chip. Some ulterior motive for trying to put him back together.
no subject
This is different, and yeah, he'd been expecting it, but like looking at a sick loved one, it's still jarring to see the change even when you're prepared for the worst.
What he's taking from this, though, is that he has some time. That he can stall, and not have to explain why he fucked up, why Adam was left rotting. Truth be told, any excuse to put that conversation off is one Dean's going to seize with both hands, so with a lick of his lips, he lets it go. Doesn't plead his case. Takes the words-free way out, while he still can.
Unsurprisingly, it leaves him feeling shittier than when he started. Talking about it would be the healthy thing to do and the right thing to do, but he internalizes the guilt and the apologies, and slowly pushes himself up from his chair.
"Listen. I'm gonna send someone around with some food, probably Jo. You remember Jo? She's the one that told me you were up and running. I'm gonna take care of some stuff, but I'll be back to check on you, alright?"
If he's honest, there's nothing he wants more than to cut and run from this walking, talking reminder of what he's done, of where he's been, of what Sam went through, of that whole god damn mess.
no subject
Did you ask that angel to do this to me? he wants to ask, because it's not fair that Castiel repairing his soul has made everything worse somewhere, has made everything more excruciating. He's being punished for being someone's son, someone's brother, someone's vessel.
You couldn't even save my mom, he wants to accuse, because it's not fair.
It's not fucking fair.
He doesn't think to say anything about Dean running away, but that's what Winchesters do, it seems. First John, and now Dean and Sam. The heroes. The good guys. His brothers.
"Do what you want." He lifts his head, long enough to look at Dean before he turns his head to view the window. "That's all you do, isn't it?"
It's not fair and it's easier not to give a shit.
no subject
He sucks at this, he sucks at people, and he sucks at...
Damn near everything.
Yeah, he wants to run. There's a moralistic part of him telling him what a giant sack of shit he is for it, too. There's a man in him that's perfect, that sits back down to finish this conversation, that takes the brunt of what he deserves and owns up to it all.
And then there's reality. There's stopping in the doorway to stare at Adam after that question, letting it run through his mind.
Pick one.
Sam.
He doesn't say a goddamn word, because Adam's right. His head ducks.
The door clicks quietly shut behind him.
This is gonna be a goddamn long road.