ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛᴇᴏᴜs ᴍᴀɴ ( ᴊᴇɴɴɪғᴇʀ ᴀɴᴋʟᴇs ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
righteously) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2013-12-14 10:35 pm
righteously) wrote in entrancelogs2013-12-14 10:35 pm
Entry tags:
- dangan ronpa: chihiro fujisaki,
- good omens: aziraphale,
- homestuck: john egbert,
- ouat: emma swan,
- ouat: henry mills,
- penumbra: philip,
- supernatural: adam milligan,
- supernatural: castiel,
- supernatural: crowley,
- supernatural: dean winchester,
- supernatural: ellen harvelle,
- supernatural: meg masters,
- teen wolf: allison argent,
- teen wolf: derek hale,
- the caster chronicles: lena duchannes,
- the dark knight rises: john blake,
- warehouse 13: h.g. wells
Happy Holideans Guys
Who: Dean Winchester, Emma Swan & COMPLETELY OPEN
Where: Literally all over Wonderland
When: Dec 15-24
Rating: R for language, violence, adult themes
Summary: When Emma agreed to acompany Dean on his stupid suicide mission of inevitable death and idiocy, neither of them prepared for the mistletoe. Or, you know, the freaking time travel.
The Story:
The Arrival
They ran out of canned food. All of the stockpiled supplies had been growing steadily more scarce, but it’s probably the cans that finally triggered Dean’s decision to push through with the back-up plan brewing in his mind for the last several weeks. There was beef jerky- god damn, they had beef jerky by the friggin’ score, but with so many mouths to feed, it wouldn't last. There were hunters- actual game, what was left of the animals in the forest and the fish in the ocean were being picked off one by one for sustenance in much the same way that the Jabberwock was picking them off for sustenance.
Soon, there would be nothing. Soon, they wouldn't just have to worry about losing those last few precious lives to the roaming beast, but to starvation. Dehydration. Sickness.
Tom’s been stirring up talk about a second trip to the core, but morale is low. It was a stupid plan the first time around, it’s even more stupid with so many fighters taken out of the game. With so many injuries, with so few extra lives to spare and, more importantly, with the Jabberwock more strong than he’s ever been.
In the end, it’s not a difficult decision to make. Not by a long shot. Too many people are gone already, and waiting for more to go is stupid. He’s not going to do it.
Michael’s there, the Archangel, an ever present beacon of power and possibility, and though things are different now than they were back home- hell, different now than they were years ago in Wonderland’s less horrific years, there was always small part of him that protested the very notion of giving in.
That small part’s been ground to dust.
It’s a no-brainer. Dean says yes.
It’s a small piece to a bigger puzzle, a bigger and, admittedly, probably doomed plan. Cas had been able to take the Jabberwock down in the beginning. It had taken effort, a great expenditure of grace, but he'd been able to slay the beast over and over again to grant them a temporary reprieve. After it swallowed the Vorpal Shield, that bastard ground him into dust. Michael is stronger, though- a thousand times stronger, at least he would be in his true vessel. If they could get rid of it for good together, or, Christ, even just put it down temporarily, long enough to give Wonderland a chance to gather it’s strength, it might fix everything.
If it meant burning Dean out of his body, so be it. If it meant risking losing his remaining lives in the process, he was so far beyond the point of caring.
It would have to be done in secret. The fewer people who knew, the fewer people likely to stop him and the fewer to possibly get caught in the crossfire. He kept it to himself, kept it from Jo, from Sam, from Ellen, from anyone and everyone likely to put their fucking fingers in the mix and make things messy. He'd keep it from everyone if it were feasible, but it simply isn’t. He needs someone to take over in the event it doesn’t work, needs somebody to help him get to where he needs to be, and that someone is Emma.
She had tried to argue against it, tried to use logic to point out why it wasn't worth the risk, but it hadn't lasted long. He had trusted her for a reason; she understood what it meant to be a leader, to go forward and take a chance because the payoff would be beyond worth it if you could pull it off. That didn't mean she liked it. Dean was more than a friend and more than someone to take orders from: he was family now, more like family than just about anyone she'd ever known. Orphans were forced to build their own families, and if they were lucky, sometimes they made a friend like Dean who fit the bill completely, someone who could offer understanding and solidarity like no one else, someone else who knew what it felt like to lose and to grow up too fast and to make the best of what you had.
The idea of this going south and losing him, losing their leader, losing one of the best friends she’d ever had made her stomach drop and her chest feel tight. If it worked, it would be damn near a miracle, though she was hesitant to use the word. She never gave her approval, not really, but she let him know that he could trust her. Trust her to help him through it, trust her to pick up the pieces if it failed or if he didn’t make it back. Meanwhile, she’d spend as much time as she could trying to convince him to take another course, trying to figure out alternatives. She knew what taking the risk could earn them, and she wasn’t going to forcibly stop him -- she respected his decision -- but damn if she wasn’t going to try to get him to change his mind in the eleventh hour.
In the end, they go anyway. Gearing up is a grim affair, done in the silence and secrecy of Dean’s private quarters, tucked away in the back of the refuge. It’s the middle of the night, the civilians and refugees are sleeping. The resistance patrols are circling the small perimeter of the sanctuary they’ve carved out of sweat and blood. They slip through the cracks, through the woods, through the rubble and the dying gardens without a word or a sound. Even footsteps in the grass seem muted in this place.
The entrance hall and lobby, once a grand affair, is dirty and dingy and cracked. Dean can’t help but to sweep his eyes over it as he crosses the entranceway, doors broken in and swinging wide. They could be fixed, but why bother when the beast would simply break them down again and again?
It’s silent, deceptively so. His hands are tight on his gun as he pauses to listen, ears sharpened by Michael’s burning him dormant in the back of his mind. They’re waiting, saving it, saving his last few minutes with the angel tucked into a space too small for him while Dean steers the ship. As soon as Michael takes over, that energy will explode into something grand and heavenly, something burning bright and overpowering, but not yet.
His jaw tightens, and his eyes flick to Emma. One firm nod signals that the coast is clear, the need for words erased by time and familiarity.
She doesn’t like this any better now that they’re here, but as they cross the threshold, the deal is sealed. There’s no going back now, no chances to duck out and find another option. All they have left is to go forward, to follow through with this stupid plan she has no choice but to go along with. Dean is just as stubborn as she is, and they have a job to do. She couldn’t talk him out of this, but she can help him try to protect everyone here. Try to free Wonderland from tyranny and make it someplace everyone can live again, not just survive.
The signal is enough, and she moves forward with her gun pointed at the floor in a two-handed grip. She’s brought the replica of her father’s sword she managed to pull out of the closets all those years ago as well, sheathed at her hip, but it’s more of a good-luck charm than anything. A comfort. If she’s close enough to the Jabberwocky to use it, then it’ll already be too late. She’ll be dinner, and she’s running out of deaths.
She moves forward through the front foyer in time with Dean, their footsteps slow and deliberate, careful not to break the too-heavy silence that’s bearing down on them. Any moment, she expects that the Jabberwock will pierce it, slice through it like it’s nothing, sense them or smell them and somehow just know that it’s no longer alone. They’re on its turf now, and the beast has every advantage that comes with playing on the home field. Still, it’s not the Jabberwock that makes her stop dead in her tracks when they turn the corner.
It’s the mansion itself.
The cracked and crumbling ruin the mansion has become is gone, lush carpets and whole, unbroken mirrors in its stead. Garlands, holly, doors still on their hinges and none of it looking like its become the stomping grounds for something as ravenous as the predator that’s taken over Wonderland has proven to be. She relaxes her hold on her gun, just a hair, turning her head alone to narrow her eyes at Dean in question. What the hell is going on here?
His brow furrows as it tracks over the garland, over the wallpaper, over everything. Slowly, he looks to Emma. Meets her eye, and tightens his grip on his gun.
Whatever this is, it isn't good.
--
This is a catch-all for both Dean and Emma. They'll have their own subthreads to keep things organized!
Where: Literally all over Wonderland
When: Dec 15-24
Rating: R for language, violence, adult themes
Summary: When Emma agreed to acompany Dean on his stupid suicide mission of inevitable death and idiocy, neither of them prepared for the mistletoe. Or, you know, the freaking time travel.
The Story:
They ran out of canned food. All of the stockpiled supplies had been growing steadily more scarce, but it’s probably the cans that finally triggered Dean’s decision to push through with the back-up plan brewing in his mind for the last several weeks. There was beef jerky- god damn, they had beef jerky by the friggin’ score, but with so many mouths to feed, it wouldn't last. There were hunters- actual game, what was left of the animals in the forest and the fish in the ocean were being picked off one by one for sustenance in much the same way that the Jabberwock was picking them off for sustenance.
Soon, there would be nothing. Soon, they wouldn't just have to worry about losing those last few precious lives to the roaming beast, but to starvation. Dehydration. Sickness.
Tom’s been stirring up talk about a second trip to the core, but morale is low. It was a stupid plan the first time around, it’s even more stupid with so many fighters taken out of the game. With so many injuries, with so few extra lives to spare and, more importantly, with the Jabberwock more strong than he’s ever been.
In the end, it’s not a difficult decision to make. Not by a long shot. Too many people are gone already, and waiting for more to go is stupid. He’s not going to do it.
Michael’s there, the Archangel, an ever present beacon of power and possibility, and though things are different now than they were back home- hell, different now than they were years ago in Wonderland’s less horrific years, there was always small part of him that protested the very notion of giving in.
That small part’s been ground to dust.
It’s a no-brainer. Dean says yes.
It’s a small piece to a bigger puzzle, a bigger and, admittedly, probably doomed plan. Cas had been able to take the Jabberwock down in the beginning. It had taken effort, a great expenditure of grace, but he'd been able to slay the beast over and over again to grant them a temporary reprieve. After it swallowed the Vorpal Shield, that bastard ground him into dust. Michael is stronger, though- a thousand times stronger, at least he would be in his true vessel. If they could get rid of it for good together, or, Christ, even just put it down temporarily, long enough to give Wonderland a chance to gather it’s strength, it might fix everything.
If it meant burning Dean out of his body, so be it. If it meant risking losing his remaining lives in the process, he was so far beyond the point of caring.
It would have to be done in secret. The fewer people who knew, the fewer people likely to stop him and the fewer to possibly get caught in the crossfire. He kept it to himself, kept it from Jo, from Sam, from Ellen, from anyone and everyone likely to put their fucking fingers in the mix and make things messy. He'd keep it from everyone if it were feasible, but it simply isn’t. He needs someone to take over in the event it doesn’t work, needs somebody to help him get to where he needs to be, and that someone is Emma.
She had tried to argue against it, tried to use logic to point out why it wasn't worth the risk, but it hadn't lasted long. He had trusted her for a reason; she understood what it meant to be a leader, to go forward and take a chance because the payoff would be beyond worth it if you could pull it off. That didn't mean she liked it. Dean was more than a friend and more than someone to take orders from: he was family now, more like family than just about anyone she'd ever known. Orphans were forced to build their own families, and if they were lucky, sometimes they made a friend like Dean who fit the bill completely, someone who could offer understanding and solidarity like no one else, someone else who knew what it felt like to lose and to grow up too fast and to make the best of what you had.
The idea of this going south and losing him, losing their leader, losing one of the best friends she’d ever had made her stomach drop and her chest feel tight. If it worked, it would be damn near a miracle, though she was hesitant to use the word. She never gave her approval, not really, but she let him know that he could trust her. Trust her to help him through it, trust her to pick up the pieces if it failed or if he didn’t make it back. Meanwhile, she’d spend as much time as she could trying to convince him to take another course, trying to figure out alternatives. She knew what taking the risk could earn them, and she wasn’t going to forcibly stop him -- she respected his decision -- but damn if she wasn’t going to try to get him to change his mind in the eleventh hour.
In the end, they go anyway. Gearing up is a grim affair, done in the silence and secrecy of Dean’s private quarters, tucked away in the back of the refuge. It’s the middle of the night, the civilians and refugees are sleeping. The resistance patrols are circling the small perimeter of the sanctuary they’ve carved out of sweat and blood. They slip through the cracks, through the woods, through the rubble and the dying gardens without a word or a sound. Even footsteps in the grass seem muted in this place.
The entrance hall and lobby, once a grand affair, is dirty and dingy and cracked. Dean can’t help but to sweep his eyes over it as he crosses the entranceway, doors broken in and swinging wide. They could be fixed, but why bother when the beast would simply break them down again and again?
It’s silent, deceptively so. His hands are tight on his gun as he pauses to listen, ears sharpened by Michael’s burning him dormant in the back of his mind. They’re waiting, saving it, saving his last few minutes with the angel tucked into a space too small for him while Dean steers the ship. As soon as Michael takes over, that energy will explode into something grand and heavenly, something burning bright and overpowering, but not yet.
His jaw tightens, and his eyes flick to Emma. One firm nod signals that the coast is clear, the need for words erased by time and familiarity.
She doesn’t like this any better now that they’re here, but as they cross the threshold, the deal is sealed. There’s no going back now, no chances to duck out and find another option. All they have left is to go forward, to follow through with this stupid plan she has no choice but to go along with. Dean is just as stubborn as she is, and they have a job to do. She couldn’t talk him out of this, but she can help him try to protect everyone here. Try to free Wonderland from tyranny and make it someplace everyone can live again, not just survive.
The signal is enough, and she moves forward with her gun pointed at the floor in a two-handed grip. She’s brought the replica of her father’s sword she managed to pull out of the closets all those years ago as well, sheathed at her hip, but it’s more of a good-luck charm than anything. A comfort. If she’s close enough to the Jabberwocky to use it, then it’ll already be too late. She’ll be dinner, and she’s running out of deaths.
She moves forward through the front foyer in time with Dean, their footsteps slow and deliberate, careful not to break the too-heavy silence that’s bearing down on them. Any moment, she expects that the Jabberwock will pierce it, slice through it like it’s nothing, sense them or smell them and somehow just know that it’s no longer alone. They’re on its turf now, and the beast has every advantage that comes with playing on the home field. Still, it’s not the Jabberwock that makes her stop dead in her tracks when they turn the corner.
It’s the mansion itself.
The cracked and crumbling ruin the mansion has become is gone, lush carpets and whole, unbroken mirrors in its stead. Garlands, holly, doors still on their hinges and none of it looking like its become the stomping grounds for something as ravenous as the predator that’s taken over Wonderland has proven to be. She relaxes her hold on her gun, just a hair, turning her head alone to narrow her eyes at Dean in question. What the hell is going on here?
His brow furrows as it tracks over the garland, over the wallpaper, over everything. Slowly, he looks to Emma. Meets her eye, and tightens his grip on his gun.
Whatever this is, it isn't good.
--
This is a catch-all for both Dean and Emma. They'll have their own subthreads to keep things organized!
no subject
He doesn't know what it is that drives him and Crowley together, but he does know what drives him and Dean apart.
Blake swallows down a bitterness that has nothing to do with the drink. It's been so long since he's felt so lost and alone, he almost forgets what it feels like. But that's not the whole picture, and he knows it. He's not alone here. He's not loveless. He has family and he's wanted.
It all serves as a very good reminder.
He has to dip forward and carefully lift his glass to sip off the top. He neatens it up in order to keep that whiskey from spilling all over him, and then lets it hover in front of his lips for the time being.]
Wasn't a story for him. [But maybe he'll share anyway when his Dean comes back. And Blake's confident he will.] Was a story for you.
[He tips back the over-poured shot and it doesn't burn nearly as hot this time around. His empty stomach burbles in protest, but it's bound to do him favors if he's looking to get drunk fast.]
Night I cried — night Dad walked out — knew I'd made a mistake. Wished so many times I could take it back, that I could go back, 'cause fixin' that woulda meant fixin' somethin'. Not even everythin', but somethin'.
Woulda gave anythin' to go back. For a second chance.
[Lo and behold...]
Want you to know, I'd do anythin' for you. Die for you, go to bat for you. Was anyone else, and I mean anyone else, I'd've thrown 'em out on their ass or somethin'.
[This time, he reaches for the bottle, hands out the refills. He can't look at Dean. He can't look at anything but that drink. But he uses Dean's words, and does so with the utmost sincerity.]
But you know. Know now.
Know you know.
[It's almost a request, some hope that Dean can harbor enough trust to believe this one thing for the future. It might not fix anything, but if it prevents the walls from crumbling, then Blake will take it.
For this, he'll take it.]
no subject
Just because coming back here will change everything doesn't mean it suddenly changes everything. That's what nobody gets. They can avert their shitty future, they can carry on with their lives and be happy and safe, but the fact remains that Dean will have always gone through everything he went through. He will always have felt that pain, and all he gets from this is a glimpse at a world where none of it happened. An unfair world that's just out of his grasp.
He's going to disappear, soon. All these changes, these differences? He's not a stupid man. He knows if the world he's from disappears, he's doomed to go with it.
That's what nobody's getting.
Now, though, he feels a little better about it.
He's not a crying man, not really an emotional man, not an anything man anymore, but damn if it doesn't slam into his chest in that moment. Everything. Everything that happened. Everything that's never going to happen. The fact that he's nothing but the shining example of every possible mistake they ever made, the collective lot of them, burned and scarred and beaten just so he could be sent back, filthy and broken, to prove a point.
He drops the shotglass. It lands on it's bottom, but a little sloshes over the rim. He drags a hand down his face, breathes a shaky breath, shakes his head back and forth as if to dispell it all.
Him and Blake are going to be fine.
They're going to live in a world where things don't fall apart.
Good.
He's alright with being an example for that, but there's still one thing he has to deal with.
He turns his head, finally looks at Blake, eyes red rimmed in a way that can't entirely be blamed on the booze.]
I need you to not die, understand? You do... whatever you have to do, you do whatever it takes, but you stay alive. You promise me that, and the rest of it's forgotten. You promise me that, and we're square.
no subject
When he feels Dean look at him, it almost burns through him, that intensity. Their eyes lock, and suddenly Winchester's using those green eyes like tools, boring into John with their sincerity. Suddenly, they're every bit as familiar as they've always been, even with the red rims and the febrile burning behind them.
It's comforting in a way. Disconcerting in many others.]
Promise.
[He doesn't waver. Blake's voice takes on strength and determination in that moment. He knows what he has to do, knows what the answer is. He's known for a couple days. At least, he thinks he has, but some part of him wanted to believe he wouldn't be so naive, that he wouldn't make any decision without a good reason, without considering the implications.
None of that matters, though. Not his old choices, not his old actions, none of it matters, even if he wonders on his own motivation. That future will never be, and he has to accept that in this moment.
If he's making this promise, then things are changing. Maybe he can't prevent it, maybe they'll still be screwed, but hell if he's going to contribute to that for his own sake.]
I promise.
[He can't even think of anything else to say, but he does feel a sense of relief. And maybe the need for a hug (not that he'll never admit that, not in a million years).
It's been hard. He's felt very much the pariah, but thankfully, it's not personal. Not anymore.]
no subject
Well, he lost touch with the man he's tried so hard to be.
He's become this, and a small part of him, a small piece floating at the back of his mind? Hates himself for it. Hates what he's become. Hates everything about this. It's that small part that reaches out, now, to guarantee that promise from a friend he still loves desperately despite all of it. Despite everything that went down.
It's that part that nods slowly, sincerely, one intense dip of the chin in acceptance and approval.]
Good.
[He responds softly, seriously, and then his eyes drop away. Go back to ogling that whiskey in his hands, gripped tight as he breathes a slow in and out, trying to wrap his head around it all.
Good.
Then it's done. Then half of the shit he's been carrying is relieved. Or, at least, a good portion of it. It's a step taken that he might not have accomplished on his own, not without Blake's tenacity, a step he wouldn't even admit to himself he wanted to take because of his own douchey pride and his own wounded spirit.
There's a reason John meant so much to him, and meeting him like this to fix it rather than being permanently disuaded by the things he'd said and the man he'd become? It's a shining example of that.
But that's for a younger man to benefit from. His time has come and past, and his friend died years ago.
So, quietly, he drinks for the man he lost. Whiskey is the drink men drink to punish themselves.]