ind. blog for
dean winchester
from cw's
"supernatural"
selective | au | 18+

canon diverg.
mutual interaction.
est. oct. 2013
rebooted july 2015

written by freya.


status!

active.
● drafts: 14
● asks: 10 (on 27/07/15)
● accepting new threads !
● open to plotting !
slow & selective replies.



disclaimer!

credit goes to eric kripke & co.

theme, avatar, headers, icons, self promos & other posted graphics are generally mine.


blog music!

"ghost town" by adam lambert
"jet pack blues" by fall out boy

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updates

♞  ▎┊ ANNA. 

She’d combed the whole world over – twice – before she found him. He’d been hidden from her, hidden from them all by the sigils carved into his ribs and yet Anna knew his soul anywhere. It was a beautiful thing, to her, broken even as it was and the moment she saw it from overhead, she wept.

There was much to say, and yet for a fortnight, she kept her distance, remaining hidden from his sight until such a time came that she could not bear her secrecy any longer.

She waited until Sam was gone, to ensure that her Righteous Man did not see her presence as anymore of a threat than he was sure to. She waited until he was alone and then she appeared, the only indication of her presence a slight ripple of the space around her. For a moment, she was lost for words, a peculiar thing for an angel.

“…Dean.”

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           ▎┊《  ▓▓▓     ♞ 

          GUARDED IN THE heart of raw obscurity  —  he’s seen this pattern repeat itself for the latest heavy midnights; solitary, stripped of access to all dialogues but the ones with his tortuous psyche, so razed by the crossfire exchange on the battlefield of his soul. It’s nothing ideal, it’s nothing to aid him in amassing his ever CLOAKED pieces and, although in times like these he wishes he could sight over his shoulder and find a listener willing to sit through this Pandora'x Box of unspoken words, whenever presented with the ( ever so rare )how are you feeling ? ’ he merely twists the key in the lock one more time and hurls it into a distance not even HE can reach.

          MIDNIGHT HAS STRUCK two hours ago, around the time the younger of those so reluctantly labeled as CHOSEN ONES spoke through the elder’s dormant daze and announced that he would drive the car a few towns away to a case ( as always, conjoined with a tight lipped reassurance that he can  ’ HANDLE ’ it and that Dean needed to rest ). Albeit, slumber is a condition independent of someone’s will and he doubts he’s been able to keep his eyes shot longer than fifteen minutes, which is why ultimately he’s given up entirely and settled on forestalling Sam’s laptop   —   for more AND less serious reasons.

          DROWSINESS HAS YET to dull out his senses, especially when they have grown used to certain habitual customs. First the murmur of hollowness being lacerated by the faintest FLUTTER, and then the sensation of a presence dragging tension down his spine, he does become aware of the disruption of his semi normality. His body reacts before his sight lands on the frame noted at the corners of his eyes, and he abruptly ascends from his seat, feet nailing themselves into the floor, in parallel with the peer that finally reaches the room’s second inhabitant and that helps him put a name on the familiar face.

          HIS FEATURES BECOME a highway of chaotic trespassers, when a gradient of emotions paints his feedback with diversity  —  a poignant sense of AWE, a bubbling rush of WRATH, vile and animalic instincts of OFFENSE and, in the end, they all merge on the foundation of an ( apparent ) CHILLING COMPOSURE ( though he fools no one, when the verdant of his hues is replaced by the timberwolf of DAGGERS and when his speech barely spills through gritted teeth ).

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                     ❛    —    you sons of bitches jus’ dunno how to stay dead, do you ?