Pʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴄᴇᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴍʏ sɪɴs (open & closed starters eventually)

[righteously]

Who: Dean Winchester & Others
When: July 2024
Where: Cadens, Nocwich, The Horizon
What: A Monthly Catch-All
Warnings: show-appropriate alcoholism, violence, and suicidal ideation just as a blanket possibility.

Oʜ, I'ᴍ ᴀ ʟᴜᴄᴋʏ ᴍᴀɴ
Tᴏ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ᴏɴ ʙᴏᴛʜ ʜᴀɴᴅs
Tʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇs I ʟᴏᴠᴇ
Sᴏᴍᴇ ғᴏʟᴋs ᴊᴜsᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴏɴᴇ
Yᴇᴀʜ, ᴏᴛʜᴇʀs ᴛʜᴇʏ ɢᴏᴛ ɴᴏɴᴇ
Sᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ
Lᴇᴛ's ᴊᴜsᴛ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇ

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→ ᴊᴏɴ sɴᴏᴡ

[righteously]

( Jon falls into that interesting class of people that he knew of before the mass eight hundred year hallucination, but really knew during it — as much as any of them could have known each other really, considering how parts of it feel like such a blur. Considering how parts of it don't feel like decisions he actually made, considering how parts don't feel like him, don't feel right — and now only traces of memories and impressions linger.

Still. Jon's familiar, and not just because Dean fully binge-watched the first couple of seasons of Game of Thrones back home.

So when he wanders into the Roadhouse one evening while Dean's busy scrubbing down the bar by hand — fully unnecessary in this place, but a gesture he follows through with anyway — he's a welcome sight. Jon gets himself a little sup nod, and Dean slings the bar rag over his shoulder, planting his hands on the wooden bartop. )

Well, well, well. Look what the wolf dragged in.

EX-POST-HIATUS

[northerndragon]

[He had been in this place a few times before the long story the Horizon had woven for them, but he had not really known Dean then. During all those centuries, though, he had called Dean a friend, had known the place well.

Not well enough to remember what the thing under discussion might be, though. So he feels, now, like he's walking into a place that he knows from a dream, some parts recalled well, some parts all a haze. He smiles, lifts a hand in greeting.]

The wolf wants a mug of one of your better ales. And all right, all right, I know it has nothing to do with water. But what is a pool table?

[righteously]

( Dean's got the look of a man who likes to smile, but who does not get to smile nearly as often as he should. It splits his features now, a wide and charming and extremely genuine grin. It's authentic, this warmth he puts out for Jon — no question, no doubt, that he's well-received here. Not to toot his own horn, but if someone AU'd Dean Winchester into Game of Thrones there's no damn doubt this man would be a Northman.

Maybe that's why they got along so well, in that other life, where they were mostly impressions and variations of their truer selves. )

That-

( He says, nodding his head toward the green-felted, well-worn table across the room even as he pours Jon something from the tap into a nice, cold glass. )

-is a pool table, and it's a freaking crime I let you go this whole time without kicking your ass at it yet.

[northerndragon]

[It's the same with Jon: his smile, when it's seen, is bright and sweet and genuine, but it is seldom seen. He wears a serious face for most men, and most women, too, and most say it is too serious. For Dean, today, his smile is open.]

I'd say that's big talk, but you have me at a disadvantage. How does it work?

[There is, clearly, nothing pooling on the felt of the table at all!]

It's a game. [It must be.] Chance or skill? Like tiles, or like dice?

→ ᴄʟᴀʀɪssᴇ (ᴏ̨ᴜᴇsᴛɪɴɢ)

[righteously]

( Dean's knowledge about all these kids from Clarisse and Will's universe has been assembled piecemeal, bit by bit, through conversations and context he's either had with them, or read up on public network interactions. He knows enough, for instance, to know that something very bad may happen if one of them were to go wandering out into the Badlands, where it's open season for monsters even to the normies that aren't absolute monster magnets.

Which Clarisse very much is.

So when he hears of her stupid plan to take up the torch and deliver medical supplies, he can only groan privately to himself. He doesn't bother asking her. Doesn't bother coordinating. He's just there already, waiting, when she shows up at the gate to leave the city. He's saddled up on Chevelle with a gun strapped to his back, a sword at his hip, and a number of other bits of gear hanging from her saddle bags, waiting expectantly. When Clarisse finally arrives, he grunts out an impatient: )

About time.

( And then sets off at a trot beside her. Like she had any indication whatsoever he'd be joining her on this delivery.

In his defense, he thinks if she knew she would've bitched about it or something. This was just easier. There's no way in hell he's letting one of these teenagers run around out there without a hunter for an escort, and as it so happens, he's one of only maybe two other Summoned well-versed in the Badlands. So.

Escort duty. It's happening whether she likes it or not. )

[areou]

( this isn't the first time she's foolishly accepted a quest on her own — though, in her defense, the first time she didn't actually have any friends willing to go with her on what they all thought was a suicide mission into the sea of monsters. but it all worked out because percy decided to take it upon himself to crash her gig much like dean is doing now. and, yeah, she'd bitched about that, so there's no chance she's not going to bitch about this, too. )

Really? ( as indignant as only a teenager can sound. she urges her horse — aptly named midnight oil — forward to catch up, huffing her disdain. it's still strange riding a horse and not a pegasus, but she's getting used to, you know, being on the ground. ) I don't need a chaperone, Dean.

( and yet. here they are. she's not stopping and he's not stopping, so they're in this together now. that's fine. whatever. if her pride wasn't feeling so bruised, she might be happier to see him and maybe acknowledge that it's a good thing he's here, since her last trip into the badlands didn't end so well. she'll get there eventually, probably once the first monster shows up looking for lunch. at least she's more equipped this time, feeling much more comfortable in full armor with a sword at her side. just like home. )

[righteously]

( Good news, C-Dawg: suicide missions are his specialty. The harder he tries to suicide mission himself, the less suicide actually happens on his missions. That's why he's perfect for this; the universe steadfastly refuses to let him finally die, just out of pure spite, he thinks. And if he's not allowed to die, the people he's unofficially decreed as under his protection definitely aren't allowed to die, because he absolutely does not have the emotional bandwidth to be able to deal with that, like, at all, even a little. Screw all that noise.

So, yeah. Really.

He snorts. )

Chaperone? Sister, rule number one about hunting: never hunt solo. That's, like, the first thing you're supposed to learn. Did they teach you guys anything at that stupid camp?

( Seriously, you got one moron running around refusing to carry weapons, you got another ungrateful little shit denying multiple universes and angels, and now you've got Little Miss Lone Wolf wandering out into the badlands without a partner. He'd like to file a formal complaint or seven. )