kore_logs | (no subject)

Who: ~~Mama Bear~~Ellen and you!
Where: The land of dreeeeeams
When: Days 83-88
Warnings: Canonical death, destruction, demons… it’s Supernatural, so be warned

1. There’s propane tanks wired together. Pails of rock salt and nails are next to them. At the counter, two figures are huddled together, bloody, sweaty, with tear lines on their face. A blonde head rests against the shoulder of the older woman. Jo’s body is warm next to her. Their hands clasp around the switch together.

Then, there’s nothing but stillness. “Honey?” Her voice cracks. Her lips quiver when there’s no answer. She looks straight ahead and doesn’t blink. “Jo –“ The sob breaks free and her hand tightens on Jo’s. “It’s okay; it’s okay.” She sobs out. It is. It’s going to be okay. Ellen leans over and kisses Jo on the head. Her baby girl. “That’s my good girl.” She whispers.

She leans her head back and swallows the tears. A warm breath stirs her head and she glances out of the corner of her eye. “You can go straight back to hell, you ugly bitch!”

2. The pickup truck roars down the road, the windows open, headed for someplace unknown. Scenery whizzes past. Ellen is younger and looking at a map. Her hair is up in a ponytail, and her bare feet are on the dash. The nails are bright pink.

She’s munching on some fries. The other man is tall, lean. There’s a tattoo on his forearm that is simply her name and a heart. He tries to steal her fries. Ellen moves them out of the way without looking.

“Ellen.”

“Bill.”

The man, his green eyes laughing, huffs out a sigh. “I’m hungry.”

“Sure does suck.” She throws a fry at him and goes back to studying the map, marking something on it before stuffing a couple fries in her mouth. Then she starts laughing as he leans over and mouths her neck while still keeping his eyes on the road. “ACK! Drive! Drive, Bill! Eyes on the road!” She laughs, squirming away from him against the door. “Here, you big baby.” She offers her fries, laughing.

“Thank you.” He grins and pops a few into his mouth.

3. The roadhouse is empty and quiet. Ellen sits at a table. There are chairs on the other tables. The bar is clean, sparkling glasses shining from the towel they’re drying on. The jukebox is turned off. The fans overhead squeak softly.

In front of her is a picture of a blond man with green eyes, his arm around her and a pretty blonde baby girl in his other. There’s a bottle of whiskey in front of her and an empty tumbler.

Ellen’s eyes well with tears and then they fall down her cheeks, streaking through the dust from finishing up the evening cleaning. The door gently swings in the wind behind John Winchester as he left. She can’t quite feel yet.

A sob breaks free and Ellen’s fingers brush over the photograph. Her head falls forward onto her arm and she sobs to the floor, screaming out her husband’s name. She curls in on herself and just cries. She can’t breathe properly and the tears spatter her arm, the floor, her legs. She doesn’t care.

A warm hand lands on her shoulder and she jerks, falling off the chair. She stares upwards.

“Ellen, honey? What happened? Is it Joanna Beth? Where is she? What’s wrong?”

She surges up and grabs him, burying her face in his shoulder. “Bill… Bill, you’re okay. You’re okay.”

He cradles her to him. “Of course.” His head drops to drop a kiss on her shoulder. “What happened? Where’s Jo?”

“She’s fine. She’s… she’s with Felicia. I thought you were… John said that –“

He cups her face. “Of course I’m fine. It was just a demon. What did Winchester say?” He looks like his temper is sparking.

Ellen just shakes her head. “Nothing. It’s okay. Let’s go get Jo.”

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Bill walks over, hearing the question. "They only surface every twenty years to eat. They like their meat hung and gamey."

Ellen pulls a face. She walks around the campsite, marking the trees with several symbols. There's a soft glow starting from the sigils, but she ignores it. "Mines are northwest from here." She nods in the right direction and falls in behind Bill as he leads.

Fortescue keeps her flamethrower close as she follows the two hunters, clicking her tongue lightly at Jazz. He'd jumped off to investigate the remains of the tent but, at her command, leaps and climbs back up to her shoulder, peering intently into the woods around them.

"Interesting." She keeps her tone quiet, but audible. So they can hear something if it tries to sneak up on them. "I'm fairly certain that being a cannibal won't turn you into a monster, where I come from. Clearly your rules here are very different."

"Usually only happens if they're forced to it. Chosen cannibals don't have that problem." Bill puts in. He steps over the chains blocking the way into the mine.

Ellen snorts and pulls out a spray can. She shakes the can, the ball rattling around. She waits for Fortescue to pass and then starts marking the same symbols on the ground that she'd been marking on the trees. Her feet carry her in a semi circle around the front of the mine.

"Gas on, and light 'em up." Bill warns, stepping in, his own flame thrower sparking on.

Ah, well, that makes all the difference. Being forced to do something, rather than doing it out of choice. It casts a more sympathetic tone on the creature they're hunting, but she won't let it get in the way of the task at hand. It would be better for a danger like that to be put out of its misery.

It's that firm line of thinking that makes her a good agent in the field.

"Understood."

Fortescue makes a mental note of the symbols in question, before switching on the gas and then sparking her own flamethrower into action. Her movements are confident, firm; she's a woman used to violence and weaponry.

Ellen lights hers and grabs a road flare from her bag. "They hate light." She strikes the cap off the flare and tosses the lit flare into the mine.

The inside of the mine is dank, and the air stale, especially once they get past the entrance. More drag marks line the floor. Some are old, stuck in the ground after a couple of decades.

Ellen sees the pile of bones. "Bill." She nods to an offshoot of the main cavern.

"Ready ladies?" Ellen just waves him on. Don't worry about them. They'll be fine.

She smiles tightly, not bothering to add a nod of her own; the flamethrower should be a big enough indicator that she's prepared. She always is — well, except for suddenly ending up in someone's dreams. But could you ever be prepared for that, really? In theory her mental training against Seid magic should have prevented it, but it seems that their captors have more technology — or magic — than they know what to do with.

Fortescue raises her weapon, sticking with Ellen.

Ellen steps into the offshoot, behind her husband. She kicks something out of the way with the toe of her boot and then stops. There's the harsh sound of breathing, somewhere ahead of them.

Another step and then Bill yells at both of them to move. He gets shoved to the side, as the long limbed thing lunged out of the shadows. Pale with rotten teeth and claws it moves supernaturally fast. Ellen clicks on her flamethrower, but it charges her anyway.

She stumbles backwards, tripping over the bone she'd moved just a bit ago and cracking her shoulder on the wall of the mine.

Fortescue really has the best intentions not to use her magic, because of that alien idea that some people might not be okay with it, but when she's being charged, in a dream, she forgets. Because it's a memory, it feels more charged with emotion, maybe. She blasts her flamethrower, but when the creature — Wendigo, she reminds herself — ducks to the side, she defends herself in her usual manner.

Things in the mine get brighter for just a moment, though thanks to the strength of the shadows it's almost impossible to see her working them. Physically, she half raises a hand in front of the creature, and then, with her shadows, throws it against the opposite wall.

Jazz leaps off her shoulders and far away from the fight, wary.

Ellen's head whips around to stare at the woman, but she turns her attention back to the Wendigo. It's more important. Bill pushes himself up and grabs his molotov cocktail, lighting the rag and going to throw it.

The Wendigo slashes his side with it's claws, not doing the amount of damage it could, but still knocking him down.

"Bill!" Ellen gets distracted, her head whipping around to her husband. She grunts, getting shoved to the side and hitting the wall. She grabs the bottle where it rolled on the ground and fumbles for a lighter.

When the thing advances on Bill, Fortescue turns on her flamethrower as hard as she can, to try and corner it. She isn't sure how much of this will always happen, in a dream, but she's going to try her best to keep it from getting another clean swipe at any of them.

And Gate, is it ugly.

The Wendigo screeches, the sound echoing off the walls of the mine. Ellen watches it stumble back away from the fire, creeping deeper into the mine. She's not sure that following it is the best idea.

Her fingers finally manage to relight the rag in the bomb and she throws it at the Wendigo, setting it on fire. "LIGHT IT UP!" She calls to the other woman, crawling over to Bill. She shrugs out of her jacket, pressing it to his side.

Fire to the flames, then. Fortescue opens up the flamethrower as hot as it will go, lighting up every inch of the Wendigo. She's not sure if she'd prefer this job to her usual, although there's certainly a woodsy charm involved. But she also imagines a short life expectancy in most. In Fortescue's line of work, the latter part is the same. Trained killers are, ultimately, disposable, if they allow themselves to be.

She torches the creature until it stops moving, and then takes a few steps back toward Ellen and Bill. Killing is something she can do, at least.

Ellen watches the thing go up in flames and bends down, helping Bill up. "C'mon. Let's get you patched up." She whispers to her husband.

Ellen looks at the woman. "Thank you. For your help." She's not sure what this means.

The dream around them flickers. Replacing the dank walls of the cave, ever so briefly, is a crystalline city. Then the walls come back, but Bill is gone.

Ellen looks around. "What the hell?" She asks, picking up the flamethrower again.

When things flicker, Fortescue is halfway through a question about wendigos — she pauses, staring around them, all of her senses suddenly on high alert. Jazz yowls in alarm and leaps onto her shoulders, eyes wide.

"This again?" she wonders, frowning. "What's the deal with this place..."