kore_logs | hello, dean. what were you dreaming about?

Entry tags:

hello, dean. what were you dreaming about?

Who: Dean Winchester and you!
When: Day 86-88
Where: Dreamland.
What: Dean goes to sleep with the intention of getting back to that city, which leads to some potential for lucid dreaming! Check the comments for scenarios. If you want something specific, let me know!

Warnings: Blood, light gore, talk of torture.

Threaded | Flat

The cell is filthy, and the low lighting doesn't do anything to hide any of that, though the floor isn't covered in dirt so much as it is blood and guts. Literal guts. The only thing in the room that's clean are the tools on the long table in front of him, though there are some here that are dirty, purposefully so.

Dean isn't supposed to be here. He has somewhere else he needs to be, somewhere else he's trying to go, and he knows that as he turns around and looks over the man on his rack, strapped down, bleeding, begging for mercy. Begging Dean for mercy. When Dean moves, the man cringes, bracing himself for more, but Dean isn't here to torture him. He's after something.

There's a cluster of vampires that he's taking out, machete swinging and blood flying. He can't tell what's on his forehead now, dirt or blood, but he doesn't pay any attention to it as he decapitates another vampire and stops, breathing hard.

On the ground at his feet is a piece of tattered coat, and he bends down to touch it, sweat and who knows what else stinging his eyes.

"Cas," he says, but then he blinks. This is wrong, too. He's not supposed to be in Purgatory. There's somewhere he has to be, and it isn't topside, either.

He only lived here for a year, but Lisa's house is represented perfectly because Dean checked every inch of this house obsessively in his stint as a normal person with a normal life and a normal family. It must be almost the Fourth; yeah, yeah, it is almost the Fourth of July, and he's wearing an apron and he's about to start grilling. It's coming back to him slowly.

Sam walks up to him, and Dean looks down at him because Sam's just a kid, snot-nosed and going to school and happy, and he's holding a box of sparklers.

"When're we doing the fireworks?"

"After dinner." Dean smiles and ruffles his hair, and this is a good dream.

No, it's real, isn't it? Sam's smile fades as he steps away, and he nods, going off to the backyard. Dean could call out to him, tell him to stop, but before he has a chance, the person he's living with catches his eye. It seems right, but it doesn't.

"Did you get the hot dog buns?" he asks, even if he looks confused as he does.

[ Be Dean's boyfriend/girlfriend, or you can be a random spectator on Dean's life and the person he's living with is Meg. I'm totally cool with either! ]

Edited 2013-06-30 06:26 (UTC)

The buildings are shiny and strange, totally unfamiliar, and Dean stops abruptly to look around him. This place is wrong, but it feels right too, like he wanted to be here. Now that he is, he's not sure why. Someone walks by him, and Dean watches closely, but he can't see their face; he can't see anyone's face as he turns in a slow circle and spots more people, a few here, one over there.

The way they're walking has him nervous, looking over his shoulder. Whatever they're afraid of, Dean should be afraid of too, right?

Dean's throat burns from screaming, and he wants to stop not to save his dignity because he doesn't have any of that left anymore, but because he isn't even making any sounds anymore, his voice is so raw. He's bleeding -- God -- everywhere, and Sam's face swims in front of his eyes, but it's not his Sam. It's the face of whoever was here last, whoever had the hot pokers and the knife that Dean hadn't seen, but felt.

There's so much pain that he thinks that's all he is anymore, raw pain, a bundle of nerves to be plucked and played by a master, for the rest of time. Forever stretches out in front of him, and it comes in bundles of pain and anguish, one after another after another, never stopping. Unless. Unless.

He doesn't have tears anymore, or he shouldn't. He hangs his head, sobbing even as it pulls at the hooks in his shoulders, the ones that keep him flat against his rack. His skin tears, but that's not what's breaking right now.

"Okay," he tries to say, but no sound comes out, so he tries again. He shouts with everything he has.

"Okay! I'll do it. I'll... I'll do it. Just... please. Please let me go."

Threaded | Flat

Hell

Purgatory

Suburbia

The city

For Castiel

Wildcard! Whatever you want!