throughdamnation

[throughdamnation]

|| Been a while since I’ve been active on here. Any Supernatural writers down to brew something up?

[throughdamnation]

“Dude, 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺?” Dean shot back, having just been reeled from the article that read like a Sunday comic. “Of course it’s not 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯' 𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘮𝘢𝘯.”

A giant man-eating moth running… er, flying around in the middle of West Virginia. Dean had heard crazy, he’d 𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗱 crazy, but this… this was 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥.

Sam went ahead and suggested that it was an angel thing; it wasn’t like Dean hadn’t considered it, but he’d already come to the conclusion that their fluffy friends had a way of wreaking havoc that was much 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘳 than a couple of missing persons. Had a part of Point Pleasant been fried to a crisp, okay, Dean might’ve hopped on board the angel train — but seeing as Mothman seemed to be about as dangerous as your run-of-the-mill vamp or werewolf, Dean wasn’t exactly ready to whip out the holy fire.

“I don’t know, Sam. You know how many Bigfoot sightings there are in a year? Hell, man, if we chased every lead that involved a killer sasquatch, we’d be booked ‘round-the-clock. This is the same thing; it’s just wearing a different face.” Glancing at the black-and-white Mothman ‘fanart’, Dean grimaced. “A furry… botched up, creepy face.”

“‘Sides, doesn’t Heaven have a, I don’t know, Apocalypse to be fretting about? Unless West Virginia’s a holy get-away spot, then I don’t see the dots connecting.”

Starter for @throughdamnation

“That is… the fifteenth person in this town to claim they saw the Mothman,” Sam pushed his mobile aside and sat back in the chair so he could rub his face. Fingers pushing into his eyes before moving to his temples, then proceeding to look up at his brother, “It can’t be the Mothman. Right?”

Maybe they couldn’t afford to be skeptical considering their line of work, but somethings were just tall tales, “What else has wings and currently walking amongst us?” Sam suggested, because it was kind of hard to ignore angels as a potential culprit.

[throughdamnation]

Dean watched as Sam reeled himself back from what could've been the world's most violent seizure. His grip was iron strong, even as Sam sat up and seemed to regain whatever sort of composure he had left. The eldest Winchester's eyes continued to ping-pong around his brother's figure, looking for any reason to order Sam to friggin' bed instead of spinning the damn wheel on this Lucifer crap or sifting through Moby Dick length scrolls or whatever the hell his brother did nowadays. Sam didn't even have to say it. Dean knew what this was. The Ghost of Hell Past had hopped into his brother's scrambled head. 'Cept this wasn't the regular, run-of-the-mill, Lucifer's-strumming-a-rock-solo-in-the-corner type thing. It'd become physical — real physical, if that goddamn WWE scene was anything to go off of. No matter what kind of crap Sam tried to sell Dean, it was pretty damn obvious that this was getting worse. "You felt it?" Dean echoed, incredulous. "No, Sam, that wasn't feeling it — that was taking a friggin' ass-kicking." He searched Sam's expression like he'd find some sort of answer there. "Strictly mental, 'the Devil's in my head' type crap — I get. But a WWE throw down? How the hell is that even possible?" It wasn't even real. The Lucifer in Sam's head was a figment of his botched-up imagination. There was nothing real about it, and yet... here Dean was, pulling his very bruised and very shaken brother to his feet. "Come on," he prodded as he helped his brother up. "I've got you. Alright—"

Open Starter || Sam Winchester || Angst

“Heya, Sammy. Where are you going so soon? The fun is just getting started.”

That voice. That damned voice was one of the things that kept Sam awake at night. He was terrified, that if he goes to sleep, he’ll wake up in the cage — just how Lucifer presumed it might happen, appearing in all kinds of places, telling him… 

“You could never get rid of me, don’t you remember? I never even let you go. You’re stuck in this cage with me.”

It took one glance around for his surroundings to change — from the living room, to the torture room, possibly Lucifer’s favorite place, filled with hooks and chains with meat on it. Skin. Sam’s skin. He felt himself burn up from the inside, reaching for the nearest pipe, and staring ahead in deep fear of what might come. “You’re not — No, don’t get near me, STAY AWAY FROM ME!” He took a swing, cutting thin air in real life, but there, in his mind, he heard the chains clack and wrap around his body, binding him to the floor, squeezing around his bones and muscles. Sam whined and yelled in sheer panic, losing his voice - the chains were pushing at his throat. He was laying on the ground, trying to pry away, until his hands were bound to the floor with invisible chains too. Lucifer’s laugh echoed around, and Sam cried, feeling the tears come down in waterfalls.  “Isn’t it real enough for you, Sammy? It’s real enough for me!”

[throughdamnation]

The fact of the matter was, the bunker was a quiet friggin’ place. It was 7,000 square feet inhabited by two people (not including Cas  — the dude was pretty wishy-washy, and had a tendency to disappear without so much as a text message. Bastard.). Silence was pretty much a given... ‘cept when Dean tuned into reality TV, because as much as he was NOT a fan, he knew crap when he saw it, and Margaret’s brother was full of it. 

Point was, if your brother decided to scream bloody murder in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, there was a pretty good chance you’d hear it. In fact, Dean had been on the other side of the bunker when it’d happened  — Sam, screaming. Screaming like he’d just been stabbed. Screaming in a way that pierced Dean’s chest with white-hot adrenaline. Screaming in a way that Dean couldn’t bear to hear, and God be damned if he wasn’t going to throw down whoever or whatever was making his brother hurt like that.

“Sam?” Dean yelled, swinging his head from side to side. He rounded the corner to the living room and  — what the hell? Sam was sprawled out across the floor, thrashing violently at the air, his face contorted in red-hot pain. Dean’s eyes ping-ponged across his brother’s figure, trying to identify a wound or anything that would make this damn scene make a lick of sense. 

Then he was grabbing his brother by his jacket, trying to ground him back and away from whatever kind of hellscape he’d slipped into. “Sam? Sammy? Hey! Hey, look at me. Look at me.” Dean tried, the worry in his worn expression seeping into his voice. “What the hell’s going on?”

Open Starter || Sam Winchester || Angst

“Heya, Sammy. Where are you going so soon? The fun is just getting started.”

That voice. That damned voice was one of the things that kept Sam awake at night. He was terrified, that if he goes to sleep, he’ll wake up in the cage — just how Lucifer presumed it might happen, appearing in all kinds of places, telling him… 

“You could never get rid of me, don’t you remember? I never even let you go. You’re stuck in this cage with me.”

It took one glance around for his surroundings to change — from the living room, to the torture room, possibly Lucifer’s favorite place, filled with hooks and chains with meat on it. Skin. Sam’s skin. He felt himself burn up from the inside, reaching for the nearest pipe, and staring ahead in deep fear of what might come. “You’re not — No, don’t get near me, STAY AWAY FROM ME!” He took a swing, cutting thin air in real life, but there, in his mind, he heard the chains clack and wrap around his body, binding him to the floor, squeezing around his bones and muscles. Sam whined and yelled in sheer panic, losing his voice - the chains were pushing at his throat. He was laying on the ground, trying to pry away, until his hands were bound to the floor with invisible chains too. Lucifer’s laugh echoed around, and Sam cried, feeling the tears come down in waterfalls.  “Isn’t it real enough for you, Sammy? It’s real enough for me!”

[throughdamnation]

Open Starter // Dean Winchester

“Great,” Dean barked. “You know what, friggin’ fantastic. Not only are we stranded in the middle of nowhere,” Dean observed, cutting his hand through the air to punctuate his point, “but Crowley’s got Fido cocked and ready to chomp our freakin’ faces off.”

Goddamnit. He knew they should’ve stayed holed up in the motel — sat this one out. Dean Winchester didn’t hide, but he knew when to lay low. Now they were in some jerkwater gas station being lasso’d around by the King of Douchebags himself (who was periodically checking in through voicemail, leaving the world’s most cryptic and somehow threatening messages known to man).

“I told you we should’ve stayed in the damn motel.”

[throughdamnation]

Please reblog if you’re an active Supernatural rper!

yo, it’s been a while since I’ve been in the supernatural rp community, so I wanna make this post (not for the likes or reblogs, I promise), to ask people to reblog if they’re an active spn rpers. That way I get to follow a shit ton of people and maybe write with some of them!

& yes, OCs & multimuses count too!