forwhomtheytoll: (Or the path - the walker?)
Allen Walker ([personal profile] forwhomtheytoll) wrote in [community profile] bakerstreet2013-10-01 05:07 pm
Entry tags:

remember seek (forgetting find)

THE AMNESIA MEME



Ah, amnesia. The old standby for soap operas, it usually involves a good knock on the head and a complete loss of memory. Ever wanted to do that to your character? Well, now's your chance. (VIA [personal profile] jading
1. Comment with your characters!
2. Others comment. Optionally, go to RNG and roll the scenario. (As to who gets knocked on the head, well, that's up to you!)
3. ???
4. PROFIT.


1. HEAD-ON COLLISION - ...whoops. It was an honest mistake, really! You didn't see that car/tree/post/person/whatever coming, but now you're stumbling out of the wreckage sans memory. Better ask for help.

2. WAIT, WHO ARE YOU? - Okay, so a while ago, you got into...something that caused you to lose your memory. Fortunately, you managed to get by and create a new identity for yourself. Unfortunately, someone new has just entered your life. Or should I say, someone who's a little too familiar...

3. RINSE AND REPEAT - Sigh. Really, this is just so inconvenient. You wake up everyday with no memory of who you are, and have to figure it out over the course of the day, only to fall asleep and have to do it all over again the next day. Good thing someone's there to help you out, right? And what's with all those post-its and notes?

4. THIS ROOM'S TOO WHITE - Welcome to the hospital. You've got an "Unknown" tag on your wrist, a healthy diet of bland hospital food, a steady trickle of doctors coming in to check up on you, and a TV, and nothing else. Looks like someone's coming to help you today, though! Here's to hoping they knew you before you lost your memory.

5. I'M SUPPOSED TO DO WHAT?! - Oh, crap. There's something only you can do right now--that is, the you who didn't lose your memory, anyway. Better figure out a way out of this mess and how to control your strange abilities before it's too late.

6. FIGHTING FOR THE WRONG SIDE - Uh, oh. Looks like your enemies decided to take advantage of your confused state and convinced you that you're on their side. Here's to hoping your allies can get you back to yourself before you cause some serious damage.

7. JUST TOO TRAUMATIC - You just saw something that's so traumatic you lost your memory because of it. Unfortunately, right now, you have to remember it, or else something really bad happens. Hope you don't regret remembering this!

8. I DON'T WANT THIS - You've been living a peaceful, ordinary life, for a while. And you'd rather it stay that way, because you're not sure if you'd want to remember what went before. Unfortunately, something's coming, and the key to stopping it lies in your memories.

9. NO SUCH THING - Maybe you were a wizard, or a werewolf, or an angel, or a demon, or something else entirely before, or maybe you just knew about the masquerade. Sadly, you've been knocked on the head and now believe yourself to be a perfectly ordinary person. Magic? That doesn't exist, right? Anything can be explained with science, after all! Right?

10. I'M WHO?! - And who the hell are you? Basically, this is the wild card option! Combine one of the above or make up a new one or whatever you want! Go wild!
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617143)

2

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-05 07:39 am (UTC)(link)
[Dean remembers a few things: his first name, for one. Then the dirt and blood and short breaths in between running. He remembers a door, and yelling for someone, something — it's foggy, but his voice is still hoarse and he feels an ache that he can't quite name, and everything just bleeds together as he looks around. He's in a forest — a park? — and there's a tent and people and he doesn't even know what he's doing, anymore, but he grabs the backpack. Two kids come out of the tent, terrified, wary, and Dean brandishes a blade he didn't even realize he was carrying, doesn't even know how he knows how to stand when facing a threat.]

I'm taking this.

[And then he's off.

More running. Always running. Until he's out of the park and in the middle of a road. It occurs to him, belatedly, that he should put the blade away, and so he does. He tries to hitchhike, but no one wants to stop for a bloody man covered in filth and grime, so Dean walks until he can steal a car. He hot wires it like it's second-nature, like he's done this before, even though he doesn't remember why, even though there are so many gaps that he doesn't know how to put experience to his name. But he gets in and then he drives until he gets to a cabin. He doesn't know who owns the cabin, but there are supplies there, and food, and a shower, and Dean cleans up.

For a while, he lives on the road. Switching out vehicles sometimes so he doesn't get caught.

It feels normal in a way he can't explain. He must be an outlaw, or something, because between the stealing cars and the comfort he feels on the open road (and the way he can hustle pool), he's got it made.

That's what he thinks, until he's reading the paper one morning in a diner with a cup of black coffee and a piece of pie for breakfast because why the hell not? He catches wind of something that feels off — a story about a couple of violent deaths in this old bed and breakfast. Dean decides to check it out, and when he gets there, he's face-to-face with a vengeful spirit that has it out for him, tries to kill him. All of a sudden, everything feels so fucking right, and Dean is using a fire poker to ward the thing off. As soon as he's free and alive, he starts doing a little bit of research — gets some answers, and then he goes back to salt and burn that motherfucker.

And that's how Dean the hunter is reborn.

From then on, Dean's itching to become a pro. He studies whatever he can over the course of a few weeks, gets in contact with a couple of people who are familiar with this kind of stuff — and he hunts. Starts a little slow, salt and burns, but graduates within a couple of weeks to a couple of werewolves in a college town. Then he takes out a vampire nest — on his fucking own, like a true badass, like he was born to hunt.

By the time Dean has acquired a legal vehicle of his own — a lemon of a truck, unfortunately, but at least he doesn't have to worry about getting pulled over; although he promises himself that he'll get something a hell of a lot nicer once he has the funds — and a set of good weapons, he eventually catches wind of a job in Kermit, Texas. It takes him three days to drive down that way, and he holes up in a motel.

Word on the street is that guys are disappearing from the local bar and turning up naked, looking worse for wear — and dead as can be. Dean visits the morgue, and sure enough, the poor bastards look like they've been drained of everything — dry, stiff corpses that are too skinny.

It sounds like a succubus. Dean comes to that conclusion on his own, but when he calls around to his few contacts, everyone says they're a myth. That he's gotta be wrong, because no one's ever seen one, and that he might want to consider passing this one off until he gets a little more experience. That pisses Dean off, so he lets them know where they can shove those suggestions. Then he goes to the library, gets a few books, and then brings them to the bar. Figures he can kill two birds with one stone — keep an eye out for anything strange and research at the same time, since research by itself isn't quite as satisfying as being in action.

That, and he can drink at the bar.

He gets a table and ignores the who the hell are you looks that he gets from the other patrons, since he probably sticks out as someone who isn't from around there. Who reads at a bar, anyway? He gets a beer, too — and pours over the books, looking for answers.]
collegedropout: (Default)

aw yeah here's some tl;dr (and edits shh)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-06 06:37 am (UTC)(link)
Sam had lost control of his mind and life.

He's not really sure what happened, honestly. He can't remember, and everything his roommate — Friend with benefits? It's complicated? — tells him is pretty much full of uncertainty. That is, Analou had come back from a late party and literally just found Sam curled up in her kitchen nursing a bloody palm and muttering unintelligibly with a pretty severe fever — begged her not to call 911, told her he's just confused, just tired, he'll be gone. She asked for a name. He couldn't give her one. Not a full one, anyway; just Sam. Three letters is all he had.

The smart thing to do would have been to call 911 or the cops anyway. He still gives her lectures on it, but honestly, she was nearly a drunkard with old abusive relationships tucked in her belt (a tattoo old and a scar extra) with little to no self-respect. She wore too much mascara and was almost not even five foot tall, but she'd told him much later he had more to fear in her than she did in him. And maybe she was right about that, because for her size she was able to drag him to a bathroom and make him stand in it fully clothed, wiping away sweat and blood.

You could ask him from dusk to dawn to dusk how a scared amnesiac man and a anxious tipsy woman ended up wrestling, wet and hot and strangely desperate, in a bathtub that barely fit his body let alone his legs, but that's kind of how it went. It's funny how much you can learn about yourself from the primal, human compulsion of body contact. He figures they both just needed someone to cling to then and there, and ultimately he was a decent enough friend that the extra room finally had a new person to stay there.

He makes them breakfast sometimes. No kissing, no intimate touching — purely platonic, and they're okay with it, with Sam returning from an afternoon shift and one of them being hungry for warmth and temporary satisfaction from their confusing lives; neither of them really know where they're supposed to be, so they kiss in the dark and try to make something out of the pieces.

Sam always desperately wishes he knew what other pieces there were. All he can remember is his name. He had nothing on him other than rumpled, dirty clothes. Analou swears he'd said something about a Baby or something, and he's really scared that somewhere out there, he's got a family he's miserably failing. Or already failed.

Analou gets him a job at the bar she works at, and he makes her stop drinking so much. Something about it is horribly familiar, as is the distant, bitter look she acquires when she's on her third or fourth. He's almost a mother more than a friend, some days, to the point where she throws pillows at him and tells him he's a roomie, not the Nanny or Mary Poppins. And maybe she's got a point there. Who knows what kind of person he is, really? Especially when he feels so... dirty, like there's something coating him on the inside that he'd never want to know about. There's just the tattoo, and then the cut on his palm — the one he'd forced back open with a short knife the night Analou found him. He'd been kneading it, she said, and she assumed it was just because it hurt until he started doing it later on, too.

Mostly when he wasn't feeling well, or when he was nervous.

"Don't go pulling your Jet Li moves, you dislocated your shoulder last time you got into it with the locals," Analou says in her faint Texan twang, and grins, getting ready for some friend night thing while Sam redresses. It's time to go back to the bar, same ol' thing. Of course, not before he cleans up the apartment; another weird thing, he's a bit compulsive. He's not sure if it's pre-existing or he developed it from Ana's piss-poor cleaning skills.

"I thought you weren't a scary movies type. You freak out over anything we watch."

Analou crosses her arms over the back of the couch, all pale and doe-eyed with curled hair. "Girl's gotta live a little sooner or later. The chick in it is a milf."

Sam rolls his eyes. Scary movies have always been weird, for him. Like the very nature of them is offensive, and he finds himself squinting at everything, feeling some weird nagging desire to correct some concept in them — only, he has no idea what the correction is. It's just wrong. All wrong. Hell if he understands it. Maybe he wrote screenplays. Maybe that's why it gets him so bitter.

At the bar, he serves drinks from across the counter. And honestly, when he approaches Dean, there's no obvious spark of recognition there. There's nothing much at all, just a small polite tug at his lips as he gives him his order as requested. The others may have territory problems, but Sam wandered in himself; he always kind of feels that way, too. Like he should be wandering. Like he's not supposed to stop walking. Maybe that's also something he did, because he distinctly remembers the raw, swollen ache in his feet when Analou helped him into the bathtub what felt like ages ago.

But the books — he feels some weird mental twitch as the guy leans over them, and he can't help but peek at them. He reads a lot at the apartment, more than he watches TV. Reading is soothing. Reading is a great escape. These, though? These are just... something else. He wraps his knuckle on the bar top. That weird, horrible lost feeling washes for him for a moment.

"Reading in a bar? Pretty out there."
Edited 2013-10-06 06:42 (UTC)
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617186)

Let's try this again

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-06 07:21 am (UTC)(link)
Dean hardly looks up as he requests his drink, focuses entirely on the book — one of three that he has sitting before him. Yeah, it's pretty freaking unorthodox — he'd be looking twice at anyone reading in a bar, too — but he's trying to figure out what the hell is going on here before anyone tries to swipe this hunt out from under his hands. He's got this — he know he does — and he's going to prove those bastards wrong and bring down a succubus.

Or whatever it is.

He takes a sip from his beer and is aware of the bartender glancing at him — taking an interest, which immediately puts Dean on the defense. He can't help it — it's a gut reaction. The desire to strike first before it's too late, the impulse to show that he isn't defenseless and the bartender can either shove off or take it in the gut. This happens sometimes, and Dean mostly swallows it down, mostly ignores the desire to brandish a weapon. He doesn't want to be locked up, doesn't want to attract more attention than necessary, because that'd be pretty freaking counterproductive to hunting. There have been some close calls, though. Some nights where Dean has had to clear the fuck out before the cops arrived — and that one time he made some woman scream because she came up behind him in an effort to flirt and Dean pointed a gun at her.

This is almost a close call, but Dean gets himself in control.

You'd think that having books in front of you would be a nice shining beacon of leave me the fuck alone I'm busy. This bartender mustn't be looking for a great tip.

Dean isn't a nice guy. The first clue he had along those lines was finding weapons on himself. The second was scaring those kids in that park. By now, Dean's pretty much accepted that he's scum — a rude asshole with some kind of shaky past that makes him resort to threats before discussions. Maybe that's why he hunts — to make up for some of the wrong that he's had to have committed in the past.

Or maybe he's some sort of adrenaline junkie. That's a lot more likely. Maybe Dean hunts because it's better than killing people, because killing people gets you put into jail.

Regardless, he sees no real point in sugar coating who he is. What he is. He therefore looks up and greets the bartender with a glare that tells him just how fucking pleased he is to be interrupted.

"So's your hairstyle, pretty boy, but you don't see me making comments about it."

Only after Dean's said as much and followed it with a long slug of beer that Dean realizes — shit. He should be playing it nice with the bartender so he can ask a couple of questions. This is the part of hunting with which Dean truly struggles. It just seems so much easier to threaten people to get answers — like it's second nature, like wherever he came from before must have been some kind of Hell, because Dean's always twitchy and reaching for his blade instead of just trying to ask nicely.

Definitely not a nice person. But he's learning. His hand only twitched a little this time, only moved an inch instead of going for his belt, and that's something.

"You see anything weird around here lately? Or — anyone who doesn't belong?" He switches gears a little too quickly, too easily, and Dean knows that's not how conversations work — he's been doing this enough now to know that it makes himself seem suspicious, gets him the wrong answers sometimes, but knowing isn't the same as doing, and what the fuck ever, it's just a bartender. Most people are too stupid to know anything anyway — too slow, too likely to die if a fucking ghost took one look at them, let alone if they met one of the worse monsters out there. Dean's just no good with people. He's pretty sure he understands monsters a hell of a lot better.
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-07 07:55 am (UTC)(link)
Sam gives the stranger a less than impressed look. "Anyone who doesn't belong? Besides you, you mean?" It's not exactly as malicious as Dean seems to be aiming for, though, and Sam's learned he's stubborn and good at handling jabs, if anything. So he just wrings a towel to keep his hands busy and considers the questions. Things click pretty easily -- he shifts, brows furrowing. "You're here about the weird serial murders, right? You'd be one of a lot of guys popping in for questioning, if that's the case."

The fact that these guys were at his bar last is a nagging, awful feeling, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't considered looking into it himself. But what the hell would he know? He's just some half-crazy guy with no clue who he used to be. Still -- it doesn't feel right. Sitting on the sidelines, knowing people are getting hurt. Killed. He looks away, something icy striking his gut. He's not sure why he's bothering to have such an interest, but... well, running from familiar Memento-status vibes isn't a good idea. He needs to understand himself better. He needs to know why he ticks the way he does.

And more importantly, he really, really wants to know why people are dying.

"Not a lot of luck there so far, huh?"
ramble_on: <lj user="iconific"> (Default)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-07 04:16 pm (UTC)(link)
"Funny," Dean replies dryly, taking another slug of beer. It's dwindling quickly, and Dean spares a moment to consider that he should be drinking a lot slower if he's on a job, but whatever he did before his memory was wiped, his tolerance is pretty impressive.

"What do you mean, 'a lot of guys?'" Dean doesn't even bother to conceal his annoyance at that. This is his job, who the hell else would be here asking questions? Unless it's the police. It better be the police, because otherwise this'll turn into some kind of a hunter turf war, and Dean's probably going to lose his few connections. Not that he doesn't expect to lose them eventually, anyway.

"Like the police?"

As for luck, Dean doesn't believe in it. Kind of hard to when you show up in a park one day with no memories and no friends and basically have to steal your way into some kind of freedom. Dean makes his own luck with the same ease that he hustles pool — or so he would like to believe. At the question, though, he just shrugs, not really interested in getting into specifics with some barkeep, when he has books to read and possible hunters to tell to get the fuck out of Dodge.
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[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-08 07:50 am (UTC)(link)
"From what I talked to, police. Yeah. Investigators. I think one was hired by one of the families to look into it." He couldn't say for sure that was all that asked around, but those are who talked to him. "Are you supposed to be a hired investigator, too? Because I can pretty much tell you right now, you're not like one of those suited goons who popped in to complain about the smoke smell."
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617284)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-08 08:19 am (UTC)(link)
"Definitely not." Dean makes a face at that. He isn't fond of the law, and he's pretty sure the law isn't fond of him, either. Not even when he's trying to pretend to be one of them. Dean is, apparently, a little too harsh and a little too quick to action.

"I actually get shit done." Because as far as Dean is concerned, all law enforcement officers want to do is hinder the progress of hunting. But he'll definitely take that over trying to establish territory with fellow hunters.

That's all he says, though, before the door to the bar opens and a couple stroll in noisily. Dean jerks a little, despite himself, itching to reach for a weapon out of instinct. The couple take a seat — a man who looks like he fits right into the bar, smiling and nodding at a few other patrons, and a woman who looks — gorgeous. Done up like some kind of city girl who accidentally made a wrong turn and ended up in the middle of no where.

"She from around here?" Dean asks the bartender, pointing at her.
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-11 08:45 am (UTC)(link)
He looks over, thoughtful for a moment. The pretty one with the soft features? Yeah, everyone's noticed her around here; buy her drinks, when she doesn't have the guy with her (and some who do anyway, brave souls). "Who, Tanya? She moved in a few weeks ago; just lost her mom, I guess, so she's been in town to help with her dad. Sweet girl."

Can't handle her liquor very well, though; he's walked her home once before. Not that he's about to tell some thuggish guy that. Sam's always been keen on keeping an eye on shady dudes trying to do god knows what around his bar. Not on his watch, thanks. Even so -- the murders going on... easy to set him on edge. Guess he should be more worried about some of the guys, at this point, huh?

"... Trying to spot any fresh meat to see if they fit some suspect bill?"
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617198)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-11 03:25 pm (UTC)(link)
Dean glances back at her, and the guy who she's with gives him a little back off glare. Rolling his eyes, Dean turns back to the bartender. "Exactly," he replies, finishing off his beer. "I'll take another."

Meanwhile, he mulls that information over in his head. A few weeks makes Tanya pretty fresh meat, overall, and fits in the timeline of the other murders. "You ever meet her father?" he asks, wondering if he really exists. Date or no date, Dean debates just walking right over there and starting to ask questions — but that'd be rash even for him. He can take the guy, sure, but he doesn't know how to kill a succubus, if that's even what's plaguing this town.
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-14 08:47 am (UTC)(link)
Sam just shakes his head at that when he returns, putting down a beer. For some reason, it feels really right to do, but not particularly as a job. More like — he's preparing to watch a football game. But that'd be weird, right? He must be in a jollier mood, even with the asshole meter going off on this guy.

"He's in, like, an old folk's home. Not exactly the kind of guy a bartender sees wandering around a bar, you know." She was pretty sad about it, too, talking about him; talked about Alzheimer's and forgetting things, even so much as not remembering her entirely. Considering the fact Sam had memory problems, too, it's not even surprising that he immediately warmed up to her, felt bad for her in that moment. Maybe someone out there was like her, worrying about him. But — nothing in missing persons ever came up about him. So...

Maybe he was a nobody. He frowns a bit, hearing the beefy date of hers, hoping maybe this guy wasn't like some of the guys Analou's had to deal with. Judging by how unimpressed Tanya looks, Sam thinks maybe her date night was a dud.
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617272)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-14 10:30 pm (UTC)(link)
When the bartender sets the beer in front of him, Dean looks up, narrowing his eyes a little. There's something strange about this situation, although he can't quite put his finger on it. It nags at him, though, as he reaches forward and drains another long sip. He tries not to focus on it, instead glancing back at the table. Tanya looks at him — meets his eyes and gives him a small smile. It seems pretty alluring, but Dean doesn't know if he's reading into it or not.

Everything that the bartender is telling him only makes the situation more sketchy, but it isn't enough to justify Dean walking over there and putting her down somehow. He needs more conclusive proof. He figures he'll follow them out of the bar — maybe try to find more answers in his books before they head out.

Before that, though, Dean goes digging in his pockets for a card. Pulls out a stack of them, shuffles through them, and then settles on a simple one that just has his first name and a phone number.

"Here. If you see anything weird, give me a call." He holds it out to the bartender.
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-15 08:02 am (UTC)(link)
Sam gives Dean an assessing look before taking the card; despite himself, he smirks. "Okay. But your presentation could use a little work. Insulting my hair and then asking me to call if I see something isn't the best way to get a call."

Sam returns to his post, meeting up with old and new faces, grinning at 'friends', people who come by plenty enough; sometimes, these are his nicest moments, listening to older, gruffer people talk. It's a good way to forget about bills and how shitty the neighborhood is and how empty his life is -- literally empty, lacking memories and drive and people to turn to. Eventually, though, Tanya and Big Jackass have some of falling out, and Sam ends up talking with Tanya.

Well, he's walked her home before. Might as well help her out again. She's a sweet kid -- kid? He's not sure how old he is, and all. But he walks beside her out the back door once his shift is finally over, easily a foot and then some taller than her as they go. She talks about things, catches him up. There's talk of her father, of how she might be moving him out of town to another hospital, closer to family from his side. She apparently isn't fitting in very well.

"It's hard, moving to a new place, trying to... I guess start something out of nothing," she says, voice soft and smooth, "I love my dad, but -- he's not completely my dad anymore."

Sam could understand that, too. Trying to fit in, like a puzzle piece from the wrong set. It's hard. And it sucks. Tanya leans into his arm, but he doesn't much care; Analou always did say he was great to lean on.

"It can get so lonely, you know..."

And that's what he hears before he's hurled into the alley wall at a surprisingly strong force; he gasps out, startled, hand immediately moving to press against the brick for support. What the fuck? What the fuck. Something about that feels weird, natural, like it wasn't that stunning; but jesus, no, he just flew like nothing. He blinks hard, and realizes he must've hit his head pretty bad, because there's blood dripping down into one eye from a gash on the side of his head.

"What -- "

He ducks and avoids her coming at him, scrambling quickly to avoid too-close swipes, all the while hearing her command him to hold still, that it's nothing personal; she kicks him hard in the gut and he's back into the wall shoulder-first with a painful pop that sends agony through his arm, in his bones. Dislocated? What's happening, what's happening, what's happening, how is this 5'0" little lady standing over him so quickly -- shadowed in the darkness, ominous so suddenly from a petite, sad thing looking for common ground?
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617140)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-15 08:05 pm (UTC)(link)
Dean gives the bartender a flat look — even if he does have a point, and Dean is well-aware that he sucks at the people aspect of hunting — and then goes back to his books. As he finishes off his beer, he gets a couple of ideas about to approach getting rid of the demon. One passage suggests an exorcism, and another suggests stabbing her through the heart with silver. One book suggests having her look in a mirror — but Dean doesn't have a mirror on him, so he's hoping that the other two options will work. The lack of a consensus is due to the fact that, apparently, none of these texts think that succubus are still hanging around.

When he sees that Tanya and her date aren't getting along, Dean throws some money on the counter with the intention of striking up a conversation with Tanya himself — but the bartender swoops in. That makes things a little easier on Dean, at least — he's able to follow them while Tanya is being distracted.

At first, it seems like maybe he has the wrong girl. She's babbling on about her father, and the bartender is being all bleeding heart, and blah blah blah, Dean is getting bored. But then she makes a move, and the bartender is sent flying. Dean picks up the pace, pulling out a silver knife as runs, and just as the succubus is making a move to start sucking the life force out of the bartender, Dean calls out, "Hey, bitch!"

She turns to him, all fury — and glowing eyes, apparently, since she was getting ready to feed — and Dean starts reciting the Latin, quickly. He doesn't wait until he reaches the end, though. Dean wants this fight, adrenaline-starved and eager to get something out of it — so as he exorcises her, he runs forward and stabs her in the chest with the knife.

Which is a disappointment, because Jesus, can't she at least put up a fight?

That thought comes too soon, because Dean finishes reciting the words and she's grinning at him, pulling the knife out of her chest and — chucking it right back at him. Dean moves to duck, but it gets him in the arm.

And this is more like it. He grins, even though he has no real way to kill her at this point, missing a mirror as he is, and takes out his gun. He aims it, and then he's sent flying into the wall beside the bartender — painfully, but Dean ignores that and shoots at the succubus. They bullets make contact, but she's unphased, and Dean is running out of options.

She approaches him, grabbing him by the throat, but Dean manages to get into his pocket where he has a flask of holy water. Her grip tightens, and she moves in close — to kiss him or to feed or both — and tries to get the stupid thing open —

only to drop it.
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-16 06:24 am (UTC)(link)
Sam is fucking horrified —

sort of.

It's really illogical, and every part of him thinks 'shouldn't I be running, panicking, something?' On the flipside, every fiber in his body is thrumming with the desire to do something. What it is, he's not even sure yet; what, jump her? Stab her? Call the fucking FBI? But eventually he moves on his own, not much thought at all put into it; this guy is in trouble. He is required, required to help. He's gotta' watch the guy's back. Can't let him get his ass killed.

So there he is, grabbing a flask he has no idea contains something helpful, splashing it suddenly at without warning all over the back of the succubus' head. And once he does that act, he stands there with his sad limp arm, in awe at himself — because why the fuck would he just throw whiskey or whatever on a person, thinking it'd help? What's stupid, Sam, really fucking stupid, right?

But he couldn't just... not.

I must be losing my mind —
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617272)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-16 06:33 am (UTC)(link)
As soon as the holy water lands on the succubus, she lets out a scream and pulls back. Dean is really fucking glad that this guy thinks on his feet, because he was not only seconds from blacking out, but also pretty damn close to getting his life's essence sucked out of him. He also feels lucky that the holy water worked at all. It was a complete gamble.

It doesn't kill her, though. Dean needs to get a mirror while she's distracted, but he's too busy on the ground coughing to go after her. He tries to stand up, using the wall as support, and manages to get steady on his feet.

"Not bad for a rookie," he croaks out to the bartender, moving toward the street where a parked car is waiting. "Better run before it gets even uglier."

The succubus is still yelling, clutching herself where the holy water is burning, but Dean knows he doesn't have much time. He moves to the car and kicks at the passenger mirror until it breaks off.

collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-16 06:45 am (UTC)(link)
Sam doesn't run. Fuck his life, what is wrong with him? He doesn't run. He stands there breathing heavy like a deer in the headlights — and she lunges at him with a wild scream, not at all 'Tanya' anymore. He dodges with surprising grace, once, twice, three times, before he's kicking her head in the back of the leg; she crumples, still confused and burning, and he grabs her around the neck with his good hand. Her hands claw at his neck, ripping at his shirt, leaving thin, angry red lines just above his tattoo — but he's calm and steady and sure, turning and facing her toward Dean as he gets the mirror.

He has no idea what this guy's gonna do with a fucking mirror, but he figures he knows what he's doing better than Sam does.
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[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-16 06:57 am (UTC)(link)
Dean doesn't waste any time. As soon as he has the mirror, he runs back to where the bartender and the succubus are scuffling — and damn, if that bartender doesn't have it made to be a hunter. Balls of steel, if a little stupid for not just running, and apparently good at fighting, too. And he has the bitch poised and ready for him, like it's a perfectly natural thing to do.

Dean's a loner, but he has to admit, he and the bartender make a pretty good team.

He holds the mirror up at the succubus' face, and she goes entirely still. Stops scratching the bartender, stops screaming — stiff and distracted. Dean read that he shouldn't risk looking at the mirror himself — that in doing so while the succubus is trapped in her own reflection, he could lose himself.

Instead, he smashes the mirror on the ground, stepping on it for good measure. It shatters, and the succubus screams and writhes, falling to the floor. As she does so, her form fades from the beautiful young Tanya into a horrific skeletal creature — demonic and ugly. Then she does still once more — for good this time.

Dean gives her a kick. She doesn't move.

He looks down at his stab wound. It isn't that bad — just his arm, bleeding plenty but it didn't nick anything important. It'll probably need a few stitches. The bartender on the other hand...

"Here." Dean walks over to him and starts to brace him for his shoulder to be reset — then stops.

What the hell is he doing? Dean lets him go, a little awkwardly.

"You, uh — should get that looked at."

Meanwhile, he picks up his knife and the flask and tucks them away.

"And you should get out of here before the cops come." He turns, ready to get himself out of there, too.
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[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-16 07:13 am (UTC)(link)
"W — wait."

He blinks blearily at Dean, pain rumpling his features slightly; he's always had a pretty high pain tolerance. Even now, it's manageable. He must've been a crook in his past — a poor excuse of one, if he got beat up so often, right? He knows exactly what Dean was planning to do; didn't need weird senses of deja vu to get that one. "Can you...? I don't, uh. I don't want hospital bills; no insurance."

Which is entirely true. He really would rather just get it popped back into place by some crazy killer guy on the street. And of course... there's a niggling in the back of his mind, like maybe he should ask more about what the fuck just happened. He wipes at his sweat-coated forehead, leaning awkwardly against the wall with his good shoulder. Fuck, that smarts.
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[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-16 08:36 am (UTC)(link)
Dean pauses, turns back around, and studies the bartender for a minute. He doesn't mind popping that shoulder back in — hell, he had been about to do it like it was a perfectly normal thing for him to do to a stranger without permission — but it's pretty weird that this guy considers it kosher. How does he know that Dean even knows what he's doing?

But he nods and approaches. "Take a deep breath. I'm gonna count to three."

He lines himself up behind the man and presses a hand against the shoulder.

"One...two..." And then he gives it a firm push and pops it back into place. "Three," he adds, after the deed is done.
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[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-16 08:49 am (UTC)(link)
"Gah — " He doubles over a bit, but he's able to keep himself upright as he grits his molars in misery; it's not so bad, though, and he recollects his breath as he leans on the wall with his good arm. "Jesus, Dean; what happened to three??"

Because seriously, dude, that's just mean. He blows out a big, exasperated breath as the ache dulls into something more manageable. He still cradles the limb against his ribs, though. He looks Dean up and down, quirking a brow. "... What the hell was that, exactly? Tanya, she — wasn't as pretty as I remember."

She was fucking crazy, hello.

You can't just walk off and leave me with nothing here.
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[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-16 03:31 pm (UTC)(link)
"Better to do it while you're not expecting it," Dean replies with a little shrug.

The second question is expected — of course the bartender wants more information, wants to know what the hell just happened, but Dean doesn't want to stand around in an alley where shots were tired and a woman was screaming. The police are going to show up pretty soon.

He pats himself, looking for his lighter fluid — finds it, and starts dousing the body.

"That was a succubus." And Dean had been right all along. He needs to give those hunters a call and let them know that they're the ones with false information. "If you wanna know more, then you're gonna have to come with me, 'cause I'm not waiting around here for the police to start asking questions."

He lights the body, which starts going up in flames, and glances at the bartender. In the distance, a siren sounds, and that means that Dean can leave the police to take care of making sure the fire won't get out of control.

"I got painkillers in my car." Since that shoulder must ache, and the guy isn't looking to go to a hospital. "Walk and talk."
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[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-17 07:40 am (UTC)(link)
"Yeah — okay," is the reply to all of that, because he's still a little overwhelmed. And maybe possibly on a weird high he can't explain right now. He follows quickly, even though the jostle is horrible on his arm. "I, uh, alright. Walk and talk — what the fuck? So — you're... not some cop or detective dick. You're just a... borderline-serial-killer dick who kills things like that."

Not that he sounds too horrified. Surprisingly enough to himself. His eyes are slightly wide and he's talking like he just figured out an amazing hypothesis ("hey, so get this") but even the pain of his injuries aren't really hitting home yet. "Are those a typical thing around here?? Things like — hell, succubi?"
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[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-18 01:12 am (UTC)(link)
"Exactly," Dean replies without missing a beat. "Except I'd rather be called a hunter. Not as much of a mouthful." Although borderline-serial-killer dick isn't too far off, at least in Dean's mind. He knows he's pretty damn ruthless, even compared to other hunters, so there's obviously something going on there.

"No," Dean replies to the second question. "Not succubi, anyway. Those aren't even supposed to exist from what I heard, so I don't know what that one was doing here. Run-of-the-mill demons are a lot more common."

Since, from Dean's brief research, there doesn't seem to be any trouble with other things, like werewolves or vampires, within a large radius.

The car is only a couple of blocks away, so it doesn't take them too long to come up on it. Dean walks up to it as he finishes the explanation and starts rummaging in the trunk.
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[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-18 05:31 am (UTC)(link)
He listens intently, and then walks up beside Dean to the trunk, feeling a twinge of... something. Something? Demons — demons make him give pause. Hunter even more so. "What do you mean, demons? What, they just... look like people?" Because aren't they usually more... red, naked, little horns? Something like that?"

The sirens are down in the alley, and he can hear them even from blocks away. Part of him is really worrying that he's going to be charged with murder or something, considering he was the last person with her. Yeah, um. That's not good. Fucking hell.

No, focus on the misery to come later. Demons now.
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[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-18 06:36 am (UTC)(link)
"They possess people, so yeah." Dean locates the first aid kit and pulls out a couple of pills. He holds them out to the bartender. It's a sketchy thing to do — offer up pills from the back of his trunk — but hey, he's the one who said no hospitals.

"Look, man," Dean says, putting away his weapons and then closing his trunk. "I know that this is a lot for you, but there's no way we're gonna cover everything between now and me driving you to wherever it is you need to be. So you should make your questions count."

He nods toward the car.

"Get in. Tell me where we're going. I wanna be out of this town before the police come asking questions."

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h e h

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i like her :D

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