righteously: (ยนโต Tสœแด‡ สœษชษดแด› แดา“ แด›สœแด‡ แด„แด‡ษดแด›แดœส€ส)
แด›สœแด‡ ส€ษชษขสœแด›แด‡แดแดœs แดแด€ษด ( แดŠแด‡ษดษดษชา“แด‡ส€ แด€ษดแด‹สŸแด‡s ) ([personal profile] righteously) wrote in [community profile] logsville 2020-12-03 08:55 pm (UTC)

๐“Œ๐’พ๐“๐’น๐’ธ๐’ถ๐“‡๐’น โ†’ ๐’ป๐“๐’ถ๐“ˆ๐’ฝ๐’ท๐’ถ๐’ธ๐“€

๏ผˆ Dean Winchester wakes up before the asscrack of dawn. That's not exactly new in and of itself, he tends to rock four hours of sleep most nights โ€” less in Purgatory. What drags him up to consciousness is the feel of somebody else in the room. Unfamiliar breathing, the general sense of a space being unexpectedly occupied by a foreign entity. High-alert wariness has him moving through the place silently, mouthing what the f- to himself every three seconds.

Who's the broad?
Where the hell is he?
Who the hell is good enough at photoshop to stick his face on creepy family photos?
Who's the kid and why does he look familiar?
And-- he cannot stress this one enough-- where the hell is he?

He spends a solid hour scoping the place out for clues, diligent about not waking up the randos. Spends another two hours stealing (his own?) car and driving around a barely-awake town with frustratingly minimal intel earned.

All that is basically a long way of saying: by the time someone else makes it down to the kitchen any time after sun-up, he's sitting at a table already re-assembling a gun. That's bound to be a fantastic first impression, especially when you take into account the hard expression on his face and the tight energy in every line of his body. No real attempt to conceal the staring.

That purgatory PTSD hasn't wound down yet. Sorry, bud. ๏ผ‰

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