Sam Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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driftfleet2017-01-25 01:12 am
collegedropout) wrote in driftfleet2017-01-25 01:12 am
Glitch | "Who wants to remember all that hell?" | OTA
Who: Sam and you. Also Hell!Sam.
Broadcast: N/A
Action: Iskaulit
When: 1/25/17 and onward as he glitches.
WARNING for Supernatural being awful, so you'll find stuff here that will be very mental health oriented. Mentions of torture/abuse, potentially graphic in narrative, talk of hallucinations, hell, the devil, etc. Sam'll also be reacting as someone who has endured said things listed so if that sort of thing bothers you don't mind me (or if you're close CR lemme know and we can work around it). Sam's a hot mess 'de-aged' for a week to season 6 (~5 years ago in canon), where he hasn't been resurrected yet and thinks he's still trapped in hell. Your character may think he's canon updated into the future but it's quite the opposite! Luckily!
WEDNESDAY/THURSDAY. AFTERMATH, CONTINUED. Space Bar/Garden/Iskaulit. (aka anything you wanna do before he glitches)
[Sam has busied himself with helping with repairs; luckily things aren't quite so awful looking, and the debris and blood's been relatively cleaned away. The garden is one of his top priorities, actually, other than helping re-open the bar (which congrats, guys, we did it! just need some replacements but...), and he can be found carefully replanting and plucking dead leaves and sadly pulling any of his herbs that were too damaged to salvage. He also helps with the library and works on any damage the Bloodsport sustained. Everything seems to at least be getting back to normal. That's good. Really good. And as much as he wishes they'd been spared the attack — Aria's still out, even if she's not dead from her injuries — he at least finds a shitty silver lining in being too occupied to think.]
FRIDAY. LIBRARY. "who wants to remember all that hell?"
[And on schedule, per Sam's luck, he glitches.
He's in the middle of quietly reading in the library when it happens, like a punch. His eyes roll back and he's out for the count, slumping forward, unconscious — for a short while. Images dance behind his eyes, voices teasing him from afar. If you happen to find him here, practically comatose against handwritten accounts of what happened during the raider attack, you'll find he looks — bad. Pale pink scars have formed on his arms and neck and face, and he twitches in the throes of terrible images, eyelashes clumped and wet. Despite what it looks like, he hasn't updated to a new point; he hasn't gone to the future.
No, he's gone to the past. Down below, trapped with the devil himself in a cage. De-aged years back, before he was resurrected, plucked from hell by Death himself. An attempt to rouse him will give the visitor a surprise: Sam jerks like he's been burned, shuddering like he's been struck by lightning before he throws himself back from the chair, toppling it with him, a strangled NO flying from his lips as he blindly crawls back and away. He's terrified and confused, utterly confused.
... Good luck.]
GLITCH. Iskaulit. Garden.
[After he wakes up from the library, anyone who expected him throughout the day will find he'll absolutely miss any appointments. He can be found wandering the Iskaulit, actually. He's not all there — actually, he's trying to figure out where this hallucination begins and ends. Nothing makes any sense, but there's no way he's going to think he's out of hell. No, this must be some elaborate prank by the devil. He's just... waiting for the whole thing to fall apart. Sure, he hasn't seen any familiar faces, and usually things would have gotten violent by now, but... you know. You can't trust Lucifer and his new tricks. Always, new tricks. You can't torment someone for eighteen decades without mixing things up a bit.
The nervous figure rubs his hand along his burn-marked skin, over rough scarring, and looks nothing like the usually confident and good-natured man Sam usually is; he's flighty, and his eyes dart to any little noise like it may very well be the death of him. Er. Well. He's pretty sure he's dead anyway, but the... mutilation and reconstruction of his soul, if you will. He doesn't want to be found, but it's inevitable. His teeth chatter behind his lips and he passes like a ghost, gray-rimmed eyes and disheveled appearance unnatural on his figure.
Sometimes if he hears someone approaching, he finds a place to hide and wait it out. Whether or not the person in question doesn't find him is another matter entirely, but regardless, he'll look at you as if you're aiming to behead him and squeeze into the smallest hiding space he can in order to evade your destructive hands. Because you're probably Morning star, you know? Probably.
He revisits the garden, temporarily eased by the plant-life growing there. Lucifer always did love nature. One of the few pleasures he was allowed was to witness exquisite scenery sometimes, when the devil was feeling generous. It was always accompanied with some sort of terrible double-edged sword, but at least Sam could enjoy that much. He sits with his legs pulled up, long fingers awkwardly plucking at someone's plant — he's a bit confused, because even though he's completely sure he's in hell and has been and never will get out... there's just. Something off. Something different. When he breathes, it doesn't hurt his lungs. And his bones don't crunch when he walks. And there aren't any hooks, aren't any flames (yet, Sam, yet, don't assume anything).
Even so. He huffs tiredly, head rolling on his shoulders, and plucks off a small fruit, unsure if he's even capable of eating it.
It's not real, it's not real. It's not. It'll probably turn into razors in his mouth.]
... This cage isn't very hot.
[Or frostbite-cold.
It's quite... pleasant, this temperature.
Everything is different. The devil is probably enjoying his owl-eyed confusion.]
Broadcast: N/A
Action: Iskaulit
When: 1/25/17 and onward as he glitches.
WARNING for Supernatural being awful, so you'll find stuff here that will be very mental health oriented. Mentions of torture/abuse, potentially graphic in narrative, talk of hallucinations, hell, the devil, etc. Sam'll also be reacting as someone who has endured said things listed so if that sort of thing bothers you don't mind me (or if you're close CR lemme know and we can work around it). Sam's a hot mess 'de-aged' for a week to season 6 (~5 years ago in canon), where he hasn't been resurrected yet and thinks he's still trapped in hell. Your character may think he's canon updated into the future but it's quite the opposite! Luckily!
WEDNESDAY/THURSDAY. AFTERMATH, CONTINUED. Space Bar/Garden/Iskaulit. (aka anything you wanna do before he glitches)
[Sam has busied himself with helping with repairs; luckily things aren't quite so awful looking, and the debris and blood's been relatively cleaned away. The garden is one of his top priorities, actually, other than helping re-open the bar (which congrats, guys, we did it! just need some replacements but...), and he can be found carefully replanting and plucking dead leaves and sadly pulling any of his herbs that were too damaged to salvage. He also helps with the library and works on any damage the Bloodsport sustained. Everything seems to at least be getting back to normal. That's good. Really good. And as much as he wishes they'd been spared the attack — Aria's still out, even if she's not dead from her injuries — he at least finds a shitty silver lining in being too occupied to think.]
FRIDAY. LIBRARY. "who wants to remember all that hell?"
[And on schedule, per Sam's luck, he glitches.
He's in the middle of quietly reading in the library when it happens, like a punch. His eyes roll back and he's out for the count, slumping forward, unconscious — for a short while. Images dance behind his eyes, voices teasing him from afar. If you happen to find him here, practically comatose against handwritten accounts of what happened during the raider attack, you'll find he looks — bad. Pale pink scars have formed on his arms and neck and face, and he twitches in the throes of terrible images, eyelashes clumped and wet. Despite what it looks like, he hasn't updated to a new point; he hasn't gone to the future.
No, he's gone to the past. Down below, trapped with the devil himself in a cage. De-aged years back, before he was resurrected, plucked from hell by Death himself. An attempt to rouse him will give the visitor a surprise: Sam jerks like he's been burned, shuddering like he's been struck by lightning before he throws himself back from the chair, toppling it with him, a strangled NO flying from his lips as he blindly crawls back and away. He's terrified and confused, utterly confused.
... Good luck.]
GLITCH. Iskaulit. Garden.
[After he wakes up from the library, anyone who expected him throughout the day will find he'll absolutely miss any appointments. He can be found wandering the Iskaulit, actually. He's not all there — actually, he's trying to figure out where this hallucination begins and ends. Nothing makes any sense, but there's no way he's going to think he's out of hell. No, this must be some elaborate prank by the devil. He's just... waiting for the whole thing to fall apart. Sure, he hasn't seen any familiar faces, and usually things would have gotten violent by now, but... you know. You can't trust Lucifer and his new tricks. Always, new tricks. You can't torment someone for eighteen decades without mixing things up a bit.
The nervous figure rubs his hand along his burn-marked skin, over rough scarring, and looks nothing like the usually confident and good-natured man Sam usually is; he's flighty, and his eyes dart to any little noise like it may very well be the death of him. Er. Well. He's pretty sure he's dead anyway, but the... mutilation and reconstruction of his soul, if you will. He doesn't want to be found, but it's inevitable. His teeth chatter behind his lips and he passes like a ghost, gray-rimmed eyes and disheveled appearance unnatural on his figure.
Sometimes if he hears someone approaching, he finds a place to hide and wait it out. Whether or not the person in question doesn't find him is another matter entirely, but regardless, he'll look at you as if you're aiming to behead him and squeeze into the smallest hiding space he can in order to evade your destructive hands. Because you're probably Morning star, you know? Probably.
He revisits the garden, temporarily eased by the plant-life growing there. Lucifer always did love nature. One of the few pleasures he was allowed was to witness exquisite scenery sometimes, when the devil was feeling generous. It was always accompanied with some sort of terrible double-edged sword, but at least Sam could enjoy that much. He sits with his legs pulled up, long fingers awkwardly plucking at someone's plant — he's a bit confused, because even though he's completely sure he's in hell and has been and never will get out... there's just. Something off. Something different. When he breathes, it doesn't hurt his lungs. And his bones don't crunch when he walks. And there aren't any hooks, aren't any flames (yet, Sam, yet, don't assume anything).
Even so. He huffs tiredly, head rolling on his shoulders, and plucks off a small fruit, unsure if he's even capable of eating it.
It's not real, it's not real. It's not. It'll probably turn into razors in his mouth.]
... This cage isn't very hot.
[Or frostbite-cold.
It's quite... pleasant, this temperature.
Everything is different. The devil is probably enjoying his owl-eyed confusion.]
Garden
She picks up Rhiannon, cradling her while she ventures further into the garden. Rhiannon buzzes angrily.]
Shhh.
[Following that mysterious extra sense of hers, Misty finds the source of all those bad vibes, crouched and terrified as he tries to hide from her. Oh no.]
Sam, honey, don't be scared. It's just me.
Garden
Still... the voice is so nice.
He hates that Lucifer can speak so sweetly.]
I know it's you, it's always you.
[His words are fast and rushed and he doesn't look at her.]
Please -- just. Let me look at them. I just wanted to look.
Garden
Of course you can look. You're always welcome here. But...who do you think I am?
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[Unhelpful. He closes his eyes tiredly and seems to surrender to whatever terrible thing he's expecting. Like someone blindfolded and lead in front of the firing squad. Sitting here in the garden's soggy earth, he expects to soon drown in it, pulled deep into the sea to listen to the souls screaming outside of the Cage. To listen to crackling thunder he used to enjoy as a teenager, when they traveled from town to town, accidentally following showers and storms and monsters that lurk in them.
But the lightning was pretty.
The burned man's lips twitches, and he gives in.]
Lucifer.
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[She drops to her knees, instinctively making herself smaller, less threatening, as she lets go of Rhiannon, who boops softly as she returns to her work.]
I'm a lot of things and not all of them good, but I ain't him. Remember... [Her eyes sting with tears that are threatening to form.] Remember, I got trapped too?
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... I don't remember. I don't know this face.
Why are you using this face?
[He can't bear to look directly into her eyes. It feels too real.]
You can't be trapped here; nobody can get in or out. You can't be.
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[Her tears fall as she remembers that horrible classroom she couldn't escape, the little frog on the table, the leer of the teacher.]
We're not there anymore, I promise. This isn't Hell.
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[He can't stand it. The crying. He doesn't bother doing it anymore because it really doesn't change anything — and at a certain point, he just couldn't do it anymore anyway. But sometimes other people cry. They're never real, but it still tears at him all the same; people who lost something — family, their lives, their happiness — in the Apocalypse. The things that Lucifer did, the things that Sam helped cause. Their agony is like daggers. It hurts more than the actual torture to his soul now.
He runs his hands through his hair, gripping, trying to keep himself from giving in. Lucifer wants him to crack, but not yet. Not yet. It's too nice here.]
I jumped in, I took him here. I'm paying for what I've done, d'you understand?
[If this is some replication of a face, of a soul bound to Hell...
It's not a new concept, but it's a terrible one.]
I'm sorry you were trapped. I — if it's my fault, I'm so, so sorry. You don't know how sorry I am.
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It could be. It could've been my fault.
I hurt a lot of people because I was stupid. I screwed up a lot.
This is where I needed to go to fix it.
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How would going to Hell fix it?
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But I took us both back where he came from; I jumped in and the door closed behind me.
[He sounds insane. Looks insane. But perhaps Misty will understand more than most.]
D'you understand?
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Shouldn't play it as — anything good... It's my fault he got out anyway.
I just... didn't want anyone else to get hurt, because of me.
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... I don't feel very brave.
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It will, eventually...
I — I'm getting tired, of fighting.
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[He sounds genuinely confused.]
How can you?
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Dean playing air guitar like an idiot, singing along to stupid old music on cassette.
He misses it so much, he wants to not exist anymore.]
... Y-yes.
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[He's still a bit tense, but he relaxes before where he's huddled down.
He unfurls a little; progress.]
My brother loved Led Zeppelin... Ramble On. He sang it so much on one road trip, I wanted to throttle him. [He laughs softly, eyes wet but expression considerably calmer.] And -- um. Creedence Clearwater Revival -- my dad and him, they always had a song to play. I try to remember their favorite stuff most, you know?
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Why don't you teach me that song, Ramble On? [She smiles sheepishly.] I'm afraid the only one I know is Stairway to Heaven.
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