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.]
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[she's really stretching her human religion knowledge.
. . . she doesn't look behind her. She isn't going to look behind her. Instead, she shifts a little closer, freeing one hand to rest gently on the back of his head]
What does he look like?
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[Sam looks up between his bangs, tired in the eyes. Hungry. Can't be.]
Lucifer looked like me.
[He looks distantly over her shoulder, though, at the flickering figure.]
... Curly dark hair; he's, uh, following you.
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[and as though she's checking, she gently ruffles his hair.
She freezes at what he says, though, back straightening. Her expression twists for a moment, a mix of disgust and anger and maybe even a little bit of fear, before it evens out]
Tell him to fuck off.
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She doesn't understand what he's done. It's alright. She'll probably know sooner or later, whoever she is. Not real, probably some projection. He doesn't know. It's just... confusing. More confusing than it's been in a while.]
I tried that. I did that... for the first few decades.
It'll never work, though.
[He blinks.]
Who is he?
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She finds herself scowling, though, and the curse under her breath is in a different, sing-songy language]
Decades? Just how long have you been in this Hell?
[...] His name is Maias. We have history.
no subject
He's a fuckhead, then.
[Oh, look, there's a little life in him yet.
Just a little. He rubs his arms, as if trying to get the warmth back.]
I don't know how long, though... Lost track after a century. Hard to keep track, y'know? No clocks, no light — just Lucifer's light, really, and Michael. They're too bright, though. Can't see anything when they're like that.
no subject
Yes, he is. He is a man who belongs in Hell.
[. . . she slips her hands down to rub at his arms as well. She's a helper]
Were that the case, would you not appear much older than you are? You look younger than I am.
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The sensation is strange. Feels different.]
Sorry I didn't drag him in, too.
[A pause.]
Being dead means you don't age. That's Hell, y'know? An eternity.
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[she can't deny that that does sound like a hell. She huffs a little bit]
It does not sound pleasant.
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But he's getting really tired. Really, really tired. It feels weird.]
It's not.
[His eyes flutter, and his stomach knots. He looks at the echo again.]
Not like I wouldn't deserve being haunted. I've done things. You should know.
Terrible stuff.
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Oh, Sam. You don't want to go down this road]
So have I. Are you about to confess to me?
no subject
... Depends on what you want out of me. I've confessed plenty.
You -- don't need to burn me to get it.
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I'll never know that for sure.
You -- he, anyone here knows that. Just, um. Just...
[He rubs his face with scarred hands.]
Can we... talk about Dean today? Or, or, um. Or Bobby, or Cas. Anyone. [His voice cracks.] Home.
no subject
. . . and then reaches out to take one of his hands in hers. The grip is firm like before, but gentle as well]
If that is what you want. You will need to tell me who those people are, first.
no subject
Lucifer did that, too. Sometimes while he wore Jessica's face.
He'd hold his hand and tell him it's all okay and then — something would happen.
Happy 100th year, Sammy.
He swallows hard, a tear clinging to his eyelash.]
Cas is my friend. I, uh, he's an angel. He's a good one. And Bobby's — like an uncle to me. They... They're gone now. It's my fault. I wasn't strong enough. But Dean, my brother, he's alive. He's free and safe and alive. That's all I wanted, y'know?
no subject
But she listens intently all the same, because what else is she supposed to do? She can't just leave him here in this condition]
An angel - are those the creatures with white wings? [...] I am sorry you have lost them. But I am glad that your brother is all right.
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His fingers twitch around hers. He barely has any grip at all.]
Yes. Yeah. Angels. Cas, Anna, Lucifer...
[He clears his throat, looking down between them.]
I messed things up for us. Me and my brother. I didn't mean to, but I did, so this is — the best thing I could have done, to make things right. He's better than I've ever been; I owe him everything, and I fucked up, but now... It's good.
[His lips twitch into a smile.]
I fixed my mistakes.
no subject
I am not sure I understand . . . what is it that you did that fixed your mistakes?
no subject
[He stops for a moment, eyes glimmering.]
My brother, he didn't believe in me anymore. That's on me, too.
But it's okay. I took him in, and I jumped.
[Close. Close to making more sense. He looks at her for validation — forgets his fear for a moment, and his paranoia, and just prays she understands.]
no subject
Now her hand isn't as steady. And the look on her face is understanding, but a touch horrified, too]
You sacrificed yourself.
[it comes out softer than she intended it to]
no subject
No, that's not quite the word he'd want used for him. But he won't fight it.]
Angels need human bodies. They ask for them. Can't possess them without their consent.
Lucifer always wanted me, because it was fate. I let him have me.
Then I took him back into the cage where I let him out.
[He'll be pissed at how he's saying this. Sam feels a tickle of fear, but also a feeling of relief. Nobody other than Dean will know, will they? He's just wiped away. He wonders if Dean ever told anyone. Ever let them know how sorry Sam was, for all the shit that happened.]
I couldn't do it without Dean, though. Dean — helped me remember who I am.
no subject
She can only imagine the expression on her face as he explains it; a little horrified, taken aback, and usually she can school it into something a little more neutral, but - this time it's different. This time it's hearing another world where that happens and she can't shake it off.
So she focuses on the good of it, on this Dean and what he did, because otherwise she might end up fleeing and what good what that do anyone?]
—helped you remember?
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I was buried, for a while. Lucifer, he was stronger... I felt Bobby's neck snap, and Cas, he... [He sniffs. His eyes are hot and his throat is tight, so speaking is hard for the moment.] But Dean, he came so I wouldn't be alone. He was there, and I... hit him. I didn't want to, but my fists weren't mine.
[He makes a fist, and then softly lets his fingers uncurl.]
He wouldn't leave me. And I just... I saw in the car. I looked past him into the window, and I saw our life, and I just... [He blinks away tears, something overwhelmingly warm in his chest. These memories, they've gotten him through every single decade, even if he couldn't vocalize it to anyone but himself all these years.] I just wanted to protect him. So bad. And then I was in control, and I told him it was all gonna be okay.
no subject
After a moment:]
I am glad . . . that you were able to help each other.
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