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!
You know, humans are disgusting, but they make decent music.
He shudders, looking at the ground between him and the harp player with listless eyes. The scarred man seems unsure of what to say.]
I'm okay.
I just — wanted to listen.
no subject
Come and listen, then, if you like. I do not mind.
no subject
But the music, while it must inevitably be a trap, sounds pleasant.
It's something.]
... Thank you.
[Sam, scarred and beaten down, is at least a bit relaxed when he sits down to listen.]
no subject
He remembers, after all, the thralls they released from the dungeons, some of whom were beyond saving.
So he stays gentle, and still, an offering of peace in the midst of strife. ]
You are most welcome.
[ And then he begins to Sing. Low and soft and clear, and the harp and his voice blend as one, the endless roll of the surf and the blue-green-black of the sea, wild and free ]
no subject
That's when the rug gets pulled out from under him worst of all. He huddles like he's looking for warmth, red-rimmed eyes peering out from under a veil of bangs as he stares distantly at the wall. He lets it play, lets it keep going, his tongue heavy in his mouth for fear of breaking the rare illusion.
Anything to settle him. Even if his stomach still growls fiercely and his mind is sluggish from a lack of sleep, he at least can have something small like this. Something to soothe until the image breaks apart like glass.]
no subject
The sun sets into the ocean, a brilliant wash of color and the stars paint the sky in silent glory, their Song too high to be truly heard, but felt in the bones instead;
Hope and Faithfulness
Maglor carries them both on waves of Song further than he normally dares, but Sam seems to need this, right now, so he goes West, out across the Sea and through the mists and traps of the Enchanted Isles.
And then like a grey curtain of glass parting the fog rolls away, and Sam sees what so few mortals ever have. The white shores and green hills of Valinor, shining beneath a light that is neither moon nor sun but something of both, the spire of the King's Tower piercing the distant city skyline, shattering prisms of light from the lamp at its top, the high walls of the Pelori Mountains rising higher and higher around them until they reach their highest peak, Taniquetil, covered in snow and surrounded by clouds.
And there the Song ends, an aching, glorious tribute to a home now out of reach, but always remembered. ]
no subject
But after a long moment, taken by the song and everything bound within it, he breathes shakily.]
... That was — really beautiful.
[He dared speak. He dreads what may happen next, but he spoke, even as a jagged tear makes its way down the side of his nose. He doesn't cry often; no point to it, because it just fuels what next terrible thing happens.
But he spares it here, relieved by the comfort he's been allowed.
If only for the moment.]
no subject
I am glad you liked it, young man. I hope it brought you a measure of peace.
no subject
Everything feels so real - so fucking real. He hates it so much.]
... It did.
What was it...? The music.
no subject
[ Maglor shrugs a little, hands straying idly back to the harp to play idle tunes ]
Music is exactly what it was! Although I let you see some of my memories, too. Music carries so much of them already.
no subject
... Your home was very beautiful.
no subject
I think so too, but obviously, I have a rather significant bias.
no subject
But it doesn't really... do that anymore, anyway.]
It's nice to see sometimes. The outside world, anyway.
no subject
[ Maglor offers gently ]
There are plenty of other memories I have.
no subject
[He seems hesitant to say any of that. As if maybe it'll be used against him.
He's used to his words being used against him, after all.]
maybe end here?
He avoids the darker times, and plays only of the joy for Sam - the Light of the Trees, the simple joys of family, the thrill of exploration. He paints him the world, and fends away the dark. For a little while, he tries to bring Sam peace. ]