oncerighteous (oncerighteous) wrote in angellogs, @ 2017-10-27 16:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | castiel (au), dean winchester (au) |
ᴡʜᴏ: Dean Winchester (AU) + Castiel (AU).
ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ: Abandoned house in the Pine Barrens, New Jersey.
ᴡʜᴇɴ: Night of Oct. 27th through sunrise of Oct. 28th.
ᴡʜᴀᴛ: Trapped in a B-movie.
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: Gore, violence, swearing.
sᴛᴀᴛᴜs: Closed, ongoing.
The drive cross country had been quiet, broken only by the occasional argument over what played on the crackling stereo of the old Barracuda. Dean had been used to his one rule about music the car — driver picks the music — and it looks like Sam hadn’t been, since Cas still thought he had any right to change the station while sitting very much in the passenger seat of the car. Nothing against Tupac, but turning off Kashmir halfway through the solo was blasphemy, Dean was almost one-hundred percent sure about it. That had been the straw that almost had him banishing the angel all the way to god knows where out of spite, but Dean just tuned the station back and passively aggressively tossed the wobbly, broken knob out the open driver’s side window. After that, they had come to the silent agreement to change the channel after every song, barring a consensus to stay on the channel. Other than that, the drive from just south of Vegas to the armpit of New Jersey was uneventful. While cooped up in their warded motel room, Dean had come across some forum posts and local news footage of people in the Pine Barrens talking about the Jersey Devil again. He had taken a look at the network that connected him to the rest of the people who were displaced here, but there hadn’t been anything but talk of the blob, which Dean didn’t pay attention to because damn, was that an awful film, and the Kraken. Everything Dean read on that network he took with a grain of salt, having no reason to trust half of what they said. No, he stuck to things he could learn off that network, and that meant research the old fashioned way: combing through newspapers, local TV, and buried forums on the internet. He had Sam had found the majority of their cases that way, had followed hunches, and this was no different. Everything on this “Jersey Devil” had him thinking there was demon activity; the smell of sulfur, a dark cloud. There was something about a cold breeze in one of the comments, but that was the only thing that didn’t line up. Everything that did, though, led him to believe there might be something there worth looking into. Low ranking demons usually went to places like that to find something, and Dean wanted to know what it was. Possibly, it could get them out of this ass backwards excuse for a world. As they got closer to the address, Dean turned the headlights off and coasted almost at neutral down the street. The majority of it was abandoned, the pavement cracked and the Earth already starting to try to reclaim the land; it looked like something out of a bad movie the way it was so unkempt and overgrown. Pulling over, Dean parked the car about a lot down from the house, and with the old 383 B-block shut off, Dean was able to hear dated punk rock and the shrieks of teenagers. Leaning back against the seat, he ran a hand down his face with a sigh. “If this is just some teenage prank, I’m going to Thelma and Louise us off the nearest cliff, Cas.” With another sigh for good measure, Dean pushed open the heavy driver’s side door and let it swing closed as he stepped around it. Walking around to the trunk, he popped it open, propping it up with an old shotgun, as he rooted around for the bag he had packed. Though the pair of them could handle a lot of things, it never hurt to be prepared, the old hunter in him unwilling to really forget all his old tricks. Shouldering the bag, he closed the trunk and looked up at the house. A good percentage of it was crumbling and the rest of it was covered in vines and cloaked by half-dead trees. Halfway up the driveway, Dean noticed a beat up old Volkswagen Gulf and an equally dated Land Rover, the former coated in old band stickers and anarchy symbols were etched into the flaking paint, and that latter almost too pristine for a car that old, complete with a rosary hanging from the rear-view mirror. Further up, he noted the brick wall that wrapped around the old property, only broken on the side by the gate that followed the dirt driveway as it wound up from the dirt road. “This feels like we’re walking into a trap,” Dean commented, voice low and quiet, and he didn’t move a step closer. Just then, the music cut out and a scream cut through the eerie silence that replaced it. “Think that’s our cue, Wings.” |