It was fake ID girls night for the lovely miss Elena Gilbert — aka she needed a break, and she happened to find her fake ID somewhere in the backseat of her car.
Motels got lonely after a while - the TV was fuzzy, and when it wasn’t fuzzy … it sounded fuzzy. She could feel bugs climbing up her skin, despite the room actually being clean. And the 70’s wallpaper made her dizzy.
All roads led to getting drunk for the night.
This time she didn’t even sit at the bar, her body was open to conversation - conversation that wasn’t with her bow when she was cleaning it.
And her brown eyes couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of the man who kept the dancers coming to his ‘side’.
“You look higher than a kite right now,” she commented.
She was almost terrified to glance down.
Green eyes glancing upwards at the firm voice of a female, the Winchester broke out into his award-winning smile, hues dancing with amusement. Whoever she was, she was a goddamn work of art — although perhaps that was just his liquor-addled brain misjudging her.
For some reason, the hunter had his doubts. He’d only woken up beside a drag queen once before — and he was only 19 at the time. Everyone made mistakes.
“Are you the fun police? Because I’d be more than happy to get arrested by someone who looks like you.”
So what if he’s a bit out of practice? So what if she ends up slapping him with one of those perfectly manicured hands? Worth it.
Yup. The day has finally come where I’ve returned home to all of you lovely little munchkins. To my old followers — I can’t believe you waited for me, I actually love you. To my new followers, HI, I’m the chad (or Kylie), AND I’M INSANE.
The Dean muse isn’t as dominant as it used to be, but he’s definitely here again! This’ll probably never be my main blog ever again (because the Isaac muse is so strong it’s suffocating me), but I want to run things differently over here anyway, so it’s totally no biggie!
So — just putting it out there that I haven’t seen the latest season. Or most of season eight. And because of that, this blog is only going to be seasons 1-7. But honestly, I’m tempted to ignore season 7 too. MORE THOUGHT ABOUT THAT SOME OTHER TIME.
I am only going to have 5-10 threads at any given time, too. And they’ll all be para-revolved. I want to write better. I want to improve. And writing paragraph-oriented literature definitely does that!
Anyway, if I’m not online here, you will definitely be able to find me here. This will be a slower-reply blog. BUT THAT’S BETTER THAN A NO-REPLY BLOG!
That is all. I’m outtie~
she probably shouldn’t have been wandering the streets alone at
god knows what time it was —— but there she was all the same,
hands tucked beneath her arms to try and sustain some of the
warmth that was escaping rapidly from her in the bite of the night air.
the scarf was doing little to aid her in this venture, allowing the wind
to draw it away from the structure of her pale neck.
ana could almost hear the chiding words of her
father —— telling her to come home, that she
shouldn’t have gone out at this time of night in
the first place.
but the ravenette never was one for
doing as she was told.
which was something that she quickly rethought as she came
headfirst into the broad chest of a man who reeked of alcohol —-
- but she didn’t have time to question whether he was dangerous
or not, or to even get a look at his face as she fell straight back
onto her rear; a slight grunt parting from ruby lips.
rubbing away the dazed glaze that had
overpowered her vision, emerald eyes
glanced through the darkness for his visage.
❝——what do you think you’re doing?❞
so that definitely could’ve gone better. drunkenly fumbling for some form of physical purchase as he reached for her arm, dean drew up blank, forced to do nothing but watch as she fell to the floor. immediately, he felt like the jerk his brother was so quick to label him as. she was pissed — and not in the good way, like him.
chewing awkwardly on his bottom lip,
the hunter’s lips upturned into an awkward,
lop-sided grin before he lifted his arms into a shrug.
he cursed the heavens above for his loose tongue, immediately disciplining himself for vocalising such a dickhead platitude. oops? — really? where the hell had his goddamn manners gone?
probably washed away after that fourth shot,
if he was entirely honest with himself.
trying again, he extended his hand in her direction. or— at least, he thought it was her direction. there were two of her, after all.
❝Knocking over a beautiful woman, apparently.❞
❝Sorry about that. Usually I’m the one blown off my feet.❞
okay, it still needed improvement. but it was definitely a start.
❝— I’m Dean.❞
It hurt like hell the last time I lost you
[ a n d ]
I don't wanna do that again.
seven shots of bourbon and three lap dances later,
he doesn’t have a damn clue where the hell he is,
or where the hell he parked his car.
in hindsight, he probably should’ve planned his night better.
because now? now he’s stranded in an unfamiliar town with nothing but $3 and a pack of sugarfree gum because goddamnit sam, quit being such a bitch and trying to force a health kick on him.
hands tucked comfortably in his pockets, he’s walking like he’s on goddamn sunshine — thanks katrina and the waves — and he’s not going to let this get him down. because he got three free lap dances.
plus he found a miniature army figurine in
the pocket of his signature leather jacket.
could this night get any better?
he supposes that’s completely up
to the person he’s just run headlong into.
ANYWAY, if anyone would like to do the writing thing, holla at yo girl and reply to this post or something. Because I’m dropping everything and starting fresh. Canon divergent from the end of season seven. I haven’t watched even half of season eight, and I refuse to touch season nine with a ten inch pole.
SO THAT’S THAT THEN. HI GUYS.
I’M NOT GONE FOREVER.
A lot of people want me to come back to this blog. But everything is Allison Argent grief right now. AND EVERYTHING H U R T S.
I literally cannot write anything but painful drabbles. /lays down on the floor
The fact the my Isaac muse is so fucking depressed that he actually managed to summon Dean for company after months of him being totally awol — that says a lot. I mean, bloody hell. I’ve got one muse sitting in the corner doing nothing but counting his fingers all day long. And I’ve got Dean, trying to be the comedic relief even though he knows how delicate the situation is.
Jesus christ I missed him. I’m so upset.