theoldgirl: (distant shores)
[personal profile] theoldgirl
It's a beautiful, cold March day in New York, and street cleaners are upon us!

[Anyone receiving Cecil's broadcast on their phone or other device will be quite convinced of its veracity, thanks to his Radio Voice now being a rift power. Listeners can either call in at the broadcast post to discuss current events / ask for survival tips / tell their loved ones good bye, or use this post to act out their totally irrational justified panic.

But, here are the good news! (Real good news, not life-is-pointless-but-at-least-ice-cream-exists good news.) Since Cecil will make another broadcast the next day saying that nothing unusual actually happened, your characters won't actually remember this crisis as a crisis, so you can backtag to your heart's content without it affecting later events. Go somewhat literally nuts! And really make the TARDIS feel like a moron for letting Cecil do this.]


ginormotron: (working (head in a book))
[personal profile] ginormotron
Sam has always been the kind of guy who, when he's sick, will mulishly insist that he is fine, he can keep going until he's blue in the face. Not even just when there's the fate of the world on the line, he was like that in college too; he distinctly (and with some embarrassment) remembers an instance in which he passed out in a philosophy lecture because he was too stubborn to admit he had the flu. This time, though, there was only so much bull-headed denial he could really work with. He point-blank refused to go to the hospital, because a) whatever he's sick with, they aren't likely to have the cure, and b) he's probably not registered in any system in this universe, and even if there is some other Sam Winchester running around, he doesn't want to get mixed up in that.

So he's spent-- how long? A few weeks?-- holed up in a room in the shittiest (and therefore cheapest, 'cos it's not like he's gonna be running card scams at any dive bars, the state he's in) motel he could find, drifting in and out of consciousness, having really weird fucking dreams, and healing. Slowly.

But finally, finally he feels well enough to go out again. No fever, no visions of dead angels, none of the dragging lethargy that had made getting up some days basically impossible. So today, this day, Sam gets up, determined that he's gonna take a shower and go get some necessities. He stops short, though, after he heaves himself out of bed, noting with some alarm that there's stuff all over the floor. Not just most of the bedding, but the pens and notepads that live in motel drawers, a few little bars of soap, the entire contents of his pockets. Some of the furniture looks like it's been wrenched out of place as well; there's little indents in the carpet where the TV stand used to be rooted, and a tall floor lamp is leaning crazily against one wall.

Weird. A shiver wraps itself around his spine as he steps over the stuff and goes to shower.

His reflection in the mirror, once he's clean, is kind of pathetic. He looks-- well, he looks like what he is, like a guy who's been sick; Sam's not sure how much fat or muscle mass you can lose in the course of a few weeks, but he's definitely thinner than he was, his face noticeably gaunt. Possibly most heinous is the full beard covering his jaw. For a few futile milliseconds, he gropes for a razor, as if one will magically appear on the sink countertop. It doesn't.

Once he's dressed, he collates all the shit-formerly-in-his-pockets-but-now-on-the-floor. He's got a few hundred bucks in cash, as well as several credit cards under fake names. No guarantee those will work in this reality, but he guesses he'll see. He can buy a razor to take care of the beard, and some new clothes, at least, and then-- Fuck, and then what? He supposes he could try to find that Lucy woman again, find out more about what was going on here. Or else do some research on his own, though he doesn't know exactly how secret all this Rift and ROMAC stuff actually is.

Several hours later finds him with a Kmart backpack filled with a few necessities; deodorant, plastic packs of cheap t-shirts and underwear and socks, and a new smartphone in his pocket. At least one of his credit cards worked, for now, so he'll have internet access at least for a bit. Sam doesn't know New York very well, so he wanders until he finds a coffee shop with WIFI written in the window in bright neons. He orders coffee with an extra shot of espresso, and sits down to try and do some research.


ginormotron: (i'm goddamn tired)
[personal profile] ginormotron
The angels are falling. There’s a stinging wash over Sam’s eyes that makes him squint, and the light of their burning grace hurts to watch. It hurts even when he closes his eyes, something in him that’s still, whatever, resonating, and he can feel it somewhere deep under his diaphragm, like someone’s stuck their hand in and is tearing. The angels are falling, and it hurts. His skin feels too tight, hypersensitive with the fever he’s had for weeks, and the angels are falling, and Crowley’s chained up to a chair in that church half-cured, and they’ve failed. Sam’s failed, again.

The wet gravel is cold under his ass, and he can do nothing but huddle into Dean’s side and stare up at the sky, tears leaking hot from his eyes. He feels young and stupid, and he hates Dean for being right again, even as some part of him wishes that he could be eight years old again and cry into his brother’s shoulder and not feel like he doesn't deserve it. Somewhere nearby, the ground shakes with impact, and Sam convulses, and blacks out.

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