Post by DEAN WINCHESTER on Nov 26, 2011 22:21:25 GMT -8
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,background-image:url(http://i52.tinypic.com/otj5sn.jpg); width: 390px; -moz-border-radius: 40px 0px 40px 0px; border-radius:40px 0px 40px 0px; opacity: 0.8; border-right: #336633 15px solid; border-left: #336633 15px solid;] » i'm multi-talented « » i can talk and piss you off at the same time « "Raphael; you dick." If there was anything Dean was getting tired of, it was waking up in improbable alternate realities courteous of a certain teenage mutant ninja angel with nothing better to do than make his life living hell. Apparently he hadn't gotten the memo that was Alistair's job. And he was plenty good at it unassisted. It was amazing at this point that Dean could keep them all straight, all those hell bent (or unbent, depending on how you looked at it) assholes, considering the only differences they had were their meat suits- and they always dressed them up in stupid monkey suits, which wrecked that distinction. Cas must feel like such a rebel in that coat of his. All angels seemed to have only one personality type too. Someone ought to tell god to flip that 'in store setting' switch to off. They were like those badly made robots in movies. Like, iRobot. Only that had been half way decent. But robots, well, they were robots. And robotically monotonous and boring. Like angels. And that was everyone's problem right there. But, the problem wasn't going to solve itself standing there. Well, Dean wasn't going to solve the problem standing there. He could complain, sure, but along with one sided personalities, angels were notorious for only hearing what they wanted to, and if Dean wanted to see tomorrow morning at the motel with Sam instead of on some creepy abandoned island, he'd better get to walking around, scaring himself for life, nearly getting killed, and not learning any valuable lessons other than to keep doing what he was already doing and ignore everything with wings that wasn't hot and named Riley. Oh, more to add to the list of angelic defects: predictability. God -or whoever mass produced these dicks- should be thankful that they're not in the toy making industry. Dissatisfied children would have murdered him years ago. For now, he supposed he should just focus on figuring out where the fuck he was now. It certainly wasn't the past, so he figured this was -what?- some demonic future where the entire earth's population was shoved onto the gross remains of Atlantis. Yeah, of course that was their new story. The only thing it seemed to lack was the people. There was a bridge in front of him, that looked like it was more likely to crumble under his weight than the ones from Indiana Jones -and that was saying something, because Dean couldn't remember a movie where those bridges didn't break. But it was cross the death trap or swim with the polluted fishes, so Dean decided to try his luck. Maybe he'd die and wake up before he had to talk to anyone... that sounded far too easy. Surprisingly, through the bridge bounced around and creaked obnoxiously, it held the entire time. Dean contemplated jumping, just because that would certainly screw up someones day, but then he was curious as to what he'd find inside the fortress. Which one of the son of a bitches he fought tried to make himself king; and how crap a job were they doing at it? He checked and, of course, he was unarmed. He'd had weapons near him but none on him when he was zapped and wasn't that just fucking convenient? Again, he supposed it didn't really matter. He just wanted this done with and the sooner the better. Stepping inside, he was surprised to find what looked like... a ran down messy storage locker full of things from museums. Right, don't save the people, just the artifacts. Very political of them. He fished though the cups and jewels and paintings and books (Sam would have a field day in this place) trying to find something that might actually be useful. Towards the bottom of the pile he found a dagger, probably from some medieval time where they thought making spikes down one side was more effective than a straight blade. It was annoying to fight with, but ideal for torture. He remembered less than fondly when he learned that first hand. The memory should have been enough to make him drop the weapon, but instead he stuck it in his back pocket, just in case. "Hello?" he called out, stepping though an arch into another room note too different then the one he'd just came from. The things were different sure, but they all looked just as old and useless. If he needed to find something, it probably wouldn't happen. It was obvious that Sam was the museum one; not that he wanted Sam here. But he did want to know what he was here. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ » whoo, pissin' off the big guy « tagged » - - - - - - zacky im not countin' - - - - - « words lyrics » - - - - - - they're not elevenie - - - - - - « credit |
