Dean Winchester ~ Veteran RPer. Canon / AU / Crossover - I ship where the hunt takes me. I hunt. I drink. I improvise. I've buried gods, ganked demons, been to hell & back. If you're looking for redemption take a number, if you're looking for trouble, hop in and try to keep up.

Imagine being this guy… @ShadowedMoose

Shit! I almost forgot to mancrush myself… Penny for your thoughts, you sexy sonuva bitch!

❛𝑴𝒂𝒎𝒂, 𝒘𝒆'𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚'𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒛𝒆.ᐟ❜ ⛧°. ⋆༺ Bᴇᴇʟᴢᴇʙᴜʙ ִ༻⋆. °⛧ 🪰 demon 🪰 independent portrayal 🪰 FC Gerard Way 🪰 triggers && mature themes

Damn right, pass the plate!

space. Then Kaitlynn is violently jerked away from me, ripped from my hand and forced backward, into the room we just left. her heels dragging across the floor as she grasps for me . That’s when it hits me. The house isn’t the center of this storm. She is.~

piercing our ears. I reach out my hand. “You okay, kid?” I don’t give her time to answer before I start dragging her out of the room and toward the stairs. The house groans and sways, a peal of laughter echoing on a loop through the house, filling every inch of the empty <

The ghost doesn’t care about me as I edge my way toward it and her. I tighten my grip on the iron rebar, set my stance, and swing. Home run. Casper just got knocked out of the park. The debris in the room shifts and spins, clattering to the ground, a painful wailing scream <

pulls my attention away, and there, pressed against the wall, an iron rod still in her hand, is the tear-stained and spitting mad face of @SinsOfBloodKS. My stomach drops. “Kaitlynn?” The name slips out before I can stop it. “Kid, you pick the worst damn places to hang out.”

head presses close to the ceiling as if height alone should make it impressive. The distortion leans over someone pinned unwillingly against the wall, surrendering the room to the specter. For a moment I’m focused on the haunting itself. There is a soft whimper of relief that <

been forced into a shape that used to belong to a person but no longer remembers how proportions are supposed to work. The thing has stretched its outline far too tall for the space it’s in. Its torso hangs long and narrow. Its arms extend downward almost to the floor. Its <

Pages circle through the air like they’re caught in a lazy storm. The mattress lifts an inch or two from the frame before settling again. The mirror on the dresser fractures in delicate branching lines that creep across the glass. At the center of the room the air itself has <

side. By the time I reach the landing the temperature has dropped enough that my breath drifts faintly in front of me. The bedroom door at the end of the hallway stands open, and the movement inside the room has the slow drifting rhythm of gravity losing an argument.

that tells me whatever is up there has figured out how to lean on the building instead of just rattling through it. I start up the staircase with the iron rebar already loose in my grip. Halfway up, the banister shivers under my hand like someone brushed past it on the other <

it suits them. Something shifts upstairs with enough weight behind it that the ceiling groans. I pause long enough to listen, head tilted slightly while the house settles around me. It isn’t footsteps. It’s the slower pressure of wood bending under force, the kind of sound <

something spent a long time experimenting with the layout before deciding it liked the results. Chairs face the corners of the room. Picture frames have been turned toward the wall. Nothing about it feels random. Angry ghosts make messes. Focused ones rearrange the room until <

routine ghost problem just turned into getting Bobby’s kid out in one piece. The moment I step inside, the air presses inward like the place has been holding its breath. Furniture has been dragged across the hardwood floor in slow deliberate arcs that overlap each other, as if <

the Army green Jeep Cherokee parked a little more sideways than feels comfortable. “Aw, hell… Bobby’s kid.” The house sits there with its front door cracked open, dark as midnight, and telling me the evening has already gotten interesting. Whatever was supposed to be a <

and the street is quiet in that polite suburban way. “Great. Pleasant Valley Sunday every day around here. Can’t wait to find out what’s lurking under the lawn.” I do a quick pat down, knife, gun, iron rebar, and settle my eyes on the house at the end of the block, clocking <

out of the car, and when you’ve been hunting this long you learn to trust that feeling even when you can’t explain it yet. The neighborhood looks normal enough if you don’t stare too hard. Porch lights glow behind curtains, televisions flicker blue through living room windows, <

Standard poltergeist résumé… objects moving, doors slamming, mirrors shattering. I’ve dealt with enough of those to know they’re usually loud, angry, and about as subtle as a bar fight. Still, something about this place has my instincts crawling up my spine before I even step <