sadfreezingbrit_archive | Entries tagged with [dean winchester]

[ And then this happened and Philip was back in his body. Just like that. Just... like that.

Not that the time off was a breeze, oh no. The things he said to some people, the things Clarence did, but... there are the things he didn't do. The things he could've done so easily and yet--

And yet Philip is back in his body and nobody is hurt. Nobody is dead.

But the conclusions he's supposed to draw from this...

He takes a sip of whiskey. His first empty bottle now and quite likely not his last. That's how everyone will find him during the day: Sitting in the kitchen. Sipping on glass after glass, trying to make sense of what the hell happened in those past five days.

...Only later in the afternoon has he finally made his mind up about some things, leading to the following three audio transmissions: ]

[PRIVATE AND LOCKED TO DEAN]

( ..... )

[PRIVATE AND LOCKED TO SANTANA]

( ..... )

[PRIVATE AND LOCKED TO BEISTE]

( ..... )

[[OOC: Slightly pre-dated to early afternoon on the 10th]]

[ Philip is sitting on the couch, flipping through his notebook when the camera turns on. His usual reaction is to reach forward and switch off the offender as quickly as possible. Only this time he hesitates and finally draws back his hand. ]

I've um, I've been...

[ He clears his throat. ]

Am- am I supposed to... celebrate that? An anniversary here?

[ With a sigh he lets his head sink, eyes focused on the notebook in his hands. ]

I just didn't realise it's been so long...

[ A pause before he looks up again and forces a smile. ]

Well. Anyway...

[ An apologetic shrug and the accidental feed is turned off again. ]

[ It's been almost a week since ex-mafia!Philip had a very unfortunate event run-in with still-mafia!Dean. The result? His previous Wonderland lives are still intact, but he's down one eye and his arm isn't doing so well either. And that's the understatement of the day.

So. It's been almost a week. Hardly enough time to heal all wounds (or any of them for that matter), but time enough for Philip to get over the worst and out of his room. Or try to, in any case.

Right now (now being 11 in the morning) he's standing in the kitchen, arduously slaving over his attempt at late breakfast. The injury to his right shoulder is difficult to hide, what with his arm in a sling. But at least his left eye (or lack thereof) is cleverly concealed behind a pair of sunglasses.

To reiterate: Kitchen. Breakfast. 11 o'clock. Right arm in sling. ~~Ridiculous~~ Fashionable sunglasses. Shattered glass.

...Shattered glass? ]

Jesus, not again.

[ Stepping aside Philip looks at the mess. After six days improvements are coming along at last, but missteps (or misgrabs, as it were) still happen all too often. Oh depth perception, he never knew how much he loved you until you were gone.

And yet the milk keeps dripping on the floor; cold, cruel and undeterred by his struggles and frustrations.

To continue: Paper towels. Broom. Scoop. New try. Deep sigh. ]

As the dust settled on a stack of yellowed magazines I remembered why I had learned to love the silence. Silence was all I had left now. Silence and books that were never bought, a telephone that never rang.

Every day I would pour myself a cup of coffee, sit behind the counter and read the paper. Later I would do inventory and I would stop near the grimy mirror in the corner and look for a familiar face that never showed.

I would dutifully wait for a customer or two and at the end of the day I would grab the old broom and sweep the floor. Every day I would wipe the counter and every time I would wash my hands before closing and wonder if I would ever stop smelling the blood.

Then, after every burning sunset, I would lock the store and for my own benefit I would pause for a moment and fake disappointment and surprise at yet another day without sales gone by.

In a city that was bustling with life at every corner my little shop was only a relict; dead and long forgotten. We had that much in common at least.

Outside the noise of the morning traffic slowly died down like a drizzle of summer rain. I grabbed my cup and the paper and sat down behind the counter. Today, I thought, would be just like any other day.

[ OOC: Information on noir!Philip is here. All threads take place before his encounter with Dean, unless somebody wants to play medic. ]

[ Hello, mansion!

How do you feel about an accidental audio transmission featuring this song played on the guitar over and over and over and over again in various qualities ranging from sort-of-okay-ish over mediocre to physically painful?

I hope your answer is 'highly enthused', otherwise Philip's new hobby might not be as entertaining to you as it currently is to him. ]

[ For Philip the last 1 1/2 weeks were-- Actually, let's not talk about the last 1 1/2 weeks. Let's just say that being wide awake at night was what he expected and that the hunger made sense, given that he hadn't been able to keep any food down for a while now... and didn't particularly feel like trying either.

So when he finally got up around six in the morning his pale and haggard reflection (oh yes, they do have one in some canons) hardly looked any paler or more haggard than usual. He stared at it for a while, sighed, splashed cold water on his face and went about brushing his-- AHHHH OH GOD TEETH! ]

{Wow. Monkey, I'd recommend talkin' to a doctor about this, but I don't know how much they could do for you, seein' as... you don't have a pulse anymore. }

[ And that was when Philip got dressed and rushed up to the tenth floor.

You may catch a glimpse of him on one of the hallway feeds, but he will likely be a little too preocuppied to answer transmissions right away. If you leave a message though he might get back to you later.

Of course you could always run into him on his way up. Or you might be the one whose door he will be knocking on frantically... ]

Dean? Dean! Dean, open up!

[ Philip will be making extensive trips to the other side a few times and running into him along the way is entirely possible throughout the entire event.

It's also entirely possible to meet him at the party, although the festivity of his mood is questionable.

What you're seeing here however is an accidental video on the evening of the eighth of April.

Philip is wearing gloves and a surgical apron. After taking a deep breath he tentatively approaches his bed and starts tucking at the pillows, then at the sheets.

Tucking. Tucking. Pausing. Shuddering.

Tucking. Tucking. Tu-- Stepping back, cringing and throwing the apron and gloves on the bed with a frustrated sigh. ]

I... can't. It's not, I-- [ He groans and rubs his eyes. For a moment he stands still.

Then he moves towards the closet and fetches a sports bag.

The rest of the feed is spent packing up his personal items and a few other assorted goods.

If you are Daniel, Dean or Tim you will also receive the following text message a while later: ]

Moved to 18, 5th floor. Just wanted to let you know. - Philip

[[Fourth wall guest spectators most welcome~ ♥]]

[ The year is 2011. The place is Wonderland. The exact time is exactly some time after the events of this log.

Both audio and video of this transmission are on, but the view leaves something to be desired. A white ceiling, half of which is obstructed by a smudge of blood.

The voice quality is top notch however and some may be able to recognise

echo_of_utopia and

sadfreezingbrit talking to each other not too far away. ]

No, I... I don't-- I can't...

Perhaps your room number?

...Five... sixteen on the... twelfth floor.

[ Short pause. ] All right, just a moment. [ Longer pause. ] Please look straight ahead and follow the light with your eyes.

[ Even longer pause. ]

Thank you, now--

...W-wait, there's-- Can... Can you...

Ah, of course. Let me just turn it off.

[ The sound of footsteps draws closer and for a moment the video displays part of the clinic, its most notable feature being a bed occupied by one not exactly stellar looking Philip LaFresque.

The other participant is of course none other than the good Dr Lamb who promptly pushes a button on the device, thus ending today's episode of ER: Wonderland Edition. ]

[[OOC: Video/audio/text replies from both

sadfreezingbrit and

echo_of_utopia are possible. Action tags at the clinic are also very welcome. Please specify who you're calling, in case you have a preference.]]

First floor, room somethingorother. This is a boring feed. There's the sound of furniture being moved in the background, but all that's visible is a wooden door. For a moment it sounded like there was a knock on it, but that was probably just the background noise. Really, it doesn't look like anything will be happening here anytime soon. Honestly, better change the channel to something moreOHGODPICKAXE!!!

( Dial 555-DENIAL for hot Philip on Philip action. )

[[OOC: ICly cut for length. Philip will answer video and audio with a slight IC delay while being chased. Both Philips can be found outside the mansion for action interaction.]]

[ Philip's face is looking perfectly normal (if a little crabby in the strictly mood-related sense of the word). Shoulders, arms, no problem there. His chest, not currently covered by any sort of clothing, is looking just a tad more blueish and... transparent than it should.

Opacity only decreases from there, making Phil entirely light blue and see-through below his stomach. Below the waist it looks like he's been torn and tattered, his body segueing into a thick bundle of thin tentacles where his legs should be.

Or in other words: Philip, now with roughly 65% more this. ]

How is that even--

[ The blue tentacles whirl around as Philip turns and spins nervously in front of his algae-encrusted mirror, placing his hands behind his back to confirm that there is indeed nothing whatsoever between the front and the back of his body.

He spins a few more times before letting himself drift onto his mattress with resignation. ]

...I want my organs back.