and i will find the enemy within

[ruinously]

Who: Dean and You!
What: All of the above
When: late march, early april.
Where: all over.
Warnings: will be noted in the warnings ¯\_(ツ)_/¯



adult pool;

[ sometimes, you need to breathe. Even when the sea swells and rolls and dips underfoot as far as the eye can see, no land in sight, boat swaying under boots -- sometimes you just need to breathe.

And sometimes you need to do it with a drink in your hand and your feet propped up - that's what's Dean is doing. Being on another metal tube that may sink at any given moment has triggered anxiety he didn't even know he had, and, well - drinking is always a good excuse for therapy.

He can't find any rhyme or reason to what is happening in this place anyway, and after the his first soup drenching, he's not bothered to put on clothes he likes when heading out to partake. Instead, he's shied away from the buffet tables a little and is instead lounging by the pool in his newest (and lets be real, his new favorite) pair of boardshorts and a wide brimmed hat, eyes protected by a comically large pair of sunglasses, which is all that was available in the shop.

God, he looks like such a douchebag, he knows. He also doesn't care.

Cash him outside, bitches. ]

cabins;

[ Should you actually know what Dean's cabin is (and even if you don't, knock knock bitches), then he could be found there, maybe, provided his weirdo roommate isn't lurking around. Crowley's fine, it's fine, Dean doesn't get the vibe the guys gonna take his shit, but still. Weird.

He's only ever roomed in close proximity like this with his brother and his father, and sharing a cramped space with a stranger is weird. So if they're both avoiding each other, that's fine. It's totally fine.

Not awkward at all.

At any rate - he can easily be sought out there if you happen to notice the shifting patterns, or a note can be left. Whatever you fancy. If he knows you, there might be a note slipped under your door or a message sent via shiptalk; ]


hey. drinks?

wildcard;

(( ooc; make up your own! dm me at pincurls or on this account. ))

Comments

[ruinously]

Jesus Christ.

[ Yeah, that sounds terrifying as fuck, and not something he would want to fuck with. ]

That sounds pretty shitty, too. [ Everyone on this damn boat has a tragic backstory, it seems. ]

[skaikru]

( everyone always comes from scary places, friday had told natsuno yuuki, who'd come from a land of the undead. he'd relaid that information to a girl who'd burnt alive in a wave of radiation and lost everyone she'd ever loved. thus far, that second-hand tidbit seems to ring true in one way or another, with every single person she meets. and reinforces the idea that existence is always, always a fight.

and a shitty one, too. but at dean's acknowledgement of such, clarke just sort of... avoids any hint of eye contact and shrugs. )

What year are you from again?

[ruinously]

[ It's seeming to ring true for everyone that Dean has met, too. He has yet to meet someone with no Traumatic Past™. He doubts that he will. ]

Early 2009ish. You?

[skaikru]

2149.

( there's the customary pause in which people tend to look at her like she's crazy, during which time clarke downs the rest of her glass of tequila and suddenly feels a bit queasy. but, swallowing a particularly painful burp and pressing her palm to her chest, the gag is subdued.

then she can just shrug. )

So like, hey. If we do happen to come from the same world, just 140 years apart, at least you can take comfort that it wasn't that apocalypse that ended the world.

( bright! side! )

[ruinously]

Jesus.

[ A hundred and forty years into the future? Holy fuck. It takes him a moment to swallow that down along with a shot of whiskey, and he shakes his head, snorting a little as he gestures at...who/whatever to refill his glass. ]

I mean, shit. I guess that's a plus? Sorta. Fuck.

[skaikru]

( clarke is entirely prepared to scoot her own glass his way so dean can also call for another refill of tequila, but in the length of time to get another round — everything hits.

shes suddenly very aware of how fluid the backdrop of bottles behind the bar looks, like it's through a haze and her eyes are about to cross. a soft attempt to reposition herself on her barstool feels precarious at best and in serious danger of sliding off at worst. and her stomach gurgles with abject displeasure in response to her intention of putting more tequila in it.

but! that's exactly what she'd come here for, right? so clarke just nods. )

The pluses here are few and far between, it feels important to point them out.

( ...for other people. no one give clarke hope about her own world please, she isn't sure how she'd take it. )