[anOTP -- For Dean Winchester] "Come to my arms and let me seduce you"

[silvereyedphage]

"Surrender your soul and I will reduce you
To sinful sensation and fleshly delight"That uppity young man from the West had caught Muraki's attention, almost the moment that his elder protege had brought him to his study. He wasn't sure what caused it, since the youngster was a bit more robust than he usually preferred. But he wasn't particular:

Comments

[surfaceshine]

The Dean that lives inside Dean Winchester's head and the Dean he shows the world are, by and large, two completely different people. He's built for himself an image, a shield, and a digestible lie for the outside world, the people in it; it keeps his insecurities, his doubts, his self and his scars, safe, and he maintains it with alacrity crucial to his survival. But Hell was a kiln, firing his strength at too high a temperature to maintain, and he brought the cracks from it back with him when he pushed himself out of his grave and once again stumbled over the skin of the world. He manages to hide them, for the most part, the glimpses of ash-dusted ruin too swift for many to know what they're even looking at before it's gone.

His dreams, though, are a different matter entirely, and that's why he drinks to try to get past them.

I remember. Two small words, so simple to say, not simple at all to explain, not anywhere near explaining what his memories contain now. He doesn't want to remember, doesn't want anyone else to know

[silvereyedphage]

The aether of the Mansion is strange, more textured than anything he's experienced in his world, but it still allows Muraki to move through it relatively unhindered. The sleepers around him read as softly glowing forms in the darker, heavier substance of the building. He flits along the hallways, feeling for that particular signature

[surfaceshine]

There are layers to Dean's dreams, on nights like this; no matter how deeply or shallowly into sleep he tries to hide, there's always something to catch him. At the surface, most easily perceptible and most readily predictable, are the generic impressions: all-encompassing physical pain, panic, claustrophobia, the sensation of blood running over skin, muscles tearing, bones breaking, metal and rust and fire and ash. It's a chaos at once both intense and distant, always present but not always strong enough to prevent day to day function. Always waiting at night, though Dean has learned how to make his bid for sleep swift and hard enough to get past it, sometimes

[silvereyedphage]

He penetrates the layers, taking in the surroundings: there's only one name for this place, and it is a place he doesn't doubt he may someday descend into. It is Hell and even in his state, where he has not yet taken on a tangible appearance, he can't help smirking a bit to himself.

So you have known the worst place in the universe? What brought you to this place? he wonders. He hovers on the edge of the chamber, watching from the shadows unseen, deferring to the dark presence between him and his prey. His ancestors were called the Watchers and he has that much in common, that he observes and records as much as he can, the better to make the most calculated move...

Hee, it's a good place to start: His Paleness generally enters a dream unobtrusively, getting the "lay of the land" first before finding a way to insert himself seamlessly.