(no subject)
COMMUNITY POST SAMPLE:
This is Agent Billy Gibbons, FBI. I'm looking for a person of interest. Caucasian male, mid-twenties, approximately 6' 1" and 190 lbs. Is to be assumed armed, and... you know what, fuck this shit.
I'm Sam Winchester, and I've been stuck here for three days now. I'm looking for my brother, and I can't find him anywhere. I've been to so many dive bars in the past few nights that I smell like Pabst and Marlboros. There isn't a trail to pick up, and I'm on the verge of hunting down every registered '67 Charger in a 500 mile radius because I just can't figure this out. I think I'm the one missing. There's no city that's just called 'The City'. Sure, Mexico City is colloquially called El Ciudad, but it still has a name. This place doesn't exist. It's not Hell, and I don't think it's Heaven, so right now I'm going with some sort of prolonged hallucination while I'm lying somewhere with massive cranial damage.
Dean, if you can read this, you know where to find me. There's some patented weird shit going on here.
THIRD PERSON:
The first thing he had to do was get to a phone book. Okay, not the first, he had to finish climbing down the fire escape of the obviously government building that he was climbing down, but, then, yeah. Totally the phone book. Tying the dog tags a rung of the ladder, Sam jumped the last eight feet to the ground and started running, before that Iron Man thing could come after him. He skidded to a halt next to a dumpster, pulled the high-tech looking blackberry-ish device out of his back pocket. He couldn't decide whether to ditch it or not, if they already had Dean and had done the same thing, then maybe Sam could track him through his.
Or maybe they were hoping he would track Dean's, so they could track his, and find them both and... a noise echoed off the close walls of the alley. Flash decision time: Sam pocketed it again and headed to the street. Phone book. Had to find a pho... car. Definitely need one of those first. He couldn't get to a motel without a car, and he couldn't get a room without money which meant... "Fuck me."
The little old lady that he'd run straight into gave him a horrified look and whacked him with her purse, before hurrying off. "Sorry, m'am." This was just fantastic. He couldn't think straight, didn't have a cell phone, he wasn't armed, Dean was nowhere to be found, and the only two people he'd met thus far had tried to recruit him into some militant force and probably thought he was some sort of moral degenerate.
It took him 97 minutes to find the right car. It had to be one with locks that he could pick, a steering column that he could hotwire, a wallet or purse, and enough time on the meter to give him a head start in case he had to use a credit card. That turned out not to be the case. Harry Roantree kept an absurd amount of money in his wallet, for someone who'd leave it in his visor. A long, irritating 15 minutes before he had found a place with a hard-copy yellow pages. There were times when he hated the internet. Nobody needed books anymore.
He parked the car around the corner from the Aphrodite Motel & Bar. Ten minutes later, he was back in the car. He'd rented a room under the name Jim Rockford, and the clerk had told him that his brother hadn't turned up for the 'family reunion.' Sam'd left him a message at the desk and told the clerk to give his brother a hard-time for being late, then the key. He drove the car aimlessly, until he was about five miles from the motel, as the crow flies. He wiped it down - wheel, column, handle, stick, dash -everything. He kept the wallet though, intending to mail it back rather than let it sit in a car that had already been stolen once today, and jogged back to the hotel.
Still no Dean. Sam checked the time. It was only three. He tried calling Dean and the Roadhouse. Neither number existed. He tried Bobby Singer and Sarah. The latter was a nursing home. The hotel room had its own yellow pages, and he paged through, writing down the nearest gunshop, sporting goods store, grocery store, and public library on a piece of hotel stationary. Sam counted the cash in the wallet, eyed the credit cards too. He needed supplies. He needed to find out what the hell was going on. He needed to keep this hotel room until Dean showed up.
Mostly, he'd settle for just knowing Dean was alive.
This is Agent Billy Gibbons, FBI. I'm looking for a person of interest. Caucasian male, mid-twenties, approximately 6' 1" and 190 lbs. Is to be assumed armed, and... you know what, fuck this shit.
I'm Sam Winchester, and I've been stuck here for three days now. I'm looking for my brother, and I can't find him anywhere. I've been to so many dive bars in the past few nights that I smell like Pabst and Marlboros. There isn't a trail to pick up, and I'm on the verge of hunting down every registered '67 Charger in a 500 mile radius because I just can't figure this out. I think I'm the one missing. There's no city that's just called 'The City'. Sure, Mexico City is colloquially called El Ciudad, but it still has a name. This place doesn't exist. It's not Hell, and I don't think it's Heaven, so right now I'm going with some sort of prolonged hallucination while I'm lying somewhere with massive cranial damage.
Dean, if you can read this, you know where to find me. There's some patented weird shit going on here.
THIRD PERSON:
The first thing he had to do was get to a phone book. Okay, not the first, he had to finish climbing down the fire escape of the obviously government building that he was climbing down, but, then, yeah. Totally the phone book. Tying the dog tags a rung of the ladder, Sam jumped the last eight feet to the ground and started running, before that Iron Man thing could come after him. He skidded to a halt next to a dumpster, pulled the high-tech looking blackberry-ish device out of his back pocket. He couldn't decide whether to ditch it or not, if they already had Dean and had done the same thing, then maybe Sam could track him through his.
Or maybe they were hoping he would track Dean's, so they could track his, and find them both and... a noise echoed off the close walls of the alley. Flash decision time: Sam pocketed it again and headed to the street. Phone book. Had to find a pho... car. Definitely need one of those first. He couldn't get to a motel without a car, and he couldn't get a room without money which meant... "Fuck me."
The little old lady that he'd run straight into gave him a horrified look and whacked him with her purse, before hurrying off. "Sorry, m'am." This was just fantastic. He couldn't think straight, didn't have a cell phone, he wasn't armed, Dean was nowhere to be found, and the only two people he'd met thus far had tried to recruit him into some militant force and probably thought he was some sort of moral degenerate.
It took him 97 minutes to find the right car. It had to be one with locks that he could pick, a steering column that he could hotwire, a wallet or purse, and enough time on the meter to give him a head start in case he had to use a credit card. That turned out not to be the case. Harry Roantree kept an absurd amount of money in his wallet, for someone who'd leave it in his visor. A long, irritating 15 minutes before he had found a place with a hard-copy yellow pages. There were times when he hated the internet. Nobody needed books anymore.
He parked the car around the corner from the Aphrodite Motel & Bar. Ten minutes later, he was back in the car. He'd rented a room under the name Jim Rockford, and the clerk had told him that his brother hadn't turned up for the 'family reunion.' Sam'd left him a message at the desk and told the clerk to give his brother a hard-time for being late, then the key. He drove the car aimlessly, until he was about five miles from the motel, as the crow flies. He wiped it down - wheel, column, handle, stick, dash -everything. He kept the wallet though, intending to mail it back rather than let it sit in a car that had already been stolen once today, and jogged back to the hotel.
Still no Dean. Sam checked the time. It was only three. He tried calling Dean and the Roadhouse. Neither number existed. He tried Bobby Singer and Sarah. The latter was a nursing home. The hotel room had its own yellow pages, and he paged through, writing down the nearest gunshop, sporting goods store, grocery store, and public library on a piece of hotel stationary. Sam counted the cash in the wallet, eyed the credit cards too. He needed supplies. He needed to find out what the hell was going on. He needed to keep this hotel room until Dean showed up.
Mostly, he'd settle for just knowing Dean was alive.