jamie_winchester
Cluster
- Joined
- Nov 30, 2010
No one really knew really anymore when it started, or when things changed. But for as long as the history books could remember, there had always been writing on human’s hands. A connection, a link to the one person in the world that will understand you, and accept you. The missing half of the soul, a bond that would stand the test of anything the world through at it. A soul mate. Writings that appeared, written in scrawly, loopy, beautiful letters....whatever your mate wrote like, the words showed. A writing, a connection to what they liked. Sometimes, it was just something innocent, in children, pictures. As people grew, the lists became less innocent, less sure. And more hidden. A secret to keep to themselves, not to try and find if you didn’t want to.
In Dean winchester’s case, it had gone from innocent drawings and lists, to blood soaked hands and powder burns. To seeing slender pale scars starting to decorate knuckles, or see the edge of scars from a bracelet digging in, a bracelet that didn’t belong to him, but left small scars all the same. Years of innocence gone in a wash of a blood and the roar of the impala.
Which was fine. He’d learned to live with one night stands, and hunting, to the job. Turning his whole live over to making sure that most of the populace got to go on in peaceful ignorance. Except the writing that was smudged and worn showing up on his palm across the hell hound bit, a disturbingly familiar number. 785-555-0128, followed by DW, call if not erased, send to.... As if whoever was at the other end, excepted someone besides her to call, and was trusting that her soul mate, might call, might get in touch with the hunter, who’d end things. Except the last bit was a jumbled tangle of letters, not able to see where he was supposed to go, only that she was in trouble.
In Dean winchester’s case, it had gone from innocent drawings and lists, to blood soaked hands and powder burns. To seeing slender pale scars starting to decorate knuckles, or see the edge of scars from a bracelet digging in, a bracelet that didn’t belong to him, but left small scars all the same. Years of innocence gone in a wash of a blood and the roar of the impala.
Which was fine. He’d learned to live with one night stands, and hunting, to the job. Turning his whole live over to making sure that most of the populace got to go on in peaceful ignorance. Except the writing that was smudged and worn showing up on his palm across the hell hound bit, a disturbingly familiar number. 785-555-0128, followed by DW, call if not erased, send to.... As if whoever was at the other end, excepted someone besides her to call, and was trusting that her soul mate, might call, might get in touch with the hunter, who’d end things. Except the last bit was a jumbled tangle of letters, not able to see where he was supposed to go, only that she was in trouble.