http://taravata.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
taravata.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tampered2010-12-21 11:36 pm
taravata.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2010-12-21 11:36 pm
log | [ on-going]
When; Tuesday night
Rating; PG-13 (for language)
Characters; Castiel (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rehymenator) & Ben Hawkins (taravata)
Summary; The prophet meets the angel.
Log;
It isn't too uncommon for Ben Hawkins not to know where the hell he is. Actually, it's a nightly ritual: dreams, visions, whatever you want to call them; they send him everywhere and nowhere, and tonight it's in the midst of a bustling City. He stumbles through the crowd in a haze, slotting through shoulderblades and bumping against upper arms with mumbled 'cuse mes' passed off hastily as he moves along. They're probably more offended by his smell than anything. Ragged blue overalls, a torn shirt and a pervading stink of dirt and sweat that follows anyone who spends his days out toiling in the desert. Never been a city boy, tried to be a city boy but failed and ended up chained, shackled and back out in the sun.
He pauses in front of a Chinese restaurant and the neon green and blue letters flash against dirt-stained cheeks. He'll wake up eventually, any moment now, just like always.
Rating; PG-13 (for language)
Characters; Castiel (
rehymenator) & Ben Hawkins (taravata) Summary; The prophet meets the angel.
Log;
It isn't too uncommon for Ben Hawkins not to know where the hell he is. Actually, it's a nightly ritual: dreams, visions, whatever you want to call them; they send him everywhere and nowhere, and tonight it's in the midst of a bustling City. He stumbles through the crowd in a haze, slotting through shoulderblades and bumping against upper arms with mumbled 'cuse mes' passed off hastily as he moves along. They're probably more offended by his smell than anything. Ragged blue overalls, a torn shirt and a pervading stink of dirt and sweat that follows anyone who spends his days out toiling in the desert. Never been a city boy, tried to be a city boy but failed and ended up chained, shackled and back out in the sun.
He pauses in front of a Chinese restaurant and the neon green and blue letters flash against dirt-stained cheeks. He'll wake up eventually, any moment now, just like always.