Imagine being fatally injured and help not coming in time
Dean’s hands pressed against your stomach, applying pressure to the wound, but the blood continued to seep through the shreds in your t-shirt, though the cracks between his fingers, and flowed over the back of his hand. He whispered quietly, tiny hopeful reassurances meant more for himself than for you, saying that you’d be okay again and again, that help would come and heal you, and that you would make it through this. He looked up, eyes glistening, and cried out in a desperate call for the angel, the one beacon of hope for your survival. His eyes scanned the room, head twisting and turning, but no sound of fluttery wings was heard and no trench-coated angel came. He kept calling until he was nearly hoarse, and then you reached a hand up to his face, fighting against a suddenly much stronger gravity, and lightly cupped his stubbled cheek in your palm. The unexpected contact drew his attention back down on you, and he looked at you worriedly, his eyes filled to the brim with fear, but you just smiled softly at him, the inner part of your lips starting to stain with little hints of red. Dean shut his eyes tightly and leaned his head into your hand, taking shelter in this moment, this last moment, because it was far too soon that your hand began to slip away, leaving a bloody smear on his skin, and he opened his eyes just in time to watch as it fell back to the ground.
Then it was suddenly quiet.
Dean spoke your name, first like a question, a disbelief, then as desperation, raw emotion, heartbroken. Your name reverberated off the walls, a cry of anguish, pained to the very heart of him as a gaping hole tore through him where you used to be, and he lifted your lifeless form into his arms, holding you to his chest as his shattered gaze looked across your ghostly features. First one tear fell, then another, both landing delicately on your paled cheeks as he sobbed quietly into your hair, rocking back and forth on his knees. He barely lifted his head to look up at the sky, to the heavens, and all he could wonder, all his broken soul could muster up was the question of why it had to be you instead of him.
now because this always seems to happen and I actually can’t trust a handful of you not to do this shit, dont go storming into Bruno’s ask box because that’s what he wants, just ignore him, and hopefully he’ll cry himself hoarse
A weird spell turns your muse into a giant frog in the middle of the battle. How they'll deal with it?
Sand croaked hoarsely and flopped away in a discombobulated fashion as enemy arrows rained in his direction. Oh gods, that one nearly pierced his foot…! He was about as useless in battle as the abandoned pile of clothes where elven-Sand once stood, arms raised to cast. Frantically he hopped towards Elanee in hoes that she could provide him aid, or at least be a meat shield until the effects of the polymorph could wear off.
I’M SO HAPPY I COULD CRY. HE WAS TEASING US SO MUCH. And he was so lovely saying how sorry he was that he couldn’t make rounds to sign anything and he waved at my group of four people he was such a sweetie seriously and I’m sorry I couldn’t get proper shots, my camera decided that was the perfect moment to stop working properly.