this wip is saved as “HAAAAAAAAANDS.jpg” bc i got balthazar’s there right away and i’ve done nothing since but try to get the other two. that’s it. it’s taken 5x as long everything else in this pic so far
i literally just want to draw cass’ hand on top of balthazar’s, why is this so!!!!!! hard!!!!!!
There was a thunderous noise.
and heard a *CRACK* as his head collided with the low ceiling.
Falling back against the pillow, he wondered where the hell he was that he deserved such a rude awakening.
Balthazar rolled over, and, in his still-fatigued clumsiness, tumbled off the top of what was, in fact, a three-level bunk bed.
No longer tired, at least, Balthazar shook his head, wiping away a few tears with his jacket sleeve as he groaned in pain. He tried to stand, but the room was shaking far too much; as his head cleared of fog, it was replaced by the oppressive sound of roaring air.
No, the tremors were too fast for any earthquake, but Balthazar didn’t know what else it could be. He threw an arm up against the bottom bunk to hold himself steady, waiting for the rumbling to end.
Even when it did, his brain was left feeling rattled. Trembling slightly, he pushed himself uneasily to his feet and began to examine the thoroughly uninviting room
It was...stark, first and foremost, coloured mainly in the grey and beige tones of faded, peeling paint.
There was a second bunk bed, also three levels, opposite the one Balthazar had fallen off of, but “bed” seemed a generous way to describe what was little more than piping and paper-thin mattresses.
To his left were a small, utilitarian table positioned just underneath a round, glass window, like the porthole of a ship,
and a closet nestled behind an antique stove, complete with rusty kettle.
To his right was little but an imposing metal door, roughly emblazoned, in red paint, with the number 5.
Balthazar stared at it.
There was a box attached to the wall next to it, something like an early 20th century card reader, as if such a thing even existed. The paint was just about the only colour in the room, and it looked fresh.
He stalked over and grabbed the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Balthazar threw his weight against first it, then the door itself, pounding several times.
His voice cut out when he noticed it.
“What the hell...”
On Balthazar’s left wrist was something that looked like a watch, mainly red in colour, with a large LCD display in the middle. Rather than the time, it showed only a single digit.
Five? That’s the same as the door, but why? What is this?
He flipped his wrist over as though to remove a simple watch, but the bracelet’s steel ring was solid all the way around.
With a grunt, Balthazar slammed his wrist against the door again, once, twice, three times…
He clicked the rivets on the sides, clacking like rapid typing on a keyboard.
Once more he slammed his fist into the door, fury momentarily masking the pain. Balthazar rubbed his slightly achy wrist and snarled.
As he did, a low groan, like angry metal waking from a deep sleep, sounded from somewhere far away. It took Balthazar a moment to place the sound, then he frowned, taking another good look at his surroundings.
Is this a ship?
He stalked over to the porthole and peered through. There was only deep, inky blackness, and Balthazar was about to hit the damn thing when he heard the first crackle. He pulled back, shaking his head in disbelief..
“Oh, you must be joking-”
The porthole burst open, releasing a torrent of water into the room that hammered down onto the table, submerging the benches on either side as it washed over the floor, rapidly gaining on his ankles.
Balthazar laughed, dry, bitter huffs of air. Then he tore across the room and pounded frantically on the door.
“HEY! Your fucking trap’s broken! The whole place is fucking flooding! OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!”
He whirled around, leaning heavily against the door and panting as panic gripped his chest. Icy seawater lapped tauntingly at his shins.
Maybe he had to get out.
and they’re the ones who’ll have to live with it
i’m sure balthazar gets completely shitfaced every christmas eve, just so he’s ready to answer the phone when cass’ preachiest relatives start calling
Cass had lain his frozen pork prize on the grill and was contentedly cooking it, turning it over with the handle of a ladle he had snatched from the nearby stand.
“I still don’t think we’ll be able to pull the paper out,” he told Balthazar. “We just need to be able to cut the meat a little.”
“Cut… ah-” Balthazar retrieved the large knife from the table by the entrance and approached Lotus and Santa.
“We need to sharpen this,” he explained. “Any ideas?”
Lotus glanced down at the counter in between them.
“Isn’t that a whetstone right there?”
“What do you do that you recognize a whetstone on sight?” Santa asked for both of them. Lotus smirked at her before offering the block to Balthazar.
“Do you know how to use it?”
Balthazar shook his head and handed her the rusty knife. Skillful and efficient, the drew the knife over and over across the stone, grinding the rust away bit by bit.
“This is still old,” she said as she finished, “but you could cut something soft with it, I’m sure.”
“Like undercooked pork?” he asked. Lotus gave him a curious look, then followed his gaze to Castiel, waving them over to the grill.
“Watch your fingers,” he warned, gently gripping the tag as Balthazar cut through the meat.
rereading part 2 chaps and “frozen pork prize” is still my favourite line