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Ben Braeden

"This bitter silence is the only play I have."

0 · 741 views · located in Supernatural America

a character in “Team Free Will; The 2nd Generation”, as played by Burn One Down


circuits and wires ||| MOTION CITY SOUNDTRACK

{ “conducting symphonies of heat exchange energies”}

{ Misnomer } 
Benjamin Isaac Braeden
{ Nickname }
{ Age }
{ Sexuality }
{ Romantic Orientation }
{ Species and Side }
Human; Hunter
{ Hunting Abilities }
Perhaps Ben's greatest asset, and what easily gets him through most hunts is the fact that he's so adaptable to his environment; easily picking up information and improvising weapons as needed, Ben always has a plan, or at least a course of action.
Combat Training
From a young age, Ben knew how to fight, and fight well, with improvised weapons and the usual weapons of the hunting trade; knives and guns. A good marksman and a better improvised combatant, Ben shows the Winchester bloodline well.
Physical Prowess
Physically less strong than his father, and with less ambition to stay fit than his uncle, Ben mostly keeps himself to the area of the field where he can use his adaptability to his favor, as well as his ridiculous endurance and dexterity, where speed and strength fail him.
Ben knows his way around a car, and can not only drive any landboat you toss at him, but he can probably replace its transmission as well.
Research is the part of hunting Ben loves almost more than the actual kill; learning and reading books about the things he's going to be hunting, and converting the book learning into practical knowledge is one of his absolute favorite things.

{ “i pledge to make no difference; i aim to make no stand”}

{ Likes }
Reading Rain Cars Hunting Modern Rock Diner food Classic Rock Guns Improvised weaponry His family Living on the go Baseball (watching; he doesn't play anymore) Quiet Cigarettes Booze Long, long car rides Writing Hunting
{ Dislikes }
Pollen Nagging Being rushed Being told what to do Television shows Salad Pop music Rap music Big, crowded cities Light pollution Dead end research Making the first move Vodka
{ Fears }
Being forgotten; forgetting all the good he's seen Dying Losing the ability to hunt Not being able to protect his mother, his family People seeing him as he sees himself Getting too close to someone; letting his emotions get away from him Not killing the right thing
{ Skills }
Mechanics Improvised Combat Endurance Research Stubborn Determination Adaptability
{ Deficits }
Slow Physically of average strength Emotionally distant at first meeting Self loathing Never takes things quite seriously enough Women and men of any pretty caste or with food or nice cars can easily sway him He can't read a clock to save his life, nor is he ever punctual Terrible sense of direction Annoyingly possessive Often says the wrong thing A bit mentally unsound Easily enchanted by people
{ Marks }
An anti-posession tattoo on his inner left hip with a devil's trap on his opposing hip in the same style. He also has a pair of guns tattooed along the crests of his shoulderblades and crossing in the middle.

{ “i'll stick to keeping shy; a resolution that i've finally had enough”}


{ Personality }
Stubborn Adaptable Quiet Shy Confident Snarky Kind
Where his father was brash, Ben holds his tongue and knows how to make himself forgettable. He's also adaptable, and a quick learner, but more importantly, he's forgettable. It stems from an innate self loathing and lowered sense of self worth that allows him to slip away like dandelion fluff in the wind. He's enamored of the open road, but too often finds himself unable to connect to places or people due to his innate distrust and lowly sense of self. While brave in combat and when facing monsters, Ben would rather turn tail than socialize with a large group or for extended amounts of time and he's prone to panic attacks when surrounded by lots of people for more than a little while. Anxious, and fidgety, Ben gets nervous when things aren't going as planned, although he is usually quick to reconfigure, and he's incredibly stubborn and persistent. With a fondness for family, and anyone who catches his eye for more than a few moments, Ben holds everyone above him and will happily protect most people with his life. This is all too often his downfall, though, as he trusts the wrong people too close to him, even if he rarely releases information. Quick to be enchanted and intrigued, Ben remains waiting until someone else gives him the go ahead to show affection or support. He's a natural born follower or loner and in positions of leadership he falls apart under stress and confusion.
Ben loves reading; fiction, nonfiction, lore, anything. It's been said before he's addicted to words, and he has a voracious appetite for books, along with writing. He believes in the spirit of the great American novel, and he wants to write it someday, based on the adventures he's had across the American wastes. Too often his world becomes a soundingboard for his own thoughts because of this, though, and Ben is incredibly prone to romanticizing that which needs no romanticizing. Shy on first glance, one on one and on the road, travelling companions are subjected to an onslaught of energy and an almost incessant chatter about whatever strikes Ben's fancy. Easily mislead, and bad at socializing under pressure, it's common for Ben to say all the wrong things in diplomatic ventures, and he's very physical, which means he's too-often a little too friendly to those who he gets close to.

{ History }
Born to one Lisa Braeden, Ben had an easy, normal life during his first nine years. Little of note happened save for his incessant, passionate interest in cars, other kids, and a budding love for rock and roll. He never thought much about having a father; it was simply something that happened to other people, not him. And then he turned nine and there was Dean Winchester, who smelled of leather, and dried blood, and dirt and lighter fluid and metal. And for the first time in Ben's life he really took a full, willing breath. This was the beginning of the actual living, surviving part of his life.
Ben quickly fell for not only his father, Dean Winchester, but the Winchester lifestyle, and the open road ideals carried him through middle school while he used his new knowledge of the supernatural to protect his mother and his friends at every chance; there was always a weapon hidden somewhere he'd get into, and there was always a devil's trap on the floor. As soon as Ben turned fourteen he talked one of his older friends into giving him the tattoos he has on his hips, the devil's trap and the anti-possession tattoo, something he's been ceaselessly grateful for having more than a few times in his short hunting career.
By the time he was fifteen, Ben was hunting in his town, and was drawing far too much attention for his own liking, so he began training his mother in the ways of hunting as well, how to keep herself safe until he could get out of there, go join the wandering hunt across the country. It didn't take long, for her defense to be on par with his and for him to be ready to leave; he was sixteen when he dropped out of school and took the 1974 Cadillac sixty special he was given as a birthday present and hopped town with a trunk full of guns and a head full of dreams.
Dean had little influence on this decision, or on his four full years as a hunter between then and now, although they've certainly crossed paths since Ben was young. Instead, Ben spent his time on long roads and hunting solo, with no one to watch his back and only him to check his work. This got him in trouble more than enough times, and he has the scars and lacking reputation to prove it, but he's had the success and belligerent hunting skill of a Winchester since he started trying to exercise it. While not particularly social, Ben did come across more than enough fellow hunters and hunting roadhouses like the Harvelles' in his four years of service, which has given him a web of knowledge and intel that spans the country, although meaningful relationships have been lacking significantly since Ben left his mother.

{ Other }
Dialogue Color: 086B66

So begins...

Ben Braeden's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Heka Character Portrait: Claire Novak Character Portrait: Michael Bryant Character Portrait: Zad O'Connor Character Portrait: Booker Thompson Character Portrait: Hecate Character Portrait: Aislin Winchester Character Portrait: Arlen Elrik Character Portrait: Killian Character Portrait: Ben Braeden Character Portrait: Puck Character Portrait: Zazriel Character Portrait: Astor Page
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This was the moment that defined Supernatural as a story. Because this parable was just supposed to be a simple narrative about two little boys who had grown up in the backseat of an old muscle car being steered down an open freeway by a soldier in the front. Two boys who had learnt how to kill monsters and demons, day by day, working to avenge their mother. The tough, brawny big brother and the smart, more introverted little brother who had run away to make a life for his own. It was supposed to be a heroic tale about winning and beating what was in the dark. But if Sam and Dean Winchester knew anything, it was that everything it was supposed to be remained only as “supposed to be”.

It became story about love, loss, and desperation. A story filled with dust and grime, shrieking guitar solos and revving engines, the cocking back of pistols and the twinkling of black eyes, blood and banter and brothers whose bond ran deeper than anything. It was about how they both drew from a deep well of pain that was constant and agonizing, that it was something that felt as natural as breathing. It was about how the light in Dean’s eyes died as he grew older. It was about every time Sam had suffered needlessly, every time he had failed and every time he had gotten back up. It was about how two brothers turned the world, heaven and hell, against them and about how they loved each other enough to sacrifice humanity five times over and still managed to save it's sorry ass. It was about the way they sang in their ‘67 impala at the top of their lungs. It was about the times they cried and opened up to one another. It was about driving down that tired road at 2am, a classic rock obsession, and the feel of one another’s shoulder blades against their own, pistols out, surrounded by monsters. It was hope and family and how that could include a 'winged tax collector' in a trenchcoat, and a bearded old drunk who had put his own spin on “idiots”.

In that moment it was family that had left, and family that had been brought together again. Two brothers crashing to the ground, one defiant against the darkness in and around him and one loyal to a fault with the faith of two.


"Dad’s on a hunting
trip, and he hasn’t been
home in a few days."

Now their time is over and done, page turned, and a new generation is supposed to lead the next chapter...but remember this, things never quite turn out quite how they are "supposed to be."


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Claire Novak Character Portrait: Michael Bryant Character Portrait: Zad O'Connor Character Portrait: Aislin Winchester Character Portrait: Arlen Elrik Character Portrait: Ben Braeden
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Today, a normal day as any other day would be, only to him the day had only just begun. He couldn’t sleep. He had tossed and turned all night with images of his past haunting him, begging him to awake, begging him not to fall back asleep. There was nothing more horrible than not getting enough sleep. Sitting on the edge of his bed, shirtless and in nothing more than some rather revealing pajama pants, Heka could only wonder what the mortal world had in store for him this day. To be completely honest, he hadn’t a dull moment in his life since he joined the Hunters so many years ago, and now, as he sat on the edge of his beloved bed, he wondered what the other Hunters were up to. Time passes and before you know it your mortal loved ones are dying, leaving this world in hopes that the next generation will take over where they left off. It was a sad thing, a sad thing indeed, but his case was sadder in his eyes. He had to live through all of his mortal friend’s deaths. While he continued to live, old age took away those he became comfortable with over the years. Anthony Romero was the name he had taken, the name he used in this mortal realm. It was a name he had become comfortable with, a name that fit his personality and his physical appearance, yet still every once in a while, every battle he took part in, Heka was the name he heard whispered ever so slightly into his ears. Some of the higher demons he had hunted knew of him, some of the other creatures that he killed on those past missions knew of him, and how he kept his secret from the Hunters he so rightfully served was beyond him.

There were many Hunters, like him, but not like him. He was a deity, a being that was immortal, a being with great power, power so great mortals couldn’t fathom the things he was capable of. However, if the Hunters knew what he was, he was sure they’d kill him, or at least attempt to do so, and it would end badly, very badly. The life of a deity was one of mystery, yet he was sure the other deities looked down upon him for living the life he lived, of hunting those things that went bump in the night. Deservedly so, he was one of the high ranked Hunters, known by all the other Hunters. He has been a hunter long enough to rise in rank, but he never considered himself better than others, he simply considered himself a hunter and a hunter he’d be, that choice was made for him the night his mate was taken from him so violently. The thought made him yawn and look over at the clock that rested on the amber colored wooden nightstand. His bedroom adorned with fine silks from various parts of the world. His bedding made of Persian cotton, the thread count up there in number. For the price he paid for it, it served its purpose. Standing to his feet, he stretched, sleep deprived, but alive and thankful for another day, of course he had himself to thank really considering he was the only deity he prayed to. He smiled and headed into the shower, a good warm shower always washed away his aches, pains and stress.

Several moments passed as the pitter patter of water droplets hitting a hard surface filled the house with sound. Steam rolled through the top and bottom of the door leading into the bathroom. Music played on the stereo so melodically, it would probably entrance any who came near, but it was all a trick. The music that played was a voice that spoke wards that protected the house. Every morning these wards were put in place and every night they were strengthened. Much to his liking, he stepped out of the shower after turning the alabaster knobs to the off position. The water ceased its flow and he grabbed a towel, drying his naked form before finding some clothes to wear. Fashion was a must apparently for those who partook of the mortal realm. He often found himself adorned in the color black. He found it was color that went with every other color in the pantheon of colors. Today he wore a black shirt, black pants that fit just right, a black belt with a blue buckled studded with black diamonds. A black pair of sneakers finished off the outfit, and even the shoe strings laced in the sneaker were black. He looked as if he were a part of the “goth” nation the youth of this realm talked about so much, then again he did look to be only twenty four years old.

As he sprayed some “Yves Saint Laurent” on his neck, wrist and chest, he couldn’t help but think of the other Hunters. By name he remembered them individual. There was Zad, an interesting young man, one who was saved by the hunters if memory serves, and one who is unpossessable. An interesting trait for someone who claimed to be human. His whereabouts weren’t known at the very moment, but Heka had his ways of finding his “teammates”. He smiled as his mind went to another of the hunters, a young girl named Arlen Eirik. She was born into this world of Hunters, her parents succumbing to lycans. It’s a sad thing, but his memory always served him right with these sorts of things, after all he’s been around for a great many years. He often laughed at his true age, which he told no one, for even if he did, they’d never believe him, and it would only give away his true identity. Alas his mind settled on another hunter, one with an interesting story to tell he was quite sure of it. She, much like Arlen, was born into the life of a Hunter. If memory served her family was Hunters, though he could be wrong. Her name was Aislin Winchester. She was young, around eighteen years and age. Yes, he had met all of the Hunters, ALL of them in some form or another. There were other Hunters as well that he wondered about. There was Ben Braeden, Claire Novak, and of course Michael Bryant. Michael Bryant, a real man’s man if you asked him, but a hunter none the less. Ben was an odd human and Claire wasn’t much different from the other girls. So how was it that he remained in the Hunters without being caught as a deity? He made up a lie that he was “cursed” with immortality by a powerful witch he killed. He exclaimed to them that the witch loved him and when he found another she cursed him to live forever as he was, and to watch as those he loved died. A lie, all of it was lies, but it was his story, it was Anthony’s story. He exclaimed to them that the spell could never be broken, and after many tries and unsuccessful attempts, the league finally gave up.

Sighing, he stood in front of a crystal orb that floated over the oak wood kitchen table. He opened his mouth and muttered something in Arabic. Suddenly, the orb flashed with life and displayed each Hunter and their whereabouts.

“Magic,” he said with a smile, “ya gotta love it!”

He sighed as he watched what was occurring. Which of them would he visit? Which of them would he “grace” with his presence? He chuckled at the thought and watched as the orb stopped flashing and set on Zad.

“Him?” he questioned the orb, “why him?” There was no response, and he wasn’t expecting one. He often spoke to himself and to inanimate objects only to justify his reason for doing whatever it was he was going to do. “Very well, let’s hope he’s used to me popping out of nowhere by now.” Fixing his shirt and making sure he looked presentable to mortals, he vanished. Not a second later, he appeared in the vicinity of Zad. Of course most of the Hunters knew he had learned some tricks from the “witch” that “cursed” him, but he had to keep his story secure and he was sure Zad would ask him question to which he’s use the “witch” excuse once again. After all, he had to maintain his visage of Anthony Romero for as long as he could.

“Someone is hungry,” Heka’s voice filled the silence in the roadhouse that Zad occupied along with other mortals. “So tell me sir, how goes it?”