You won't sit next to him but you will crouch down in front of him. As though he's a human child. He's not a child. He hates the times you've called him one, though you never—fully—treated him like one. His lips part around shallow inhales and exhales as he watches you, taking in only half of what you say. Who are you, Dean?
It's obvious that you're Dean Winchester. You were in Hell. You love and grieve for your family. You have great reserves of strength. All of that he can see in your soul, most of it half-remembered and only obvious to him because he remembers where and how to look. But you're not—hard in the same way you were hard. You don't have the same scars. It's as though—your posture is different. As though you're using muscles long ago forgotten and atrophied. Who are you?
He knows the year. But he knows nothing about the Leviathan or Purgatory. He should have died in the attack on the Croats but he didn't. Lucifer sent him here.
"You—died." It takes serious effort to push the words through his dry and croaky throat. He wants something to drink, to soothe it. A swallow only helps so much. "Not you. A different . . . version. Of you." He thinks. He doesn't know a better word for it. "I saw you. Your body. In the garden. Lucifer stopped my approach. He sent me here. I thought—he revived you and sent you after me."
Though saying it now, that makes no sense. None at all. He looks down, suddenly, mortifyingly ashamed of himself. Lucifer is many things but kind isn't one of them.
That's stupid, Cas.
"Sorry." He speaks to his lap. "I thought everyone was—dead." So he stayed here, at Bobby's house, and tried to make a home for himself. Did make a home for himself. It's not his cabin, or any of his things, but it still has—a comfort to it. An atmosphere of community, if faded and worn thin, like the camp did. He doesn't want to leave. But it seems likely that now he has to. Lucifer returning you to him so they could—try again makes little sense. Lucifer, however, sending him to a place where he's—obsolete, out of place and incapable of belonging, that makes far more sense.
He lets out a shaky sigh and then raises his head to look over your shoulder. "Would you like some coffee?" He has instant coffee; they could boil water on the hot plate. He has no vehicle and no bag and no place to stay. If you want to take him to a motel, it has to wait until morning when the stores open again and he can buy a duffle bag for his things.
no subject
It's obvious that you're Dean Winchester. You were in Hell. You love and grieve for your family. You have great reserves of strength. All of that he can see in your soul, most of it half-remembered and only obvious to him because he remembers where and how to look. But you're not—hard in the same way you were hard. You don't have the same scars. It's as though—your posture is different. As though you're using muscles long ago forgotten and atrophied. Who are you?
He knows the year. But he knows nothing about the Leviathan or Purgatory. He should have died in the attack on the Croats but he didn't. Lucifer sent him here.
"You—died." It takes serious effort to push the words through his dry and croaky throat. He wants something to drink, to soothe it. A swallow only helps so much. "Not you. A different . . . version. Of you." He thinks. He doesn't know a better word for it. "I saw you. Your body. In the garden. Lucifer stopped my approach. He sent me here. I thought—he revived you and sent you after me."
Though saying it now, that makes no sense. None at all. He looks down, suddenly, mortifyingly ashamed of himself. Lucifer is many things but kind isn't one of them.
That's stupid, Cas.
"Sorry." He speaks to his lap. "I thought everyone was—dead." So he stayed here, at Bobby's house, and tried to make a home for himself. Did make a home for himself. It's not his cabin, or any of his things, but it still has—a comfort to it. An atmosphere of community, if faded and worn thin, like the camp did. He doesn't want to leave. But it seems likely that now he has to. Lucifer returning you to him so they could—try again makes little sense. Lucifer, however, sending him to a place where he's—obsolete, out of place and incapable of belonging, that makes far more sense.
He lets out a shaky sigh and then raises his head to look over your shoulder. "Would you like some coffee?" He has instant coffee; they could boil water on the hot plate. He has no vehicle and no bag and no place to stay. If you want to take him to a motel, it has to wait until morning when the stores open again and he can buy a duffle bag for his things.