Yes please. His eyes narrow, a line forming between them in confusion. Since when you do say please, Dean? It's strange to hear from you. He says nothing about it, though. He adds the coffee to the water and tops up both cups. He gives you the mug that proclaims the joys of travelling the world with Pan-America Airlines. It's likely petty, but he hopes you enjoy it.
The truth is that he hasn't acquired a taste for coffee. It's bitter, and often comes with a sour after-taste. But it's warm and it clears his head in the mornings, which are two important values. The third is that it goes well with whiskey. He finishes half the mug in one large sip for that reason. Settling into the chair again, placing his feet back near the heater, he stares straight ahead at the wall. There's a photo perched on the crossbeam of you and Sam. You must be in your early-to-mid teens, Sam still a few inches shorter than you as he cradles his own shotgun in his arms, posture uncomfortable. In direct contrast, if looks could kill, yours would. Guns seems to have always come naturally to you.
He can't tell if you're mocking him when you compliment the room. You never "liked" what he did with his cabin. But a part of him always hoped you'd like a house with books and pictures. That you could like it. If things just—stopped for a while. If they had time. His best memories are the months they lived on Bobby's house, before they relocated to the camp. Then, every other refugee and survival group pierced their small bubble of dependency. But it was good before that. They could have been happy.
Not that you were there.
"I arrive in Sioux Falls . . . on or around September 14." Or a date near there. He tried to mark the passage of days, but it was—difficult to achieve with any reliability before he found the Impala and began listening to the radio. "I assume there was a fire. I thought everyone was dead." He said that before, but he needs to make it clear. Why he stopped here. Why he stopped looking. He didn't think there was anything to look for. "The load-bearing ability of the stairs seems dubious. I haven't checked the upstairs or the basement. But I was able to construct this—," he nods at the wall he resurrected behind you "—before the weather turned too cold."
You can mock it all you want, but he put effort into this. He built this. That deserves at least some acknowledgment and respect. He finishes the last of the coffee in his mug, and replaces it with more whiskey. A glance over at you shows that you're not done yet. You drink too slowly, Dean.
"I found tools in the garage." If you're curious how he did it. Even if you aren't, he has a point to make. "Along with the Impala." The pause comes accidentally, a desire to hesitate before admitting a shameful thing. "I stopped looking for you then."
You wouldn't leave the Impala unless you were dead. Or as good as.
no subject
The truth is that he hasn't acquired a taste for coffee. It's bitter, and often comes with a sour after-taste. But it's warm and it clears his head in the mornings, which are two important values. The third is that it goes well with whiskey. He finishes half the mug in one large sip for that reason. Settling into the chair again, placing his feet back near the heater, he stares straight ahead at the wall. There's a photo perched on the crossbeam of you and Sam. You must be in your early-to-mid teens, Sam still a few inches shorter than you as he cradles his own shotgun in his arms, posture uncomfortable. In direct contrast, if looks could kill, yours would. Guns seems to have always come naturally to you.
He can't tell if you're mocking him when you compliment the room. You never "liked" what he did with his cabin. But a part of him always hoped you'd like a house with books and pictures. That you could like it. If things just—stopped for a while. If they had time. His best memories are the months they lived on Bobby's house, before they relocated to the camp. Then, every other refugee and survival group pierced their small bubble of dependency. But it was good before that. They could have been happy.
Not that you were there.
"I arrive in Sioux Falls . . . on or around September 14." Or a date near there. He tried to mark the passage of days, but it was—difficult to achieve with any reliability before he found the Impala and began listening to the radio. "I assume there was a fire. I thought everyone was dead." He said that before, but he needs to make it clear. Why he stopped here. Why he stopped looking. He didn't think there was anything to look for. "The load-bearing ability of the stairs seems dubious. I haven't checked the upstairs or the basement. But I was able to construct this—," he nods at the wall he resurrected behind you "—before the weather turned too cold."
You can mock it all you want, but he put effort into this. He built this. That deserves at least some acknowledgment and respect. He finishes the last of the coffee in his mug, and replaces it with more whiskey. A glance over at you shows that you're not done yet. You drink too slowly, Dean.
"I found tools in the garage." If you're curious how he did it. Even if you aren't, he has a point to make. "Along with the Impala." The pause comes accidentally, a desire to hesitate before admitting a shameful thing. "I stopped looking for you then."
You wouldn't leave the Impala unless you were dead. Or as good as.