You wouldn't blame him if he chose to stay, given the pinnacle of living he's managed to achieve for himself. That's—so preposterous and unexpected that he can't help himself. He begins laughing, quietly at first, chin tucked to his chest as thin huffs of breath force through his nose, and then descending into a hysterical sniggering fit as you continue and begin to list the things he apparently should be tempted to stay for.
It's backwards and awful and perfect that you think he cares about any of this when he could never demonstrate that he cares about—you. It's funny. He has to laugh. If he doesn't laugh, he fears the pressure burning in his chest might kill him—or force him to do something hysterical like kill himself. Curling forward in the chair, he cups his hands over his face, shoulders shaking as he laughs open-mouthed into his palms. A sharp shard of breath lodges in his throat, twisting until it makes his breath hitch around what could be misinterpreted as a sob. It jerks him out of his spiral, his lungs clenching hard to prevent any air from escaping, lest it become a cry instead of a laugh. Slowly, carefully, he sucks in a long inhale through his nose, sitting back in the chair. He pulls a hand down his face, wiping away any traces of whatever it was that just dislodged inside of him.
Just like rebuilding this room, warped beams and cracked plaster placed just so to achieve the careful balance of stability, so too has he constructed himself. One piece out of place means he'll use the entire structure to collapse. He can't. Building from rubble takes far more time and effort than patching up something half-dilapidated.
He tilts his head towards you to meet your eyes, an ironic, almost admiring half-smile twisting up one side of his mouth. That was a good hit, Dean. You take potshots more like they're full frontal assault, but more than not, they're effective.
"You could use me." Are you sure about that? "Against—creatures who you don't know how to kill, who can track you and drove you from—your home and beloved resources. Who . . . " His eyes narrow as he tries to remember everything you've said about the Leviathan. "—can kill angels." You said they killed him. The version of him that belonged here. While he still had a full battery charge. There are no creatures he knows of with that kind of power, except other angels. "And like usual you have no plan."
Does that sum up your situation accurately? He doesn't know what you think he'll be able to do, how he'll be able to help you. But . . .
He cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders to stretch out the muscle. The muscles between his shoulder blades have pulled tense again, trying to support appendages that never existed on the physical plane. His eyes rove around the room, taking in what it took him four and a half months to achieve. It's not much.
"Have you tried, uh, shouting at them?" You're an effective shouter; it's a half-hearted suggestion. "Maybe, uh—glaring at them and mentioning—vague emotional philosophical terms to convince them to turn back from their wayward path?" He glances at you, still smiling, far more fond this time. This, he knows how to do. He knows how to take your plans, or lack of plans, and find all the holes in them. How to drive you into the determination that somehow pulls missions off despite all odds.
He doesn't know if you understand that. And he doesn't know if his answer is clear. It should be. "Okay." He'll go with you. Of course he will.
no subject
It's backwards and awful and perfect that you think he cares about any of this when he could never demonstrate that he cares about—you. It's funny. He has to laugh. If he doesn't laugh, he fears the pressure burning in his chest might kill him—or force him to do something hysterical like kill himself. Curling forward in the chair, he cups his hands over his face, shoulders shaking as he laughs open-mouthed into his palms. A sharp shard of breath lodges in his throat, twisting until it makes his breath hitch around what could be misinterpreted as a sob. It jerks him out of his spiral, his lungs clenching hard to prevent any air from escaping, lest it become a cry instead of a laugh. Slowly, carefully, he sucks in a long inhale through his nose, sitting back in the chair. He pulls a hand down his face, wiping away any traces of whatever it was that just dislodged inside of him.
Just like rebuilding this room, warped beams and cracked plaster placed just so to achieve the careful balance of stability, so too has he constructed himself. One piece out of place means he'll use the entire structure to collapse. He can't. Building from rubble takes far more time and effort than patching up something half-dilapidated.
He tilts his head towards you to meet your eyes, an ironic, almost admiring half-smile twisting up one side of his mouth. That was a good hit, Dean. You take potshots more like they're full frontal assault, but more than not, they're effective.
"You could use me." Are you sure about that? "Against—creatures who you don't know how to kill, who can track you and drove you from—your home and beloved resources. Who . . . " His eyes narrow as he tries to remember everything you've said about the Leviathan. "—can kill angels." You said they killed him. The version of him that belonged here. While he still had a full battery charge. There are no creatures he knows of with that kind of power, except other angels. "And like usual you have no plan."
Does that sum up your situation accurately? He doesn't know what you think he'll be able to do, how he'll be able to help you. But . . .
He cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders to stretch out the muscle. The muscles between his shoulder blades have pulled tense again, trying to support appendages that never existed on the physical plane. His eyes rove around the room, taking in what it took him four and a half months to achieve. It's not much.
"Have you tried, uh, shouting at them?" You're an effective shouter; it's a half-hearted suggestion. "Maybe, uh—glaring at them and mentioning—vague emotional philosophical terms to convince them to turn back from their wayward path?" He glances at you, still smiling, far more fond this time. This, he knows how to do. He knows how to take your plans, or lack of plans, and find all the holes in them. How to drive you into the determination that somehow pulls missions off despite all odds.
He doesn't know if you understand that. And he doesn't know if his answer is clear. It should be. "Okay." He'll go with you. Of course he will.