[ Alright, well, let it never be said that Dean isn't a total god damn idiot sometimes, he's fully willing to admit that. Hell, he doesn't have any memories but it's so true it's instinct in him to know it. Blake fires off a dismissal with such cool and careless ease that Dean's face practically comes with it's own sound effects, it switches from startled and panicked to fallen and huffy with the imaginary sound of a descending trombone.
Shrugging it off, he gathers up his bootstraps and stomps into his house with all hesitancy gone. Under his breath, a distinct; ]
You wish.
[ Can be barely heard, a grumpy retort that he knows is too childish to say any louder. Who is this guy even, what a jerk, how does he know where Dean's stupid rock key is and when can he hide it. Dean's meager bag of belongings gets discarded onto the floor with little to no care, and he wanders through the threshold, slowing a few paces in to look the place over. There's probably something in his fresh-eyed gaze of a space he's probably supposed to know like the back of his hand, normal people have their entranceways committed to memory, but every detail to him seems new and to be absorbed.
It looks like somewhere he might live, he figures, more or less. Not that he knows what his interests are or what he'd fantasize his home to look like, but the neat minimal decor that speaks of comfort and nostalgia seems to jive with him on some innate level. Nothing stands out as being something he doesn't like, which has gotta be a plus.
A few seconds of study later and he's turning, settling his back onto what he guesses people call a breakfast bar, some long wide stretch of counter that separates living space from kitchen space. Arms cross over his chest, fingers wrap around his own biceps. ]
Yeah, turns out there's only so much they can do for head injuries once the outside's more or less patched up.
[ He responds, letting the implication hang for a second, leveling John with a look. It's guarded and apologetic somehow all at once. ]
no subject
Shrugging it off, he gathers up his bootstraps and stomps into his house with all hesitancy gone. Under his breath, a distinct; ]
You wish.
[ Can be barely heard, a grumpy retort that he knows is too childish to say any louder. Who is this guy even, what a jerk, how does he know where Dean's stupid rock key is and when can he hide it. Dean's meager bag of belongings gets discarded onto the floor with little to no care, and he wanders through the threshold, slowing a few paces in to look the place over. There's probably something in his fresh-eyed gaze of a space he's probably supposed to know like the back of his hand, normal people have their entranceways committed to memory, but every detail to him seems new and to be absorbed.
It looks like somewhere he might live, he figures, more or less. Not that he knows what his interests are or what he'd fantasize his home to look like, but the neat minimal decor that speaks of comfort and nostalgia seems to jive with him on some innate level. Nothing stands out as being something he doesn't like, which has gotta be a plus.
A few seconds of study later and he's turning, settling his back onto what he guesses people call a breakfast bar, some long wide stretch of counter that separates living space from kitchen space. Arms cross over his chest, fingers wrap around his own biceps. ]
Yeah, turns out there's only so much they can do for head injuries once the outside's more or less patched up.
[ He responds, letting the implication hang for a second, leveling John with a look. It's guarded and apologetic somehow all at once. ]