[ Temporary. That's all they said? That it's temporary?
John finds that hard to believe and he spends a couple seconds even after Dean's admitted the cuckoo's flown to coop to really ponder whether that could possibly be the truth. What kind of medical professionals would not only let the guy with the head injury walk home, but would do so without sending him something to help ease him through the transition back into a society that expects him to be whole?
By the time he's got his hands on the loose prescription slightly crumbled by the contents of the bag, it's just settling in what all this really means.
Dean really doesn't know him, doesn't know himself, doesn't know this life. John's clearly more familiar with everything Winchester should know, and that is truly fucking unsettling to a guy like Blake.
But it's not like he can blame Dean for that. ]
We're friends...
[ It's only tentative because it sounds well shy of their relationship over the years. They'd grown up together. Blake had helped Dean move in to this very house. Many a nights he'd crashed there, too tired or too drunk to walk himself home, but always welcome on the couch.
He swallows and now he's crossing the room again, one hand still retaining the Rx, but the right reaching out for a handshake. It doesn't feel right, but only an angry punch would at this point, rendered because Dean had to go and hurt himself, didn't he? Why was it that he'd thought he couldn't blame Dean again? Suddenly it's slipped his mind, but only for a second while he struggles with this misplaced and momentary crisis of self and selfishness. ]
Blake. John Blake. We've known each other forever — all our lives.
[ And he couldn't sound more crestfallen about that if he tried, as if he just forgotten Dean proclaiming it's all temporary. ]
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John finds that hard to believe and he spends a couple seconds even after Dean's admitted the cuckoo's flown to coop to really ponder whether that could possibly be the truth. What kind of medical professionals would not only let the guy with the head injury walk home, but would do so without sending him something to help ease him through the transition back into a society that expects him to be whole?
By the time he's got his hands on the loose prescription slightly crumbled by the contents of the bag, it's just settling in what all this really means.
Dean really doesn't know him, doesn't know himself, doesn't know this life. John's clearly more familiar with everything Winchester should know, and that is truly fucking unsettling to a guy like Blake.
But it's not like he can blame Dean for that. ]
We're friends...
[ It's only tentative because it sounds well shy of their relationship over the years. They'd grown up together. Blake had helped Dean move in to this very house. Many a nights he'd crashed there, too tired or too drunk to walk himself home, but always welcome on the couch.
He swallows and now he's crossing the room again, one hand still retaining the Rx, but the right reaching out for a handshake. It doesn't feel right, but only an angry punch would at this point, rendered because Dean had to go and hurt himself, didn't he? Why was it that he'd thought he couldn't blame Dean again? Suddenly it's slipped his mind, but only for a second while he struggles with this misplaced and momentary crisis of self and selfishness. ]
Blake. John Blake. We've known each other forever — all our lives.
[ And he couldn't sound more crestfallen about that if he tried, as if he just forgotten Dean proclaiming it's all temporary. ]