( Dean follows after him at a slow amble, one bow-legged step at a time, unhurried. Doesn't grab a bottle for himself this time, at least not yet — that may change in five minutes. He's just not interested in dividing his attention right now.

He settles in beside the guy, hands clasped, fingers interlocked loosely, and he listens.

That I can't construct a home without soaking it in blood?

Damn if that doesn't resonate. You're playing his song, man, note for note. It aches somewhere deep and hollow. )

I don't think that's true. ( Frankly. ) I know the home you're making for yourself. I've been there, out in the real world. The only blood I've seen spilled there's been yours, fighting tooth and nail to protect it.