A pause. Something in his expression shifts. And yeah. He does get it. Knows this is not really something to solve with talk. That isn't his nature, anyhow.
Dead wolves surround them. The body of the strange wolf or hound remains, even if it's unseen: a lump that he can nudge with his foot. There's nothing left to kill, no further threats looming.
So he sits down with her. Not close, but not too far. An easy distance between them where she can ignore him if she wants. It is not difficult, if he gives it some thought, to begin to piece together what may have occurred. He doubts any regular monster would bother her so. And this maze has proven it likes to spawn what they least want to face. What is it then? Her death or another's? (The one he made her witness without meaning to? Dean's?) Both?
Silence hangs over them. Not uncomfortably, not on his part. More a lack of need to fill the air with words for the sake of it. He stays that way for a while. Manages to conjure a scrap of cloth to at least wrap his arm so he stops dripping blood on himself.
That's what he's doing, tucking the ends of the cloth in, when he finally says, "At least you didn't vomit."
There's a softer edge to his words, deadpan but with a kind of understanding alongside it. Because they've both had their turn, have they not? Being thoroughly fucked with? And here they are. With the person they least would have chosen, but since when does the fickle mistress of life care about what they might have preferred?
no subject
Dead wolves surround them. The body of the strange wolf or hound remains, even if it's unseen: a lump that he can nudge with his foot. There's nothing left to kill, no further threats looming.
So he sits down with her. Not close, but not too far. An easy distance between them where she can ignore him if she wants. It is not difficult, if he gives it some thought, to begin to piece together what may have occurred. He doubts any regular monster would bother her so. And this maze has proven it likes to spawn what they least want to face. What is it then? Her death or another's? (The one he made her witness without meaning to? Dean's?) Both?
Silence hangs over them. Not uncomfortably, not on his part. More a lack of need to fill the air with words for the sake of it. He stays that way for a while. Manages to conjure a scrap of cloth to at least wrap his arm so he stops dripping blood on himself.
That's what he's doing, tucking the ends of the cloth in, when he finally says, "At least you didn't vomit."
There's a softer edge to his words, deadpan but with a kind of understanding alongside it. Because they've both had their turn, have they not? Being thoroughly fucked with? And here they are. With the person they least would have chosen, but since when does the fickle mistress of life care about what they might have preferred?