( It's not that he keeps a catalogue of all the Summoned running around in Cadens or anything, but frankly? The Sarstina isn't a huge place, and while good ol Mags might rent out a room or two to a local, the vast majority of her regulars are Summoned. Recurring new faces stand out on their own merit, and that's before you factor in something distinguishing, like, say, hot pink hair.
The point is, he doesn't know her, but he knows she's new. Knows she just got pulled in out of nowhere, and she's probably still finding her footing.
Also knows she's about five foot nothing and a hundred pounds soaking wet, and Summoned or no, he's not the type to stand around and watch some drunk asshole take advantage of some girl half their size. Don't get him wrong, he's totally aware there are chicks here that could yeet Dean straight through a god damn wall if they wanted to. Jo's about her size, and she could break a man's nose in three and a half seconds on a bad day. He knows this logically, but that wouldn't stop the knee-jerk impulse to intervene even if he didn't have a Mark on his arm steadily pushing violence into his bloodstream in progressively larger doses.
What that latter bit means, though, is that he's got way less chill than he'd otherwise have. Any other time before the Mark and this would begin and end with a terse warning, a hard look, and then he'd be done with it unless the guy escalated. Now...
Now, he's got the guy pressed against the wall with a fist in his collar, knuckles pressing in a little too hard on that windpipe, and one arm cocked back practically vibrating with the desire to swing. It's only the grip she's got on him that holds him back — accomplishing more psychologically than physically at this point, but either way it's saving the guy from a broken nose right now.
He doesn't immediately answer her. The question hangs heavy in otherwise tense silence, seconds ticking by with Dean's eyes locked intently on the son of a bitch he's pinning — narrowed on his side, wide enough to show the whites on the drunk guy's end of the equation.
Eventually, he breaks the silence — but not the contact. Not even so much as a waver in his grip. )
Don't worry, this ain't a brawl. This is a conversation. Ain't that right, douchebag?
( The guy says nothing, too busy waging an internal war deciding between fight or flight. Probably trying to decide whether he's more pissed off or freaked out, and whether or not he could take Dean in a fight if he decided to push back. The longer this drags on, the less optimistic that picture looks. )
But I guess we both missed the memo about keeping our hands to ourselves. Oh wait, silly me, is that only okay when we're yankin' around somebody we've got a foot and fifty pounds on?
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The point is, he doesn't know her, but he knows she's new. Knows she just got pulled in out of nowhere, and she's probably still finding her footing.
Also knows she's about five foot nothing and a hundred pounds soaking wet, and Summoned or no, he's not the type to stand around and watch some drunk asshole take advantage of some girl half their size. Don't get him wrong, he's totally aware there are chicks here that could yeet Dean straight through a god damn wall if they wanted to. Jo's about her size, and she could break a man's nose in three and a half seconds on a bad day. He knows this logically, but that wouldn't stop the knee-jerk impulse to intervene even if he didn't have a Mark on his arm steadily pushing violence into his bloodstream in progressively larger doses.
What that latter bit means, though, is that he's got way less chill than he'd otherwise have. Any other time before the Mark and this would begin and end with a terse warning, a hard look, and then he'd be done with it unless the guy escalated. Now...
Now, he's got the guy pressed against the wall with a fist in his collar, knuckles pressing in a little too hard on that windpipe, and one arm cocked back practically vibrating with the desire to swing. It's only the grip she's got on him that holds him back — accomplishing more psychologically than physically at this point, but either way it's saving the guy from a broken nose right now.
He doesn't immediately answer her. The question hangs heavy in otherwise tense silence, seconds ticking by with Dean's eyes locked intently on the son of a bitch he's pinning — narrowed on his side, wide enough to show the whites on the drunk guy's end of the equation.
Eventually, he breaks the silence — but not the contact. Not even so much as a waver in his grip. )
Don't worry, this ain't a brawl. This is a conversation. Ain't that right, douchebag?
( The guy says nothing, too busy waging an internal war deciding between fight or flight. Probably trying to decide whether he's more pissed off or freaked out, and whether or not he could take Dean in a fight if he decided to push back. The longer this drags on, the less optimistic that picture looks. )
But I guess we both missed the memo about keeping our hands to ourselves. Oh wait, silly me, is that only okay when we're yankin' around somebody we've got a foot and fifty pounds on?