[Sam jumps a little at the sudden spray at his feet, but then he nudges past his brother with a little huff of breath (but really, it had been caught in his throat at the nickname; hearing it lately from someone who is actually Dean has been — an experience). Whatever faux annoyance falls away and leaves that raw layer of reluctance, though, and he looks out the door of the basement with some uncertainty. Like he's not sure if he should actually go or not.]
... Martha Stewart if she wore combat boots and flannel, sure.
[It's a soft little jab, not quite as confident as it would have been years and years ago.
The moment the smell of stew hits him his stomach growls ferociously, clenching in boycott. He honestly couldn't remember when he'd eaten last; he brought snacks in the backpack, sure, but he had been too busy thinking for the last 24 hours.
As Dean comes up to meet him, he seems — to withdraw a little, looking at Dean with wild hair and a rumpled shirt. He probably looks like a crazy person. He kind of is a crazy person, to some degree; wouldn't blame anyone from turning tail and running if they crossed paths with him in a dark alley.
That stew smells really good.]
Right. Uh. Shower, I guess. Been too long.
[Lucifer never had to shower. Angels are apparently just perfectly content to never get a smudge of grime on even a single prissy wing.
... He said a shower would be good, but he seems frozen at the entrance of the basement anyway.]
no subject
... Martha Stewart if she wore combat boots and flannel, sure.
[It's a soft little jab, not quite as confident as it would have been years and years ago.
The moment the smell of stew hits him his stomach growls ferociously, clenching in boycott. He honestly couldn't remember when he'd eaten last; he brought snacks in the backpack, sure, but he had been too busy thinking for the last 24 hours.
As Dean comes up to meet him, he seems — to withdraw a little, looking at Dean with wild hair and a rumpled shirt. He probably looks like a crazy person. He kind of is a crazy person, to some degree; wouldn't blame anyone from turning tail and running if they crossed paths with him in a dark alley.
That stew smells really good.]
Right. Uh. Shower, I guess. Been too long.
[Lucifer never had to shower. Angels are apparently just perfectly content to never get a smudge of grime on even a single prissy wing.
... He said a shower would be good, but he seems frozen at the entrance of the basement anyway.]
Nobody else is here?