[Sam dreads that conversation, honestly. But Sam's also looking a little under the weather, and if Dean looks carefully, there's no doubt a jitter to one of his arms that hasn't quite dissipated — a kind of trembling that he'd had every once in a while after a hunt, when he'd been downing demon blood to keep steady. He can only be relieved that whatever Lucifer's doing to his body is also keeping him from reliving a genuinely heinous detox.
Gnawing his lip, he finally steps out into the hallway, looking... lost.
Stands there like a perturbed statue for a moment, and says softly-]
I hope he's alright.
[Cas, that is. He's still bruised up, probably. Sam did that. People say blame the person behind the gun, not the bullet — but Sam loaded that gun, didn't he? He said yes. He's culpable. There's so much blood on his hands, he's not even sure where to begin scrubbing them clean (if Dean knew just what these hands've done, would he have let him out here, like nothing's wrong?)
He snaps out of his little trance, shivering from a chill that came from deep within himself. He doesn't quite follow Dean; he moves to walk around the mud room before entering a bigger space, looking at the decor with quiet interest. These are the sorts of houses they'd occasionally investigate during hunts. Never would they live in one, before now. He's kind of scared to touch anything, like he'll dirty it up with his rotten germs.
Should you really be out here?
Who knows. But he looks back at Dean, clearing his throat.]
I've got spare clothes. Guessing the shower is, um. Upstairs.
[This place is big. He's very much used to living in single rooms, so much so that living with Jess in a very small apartment in California was still like hitting a lotto.]
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Gnawing his lip, he finally steps out into the hallway, looking... lost.
Stands there like a perturbed statue for a moment, and says softly-]
I hope he's alright.
[Cas, that is. He's still bruised up, probably. Sam did that. People say blame the person behind the gun, not the bullet — but Sam loaded that gun, didn't he? He said yes. He's culpable. There's so much blood on his hands, he's not even sure where to begin scrubbing them clean (if Dean knew just what these hands've done, would he have let him out here, like nothing's wrong?)
He snaps out of his little trance, shivering from a chill that came from deep within himself. He doesn't quite follow Dean; he moves to walk around the mud room before entering a bigger space, looking at the decor with quiet interest. These are the sorts of houses they'd occasionally investigate during hunts. Never would they live in one, before now. He's kind of scared to touch anything, like he'll dirty it up with his rotten germs.
Should you really be out here?
Who knows. But he looks back at Dean, clearing his throat.]
I've got spare clothes. Guessing the shower is, um. Upstairs.
[This place is big. He's very much used to living in single rooms, so much so that living with Jess in a very small apartment in California was still like hitting a lotto.]