[Sam just looks kind of confused, maybe even a touch startled.]
My room?
[Honestly, just the fact that they'd left a room for him to take has him feeling some kind of way. He adjusts his backpack and starts up the stairs with slow and steady footfalls. It really is a bedroom. Bare, unlived in, somewhere for him to be other than the panic room. He has no intention of doing anything else with it, anyway; it has a place to sleep, and a place to put some clothes. It works enough for him. More than he'd thought he'd get.
(He thought he'd be dead by now; maybe he is? Maybe one of those dinosaurs bit his head off forever ago and he's in some weird quasi-heaven or something.)
No, wait, his stomach's growling wretchedly again. Definitely alive somehow. He's quick to get into the shower and wash away the shameful remains of an ex-junkie collecting dust in an abandoned apartment, greasy hair smoothing into shiny locks again that tuck behind ears. Sam, Lucifer whispers. He almost doesn't hear it over the water from above him. Sammy, this is a mistake.
Shut up.
Like its own wordy response, a chill works its way up his spine. The cause behind it is familiar enough, as he hikes up the temperature of the stream until it's almost too hot to handle, and squeezes his eyes shut while Lucifer's icy clench in his stomach eases up. He reminds himself to keep those locks and bolts tight in his head. Don't give him an inch, don't relax too much; Lucifer'll sit in the dark, just like you did.
When he comes back down in a fresher long sleeve and thrift store jeans a girl named Skye had kindly paid for, he looks at Dean in the kitchen with some apprehension. Thoughts whirl around in his head, and he's not even sure where to begin, but... Well. First he should probably start with what has been nagging at him.]
Hey, uhm.
Did... Cas talk to you about things from home? Recently.
no subject
My room?
[Honestly, just the fact that they'd left a room for him to take has him feeling some kind of way. He adjusts his backpack and starts up the stairs with slow and steady footfalls. It really is a bedroom. Bare, unlived in, somewhere for him to be other than the panic room. He has no intention of doing anything else with it, anyway; it has a place to sleep, and a place to put some clothes. It works enough for him. More than he'd thought he'd get.
(He thought he'd be dead by now; maybe he is? Maybe one of those dinosaurs bit his head off forever ago and he's in some weird quasi-heaven or something.)
No, wait, his stomach's growling wretchedly again. Definitely alive somehow. He's quick to get into the shower and wash away the shameful remains of an ex-junkie collecting dust in an abandoned apartment, greasy hair smoothing into shiny locks again that tuck behind ears. Sam, Lucifer whispers. He almost doesn't hear it over the water from above him. Sammy, this is a mistake.
Shut up.
Like its own wordy response, a chill works its way up his spine. The cause behind it is familiar enough, as he hikes up the temperature of the stream until it's almost too hot to handle, and squeezes his eyes shut while Lucifer's icy clench in his stomach eases up. He reminds himself to keep those locks and bolts tight in his head. Don't give him an inch, don't relax too much; Lucifer'll sit in the dark, just like you did.
When he comes back down in a fresher long sleeve and thrift store jeans a girl named Skye had kindly paid for, he looks at Dean in the kitchen with some apprehension. Thoughts whirl around in his head, and he's not even sure where to begin, but... Well. First he should probably start with what has been nagging at him.]
Hey, uhm.
Did... Cas talk to you about things from home? Recently.