[There is an ominousness to the way she reacts, to her movement towards him, something Dean has seen far too many times to miss or doubt; there is the abrupt, familiar nagging feeling that he may not have come to this place with good intentions but he didn't mean to end up where he is. There is the instinct to strike out, to fight, or to run.
Like every other time, he does none of it. He stands stock still and wary, and beneath the cover of his clothing he is someone capable of standing steady beneath where she is holding onto him, sinew and muscle and bone that has survived an apocalypse and can survive whatever this is. He doesn't let himself hold his breath, and doesn't let himself retreat.
It isn't reassurance so much as plain stubbornness, the kind of stillness that prey animals hope means that death will pass them over; it might be mistaken for it in the dark, though. He's come this far whether he meant to or not, he might as well see it through.]
[ Spam ]
Like every other time, he does none of it. He stands stock still and wary, and beneath the cover of his clothing he is someone capable of standing steady beneath where she is holding onto him, sinew and muscle and bone that has survived an apocalypse and can survive whatever this is. He doesn't let himself hold his breath, and doesn't let himself retreat.
It isn't reassurance so much as plain stubbornness, the kind of stillness that prey animals hope means that death will pass them over; it might be mistaken for it in the dark, though. He's come this far whether he meant to or not, he might as well see it through.]
Why?