They find themselves constantly drawn back to Kansas. Ben is running out of Wizard of Oz jokes.
Maybe they're just two states over and tired after busting a nest of vampires. Maybe they need some information, or to consult some arcane tome they can't find in any library. Sometimes it's direct orders. Dean's voice over the phone grunting, "Can't be bothered to let me know you're still alive?"
Dean Winchester and his garden of dead or dying jalopies. Claire imagines this is what a vacation home would feel like, if she could afford one. It would feel like respite. They stand on the porch of Dean's rickety house in the middle of it and ring the doorbell, and Ben turns to Claire and says, "Dibs on NOT helping with the dishes."
Claire widens her eyes. "What? You can't--"
And then Dean opens the door, and his smile is as bright as anything.
+
Once, at Dean's, when she was drunk and Dean twice as drunk, he smiled at her fondly and said, "You have his eyes."
Claire knew who he was talking about. It's just that Dean didn't. "Same blue," Dean said. "Really full."
Dean said, "You have his chin," grinning sloppily, and he leaned forward and tapped her chin, the gesture rough with drink. It was so strange, how this angel has colonized the image of her dad. When Dean tells stories about the old days, it usually thrills Claire to imagine her father killing angels and banishing demons with a touch, but right then and right there... maybe it was the drink, maybe it was Dean's insensitive nostalgia, but Claire grinned too wide and said, "My dad does have a pretty large chin."
Dean laughed really loud, sinking backwards in his seat. She laughed too, and then Dean was laughing into his hands, laughing with his face in his hands like people do when they can't believe how funny that joke was. Claire couldn't see his eyes, just the rictus of his mouth, his whiskey voice straining out a, "Fuuuuuuuck."
"My dad's such a dork," said Claire. "Last Thanksgiving, he burned his fingers on the turkey pan and whined for hours."
TFW TNG FTW
Maybe they're just two states over and tired after busting a nest of vampires. Maybe they need some information, or to consult some arcane tome they can't find in any library. Sometimes it's direct orders. Dean's voice over the phone grunting, "Can't be bothered to let me know you're still alive?"
Dean Winchester and his garden of dead or dying jalopies. Claire imagines this is what a vacation home would feel like, if she could afford one. It would feel like respite. They stand on the porch of Dean's rickety house in the middle of it and ring the doorbell, and Ben turns to Claire and says, "Dibs on NOT helping with the dishes."
Claire widens her eyes. "What? You can't--"
And then Dean opens the door, and his smile is as bright as anything.
+
Once, at Dean's, when she was drunk and Dean twice as drunk, he smiled at her fondly and said, "You have his eyes."
Claire knew who he was talking about. It's just that Dean didn't. "Same blue," Dean said. "Really full."
Dean said, "You have his chin," grinning sloppily, and he leaned forward and tapped her chin, the gesture rough with drink. It was so strange, how this angel has colonized the image of her dad. When Dean tells stories about the old days, it usually thrills Claire to imagine her father killing angels and banishing demons with a touch, but right then and right there... maybe it was the drink, maybe it was Dean's insensitive nostalgia, but Claire grinned too wide and said, "My dad does have a pretty large chin."
Dean laughed really loud, sinking backwards in his seat. She laughed too, and then Dean was laughing into his hands, laughing with his face in his hands like people do when they can't believe how funny that joke was. Claire couldn't see his eyes, just the rictus of his mouth, his whiskey voice straining out a, "Fuuuuuuuck."
"My dad's such a dork," said Claire. "Last Thanksgiving, he burned his fingers on the turkey pan and whined for hours."
"Good ol' Jimmy, huh?" said Dean.
"What a guy," Claire agreed.