[ This is home for him. It's the first time he's had his own room since he was four. The first time he's been able to nest, that he's been able to have his own things that aren't just rock salt filled shotgun shells or his Colt. He has vinyls now, a record player. Photos propped up on his nightstand, books scattered alongside knives and guns. It's nice.
Sam doesn't really feel the same, it's nice and all but it isn't what he considers home. Not like Dean. ]
It's a little claustrophobic sometimes without the windows, but overall, I like it.
( it's more of a home than she can show for, coming back to the city when sokovia's silence becomes gnawing more than it is comforting, and fleeing back to the cottage when the city starts to feel as if it's closing in on her. on and on it goes.
lips purse thoughtfully, and with a snap of her fingers he'll notice the window that appears beside the stove he's facing, propped open to boast the night sky cradling a glowering moon. an illusion, given they're tucked underground, but a convincing one. nose crinkles in consideration, adding in the sound of distant cicadas for good measure. )
Much better. ( a contented sigh, taking another hearty bite of her cookie. ) I don't know if I could live somewhere I couldn't see the sky.
[ Admittedly it's a bit of a jump scare; he hasn't had very many good encounters with witches, but there's no harm in a fake window. He doesn't think. ]
Very Harry Potter of you.
[ You know, the ceiling and all.
Anyway. ]
Yeah, I think that's my least favorite part about this place. Everything else is awesome, like really awesome. But there's, uh - there's definitely no denying it's an actual bunker.
( a glimmer of a smirk at the remark, humming delightedly at the remnants of chocolate that coat her tongue. )
There's a cottage, back in Sokovia— ( hers, she omits, as if the title alone could threaten to have it taken from her. ) Isolated, but just enough. The sky there is so... different.
( she watches him as she speaks, the broad width of his shoulders, how carefully he prepares the cocoa, as if it were a five star accommodation. ) Open. Almost like it could swallow you whole.
That sounds freakin' great, not gonna lie. I used to want a cabin on a lake, with a dock so I could fish. Something simple, it didn't have to be anything fancy. Just a little place to live my life.
[ A pipe dream, but he's secretly kept a hold of it. It's not something he brings up, ever. Except with her, apparently. Weird how that works. Sometimes talking to someone you don't know all that well is comforting. He can't tell Sam stuff like this.
It's meticulous, the way he's doing it, carefully pouring it into two mugs before adding whipped cream to the top and a little sprinkle of cinnamon. ]
( the smirk that'd previously been strung across her lips eases into something warmer. familiar images of the fog-covered lake just outside her cottage tug at her longingly. )
Well, there isn't a dock, but that's an easy fix. ( she would still find small bits and pieces of the place, both inside and out, to change on a whim— anything to make it feel a little closer to home.
you'd like it, she thinks to say, but she's stolen from the wispy tendril of a thought as he turns to hand her one of the mugs. cradling it carefully. raising porcelain to her mouth, there's an audible noise of delight that rumbles in her throat as the chocolate coats her tongue, heats her throat, balmed by the fluff of whip cream that follows. she savors it a moment, tongue catching the remnants of dusted cinnamon at the edge of her lip. )
I'm starting to question your alleged incapability. ( can't put together a tree, but can whip up a perfect hot cocoa? questionable. more sincerely, since he seems to eagerly await an honest review... )
[ He's kind of thinking it alread; sounds like a place I'd like, but he doesn't voice it either, because a life like that is so far out of his reach it might as well be on Pluto. Things like that aren't for hunters, and definitely not for Dean Winchester.
Instead he focuses on his mug and he's pleased with the result; the cinnamon gives it a nice twist, makes it look a little fancy. ]
Really? [ It's said a little hopeful and he regrets his tone, but it's nice to actually be appreciated. Sam rarely compliments his cooking these days, the ungrateful little brat. ]
( most would argue estranging yourself for the better safety of the public wasn't exactly a life to be yearned after. it's a peace offering, of sorts, one she's granted herself. somewhere to go when she needs to sort through her tangles, rather than getting another knotted up within them.
there's a youth that visits his eyes, a childlike incredulity she'd almost imaged would follow the praise. for a brief, fleeting moment, it reminds her of tommy — her boys — and she hums softly, something sweet. )
Oh, yes. ( there's a toying raise of her brow over the mug, but it doesn't dampen her sincerity. ) Dangerous, even. ( with one hand left cupped to the cocoa, the other uses fingertips to slide the container of cookies closer to him. )
[ His efforts properly appreciated, he looks to be in an even better mood, especially once the container is moved closer, within reach. He sets his mug down so he can use both hands to pry the lid off and snatch one, shoving it in his mouth with absolutely zero finesse.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ This is home for him. It's the first time he's had his own room since he was four. The first time he's been able to nest, that he's been able to have his own things that aren't just rock salt filled shotgun shells or his Colt. He has vinyls now, a record player. Photos propped up on his nightstand, books scattered alongside knives and guns. It's nice.
Sam doesn't really feel the same, it's nice and all but it isn't what he considers home. Not like Dean. ]
It's a little claustrophobic sometimes without the windows, but overall, I like it.
no subject
lips purse thoughtfully, and with a snap of her fingers he'll notice the window that appears beside the stove he's facing, propped open to boast the night sky cradling a glowering moon. an illusion, given they're tucked underground, but a convincing one. nose crinkles in consideration, adding in the sound of distant cicadas for good measure. )
Much better. ( a contented sigh, taking another hearty bite of her cookie. ) I don't know if I could live somewhere I couldn't see the sky.
no subject
Very Harry Potter of you.
[ You know, the ceiling and all.
Anyway. ]
Yeah, I think that's my least favorite part about this place. Everything else is awesome, like really awesome. But there's, uh - there's definitely no denying it's an actual bunker.
that icon
There's a cottage, back in Sokovia— ( hers, she omits, as if the title alone could threaten to have it taken from her. ) Isolated, but just enough. The sky there is so... different.
( she watches him as she speaks, the broad width of his shoulders, how carefully he prepares the cocoa, as if it were a five star accommodation. ) Open. Almost like it could swallow you whole.
Oddly it's... comforting.
i love his lil face
[ A pipe dream, but he's secretly kept a hold of it. It's not something he brings up, ever. Except with her, apparently. Weird how that works. Sometimes talking to someone you don't know all that well is comforting. He can't tell Sam stuff like this.
It's meticulous, the way he's doing it, carefully pouring it into two mugs before adding whipped cream to the top and a little sprinkle of cinnamon. ]
Let me know what you think.
the things i would do for that lil face tbh
Well, there isn't a dock, but that's an easy fix. ( she would still find small bits and pieces of the place, both inside and out, to change on a whim— anything to make it feel a little closer to home.
you'd like it, she thinks to say, but she's stolen from the wispy tendril of a thought as he turns to hand her one of the mugs. cradling it carefully. raising porcelain to her mouth, there's an audible noise of delight that rumbles in her throat as the chocolate coats her tongue, heats her throat, balmed by the fluff of whip cream that follows. she savors it a moment, tongue catching the remnants of dusted cinnamon at the edge of her lip. )
I'm starting to question your alleged incapability. ( can't put together a tree, but can whip up a perfect hot cocoa? questionable. more sincerely, since he seems to eagerly await an honest review... )
A little too good.
ugh sorry for the delay work had me a blob
Instead he focuses on his mug and he's pleased with the result; the cinnamon gives it a nice twist, makes it look a little fancy. ]
Really? [ It's said a little hopeful and he regrets his tone, but it's nice to actually be appreciated. Sam rarely compliments his cooking these days, the ungrateful little brat. ]
we love blobs here
there's a youth that visits his eyes, a childlike incredulity she'd almost imaged would follow the praise. for a brief, fleeting moment, it reminds her of tommy — her boys — and she hums softly, something sweet. )
Oh, yes. ( there's a toying raise of her brow over the mug, but it doesn't dampen her sincerity. ) Dangerous, even. ( with one hand left cupped to the cocoa, the other uses fingertips to slide the container of cookies closer to him. )
You've earned your share.
no subject
[ His efforts properly appreciated, he looks to be in an even better mood, especially once the container is moved closer, within reach. He sets his mug down so he can use both hands to pry the lid off and snatch one, shoving it in his mouth with absolutely zero finesse.
#guys ]
These are amazing.