19: [Action] American Pie

[dashboardlite]

[ooc; Just for Dean and Dickface Karofsky, guys. c: ]

"A long, long time ago...'nd I can still remember, when that music used to make me smile..."

Dean is usually singing, or humming, something from his "headbanger repertoire", as Sam so aptly tends to put it.  Metallica isn't on his mind today, though - most of the mullet-rock isn't, as a matter of fact.  He's feeling rather Don McLean, and that tends to happen when Dean's hungry, just as a general rule.

Meandering down to the kitchen in search of the ever-elusive perfect slice of pie, he sidles into the empty room on a mission from God, Hellbent - Well, isn't that ironic? - to procure some quality comestibles to keep his stomach from digesting itself.  Deftly sliding open a drawer and whipping out a fork, he scrutinizes the majestically magical food-cabinet carefully, considering his options.  He usually gets apple.

Time to be adventurous.

Thinking really hard about a steamin' hot slice of peach pie, he's pleased to find as much when he opens the little door, and Dean leans up against the counter in the far corner of the kitchen, digging in.

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[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

He notices the shock on Karofsky's face and breaks out into laughter, throwing his head back. "You're serious? No one filled you in on that shit? Sonuvabitch." Dean's chuckles fade out a little, and he shakes his head at the kid.

"You ever play video games? S'like having five lives. You re-spawn every time, but it takes a whole day. And lemme tell you, dyin' ain't fun. Hell, I've lost one life already."

Go on. Ask what it was for.

[pieceofthefury.livejournal.com]

Dave doesn't ask. He doesn't do anything but stare at Dean, horrified and miserable and afraid. He's going to get shot. He's going to die, and then he's going to come right back to keep taking more, and none of it will ever fucking end.

He and Azimio thought they were badasses once. The memory feels like it belongs to someone else's life.

[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

Dean stares back.

"...what, you think I'm gonna shoot you?" Dean huffs a sigh, running a hand through his cropped hair. He wets his lips for a moment, taking another deep breath and lowering the volume of his voice.

He's not really planning on keeping tabs on Karofsky. He's not really planning on shooting the kid, though he probably deserves it.

Dean's killed enough of humanity already, and some things deserve a second chance, assholes or not.

"You were tough shit back home, I get it. It ain't so easy in the real world, is it?"

If this is anything close to the real world.

He can tell that the kid tends to withdraw into his little, fragile shell when he gets scared, and this is no exception. Dean isn't normally aware of how terrifying he can get unless he's really pissed, but he guesses that clocking Karofsky a few times probably helped with that.

"I'm not gonna shoot you. I'm going to Hell already, and I don't want your ass on my conscience. Man up and stop being such a dick. You're in the gutter, kid. The way I see it, the only place you got left to go is up."

If only Dean could make himself believe that.

[pieceofthefury.livejournal.com]

Man up. That still stings, somehow, even through the haze of Dave's pain and misery. One last thing he's failed at: not being a little bitch. No wonder Dean saw right through him. Everyone will. Dave Karofsky -- fag.

"Okay," he says again. There's no intent behind the word, no meaning at all, but again, he has to say something.

[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

Dave doesn't believe him.

Dave doesn't appear to believe anything, though, so that doesn't particularly surprise Dean. The hunter leans back on the kitchen table and surveys his handiwork: Busted lip, reddened ear, black eye. The blood is starting to pool under Dave's skin, and Dean knows that shiner's gonna last at least a few weeks.

That oughta knock him off his high horse.

"...I'll see you around, Dave," Dean finally replies gruffly after a few beats, using the kid's real name for the first time. He pushes away from the table, turns, and walks - calmly - out of the kitchen, without looking back.

And whistles the riff to "Only the Good Die Young".