Dean was, admittedly, thankful for the fact that it wasn't unduly pressed upon. Just because he didn't want to talk didn't mean he wanted to be asked questions about it either (why some people thought resistence was anything more than just that was always beyond Dean; he didn't sign up for therapy with anyone and no always meant no when it came to how much he was willing to share.) Didn't mean he didn't wait for more pressure upon the silent wound, as if expecting there to be more questions just because that's what people did.
And instead he got none, thankfully, offering a nod of appreciation, though he didn't really believe it for a second. "You sure about that?" It was offered with the faintest of smiles, not sure how to kindly impress upon the fact that he didn't trust people so easy, that information had a way of slipping free from its source and especially where family lay, word tended to get around.
But okay, okay- he gives in and finally accepts the flask with a kind of desperate greed that even he's willing to admit to himself. He needs a drink like burning, like something he can't explain and even if it does nothing to fix the ache that's wound itself tight through his core then it doesn't matter because maybe it'll help him just enough to keep him breathing for another second, another moment where he can pretend it's all okay. Unscrewing the lid and kid taking a drink, he even goes so far as to heave a breath, as if it's been knocked out of him with a wallop, closing his eyes for a brief moment and just letting the burn go down.
And then he's all back to business like he didn't just give something stupid away, not sure if he should hand the flask back now or hold on to it out of sheer possessiveness.
no subject
And instead he got none, thankfully, offering a nod of appreciation, though he didn't really believe it for a second. "You sure about that?" It was offered with the faintest of smiles, not sure how to kindly impress upon the fact that he didn't trust people so easy, that information had a way of slipping free from its source and especially where family lay, word tended to get around.
But okay, okay- he gives in and finally accepts the flask with a kind of desperate greed that even he's willing to admit to himself. He needs a drink like burning, like something he can't explain and even if it does nothing to fix the ache that's wound itself tight through his core then it doesn't matter because maybe it'll help him just enough to keep him breathing for another second, another moment where he can pretend it's all okay. Unscrewing the lid and kid taking a drink, he even goes so far as to heave a breath, as if it's been knocked out of him with a wallop, closing his eyes for a brief moment and just letting the burn go down.
And then he's all back to business like he didn't just give something stupid away, not sure if he should hand the flask back now or hold on to it out of sheer possessiveness.
"Not sure I know how to do anything but go hard."