[This, Dean knows on some level, is A Good Thing. The Marquis never wanted to be here, he never wanted to be forced to change, he never wanted to leave his home in the first place; it's a terrible thing, to be trapped, to be without choice, for everyone but for people like de Carabas most of all. Furthermore, Dean knew it was inevitable.
It's a good thing. It's a good thing. He makes his mouth smile but he can't feel his face, and glances up. It's a good thing.]
That's awesome. You can... [But words fail him. He looks at the Marquis, at his reluctant, hardwon, dear friend, standing for the last time in his room, safeguarding and coveting his belongings for the last time, looking at him with something Dean can't even put a name to in the smooth planes and clever lines of his face, and the act - the lie - drops into a vice around his chest. The smile fades. The line of his shoulders drags down.
Caught between his palm and the desktop, forgotten, is the necklace he was attempting to fix. He swallows, eyes dropping, and tries to think of something, anything to say.
There's nothing. It's a good thing, it was inevitable, Dean had faith in him from the moment he looked up from this very couch through the unimaginable pain of a death toll he was trying desperately to hide and saw something in de Carabas he recognized, and he knew that he would go home when all was said and done. It hurts, though. It hurts so much.
He straightens, hands empty, and walks back out the door.]
[ Spam ]
It's a good thing. It's a good thing. He makes his mouth smile but he can't feel his face, and glances up. It's a good thing.]
That's awesome. You can... [But words fail him. He looks at the Marquis, at his reluctant, hardwon, dear friend, standing for the last time in his room, safeguarding and coveting his belongings for the last time, looking at him with something Dean can't even put a name to in the smooth planes and clever lines of his face, and the act - the lie - drops into a vice around his chest. The smile fades. The line of his shoulders drags down.
Caught between his palm and the desktop, forgotten, is the necklace he was attempting to fix. He swallows, eyes dropping, and tries to think of something, anything to say.
There's nothing. It's a good thing, it was inevitable, Dean had faith in him from the moment he looked up from this very couch through the unimaginable pain of a death toll he was trying desperately to hide and saw something in de Carabas he recognized, and he knew that he would go home when all was said and done. It hurts, though. It hurts so much.
He straightens, hands empty, and walks back out the door.]