[The moment draws out too long, that is true. The marquis just stands and observes time passing, a quiet, satisfied smile on his face. He's won, and winning will always be satisfying to him. He will not admit the bittersweetness of this victory; he will just savor it, because there is a very real possibility that he'll never have another victory over Dean Winchester.]
[He stands, hand on his hip, watching Dean and conducting the silence like the finest maestro with the twitch of lips and eyebrows. The irony's obvious, at least to him, but he wonders if Dean sees all of it. The only way to surprise this man - this friend of his - is to catch himself most deliberately in a trap of vulnerability. He must put a knife in Dean's hand and poise it against his own gut. He must be prepared to die if taken advantage of, and must assume he will not be.]
[He must be, not soft, but flexible. Not superhuman, not a story, but a man. Just a man, just for a moment.]
[He doesn't remember the last time he was just a man. Maybe once, on the cusp of death, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth - but never before, never after, not in memory.]
[Not until Dean, and Ned, and Snow. Not until he found fragments of home lodged in the souls of other people.]
[Slowly, he blinks, an acquiescence of all the things neither of them are saying. Yes. He's sure. It's a small sacrifice, to lose the edge of sobriety in the company of a friend, but then again, for a man like the marquis de Carabas, it's not so small at all.]
I don't drive. I walk, or take public transit, or occasionally become motes on the wind and float on air currents. None of which are methods of transportation that prohibit the consumption of alcohol.
[ Spam ]
[He stands, hand on his hip, watching Dean and conducting the silence like the finest maestro with the twitch of lips and eyebrows. The irony's obvious, at least to him, but he wonders if Dean sees all of it. The only way to surprise this man - this friend of his - is to catch himself most deliberately in a trap of vulnerability. He must put a knife in Dean's hand and poise it against his own gut. He must be prepared to die if taken advantage of, and must assume he will not be.]
[He must be, not soft, but flexible. Not superhuman, not a story, but a man. Just a man, just for a moment.]
[He doesn't remember the last time he was just a man. Maybe once, on the cusp of death, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth - but never before, never after, not in memory.]
[Not until Dean, and Ned, and Snow. Not until he found fragments of home lodged in the souls of other people.]
[Slowly, he blinks, an acquiescence of all the things neither of them are saying. Yes. He's sure. It's a small sacrifice, to lose the edge of sobriety in the company of a friend, but then again, for a man like the marquis de Carabas, it's not so small at all.]
I don't drive. I walk, or take public transit, or occasionally become motes on the wind and float on air currents. None of which are methods of transportation that prohibit the consumption of alcohol.
Give it to me.