shatterverse | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Dean hates Kansas.

Dean hates Metropolis. It's got no right sittin' there in the middle of Kansas, out of place as a fuckin' donkey at a ball. He knows America and he knows the roads and the highways and he fucking hates that this world's twisted them all around.

Dean hates Lawrence. Sammy's still there. And Dean's not going back.

Dean hates himself, too, for that.

A surefire cure for angry emo bitterness is beating the shit out of people, however, and fortunately there's a lot of shit going round. Suburbs of Metropolis, clubs, late at night, there's always some chick he can bail outta trouble. That way he gets to beat people up and then gets laid.

Presently, Dean is in a back alley, glaring at a guy on the ground who thought he'd drag some naive little chick into the mens' room even though she was fighting. Jerk. And worse, not even a tough jerk. Dean's not even breathing hard. Waste of a fucking fight.

Yeah ... Dean hates Metropolis.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Huh? Oh, him? He's just, y'know, one ugly sumbitch."

Innocent Dean is innocent.

"You should know better than to be childish and rude. Respecting your elders is never a bad idea.

"And really, you have no reason to need a gun against me. Anyone willing to stop such things as that gets a free pass." His eyes glitter, showing amusement. "Yes, I can tell you have a gun. I've learned to notice them."

Dean's gaze is steady, not wavering.

Not worried, but ... respectful. Keeping his distance.

"Not surprised. You seem th'type."

"I do, don't I?

"I've always had an eye for detail, my boy. Very useful think for an . . . artist to have."

Lecter is playing with him now. It's a friendly game, but it's a game.

Dean nods, absorbing that, and a grimace flickers across his expression.

"Yeah, I bet."

"I am very much an artist, in my way," Lecter says, a bit chiding. "I will admit, however, that most people do not see my . . . little hobby as art."

His eyes flicker towards the unconscious man, and he licks his lips absently.

"Yeah," Dean says, slower this time. "I bet."

This whole conversation is seriously creeping him out.

Eyes go back to the would-be rapist. "I could use a bite to eat, you know. Can you give me any suggestions as to where I should go?"

He licks his lips again.

"Dude!"

Dean objects strenuously to this line of thought!

"There's a hamburger place across th'road. Go there. 'Scuse me."

He moves over to crouch by the would-be rapist and slap his face several times.

Whispered: "Get the hell outta here, you. Now."

"Hamburgers?" He shakes his head. "A bit low-class for my tastes. I've always been one for the finer things in life."

"Wha...?" The guy on the ground looks at Dean, and then at Hannibal, confused. "So y'can ... whaaa?"

Dean kicks him again. "Get. Out. Of. Here. And don't let me see you again or your ass is toast."

The guy scrambles to his feet, glances from Dean to the older gentleman, and decides better of it -- he flees.

Dean shrugs, in answer to Hannibal. "I like pies."

"I'm fascinated," is the dry response.

He checks his watch. "I'd love to stay here and chat, but I'm afraid that the world is moving on without us. Ta." He turns and walks away.

He's only heading the same way as the would-be rapist by coincidence. Really.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only