|| Re-Introduction: If You Need Him, He'll Be There Again ||

[surfaceshine]

[SPOILERS for Supernatural up to 5x22 in this post, and likely in the course of play with my Dean.  Sorry.]

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[eight_livesleft]

She's barely been here a week or so, but you'd think Carol's been here a year. It's all Daniel's fault, really: he's not Sophia (of course not) and he is most definitely not Carl (not a bad thing), he's just a normal kid in a normal (almost normal) place, with normal (well, Ed wouldn't say so, but he can fuck off) parents. It's a sharp contrast to everything she's known in the last three years, and she's still thinking there must be something rotten with this place. But there's Daryl here, too - and she feels safe (and going soft) and this is a problem only as long as it means she may die and reanimate

[surfaceshine]

Dean knows he should be hungry. He's really not, but he's a familiar enough companion to stress and grief by now to know that he won't ever be, not for a while. Doesn't mean he doesn't need to eat, so when he thinks about it, the hunter backtracks to where he remembers passing the kitchen with only a quick glance to clear it.

The first thing he notices, honestly, is the turnips; there's more of them than he's ever seen in one place, certainly, and in no small part because Dean's experience with cooking from raw ingredients is almost nonexistent. He'd recognize them more readily canned, honestly, but he still gets it after a moment. Then he notices the woman, and something in him recognizes something in her without his permission or his knowledge.

They're both not really quite sure what they're doing here.

"Hey," he says belatedly. Then, because he doesn't know what else to do or say, offers, "Want some help?"

Maybe he can learn something; maybe he can trade labor for a part of whatever it turns into.

[eight_livesleft]

Carol was deep into her work - it's a way for her to escape whatever plagues her (no pun intended), by focusing on very simple gestures. When she lost her daughter, that kept her going long enough to survive, long enough to find a new brand of will to survive

[surfaceshine]

Dean is watching her closely enough that he knows he surprised her, but he just cocks his head slightly to the side to field the look she gives him, then follows her point to the drawer. Nodding, he crosses to rummage through it until he finds the peeler in question.

"No, we haven't - I'm Dean," he replies, returning to her. He wastes another few seconds staring at the pile and wondering if there's any kind of rhyme or reason to it, but there's not; there's only peeled and unpeeled, as far as he can tell, so he just picks one up and turns it until it fits comfortably in his palm. It doesn't really occur to him to wash his hands.

"I'm uh. New, I guess," he admits dryly, amused in a morbid way because it's been a while since he's been new to anything. Except, maybe, getting his ass handed to him by biblical figures. He glances across at her, then back down at the vegetables. "Nice to meet you. What're we making?"

[eight_livesleft]

Carol doesn't observe Dean overmuch while he finds his bearing in the kitchen. He doesn't look like he's completely at ease - then again, neither was she when they landed at the Greene's. It took her a while to get comfortable again, until she and Lori cooked for everyone. Now that the thought crosses her mind, she realizes it's years ago, in another life.

Back when there was still hope Sophia was alright - even if dwindling. Back, also, when Shane was alive and making a bully of himself.

She never said a word, but that day in Atlanta when he talked down at her over the grenade she was about to offer Rick (Doubt a nail file'll be useful, Carol) was a grudge. It was foreshadowing, too - of how dangerous he'd become. Ages and ages ago

[surfaceshine]

"What? Oh. Right

[eight_livesleft]

In short, Dean lives his life like one peels a turnip. The comparison is duly noted.

“Turnips,” Carol replies, and she'll attempt a little joke, “straight from the truck.”

She smiles a little, peels a bit, then explains. “I've already got my onions chopped - I'll make them brown, in olive oil, and then a bit later, I'll add the turnips, some chicken broth I found in the fridge, spices. It's not all that complicated, but it does take time.”

She wants to ask him where he's from, and why he's only had soup in a can. If he's mentioning it, he probably wants her to ask. Right?

Right.

“.... have you been holed up somewhere only with cans, or is it just that you don't like cooking?” Offering an easy way out, in case.

Part of her wonders if he's not from her world - he looks weathered, beat, like he might have had his share of daily horror for a while. Kinship seeps in without her noticing, and she wants to help, she's not sure why.

Maybe because it's the way things have been, ever since the apocalypse. Work in teams, or die.

[surfaceshine]

"Oh. Right," he replies, not quite missing the joke so much as not really having a comeback; the corners of his mouth tug, and he's quiet while she explains and works, working himself in a consistently more efficient manner. He's always been good with his hands, and he's always been a quick study. Not that this is difficult work. Just unfamiliar.

Blessedly unfamiliar.

"I uh," he replies, haltingly, to the question. The out is there, of course, but the out is a lie; he doesn't remember if he doesn't like cooking. He thinks he might have, once, it's just that's been so freaking long since he's even had to consider it that he's forgotten the answer. So instead he finds a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, shrugs, and glances up as he reaches for another.

"Takes time, right? Haven't had a lot of that in one place for a while. Takes space, too," he adds, motioning around the kitchen with his shoulder. Pots. Pans. A stove. Knives. Turnips. Onions, broth. "It just never seemed important enough to learn or do."

[eight_livesleft]

Carol makes a listening sound, and she keeps going through the motions. Two years, three? How long has it been since the apocalypse? And the motions come back without thinking. Like riding a bike.

Like piercing a walker's skull.

“Time, space, motivation, peace, food, tools,” Carol lists as she keeps busying herself around teh kitchen. “Takes a lot of things,” she goes on. “It's the first thing you give up on if you're on the road, on the run,” she adds, not thinking.

She remembers how important it was to keep doing those things.

To stay human. A family.

“I'd missed it.”