Nineteenth Truth [Video]

[tadanokusuriuri]

[It's hard to tell where, exactly, the Medicine Seller is; somewhere indoors, wreathed in fog and the smoke from a long, thin pipe held delicately between his fingers. He looks completely at ease, though his sword is resting a little too conspicuously at his side.]

...It's begun... hasn't it?

Comments

[dashboardlite]

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.

[Dean looks shaken up. More than a little shaken up, actually.

He looks legitimately terrified.]

[tadanokusuriuri]

[Dean's sarcasm doesn't interest him; it's unsubtle and easily read.]

[His fear, though, catches the Medicine Seller's attention immediately. If Dean is having difficulties, shit's getting real.]

...What... have you observed so far?

[dashboardlite]

[Dean is a fragile creature, hidden under heavy layers of cynicism, bravado, and machismo. Easily shaken by something that threatens his family - or rather, the image he has of it - he's not doing so well.

At all.]

Aside from the fact that my room has turned into a replica of my old house? Aside from the scorch-marks in my brother's bedroom? I'm just great.

[He's not.

It got to him.]

[tadanokusuriuri]

[Its painfully easy for the Medicine Seller to see that Dean's surroundings are affecting him adversely. And... frankly, from a practical standpoint, he needs those potential allies that he has to be capable of dealing with the situation they've found themselves in. If Dean's cracking, he's of no use to himself or anyone.]

[Dean's focused on the rooms, so let's remove him from those sources of stress.]

...Are you... in your room?

[dashboardlite]

["Cracking" may be a bit of an understatement. He nearly shattered the night before.]

...yeah. [Dean's eyes dart around to the blue walls of his childhood room.]

[tadanokusuriuri]

Wait.

[And a short time later, there's a knock on the door.]

[dashboardlite]

Wait for wha-? Oh, fuck's sake.

[Dean curls back into his corner, waiting, until he hears someone - or something - knocking on one of the doors in the house. Clambering upright, he leaves his bedroom and crosses the hall, avoiding Sam's room, and opening what he remembers being a closet door.

But the Medicine Seller is on the other side. Wow, brilliant.

Dean probably looks awful by anyone's standards: dark circles under his eyes, shifty and on-edge, like a cornered animal. When he speaks, it's hoarse and a little surprised, and he doesn't immediately invite the "man" (He's really starting to have his doubts about Medicine Man) in. Instead, he crowds the doorway.

No one needs to see the hairline fractures in the walls of the house. The torn family photographs where Sam's face is scratched out and his mother's is simply ripped. How Dean isn't next to his father in any of them.

Alienated.

Alone.]

Why'd you come?

[tadanokusuriuri]

[He hesitates for a moment, because it's rare for him to spend enough time around people--or find them useful or like them enough, frankly--to care particularly about their well-being. He's not used to having to articulate any such concern, and ultimately, he isn't going to.]

...There are times... when it is best not to be alone.

Even for the strong.

[dashboardlite]

[Dean eyes the Medicine Seller carefully. The guy's never shown any semblance of human emotion. He's always detached from the situation, and it's obvious he likes it that way.

Dean opens the door a little wider and steps back quietly, in a silent invitation to let the Medicine Man in.]

...yeah.