Brooding. Guinevere doesn't know anything about that, oh no, she doesn't.
She might even have been doing some of her own, quietly, discreetly, trying to not draw any attention, and particularly not Sebastian's, whom she is desperately trying not to hurt.
But brooding still, and finding herself going back, in her mind, to the strange and very tall young man who came of late.
And perhaps her moody walk simply takes her to where Sam is doing some brooding of his own, and she doesn't quite notice, at first, too lost in her thoughts to quite realize who is in her direct surroundings.
Guinevere looks up, then down at Sam's hand, and she smiles, then, it's a little smile, almost afraid, but a smile that says a lot about how much she appreciates.
She'll slip her hand in his delicately, trustingly.
"My thanks," she says softly, as if he'd just done her a favor.
He blinks a little at her hand in his, but doesn't pull away. He should, he knows that, really should. She shouldn't even be here. Hell, he should shove her away as hard as he can. But not right now. She just looks so - fragile.
He doesn't want to break anyone else. "--welcome? I guess. I don't know what you're thanking me for, though."
"Not pushing me away," Guinevere replies quietly. "Not asking me to wait for you, until you have fixed whatever it is that makes you so very unhappy, so that you can return."
She walks quietly, a beat passes. "I am weary of waiting, Samuel."
"At this point, 'fixing' is pretty far out of the boat, so - that would be pretty pointless," he says before thinking better of it, and then makes a noise. "--never mind. Yeah. I - yeah. Not a big fan of waiting either."
For Dean to be ready to be...Dean again. For things to sort themselves out. For the apocalypse to end and whoever's playing a game now to reveal their hand. Whatever it is.
He smiles, just a little. "Yeah, I guess it is," he agrees, and swishes the drink in his bottle around a little.
"It was my birthday yesterday," he says, suddenly, and then isn't sure why. Maybe because he wants to talk to someone, and the person he'd usually talk to...wouldn't want to listen, he doesn't think.
Sam blinks a little, and momentarily a part of his brain goes 'hey look, a girl's taking you back to her room, you should probably' but he cuts that thought off. It's not like that. Obviously, it's not like that.
Obviously.
"--sure, that's...that's fine. What'd you forget?"
"--okay," he says, startled by her smile, by her tugging, but he lengthens his stride and finally breaks into a jog, a little bewildered by her. Wondering what he's getting roped into. Probably nothing, he reminds himself. She just forgot something. Stop expecting...whatever you're expecting.
Guinevere laughs, looking at him over her shoulder. "Come then!" And perhaps, if typist agrees, a small rain will break over them in that moment, prompting her to run for real, laughing yet more, youthful, and with much less decorum than usual.
Typist agrees, and Sam is mostly alarmed and yelps a little, trying to put an arm over his head and moving a little faster, still probably mostly jogging to stay with her, considering the length of his legs.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Still really confused, and a little tipsy, and what is going on here. More than a little morose, but the confusion is overwhelming that for now.
Guinevere, motivated both by the rain and her ~idea~, decides to attempt a sprint, to challenge Sam a little. She's fast, but has short legs, so he could very easily overtake her.
She might even have been doing some of her own, quietly, discreetly, trying to not draw any attention, and particularly not Sebastian's, whom she is desperately trying not to hurt.
But brooding still, and finding herself going back, in her mind, to the strange and very tall young man who came of late.
And perhaps her moody walk simply takes her to where Sam is doing some brooding of his own, and she doesn't quite notice, at first, too lost in her thoughts to quite realize who is in her direct surroundings.
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She'll slip her hand in his delicately, trustingly.
"My thanks," she says softly, as if he'd just done her a favor.
Maybe he has.
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He doesn't want to break anyone else. "--welcome? I guess. I don't know what you're thanking me for, though."
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She walks quietly, a beat passes. "I am weary of waiting, Samuel."
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For Dean to be ready to be...Dean again. For things to sort themselves out. For the apocalypse to end and whoever's playing a game now to reveal their hand. Whatever it is.
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To at least be understood by one, she means - and to understand someone, too.
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"It was my birthday yesterday," he says, suddenly, and then isn't sure why. Maybe because he wants to talk to someone, and the person he'd usually talk to...wouldn't want to listen, he doesn't think.
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She seems to be leading him back towards the Mansion.
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You know if we're going to celebrate my birthday, kind of would rather not, actually. :| Um.
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She's rarely ever lied, of yet. She hasn't had to.
And yes, she has a ~plan~.
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Obviously.
"--sure, that's...that's fine. What'd you forget?"
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"Come, come!" She may be trying to make him run with her, in fact.
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"I'm coming, hold on-"
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"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Still really confused, and a little tipsy, and what is going on here. More than a little morose, but the confusion is overwhelming that for now.
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"Is that so?" She taunts, laughing still.
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