[If you're looking for a confused newbie-god, you're not going to find it here. Don't misunderstand. Dean is confused to the extreme but it's more a level of what in the actually hell is going on sort. Is he that drunk? Even this is totally insane for him and he's time traveled, killed nercomancer nazis, Hitler, dealt with people dying in cartoonish ways, and lived a Tuesday a million times to die over a hundred different ways. And all he can breathe out is an gruff grumpy.]
What the - Chuck? [He's throwing his hands up in a surrendering gesture.] No. Nope, not happening. Done. I'm done.
Physical Training A
[If there's one thing Dean may admit likes here, it's the weapons. He's got a few stowed away on his person, Sure! - that's just a side effect of being a hunter twenty years. You just become a supernatural ass-kicking boy scout pretty much - always prepared. Though the best stuff isn't with him it was back in Baby's trunk or at the bunker.
But hey! There's some pretty decent stuff here. Either way, he's more than a little enchanted by the assortment of weapons on display and well he might be nerding out about it just a teeny bit. He seems to linger on the guns, swords, and knives more than anything else. He might even pick one or two up to test weight, handfeel, grip, and balance.]
B
[Dean isn't even getting involved in this. His arms are crossed over his chest and he's just shaking his head watching this lesson on futility happen. These people - and what a random grab bag assortment they've got! Appearance wise he's likely the oldest looking bastard here; which hey isn't that bad considering he's been tortured in hell for like thirty-forty years but that leaves a knot of dread to settle down in his stomach like a lead weight - totally screwed up with having a totally white as snow room for this.]
Who makes an entire place white floors any way? Why not just get out a vacuum or something, a roomba'd be fine I'm betting.
Rest and Refreshments
[No, Dean's not eating any of that. Being unsettled kind of kills his appetite. Instead he's found himself a nice place to sit - his back pressed against a wall. It's intentional - he doesn't want to be snuck up on.
'Right, Winchester, let's assess this. You're clearly not in Kansas anymore or the US. You are so out of your depth. Jack and Sam are back home. You're clearly not where Mom and Lucifer are either. And Chuck ain't listening.'
Which stung on other levels Dean doesn't want to touch on. You'd think God'd listen to him just this ONCE considering he's been cleaning up Chuck's miraculous screw-ups since forever. His hand is fishing into his jeans taking out his phone - his work phone that is. He flips it open seeing exactly what he expects: No Service. A sigh slips past his lips and he's closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.]
no subject
[If you're looking for a confused newbie-god, you're not going to find it here. Don't misunderstand. Dean is confused to the extreme but it's more a level of what in the actually hell is going on sort. Is he that drunk? Even this is totally insane for him and he's time traveled, killed nercomancer nazis, Hitler, dealt with people dying in cartoonish ways, and lived a Tuesday a million times to die over a hundred different ways. And all he can breathe out is an gruff grumpy.]
What the - Chuck? [He's throwing his hands up in a surrendering gesture.] No. Nope, not happening. Done. I'm done.
Physical Training
A
[If there's one thing Dean may admit likes here, it's the weapons. He's got a few stowed away on his person, Sure! - that's just a side effect of being a hunter twenty years. You just become a supernatural ass-kicking boy scout pretty much - always prepared. Though the best stuff isn't with him it was back in Baby's trunk or at the bunker.
But hey! There's some pretty decent stuff here. Either way, he's more than a little enchanted by the assortment of weapons on display and well he might be nerding out about it just a teeny bit. He seems to linger on the guns, swords, and knives more than anything else. He might even pick one or two up to test weight, handfeel, grip, and balance.]
B
[Dean isn't even getting involved in this. His arms are crossed over his chest and he's just shaking his head watching this lesson on futility happen. These people - and what a random grab bag assortment they've got! Appearance wise he's likely the oldest looking bastard here; which hey isn't that bad considering he's been tortured in hell for like thirty-forty years but that leaves a knot of dread to settle down in his stomach like a lead weight - totally screwed up with having a totally white as snow room for this.]
Who makes an entire place white floors any way? Why not just get out a vacuum or something, a roomba'd be fine I'm betting.
Rest and Refreshments
[No, Dean's not eating any of that. Being unsettled kind of kills his appetite. Instead he's found himself a nice place to sit - his back pressed against a wall. It's intentional - he doesn't want to be snuck up on.
'Right, Winchester, let's assess this. You're clearly not in Kansas anymore or the US. You are so out of your depth. Jack and Sam are back home. You're clearly not where Mom and Lucifer are either. And Chuck ain't listening.'
Which stung on other levels Dean doesn't want to touch on. You'd think God'd listen to him just this ONCE considering he's been cleaning up Chuck's miraculous screw-ups since forever. His hand is fishing into his jeans taking out his phone - his work phone that is. He flips it open seeing exactly what he expects: No Service. A sigh slips past his lips and he's closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.]
I need a drink. A few dozen strong drinks.