and a sleepy conscience
Sep. 20th, 2013 01:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
goodfellaRobin had never been the heart-to-heart sort, at the very least, until Caliban Leandros. Somehow, along the way, he'd gone from barely-tolerable informant, useful only for the fact that Robin knew nearly everything there was to know about the Auphe, and what he didn't, he could find out. By the time he'd known Caliban and his brother for six years, their relationship had morphed. Fire-forged friends, they'd become. Robin, a trusted confidante, someone to confide in. Someone willing to clean up the nastiest of messes when nobody else could.
The closest that Robin comes to this comradeship in Darrow is, for better or worse, Dean Winchester. And without the man's face regularly at work for some time now, Robin grows lonely.
It is time for a talk.
Time for Robin to let Dean see that he honestly, truly gives a shit, whether he ought to or not. He probably ought not to ... but alas, for that is not the way it seems to work for puck Robin. None of his relationships are allowed to be entirely healthy.
He knocks loudly, musically, on Dean's door. It will take him a moment to answer, and Robin knows it, but he calls out obnoxiously anyway. Juggling a brown bag full of hefty amounts of Chinese food and a pair of bottles of rice wine, he leans a shoulder against the doorframe.
"Dean? Castiel? It's Goodfellow. One of you had better open this door and let me come in, after I dragged my ass out of a perfectly warm bed on a day off, and put pants on, which should be considered a sin against nature and to be done only grudgingly. I bought food. If nobody opens up in exactly fifteen seconds, I am just picking every one of your locks. And breaking your deadbolts. I am serious, and I will neither feel guilty nor break a sweat doing it. I got eggrolls!"
The closest that Robin comes to this comradeship in Darrow is, for better or worse, Dean Winchester. And without the man's face regularly at work for some time now, Robin grows lonely.
It is time for a talk.
Time for Robin to let Dean see that he honestly, truly gives a shit, whether he ought to or not. He probably ought not to ... but alas, for that is not the way it seems to work for puck Robin. None of his relationships are allowed to be entirely healthy.
He knocks loudly, musically, on Dean's door. It will take him a moment to answer, and Robin knows it, but he calls out obnoxiously anyway. Juggling a brown bag full of hefty amounts of Chinese food and a pair of bottles of rice wine, he leans a shoulder against the doorframe.
"Dean? Castiel? It's Goodfellow. One of you had better open this door and let me come in, after I dragged my ass out of a perfectly warm bed on a day off, and put pants on, which should be considered a sin against nature and to be done only grudgingly. I bought food. If nobody opens up in exactly fifteen seconds, I am just picking every one of your locks. And breaking your deadbolts. I am serious, and I will neither feel guilty nor break a sweat doing it. I got eggrolls!"
