11thstreet | saltburnt

Dean. ( disheveled. did he just wake him up? he does a quick glance behind him at the rumpled bed. well, they did go into nearly dawn. dean had enough to drink about. not that they talked about anything real. ) You uh - slept through all the commotion. Can I come in?

( He lifts his shoulder to indicate - beer as reason for saying yes, before absently looking behind him.

It's not that there's anything inherently weird about this, it's just, things have been different in this house and he's from 2020 and 'no homo' is pretty strict. And he's not sure he's 'no homo' anymore. So, he awkwardly doesn't acknowledge hitting it off with another dude, save for the music. )

Brought an iPod and everything.

Oh, yeah. Dean!

[he says that, brightly, like something has jogged his memory. to be completely honest? last night is still kind of a blur, so it kind of hasn't, but —

dean is his best friend here now, no contest, and that's what matters. beer and music? there's nothing more that a hungover guy could ask for.

chris opens the door wider, and steps out of the doorway a little, gesturing with his hand.]

Yeah, come in, dude. Let me, uh —

[move some chairs? move some stuff off of chairs? he'll get to that once dean is inside.]

( He smiles, taking the recognition at face value.

He steps through giving the disheveled room a onceover. But, with what they drank, Dean's would be in the same shape if he weren't already a pretty organized guy. There is still a pile of clothing leading to the bed. He at least got his clothes off. )

Take your time. I know I kind of did the unannounced thing. Thought you might like some hair of the dog.

( And he really needs it. )

[the kind of mess that's on the floor now never would've been acceptable when he was in the military, or, come to think of it, when he was a kid — and some fucking therapist probably would've said he's compensating for something. or whatever the fuck; this is why he hasn't bothered with therapy. still, it's kind of not the best for, like, actual company, so as dean makes his way through the door, chris works on gathering the rest of the clothes from the floor and putting them away.

not folding them neatly or anything, obviously, but putting them away.]

Fuck yeah, I would. [a smile, as he finishes that, and starts to drag a chair over.] You've got the right idea, man. Unlike the lady on the other side of the wall over there.

[he jerks his head to the side, and over his shoulder a little, to indicate.]

British chick. Hot, but seriously uptight about, like, fucking everything.

[a judgment made from all of (2) interactions that they've had.]

( dean doesn't judge the mess, just waits while he tidies up.

oh, a chair, he will take that, sitting his beer down. for a second, he finds a surface for the iPod and iPod dock, scrolling through options. )

Sounds like British chicks.

( he chooses a song, turning the volume down modestly, sitting back. pulling up a beer, he holds it out, before grabbing his own. )

Maybe she just doesn't like mess. Maybe she's Marie Kondo, but in a British chick's body.

[he considers this as he pulls up another chair, takes the beer that's offered to him, and sits down.]

Isn't Marie Kondo the one that talks about things that make her happy or whatever? I don't think anything's ever made this chick happy in her life.

[like, that's his educated guess. he flips the cap off the bottle, then tips it up to his mouth for a swig.]

Kansas? [he asks, as an aside, like he doesn't know this is obviously kansas. still:] Good taste, man.

Mess does? Because she can clean it?

( He doesn't know. He didn't read her book. )

I lived in a bunker, though, we practically hoard everything for use eventually.

( Or, don't ask too hard into that. He uses the edge of the chair to smack his cap off, taking his own sip. )

Thanks. You, too. And people who look down on hair metal are douches. Give me hair metal, some good classic rock, freakin Metallica or Zeppelin...

[after growing up with a dad who'd had a literal quantum unfolding chamber in the closet, and had definitely had preppers in his vicinity for a long time, the bunker thing is just the kind of comment that makes chris shrug, which is exactly what he does. and — honestly the marie kondo thing, too. he'd just seen a video on facebook once.

they've got more important things to talk about, anyway.

his face brightens, and even though he still feels like he'd been run over by a truck, he leans forward in his chair, totally, one-hundred percent engaged.]

Fuck yeah, dude! Exactly!

[his voice is probably loud enough to carry to the other side of the wall, but maybe room-where-joy-goes-to-die can get a little joy.]

If you're one of those fucked up music snobs that thinks you're too good for Cinderella, or Hanoi Rocks, or the Quireboys, you're just missing out on some of the best stuff ever made, and that's on you.

( It's more about hunting and research and saving the day when needed, but he's happy no elaboration is necessary as they step right past his admissions. He'll answer anything if he circles back. He's a very honest guy in this house.

Dean does smirk, looking past him at her room. )

I don't get music snobs. And I don't knock other people for their music. 'Less they're playing it in my car. Driver picks the music. Every time.

( Shotgun shuts his cakehole. )

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