[He meant it for a lead in to the first part: he has a history of being held places he doesn't want to be. This isn't the first time someone's been handed a book full of his life, only back then it was innocent, and it was before the unforgivable things started happening. Before Dean broke. But he hesitates because maybe the file wasn't that complete, maybe Stiles just didn't get it.
Maybe he doesn't believe it. Dean sets his own empty glass back on the table, moves the bottle aside slightly, and leans forward until he can fold his arms on the edge of the table. His fingers itch to reach for the alcohol. He won't take it until they're on the same page. He has other sources without accepting this from Stiles, not yet, not until he knows how this is going to end up working out.]
It's words on a page to you. I know. I've seen one. It's words on a page, names for people you've never met and, in my case, never will. It's fiction. You get to put it down and walk away.
Let me put it into perspective for you: if there's a Beacon Hills on my planet? It's gone now. If your friends have counterparts there? If you do? They're either dead or going to be, or they're infected with a demonic virus that makes them into mindless, rabid animals until they run facefirst into a bullet or starve to death. Their families are the same. Your teachers, your neighbors, everyone you ever knew. Humans are done. Anything supernatural weaker than a demon - and when it's Lucifer, that's all of them - they're done.
And it's my fault. I let them out. I failed to put them back in. Me.
[ Spam ]
[He meant it for a lead in to the first part: he has a history of being held places he doesn't want to be. This isn't the first time someone's been handed a book full of his life, only back then it was innocent, and it was before the unforgivable things started happening. Before Dean broke. But he hesitates because maybe the file wasn't that complete, maybe Stiles just didn't get it.
Maybe he doesn't believe it. Dean sets his own empty glass back on the table, moves the bottle aside slightly, and leans forward until he can fold his arms on the edge of the table. His fingers itch to reach for the alcohol. He won't take it until they're on the same page. He has other sources without accepting this from Stiles, not yet, not until he knows how this is going to end up working out.]
It's words on a page to you. I know. I've seen one. It's words on a page, names for people you've never met and, in my case, never will. It's fiction. You get to put it down and walk away.
Let me put it into perspective for you: if there's a Beacon Hills on my planet? It's gone now. If your friends have counterparts there? If you do? They're either dead or going to be, or they're infected with a demonic virus that makes them into mindless, rabid animals until they run facefirst into a bullet or starve to death. Their families are the same. Your teachers, your neighbors, everyone you ever knew. Humans are done. Anything supernatural weaker than a demon - and when it's Lucifer, that's all of them - they're done.
And it's my fault. I let them out. I failed to put them back in. Me.