[There's a laugh that catches in Dean's throat, swallowed back down before it can even fully form, because of course he's not alright. Who is? How long has it been since he felt alright without being too drunk to see straight or wrapped up in someone else too deeply to remember anything about who he is, who they are, or why they're doing whatever they're doing?
But he certainly isn't going to admit that to Stiles, of all people, and he as certainly isn't interested in talking about the rest of it. He ignores the first question completely, looks back at what is currently serving as his hunting kit, and tries to decide which option he likes best, which would be the easiest.
Fine. Easier probably to go down, then, as soon as he gets himself together.]
You're my warden, not my mother. I've got food.
What are the chances of you just fucking off and leaving that there?
no subject
But he certainly isn't going to admit that to Stiles, of all people, and he as certainly isn't interested in talking about the rest of it. He ignores the first question completely, looks back at what is currently serving as his hunting kit, and tries to decide which option he likes best, which would be the easiest.
Fine. Easier probably to go down, then, as soon as he gets himself together.]
You're my warden, not my mother. I've got food.
What are the chances of you just fucking off and leaving that there?