[Dean doesn't bother arguing; for one, he's not quick enough, not like this. For two, even he knows it's not worth the effort, at least not right now. He drops his head into his hand and closes his eyes, stays leaned like that for several minutes, and argues with himself about whether he should just go back to drinking or hold his ground for the next 24 hours at least.
He hasn't, exactly, lost by the time Stiles gets back. He has, however, moved from bench to bed, stretched out haphazardly across it on his stomach, face buried in the stiff, colorless covers. He's not asleep - not remotely - but neither does he react to the door opening and closing again.]
no subject
He hasn't, exactly, lost by the time Stiles gets back. He has, however, moved from bench to bed, stretched out haphazardly across it on his stomach, face buried in the stiff, colorless covers. He's not asleep - not remotely - but neither does he react to the door opening and closing again.]