His fingers are numb, there in their place in his coat pockets. Frozen from the cold, from the snow, from the constant back and forth of carrying this or that, and they curl into fists inside the rough material. His legs are spread, though, feet planted sturdy a shoulder's width apart, and he doesn't shake. Doesn't shiver. Doesn't react to the dropping temperature around them. He just stands, eerily threatening in his own right somehow, just by existing. Just by the weird and unappealing vibe he's throwing off of him like radiation, killing plants and animals and happiness and hope.
Or maybe that's all in Adam's head, because by all accounts, he's not a particularly intimidating figure, is he? He's not even approaching, what's to be scared of? Maybe the holster in his thigh- there's no gun in it. What's a holster without a gun? Where's the gun?
Dean's eyes flicker at the question, they drop down to the scene playing out before them again and study with dark intensity it for a long couple of seconds. He shrugs, then, out of the blue, breaks away from that statue still for a too-casual twitch of the head and raise of the shoulder.
"Maybe," he concedes lightly. "Maybe things get so bad, you think the only answer to staying alive is to kill threats before they're threats. Maybe you're smart like that, in a world where all hell's breakin' loose, because you've been through hell and you'd rather burn the world down then go there again. Wouldn't blame you. Been there myself."
He ambles closer then, legs bowing out, gait casual, snow kicking up and leaving disruptive, disgusting footprints in otherwise pristinely blanketed snow. "Maybe you've got voices in your head- outside your head- telling you to be a soldier. That the only way to be whole is to be strong. Maybe you're listening to broken records, hell, maybe this is the first golden brick down the road to good intentions."
He slows to a stop three, maybe four feet in front of Adam. Stands in front of that flickering, repeated projection. "Maybe all you need to see is the kinda man you know, deep down, you don't wanna be. But hell, what do I know? I'm just a jackass with a sack of crap I plan on sticking in a hole."
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Or maybe that's all in Adam's head, because by all accounts, he's not a particularly intimidating figure, is he? He's not even approaching, what's to be scared of? Maybe the holster in his thigh- there's no gun in it. What's a holster without a gun? Where's the gun?
Dean's eyes flicker at the question, they drop down to the scene playing out before them again and study with dark intensity it for a long couple of seconds. He shrugs, then, out of the blue, breaks away from that statue still for a too-casual twitch of the head and raise of the shoulder.
"Maybe," he concedes lightly. "Maybe things get so bad, you think the only answer to staying alive is to kill threats before they're threats. Maybe you're smart like that, in a world where all hell's breakin' loose, because you've been through hell and you'd rather burn the world down then go there again. Wouldn't blame you. Been there myself."
He ambles closer then, legs bowing out, gait casual, snow kicking up and leaving disruptive, disgusting footprints in otherwise pristinely blanketed snow. "Maybe you've got voices in your head- outside your head- telling you to be a soldier. That the only way to be whole is to be strong. Maybe you're listening to broken records, hell, maybe this is the first golden brick down the road to good intentions."
He slows to a stop three, maybe four feet in front of Adam. Stands in front of that flickering, repeated projection. "Maybe all you need to see is the kinda man you know, deep down, you don't wanna be. But hell, what do I know? I'm just a jackass with a sack of crap I plan on sticking in a hole."