nexus_crossings | Nah-nah-nah-fishing!

Nah-nah-nah-fishing!

Dean is still feeling like shit, but he is itching to get back outside and to enjoy the one chance he has got to enjoy a little r&r and with box full of pepto tucked away into the trunk of his beloved 67' Impala. Dean has driven himself to a nice lake to do a little fishing and maybe some drinking if his stomach permits it. But so far, things have improved since his meeting with the monk or so he wants to think.

With his car in park, Dean is enjoying the cool fall air and it doesn't seem to bother him that it is getting a bit nippy and there is a slim chance he'll catch anything. And soon he's sitting out there in front of the lake in with his ass parked in a cheap lawn chair, pepto in hand, and a fishing pole sitting down at his side. Bliss, if this is his new heaven he won't complain except for well some minor things.

"I feel like I've deserved this. So what do people like to do in order to relax in these parts? And what have you done lately that makes you feel like you've deserved a vacation?" Dean reclines back in his chair, and he listens to the sound of a Styx cassette playing from the speakers of the Impala. "Hard-mode: No saving the world or universe from whatever apocalypse your home faced."

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Steve looks up from where he's sitting on a park bench, sketchbook open in his lap, when he hears the unfamiliar voice addressing those nearby strolling about the parks on the edges of the Wilds. The man isn't a face he recognizes, but it hardly deters Steve from answering him.

"I've taken to learning how to play pool and box, as far as hobbies go for relaxing. I always enjoy sketching too, but since I do that for work, I assumed you wanted something else. As for the second part..?"

Steve looks thoughtful before shaking his head.

"I can't say I've ever had a vacation. Sorry."

"You any good?" Dean looks up to the kid who answers him and he quickly clears his throat. "At both pool and boxing." And he looks a bit surprised that Steve has never set aside time for himself.

"You're shitting me. You never had a vacation? Man what the heck do you do for a living?"

Edited (icons i got them) 2016-10-17 19:24 (UTC)

"Decent at pool. Not quite so good at boxing. They say I don't have the build for it."

And considering he's ninety pounds soaking wet and suffering a rap sheet of ailments longer than most gang members' criminal records they might have a point. not that Steve will listen. He's scrappy, always has been.

"Whatever I can get a job doing. Worked as a type setter for newspapers. Did freelance art for papers and magazines. These days I do advertising work for some of the businesses in the Nexus. Design billboards and flyers, things like that."

"If you ever need someone to spar with," Dean offers to Steve. "I'd be more than willing to once I kick this damn stomach bug. And maybe I can offer you a few pointers." Dean's a pretty good brawler, a bit unprofessional but he still feels like he can lend Steve a hand at improving his boxing skills.

That's to say he doesn't know about poor Steve's physical problems, but even then Dean might not see any harm in offering the guy a little support.

"Doesn't sound like a bad gig, and from it sounds like you had plenty of time to take a trip or two to a beach or park. That is if you have those two things back home. And even a busy guy like myself makes time to shove his nose into a rose or two." Dean leans over to reach for a bottle of some kind of sports drink.

"Me. I tour the country with my brother and the doofy looking guy in a trench coat hunting down angry spirits and all other kinds of nasties."

"Yeah?"

Steve will keep his distance, mostly because he heard the words 'stomach bug' and boy he does not need to get sick again. He does that enough on his own, thanks. But his face lights up at the offer nonetheless.

"It pays the bills. I found an apartment who accepts rent in the form of commissioned pieces so living's taken care of. And the money I make helps me do what I can around here to help out. My name's Steve, by the way. Steve Rogers. It's nice to meet you."

Edited 2016-10-20 22:50 (UTC)

"Hell, yeah. We’ll turn you into another Rocky!"

Dean doesn't blame anyone who wants to keep their distance from him. And he had enough with sitting inside of the dingy hotel room that felt and smelt of sick. He grumbles at the rumble in his gut again, and he wonders how much more of the pink stuff he can take before it isn't effective anymore.

"That's all that matters don't it. Right now we're holed up in a motel, but we'll figure out something more permanent or we'll just remained holed up in a dive." It isn't something he seems to bothered by, and he tosses Steve a nod of his head. "Dean. Dean Winchster. And nice meeting you also, Steve. So how long have you been here?"

"Who's Rocky? Sorry, I don't understand that reference."

He gives a bit of a shrug and rubs at the back of his neck, a touch of embarrassment on his face. Either different time or different world in joke he's assuming.

"I've been here for about a year now. My home's Brooklyn in 1941."

"Well there's a good reason not to get it. Rocky is a fictional boxer who was a bit of a scrappy underdog. It's a pretty good movie series, so if you ever get the chance you ought to watch them."

Dean's sure those movies won't break the future or do anything to change the future. He looks down at his fishing pole, and he goes to check the line to see if there is a fish on it or not.

"But damn, 1941."

Edited 2016-10-22 22:34 (UTC)

"Oh, that makes sense then, for a comparison."

Steve nods, grateful that Dean took the time to explain it rather than brushing it aside or telling him never mind like folks tend to do when he admits he's a bit in the dark about certain things.

"I like to think I've learned a lot about more modern times since I arrived here though. Most folks I run into are from around 2015ish Earth so there's been a lot of catching up to do."

He pulls a small notepad out of his threadbare jacket and flips to the last page in it. Rocky movies gets carefully penciled onto the bottom of his list before Steve flips it back closed and tucks it away again.

"My younger brother was the same, and you should see him now." Dean checks the line to see nothing but the poor worm that is long past its expiration date dangling from the hook. He figured he wasn't going to catch a fish out here, but it was the getting out that was what he wanted to do.

And as far as explaining things, nothing beats trying to explain things to Castiel. So, Dean is a pro at explaining modern human things to people! Just so long as he doesn't have to explain porn to Steve, all will be good in the world. Once was enough there as far as Dean is concerned.

"Well seeing as people can travel to different places, you ever see modern day Brooklyn. Or the Brooklyn of the Future?" Dean asks. "Or is there too much of a risk of you messing things up for you back home."

"I haven't, no."

Steve tries not to show the discomfort on his face at the mention of his home time and world. He knows most folks have the ability to come and go from their worlds as they please.

"I've wanted to, but messing up my home isn't...really...an issue, I don't think. Every specialist I've asked says my world...isn't there anymore. Or isn't accessible."

And the look on Dean's face deepens as he hears that Steve's world isn't there or accessible anymore. He knows what it feels like to know that there is always that chance where he will not ever go home. And he tries to find the right words.

"Damn, sorry about that, Steve." Dean reaches his hand back to his neck, and he tries to sound hopeful.

"But don't give up, bro. Maybe those specialists don't know anything, and one day you'll get to go home." He stops himself for a bit. "That's if you wanna go back."

"Course I'd wanna go back."

Steve loves his home, flawed as it is. He misses it every day he's here, though the pain has more or less abated by now. Since it's been over a year and all now. It only gets hard when things make him especially nostalgic and homesick. Otherwise he's more or less fine here in the Nexus.

"I like it here, don't get me wrong. But I'm keeping up hopes that i'll be able to head back some day."

"That's all you need to have, bro. And trust me, I've been in situations where I'd never thought I'd go home too."

As much time as Dean spends on the road, it was always nice to either find his way back to Bobby's or in more recent times the bunker that has become a stable home when not on the road.

With a smile edging on Dean's face he looks from Steve and then out to the calm and peaceful lake. "Cause as nice as a vacation like this is, there's still people we got at home that I'd miss if I didn't go back at some point."

Grace was just passing nearby when she'd heard music, and then eventually spotted the Impala. She knows next to nothing about cars, but even she can appreciate it's a nice one.

While she doesn't touch it, she does take a quick picture as the owner speaks up. While she replies, she'll just step closer, standing a few feet away from the deck chair.

"Right now it's exploring, easily. This place is amazing." Pushing her hands into her pockets, she smiles as she goes to answer his second question. "And I killed it at opening night - that's always enough to make me want a holiday."

Edited (Hit send too soon, my bad! ;;) 2016-10-17 17:49 (UTC)

"Never seen a place like it before, and I've been to some places and then some." Dean grumbles as his stomach tries to take over, and he reaches over to grab hold of his half finished bottle of pepto. The stuff is horrible and Dean's about had it with whatever it is the monk gave him.

He knocks back a swig of the stuff and he grimaces. "You in a band or somethin'?" Dean asks, and he has all but forgotten the fishing pole that is sitting in the grass besides him with a red and white float tied to the end.

"And this wacky place is your vacation from a life on the road."

"Oh, I wish." His guess gets a smirk out of her as she settles on the grass, loosely crossing her legs. "No, not quite that glamorous. I'm a dancer."

While she's not sure what he's drinking, it doesn't seem as though he's enjoying it much judging by the look on his face, but she's guessing she probably shouldn't ask.

"What about you, what do you do?"

"Sweetheart, music isn't about glamour, it is about singing shit that comes from the heart or gut." Dean nods his head towards his car as the music continues to play. "So what kind of dancer are you?"

He doesn't answer her question right away as he goes to drink another mouthful of pepto.

But eventually he does. "I'm a hunter of the things that live in people's closets. Hunter of the supernatural, yada, yada, yada."

"Touche." The music isn't anything Grace really recognises, but she doesn't mention it, instead going to answer his second question. "Ballet; the big bad."

His answer, on the other hand, makes her turn to him with a raised brow.

"That's not something you hear everyday.." At first she doesn't think he's being serious, but he doesn't look as though he's kidding either. As she looks back out to the water, she starts pulling up grass, as though her hands are growing bored and need something to do. "How long have you been doing that then?"

"I thought ballerinas had tutus surgically attached to them." Dean is going to be himself, no class.

He tilts his head down to look at the fishing pole, and he picks it up after putting the bottle of pepto down on the grass. He goes to reel in the whole lot of nothing back to shore. "How so? This place isn't exactly Kansas. As for how long, I've been in the family business for as long as I can remember. And I don't see myself doing anything else."

Sure, a vacation at times is nice to clear his head, but domestic life isn't his style.

That's fine - she can roll with it, this time with a look of feigned seriousness. "Oh, we do. I've recently recovered from my tutuectomy. Risky procedure, took hours."

If she'd been here longer, maybe she would have agreed with him. But as far as she's aware, monsters and things-that-live-in-closets aren't real, and so hearing that someone has somehow made a career of hunting them is sort of difficult to imagine.

"True - I've just never met anyone who does it for a living."

"I thought for a moment that maybe I'd be happy as a roadie or a mechanic. Now that's not to say I don't do the mechanic stuff." Dean nods his head over towards the Impala with a prideful smile on his face. "

And I'm a damn good mechanic, but I just can't ever see myself doing the whole regular job thing."

He turns his head back to the worm that dangles from the hook at the end of the fishing pole. "I take it people don't do the whole paranormal shit where you come from."

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Nah-nah-nah-fishing!

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