It's several hours later, as predicted, when the wagon comes rolling into the outskirts of town. The sun's sitting low on the horizon, the smooth gradient sky leading crystal clear down to the horizon, captivating at every moment. Cadens still buzzes, even on its edges, as many pass from one part of their lives to the next. People are returning from work or from the market or from elsewhere in no short supply.
The conversation had slowed to a trickle thirty, maybe forty minutes earlier – mostly Blake's exhaustion finally catching up — but in the time before, as they were taken at a snail's pace crawl across the desert landscape together, under Dean's gentle hand, Blake had managed to use the impressive magical quill to great effect. He's now got three full pages – double-sided, though small – with little tidbits of information he'd neglected to pick up when he'd breezed through the outpost much earlier in the day. Thank god for small favors (and Karen, especially, for her impeccable timing).
For a short while, Blake sleeps. Whether by the charity of Dean's companionship ensuring him safety, simply the exhaustion dogging him, or both, doesn't so much matter as much as the short-term benefits it will provide in getting him through the rest of this day. Arms tucked tight against his core, hands in his pits, he bobs gently with the movement of the wagon, head dipped in the unattractive way it does when an old(ish) guy falls asleep waiting outside the Dress Barn for his dear wife. Occasionally he shifts into Dean's space, bumps shoulder-to-shoulder, but he rights himself naturally like a man used to this sort of thing.
It's the slowdown coming into town that rouses Blake, the shift in momentum noticeable. Inhaling a deep breath, head lifting to look around, he's forgotten for a second where he is and his flare of concern is punctuated by both hands dropping to grip tight on the seat.
"Shit—" Soft, it's barely anything. He clearly hadn't meant to fall asleep.
The desert sun has reddened his cheeks, the tips of his ears, the high points of his face — taken away some of that under-base that keeps him fair. And because the desert is vast and empty, the sun dipping below the horizon means even a whiff of a breeze feels more cutting than it should with that color of the sun. He really isn't built for this sort of landscape (and it's almost as if Abraxas wants to make that very clear to him).
Releasing his iron-clad grip on the seat, he pumps his fists briefly to encourage some circulation, but he's fighting off the grogginess pretty hard here while he tries to take in the sudden bustle around them.
no subject
The conversation had slowed to a trickle thirty, maybe forty minutes earlier – mostly Blake's exhaustion finally catching up — but in the time before, as they were taken at a snail's pace crawl across the desert landscape together, under Dean's gentle hand, Blake had managed to use the impressive magical quill to great effect. He's now got three full pages – double-sided, though small – with little tidbits of information he'd neglected to pick up when he'd breezed through the outpost much earlier in the day. Thank god for small favors (and Karen, especially, for her impeccable timing).
For a short while, Blake sleeps. Whether by the charity of Dean's companionship ensuring him safety, simply the exhaustion dogging him, or both, doesn't so much matter as much as the short-term benefits it will provide in getting him through the rest of this day. Arms tucked tight against his core, hands in his pits, he bobs gently with the movement of the wagon, head dipped in the unattractive way it does when an old(ish) guy falls asleep waiting outside the Dress Barn for his dear wife. Occasionally he shifts into Dean's space, bumps shoulder-to-shoulder, but he rights himself naturally like a man used to this sort of thing.
It's the slowdown coming into town that rouses Blake, the shift in momentum noticeable. Inhaling a deep breath, head lifting to look around, he's forgotten for a second where he is and his flare of concern is punctuated by both hands dropping to grip tight on the seat.
"Shit—" Soft, it's barely anything. He clearly hadn't meant to fall asleep.
The desert sun has reddened his cheeks, the tips of his ears, the high points of his face — taken away some of that under-base that keeps him fair. And because the desert is vast and empty, the sun dipping below the horizon means even a whiff of a breeze feels more cutting than it should with that color of the sun. He really isn't built for this sort of landscape (and it's almost as if Abraxas wants to make that very clear to him).
Releasing his iron-clad grip on the seat, he pumps his fists briefly to encourage some circulation, but he's fighting off the grogginess pretty hard here while he tries to take in the sudden bustle around them.
"What'd I miss?" And when did it get dark?