[OOM: Immediately after
this.]
A large, soggy man in jeans and a flannel shirt lets himself into Milliways, goes directly to the bar, and sits down as if nothing is amiss.
John Winchester—back in his younger and somewhat more innocent days—had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t be one of those guys who brought the war home with him. And for the most part he had been successful. He’d gone home to Lawrence with eyes turned forward toward ‘happily ever after’ instead of back toward the jungle.
But ever since November, old instincts have started to creep back. Instincts that had served him well and kept his ass alive back in Vietnam. An attention to and awareness of surroundings that told you when something wasn’t quite right.
And right now, sitting at what is, for all intents and purposes, a perfectly ordinary bar, an insistent prickle on the back of John’s neck is telling him that something is off with a capital ‘O’.
He turns, slowly.
“What the
hell?”
This? Would be the very definition of getting caught with your pants down.
[OOC: An important note.]
[OOC 2: Oh my stars, you guys are excellent, but I'm starting to fade and need to beg slowtime. I'll pick up tags on the flipside.]![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ikissdhimbck
