tenth; [visual]

[notcursed.livejournal.com]

When the tablet comes on, there's Toby. He's looking pretty good despite the faint red, healing scratches across his face, care of Cassie. Well, good enough that he's decided to show his face publically over these things again, anyway. And for Toby, standards are somewhat high.

He's sitting at his kitchen table, and there's light filtering in through the window. Pausing for just a moment, Toby glances somewhere offscreen.

"Hypothetically speaking, if I had a little get-together this weekend for, uh, Thanksgiving - Canadian Thanksgiving, I mean - who would wanna show up?"

Dean, there is a Mom-look reserved for you. Shut up.

"It'd be even better if everyone could bring something with them. I'll take care of the turkey." ... So maybe Toby had a foster mom who taught him how to cook like a badass, what of it? "If not... hey. That's cool too. So let me know. It might be nice."

He smiles, and then the transmission cuts.

Comments

[notcursed.livejournal.com]

Toby ignores that. Because he can. You, sir, are getting moosemeat or something, and Toby won't tell you.

"I'm just lookin' out for everybody. Y'know."

[fudgingkillyou.livejournal.com]

[Ew, moosemeat. If Toby tries to hatch moosemeat, Dean is going to give him the weirdest look ever. That's worse than trying to hatch crack. Which Dean totally hadn't even thought about doing. Cough.]

Shut up, I can. I'll prove it. Pie. Most freaking delicious pie you've ever had.

[And if that fails, he'll... just ask Mary, or something.]

[notcursed.livejournal.com]

Toby grins, trying to imagine Dean making pie. "Hatching it doesn't count as making it, Dean."

[fudgingkillyou.livejournal.com]

[Imagine explosions. Lots of explosions. And fire. Dean is not a cook.]

Bite me. [Roll eyes.] So where'd you learn to cook, Emeril?

[notcursed.livejournal.com]

Toby smiles somewhat sheepishly, glancing at the table. "Foster mom. When I was sixteen. She was obsessed with food. And, well, now... living on my own, basic skill, right?"

[fudgingkillyou.livejournal.com]

And you never told me you could cook? The hell, man, I thought we were friends.

[He is so joking around.]

[notcursed.livejournal.com]

Pfft. Toby rolls his eyes. "'Cause that kind of thing comes up so often with us, right?"

[fudgingkillyou.livejournal.com]

Hey, that's something you can slip into casual conversation. No excuses.

"Hey, Dean, want a beer and maybe some pie? I'm a freaking awesome cook, just so you know." Like that.

[... Dean, Toby is not your personal housewife.]

[notcursed.livejournal.com]

That eyeroll has just turned into an 'oh please'. A kidding one, obviously. "Were you planning to tell me that I'd crossed the barrier from friend to housewife, or...?"

[fudgingkillyou.livejournal.com]

Nah, you're smart, you can figure it out.

[Dean is so amused.]

[notcursed.livejournal.com]

"I'll just make sure I have your slippers and coffee ready for the next time you come over, then, 'kay?"

[fudgingkillyou.livejournal.com]

[/brainbreak.]

... Dude, I so did not want that mental image.

[notcursed.livejournal.com]

Pft. "Don't talk to me about mental images. Payback."

[fudgingkillyou.livejournal.com]

Next time I see you, you'd better be blocking.

[notcursed.livejournal.com]

"I think I know better now."