Dean Winchester (doubleup) wrote in canonwarslogs, @ 2014-07-29 19:40:00 |
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Entry tags: | catherine chabatier, dean winchester |
Who: Dean and Catherine.
What: Drinking.
When: Post arrival.
Where: A bar.
Warnings: Dean is a swearing person who swears.
Catherine was fairly certain that she hadn’t been in the Caribbean when she’d gone to take a nap. This hotel room - was it a hotel? - was lovely, but emphatically Not Hers. London wasn’t this hot, and there wasn’t a weedy little man in the next room reading the Financial Times.
She’d been planning to go to the bar, but had been intercepted on her way by a couple of dark suits. They’d identified themselves quickly, thankfully, or she might very well have had them both for a late lunch. What they’d had to say had been ridiculous, of course, but it was hard to deny that she hadn’t been in the Caribbean this morning, and she felt neither drugged nor attacked - as would have happened with a kidnapping.
Eventually, they’d let her go and she was in the bar now, collecting on the Campari she’d planned for this morning. And wondering what she was going to do.
Dean had taken the whole government official “you’re not real” speech pretty well, all things considered. The only thing that really upset him was the fact that his car wasn’t there. That was just mean. How the hell was he gonna find a mint condition ‘67 Impala? See also: a tall ass Sasquatch who yelled at shit. Dean wanted that to show up too. Stat.
He’d made his way to the closest bar and pushed into the bar in the lobby, sitting down on a stool and sighing.
Catherine couldn’t help but notice the handsome man who sat down a stool away from her. He looked as grumpy as she felt, and she couldn’t entirely resist baiting him - if there was some kind of silly government panel that had been set up - all that trouble - it couldn’t have been only for her. “This might sound a bit odd,” she said, out of the blue, turning toward him, “but where are we? I mean. This isn’t London. Unless it’s swapped weather patterns with Sydney.”
“Nope, Puerto Rico.” He blinked. “You mean the government monkeys didn’t give you the little speech?” Either that or the broad had general memory issues.
“They said the Caribbean, but not specifically where.” Catherine replied. American, she’d guess. Canadians didn’t speak that way. “They were more concerned with telling me not to make waves.” She rolled her eyes. “That is not, as I think your people say, how I roll.”
“My people?” Dean grinned a little more wolfishly, leaning back. “And what, exactly, are my people?”
“Americans.” She had to laugh. “No Canadian wears leather that old or beat up unless they’re in the military, but you lot do like your keepsakes.”
“Oh.” He’d guessed from the accent she was English by way of somewhere else, if only because she didn’t sound like that douchebag Crowley. “Don’t you guys like ‘em more? What with leaving all those castles around?”
“Those aren’t keepsakes. They’re eyesores. But you make a fair point, I suppose. The English are a bit obsessed with their glory days.” Catherine couldn’t help but smile a little. “And for that matter, so are the French. Yet I’m both, and not particularly one to dwell on the past.”
This sounded like a conversation that his brother would rather be in, and Dean felt a pang of loss. He was trying to calm his panic, had been since he’d gotten there, but not having his brother and his car was like ripping off his arms and legs. “Hey, carpe diem, right?” Dean’s pronunciation of the Latin was a bit pointed, a bit more practiced than most.
“It makes sense to me.” Catherine shifted, crossing her legs as best she could. Yet she could sense that something was wrong. “You look like you need something horribly alcoholic,” she said, gesturing the bartender over. “Please, I’ll pay.” Better to buy the bloke a drink than deal with someone else’s terror. Besides, he was rather cute, in a laid-back way.
“Are you sure?” He looked up at her. “Apparently the guy whose life they gave me was some loaded. Inventor or some crap.”
“It’s a comfort gesture, not implying I think you’re poor. Yes, I’m sure.” Catherine didn’t hold with masculine ego. It got in the way.
“Well, thanks. It’s nice of you.” He offered her a calloused hand to shake. “Dean Winchester. Nice to meet you. Usually the classy ladies only hit on me when they need something done to their cars.”
That got a chuckle. “Catherine Chabatier, and I don’t feel classy at the moment. I feel as though I’m wearing someone else’s hand-me-downs, though I suppose technically I am.” She shook the hand, smiling a little. “Are you a mechanic, then? I don’t know if I have a car here, though I’m guessing my Jaguar isn’t it.” Sigh.
“I usually am, yeah.” He didn’t feel like telling her the whole killing stuff helping people spiel. It was hollow without Sam. Besides, what if all that shit was fictional too?
“It’s a good job.” Catherine, unlike many of her contemporaries, didn’t look down on people who worked with their hands. They were often incredibly useful. “Given that I don’t think anyone can prosecute me for things done in other worlds, I’ll tell you that I used to run certain gambling houses within the City of London. And offered a few perks on the side for big customers.” She’d never run any truly dangerous drugs, but she’d done a good business in smuggling marijuana, as well as guns to the right groups. No one too out there.
“I used to hustle poker games sometimes,” Dean smiled. He remembered the fun nights where he and Sammy would have to speed like hell to get away with their hides intact. Demons weren’t the scariest thing in the world, people were.
“I dated a few con men.” Catherine chuckled, remembering René. “One in particular was a master at cards - he tried to teach me poker, but I preferred watching him work. He was a genius when it came to sleight-of-hand, so he’d simply replace his cards with the ones he wanted. Though not too often.” At least he hadn’t died getting caught; she knew he would have been livid had that been how he went out.
“I’m just good at pretending I’m stupid.” Dean wasn’t booksmart, but to say he wasn’t intelligent would be lying. He knew more Latin than most priests. “Comes in handy more than you’d think.”
“Pretending you’re stupid? Trust me, I know. You are talking to a woman.” Catherine rolled her eyes, but she wasn’t irritated at him. “There’s a reason most of my wardrobe shows cleavage.”
“Is that why you guys do that? To melt our brains? Well played, ladies.” He lifted his beer in a mock salute before draining some of it. “Truth be told, I’m probably going to get pretty hammered. My car’s not here and neither is my brother, and I’ve been travelling with him for ... years. Just doesn’t feel right not havin’ ‘em around.”
Catherine didn’t have any siblings, but she understood being close to someone. “I’m sorry to hear it.” And she was. “Being thrust into a new situation on one’s own is very frightening to most people. I think I’m still in a bit of shock about my own.” She laughed a little, but there was no amusement in it. “I didn’t have a famous, weedy, awkward husband when I went to sleep last night. Nor did I dress like this.” It wasn’t that bad, but it was too tight and too short. She liked to be a bit classier.
“Yeah, that color’s not what I think you’d pick. You kinda look like a frozen margarita.” He smiled at her, chuckling at his own jokes. He hadn’t flirted with her yet, a sure sign that he was kind of upset. “Glad I just woke up in what I always wear.” T-shirt, jeans, maybe a flannel over the t-shirt if it was cold.
“That’s good. At least there’s that bit of familiarity. I went from my flat in London to a posh hotel suite next to ... well. Let’s say a very well known businessman who is richer, as the proverb goes, than God.” Catherine smiled a little in return. He was cute, but she did have a sense of decorum - it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that he was extremely upset. Perhaps that was why she tried to make him laugh. “I’m hoping the divorce settlement is fat - not to sound obnoxious, but I’m used to a certain tax bracket, and I’ll take it very ill if it’s just randomly yanked away from me.”
Dean laughed. “I can give you a million or two, I got a guy who’s got more money than God and I’m used to sleeping in my car.” He wrinkled his nose. “Did you use the Google to find out about yourself yet?” Dean wasn’t the most techie of guys.
“I didn’t particularly need to. Given who I woke up married to.” Catherine grimaced. “American, weedy, big glasses. Computer magnate?” She could have just said so, but it felt bizarre to say yes, hello, I woke up as Melinda Gates. She couldn’t help but be curious, though, brushing black hair out of her eyes. “You’re used to sleeping in your car? I’m guessing your back is often in severe pain.”
“Yeah, but that’s usually from getting the shit kicked out of me.” He chuckled, rolling his shoulders a bit. The right one never did quite move right from Sammy shooting him that one time he was possessed. Well. The first time.
“So wait, you’re married to the Apple dude?”
“He’s deceased, last I looked. Microsoft.” Catherine chuckled in spite of herself. “It just would have felt utterly odd to say yes, I’m his wife. When I’ve technically never met him and am not interested in a long-term mate right now.” The idea of being tied down was ugly, at this point. She could go for a good roll in the hay, but not much more.
“Not into the arranged marriage thing, huh.” Dean chuckled to himself, knowing that he’d never be the marriage type, so long as there were things out there he had to hunt.
“No, thank you. Already had to deal with that once. Long story.” Catherine didn’t feel like going into her entire life story. “I prefer casual encounters. I’m sure it’s gotten me some detractors, but no one’s had the guts to call me a slut to my face.” She smirked, hoping he wouldn’t pass judgment, but she didn’t think he would.
“Girls get a raw deal that way. People hear that I’m a slut, and it’s a good thing. Girl with my numbers gets mocked.” He shrugged. He’d never call himself a feminist (mostly because he didn’t know any outside of the no-shaving, man-hating variety) but he was in more ways than he knew. “I think you’d eat up any man who tried to call you one to your face. Probably why you don’t get that.”
“I simply hold the novel opinion that one’s sex life should be one’s own business.” Catherine grinned straight out. “I only judge when extenuating circumstances happen.” If someone skipped out on a pregnant girlfriend, for example. Thank God she couldn’t have that happen.
“Well, yeah. Actions speak louder and all that shit. Crap.” He’d been trying not to swear too much around her, if only because she seemed to be what his father would call ‘a lady’. As opposed to regular women, ladies were fancy and usually out of the Winchesters’ league. Well. Maybe not Sam.
“It’s all right. I can swear in ... I think five languages now.” Catherine appreciated the thought, though. Nobody had really treated her like a lady for a while now. “Hebrew’s my favourite; all those glottal stops.”
“I can only speak English, Greek, and Latin,” Dean grinned. Some demons were just sneaky bastards and prefered to be exorcised in Greek - they were a little older than the Latin speaking ones.
“Greek and Latin?” Catherine’s eyebrow went up. There had been vampire hunters in her world. “Don’t tell me someone who looks like you is dabbling in the priesthood.” It was dark out now, and had been for a few hours. If he tried anything, she’d eat his eyeballs, but that did get messy.
He chuckled and scratched the back of his neck. “Not so much? Uh. It sounds crazy if I say it out loud. Even back home it did. You’d be shocked how many times I’ve been arrested. Hell, they think I’ve died like, twice.”
“As long as you aren’t a vampire hunter, I think we can coexist.” Catherine had been in gaol a few times herself.
“As long as you don’t kill people,” Dean said, eyes narrowing. “You’d have thought I’d have clocked you easier.” Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.
Catherine laughed. “Not usually. But any one of us who says they’ve never killed a human, ever, is lying.” She wasn’t afraid of him. If anything it was almost endearing how quickly he got wary. “Relax. I do have to eat, but good brandy helps, and when I do need enough to kill a human, I try to pick scum.” Murderers. Paedophiles. Calliope had helped her develop a sense of who was who. “Normally I simply ask people, and they let me. Apparently humans find it quite sexy.”
Dean went a little more at ease, but not too much. “Me and Sam - that’s my brother - only went after nests that got a little Manson Family on us. Lone vamps tend to be reasonable vamps.” He sighed a little to himself. “Sorry, you can’t blame me for being jumpy. Last time a vamp tagged me I needed thirty stitches.”
“I was born one. Well, as much as you can be.” Catherine shrugged. “The last time I saw the sun was probably, oh, a day old? Well. There’s jewellery that can help with that, but I mean under my own power. I won’t apologise for what I am, but I do promise that unless it’s my life or yours, you will not get any stitches from me.” Honestly, it was another area where her looks were to her advantage - men almost never denied a beautiful woman anything.
He cocked his head to the side. “That makes sense, that you’ve had this power all your life so you don’t feel the need to flex it. I swear, vamps only seem to turn people with mental problems and they’re all ‘look what I can do!’.” He rolled his eyes. “No offense. If you’ve. Uh. Done that.”
That made her laugh out loud. “No, I haven’t. I’ve actually never needed to turn anyone.” Catherine was still grinning as she sipped her brandy. “I do have a very dear friend and colleague who is, by your definition, completely mad, but she was already a vampire when I met her.”
“Well, same holds true for her. Don’t go eating a whole small town or anything.” Dean wrinkled his nose at the memory of snogging an undead with baby on her breath. “Exhausting running after vampires. I’m only human.”
“Calliope kills things that hurt her. Or me.” Catherine looked down, long fingers idly, slowly drumming against the outside of her brandy snifter. “This may sound stupid, but do you know if there’s anyone ... else? Like me? That you’ve seen yet?” The idea of being the only one rather bothered her.
Dean shook his head. “Nope. Only thing hinky about this island is how we got here. And why beer costs five dollars a friggin’ bottle.” He wrinkled his nose. “Budweiser isn’t even good.”
He might just not have looked around much. “I once had a lover who came from Aruba,” Catherine said, still looking at her glass, worried in spite of herself. “He raved about a beer called Balashi. You’d think you would be able to get it elsewhere in the Caribbean. I mean, if we’re to drink ourselves sodden, at least it ought to be good.”
“Huh.” Dean flagged the bartender down, ordering two of the beers that Catherine had talked about. Once the man had come and gone, Dean gave her a wan smile of apology. “I feel kinda bad about you getting that first round and me ogling you after. I’ve got this one.”
“At the risk of sounding cocky, it’s nothing I haven’t experienced before. But I appreciate the thought.” Ironic that it took a mortal to treat her like a lady. “Thank you. I find this tastes surprisingly sharp and clean for beer - allegedly it’s made with purified Caribbean water. We can drink all we want, but we can’t process food.” She answered, before he asked the question, chuckling a little.
“Well, yeah, but still. I don’t know, I try not to be gross when I stare.” He chuckled to himself before taking a long swig of his beer. “That’s ... really good, actually. Nice hops to yeast ratio.” If there was something that Dean was expert about besides cars, it was beer.
“I prefer brandy, but for beers, this one is very nice.” Catherine smiled a little. “I’m glad you like it.” He’d just looked so lost. She’d wanted to do something nice. She was allowed a moment of kindness.
“Brandy’s fancy,” he smiled. She seemed fancy. “Well, thanks for the suggestion. Your friend you mentioned earlier, I hope she shows up for you.” Right after Sammy.
“She’s already here. She got here before me.” Catherine regretted saying it when she saw the look on his face. “I hope your brother shows up. I never had any siblings, but I only imagine the bond is tight.” And she might regret saying this, but she scribbled a number down on a napkin as she finished her brandy. “If you don’t think I’m going to string you along and eat your John Thomas - rather uncivilized, I think - ring me up sometime.”
“Good.” He wasn’t upset that she’d gotten her friend and Sammy hadn’t shown up. It wasn’t the same thing, really. “My what?” He blinked at her, then looked down at his groin. “Oh - oh. Yeah, I will. thanks for the beer.”
“Just casually mentioning your penis might have sounded odd.” Catherine inclined her head, amused.
He shrugged. “Heard odder,” he mused. “But ... thanks.”
“Well, now I’m curious.” Catherine got up, amused. “And if there’s anything I can do for you, in a professional sense, let me know.” Hopefully she wouldn’t have to throw herself at a mortal for him to know she was interested. If the mortal was too stupid to notice that, she wasn’t going to bother.
He nodded at her, toasting her with his beer. He was well aware she thought he was handsome, but part of his own charm was not letting on.
Catherine sailed out of the bar, not looking back. Hopefully she’d encounter this one again.