who; Tamara Evers and Dean Winchester; special appearance by Sam Winchester. when; June 11, 2007. what; Dean stumbles into a bar in Austin, and gets a message from Tamara. Among other things. Part one of a two part log. where; Austin, TX warnings; This log is rated hard R for sex and strong language. You have been warned.
Two weeks, and it still surprised Dean how ... easy it had been, beating the Yellow Eyed Demon back into hell. Too easy, the rational part of his brain said, not that he gave a flying fuck. He'd fought only because he had to, but when all was said and done, he'd climbed into the Impala and floored it, with little care as to where he ended up.
He drove each day until his eyes were heavy with exhaustion, crashing in the cheapest motel he could find for a couple of hours before hitting the road again. He drove until the Impala was nearly out of fuel and his wallet was empty. And when he finally stopped, he really didn't give a care where he was.
Where he was turned out to be Austin, Texas, and he couldn't remember if he'd ever been there before. Using one of his fake credit cards (and fuck if he cared if it were traceable), he checked into a motel, then crawled into bed to sleep for a few hours. Sleep didn't come easily; it hadn't, over the last two weeks, and after nearly an hour of struggling to find it, he sighed, stuffed his feet into his boots, and headed out for the nearest bar he could find.
Damned if he didn't need a drink ... or thirty.
It was late, not that it mattered, really. The joy of being twenty-two and living on your own was keeping your own hours. Tamara was editing photos at a bar she frequented, in between surfing paranormal websites. She'd surf a site, get bored, edit a few photos, and go back to the websites. It was boring, but hey, she was getting work done!
It was late when she sat back, rubbing her eyes and sighing. When she heard the door to the bar open, she paid it no mind at first ... until she started hearing the whispers. She looked up, squinting at the man who'd just entered, a frown crossing her face. Pushing back her chair, she made her way to the bar, ordering another beer as she tried to keep from making it obvious she was watching the guy.
She took the beer with a smile for the bartender, and moved close enough to the guy to say softly, "Your brother's worried about you," before she started to head back to her table.
Dean froze in sipping at his first beer of the evening, staring at her with a look that was something close to horrified. But the second she turned to walk away, his hand flew out, catching her wrist rather tightly. "You don't know a fucking thing about my brother," he hissed sharply, and if it'd been in him, he likely would've hit her.
He got into a hell of a lot more fights these days. It was stress -- or maybe the hope that someone bigger and badder than him would do what he was too cowardly to.
She squeaked, dropping her beer so the bottle shattered on the floor, staring at him with wide eyes. She tugged at her wrist in his grasp, but considering she wasn't all that strong, it wasn't very effective. "I, uh, I ... his name's Sam. Or am I wrong?" She could have sworn the whispers were coming from him.
He appraised her for a long moment, then dropped her arm, disgusted. "I don't have a brother. He's dead," he said hollowly, and a second later, he'd pulled a pistol from God knew where, pointing it directly at her. "... But why do I get the feeling you already knew that?"
She screamed, backing away and covering her mouth with both hands. Sure, she'd seen a lot of guns in her life -- she'd grown up in Texas, for cryin' out loud -- but never one pointed at her face. "I ... I did but ... please put the gun away?"
A brow raised and he cocked the hammer back -- purely theatrical. But nothing made a point better than the slow clicking that accompanied it. "Enlighten me," he stated, staring her down. "Or I'm gonna assume you're one of the reasons for it." Irrational? Just a bit.
Her knees gave way and she hit the floor, staring up at him with horrified eyes. "Reasons for what?" she said in a strained voice, not taking her eyes off his face.
Well, then. Either she was the world's best actress, or she didn't have a fucking clue what he was talking about. He released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding, gently easing the hammer back down so that the gun didn't accidentally go off.
He flicked a glance at the bartender, then stood, tucking the gun away and turned to leave. He intended on being gone before the cops arrived.
Tamara watched him go, then pulled herself to her feet and followed him, abandoning her things on the table she'd been sitting at when he arrived. She jogged outside to catch him before he left. "Wait!"
"What?" he snapped, a bit more sharply than intended, only shooting a cursory glance over his shoulder at her as he unlocked the Impala and popped the door.
She caught up with him and stood, staring at him and biting her lip. "He's worried about you," she repeated, crossing her arms over her chest. "He says ..." She cocked her head to the side, as if listening to something. Or someone. "He don't like the direction you're goin' in."
"Yeah, well, tell him if he's that fucking worried, he shouldn't've gone and got himself killed," Dean spat, but she had his attention, at least.
She was quiet for a long minute, then she sighed. "He didn't mean to." She bit her lip, not entirely understanding what was going on.
"Heh. Yeah, right." He shook his head, scrubbing a hand across his face. Every instinct said he should get in the car and go.
She winced, and was suddenly very glad she could only sense spirits, because what she was getting right now was enough to make her want to cry. "You're hurtin' him."
"Good." One word, spat out, and then he was shaking. He had to lean up against the car and take slow, deep breaths. In two weeks, he had only cried once -- and fucked if he was gonna do it again in front of some girl.
Tam didn't hesitate then, moving forward to put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't mean it. Even I know you don't mean it." She bit her lip hard.
"Yes I do," he whispered, finally looking at her, really looking. "Damned psychics. Won't leave me the fuck alone, no matter how far I run, will you?" He, of course, was assuming she was the same kind of psychic as Sam.
She raised an eyebrow then, frowning at him. "Hell, I ain't psychic. I ... I don't know what I am, but I don't know what the hell you think I am, but I know I ain't it." She wasn't even sure that made sense, but damn if his expression didn't scare her right now.
"Catch twenty-two, isn't it? That's what you'd say even if you were," he replied drily, sniffling a little and shaking his head.
"I dunno what you're talkin' about, but I do know what I'm tellin' you is true and you're drivin' your brother nuts here." She put her hands on her hips, staring at him.
"Yeah, well, good for him," he said sarcastically, pulling away from her so that he could slide into the car. He had a shotgun laying across the backseat, and damned if he wasn't planning on hitting up the nearest cemetary. It was supposed to be haunted, and blasting the fuck out of a couple ghosts might make him feel better.
She was quiet for a minute, then she leaned down so she could see his face. "He doesn't want you to go on the hunt, and from what I'm seein' right now, I don't want you to go either."
"Deal with me going," he replied, not even questioning how she knew about the hunting. Probably 'Sammy' -- if she even was communicating with him, not that Dean believed it. He stuck the key in the ignition, started the car, and slowly started to back out of his space, giving her time to get clear so that he didn't hit her.
She moved, biting her lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. she glanced up at the sky and sighed, then ran back into the bar and packed up her things. She paid for her drinks, and scooted back outside, dumping her things into the backseat of her car, and -- with what Sam had told her -- pulled out of the parking lot fast, so she could catch Dean.
Dean sped, once he was clear of the parking lot. Not that he gave a rat's ass, really. If he got pulled over, well, so be it. But he didn't, and it only took perhaps five minutes for him to pull up to the gate that blocked off the cemetary.
Not that it did much good -- there was no fence. Dean was only marginally amused by the logic, but he parked, retrieved the shotgun from the backseat, and locked up the Impala, heading into the darkness.
Amazingly enough, he'd been easy to follow, and Tam hadn't really cared whether he saw her or not. All she cared was keeping him alive. If only because the memory of what his brother's spirit had told her ... well, it was bad.
She parked not far from him, getting out of the car quickly and following him into the cemetary. Without a weapon. Sometimes, she wasn't the smartest person on the planet.
Dean had everything he needed ... he just didn't bring it with him. Sometimes, Dean wasn't the smartest person, either -- either that, or he just didn't care. He wasn't expecting anything more than ghosts, though, so maybe he wasn't entirely stupid ... but rocksalt certainly didn't do a goddamned thing for ghouls.
He'd only been in the cemetary for a few minutes when the first made an appearance, snarling and rotting, and then it was on him.
Tam had followed him through the cemetary purely on sound alone, using the whispers to guide her. She was shocked as hell when the ghoul appeared, and before she could stop herself, a scream had worked its way from her throat. She stumbled back a step or two, then noticed just how much trouble he was in. "Throw me the gun, if you can!" A shotgun, she could handle.
"Won't do a damn bit of good," he called back -- or, tried to. The stench from the thing was overpowering; he could barely breathe, much less yell, and those things were strong. It had him pinned on his back, and he knew he probably looked like an overturned turtle, but, really, he didn't care.
"It'll distract it!" she countered, trying to move closer but also trying not to get close enough so the thing could grab her instead.
He coughed, gagging on the smell, but her moving closer did distract the thing. It turned to face her, and then it was on top of her, too quickly for a normal person to do a damned thing about. And for a long moment, all Dean could do was lay there on his back, trying to breathe.
She screamed again as it pinned her to the ground, choking on the smell. She thrashed, and after the first scream, she couldn't draw enough breath to even speak, let alone scream. Instead she fought for all she was worth, even as it held her down easily.
It took a moment for Dean to even remember he still had his handgun, loaded with traditional ammo, and another for him to fumble for it, get it out and get the safety off. He sat up, and fired, three quick shots that, even from a slight distance, made the ghoul's head explode.
Disgusting, but effective.
Unfortunately for Tam, she was still underneath the thing when it's head exploded. Oh my ... She lay there for a second, before she shoved it off with shaking hands, rolling away from it. She lay there for a minute before she pushed herself to her knees -- and promptly threw up.
Dean shouldn't have found it amusing, really he shouldn't've, but the laughter came, unbidden and bordering on hysteria. Sometimes it was either laugh or cry, and damned if the world wasn't just suddenly hilarious, for some reason that he couldn't fathom.
She knelt there for a second, taking slow, even breaths, and even then she ended up throwing up a second time. When she was finished, she spat onto the ground and sat back on her heels, staring up at him. "I don't see what's so damn funny," she said hoarsely.
"Neither do I," he managed before another fit of hysterial laughter overtook him, and it was probably wrong, but he ended up sprawled out on the ground, laughing himself silly until he could barely breathe. Dean had definitely gone 'round the bend.
She got up, carefully, and walked to his side, where she dropped onto her knees again, staring down at him. "You're ten kinds of crazy, you know that?" She shook her head. "I don't find the situation very amusin', really."
"I'm not the one who followed a stranger into a cemetary," he replied, the laughter finally subsiding a bit, and when he sat up, he did what he could to just breathe, slow and even.
"I had good reason," she replied, sitting down and drawing her knees to her chest. "Had to make sure you didn't do somethin' stupid."
"Because my dead brother told you I would?" He quirked a brow, then shook his head. "Do you even have a name?" He couldn't remember if she'd given it or not.
"Tamara," she replied, not taking her eyes off him. "And yes, because your dead brother -- who also happens to have a name -- told me so."
"Well, then, Tamara, Dean says it'd be in your best interests to take yourself home and forget about tonight," he said slowly, eyeing her.
"Dean -- wait. What's your last name?" She was looking at him funny now.
"What's it matter?" He quirked a brow, getting to his feet, and even going so far as to offer her a hand up.
"Ain't like I can't get it out of Sam if you won't tell me," she replied, taking the hand and letting him pull her to her feet.
"Actually, you probably wouldn't." He didn't think Sam was stupid enough to go around spouting their last name; Dean and Sam were common enough. Dean and Sam Winchester? Not nearly as common.
She rolled her eyes, but didn't press the issue. "Maybe you don't know your brother as well as you think." Cheap shot, yeah, but hey, she'd almost been killed by a ghoul.
Dean frowned, staring at her for a long moment. "Winchester," he finally said quietly, glancing skyward. It was a name he should've probably dropped, for his own safety at the very least.
She stared for a long moment, and then her eyes widened. Oh my lord. She started to take a step back, then stopped. The whispers were more insistent now, and she was having trouble making them out. She brought both hands to her temples, shaking her head. "Dean, mind tellin' your brother to talk a little slower?"
"I never could stop him when he was excited," Dean replied, quirking a brow, then dusting his hands on his jeans so that he could wipe at his face without getting ghoul-bits on it.
The motion made her want to hug him, but she held back, instead listening to Sam. When the whispers finally subsided, she whistled softly. "Damn. Is there a state you ain't wanted in?"
"... Texas. And possibly Kentucky." He snorted, only marginally amused. It was funny to him, on some level -- all the lives they'd saved, and he was condemned for murdering creatures who happened to wear a human face. How was that for irony?
"Good thing y'picked my state then," she drawled, an amused cast to her features. Then she frowned. "Why're you angry at your brother?"
"Because the idiot went and got himself killed. He never learned to do the hard things, and it cost him his fucking life." He knew he probably made very little sense, but he didn't care. A vague shrug, and he bent to pick up his fallen weapons, sliding the handgun down the back of his jeans, and balancing the shotgun against his shoulder.
She was quiet for several minutes, listening. She watched Dean almost sadly, before she walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. "He almost killed, back there. But he couldn't do it." She tilted her head to one side. "It wasn't -- it still isn't -- in him to kill."
"And he paid for it, and now I've got nothing." The last time he'd been on the road alone, at least Sammy was tucked away at Stanford, and his father was god knew where, but alive. Now they were both dead, and Dean was alone, and he hated it.
She was quiet for another minute, her hand still on his shoulder. When she spoke again, her voice was just above a whisper. "Are you angry at him ... or at yourself?"
And for that, he didn't have an answer. He could only shake his head helplessly, pulling away to start back towards the cars. He certainly didn't want to be standing around in case any more of those ghouls showed up.
She followed him. "'cause y'know, from what he's tellin' me, you watched out for him. You protected him. And then some demon came and took him away, and you tried, but you couldn't get there before ..." She shook her head. "He's been followin' you. He doesn't like where you're goin', roads you're travelin'. He doesn't want ... he doesn't want you to get yourself killed."
"Yeah, well, lemme tell you, right now? Death would be a fucking blessing." He meant that, and that scared him. "D'you know what I've got? Absolutely jack. Him and my dad were all that I had, and I lost 'em both to a fucking war that can't be won."
"But you have the knowledge to fight," she countered, meeting his eyes. She was silent for several minutes, watching him. "I had a little sister, once," she said softly. "Always told her the monsters in the closet weren't real, and she was safe as could be in bed at night. She was killed, a year and a half ago, by a shtriga." She looked away then. "I didn't even know 'bout anythin' supernatural then. And by the time I learned ... well, I never was a fast study."
The only thing he could think of to say was, "I'm sorry." Really, what did someone say to that? He shook his head, glancing away from her. Psychics always unnerved him, just a little, and she was uncannily accurate on a lot of things.
She closed her eyes, just listening. "Do you know why Sam even was where he was?" She cursed her voice for shaking, just a bit. Talking about Amy still hurt.
"Something to do with the Demon. That much was fairly obvious." He didn't need to know the details to know that the Demon was involved, the bastard.
She scuffed one foot against the ground, opening her eyes and lifting a hand to scrub at them. "Do you want to know?"
"Doubt it'll make me feel any better, but sure, why not?" Very little could make him feel better at the moment, besides booze and maybe some female company. But even that was only a passing reprieve.
She sighed, and what she wouldn't have given to be sitting. "The Demon brought him and ... four others, to wherever the hell they were. He wanted them to fight each other, find out who was best." She tilted her head to the side, listening. "He was lookin' for a leader. He said he wanted Sam for the job."
"Fucking Demons." Yeah, that about summed it up. He scrubbed his hand over his face again, biting back a sigh. "Look, it's getting late. And the grounds keeper'll probably be making rounds soon." In other words, they needed to leave. Soon.
"And you expect me to leave you to your own devices? I don't think so." She looked at him, shaking her head. "Come on. You can crash at my place. I live alone anyway."
That was interesting. "I've got a motel room. Would hate to impose," he said slowly, just putting up a cursory fight. In truth, he didn't entirely want to be alone.
"You ain't imposin' if I offered, and I believe that was an offer." She shrugged her shoulders.
"Heh, I forgot about that southern hospitality," he mused, more to himself than her, and finally nodded. "Lead the way."
"You ain't from the south are ya?" She shook her head and led the way to her car, unlocking it as she waited for him to reach his. Unless of course he'd rather get it in the morning.
"Kansas, actually ... as much as I'm from anywhere." Born in Kansas, raised on the road; made it kind of hard to put much weight to being 'from' somewhere. But it was all schemantics, and he shrugged, chucking his guns into the trunk, then climbing behind the Impala and starting her up. He didn't leave the car anywhere, not unless he absolutely had to.
She climbed into the car and backed onto the road, before turning out of the cemetary onto the main road. It was a mere fifteen minutes later that she pulled up in front of a it's-seen-better-days type of apartment building, killing the engine and climbing out of the car.
He pulled in behind her, killing the engine and climbing out of the car so that he could retrieve his bag from the trunk. Of course, a second later, he realized that his bag was back at the motel -- all that was in the car was Sammy's clothes, but after a moment of debate, he grabbed the bag and hefted it onto his shoulder.
She led the way into the building, stopping to grab her mail in the lobby before heading up the stairs. "I apologize in advance, by the way. I live on the eighth floor and the buildin' ain't got an elevator."
"A few flights of stairs aren't gonna kill me. Just don't ask me to help you move," he replied, even managing something of a smile for her.
She shook her head, but she was grinning as she shuffled through her mail. Bills, mostly. "I'm gonna have to get myself a second job," she said, mostly to herself, as she started climbing the stairs.
"Heh, one of the perks of being on the road, I guess. The bills never seem to catch up with you." He couldn't even remember the last time he'd paid a wireless bill -- he just kept starting new contracts under different names.
"Lucky you," she drawled, shaking her head. "Swear, I dunno how I keep up with 'em half the time." Freelance photography didn't really pay all that well.
"Pure dumb luck?" He shrugged, switching the weight of the bag to his other shoulder. It still ached from the beating he'd taken in South Dakota two weeks prior.
"That and really nice parents." They'd finally reached her floor, and she led the way to apartment 804, digging her key from her pocket and unlocking it. "Home sweet home. Sadly, I ain't got a guest room, but you're welcome to my room, and I'll take the couch."
"Now that's really imposing. I'll take the couch. Don't worry, I've slept on far worse before," he said hurriedly, to cut off any protests to the contrary. "Don't suppose you'd mind if I grab a shower before bedding down?" Not necessarily at the moment, but he was filthy.
"It ain't imposin'!" She made a face at him and shook her head. "Nah. G'head. I'll grab one after you're done." It'd give her time to put her stuff away and grab a beer.
"Y'sure? You did get covered in ghoul-bits." He'd been marginally more lucky, in that respect, but he certainly wouldn't complain about going first.
"And I survived this long without dyin', so I think I can last another twenty minutes, or however long you're gonna be in there." She smiled, tugging the elastic from her hair, wincing as it got stuck.
"Okay, then." He really wouldn't argue, and with the bag in hand, he vanished into the bathroom. It only took him about ten minutes to shower, dry off, and dress, if a tee-shirt and a pair of shorts that were a bit too loose counted as dressing. "Your turn," he announced, setting his bag (and clothes and boots) by end of the couch and making himself comfortable.
She'd been sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through some photos and sipping a beer, but when he came out she got up, and gestured vaguely to the 'fridge. "I got beer in there, if you want any. Just make yourself comfortable." That said, she disappeared into her room to get clean pajamas, and then slipped into the bathroom.
He probably didn't need any alcohol -- it was a downer, definitely, and just maybe getting smashed wasn't the best idea. He contented himself with stretching out, an arm flung across his eyes. He wasn't sleeping, merely resting.
She took longer than he had in the shower -- twenty minutes -- but she'd been under the damn thing when its head had exploded, so she was grosser than Dean had been. When she came out, she was wearing a tank top and a pair of shorts, and she'd left her hair loose. "Hey. You still awake?" she asked quietly, approaching the couch.
"Always am," he replied, though it was slightly muffled by his arm. A second later, he dropped it, opening his eyes to look up at her. "I don't sleep much anymore. Just a warning." He was prone to pacing, in case she heard movement in the middle of the night.
"I just wanted to say, if y'need anythin', don't hesitate to knock on my door. Really. It ain't like I got anywhere to be tomorrow." She didn't, really. And she wanted to make sure he was okay -- if only to get the very worried spirit of his brother off her back.
He eyed her for a long moment, then nodded, once again draping his arm across his face. "Sleep well ... and feel free to tell Sammy to shut the fuck up." Yes, he was still angry at his brother. Mostly himself, but his brother, too.
"Try an' get some sleep," she said quietly, before heading for her room. She left the door open as she climbed into bed, just pulling up a light sheet. It was too damn hot in Texas in June.
Dean lost track of how long he laid there, lost in his thoughts. When he couldn't sit still any longer, he paced for awhile. The sun was just starting to edge over the horizon when he finally fell asleep, and it wasn't long after that, that the muttering started, quiet at first, but getting progressively louder.
Tamara was actually amazed she fell asleep as quickly as she had, but close to dawn, the whispers started again. She groaned and pulled her pillow over her head ... before she heard noises coming from her living room. She didn't get up right away, but she lifted the pillow so she could hear better, mentally telling the spirits to shut up for a minute.
Dean groaned in his sleep, tossing violently. Thank god there wasn't anything breakable nearby, or else it probably would've been knocked over. He rolled over, burying his face against his arm, which only slightly muffled the noises he was making.
That did it. Tamara got up from the bed, rubbing at her eyes and walking into the living room, and around to the front of the couch. She pressed a hand on Dean's shoulder, shaking him gently. "Dean. Dean, wake up."
He only groaned again, rolling over, but the touch seemed to make him settle, at least a little. He drew in a deep breath, releasing it in a sigh that ended on a quiet sob.
She bit hard on her lower lip, but she couldn't stop the tears from flooding her eyes. "Damned if your brother doesn't need you, Sammy," she said softly, shaking Dean a bit more. She'd have climbed onto the couch with him, but there wasn't room.
Dean didn't know what he was, if he wasn't a son and an older brother. He had no one to look out for, and no one to watch his back, and that was killing him. He sighed in his sleep, making himself more comfortable, and, well, if that left room for her, it was purely by coincidence.
She debated with herself for all of ten seconds, and then climbed onto the couch, stretching out next to him and sliding her arms around him, hugging him close. "Shhh. It's okay." It very clearly wasn't, but she could pretend, couldn't she?
He snuggled against her, exhaling hotly against her shoulder. It wasn't all right, and it'd never be all right, but in that moment, at least the nightmares were kept at bay. It was all he could ask for, really.
She leaned her cheek against the side of his head, running a hand up and down his spine slowly, comforting. She said nothing, simply closed her eyes and held him, hoping her presence was doing something, at least.
It was doing something -- it was helping him calm down. He whimpered quietly, then settled back into sleep, only twitching slightly once in awhile.
She was glad, for that. The night before he'd looked completely exhausted, and Tamara had gathered from both that and what Sam had told her that he'd barely slept at all since ... since his brother's death.
Once he was asleep, she continued to hold him, moving her hand up and down his spine slowly. When a little while had passed, she decided to chance it, and tried to pull away.
While he slept, he'd curled his arm around her hips, subconsciously making room for her, but when she tried to get up, his hold on her waist tightened, just marginally, and he groaned in protest.
Well, damn. She settled back against the couch, frowning just a little. Granted, she was still tired, but she was also getting hungry. She wanted to get up, but at the same time, she didn't want to wake him up. He needed all the sleep he could get.
"Mm, don't go." Muttered against her shoulder. He was awake, if only barely, and she was comfortable.
She chuckled softly. "Couldn't if I tried. You kinda got me in a compromisin' position." That said, she resumed rubbing his back, her hand moving in slow circles, as she pressed a light kiss to the top of his head. "You're calmer."
"Sorry I woke you." But he had warned her, hadn't he? He couldn't really remember. He sighed, retracting his arm, but if his hand skimmed along her side first, well, it wasn't on purpose ... was it? He really wasn't sure.
She shrugged. "I told ya I didn't have anywhere to be today," she said, lazily stretching her arms over her head.
"Still." That was Dean, always protesting. At least, lately, anyway. He shifted to prop himself up on an elbow, staring down at her.
She watched him carefully, making no move to get up. "D'you feel any better?" He looked better, at least.
"Mm, a little. Best two hours of sleep I've gotten in awhile," he replied after a glance at the clock.
She smiled. "Good. 'cause you looked like absolute hell last night." Teasing, of course.
It surprised a chuckle out of him, and he shook his head. "Hell's an upgrade, I'd think."
"Hah! You can laugh. And I don't mean the hysterical type." She pushed to a sitting position then, running her fingers through tangled hair.
"Sometimes. It's rare." At least lately -- it wasn't like he had much to laugh about anymore, really. He scrubbed a hand across his face, biting his lip against a yawn.
She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. "If you want to get s'more sleep, I'll stop talkin' and leave you be. Mama always said I could talk the fuzz off a peach, when I got started."
"Mm, nah. If you've got coffee, I'll be good to go." He was used to running on fewer hours of sleep than that under normal circumstances; of course, the previous two weeks had been anything but normal.
"'course I got coffee. What sane person don't have coffee in their apartment?" She winked at him, and though she was reluctant to get up, get up she did, stretching her arms over her head.
"People with caffeine allergies," he replied smartly, unable to keep from smiling just a little. It certainly felt awkward, but that was to be expected, he supposed. He sat up, stretching and exhaling sharply as he felt his back pop.
She raised an eyebrow. "And you said the couch would be fine. Damn stubborn idiot." She shook her head, turning and heading for the kitchen. Hopefully she did have some coffee laying around -- it'd been a while since she'd been shopping.
"The couch was fine," he insisted, finally getting to his feet and following her towards the kitchen. "After sleeping on the backseat of the Impala, or a prison bed? A couch is better than the fucking Hilton." ... Not that he'd ever stayed in a Hilton, but ... whatever.
"Suit yourself. I did offer you my bed." Success! Coffee! She pulled the box from the cabinet and busied herself with the coffeemaker, flipping on the tiny TV in the kitchen and turning it to the news. Purely for background noise.
Dean leaned against the counter, trying to stay out of her way while she made coffee. It wasn't often that he watched the news, but mention of a fire in Nebraska caught his attention, and he frowned, leaning forward to hear better.
Of course, a second later, he saw ... himself and Sammy. The prison shoots from only a few weeks before, and he heaved a sigh, shaking his head. "... Why am I not surprised?"
She stopped, watching the TV, listening to the report. Then she giggled at something. "Sammy's got quite the sense of humor."
Brows arched. "Sammy'll kick your ass for calling him that." Dean was the only one who could get away with it -- and not without protest. "What'd he say?"
"That his picture is better'n yours," she replied with a grin, before she sobered a bit. "Sorry. I didn't mean to step on any toes." She'd only called him 'Sammy' because she felt like she vaguely knew him -- it was weird, when spirits seemed to cling to her.
"Not my toes you stepped on. He's the one that hates that nickname," Dean said with a light shrug, shaking his head. "... And, dude, his picture is in no way better than mine," he announced, albeit belatedly.
"He said he never really minded when you called him that," she said softly, scuffing her bare foot against the kitchen floor.
"Then why'd he fight it?" A brow raised, and he shook his head, curious.
She listened for a second, before the coffeemaker stopped making noise, and she busied herself with filling two mugs even as she answered him. "Because you expected him to."
That made him pause, and he bit back an ironic chuckle. "Sounds like Sammy, that's for sure." He sighed, leaning up against the counter and crossing his arms.
She managed a small smile, turning and handing him one of the mugs of coffee. "It was a nickname he only let you use," she said quietly. "Because ... because he liked hearin' it, even if he'd never admit it." She shrugged. "Not 'til now, anyway."
He accepted it, sipping at it a moment before he replied. "Yeah, well ... I'm gonna make sure to beat him silly for that eventually." He knew it made little sense, but he couldn't find it in him to care, not really.
"He says you couldn't even if you tried," she said quietly, sipping her own.
"Maybe not at the moment, since his ass is all incorporeal." He took another sip, humming appreciatively. Good coffee.
Tam was quiet, leaning back against the counter, swirling the coffee around in her mug. "You wouldn't ever hurt him."
"Wouldn't hurt him. Just rough him up a little." He pressed his fingers to his temple, sighing. Damned if he wasn't getting a bit of a headache.
She shook her head, setting down her coffee. "Y'know y'wouldn't do any such thing," she drawled, looking at him.
"Sure I would. 've done it before." A couple times, actually.
"He's never died, before," she added softly, shaking her head a little.
"And for that, I'm gonna kick his ass." Once I get there. The thought came without warning, and he took a long drink from his mug, trying to unthink it -- not that it helped. It wasn't that he was suicidal; it was just that he had nothing to live for.
Tam frowned, then shook her head, walking over to him and tugging at his arm, trying to get him to put down his coffee. "C'mere."
He shook his head stubbornly, but complied, setting the mug on the counter and staring down at her.
Whether he fought her or not, she tugged him into her arms, sliding hers around his back and resting her chin against his shoulder. "You need to stop blamin' yourself."
"You don't understand. It was my job to protect him. He's dead because I failed at the only thing anyone's ever asked of me." He gave a bitter sigh, reluctantly resting his head against hers.
She shook her head, pulling back to take his face between her hands. "Stop. Sam told me what happened, and there ain't nothin' you could'a done different. You didn't know the demon was gonna take him. It wasn't anythin' you could have predicted."
"If I'd driven faster ... if I'd been prepared to shoot ... I didn't even have my weapon out," he whispered, shaking his head slightly. A thousand mistakes had been made, but it was his that had cost Sam his life.
"Shhh," she whispered, resting her forehead against his chin. "Ifs don't get you anythin' but a headache and a boatload of guilt. Trust me, I know." She'd gone through the same thing when her sister died.
"I could've saved him. But I couldn't -- because I wasn't good enough." He had more guilt than a small country. Not that it mattered, in the end. "I never should've dragged him back into this. He'd've been safe in California." ... No, he wouldn't've, but Dean needed his illusions. If it was his fault, then it meant it could have been prevented. Which was some small comfort.
"That's a damn lie and you know it," she said, pulling back to look into his eyes. "When're you gonna stop torturin' yourself about somethin' that can't be changed?"
"... It runs in the family," he muttered, completely unapologetic. Sam had tortured himself over Jess; John had tortured himself over Mary; and now Dean tortured himself over Sam. Full circle, he supposed.
"Ain't no excuse," she said firmly.
"Reasons and excuses aren't the same," he replied, stubbornly.
"That ain't a reason, it's an excuse, and you damn well know it." Tamara nearly glared at him, not letting go of his face. "You need to quit torturin' yourself, or you're gonna go down a dark road you shouldn't be goin' down."
"Maybe I just don't care anymore." Of course, he would have gotten the hell out of dodge a lot sooner than he had, if that were true. Maybe it was some twisted sense of loyalty that had made him stay to see the battle through; maybe it was because that's what Sam would've wanted; or maybe, just maybe, it was out of good, old-fashioned revenge.
"Stop lyin' to yourself," Tamara snapped, giving him a little shake. "If you didn't care, you wouldn't still be breathin'. But somethin' has kept you goin' this far. What is it?"
"The fact that I'm too fucking cowardly to eat my own pistol," he snapped out, and realized only a split second later that it was true.
Tamara flinched then, releasing him and stepping back, closing her eyes as a pained expression crossed her face. She actually raised her hands to cover her ears, though what she was hearing wasn't physical sound.
"You hear that, Sam? Hope it fucking makes you happy." Yes, Dean was a bit irrational in his anger -- but that was part of the grieving process, wasn't it?
"Stop it," she said, opening eyes full of tears. "Stop blamin' him for somethin' he damn well couldn't help." Now she had a headache, and a very large urge to slap Dean. Not that it would help matters any.
"I don't blame him. I blame the whole fucking world." He took a step back, pressing his back to the edge of the counter as hard as he could, and the pain helped, some.
"Well, maybe you need to stop blamin' the world and start blamin' the demon that landed you in this situation in the first place!" The words came out a bit louder than Tam had originally intended them to be, and she was glaring at Dean as she lowered her hands from her ears. "And stop bein' a goddamn ass to the brother you claim to care about so damn much!"