deercountry | There's not a word yet for old friends who've just met... [CLOSED]

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There's not a word yet for old friends who've just met... [CLOSED]

Who: Ariadne and Dean
What: Ariadne checking in on her big brother and getting a nasty surprise
When: February 16
Where: The Winchester House

Content Warnings: Backstory trauma likely to come up, will update as needed.

Ariadne understood that Dean Winchester was sensitive. He tried to hide it, with his bravado and his easy smile, but she had spent enough time with the Winchesters to know better. And the way she understood Dean, she knew that he was hurting. After all, Castiel and Sam were gone. And they here his heart and soul. Kind of literally. She knew that he needed space. She knew that he needed to grieve.

So she left him alone. A full month, she left him alone. Until one morning, she woke up and realized that he hadn't reached out to her. So it was part of out of concern, part out of a slightly bruised ego that she arrived on his doorstep, carrying a basket of assorted foods she'd traded for, along with one of Sam's shirts that she'd pilfered, holding onto as a kind of way of holding onto him.

Because she was sad too. She just knew that her grief didn't compare to his.

"Dean," she said softly, rapping her knuckles on the door. She could, of course, let herself in. But it would be rude. "Dean, it's Airy. Can you hear me? We need to talk." They'd put off talking long enough. "Dean? I know you're in there." She could smell him.

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Ever since Dean 'arrived' - came back? woke up? he isn't sure - things have been really weird. There have been so, so many people that have come up to him and told him they knew him in some capacity, and it's been kind of wearing on his soul for the past month.

It's kind of convenient, though. Most people? They were his friends, they knew him, they wanted to rekindle the friendship if possible. Bolin was especially eager, and it kinda makes a guy feel pretty good about himself, when someone wants to be your friend that badly.

It's unsettling, but he's rolling with it best he can.

He's been busy, too -- if he's gonna be here, he's gonna make the best of it, and that means working his ass off on the bar he'd like to open. The idea came to him after chatting on the network with Jacob, and he hadn't been able to shake it. It's given him something to focus on, to keep his hands busy while he tries to sort out his thoughts. It's coming together nicely, too - he's fairly confident it's going to be badass once he actually gets it open.

He's currently making a pot of coffee and mulling over beer types when the knock comes, and he almost doesn't hear it over the cacophony of thoughts in his head. Blinking himself back to the present, he pushes the handle down of his french press, and heads to open the door.

"Airy?" It's less familiarity and more of a question in his eyes, a tilt of his head and no recognition on his features.

Honestly, he looked better than she was expecting. Which brought a smile to her face, as she reached up to pull the hood back, off of her hair. Not that she expected him to recover from his losses. But it was nice to see that they weren't completely drowning him either.

"Hi," she said, giving his arm a little squeeze before she slipped in, marching directly into the kitchen with the familiarity of someone who was always coming and going from the house.

She set the basket down on the counter and started pulling out items. "I brought you some things," she continued, "although I have to admit, I'm not sure what all of them are." First was a jar for a golden liquid, swimming with noodles. "This is something called 'ramen.' A customer at the garden made it for me, in exchange for some spices. I think there's something similar to meat in it, so I figured you might like it." Next, a small pot of coffee. "I guess you already have coffee." She set it to the side. And pulled out a mason jar of dried cherries. "And these are from the garden. I know you don't like fruit very much, but they're so sweet."

It was only when she got to Sam's shirt that she paused. Hesitated.

Gave him a chance to get a word in.

He very nearly blurts out Natalie Portman?! But he holds it in just in time, biting the words back so he doesn't sound like a jackass. He's already run into one face twin here - calling this woman something she clearly isn't seems rude, especially when it's avoidable.

"Um."

That's about all he really gets to say before she's speaking, unloading her arms and putting very interesting assortment of items on the table.

He...has no fucking clue what to say.

"...Is this all for me...?"

"Yes," she said. Deciding not to add that she'd sort of assumed his diet over the last month had been largely whiskey and regret.

There was a nagging in the back of her mind, as she continued to take out the various pots, jars, and dishes. A funny feeling that she didn't like. He looked and smelled like Dean. But there was something in the way he was carrying himself that was...off. Something just not right.

But she didn't want to think about it. He was mourning a loss. Of course he wasn't his usual self. Not yet. But she'd get him there.

"This," she said, setting the shirt off to one side, "I borrowed and never had the chance to bring back. I...I'm sorry about that."

Well, she wouldn't be entirely wrong.

He leans over to look at what she's brought, confused but assuming there's a connection here - she knows him, she knows that he's probably been having a rough time of it. Cas and Sam are gone and, were he the person she remembered, he'd probably be mourning.

She'd be right, if he could remember any of it.

He chews on his lips and folds his arms over his chest, trying to figure out what to say and how to say it, when she pulls a shirt out.

"...Was that Sam's?"

She nodded slightly. "I wasn't sure if you wanted it back or not." It was hard to imagine. But when you lost a loved one, you tended to hold onto whatever pieces of them you could.

At least, that's what she imagined.

There weren't any pieces of her brothers to cling to. She'd had to let go, without really...getting to mourn.

"You know," she said, nipping down on her lower lip, "I think Deerington spoiled us a little bit. When it was all...falling apart and ending and we were ready to go home. At least we got to say goodbye, you know? I liked that."

And she regretted not getting it with Sam. Especially after some of the awful things he'd done, although she knew they weren't his fault.

"You can keep it."

Just from how she looks, the expression on her face, the hesitation, she and his brother had been close. Just how close Dean isn't exactly sure, but there was clearly something there and if she needs to keep it, she can.

"Airy," he says, looking down at all the jars and the hodgepodge of things she'd spread out on the table, "I gotta, uh. Tell you something."

And she's probably not gonna like what it is.

The nagging in the back of her mind rose to a scream for a moment, before she tamped it back down. Everything was fine. Dean was better than she'd expected. While things wouldn't go back to normal, they would find a new balance.

Everything was fine.

"First," she said, "I have to show you the best part. Don't even ask what I traded to get it." Because it had been...a lot. Not that Dean wasn't worth it. He most assuredly was. Still, she was going to have to be lean for the next couple of weeks.

At the bottom of the basket was a pie.

A cinnamon almond pie with the last remains of her autumn harvest. She hadn't made it, of course. She'd just had to trade some goods and services to get someone else to make it, someone who actually knew how to bake. With a shy smile, Ariadne took the pie out of the basket and set it in the middle of the counter, waving her hand in a little flourish, as if to say 'tah-dah!'

He's uncomfortable with the prospect of accepting more - this is all clearly not for him, but for some nebulous version of himself that has been living here and creating friendships and relationships that he's never experienced, himself. But she barrels on, and he's loathe to interrupt and burst her excited bubble.

"...Wow, this is incredible."

Because holy shit, it is. It looks amazing, and he can smell it from here and it's the kind of pie you just wanna smash your face into and eat it all in one sitting. It's beautiful.

And he feels so, so guilty.

"It's friggin' gorgeous."

Yes, she looked pleased with herself. Almost to the point of being smug, although Ariadne rarely allowed herself to be smug. She knew he would love it, though. And given all of her grand proclamations to Anakin about how she would protect and care for her big brother at all costs, it felt good to put that into action. Plus, she'd never really been in a position to spoil someone before.

She could see the appeal.

"I hope it tastes as good as it smells," she said. "I haven't tried it." It was his pie, after all.

"Well, I think that's something we should do."

Despite knowing he needs to fess up, he can't help himself. It looks so damn good and pie really is one of his favorite things - the fact that she knows that tells him they were close.

God, he hopes she doesn't hate him when he finally spills the beans.

"I'll get some plates down."

Although she was perfectly familiar with the layout of his kitchen, she nodded, stepping up to the counter to get out of his way. It was his territory. And she was kind of invading.

And that nagging whine in the back of her head was bothering her again.

Trying to keep the doubts at bay, she started to fold Sam's shirt. If he said she could keep it, she would. It would be nice. A way to stay connected to him. And possibly obsess over Vira-Lorr's prophecy for the rest of her life. Or at least the rest of her life in Trench.

"There's something I wanted to ask you," she said, choosing her words carefully. She didn't want to upset him. "About that night with the charm bracelet, when Castiel sent me and Sara away." Which was putting it politely.

Ariadne was still a little angry about that.

He pulls a few plates down and fishes a big knife out of one of his drawers - probably something closer to what you'd decapitate a vampire with, but whatever. It'll do the trick.

"Sure," he says, a little unsure because anything she's gonna ask him is gonna end in--

yeah. tears.

He swallows, belly churning as he carefully slices them each a piece, maintaining his quiet as he puts a plate in front of her and in front of him.

"The problem," he says, apologetic, so very sorry, "is that I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. That's what I was trying to tell you. I'm...new. I just washed up. I got a whole cabin here full of memories that aren't mine."

Ariadne heard him. But at the same time, her ears were overwhelmed with the sound of a wave breaking on the shore. She felt like a seashell. You were supposed to hold them to your ear, to listen to the ocean. Ariadne had never been to the actual sea. But she knew that breaking sound.

And knew it was inside of her.

She didn't show it though. To her credit, Ariadne was well-trained in the art of keeping her emotions off of her face.

Even if they were like sand in open wounds, inside.

"Oh," she said, folding her hands in her lap, all interest in the pie completely gone.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking down at his hands, their plates sat before them, and while his stomach growls for it he feels awful, like the worst person ever.

"I keep running into people who know me, who knew my brother, and Cas. But I...I don't remember any of it. Anything that happened. And I'm...trying to rekindle it, I guess? If people want me. Some probably don't, which is fine. Understandable. Don't feel obligated or anything, is what I'm trying to say."

She listened to him, nodding slightly, although her chin drooped forward a little bit, so she ended up staring down at her hands, fingers interlaced in her lap. The ocean roared in her ears, before settling.

Which, she figured, was the signal that she'd used up the allotted time to grieve.

At least here and now. She could get selfish when she was alone.

He'd stopped speaking. So she snapped her gaze back up. "Um...do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" she said, shifting her weight a little to try to look comfortable.

He's anxious, which...isn't a new thing for him. Recognizing it for what it is, though.

Yeah, that's new.

"Of course, sure."

Everyone's had them for him - he's had his own share of them, too.

"All right," she said, nodding slightly. She was beginning to feel like a flower on the edge of a pond, looking down to look at her reflection in the water. She forced herself to stop. "I suppose...my first question is...how long have you been here? As far as you remember?"

In other words, how long had she not known?

How much had her attempt to give him his privacy interfered with her opportunity to...say goodbye?

"As far as I remember?" He rubs the back of his head and frowns a little. Things are still kind of fuzzy; when he'd woken up on that beach, he'd been pretty damn out of it until Raleigh had come for him.

"Maybe...a week? Week and a half?"

Something like that.

Not terribly long. She wasn't sure if that made her feel better or worse. Some quick math told her that the last time she'd seen him--or at least that particular incarnation--had been that night at the Snake's Den, when he was playing guitar.

He'd been...happy.

She'd never been there for him in his sadness. On the one hand, it was a fine last memory. On the other hand...she hadn't been there for him.

Well, that was her problem to wrestle. Not this version's problem.

"I see," she said, trying to remain neutral, for his sake. "And before that? What was the last thing you remember from your life back home?"

He picks at the pie on his plate, but doesn't eat it just yet. The last thing he remembered...

Bobby being stabbed. Lucifer rising. Telling Sam he couldn't trust him. Finding out he was the Michael sword.

"Nothing good."

Perhaps that was too much of a personal question. She should have known better. Dean had once been cagey with people.

Very, very cagey, actually.

A new approach, then. "I realize this is sometimes a socially unacceptable question," she said. "But do you mind if I ask you how old you are?"

He is who he is.

"Uh, thirty." Kind of a weird question, but he doesn't really mind answering it. He'd turned thirty a while ago back home, but he'd been kinda...busy. He'd barely noticed. "I would've been thirty one in a few months back home, but apparently it's February here, so I'm not really sure how that works."

She gave him a wry smile. "Don't worry. No one's exactly sure how the time works here. You're not alone in that."

By her own calculations, she figured that she was nearly twenty one. But she'd arrived in Deerington right after her nineteenth birthday. And it been nearly the exact same season there as back home. So an easier transition. She knew it was harder for other people.

Which was beside the point, but she didn't want him to feel lonely in that regard.

"You're a bit younger than your last incarnation," she explained. "He was thirty five." A pause. "And I know your birthday is January 24."

"Yeah." She's right, it is.

He has to wonder about himself, what he was like five years in the future. Nice to know he's still alive. What does that mean for the apocalypse?

"I guess we were close?"

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