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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Well, that wasn't going to make it easier. But if it was what he wanted, then she supposed she would have to find a way to give it to him.

Still, the hesitation was written across her face, as she nipped at her lower lip, trying to figure out how to best begin. It was decidedly unlike Ariadne. But he didn't know that yet.

"We met...it's going to sound a little strange." She took a deep breath, then started again. "We were trapped in a city called Deerington. You might have heard other people mention it. It was the place we were before we were here. The city was either alive or a dream or both. I don't really know for sure and I'm not entirely sure there's a difference. Which isn't the point. We met in Deerington, while Deerington was creating a mass hallucination of what you told me was an 'asylum.' Some sort of hospital, although there wasn't a lot of healing going on. We were both trying to get out and we worked together to make it into the vents."

"Yeah, I've heard Deerington mentioned a few times." Apparently he'd been there? He guesses. He doesn't have a lot of details and he hasn't found his journal yet - but he knows there must be one, somewhere. Hidden in a spot only he'd know, except he hasn't ever fucking lived in this cabin before so it's taking a little searching.

"That sounds like something I'd get into. I assume we got out alright?"

She nodded. "We made it back to Deerington without getting killed. And I don't mean to make that sound casual but...death is kind of complicated. Both here and in Deerington. See, the majority of the time, when someone dies here, they just come right back. Wake up as good as new."

Which was probably her optimism speaking, a little. It was probably very hard to feel 'good as new' after the trauma of dying.

But she'd been lucky enough, so far, to avoid it.

"You know, you aren't the first to say that. Couple people have mentioned it isn't permanent."

Not that he isn't used to death impermanence, but it's generally reserved for people like him, who have some kind of use.

Friggin' angels.

"Sometimes it isn't permanent," she said. "Maybe even most of the time. But...not always." Which could sometimes make it even more terrifying. Like playing a shell game that she couldn't cheat. Or a hand of cards, when the rules kept changing every couple of moments.

Ariadne shook her head in frustration, her words to Anakin echoing in her ears:

Innocent hardly means perfect. And accusations hardly mean the truth. You need to stop seeing things in absolutes. Because, no, that's not good enough, Anakin. The killing needs to stop. This isn't a war! And not everyone comes back.

She hadn't slept well since that night. Even if what she'd said (yelled?) was the truth.

"Better not to test it too much..."

The last thing she wanted was for him to get killed again. Especially because Anakin was being a butthead.

"Yeah, I don't think that's something I'd really like to test."

He's died back home, more than once apparently -- according to Sam. But that doesn't mean he wants to keep trying his luck. It's too risky, and this place...

Well. Kinda seems like a fresh start, or something. He's not sure yet - and despite his pessimism, there's a little ember of hope buried in his soul.

"Tell me more about me an' you. And...I guess if you know anything about me and Cas." Because there's some shit here that he's found that he doesn't know how to feel about.

"You mean that you were in love?"

She gave him the special smile that she always reserved for conversations about romance and love. It was in her nature. She was Alastrian. She was built to believe in true love and fairy tales.

Unfortunately, she'd kind of been left out in the cold, for much of this one.

"You were kinda quiet about that, to be honest. And Cas..." She sucked in some air between her teeth. "He wasn't cruel or unkind, exactly. But when he didn't want you involved in something...well. He had a tendency to just whoosh you somewhere else." Still bitter about that, but she tried not to let it show. "The last time I saw him, actually, was right in this kitchen. After I helped bring together the pieces of a bracelet that..."

She trailed off. Was she really going to get into the mess with Sam?

Dean actually chokes a little on the bite of pie he'd taken, groping for his glass of whiskey to wash it down.

"Back up. What did you say? In love?"

With Cas?

Ariadne...wasn't sure how to parse out that response. This Dean was younger than his counterpart, yes. But he clearly already knew about Cas.

She supposed she'd heard somewhere that love wasn't always instantaneous. Still, she was a bit startled.

"Well...that was what I understood to be the case," she said. "I'm quite sure the two of you were copulating."

Jesus Christ, Airy. Dean nearly snorts whiskey out of his nose.

"Copulating?"

Like, yeah maybe he'd oogled Cas' vessel a time or two but that was weird, right? Cause that was him oogling Jimmy, who's now dead, he guesses, and that's weird.

He sure has nice lips, though.

Anyway.

"Are you sure? Me and Cas?"

She frowned a little, absently setting her palms down on the countertop. "I can't help but feel that I've said the wrong thing," she said. "That I've offended you or alerted you somehow. I didn't mean to. I just swore to myself that I was going to tell you the truth. The whole truth."

Which was not easy for her to do. It just wasn't in her nature.

"All that to say...I'm sure. I...I remember you once remarked to me that you were very proud of yourself for never flirting with me, because you were trying to please him." A bit underwhelming, really. But she came from an intensely monogamous species.

"No, no. You didn't. I asked."

And he got an answer, and. Well. Wow. Okay -- him and Cas. That's...that's sure something.

Something in the back of his head isn't overly surprised, though - Cas literally left a mark on him, a handprint seared into his shoulder, their bond more profound than he'd ever really realized. He'd thought Cas was dead until he showed up and saved their collective asses again, and what he'd felt was more than just general relief.

So maybe it isn't that far fetched.

"I know I would've kept a journal. Dad did, I did. Any clue at all where I would've put that?"

Ariadne considered the question carefully for a moment. She hadn't been aware that he kept a journal. But that was the sort of thing one generally kept private. Private. Secret. Hidden.

Well, she was frightfully good at finding hidden things.

"Do you prefer ink or pencil?" she asked, pushing away from the counter. Her nose was already up in the air, breathing in the scent of the house. It was all so familiar. But felt strange now.

Still. She could do this. For Dean.

That's an interesting reaction, but he moves with her, easing off the counter and folding his arms.

"Either, but it's probably predominately pencil, so I can correct drawings and fix mistakes."

Pencil was actually easier to detect than ink. Mostly because ink was such a predominant material. Pencil, on the other hand, was only used by so many people and could only be used in so many ways.

She paused a moment, lifting her chin and taking a deep breath.

Graphite. It was faint, but it was enough.

"That way," she said, pointing in the direction of the scent.

He watches her, curious, but he'll lead her out of the kitchen and head towards the hall.

"Can you smell it?"

Like, he can smell stuff; the wood of the cabin, the lingering scent of smoke from the firepit outside he'd used. But certainly not graphite.

"I'm Alastrian. We have a heightened sense of smell."

She said it so matter-of-fact that she even surprised herself a little. It was still a constant adjustment, not having to hide who and what she was. Yet, Dean was so dear to her, that she didn't even think about it. Not until after the fact.

Which made her smile. Just a little bit.

"Upstairs," she said, lifting her chin to the stairwell. "Knowing you, probably all the way up in the attic."

"...Alright."

Whatever the hell that means, but he just lifts a little shoulder and looks up at the stairs, moving to head up to the second level.

"You're probably right. Sounds like something I'd do."

She gave him a shy smile. With the slightest hint of 'I told you so' in her eyes. Because she wanted it clear, beyond any shadow or hint of doubt, that she knew him. That she knew him well. That she...well...loved him. Even if he didn't remember.

Gods...he was never going to remember.

Ariadne shook her head a little, trotting ahead of him on the second floor to pull down the attic stairs herself. To prove how familiar she was with the house. All around her, she could still pick up the scent of Sam (both of them, kind of). It was going to be so hard not to miss him. But the multiverse liked him.

They might meet again.

"About six months ago," she said thoughtfully, "there was a terrible disaster. It was in Deerington. The world itself looked like it was cracking open. Everything was falling apart and we didn't know for sure that we'd survive. I was living alone at the time. And you told me to come here. You let me stay with your family because you were worried that I wouldn't be safe all by myself."

He won't remember, no. All he has to go on are snippets that he's handed from other people, and from the journal he knows he's got stashed somewhere -- in the attic, apparently. He feels guilty, though there isn't much he can do about it - it wasn't him, the memories aren't in his head, but he's hoping that maybe the journal will provide some insight as to just what in the hell he was getting up to.

He gets out of her way to let her drag the attic stairs down, thinking she may know this place a lot better than he does.

"That sounds like something I'd do," he says, hands slipping into the pockets of his jeans. "I worry about people."

"It's one of your best qualities," she said, giving him a slight smile over her shoulder, before she climbed up into the attic.

The loose floorboard at the top was painfully obvious. But she decided not to pull it up, to let Dean make the discovery. It was deeply personal, after all. So she stepped off to one side, leaning against the wall with her hands pinned behind her back.

"You called me family. When you brought me to the house. It...it meant a lot to me. It still does."

He climbs up after her, cursing himself a little for not noticing the loose floorboard sooner. He hadn't been on the hunt at the time he was going through the house, though, so maybe he can forgive himself. The master bedroom had smacked of a couple living there, a shared closet with Dean's clothes and a very obvious beige trenchcoat that had his heart and stomach twisting in uncomfortable knots, a golden ring he'd shoved in a drawer, various bits and bobs that clearly belonged to two separate people.

He's been sleeping on the couch.

"When I say that to someone, I mean it. Family don't end in blood," he says, dropping to a knee to tug at the wood. It doesn't give easily, so he reaches for the knife in his pocket, flipping open the blade to pry up the nails. "Learned that from someone special."

"Family don't end in blood," she repeated, saying it like some kind of sacred mantra.

It was. And Deerington had taught her to understand that more than anything she'd been through back home. Dean had taught her.

Her big brother, that's what she'd said to...

"Dean," she cleared her throat, inching a few steps closer to him. "I don't know exactly what you keep in that diary, but there is something...well...just in case you didn't write it down or didn't get a chance to write it down...you should know."

Out with it, Ariadne.

"There's a very dangerous man here. And you need to stay away from him. His name is Anakin..."

"Yeah. Gotta create your own sometimes, you know? After my Dad died, I thought it was was just me and Sammy, but it wasn't. Bobby was always there when we called, hell -- he was the one throwing the baseball around with me when I was a kid." Not John.

He pries up the nails one by one, then glances up at her in mild confusion at the name.

"The Star Wars guy?"

Somehow, in all of the conversation about Anakin and Jedi and Sith and movies, Ariadne had never actually heard the term 'Star Wars.' But since Anakin and his own were fresh from a war that took place in the stars, she just nodded slightly. "He..."

He killed Dean.

But she wasn't sure how to say that without completely freaking him out. The fact that death wasn't permanent took a bit of adjustment. And it still wasn't necessarily a given.

She folded her hands behind her back, feeling exceptionally awkward. "He has a mate who...I guess looks like me. And because of that, he's always been suspicious of you. Of...our friendship."

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