milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There are certain things Meg decided back in January that she was not going to do until the term was over.

Well, she has finished her third year at McGill, it is officially summer, and that means she's allowed to do them now.

So this evening finds her at a slightly out-of-the-way table, with a bridal magazine and lemonade.

She's not in serious planning mode (that would involve lists), just flipping through for general ideas.

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It's probably for the best that Dean decided to sober up before trying to find Milliways.

He showered, too.

It means that when he drops his hand down onto the top of Meg's table, he does not smell like a distillery.

Or a hobo.

"Hey, Meg. Played any good board games lately?"

Two good things to not smell like.

Meg looks up from her magazine to Dean.

"Hello, Dean."

She closes the magazine and lines the edge of it up parallel to the edge of the table.

"And, yes. A group of us played Risk the other night.

"I still, apparently, take too long with my turns."

There are a lot of things Dean could do here.

Yell. Snarl.

Hurl a chair.

Pissily grab her bridal magazine and throw it on the floor.

But that --

Well, quite frankly that would be embarrassing.

Even more embarrassing than what he remembers happening before.

"Figures. You got any problem skipping the pleasantries and going straight to 'what the everloving hell'?"

Meg shakes her head. "I think we can skip them, yes.

"Would you like to sit?"

That way she won't have to crane her neck or speak quite as loudly.

"What would you like to ask?

"Not that 'what the everloving hell?' doesn't cover it, of course, but it is kind of a hard question to know where to begin answering."

"Okay," he says, like someone squaring up to the batter's box.

Or a firing squad.

He doesn't sit down.

"What the fuck where you doing in that room? And I'm guessing it was a room, because if it'd been down here I think I'd've heard about it by now."

Because really, who in Milliways doesn't love a spectacle?

"Two rooms, actually. With a door between them."

That's the easy part of the question.

"And I was . . . a friend asked for my help. I think the theory was that it would help you to interact with someone . . . human."

He can feel something short out in his brain, a white fuzz of noise that drowns everything else out.

It's kind of familiar.

Fuck.

"Were you and your 'friend' out of your fucking minds?"

Edited 2011-05-11 01:44 (UTC)

"I don't think so, no.

"Though I somehow don't think you'll agree with me.

"Please sit down, Dean."

Yell at her and swear at her all you like, but please sit down.

"Yeah? How'd you figure that?"

He does not seem inclined to sit.

To be fair, he doesn't seem like someone who wants to stand still, either.

Awkward.

Meg sighs, very slightly, and then stands up.

He's still a lot taller than she is, but it feels slightly less . . . something.

Even if it is more likely to draw attention.

"Which part? That you don't agree with me? Neither your tone nor your body language is exactly hard to read right now, on that front.

"Or that we weren't out of our minds? Because it seems to have done what it was supposed to do."

"You got lucky."

And there's the snarl, hidden in the curl of his lip.

Self-disgust can look pretty vicious from the outside.

"That's all."

It can.

But she's seen him look worse.

"How so?"

"I could've killed you."

As if he didn't have enough nightmares already.

Good job, Castiel!

"You could have tried. I don't think you actually could have killed me. You would have been stopped.

"I had a . . . for lack of a better term, I had a silent alarm. To an angel.

"It did occur to me to ask about that, you know. We discussed it a bit more than just 'oh, don't worry.'

"It turned out to be an unnecessary precaution. But we did take it.

"How much do you remember?"

"Which angel?"

He has his suspicions.

And he maybe wants to avoid answering her question.

Avoiding thinking about all the shit that could have happened is high on the list, too.

Go figure.

Edited 2011-05-11 02:24 (UTC)

"An archangel.

"Not Castiel.

"Though he was the one who asked for my help."

"Remind me to find a way to kill him."

What the fuck.

Meg's tone goes just ever so slightly dry. "I suspect that's another one you could at best attempt.

"Do you have questions about things other than the state of my sanity?"

He's got a lot.

Unfortunately most of them are not ones that he's going to ask.

It'd give away too much, and she's already seen him --

Damaged.

"What did you get out of it?"

When in doubt, go on the offensive. Sometimes it even works.

Meg looks at him for a second.

"Honestly?" she says.

"I got beaten at poker a lot.

"And I got an exhausting, stressful month at the end of the universe. Followed by nearly breaking up with my fiance when I got home."

But that's the thing.

It was never about what she was going to get out of it.

Okay, so that wasn't what he was expecting.

"Well. Shit."

"A month?"

Meg nods.

"Just about exactly. I did September twice, more or less, last fall.

"You were here before and after that, but I was here for a month."

The thing of it is, Dean doesn't remember it being that long.

Not even close.

Which --

Really does not bear thinking about.

Jesus.

And since there is no way in Hell he is talking to anyone else about this -- especially not anyone who was there --

(Pity will kill him. It -- no.)

"All right."

Silence.

"Well."

Meg remembers it as feeling a lot longer.

Go figure.

"Yeah," she says.

She looks down at her hands for a moment, and then back at him.

"I haven't told anyone here. Any of it. And I won't."

Just in case Dean was wondering.

Dean doesn't throw up.

Or throw a chair.

He's going to count that as a victory, for now.

"Gotcha. That's -- "

He'd say 'good' or 'great', but he just --

Can't.

Just like he can't look her in the eye right now.

"Yeah."

She remembers that look.

Or lack of look.

That's the time for you to go look.

And she hasn't thought about it in months, but . . . well, certain things make impressions.

"Um, sorry, I really need to get back. I have some things I need to take care of before I'm too tired to take care of them.

"But I'll see you around."

"Sure."

It's not much.

It might even be a lie, in the long run.

But right now it's what he's got.

That, and a significantly increased desire to go back to the motel and start drinking.

Again.

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