milliways_bar | (no subject)

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(no subject)

[OOM: We can't afford for me to do the right thing.]

It's been a long time since he'd last really 'powered up,' as Ruby teases him by calling it. Sam can feel the effects twisting through him. Everything seems brighter, sharper, clearer; he feels clearer, stronger, ready for anything.

He can't sit still, and he sure as hell can't go back to the motel room until it wears off a little - Dean'll notice something's wrong in a hot second, and Sam doesn't want to lie to him unless he has to.

He pushes through the door to Milliways instead. Maybe he can walk it off there, at least a little bit.

[OOC note: Sam is currently riding a paranormal high due to the effects of ingesting demon blood. If your character would be able to detect that sort of taint, feel free to have them do so! Just don't expect him necesssarily to admit it.]

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"Sit -- uh, sure," Sam agrees.

"You want anything first, while I'm up?"

"Sure. Apple cider would be nice.

"The spiced kind, not the hard kind.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Back in a second."

He heads off in the direction of the bar with rather a lot of energy.

Yes.

He looks just a bit like he's had three or four pots of Alain's ridiculously strong coffee.

"We can take a walk or something, if you'd rather not sit," Meg says, when he gets back.

"It might be a bit Jane Austen, taking a turn around the room, but it's an option."

"I guess I am a little wired," he admits, sheepishly. "You sure you wouldn't mind?"

"No, not at all," Meg says, standing. "Just please keep in mind that your stride is probably about five times what mine is and don't leave me too far behind."

She's kidding.

It's probably three times hers at most.

"Is it just cabin fever or a long day in the car or something?"

"Had a lot of caffeine while working the last job," he lies, without hesitation, and falls in beside her.

"Even more than usual."

"I probably don't even want to ask how much that means, do I?

"How's Dean doing?"

"Let's just say it's a lot and leave it at that."

Sam automatically looks toward the front door, as if expecting his brother to appear.

"Dean's good."

"I'm glad," Meg says.

"I wo-- "

Wait.

Wait, Sam doesn't know, does he?

(Honestly, she's not sure why she'd expect him to. The whole thing after Dean was in Hell has been gloriously undiscussed from Day One. Meg's not sure that's the best decision that could have been made, but she's also not sure it's her decision to make.)

Meg fills the pause with an only partly faked coughing spell.

"Sorry. I just got over the chickenpox. The other symptoms are gone, but the cough is hanging on."

The look Sam's giving her is more than a little skeptical.

"Chickenpox, huh?"

Dryly.

Meg nods.

"Fever of almost forty degrees, IV and dehydration, lots and lots of itchy spots, week quarantined upstairs waiting to not be contagious, followed by a week of waiting for the spots to fade so I can go home. It's not a fun disease when you're an adult."

"Forty-- right, Canada," he realizes.

"Okay. Chickenpox. I'm glad you're feeling better; that had to suck."

The skepticism isn't entirely gone, but it's dimmed.

"Yes, Canada," Meg says.

"That's about, oh, 104 Fahrenheit.

"And thank you.

"I'm feeling much better."

"Good."

Beat.

Sam's watching her closely.

"So, should I tell Dean you're glad to hear he's doing okay?"

"Sure, I guess," Meg says, easily.

More or less.

"Tell him I said hi."

"I'll do that."

Beat.

Beat.

"Should I not ask?"

A second or two before Meg answers.

"I'm not going to insult your intelligence by answering 'About what?'

"But . . . you should probably ask Dean.

"I suspect that's fairest to both of you."

"Okay," Sam says, matter-of-factly. "Then I will."

"Thanks."

"Yeah.

Well, this is a bit awkward, isn't it?

"For whatever it's worth, I promise that your brother and I didn't have a torrid affair."

The look on his face is priceless.

"... oh god."

It is priceless, yes.

"Sorry," Meg says.

"No, it's okay, just ... mental images, um -- look, can we talk about something else?" he concludes, rather desperately.

Meg nods. "Of course.

"Would you like to choose, or would you like to hear about the great 'should the wedding be filmed' debate?"

"... there's a debate?"