so shall it break.

jo. even after all this time, after all the weird shit that he has been snowballing through, it still takes him a moment to process the sight. there will be no day when he accepts good things can happen to him ;  this is just his thought process. is this an enemy? is this a trick? should he be wary? those wheels are turning as his muscles continue to still with the tension of all these questions, and he’s kind of dumbfounded when she extends a hand. he hesitates at first  ---  naturally. in the end, he decides to go for it ( with the reassurance that if this is an enemy, he’ll handle himself just fine ). it’s then that he takes her hand and picks himself off the ground with an appropriate grunt and hollow ache in his knee to go along with it. “ yeah? kinda hard since i had no idea you were out and about. ” which ...  huh. that’s a whole other can of worms. “ please tell me there ain’t no catch i’m missing. ”

when you are dean winchester, sometimes something as basic as a run for a nearby joint to grab some burgers can be an experience that completely flips your world upside down. and when you have a long, furious trail of regrets and mistakes behind you   ----   it’s only inevitable to get haunted by them. ( the only kind of ghosts he will never be able to put to rest. there is no salt and burn for that. ) he sees this other young man next to the impala, surely a suspicious sight in and by itself. but of course it has to be more than that. it’s a spark of familiarity at first ;  and then, with a change of angle ( and a better look at the other ), the spark bursts into an inferno and burns at his mind with every memory that has kept him alive just for the sake of torment. he doesn’t dare say anything ( much less a name ), mostly because, as far as he knows, BEN BRAEDEN has no fucking idea who he is. and yet   ----   here he is, a petrified idiot with a dripping burger in his hand.

dean: listen, some casper or hotel transylvania goes feral, you stay out of it. don't play hero, you hear?

the string of oddities never seems to end. he almost doesn’t find it surprising that this is all happening  ---  this not being the whole back from the dead, apparently thing, but rather how it was all perfectly timed and tied up with a bow during what appears to be a forecast crisis. at the end of the day, though, he does have it in him to be just slightly awed ( he’s only human, after all ). “ i’ll call you susan, leave the trunk slappin’ to the mollys in this place. ” he heaves out a small chuckle, bringing his arms up to return the hug with a sturdy pat against the man’s back. yeah, people keep coming from the grave in this city. call him selfish  ---  or a rebellious brat in the face of fate or whatever  ---  but he’s glad that some people, certain people get a much needed second chance. “ you expect anythin’ else? c’mon. my liver does me in or nothing else. ” he pulls back, a crooked smirk wafted onto his face as he gives the other man one last pat to the shoulder. “ how long you’ve been back for? ” a pause. “ around a month for me. ” to reiterate that, yes, he did kind of end up biting the dust ( again ).

he’s still on his phone, trying to figure out if he can somehow sneak in a few seconds of signal to actually make a call ( call him paranoid, but it’s the ONLY surefire way to know everyone is actually okay ). there’s the familiar voice, then the familiar figure as his gaze abruptly ascends from the screen. charlie. in here? not just in the city, but in this goddamn strip club too? ( figures. this by itself is astonishing enough for him to not realize this is actually CHARLIE and not her bizarro world version. ) “ hey. ” it’s tentative, because he’s not quite certain how to approach this. “ some coincidence, huh? ”

her name is elena gilbert. she seems to be struggling from some sort of memory loss. it’s not really a person’s entire life story, but it’s enough information in the short span since they’ve met ( basically a few hours ago ) for him to understand this is something that truly flares up his instinctual drive to help people. this is how they’re here now  -----  looking around for things to keep all the locked people warm ( it’s a good thing to keep people busy when they’re on murky waters ). “ think there are any good odds of findin’ stuff other than thongs in that room over there? ”

dean: and probably dead people

dean: i hope for pleasure not business

dean: it was the closest safe spot or whatever

dean: where are you? you good?

dean: what i'm saying is, where are you?

dean: what's up with you?

“ well, good on you, joe exotic. ” the corner of his mouth briefly hooks upward and he extends the hand that still holds onto two bottles of beer toward his best friend   ----   a silent invitation. dean is dusty, he knows that. he’s dusty and obstinate, struggling for years to break the patterns that have been forced into his head. he wants to try to make a leap toward a better ( perhaps more progressive ) version of himself, but rome wasn’t built in a day. in other words, having a silent drink by the lake ( a cold one with the boys, if you will ) is his go-to idea whenever he wants to attempt a closer bonding. this time, however, he doesn’t stop there. he hesitates a bit before popping the cap off his bottle and even takes a beer of his own, but he does go forward with his intention. “ you wanna talk about it? ” a twist of his head and he casts a glance toward the angel, suddenly feeling a surge of discomfort rise like the tide. backpedal, backpedal. “ ‘bout whatever’s, ” a motion of both hands, his lips curling downward in a grimace, “ got your knockers twisted. ” alright, that’s better.

everything goes well, until it longer goes well. seems to be a winchester mantra at this point, so dean can’t say he’s that surprised when his attempts to sneak up on some ghoul that’s left a trail of bodies in its wake go south. someone in their vicinity makes noise, alerts the creature, and he barely has any time to blink before the damn thing sends him flying and his ass hits the hard pavement. by the time he props himself up on an elbow ( grunting, because --- ouch? ), it’s too late ;  all he can do is watch as the creature speedily makes its escape. so, as a stand-in, he veers his attention toward whoever it was that ruined the plan to begin with. “ hey. what the hell? ”