|| Re-Introduction: If You Need Him, He'll Be There Again ||
[SPOILERS for Supernatural up to 5x22 in this post, and likely in the course of play with my Dean. Sorry.]
( Beautiful loser, never take it all 'cause it's easier and faster when you fall; you just can't have it all. )
And then, she lights up brightly - as if Dean was a long lost family member, suddenly sprouting from the grave. Excellent, unexpected news. A present on a chill afternoon. She stands, as if on a spring.
“Dean!” Oh, Mary, how happy she is! “Now you rotten scoundrel,” she goes on as she closes the distance, and slaps him, if he doesn’t dodge, on the shoulder. “You come here, like nothing’s happened, as if I didn’t have an 8 year old terrified about you and half her uncles.”
She frowns at him, then clicks. Maybe he was among the dead, maybe he returned. The young hooker’s been here so long, none of this is weird to her anymore.
“Well bugger you. What happened to you during the quake? You have gall, waltzing in here like no-one worried.”
But under this unexpected anger, there’s warmth, a lot of it, and unbearable joy. Because maybe, just maybe, if this one came back, than another might: the one who saved her, back then, from herself.
Cal.
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Except he doesn't know who she is at all. Christ. An eight year old? Crap.
"I uh," he hedges intelligently. "Wait, what?" There it is. "Quake? Uncles? I don't know any kids. Who're you?"
And why are you so goddamn happy to see me?
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Despite the comical disarray of their reunion, Sugar spots that Dean is completely lost. Oh, dear, oh dear. Or rather, oh, shite. Because she's seen this happen before, people coming back, not remembering their past at the Mansion.
She's been repeatedly hoping this wasn't going to be the case with Cal.
“I'm Sugar,” she says. “And I have a daughter called Sophie, who loves you very much.”
She blinks, stares at him.
“Fucknuts, Dean, you don't remember a bloody thing, do ya? Well that'll mess with everyone and everything.”
She frowns.
“Good to see ya regardless. Still want those clippings, or should we wander off to the kitchen, have tea, and catch up?”
She's not even questioning that he'll believe her. Because, quite simply, he'd better.
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...only his eyebrows pull together as he frowns back at her. "I uh. Shit." Just, shit. He knows his own instincts, honed in the past year by being on the run from pretty much everything and everyone they can be, have developed a hair trigger for paranoia, but it's just not coming for her. He doesn't feel threatened, which is new, just confused.
Okay. It seems like it'd be okay to admit to the pretty damn obvious.
"No, I don't. Uh... sorry?" She doesn't seem like she wants an apology though, so he steps back a bit before answering. "We should probably talk. The clippings were for information, anyway, so no loss there."
He can always just find them later for fact-checking.
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“Jolly grand,” Sugar drawls in her slightly less than posh accent - she's from the bowels of Dickensian London, after all. “Let's scarper off, aye, and I'll put the kettle on. No scones o'whutnot, tho, not wiv all I got hangin' of late. But I'll rabbit as much as you like, got nothing to hide.”
She winks at him, and starts to gather her notes, puts away her quill.
“It's right good you're here, even though you don't remember a bloody thing,” Sugar goes on. “Gives hope, even if your noggin's all messed with. Feckin' house, messing with us this way.”
And if Dean allows, she'll lead him back to (we're so sorry) the kitchen. She couldn't write now if she tried, anyway - she's much too excited by this new development, she's even lost all her polish in the process.
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And that she's someone who he'd have been glad to know a few years earlier; maybe he could be again. He certainly feels more amused than annoyed, which is unusual for him.
"Well, if it helps, I'm a pretty quick study," he offers, following her after the smallest hesitation. He does need information and, if nothing else, she seems friendly. He tries to rouse some wariness for where she might be leading him, but there's none of it; either he's already under her spell if she's something he would normally hunt, or he can trust her.
He does his best to keep that in mind until he hears more. "And besides, ask anyone: My noggin's been messed with pretty much from the go."
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“Did you just come?” she asks, slower, enunciating better, like she would for the bourgeois johns who came for her, in another life.
She's trying to act casual, but her excitement is probably visible, palpable.
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