Day 53: Sun Room, Morning

[scarefaux]

With breakfast finished and a new acquaintance made, the Scarecrow's mind turned to his other friends. The disappearance of Depth Charge's friend had brought back memories of how he'd felt when Kaiji went missing: helpless, useless, as though he should have and could have done something more to find him. If only he had his brain, then maybe he

Comments

[theroadsofar]

So Dean hadn’t got a chance to crash Sam’s party yet.

That didn’t mean Operation: Kill Sam Winchester In His Sleep still wasn’t on table.

‘Course his brother would see him coming. No doubt Sam had figured out that maybe, just maybe, things weren’t cool between them. Maybe he’d try to change the subject or try to turn this back into being about The Job, like Dean would be willing to turn a blind eye to this again just ‘cause it gave him a sick feeling to think Sam was less than human. Sam kept doing that at him; this time Dean wasn't going to roll over. He wasn’t sure exactly what old Yellow-Eyes did to the kid when he’d been in Lawrence. Wasn’t sure he even wanted to know. But none of that changed the fact that Sam was plain different than he was and it kinda freaked him out. Humans simply weren’t supposed to be able to light people on fire with the power of their minds, dammit. Sam wasn’t supposed to be rocking black eyes, either. The kid used to be normal.

So yeah. Dean wanted answers ‘cause it was either that or he stew in all these questions. He was done with trying to give Sam his space, Cold Oak or not.

He didn’t think he’d be so over seeing one place as he was with the Sun Room. Day in, day out. Same room, same people. No wonder people got nuts showing up at 9 to 5’s. He would’ve killed himself outta cabin fever if he’d been in a civilian’s place.

The Sun Room wasn’t entirely full but he wasn’t the first one there. Some folks beat him here, doing the whole sitting around and chatting it up thing. Ruby was here, looking hot as usual, checking out the bulletin board. He wasn’t too surprised to see some new faces he didn’t recognize. Most of them he did, which was surprising - he expected this place with all the freaks and spirits running around to have a way higher death toll. Monsters didn’t generally hold back, not unless they were trying to use you as bait to bring the rest of the lemmings running to them. This wasn’t working the way it was supposed to. Still, some of the patients had gone missing - or “released” or whatever they wanted to call it - and he figured the Head Doctor wanted a constant stream of fresh meat. Wasn’t a nice thought, especially with that chick getting tortured last night, and now that throwaway line about cleaning up his office this morning. One of these days, someone was going to shank Martin Landel.

If Dean had it his way, he’d get first dibs. And this time it wouldn’t be one of these iffy things about killing humans; what Landel did was already classifying him as a borderline monster in his book. The guy was fair game.

Dean settled back against the couch, slouching slightly and letting his head rest back. His finger tapped idly on the crook of his elbow as he kept an eye out for Sam, or anything weird going on around him. So far they hadn’t gotten attacked during day light hours, but he’d rather not get surprised just ‘cause he got lazy. With Sam being a no show, Dean kept an eye on Ruby, watching what she did. Dean didn't think she'd give him a lot of clues about what Sam had been talking to her about but still. Call it professional curiosity. She was a hunter and he wanted to see how she operated.

She also had a pretty nice ass from over here.

[For Sherlock]

[sociopathology]

The act of following people from room to room was already becoming tiresome. Conformity at its best, with strict time sheets, similar clothes and nurses moving the day along whenever they got their say so; Sherlock hated it all, but he especially hated his nurse. She chattered mindlessly as she lead him through the corridors, a constant wail of conversation that Sherlock simply couldn't care less about. He barely even responded to her, having discovered that she refused to answer the questions he deemed useful, and would instead move it onto more small talk. When the opportunity presented itself, Sherlock broke away from her and left her talking to herself, ducking through crowds of people until he could finally see the room everyone was beginning to gather themselves into.

He took a small, sweeping glance of the place; sickly coloured and bright, with the quiet sound of whispered conversations floating around the room. Still no sign of John, which was a thought registered with the slightest of frowns. Was he even here? It was almost like looking for a needle in a haystack. He could, at least, tell that he wasn't the only one to be newly admitted; several people wore confused expressions and spoke with a certain nervousness. It didn't make him feel better. But then, things rarely did.

He strolled across the room, picking up snippets of bland conversation as he went, and he idly viewed the notice board with a vague sort of fascination. It was full of vague hints and tricks, with the occasional cryptic notes. It must be how everyone kept in touch; how he missed his phone. Or better yet, John's phone. What he'd give to text out a simple message. His thumbs feel idle with no technology to type onto and no way of gathering snippets of information. After a long few minutes of simply taking his surroundings in, he chose a seat a quiet way's away, dragging his feet up and holding his knees against his chest. He took this moment to eye someone close enough to observe; he was quiet and thoughtful, gaze pointedly settled upon a woman a short distance from where they sat. She was, Sherlock supposed, aesthetically pleasing in her own way, though women were admittedly a completely different field from which he studied in. They were strange creatures who obsessed about their looks, with emotions that ran faster than Sherlock's thought process. He hadn't met a woman that could prove her own intelligence, and whilst he was sure they existed somewhere, he didn't have any particular reason to go out of his way to finally work on understanding them. It would take more years than he'd be willing to give up.

Minutes passed, and Sherlock was still being silent. He had no reason to speak, and he was completely unaware of the awkward silence that would likely follow his arrival - the only way he'd notice it were if Dean were to pull an uncomfortable facial expression, or perhaps shift his body in a way that spoke volumes about his finding the situation off-putting. As it stood, Sherlock kept his thoughts to himself and simply watched Dean with a very weighted sort of concentration, his hands settled comfortably over the caps of his knees and his chin resting upon linked fingers.

Even geniuses need to practice to keep their talents fresh, and without John to watch, this stranger would have to do.

[I'm so sorry that this took so long. :(]

[theroadsofar]

It didn't take too long for Dean to figure out someone was actually staring at him.

He turned.

With the room filling up with other patients - prisoners, same thing at this point - he didn't spot the guy immediately. When he did, Dean was startled to see the guy staring right at him, this really pale dude who looked like he could stand to take a step outside or something. Dean glanced down at himself, half expecting one of the cats always around the Sun Room to have thrown up on him or - nope, he was clean, and he still couldn't figure out why the other guy was staring at him. Dean thought about ignoring him. For all he knew, there could be a good reason he was staring. Maybe he recognized him? It wasn't exactly the first time he'd run into someone in Landels who acted like they knew him and he guessed technically they had, pre-brain wipe or whatever they were going to call it.

Dean finally got up and approached the other patient, taking a seat without asking and flashing him one of those friendly grins that weren't that friendly.

"I know you? You're making eyes like I forgot to get your number," Dean said. Try as he might, he still couldn't tell if he was supposed to recognize this man. Thin face like that, he thought he should've, but there was just a big blank.

[sociopathology]

Sherlock was unreasonably good at hiding himself. This time, however, he just didn't see the point - there was a room full of people, some looking particularly at ease but most of them looking somewhat distant, or even distressed in some cases.

As soon as he's recognised he realises the natural rhythm one goes through when realising someone has been watching them for what could be full minutes. First, they wonder whether there's something on their face or on their clothes, sometimes they question whether it's in their heads but usually they fall onto ignoring whoever it is (because that is, as far as Sherlock could understand, what polite people do). Admittedly, their actions would be stiff and wary, because they know that someone's watching, and sometimes it would be about that time that Sherlock would watch someone else. Usually, though, he kept his gaze on them. What intrigued Sherlock was how certain cultures reacted to the attention - some would be offended, some would be uncomfortable and others would welcome it. It was interesting, something quite basic but ultimately it could change quite a few reactions. It also depended on the person, of course - but personality traits were easy to spot in the way that they hold themselves, how they smile and even how they don't.

His target reacted in the ways that were usual for someone to react - right up until he sat down beside Sherlock. It didn't phase him, it didn't necessarily interest him, but it was a social cue that Sherlock decided to go along with.

"My number would be useless here, they've taken my phone." He pointed out, looking at Dean as though he had recently grown an extra head.

[theroadsofar]

Dean almost smiled, even if it was a little pained. “Join the club, buddy. They took my car.” If they messed with his baby, he was friggen flipping a table over it. A car like that you had to respect and Dean was willing to bet that wasn’t happening in a place like this. Dean shrugged and went on, “I’m willing to be we’re not the only people they jacked stuff from.”

It wasn’t surprising, aside from the whole kidnapping out of thin air thing. That still had him going but it didn’t seem to matter if you were in the middle of doing something when you got snatched, from what he’d seen. So phones, whole cars, maybe pets or….whatever were probably floating around here too. That or his car was wrapped around a tree, which was way way too sucky to even think about. Dean’s jaw had tensed just at that thought. Okay, yeah. He didn’t need to have that mental image of her totaled like that. Once was bad enough. Between the deal and the stuff with Sam, having the Impala rusting somewhere in a trash heap was like karma was kicking him when he was down. Seemed like overkill to him. Dean pretended like he wasn’t aware of the fact that Peeping Tom here? Was totally making these eyes at him still, except it wasn’t the sexy eyes. More like he was talking buckets of crazy.

“Dean,” he volunteered instead, sticking out his hand.