Liz has taken over an entire table, in what was probably once an example of organized chaos but has become an explosion of file folders, notepads, yellowed photographs, sheets of paper produced by both computers and typewriters, and Polaroids, all topped by a plate containing the remains of a salad, a glass of water, a digital camera, and the nondescript evidence box (stamped with the BPRD logo) that all of this ephemera came out of.
She's sitting with her feet tucked neatly under her chair, her elbow on the table, and her forehead in her hand. She's turning a blank, irritated stare on the nearest piece of evidence, which happens to be the infrared photo of a hallway (with a strange blurred figure in the foreground) that is resting on the table under her arm.
Her BPRD stab vest has been thrown across the back of an empty chair at the table. She is still, however, wearing combat boots and her gun.
Liz blinks, then glances up. At the sight of Dean Winchester, she smiles faintly despite herself; more a wry tilt of her mouth than a full-blown grin, but it's a welcoming-enough expression.
"I'm on an assignment," she says. "It's either this or just throw up my hands and blow the building up." She's kidding. Mostly.
She settles her chin in her hand, looking up at him. "Hi, Dean."
She should probably help him clear things, but he's doing well enough on his own. She waves him off. "I'm good, thanks."
And, speaking of--
"--And thanks, by the way." If she sounds a little reluctant, it's because she is; thank you's are awkward to begin with, and she isn't particularly proud of situations where she winds up having to be physically carried. She's no less sincere for it, though. "For hauling me out of Vegas. I already talked to Sam, but I figured I'd cover all my Winchester bases."
She flicks her fingers in a casual, dismissive gesture, shading toward embarrassed. "I slept for, like, half a week and I was good as new." That was normal say her manner and that move of her hand. (They also suggest that 'half a week' was an exaggeration.)
"The spoils from the hacking team were probably enough of a thank you on their own, anyway." She almost -- not quite -- rolls her eyes; it is a very wry statement. That night still holds a place in the record books when it comes to 'moments when Liz Sherman has been the most flabbergasted in her entire life.' "I still can't believe they did that."
"Yeah," she says slowly. "I told Sam about it. Right afterward. He checked your tabs." Maybe she shouldn't have said anything -- but that doesn't make any sense. She's eyeing Dean now, lifting her chin off her hand and sitting up straighter. "He said the money was there."
She's sitting with her feet tucked neatly under her chair, her elbow on the table, and her forehead in her hand. She's turning a blank, irritated stare on the nearest piece of evidence, which happens to be the infrared photo of a hallway (with a strange blurred figure in the foreground) that is resting on the table under her arm.
Her BPRD stab vest has been thrown across the back of an empty chair at the table. She is still, however, wearing combat boots and her gun.
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"Liz. Hey!"
What? Red-skinned demon boyfriend or not, she's hot.
"What's with the whole 'working' thing you've got going? You ever just take time off?"
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"I'm on an assignment," she says. "It's either this or just throw up my hands and blow the building up." She's kidding. Mostly.
She settles her chin in her hand, looking up at him. "Hi, Dean."
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Sometimes explosions are stealthy.
When, uh.
When there's construction nearby?
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"Not that we're that great at subtle."
She makes a gesture in the general direction of the table. "Feel free, if you can find an empty spot."
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Once he sees his opening he goes for it, shifting a couple things over so that he's got somewhere to put his beer.
Somewhere the condensation won't get on anything important.
"Thanks, don't mind if I do. You want anything?"
He'll spot her one. Or something.
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And, speaking of--
"--And thanks, by the way." If she sounds a little reluctant, it's because she is; thank you's are awkward to begin with, and she isn't particularly proud of situations where she winds up having to be physically carried. She's no less sincere for it, though. "For hauling me out of Vegas. I already talked to Sam, but I figured I'd cover all my Winchester bases."
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She said bases.
"Hey, no worries. Shitty situation like that, like hell is it every man for himself."
Uh.
"Herself."
Um.
"Anyway. Good to see you're a-okay and all."
She is okay, right?
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"The spoils from the hacking team were probably enough of a thank you on their own, anyway." She almost -- not quite -- rolls her eyes; it is a very wry statement. That night still holds a place in the record books when it comes to 'moments when Liz Sherman has been the most flabbergasted in her entire life.' "I still can't believe they did that."
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"Spoils?"
Say what?
"There were spoils?"
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"Yeah," she says slowly. "I told Sam about it. Right afterward. He checked your tabs." Maybe she shouldn't have said anything -- but that doesn't make any sense. She's eyeing Dean now, lifting her chin off her hand and sitting up straighter. "He said the money was there."
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Dean doesn't remember Sam saying anything about it, and two million is a hell of a lot of cash to hide --
Oh hell.
There's a split second where Dean looks sick to his stomach --
Then he just looks pissed as all fuck.
"Goddammit."
Fucking Meg.
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And when he looks back at Liz, all the rest of it has been put away.
"I really fucking hate mistaken identity, don't you?"
He isn't even trying to sell it, even if it is half the truth.
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Give Dean a minute. He has to process.
"So you're telling me that you've . . . never dealt with a shapeshifter before?"
He's giving her a pretty good version of the 'oh please' look.
Someone's had practice.
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