One morning jog up to Dean's room [18/??? artefacts collected]
[ For Philip the last 1 1/2 weeks were-- Actually, let's not talk about the last 1 1/2 weeks. Let's just say that being wide awake at night was what he expected and that the hunger made sense, given that he hadn't been able to keep any food down for a while now... and didn't particularly feel like trying either
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A very specific, very distinctive event comes to mind: when Sam disappeared for a week. Dean nearly drove himself crazy trying to find him, and when Sam finally called to establish contact, he couldn't remember anything that had happened. But he was covered in blood. He murdered someone, and Dean remembers in vivid detail the moment when he'd been asked to kill his own brother. Somewhat selfishly, but mostly on principle, he couldn't. He wouldn't, because he knew it wasn't Sam.
Here, you gotta do it, Dean.
...You know, I've tried so hard to keep you safe.
I know.
I can't. I'd rather die.]
...Y'know, there's a reason that people have friends, and I didn't understand it until I came here, 'cause in my old life, I never had any. They're the ones that forgive you for all the stupid shit you pull.
[Dean slides his empty mug across the countertop, leaning up against it and folding his arms over his chest.]
Look at you, man. You're letting a voice in your head define you. Don't you fuckin' play that "I'm better off alone" card, 'cause I can tell you from it experience that it ain't gonna do you any good.
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Well. Philip doesn't want to be alone either. He doesn't think it's going to do him any good, but he can think of a whole lot of other people who'd profit from it. ]
Stupid shit...
[ Pardon the amusement. Laughing, cackling, desperate amusement. ]
Dean, stupid shit is drunk dialing or accidentally breaking something valuable or- or forgetting birthdays, but this--
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This is murder. And you know it's going to happen again.
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Maybe you're forgetting what universe I'm from, dude.
[You know, the one where your closest friends and relatives are constantly under attack from demons and monsters with personal vendettas, eager to fulfill their sinister quotas.]
You've got something a lot bigger to deal with than the rest of us, Phil. It's why you gotta trust us, even when you don't trust yourself. Hell, especially when you don't trust yourself.
[Dean advances a few steps, suddenly grateful that he'd had the foresight to lock the door.]
Are you seriously gonna make me give you a pep talk about this? You don't wanna end up the way I was. I was friggin' miserable, man. I didn't trust anyone else - I didn't even talk with anyone else - and now I got one foot in the fire, just waitin' for time to run out before the repo man comes to collect my soul.
[He shakes his head.]
Yeah, you fucked up. You fucked up real bad, but life goes on. It's not gonna wait for you to catch up after you're done having your little pity party.
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[ He didn't forget Dean's universe, but he doesn't know it either, he's never lived in it and he certainly can't begin to imagine it, not when not brushing off torture and murder equals throwing yourself a pity party. ]
Well.
[ And trust? He trusted Dean. He trusted Daniel. He trusted them just like his father trusted him to destroy those documents. And look how that went for all of them. ]
Thank--
[ Dean's words certainly did something to open Philip's eyes, but whether they make him look in the desired direction is a different matter entirely. He takes a step back. And another. ]
Thanks for... the advice.
[ And then he turns to leave. ]
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Dean Winchester is not the most persuasive of individuals. He'd much rather talk with his fists than with his mouth and a well-thought-out argument. It's hard to completely express how little Dean really cares about Philip's hang-ups over the torture. He knows what it feels like, yeah, and it's not a cake-walk, but there are much bigger things they should be worrying about in the mansion.
Which is why it's frustrating when Philip takes a few careful steps back and turns with every intention to leave.
Oh no he didn't.
Dean stomps over, grabs Philip by the lapels of his jacket, and slams him up against the door.]
Listen, you self-hating limey bastard. I didn't tell you all my dirty secrets for shits and giggles. I didn't offer you help 'cause I thought it'd be nice. I did it because you're my friend. It's what friends do.
[He punctuates the word with another shake.]
Walking away and pretending that none of this happened isn't going to change anything - you're still gonna hate yourself, and you're gonna spend the rest of your time alone thinking that we hate you just as much. So lemme make this abundantly clear, Phil: if you keep running away, it's gonna get a lot worse.
[Slowly, Dean loosens his grip on Phil's coat, releasing him and taking a step back.]
You're stuck with us, 'cause whether you like it or not, I'm not gonna accept the whole "woe is me, I'm becoming a hermit for the common good" spiel, and I don't think Daniel is either.
[Fists clenched, this close to throwing a punch at Philip's head, Dean resists. He understands why Philip would want to shut himself away, because it would keep people safe, but in the long run it's not healthier for anyone.]
Don't run away from your friends, man. If nothing else, we're all you've got.
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[ Philip cringes. Not because of Clarence's words, at least not this time. No, Dean's idea of tough love is simply something he isn't used to, something extremely alien to somebody whose former friends tended to express their concern with words... and gentler ones at that.
It's very possible that he will look back to this moment and be thankful, but for now his head is turned a different way entirely.
When Dean slams him against the door he almost hisses, definitely shows those fangs again, though it's a reaction he is barely aware of, certainly has no control over at that point.
Walking away and pretending that none of this happened? Philip has spent every waking moment (and given his lack of sleep there were a lot of those) replaying what he did in his head over and over again, thinking about how to make up for it, how to apologise if something like that was even possible.
For anyone to suggest anything else is hurtful to say the least. And even once Dean releases his grip Philip's teeth are still bared and his eyes closed, waiting for the physical pain to follow. ]
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There are reasons why Dean never had friends.]
I'm tired of you feelin' sorry for yourself, man.
[Hypocritical? God, yes. True? Also yes. He shakes his head, eye trained on Philip's teeth. His many, many sharp teeth. Dean breaks the stare and looks at Philip instead.]
You're better than this. If you wanna dwell on this shit, be my guest, but I forgave you a while ago.
[Dean takes a deep breath, letting it out shakily and feeling his fingers relax. Philip doesn't even have to say that he's sorry. Dean knows he is.]
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When he stares at Dean a giant Why? is implied in his look, but he doesn't want to push his luck by asking, fearing that a response or lack thereof might ruin the sentiment of the moment...
...which is a first and very tentative step towards not feeling utterly miserable.
If they agree on one thing then it's that sorry and thank you and anything else along those lines is redundant; useless in some, already implied in other places.
Philip lowers his head and prolongs the silence. When he looks up to speak at last his voice sounds strained from the breakdown he is trying not to have. ]
How-- How is Castiel?
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But hey, that's new.]
He's fine.
[Dean shrugs. He isn't lying - Castiel made a full recovery and ripped Dean a new one for pushing Clarence so far. Dean didn't even have to tell Cas about that part - his "give 'em Hell" attitude has always gotten him into trouble.]
He's around. Haven't seen him in a couple days. He mostly goes off and prays a lot.
[The nonchalance with which Dean says this should indicate his feelings toward prayer. There's another awkward silence before Dean moves back to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair and seating himself in it; the unspoken implication being that Philip should do the same.
For a moment Dean considers asking Philip whether or not he believes in God, but thinks better of it. The mansion is no place for gods.]
He said he's sorry he couldn't do more for you.
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There's still a tiny issue of bloodthirst at hand and regardless of context getting all up in Philip's space didn't do a lot to make Dean look, sound or smell any less like a gourmet meal.
Still. Leaving now might send the wrong message and besides, he can beat this thing. At least that is what Philip needs to believe if he ever wants his confidence back. ]
He's done enough.
[ Getting rid of Clarence entirely couldn't have hurt, of course, but the sentiment is no less sincere. For somebody who appeared to have made a painful sacrifice for somebody else whose opinion of him was far from the highest Castiel has done more than enough. ]
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He's had worse.]
I'll tell 'im. He'd like to hear that.
[Ah, the simple things. It's quiet again, then, and Dean is hesitant about letting Philip out of his room so soon, especially after that whole bit about murder, and then there was the creepy vampire hissing...he suddenly wonders if they can do some recon down in the kitchen to grab some stocks of meat, because a series of hungry vampires wandering the halls can't be a good thing. Speaking of food, though-
Dean stands, moving back to the fridge and grimacing at what he finds. Mostly nothing. The only thing left is shredded cheddar cheese, eggs, and some onions.
He's been trying to learn how to cook, okay?
Grabbing all three, he gets out a pan and a cutting board and continues the conversation a little forcibly. Things are going better now, so they might as well use it to their advantage.]
You ever, uh- [He cracks the eggs in a bowl and mixes them up with a fork.] Wonder how the mansion comes up with some of its events? Like...'cause sometimes they're just themes, and sometimes they're specific to us.
[Reaching for one of the large kitchen knives and setting it beside the cutting board, Dean lights the stove up and sets it to the right temperature, letting the pan heat up.]
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It should stir his ever-growing hunger additionally, but it doesn't. The smells (vivid and intense) only make him retch like the memory of an unpleasant food experience. He thinks of how much he wants out, how much he wants to crawl back to his room until...
Until Dean begins the conversation. ]
There was this pamphlet I found when I came here. I think Commander Ivanova wrote it. It said the events were based on our memories.
[ Philip relaxes visibly... to his own surprise. He expected his response to come out forced and uncomfortable, but... ]
If that's true I suppose... I- I guess some of those memories would be more specific and others could... just be an ordinary day. Actually...
[ But this is more than a small relief.
For more than week he didn't exchange one word with a single soul. Not the longest of time spans, but enough to let yourself become too introspective and pile up what is better off anywhere but in your own head. ]
Actually this could be yours, couldn't it? Did- did you feel any different today?
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[Dean mumbles over his pan, back turned to Phil, pouring a little milk into the mixed eggs and opening the plastic bag of shredded cheese. He's never heard of anyone by that name before, but they sound like a character from some long-lost episode of Star Trek.]
Don't think I saw any pamphlets lyin' around when I first got here. But memories...huh.
[He purses his lips and considers this. For the non-specific events, something always seemed to tie in with things from his past. Things he remembered the most vividly.
In fact, while here, Dean's been forced to remember more about his own life than he ever thought he might. Perhaps it's just a method of coping.]
...I don't think it's my memory. I got too many memories of vampires for this one to matter.
Besides- [He turns back to the cutting board, peeling the skin off of one of the onions. Slicing it in half, he starts chopping the thing into haphazard pieces.] -if the mansion really wanted to mess with me, it'd do demons or somethin'. Neckbiters are small-fry compared to- Shit.
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He reaches over to another side of the counter for a towel, intent on staunching the flow of blood.]
Fuck, ow.
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[ He clears his throat, pausing to check if he remembers the next part correctly. ]
I've actually been told that the events- that not all of them have to be bad, so if you hhhhhnnhhh
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