look me in the eye and tell me that I'm satisfied

[wegotwork]

Sam needs some air. The past few days have been claustrophobic at best between him and Dean, though at least now they've upgraded to a room with two beds instead of being forced to share the one. Between Dean's sudden aversion to all meat and his own rather fond attitude towards clowns (which he discovered upon seeing one in a window display and

Comments

[nothingsodivine]

The Winchesters aren't the only people who frequent this diner- it's Des's favorite haunt when he doesn't know where else to go and Martha's too busy to experiment with cooking at home. He's also researching, although one year in this place, and he's given up trying to figure out how to get back home. No, he's got computer print-outs and everything he could possibly find out at the library computers on Flagg, which isn't much, but something is up and if he can't do diddly shit about the CLF, at least he can figure out what the big deal with Flagg is. Especially since he has to be connected.

He's noticed that the guy in the booth behind him's knee-deep in research, but it's not until his sixth cup of coffee and a complete absense of anything resembling a lead that he asks, "If you don't mind me sayin' so, that doesn't look like research for a college thesis. What's the story, morning glory?" Hey, he can appreciate someone poking around in what appear to be Occult texts. That's what he used to do once upon a time. He misses it.

[wegotwork]

Sam and Dean have onl been here for about a week, but it feels like a lot longer when all that's familiar is well beyond their reach - or their ability to figure out, at least. He picks up a pencil, underlining a few key phrases on the page to go back to later, and then leaves the edge of the pencil in his mouth, gnawing slightly.

The comment from nearby catches his attention promptly, and he looks up, letting the pencil dangle in his mouth as he works it around with his teeth. A couple years ago, the college thesis part wouldn't be too far from accurate, but now, any mention of Stanford sort of leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Just doing some reading," he says. He's not exactly forthcoming with the information, if only because he doesn't want to admit that he's poring through books on the supernatural.

[nothingsodivine]

Des gathers his print-outs together in a pile, allowing the other guy to believe he's finished with the conversation. Well, Flagg's hit a dead end, as has the CLF, and what the hell is up with Jack/John Friggin' Harkness/Thane, if that is in fact who is out there lurking, isn't known right now, so the best thing he can do is offer advice to strangers.

So here, Sam have a random a guy sliding into the other side of your booth. "You want some advice?" Said in a tone that suggests he will get it whether he likes it or not. "If those books are from your own universe, they won't diddly shit."

He's seen the Occult books from this universe- they don't look like that, even though he only managed a bit of a cursory glance at them. Des is a detcive. A cursory glance and a quick assumption's all he needs.

[wegotwork]

He doesn't get a response, so Sam lowers his head to start reading through his texts again. When the other man slides into the seat across from him, he looks up with mild surprise.

"Nothing at all?" he asks, and looks back and forth between the reading and the other man before he slams the book shut and leans back, running a hand through his hair.

"Great."

[thehandsomeone]

Dean doesn't really know what to do with himself when Sam isn't around. The only reason he managed solo before were the jobs keeping him busy. And now - now, he isn't so sure what it would mean to go home, anyway.

Things aren't perfect between them; they never were. Sam still glares at him every time Dean turns his music up too loud, still gets impatient with Dean's inability to sit still for any extended period of time, but now there's that added element. There's still something Sam isn't telling him, something that makes Sam look guilty any time he gets too irritated with Dean. Dean keeps meaning to ask about it, but he chokes every time. So Dean gets it, that Sam needs space, but - and he hates to admit it - it makes him fucking nervous to have Sam too far away from him. He's barely driven in the car since they arrived, what with the diner in walking distance from their hotel, and although he misses the road underneath him, the wind blowing through his windows, he stays close

[wegotwork]

Sam knows how much Dean misses the open road, the sound of the Impala rumbling under his feet, the feel of warm air ghosting over his face, the long stretch of highway in front of him taunting him with the temptation to press down on the gas pedal and get the car up to one hundred miles per hour.

So the fact that he's stuck here - that they're both stuck here - is adding an entirely second level of frustration and tension to their interactions. Hence the avoidance, which so far today has mostly succeeded. At least he has the books to distract him.

The bench across from him sags from the sudden weight of Dean, and Sam's eyes snap upward to his brother's face as Dean starts to push some of the books aside. "Fine, I'll move 'em," he mumbles, shutting the books and stacking them on top of each other to create more surface room on the table.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," Sam adds.

[thehandsomeone]

"Just followin' my stomach," Dean says easily, trying not to let Sam's obvious annoyance get to him. The waitress steps over, her heels clacking on the tile floor, and Dean orders the vegetarian omlette (he has to keep his protein up somehow), as well as a milkshake and a large slice of pie. As soon as Sam orders and the waitress walks away - and Dean watches her go; her legs go on for miles and she has this walk that - Dean turns back to Sam. He spreads his hands out on the now-cleared table and asks with false cheer, already knowing the answer, "Any news?"

[wegotwork]

Sam doesn't want to respond with bad news, but so far, he's come up with absolutely nothing, and he can't tell if he's more frustrated with himself for not being able to find anything yet or with the texts he's resigned to reading for the past five hours. Maybe food will help him to not only feel better, but in the process of taking a break from his research, an idea will suddenly occur to him.

"Nothing yet," he replies, making an apologetic face. "Sorry."

[halfadevil]

Dante's not usually a diner type of guy -- if he's not at a bar, he's ordering pizza. On rare occasions, he might stop by an ice cream place.

Still, part of the fun of getting to know a city is learning every potential meeting-place for clients he can get to, and Chicago's got a lot more going for it than Cicero. So he saunters in, standing out as only a well-muscled guy with white hair and enough leather on him to make up at least two separate cows can stand out.

He notices Sam sitting here, and... hey, he knows that kind of research. It might not have been his forte -- Vergil was the book-geek of the family, not him -- but when your dad's been alive for thousands of years, he tends to have weird notions about how kids should be educated. Latin, Greek, Aramaic, Sanskrit (though the last two, he knows he's incredibly shitty at), and a whole lot of occult theory, all crammed into his head at an impressionable young age, before Sparda finally up and split

[wegotwork]

He sees the shadow before he sees the man, shifting the book out of the way in order to get a better light on the page. But when the shadow moves again, his gaze snaps up with a tinge of annoyance accompanying it.

"It's the best I've got right now," Sam says, "so I'm making the most of it." It's a shame his ability to translate has gone downhill in the last couple of months, but he's not about to tell this guy that.

[halfadevil]

Dante shrugs. "Hey, no offense, but best you've got or not, unless you're writing a paper on why it sucks, you're pretty screwed if you want to do anything with that. I mean, I'm rusty, but that right there? The terms are mixed up. You do that the way it says here and any door you try to open's more likely to blow up in your face."

Of course, considering the original text paints it as a door to hell -- oh yeah, that's a word he recognizes -- he's not entirely sure he should be doing too much correcting. "Hey, whatever, not my business... Send a postcard through the Rift if it works."

Yeah, someone studying a way to open a door to hell? He's thinking this kid's not a native, especially since most of the demons around here seem to be pretty fucking convinced there's no such place. If anything, his big concern is why this guy's got books about hell-portals just laying around for light reading.

Unless he's wrong, in which case, he's just confused the hell out of some random research-geek. You win some, you lose some.