sixthiterationlogs | [ota] when the levee breaks i'll have no place to stay

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[ota] when the levee breaks i'll have no place to stay

WHO: Dean Winchester, and anyone crossing his path.
WHERE: The fountain, and the town. Other locations through writing?
WHEN: Night of the 18th.
OPEN TO: ALL.
WARNINGS: Probably profanity. Mentions of violence and death.

The last thing Dean can remember is blinding white light. Whenever Castiel ported him anywhere it was a blur of lights, color, sound and an unparalleled brush with vertigo. Afterward his legs felt like jelly, the earth felt like sand, and the buzzing in his head didn't die down for a good hour. That was the kind of crazy that he could count on.

Instead, the cool rush of water was the first thing to bring him back to reality. On all corners, immersed, and the push up is only part of what moves him to the surface. At this point, the sudden spike in adrenaline is driving him and it's what pulls him higher and higher until he's finally able to break the surface. Did Cas fucking drop him? What the hell was this?

The first sharp inhale rakes against his ribs and rattles around with the cool air outside. It's a painful reminder of the fact that he's alive, this is real, and not another pipe dream of Zachariah's. Even if it could be, this didn't really seem his style. Too decorated, too close to the last shit show.

With good old-fashioned upper body strength, Dean heaves himself out of the water, it's dark, too dark to really get a clear lay of the land. All he knows is that it's nowhere he's ever been before. His phone wasn't gonna do him any good, but some other provisions might. After a second to reign in his breath, Dean double checks his pockets and his fingertips meet the crude set of cheap cotton scrubs. Now he knows somebody screwed the pooch.

"Sonuvabitch!" No weapons. No I.D. No phone - not that it'd matter. No amount of rice was gonna fix whatever the hell just happened to him. He had absolutely no idea where he was or where he needed to go to get some answers. Timbuktu with no map and no geographical comprehension, normally there'd be a lot more screaming but after everything with Sam with Zachariah, himself, and with Cas, he doesn't bother wasting the energy.

An open palm finds the ridge of the fountain and with a muted grunt he uses the force of his blow to the side of it to push him to his feet. Dean doesn't bother wringing out the set of clothes. He lets them trip as he treks toward the soft glow of what he can only hope is charitable civilization and a warm meal.

A warm meal and a drink were all the convincing Dean needed to head toward the inn and tavern to hang his hat for the night. He hadn't heard anything about this kind of hospitality since he was a kid and cowboy shows were his favorite late-night stories, but it was a kind of comfort he hadn't experienced in a while that beat the hell out of a full-scale apocalypse.

Keeping to himself is only part of the game, old habits die hard. It's a lot easier to white knuckle a pint and keep his eyes on the people around him than to just dive ride in. People were easy to read. Body language, laughter, hell- sometimes the eyes said all the things they wouldn't or didn't. So, scoping out the place came naturally to him even if it meant picking a corner seat in a dimly lit area so he could case people and figure out who he should talk to first.

His bedroom is calling his name at this point, after 2014 and the shit that happened there, and the trip back home with Cas that never actually landed him home. He's world-weary and exhausted for more than one reason, even if it is easier to blame it on the swim and the chilly night air. Surveillance had to be prioritized, Sam would be doing the same thing if he were here. If he just ran upstairs Bobby would've had his ass. That kind of negligence got you lifetime ticket ride on the guilt-trip train.

Once he got somewhere quiet he made sure to be root through the bag he showed up with. Nothing useful, besides the provisions and some survivalist items. This is starting to seem more and more like an M. Night Shyamalan film. Besides the fact that the people aren't even interesting to watch. Two beers and he's still coming up goose egg.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Most new arrivals tend to appear around midday. Or at least, when the sun is still shining. This is Benedict's second Winter on the Surface, and while people have tried to explain to him why the days are so short when the weather is cold — something about the way the Earth moves around the sun, which he still finds alarming as a concept in general — he still has a hard time with it all. How is he supposed to tell time when the sun rises and sets in such an atypical fashion?

It's pure luck he happens across this arrival. He'd gone to fetch more firewood for the kitchen stove, and is on his way back to the Inn when he hears the tell-tale splashing of someone struggling out of the fountain.

Making a slight detour, he carefully alters his gait so the sound of his boots falling isn't too soft to hear. People tend to be upset when he accidentally sneaks up on them, especially when they're already so disoriented by their arrival.

"Hello," he calls out, mild and as welcoming as possible, considering how bloody dark and cold it is. He indicates the Inn with a tilt of his head, his arms too full with firewood to gesture. "If you'll follow me, we can get you something to eat and you can change into the dry clothes in your pack."

As much as Dean might want to pretend that he'd rather hoof it alone he already knows that being out in this weather soaking wet is a death sentence. Not only because he doesn't know what he's dealing with yet, but also because the provisions aren't exactly overwhelming. His shit is all gone, replaced with next to nothing and he's already started to feel the chill all the way through to his bones.

That doesn't mean he trusts this guy, but at least the dude has the good sense to keep some distance. He's not right over him, hovering, and if he's packing there's nothing genuinely intimidating about him. That's a good thing, Dean would fight if he had to but he's too tired and too cold to pursue it if it's not an immediate issue.

After taking a heavy breath inward, assessing the situation, the inn seems like the best option because it's the only option. There's light coming from the windows, casting shadows when people move around. Dean can hear some of the chatter from where he's sitting, so it's safe to say there are other people - maybe locals, or someone familiar with his current situation at least.

"Okay, fine." Dean waves a hand in his direction, as nicely as he can, but it still comes across dismissive. Once his feet find the motions he falls into step in that direction, the bag that he was gifted with slung over one shoulder. It only takes a few steps to meet the guy halfway, Dean takes a pause in front of him. "I don't have any cash. So, if you're expecting recompense you're shit outta luck."

The word 'cash' has Benedict tilting his head slightly in confusion before he vaguely remembers overhearing a conversation between some of the other habble residents about money. Most colloquialisms are still go a little over his head, especially those that have no bearing on his current daily life, but he's starting to get comfortable enough that he hopes his ignorance isn't especially obvious.

"We have no currency," he replies, satisfied that the new arrival is going to follow him and subsequently turning on his heel to return to the warmth and safety of the Inn. "There is no use for it here."

He misses money, the simplicity of it, the peace of mind it afforded him. He never had to worry about where his next meal might come from before he came here, and even though he's grown to appreciate the satisfaction that a hard day's work farming can bring, he still misses the market stalls of Habble Morning and the steamed dumplings he could purchase there.

Shifting his precarious load to one arm, he opens the door to the Inn and a spill of light and sound comes rushing out to greet them. Stepping back to let the newcomer through, he again tilts his head to usher the man through the door into the warm interior of the Inn, saying, "Let me fetch you some towels so you can warm yourself."

"So, what do you do here- trade in favors?" There's no such thing as free, Dean learned that the hard way around the same time his life hit the rails. Once their dad gave up the ghost of trying to keep things normal, it was credit card scams and smooth talking from there on out. Whatever it took to keep them dress, fed, and safe at night. Every once in a while they'd sleep in the impala, but he never cared, because it was better than a park bench or a boy's home.

The Inn looks like something straight out of an old western, definitely not up to the standards of what he's used to. Not enough decadence, no cable TV in the corner. It's rustic and raw, in the best kind of way. Nothing to clog up the airwaves, no dumbasses gumming up the works. Normally, that'd be exactly the kind of vacation he needed, but the shit he just had to deal with back home left a deep pit in his stomach only seeing his brother can fill. Seeing no sign of Cas and getting nothing when he tries to tune in on the angel radio ain't exactly comforting either.

"Thanks, uh- I appreciate it." It's hard for Dean not to feel like he might owe this guy something, or that he'll come looking for the return sooner or later. So instead of saying anything else, Dean hovers around one of the tables closest to the entrance in case he has to make a break for it.

Living in the Inn was kind of like being back in a college dorm. Except for the part where there were no parties, no one was happy to be there, and everyone had that particular haunted look that came with being kidnapped and trapped in a Skinner Box, controlled by mysterious and seemingly-omnipotent Overseers.

Okay. So it wasn't really like a college dorm.

Still. If Sam hadn't elected to live there, she was pretty sure she would never have much reason or occasion to see any other people at all. It was an ongoing fight to avoid becoming a complete hermit. As much as she wanted to be, she knew it wasn't healthy. Karen and Avery had both drilled that into her repeatedly.

So she settled for a compromise. She forced herself to go downstairs to the common area for at least an hour ever day. Not counting meals or when she was traveling through on her way to some more aimless and pointless wandering.

Over the past week, she'd elected to take her hour in the evening, so she could add another candle to the shitty, makeshift menorah she'd put in the window. Having a sense of routine and ritual was...well. It occasionally helped.

It was after she added her candle and twisted her head slightly, trying to line up the stars with the tips, that she noticed the new guy. He stood out in any number of ways, not just because of his crappy haircut. He didn't have 'the Look' just yet. And anyway, Sam was pretty good with faces. When you didn't talk to anyone, you became one hell of an observer.

She jerked her chin up, in the traditional greeting of a dorm. "Hey."

Sam had a lot more in common with his brother right off the bat. Same name, both went to college. Dean had neither of those things, despite growing up rough, so when she decides to put on the chin music his brows raise right into his hairline.

Did this post-pubescent chick really just give him the nod? His shoulders lift right along with his hands, palms faced toward the ceiling in a universal gesture of confusion. Besides the fact that it was definitely not Christmas or Hannukah, for that matter, where he was coming from -
Punky Brewster seemed to know a lot more than he did so far.

Dean's not exactly pushing her away but he also won't pretend to just be okay with some rando offering themselves up.

His body leans in the direction of the fire, he dried off first thing after walking through with the Brawny paper towel model but his scrubs have that sort of water stain from not getting much of a chance to hang dry or smooth out. The teal fabric is crimped in places and wrinkled in others, but it fits fine right down to the seams on the pant legs.

He felt naked enough without his car and his gear, this was just one more thing to add to the list of shit that made him feel compromised.

Talkative dude. Of course, seeing as he was still fucking wet, Sam could sort of understand why he may not be in the mood for pleasantries. Which was just as well, since she wasn't all that good at them.

But she was damn good at being miserable. So he was kind of speaking her language.

With a bit of a shrug, Sam went behind the bar. She knew she wasn't supposed to, but fuck the rules. Wasn't like they had employment laws or police or anything like that around here. She found a jar of foggy moonshine and pulled it out, setting it on the counter and sliding it over to the new guy. "Here," she said. "You probably need this."

Although whether he wanted to drink it or use it to clean some silverware was entirely up to him.

It's been a long time since Dean's seen some real, old-fashioned, made in the mountains cut with drugs, moonshine. No matter where you went, that shit was toxic. Dean takes a long look at the jar before he finally pops the lid to take a whiff. Ripe. If he were any less experienced he'd be choking on the fumes alone.

So far this place is all hospitality, but that doesn't keep Dean from being suspicious. As much as he might need to take the edge off, he knows not to trust all acts of kindness. Definitely not in new territory. Better to play his odds than be best friends with the first person to offer something strong.

"Ladies first."

Sam snorted. "Do I look like a fucking 'lady' to you?" she asked.

But she actually got it. Karen had well and truly instilled her with a sense of deep paranoia. Drilled it into her night after night after night.

“I don’t think you understand our nature, Samantha. Kindred communities are artificial constructs. We’re predators by nature. It’s not in us to trust each other. You’ll make friends with other vampires. Even come to care for them. But trust? No, never. And without that…no community will ever be like the one you once knew. Everything in our Requiems is a shadow on a cave wall. Make no mistake, Samantha. You. Are. Alone.”

Such comforting words to hear from your pseudo-mother.

Avery had come in like a wrecking ball and started to change things for the better. But not exactly for good.

So she shrugged and picked up the jar, taking a pull of the moonshine. It made her face scrunch up in pain and tears, but it was hardly poisonous, except in the way that people wanted it to be.

She set the jar down in front of him.

That's the kind of attitude Dean had come to respect considering his own industry didn't always take kindly to women fighting alongside them. Some of the best hunters he ever knew were chicks. Jo, Ellen, and Jody to name a few. They could hold their own in the worst fucking situations and stare down death, and that made them even more dangerous than him and Sam. It's not like they never got the drop on them either. It's easy to do when old habits die hard, and the assets back up all the tactics.

At least she puts her money where her mouth is, the moonshine gets the reaction he figured it would. At least for someone her size, that probably didn't partake all that often.

"You're one of those fem-power types, right?"

While she blinked the tears out of her eyes, Dean took the moonshine and knocked back a couple of swigs. Enough to wet the back of his throat. Unlike her, he doesn't sputter or gag. Experience lets him do the opposite, and once he feels that familiar warmth eat up his stomach and chest he slides the mason jar back across the counter.

"Okay, Xena Warrior Princess, since we've shared a drink we should probably get the introductions out of the way. I'm Dean."

Sam didn't really consider herself a 'fem-power type,' but she shrugged. She was female. And she did enjoy asserting herself. So, close enough or whatever. She did like the Xena nickname, though. Most people only noticed her for her hair at first. And nicknames derived from there. It was always an annoyance, even if it was a hell of her own creation. Just once, she wanted to be noticed for something else. Her aim or her kickass shoes or even her tits. Anything besides the hair.

She'd take fem-power, if that's what he was offering.

Hopping up onto the counter, she crossed her legs at the ankles, swinging them back and forth lazily. "I'm Sam," she said. "Los Angeles, 2014. Since that's the basic name-rank-serial number game around here. How much have the other Moonies filled you in about this hellhole?"

"What the hell's a Moonie?" She's definitely better looking than the Sam he left back home. There was a time when he would've laid it on thick and went home with her to stay warm if she offered but these days she was way too young and he was way too tired. Getting your rocks off only helped if the adrenaline was there to back it up.

"But I'm Dean, tail end of 2009." Sam was a good five years ahead of him. He just did a stint in a 2014 he wanted no part of. The coincidence isn't exactly comforting, and old habits die hard. Too many things are hitting marks that he wished didn't exist. Dean's not sold yet on this place being anything but another god squad head game. "What do you know about Camp Chitaqua?"

Truth to tell, Sam didn't actually know what a Moonie was. Not in any specific terms. Her parents used it in the generic sense to describe cults and cultists, but she didn't know the history behind it. Fortunately, it didn't seem like Dean's eternal happiness was teetering on an explanation. So she just shrugged.

The funny thing was, if circumstances had been different, she'd gotten her rocks off joking around with someone from the past, claiming that they had flying cars, just like in The Jetsons.

Unfortunately, the future sucked.

"Never heard of it," she said. "Sounds like a place where you'd go to pick bananas. Why?"

Cultists are something Dean's seen a lot of, and before regrouping with his Dad vampires didn't exist either. There's a lot going on in the world he'd rather not know but that's his business, knowing and taking care of everything that normal people won't.

"That's Chiquita." Sure, he's not really the kind of guy that opts for fruit instead of sausage but it's hard to forget the lady that wore the fruit on her head when you grew up watching those commercials because you couldn't sleep. Watching that, and watching the Jetsons. Test one passed. So far, so good.

The corner of Sam's lips curled up. "Honest mistake," she said. Didn't really feel like he was correcting her, though. More like relating.

Not that she knew what the hell that felt like.

"But, seriously. What's Camp Chitaqua? I'm guessing it isn't some sort of sleepaway camp where rich, white girls talk about which boys they like and dip each other's hands into hot water."

Nothing here was ever that...simple.

He might not think the people are interesting to watch, but he certainly had a look about him that Margaery had come to recognize. Beyond the dazed and weary expression of a new arrival, the man had the build and air of a warrior. There was always something about them, a quiet dignity and a sense of a preparation, as if he were a lion, coiled and ready to pounce. It always seemed that men like that were gifted with looks, for however long it lasted before battled scarred and marred their features. It was certainly to his benefit, as it meant that he would receive more help than others might, as women responded to boyish, charming faces.

There would be time to watch him and to see if her reading was right or if time had dulled her abilities. It had been over a year since she last needed to employ her abilities at seeking out the personalities and vulnerabilities of someone. He was still adjusting and, while first impressions were important, she did not want to base her opinions completely on them.

Instead, she would follow the dance that she performed for everyone who newly arrived. She brought over towels, blankets and a mug of tea, setting them in front of Dean with a kind smile. She had a cup of her own, to at least show him that the tea wasn't poisoned. Mistrust was how someone might survive somewhere else, but trust was needed here, as they were all in it together.

"This will warm you," she pushed it closer to him. "I'm Margaery. I would say 'welcome', but that is hardly what people want to hear after that sort of arrival."

Nothing in the bag offered him insight and so far most of the civvies around knew as much as he did, not a damn thing. Whoever pulled the strings around here kept their distance, and all the real intel under lock and key. It's not a comforting thought.

Normally, Dean's not the type to really enjoy tea, but if it's black it comes with the added incentive of having caffeine. That meant staying awake long enough to get ahead of the situation he just got thrown into, and that's the real reason he brings it to his lips. It might be cold outside but he's figured out how to stay warm between the fireplace and the meal. Any other provisions could be scammed on the sly, surviving meant falling back into old habits and older training.

While she's being Ms. Hospitality, Dean takes the opportunity to fold up the towels and stick them in his bag. Just because they aren't necessary right now doesn't mean that he won't be able to use them later. Everything was fair game in a situation like this. "No kidding. Thanks for playing hostess." Dean doesn't immediately gesture to the hot drink or the towels. The blanket occupies the spot next to him in lieu of the backpack which got tucked away by his feet after she came bearing gifts. "I'm Dean."

Sharing his name became taboo a long time ago, but aliases aren't going to help him now. He's not going to share the family name or history, but maybe being on a first name basis with these people will give him an edge. That way he can figure out whether or not this all some angel-induced coma, or fantasy-reality show deal. Basic profiling could keep him in the know as far as that was concerned.

"My pleasure," it's an easy retort, returning a measure of sarcasm with sarcasm. She had seen worse responses to this place and being brought here. Some camped out in the woods for a time, others lashed out, a few seemed comfortable and happy, while the rest remained in a daze. It was easier to fall into a pattern to greet the new arrivals, to not only give yourself a sense of community and tradition, but to offer kindness to those that were not prepared for it.

But not everyone would want it and some would have their guard up, disinterest and sarcasm acting as a thick shield. She had seen men like Dean before and took nothing to heart. "I imagine you have been told about the options for housing, who to speak to if you have questions and that we know very little about why we are here?"

No one enjoyed the lack of answers. Worse still that it made the others seem as though they were purposefully being vague or withholding information. It didn't bridge the gap towards trust easily and seemed to ruin a number of efforts in fostering a sense of community with the new arrivals.

"I don't know what life you had before this, but for some this is a difficult place to adjust to. We have to forage and hunt for ourselves. Any clothes we want, we either wait to be given as gifts or we make ourselves. I don't imagine your world was like this?"

A lack of answers was exactly what he'd gotten so far, nobody stuck around to give him any in-depth information. All he'd gotten out of the locals is more hospitality than he needed. Nothing about this was ever gonna be comfortable for him, all the pleasantries managed to do was keep him irritated. The fire's doing a good job of soothing those nerves, and the liquor he got offered earlier definitely took the edge off. Now it's just a matter of someone giving him the full picture, and it just so happened that chick was standing right in front of him now.

If he's gonna get the straight and narrow and completely understand how fucked he is at least she's nice to look at. Definitely the kind of girl he could see himself blowing off some steam with later on. There's more than one way to keep warm.

"I can hunt, as long as there are animals around to track." That was lesson number one as a kid. Learn the signs. His signs usually didn't fall in line with deer, rabbits, or bears, but it was a technique that could be applied to anything. "Not much of a seamstress though."

That was an area for somebody else. "No one's come around to tell me about the living situation yet. Seems like I'm zip for zero on this one. Thanks for having the guts to say something. Everybody else's been giving me the snow job."

She understood men and understood their looks. Just as he analyzed her, she did the same as well, noting that he had the sort of sharp features that she had always enjoyed. He was handsome and likely knew it. Those were the sort of men that it was amusing to flirt with, they weren't shy and knew exactly how to play the game. She grinned at him slyly, curious if he was a man who enjoyed trouble as his appearance lead her to believe.

"There are. If you are lucky, you can find a stag, but they are a bit rare. You will have days of rabbit an pheasant. We at least have crops now and the harvest has already happened, so there will be something different to have with your met. We don't have much in the way of spices. The food will be a bit bland."

She gave a wave of her hand, dismissing that, "You don't need to be a seamstress, you only need to know one who likes you enough to help you. Thankfully, you do now. I also have a large collection of sheep, so you can have wool lining."

Margaery nodded sympathetically. "No one really wishes to tell the new arrivals how difficult life can be here, but you seem to be a man that prefers the hard truth. That is what you will find a great deal of here."

What he hunted back home made the whole thing a lot more interesting. Dean left the animals alone, let them do their thing, but if it meant survival he'd put a hole or two in a larger animal to get back home and make sure his brother was okay. This whole thing was his fault and Dean didn't pass off his problems.

"Food's not really my issue here, so don't worry about the rabbit stew." He's heard enough about that kind of meat to know it's gamey but lean and as far as pheasant went he hasn't had it either, but one bird has to taste like another and he's never had a problem with chicken or duck.

"Thanks. We can trade in favors." She might know how to sew but Dean had lofty experience in several other areas. They could come to an agreement, it's not like he hasn't had to manipulate a barter system before. "I'll take your word for it."

Bright orange hair fell over Clary's shoulder as she addressed the sheet of paper in front of her. Ash marred her fingertips as she carefully began to draw, releasing the thoughts that tumbled and turned within her head. She disliked this kind of weather, she couldn't train or do very much outside and she was reminded how shitty her basic survival skills were. Drawing was really the only thing that distracted her from her situation and while paper was scarce, it was worth it.

Her clothing was different compared to the colored scrubs that she'd arrived in. She had inherited a pair of black yoga pants and a dark purple sports bra from Izzy. Being inside meant less layers though Clary also naturally gravitated towards the inn's fire to keep herself warm. If she was lucky she could fall into her work and forget where she was. There were runes burned into Clary's neck, stomach and arms that looked like tattoos to the untrained eye.

The inn was crowded though that was expected when faced with the snowy hell that swirled just outside the front door. She could go up to her room and work. It would be quitter there but Clary enjoyed the heat of the fire a little too much to move.

Bright green eyes looked up as the front door of the inn open and closed. Dean clearly didn't realize how random and infrequent it was for someone to claw their way out of the fountain. He drew attention, merely by existing.

Clary pushed herself to her feet, grabbing the piece of paper she'd been working on and carrying it with her towards Dean's chosen seat. "Look what the cat dragged in." The inn was currently stocked with food though Clary was a poor cook without having access to pizza delivery. Besides warm water and whatever someone else had left on the stove in the kitchen she had nothing to offer the guy.

Her head tilted to the side, regarding the man curiously. "You know, this is a really bad day to go swimming." Clary already knew he was new. It was snowing and he was wet, wearing scrubs and acting like this was any other place, but he seemed at ease and it made her wonder where the hell he was from.

Besides the ringing in the ears from a combination of cold air and the swim he didn't plan on taking this redhead is only the third most annoying thing about this place. Time not adding up and all his shit not making the trip with him are high up on the list of priorities when it comes to sleuthing, but being bombarded by a social butterfly right off the bat isn't something he's used to either. Normally he's the one doing the approaching, the tables being turned are enough to keep him quiet while she talks. No interjections, no shirking the communication concept. Dean falls into his seat by the open flame anyway with a dull sort of look on his face.

"Well, I'm a Maverick, ma'am." When all else fails, quote Top Gun. It went without saying his plans got jacked up the minute he showed up under the surface. Whatever happened before that doesn't matter anymore, now the only thing he cared about was answers and finding the son of a bitch responsible. Cas might sport a dunce cap instead of a halo on occasion, but even he wasn't clumsy enough to accidentally do something like this.

Dean hasn't even had the opportunity to dry off, small beads of water are still following the course of gravity toward the floor between them. If she was a native, the intricate tattoos aren't lost on him. He has one of his own, less cryptic, but similar enough to associate the two. They're not like any language or lore he's ever seen, but she has so many it's hard to imagine them just being an artistic choice. "We'll call it the ice bucket challenge. Missed the mark, never got the chance to record."

"Great. Now I have Danger Zone stuck in my head." That wasn't going to leave her alone anytime soon.

Clary exhaled a short breath and left Dean to his seat in front of the fire. She was only gone for about five minutes before returning with a thick wool blanket. "You might want to at least take off some of your wet layers first but here. It'll keep whatever side of you that isn't facing the fire warm." She wasn't planning to keep giving him a hard time about the water. It was easy to tell that he wasn't in a good mood or maybe just not the joking type.

"My names Clary. I arrived a month or so ago. Same way, through the fountain. It's how pretty much everyone here showed up."

She figured that she might as well start explaining since there wasn't anyone except those who have been kidnapped here. In Clary's opinion, it was hard without someone to point the blame at.

At least she caught the reference. There's perk one, now he knows he's not entirely alone in this weird time crux, or whatever pocket dimension this happened to be. The first guy that helped him out wasn't exactly on par with pop culture. Dean's used to dealing with that when it comes to Cas, not so much with random strangers that are supposed to be quick to the punch with their sense of humor.

It makes a situation like this a lot easier to swallow. So far, he's managed to stay optimistic. Being to hell and back'll do that to a guy. His mead is mostly untouched. His focus is on staying warm and the light recon he was doing before Clary came and interrupted.

"I'm Dean." Access point so far all comes back to the water source. Which makes it a lot harder to just get out of here and turn tail. Especially when he's not sure how it works, how deep it goes, and what brought on the rift, to begin with. "That's one helluva door."

"Yeah. I would have gone for something less watery." Clary leaned against the counter as she continued. "Look. You have that I'm-busy-doing-something vibe going and I can tell when someone doesn't want to talk to me but if you have questions you should ask them. Sitting here trying to deduce everything is kind of a waste of time when your fellow captives are interested in helping."

It was weird to Clary. She lived in New York and, like most cities, people generally minded their own business. This village was nothing like that.

"It's this whole survival thing, so we work together." She also sucked at almost everything doing with survival, which meant that this and making maps was what she could do. There were no demons to fight here and no Shadowhunters bent on taking over the world.

"So ask. If your first question is Where are we? Then I'm going to tell you that no one knows but it's some other world pulling people from a lot of other worlds."

"How many people qualify as captive?" Might as well go ahead and lead with the most obvious question. Knowing how many people are on deck will help him in the long run, and that compared to whatever or whoever else was around would lay the groundwork for any other questions.

New York wasn't really a place Dean frequented. Way too much activity, and no place to really do his work without somebody getting involved that shouldn't. He'd done a few gigs here and there and they always wound up being more complicated than they had to be because of the sheer size of terrain and too many loose ends to tie up.

Johanna's always kept an eye on the newbies, mainly because if this ever turns bad, she needs to know what she's up against. Watching how people move, act, their priorities, it's all information that could be useful at some point. This one has this look that makes Johanna think that if their captors decided to make them turn, it might not go so quick. Settling one of the common axes back in the storage room (since she doesn't take hers out for chopping wood), she can feel the man's eyes on her.

"I can feel you staring," is her tense comment, her tone brittle and even, while she reaches for something to sharpen the axe with before she sets it back for the night, knowing how to take proper care of something like this. "What, you don't like my haircut?" she jests sarcastically, of her nearly shaved head.

"Take it easy, Sinead." Honestly, Dean could give a shit if she had a shaved scalp. What he cared about was the axe in her hands, the skill she presented when it came to sharpening. That's not something you can teach, there's no such thing as being a natural, it's a talent shaped by years of experience. "What you do to your hair is your own business."

Dean's been stuck in this two-bit shanty for longer than he's comfortable with. The past few years living city to city lent itself to him feeling restless when he got tied down for too long. That combined with having no clue what was really happening here was enough to curb his appetite and leave half of the stew or whatever it was unattended on the plate in front of him. He's been paying closer attention to the comings and goings of the other people that stayed here looking for an indicator of where he was or what he was dealing with.

Johanna raises her brow at the name, even if her face is a blank wash without emotion. She's got no idea who he's referring to, but she also kind of just doesn't give a shit, honestly. She smirks at him, though, at the permission to do whatever she likes with her hair. "Aren't you just a peach," is her heavily sarcastic reply. "Such a gentleman," is her added quip.

She keeps sharpening, slow and steady, but doesn't take her eyes off of him, curious about when he got here because she notices these things. Has to, if she wants to keep all the players in mind. "So what's with the staring around?" she asks, when he isn't so forthcoming with the reason. "You looking for someone?"

Maybe he used to be a smooth talker. Hair or not, there was a time he would've laid the moves on Joanna so thick her head would spin, but that wasn't right now. The weight on him was starting to get a little too heavy, and after the grand entrance outside, he's a little too cold and too tired to care about keeping up with the act.

"Something like that." There's no point in telling her that he's just trying to figure everything out. Dean's not looking to give anyone an advantage. He doesn't know these people from Adam, and after what he's been through this could just be another trick or incentive from the god squad.

There's been no sign of any familiar faces, not yet, but it's not like he expected things to be thorough. The last thing he could remember being real was getting yanked out of Zachariah's future by Cas. "You wouldn't happen to be a friend of Paul Bunyan's, would you? Big fan." The axe has his attention now more than anything else around them.

She raises a brow, because she has no idea who the fuck Paul Bunyan is, but she scrapes the axe a little harder against the stone when he asks, maybe because of the awful sound it makes or maybe she's just enjoying fucking with him. She probably can't keep this up, though, seeing as she doubts people will appreciate it when the community is so small.

She'll have to save pissing people off for her friends. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she says bluntly. "Guessing that's not the one you're looking for, though. 'Something like that'," she mimics. "I'm not exactly great at the friendly neighborhood introduction thing, but you could probably find someone who is, if you think you're lucky enough to have someone else here."

She says 'lucky' in a way that's pretty clear that it's the complete opposite, seeing as it's one hell of a shithole, most days.

The sound doesn't bother him, he's had to sharpen shit in much worse shape, and his ass was on the line if anything in his arsenal wasn't ready to kill. There wasn't much in this world Dean got obsessive about, but his gear staying good and baby running smoothly was the exception to the rule.

"I've already had an earful from the folks around here looking to dish out some hospitality." Which went without saying that he didn't exactly mind being on the receiving end of warm blankets and warm towels. Food and booze was just another perk he was sweet on. Whoever this chick was, caught his eye right away, not because of the attitude but because of the stance. Dean knew a fighter when he saw one, but he's not about to bridge the gap if she doesn't want him to. Misery loves company, but his company's always been pretty bad. These days people were better off if they didn't hang around.

"I'm way more interested in the battle-axe." If weapons could be forged around here he wanted to know how. Dean didn't really want her right arm, but he wanted access to the intel that landed him on the receiving end of something sharp and pointy. It was either that or chiseling something out of the bedrock or stone he found lying around. He's not sure how the civvies would respond.

Johanna snorts at the idea of hospitality coming from her, grateful that she's not going to have to go through that whole talk, because she's not good at it. There's a reason Finnick's so good at the charm offensive and she's the one you go to when you need something rough and hard done. Raising a brow as she keeps working, she waits until she gets a better idea about what he is after.

"Weapon of choice," she quips, as if she's actually got anything else that she'd be happy to wield in her hands. Maybe if she were born in a different district, she'd be as good with those bows as Katniss or with a rock as Peeta (honestly, he's lucky he can talk his way out of trouble because he's not a fighter, that one).

"This is the communal one," she says, because she keeps her own private ones ready to go, in case she needs them. She hasn't yet, but there's always tomorrow. "You want to take it for a spin?"

"I'll take you up on the offer when I'm not soaking wet, and bring some logs back for the fire." At least then beating the shit out of a tree'll make some sense. Everything here's outdated and he's got enough info from people hanging around to know not to expect working cars or anything that isn't straight out of Little House on the Prarie.

"Anything else I should know besides you being a Lumber Jane or is that were it begins and ends for you?" It's a joke at her expense, at the lack of chatter. Normally, girls her age would be the oversharing type but he can't say he minds the quiet no-nonsense response.

Dean takes a slow pull from the hot drink someone thought enough to bring him and then sets it back down on the wood without another thought. The food he was served, mostly sat untouched, not because he wasn't hungry, but because he knew when to ration and when to focus on raising his temperature and what was around him.

"I know how to cut down a tree," is all she says, giving him a dismissive look and not wanting to feed into that little nickname at all, because it's not who she is. Before this place, her axe went into human bodies and dummies more than it did trees, but it's funny how telling people that doesn't exactly win them over.

"Look," she gets out, bluntly, "what do you want to know about this place? You got kidnapped, shoved in a fountain. Now you're here in clothes you don't recognize. Stop me if I'm moving too fast," she deadpans, even though she's confident that all of this isn't news to him. "It sucks. Then again, when doesn't life suck?"

The cold weather has brought Bela to the inn tonight, seeking a warm fire and a hot meal to accompany it. Sometimes, she claimed a room for herself at the inn when she didn't want to sleep in a chilly, empty house. Bela hasn't decided just yet what she wants to do on this night in particular but it was still early yet. She had time to think about it. After serving herself a dish Bela seeks a place to sit down at, finding a seat in one of the corners; it's quiet and out of the way from anyone else so she would have some peace to eat. Bela tucks into the dish, pausing to take a sip from some water which was already laid out on the table. The temptation to find some alcohol is there but she could just as easily do without it.

Bela spots Dean by accident, only because she looks up for a few moments to take a break between mouthfuls. She almost drops her fork in surprise. He was the last person that Bela expected to see in this village. With the way things had gone back home - how she stole the Colt and ran off with it with them giving chase - Bela is certain that he wouldn't be too happy to see her.

She finishes the rest of her meal quickly and leaves the water behind so that she could make a quick escape past him without him noticing her. What Bela did not account for was slamming her hip against one of the tables on her way to the door, making her cry out in pain.

"Bloody hell!" Bela says through gritted teeth, wincing a little.

Cold weather that Dean just got out of. After an hour of people watching and getting nowhere, he's focused on his meal for the first time. Despite the substantial appetite he built up from swimming and then hiking into this tavern, Dean can't bring himself to do much more than pick at it. A potato here, a piece of meat there, mostly undistinguishable but he seriously doubts that it's beef. As long as it's digestible and not people or something just as bad Dean could give a shit what animal it was hacked off of. The only thing that mattered was nutrients and enough protein to get through whatever hardship was around the corner.

When she comes in Dean figures it's just some other passerby. The distinct breeze that wafts through is the only indicator of a change in the atmosphere and that he gets, and even then he doesn't bother looking back up. Cataloging the events that led up to wherever the hell he was now, and whatever he might be dealing with was just as important if not more than the light surveillance he did while he was drying off by the open flame. The chill to his bones had finally subsided enough to let him relax and his now slackened posture is a testament to that.

The long list of shit that didn't add up immediately left his brain when he heard the familiar lilt of Bela's accent. It wasn't just the British tongue, but the sharpness of it, that familiar edge to each word that caught his attention. There's no mistaking her and he could be a million different places and still be able to pinpoint her in a crowd from her demeanor alone. Game recognizes game.

Originally, his intention wasn't to leave her for dead. That's where shit wound up after she put them in one life-threatening situation after another. Not all history is good history, and what he had to do, even if he'd never admit it was a constant source of guilt for him.

It's not easy to cross the room after her ungraceful attempt at exiting because he knows that every pair of eyes in the place are drilling holes into his back. He steps up by the door and holds it open for her, but every fiber of his being is the opposite of chivalrous. He's bristled and ready to pounce, maybe he didn't have the ammunition to really go toe to toe with her, but it wouldn't stop him from trying. Not if that's what it came to.

"What're you doing here? The hell is this supposed to be?"

She's the first familiar face he's seen, and he knows better than to believe in coincidences. Too much has already happened, there's enough riding on him getting back to real-time that even though she was turning tail it wasn't enough to keep him from the pursuit. His tone is barely audible over the crackle of the fire and the indistinct sounds of voices humming from the tables surrounding them. It's a perk that he's learned to work with. She could leave if she wanted to, but he's already been outside and he's willing to brave the storm again if it meant answers.

The Colt was her last shot at getting out of her deal. She had exhausted all other options after years of research and dealing with hunters in an attempt to free herself. When Bela learned whom had possession of the weapon she put together a plan to steal it from them; it had played out beautifully, and she couldn't be prouder of how she'd done it.

Of course the owners would give chase. Bela understood what the Colt meant to them and yet her needs were much more important than anyone else's. She had begged the Winchesters to help her before - a challenge in itself - there was no chance of them helping her again, not after she had stolen the gun from them.

In a strange way, coming to the village had offered Bela a respite from the Winchesters and their desire to track them down. She had believed that they wouldn't be able to touch her here and she could take a breather despite the not so ideal conditions she had found herself in. From what Peggy had told her a while ago she knew that people from the same world could be taken to the village, but she hoped that she would be the exception to that rule.

Her hip was still throbbing where the table struck and she digs her nails into her palms when Dean approaches and opens the door. People are looking at them. Bela knows that. Maybe not out of concern for her but to see what would happen between her and Dean. The last thing that she wants to do is to cause a scene in front of everyone so she slowly turns to face him, her expression neutral. On the outside, Bela is calm.

The same can't be said for her internally.

"I was dragged to this place like everyone else here." Bela replies, loud enough for Dean to hear, but not for anyone else. "I don't have the answers you're seeking, Dean."

The cool air coming from outside is beginning to make her shiver, but she's not going to let that beat her.

The calm condescending tone is the last thing Dean's expecting from Bela. No bite being the words, no sharp caustic threats, just the indifferent bravado she had been famous for before everything went to shit. It's enough to stop him dead, but the door falls shut after one of the patrons holler about letting all the warmth out. Dean wasn't even completely dry yet, so he couldn't argue. The last thing he needed was to wind up sick in a place he knew absolutely nothing about.

Dragged here. Pretty freaking convenient when she's the only familiar person in the joint. It's not like they parted on good terms, he keeps only a small gap between them while they talk. Dean's pretty aware of the fact that he's drawing attention to the two of them so he raises a hand toward whoever's keeping the bar and gestures back to Bela, a tight look on his face. There's no figuring this. Dean's starting to think he got dumped into Pandora's box.

"Yeah, but you have information. You always do." Did. Whatever. If this is some fever coma brought on by an attempt to get him to say yes, it's easy to buy into. Bela might as well be in technicolor, it's all way too damn vivid for him. "Pull up a chair. You're about to tell me everything you know."

Baiting him wouldn't do Bela any favours. Neither would letting Dean believe that he had the upper hand. She could deal with how she felt about his arrival later on when she was alone. Now was not the time. Bela stops digging her nails into her skin and does her best to appear relaxed. The patrons seem less interested in them now that it's been decided they'll be staying inside. Dean's gesture towards the barkeep seemed to have alleviated that too.

Had he spoken to many people since his arrival? They would tell Dean the same things that they told her. Perhaps he thought she knew something that they didn't.

"Hm." Is all that Bela says to the first part of his statement. Maybe they could have a reasonable, adult conversation without needing to resort to petty insults and snide remarks. She could get this over and done with and hopefully not have to deal with him ever again. "Fine. I'll tell you what I know."

Bela moves past him and heads over to a booth in the corner, sitting down on the seat closest to the door. She waits for Dean to follow after her, settling back against the chair.

Bela doesn't look like she's changed at all, not since he saw her last which had to be two or three years ago now. Never mind the fact that they both made deals that made them dog chow in the end and they both wound up fifty shades of shredded because of Lilith. These days they had more in common than they started out with. It takes nothing for Dean to slip into the seat across from her, he's going in fully aware of her having the edge.

"Let's start with how long you've been around." It'll be easy to know if she's lying based on her answer. She might be a great con but he's gotten better since she's been serving time. He made it on the outs by the skin of his teeth, and after that, his business stayed business. Dean started hunting like he never did before, and profiling came to him a lot easier after being under Alastair's mentorship, not that he'd ever give him that kind of credit. The past two years had been back to back lies all 365, and when you're lying to liars you learn to look for the signs.

He looks the same as she remembered, if a little hardened around the edges. Maybe Dean had gone through a rough time since they last spoke or it could be down to his arrival via the fountain. She does have a few questions for him, but whether or not she will get to ask him is another matter entirely. Bela is going to do her best to be agreeable and answer the questions that he put to her.

"It's been almost two months now, if I have been counting correctly." Bela isn't lying, but he could interpret her reply in any way he wanted. "There doesn't seem to be a calendar around to properly keep track and I think a lot of people have decided to just use the seasons as a way to mark the passing of time.”

She pauses for a moment.

"I suggest that you speak to some of the residents who have been here longer than I have. They can give you a bit more of a history of the place."

Too much time on the road fighting with devils and things from places that shouldn't exist wore on a person, and some people didn't wear it well. Things came to a head for him pretty damn fast after Bela went under and they only got worse, but that's not the kind of conversation he's up to having with her. Not without tipping the information scale in his favor.

"Two months?" It's been years for him. She doesn't look like she ever even made the trip downstairs, there's no careful surveillance, no nuances of indignance ate the irony, not like someone that spent time on the rack could accomplish anyway.

Bela was always a smartass, she had that much perfected, and if pinching people were a sport she'd be an Olympian. Even when he was ready to kill her himself, he had to admire her panache.

"Yeah, go ahead and get me the address book for this shit hole. That'll work." Dead-pan. Dean's never been the kind of guy that would just walk up and ask a stranger to be real with him, she already knew that much, and his trust issues have only gotten worse since things went to shit for him back home.

She wasn't the only smartass in the room.

However, Bela was still going to be civil and not give him any opening to attack her or start a scene; she is going to rise above it. Even when Dean may start to try her patience. The funny thing is, she could possibly understand where he was coming from when it came to talking to strangers and asking for information.

People had surprised her here. They were forthcoming with information and didn't judge her if it seemed like Bela was asking a stupid question. Plus, the majority of them were into the whole being part of the community spiel and helping newcomers to adjust to their surroundings - it was a little nauseating at first, but she's coming around to it.

Mostly.

"I can give you a name." Bela replies. "I'm not actually sure where he lives but Mark knows what he's talking about and is a bit of a community leader. Seek him out, yeah? Ask him your questions."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ota] when the levee breaks i'll have no place to stay

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The Inn

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Inn (A bit longer than I meant to write)

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