Third Unused Utility Belt | Video

[hellofist]

[Hello there Barge. Cass is in the library, sitting on the floor with a bunch of books spread around her. When she turns the feed on, she's got a copy of A Tale of Two Cities in her hands. She'd recognized it as the book she had tried to read when she had stayed at Tim's apartment, but it was only the spine and the cover she knew. She still has no idea what it's about, or even what it is.]

Um. Don't know lots of things. Trying to learn. Reading, how to... use comm. But...

[Well, staring at words and trying to will them into making sense? It's not very effective.]

Need help. Had offers. Cashing in. [It's possible she got that phrase from Dean.] In library. Anyone can come, need... lots of help.


(ooc: ABSOLUTELY ANYONE is welcome to come and see Cass about reading, even if they haven't previously talked to her about helping out. Come and poke the little bat!)

Comments

>:D

[hellofist]

[If there's ever another trip to Gotham, Cass will let Dean come with her to visit her father. She can even arrange for a little alone time, if he'd like it.]

'sgood.

[Oops, she's sprayed some crumbs over the books. She brushes them away, then looks at her copy of A Tale of Two Cities before handing it over.]

Tim had that. In Bludhaven. Probably not... good place to start.

[surfaceshine]

[Dean raises an eyebrow at the spraying popcorn, but just helps brush the crumbs away, not particularly concerned. When she hands him a pretty good book - and then he recognizes the title and tries very hard, successfully, not to let his distaste for it make it to the surface. He accepts it from her anyway, then smirks.]

No, not really a good place to start - and really not a good place to end, either, if you ask me but no one ever does. [He puts it down - gently, though, because she knows it's not a good starter and she knows this isn't Bludhaven but she still picked it up so it probably means something - and starts hunting around until he finds something thinner, with more pictures. He's not happy with that, either, though so he glances up and around.]

I wonder if they got... huh. Here, hold down the fort, I'm gonna go check something.

[hellofist]

I'm asking.

[Because she values every opinion he could ever have about anything ever. He doesn't like that book. She'll ask why later, because her eyes locked on the careful way he sets her book aside. This, this reason here, is why she likes him.

So few people really understand her, but Dean has done everything right.]

Hold... fort?

[surfaceshine]

Yeah, yeah you are. [Dean doesn't notice the attention on him, already distracted with trying to remember what he knows about this library's filing system; he doesn't come in here often, too many smells and memories missing something precious and inherent, ever feeling out of place, but he has before. He's confident he can find what he's looking for if it's here. Deciding on a direction, he unwinds his arm from around her and pats her knee as he pushes up off the floor, thoughtlessly careful of his shoulder - a much younger, much angrier Sara winged him with a .357 but it's only deep enough to be a nuisance more than anything.]

Sit tight. This won't take long. [He grins at her once he's gained his feet, cocky and crooked, then starts off deeper into the library, features fading to an intent, more blatantly curious set than he normally shows; and it doesn't take more than a few minutes before he's coming back, turning over a book in his hands and looking genuinely, sincerely pleased.

His ghost is with him when he folds back down where he'd been before, at once both nostalgically content and sadly bittersweet. He holds the book out to her, a brief flash of pride overshadowing both in his grin, then slightly sheepish; he shouldn't be this happy about a children's book.]

Here. The pictures are a little funky, but it's a good starter. [The front cover has a picture of an awkward, large-headed monster with bull-horns on it and a sail boat; black block capital letters across the top spell out Where the Wild Things Are.]

[hellofist]

[Does he know that sometimes, the person he's haunted by makes him look years younger? Sometimes when she sees that person shadowing Dean's thoughts, his movements, he looks like he's weighed down, like he's sinking, but right now? He's flying. When he sits back down, Cass leans up to give him a quick peck on the cheek before taking the book from him.

Immediately, she likes it. The picture is good, but that's not the only reason. Whatever this book is, it's important to him and that makes it automatically important to her. She handles it like it's a precious thing because it is, touches the monster with the horns and grins.]

Like the pictures. Funky is... good.

[surfaceshine]

[If she'd thought the hugs got an amusing reaction out of him, the peck on the cheek nearly completely short-circuits his brain. Only good things can bring him screeching to a halt, nothing to fight or dodge or stop, just the corner of his mouth twitching like it might come up, his eyes darting to her quickly.

Then he just goes ahead and grins, because it's simpler and it's what he wants to do, wrinkles his nose to hide the fact that he's pleased; inordinately, almost. He notches his chin at the book.]

I know it's a kid's story, but it's the one... [The joy dims some, just a bit, because talking about Sam is still painful; it always will be, until Dean fixes it. But these are good memories, and when he's not forced to, when he gets to choose to, sharing them feels good. It feels like reminding the world that Sam existed, that he lived, that he was important. That he is important.] Some teacher read it to the class when Sam was in first grade; Dad was pretty pissed about it when he found it, but he didn't make Sammy take it back. After that, he used to make me read it to him at least once a day, even after he could read it himself.

[He hadn't thought Dean knew. But Dean knew.]

[hellofist]

[She laughs, because she can see him go blank when he doesn't know how to respond and then quickly follows it up by being pleased. He's funny, his body is so expressive to her but she knows, she knows there's only a handful of people who see that. She's lucky, to have Dean.

And then, there, his ghost has a name now. Sam. Sammy, but she thinks that isn't a word she can use. His body says he's protective of it, so it's just Sam. And then, Dad was angry, Dad made them. His brother. The ghost that follows Dean, the phantom in everything he does, is his brother Sam.

She cuddles in closer and pushes the book into his lap, flips it open to the first page. This isn't about Cass learning anymore, it's about visiting Sam in Dean's memories.]

Read.

[surfaceshine]

[Dean, never one to overthink intangibles, hasn't quite realized yet how easily she does read him; he doesn't think about how well they click, how quickly he's become comfortable with her touching him and allowing him to touch her, how easy it is to not feel anxious about telling her anything about Sam on top of the general twisted up mess that is anything to do with his kid brother right now.

The joy dims further when she shoves the book into his lap, half because of surprise and half because of the fact that he clearly hadn't stopped to think just how private these memories are, how protected. It's not, exactly, embarrassment - it's not dread. It's something like a sudden shyness that makes his fingers hesitate in reaching to pull the book closer where he can see; something like fondness that makes him look at her doubtfully, and then nod and lick his lips.]

Fine. But I don't do the voices. [...Anymore. He licks his lips again, shifts positions slightly to be able to hold her, the book, and a free hand more comfortably, and begins tracing one fingertip under the words as he reads them, because this is how he helped Sam practice until Sam didn't need him anymore.]

The night Max wore his wolf suit, and made mischief of one kind and another, his mother called him "wild thing!"

[hellofist]

[He used to do the voices. She can imagine it, him smaller, a boy that would be Sam sitting close by, tucked safely into a bed, maybe. Dean there with the book, holding it so Sam could see the pictures, making funny voices not because he wanted to, but because Sam liked it. She's overcome with affection for him, hugs him a little tighter and squeezes her eyes shut when she turns her head into his chest. He most likely won't see it as anything other than thankfulness, that he's trying this with her, and that's fine. That's enough.

But she doesn't keep her eyes closed for long, not when she likes the art and when he's pointing out each word to her as he goes. It's helpful and it only takes the first line for her to become completely engrossed in what he's doing.]

[surfaceshine]

[Sharing a bed, Dad's penlight held in Sammy's hand so he can shine it where he wants to see because Dean knows the words by rote. Covers tented over their heads, making Sam's finer hair fly-away with static, pushing the ends of Dean's bangs down into his eyes; his brother warm against his side, turning the pages for him, mouthing the words along because he knows them by heart.

Dean isn't remotely aware of the way the corner of his mouth starts tugging up by the time Max reaches the island; the way his fingertip isn't quite pacing the cadence of his voice anymore because he's not actually reading by the time Max is headed back to his room. He still knows the words.

Dean reaches the last page -] And into the night of his own room, where he found his supper waiting for him. And it was still hot. [- and the small, crooked smile that's been creeping onto his face has found its place. She's hugging him a little tighter and it feels nice in an absent, muscle memory way when she burrows closer for a moment, his gaze and attention breaking for only a moment in the story. The hunter closes the book and glances sideways at her, doesn't bother trying to put the smile away again; he jostles her gently with the arm around her, because he can.]

Told you. Little funky, totally for kids, but it does what it does.

[hellofist]

[She reaches for the book and traces her fingers over the picture of Max, but doesn't try to actually take the book from him. If he doesn't take it with him, he'll find it tucked safely into his room at some point because to Cass, this book now belongs to Dean.]

Liked it. But... what's rumpus?

[surfaceshine]

[Dean opens his hand with the book in it when she reaches for it, freeing it up for her to take, but he just holds onto it when she doesn't. He won't take it with him. This isn't his world anymore - the library, the book. He's sentimental in a way he'll never acknowledge consciously or aloud, but he's learned to carry that sentiment with him rather than store it in objects that can be lost, damaged, left behind; books don't make the shortlist when the Winchesters have to be packed and on the road in less than five to make it out of town ahead of the trouble constantly dogging their heels.

The smile graduates to a grin, because it's one of those words, the quirky ones he likes; he teases the page out from under her tracing fingertip, turns back to the page with the word she's asking about, and tilts it towards her so she can see the parade of wild things, the party about to start.]

You tell me.

[hellofist]

[She just shakes her head. She sees what he's doing, trying to get her to figure it out, but she'd rather have him explain it.]

You know, though. Just tell.

[surfaceshine]

[There's no shift in his expression most people would notice, no visible conscious decision; just a slightly more sly cast to the smirk, a subtle amusement in his voice.]

It's a cut of beef.

[hellofist]

[He might as well say he's joking out loud for how obvious his body makes it. Cass just rolls her eyes and elbows him lightly in the side.]

Funny. Only not.

[surfaceshine]

[Dean over-exaggerates an 'oomf' when her elbow catches him, but it seems to prompt his grin. He seems to be pretty confident it was, in fact, funny.]

A rumpus is a massive, chaotic mess. Like a party only with less cake.

[hellofist]

[She leans into him again once he's filled to the brim with self-satisfaction, pleased to know he's feeling happy. But then she looks up at him, very confused.]

Parties have cake?

[surfaceshine]

[Dean blinks at her for a moment, then shakes his head, grin toning down to a fond smile.

She's missed out on so much. He adds another item to the list rather than asking the obvious question and just moves on to explain.]

Yup. Know when your birthday is?

[hellofist]

Yes. Found out... few months ago. January 26.

[She really does love him for the way he handles her lack of knowledge. Doesn't judge, just tries to fix it. He gets another quick hug for it.]

[surfaceshine]

[It's easy - and even easier, when she says that, to actually blurt out something he pretty much doesn't tell anyone. It's too much like a plea for attention, normally; something for others to forget.

This time, though, it feels like something to further bind her into the "normal" it seems to him she's trying for. And so he grins:]

Dude, that's awesome - two days after mine.

[hellofist]

Will get you present.

[She knows that's what you do because Bruce did it the day she found out. She'd told him it wasn't her birthday, but he'd insisted, and she'd learned presents happen on birthdays.]

What do... you want?

[surfaceshine]

[There's the briefest, mildest of hitches in Dean's response, and it is surprise; gifts aren't really a Thing in the Winchester car household, and Dean had stopped asking for anything before he'd even hit the double digits. Anything frivolous, anyway - he always hoped and wished for John's safety.

Then he's smirking, and of course, deflecting.]

Not a lot of shopping options here, sweetheart. It's alright. We'll throw a party.

[hellofist]

[Congratulations, Dean, you're getting a whole book of finger paintings now. She sees him dodging, pokes him in the side with her elbow again.]

Can see that. But fine.

What kind of party? Do I have to... find a dress?

[She is noticeably less enthused about that idea.]

[surfaceshine]

[Dean bats her arm in return, reaching down to flip the book in his lap closed and set it safely off to the side for now.

He can't help but laugh at the question or, more accurately, her change of heart when she says it. He grins and singsongs:]

It's our party and we'll do what we want to. [Back to normal with a dismissive wave of his hand.]

Nah. Bring your favorite cowl.

[hellofist]

... I only have one.

[Oops, that went straight over her head.]