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13.

[Backdated to the last day of the latest flood.

Open Spam:]

[Stiles can still remember the last time he built a pillow and blanket fort. He and Scott were eleven and at the McCall household. They'd wanted to go camping, but it had rained and ruined their plans. Melissa had suggested they build their camp inside, and being Scott and Stiles, they'd taken her words very much to heart and dragged out every single pillow and every single blanket that the McCall's owned and within a couple of hours, they'd turned the living room into a giant fort.

It isn't exactly what Melissa had meant and she'd stared at them and at the monstrosity for about thirty seconds before shaking her head and vanishing up the stairs. Not surprisingly, that was one of her most common reactions to Scott and Stiles. At least building the fort had meant they weren't engaging into any kind of illegal shenanigans, and that had to count for something, right? Still.

This fort was much, much bigger and much more impressive than that one had been, but that could be because a majority of the Barge had been working on it for the past three days. He knows of course, that this isn't normal. It's some kind of flood, but it's engaging and relatively harmless and the mental break is kind of nice. He is stacking another pillow pile when he hears someone approaching and turns to see who it is.]

[Post-Flood Spam for Dean]

[It doesn't take long for Stiles to realize once he's out of his pillow-induced obsession that he hasn't seen Dean in a few days. Hasn't seen him anywhere. Hasn't heard from him at all. He knows Dean talked to Sam just a couple days prior to the fort-building flood, and he's not sure what to make of his radio silence.

What he does know is that the guy has to be hungry by now, so he stops by the mess hall and fills a tray with food before heading to Dean's door, knocking and waiting.]

[Private to Mason]

Hey, man. I sorta got wrapped up in that whole pillow and blanket thing and didn't ask. You okay?

[Private to Scott McCall]

Are you sure we can't kill him?

[Because honestly. Stiles is all for killing Jerry. He attacked three people Stiles cares about and Stiles actually loathes him.]

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[He doesn't take it personally when Dean neither calls out nor comes to the door. He has a feeling he hasn't willingly seen anyone since the day the systems malfunctioned and they were all able to talk to people not on the Barge. He lets out a breath, balancing the tray a little better and knocking again.]

Hey, man. It's just me. [Not that Dean will be thrilled with that revelation either. He chews his lower lip for a second.] The flood's over. All the pillows and blankets are gone. And I come bearing food.

[Said food is a big greasy cheeseburger, fries, and a milkshake. Basically three food groups that he never allows his dad to eat from. He tenses a little at the thought of his dad. Who's recovering from a gunshot wound back home apparently. And sure, he and Parrish had both assured Stiles it wasn't a big deal, a shot to the shoulder and nothing too permanently damaging. Still. It's his dad. And his counterpart at home is apparently doing a really shitty job of keeping him safe. No surprise there, he thinks bitterly before shoving the thought away. Not the time.]

[It's true that Dean hadn't willingly reached out to anyone or allowed anyone to reach out to him; he had even less reason, now, to trust that any of this was anything other than something wanting still more from him, though he couldn't answer what that might have been. He had stopped trying to figure out the motives of immortal, all powerful creatures a long time ago, and begun resisting across the board. Even that had been used against him, but at least in those cases, he hadn't been willingly complicit.

That didn't mean, however, that while he was here he didn't intend to take advantage of the basic necessities: he had no intention whatsoever of allowing himself to be weakened by hunger, to be laid low by dehydration, not when there were resources available for that. Alcohol withdrawal had done a number on him the past couple days but that was just pain, just illness: he could withstand that, he had before, he would again.

Food doesn't, exactly, sound like enough of a tradeoff to subject himself to visitors of any kind, and especially not his warden. It's ingrained habit to take advantage of a food source when it's available, though, and the logical knowledge that he isn't currently hungry but he could do with the supplies later that, several moments after Stiles announces any of this, the hunter finally adjusts his own position to be able to mostly see the door down through the hatch in the ceiling and calls:]

Leave it on the table. [His voice, as usual, is rough but more hoarse this time than usual; it is also, of course, the opposite of inviting.]

[Stiles hasn't quite figured out how to stop trying to figure out people's motives. And motives of the supernatural. He's not sure his mind will ever allow for that really. He's too curious. If he's not careful, it'll probably either be what drives him over the edge or what kills him, if not both. He seeks answers, something he gets from his dad, mostly. He's usually good about finding them. About figuring things out. But some things and some people take a lot more time than others.

Dean's voice when he calls back doesn't sound -- well, it doesn't sound good. It sounds weak, and yes, uninviting, but that's something Stiles has faced with many people over the years. It's something he can live with, something he isn't really even bothered by.

He opens the door and glances around but doesn't see Dean anywhere. His eyebrows furrow as he stares at the ladder and then looks up. He's in the attic, apparently. Or as close to an attic as it gets on the Barge. Stiles isn't super fond of small, dark spaces these days, but he looks from the table to the ceiling again and shakes his head.]

It's a -- burger and fries. Milkshake. Wasn't sure what kind of shake you like so I went with chocolate. [Because doesn't everyone like chocolate?] You sure you don't want me to bring it up? [Because he's not sure what kind of shape Dean is currently in and if he can even manage to get back down right now.]

[The hunter watches Stiles as he comes in, and of course he instantly recognizes the items on the tray by sight as well as smell; he'd have loved that tray once upon a time, instantly and whole heartedly, and is shocked to realize that even now he's actually not exactly eager, but the next step down from it. Old habits, apparently, die a lot harder than he'd anticipated.

But the tray is still in the hands of whatever Stiles is, in the heart of whatever this place is, and Dean doesn't move at all from where he's sitting just to one side of the hatch in his ceiling, looking down into the single-room cabin with its rough hewn floor, walls, picnic-style table and benches, counters built into one wall and the metal frame cot against the other. He's dismantled two of the cabinet doors, wedged them against the corner of one wall in makeshift shelves, and he's got a box of items on the floor in front of him at the top of the ladder which was originally six steel rungs, and is now three. Apparently three of them where broken off, alternating so the ladder is still climbable.

Dean stares impassively down at him: he hasn't shaved in a couple days, and though it's hard to tell by the light of the oil lamp he's brought up with him, maybe pale. Meaner, certainly, the angle and the lighting giving him the look of something feral crouched in the eave of an abandoned building, or maybe something with black eyes that doesn't walk the earth in most worlds but does in Dean's, now.]

If I wanted that, I'd have said that.

[He looks up even as he sets the tray down on the table as Dean initially requested. He can barely see him from his vantage point and he frowns. It's kind of creepy, but he's not actually creeped out, either. Takes a lot more than someone hiding in an attic slash crawlspace with barely any light to creep him out these days. He sighs, but it's quiet, inaudible.]

Are you all right?

[Because hiding in an attic? Not exactly normal behavior. He wonders if something happened that he missed. Probably. Crap. And he's pretty sure convincing Dean to tell him about whatever happened is going to be like pulling teeth from an awake crocodile. Which means he'll have to put his budding detective skills to work. He's going to need a white board to write on. Erasable markers. Red tape. He blinks himself out of the mental list and eyes the ladder.]

Dude, when's the last time you ate?

[There's a laugh that catches in Dean's throat, swallowed back down before it can even fully form, because of course he's not alright. Who is? How long has it been since he felt alright without being too drunk to see straight or wrapped up in someone else too deeply to remember anything about who he is, who they are, or why they're doing whatever they're doing?

But he certainly isn't going to admit that to Stiles, of all people, and he as certainly isn't interested in talking about the rest of it. He ignores the first question completely, looks back at what is currently serving as his hunting kit, and tries to decide which option he likes best, which would be the easiest.

Fine. Easier probably to go down, then, as soon as he gets himself together.]

You're my warden, not my mother. I've got food.

What are the chances of you just fucking off and leaving that there?

[If Stiles is at all bothered by the sharp words, it doesn't show. He's getting a lot better at schooling his expressions into something more neutral. Something that doesn't show every single emotion he feels. There are people he doesn't bother hiding it from because they know him too well anyway.]

Nope, not your mother. But I hadn't seen you for a few days and I'd be a pretty shitty warden if I didn't come make sure you were at least alive. [He shrugs at the question, ignoring it for now and moving on.]

You probably already know about your new neighbor, right?

That's pretty much what I thought.

[This Dean mutters more or less to himself, because Stiles kind of answered the question anyway. The hunter pulls himself to his feet, swaying slightly in the awkward position the space leaves him in once upright, and swings down the ladder with functional if not perfect ease. He stays where he is, holding onto the last rung of the ladder though, when both feet are back on the ground floor. He doesn't look much better down here, and he's definitely paler than usual, darker smudges under his eyes, though he's still on his feet.

He's looking at Stiles again, still warily, with the kind of consideration someone with a machete in their hand might regard a snake while trying to discern whether or not it's poisonous. This does not, in fact, have anything to do with the question he's been asked.]

The bitey asshole that brings entire crowds of people down to deal with him?

What'd you think I should know?

Edited 2014-09-04 05:14 (UTC)

[Yep. That is Stiles' version of subtly telling someone he's not leaving yet without verbally telling them he's...not leaving yet. He watches Dean climb down the ladder and he winces just a little at how terrible Dean looks despite being on his feet. It isn't that long ago that Stiles looked pretty terrible, like he was dying. It's pretty obvious to Stiles, at least, that Dean isn't taking care of himself, no matter what kind of protests to the contrary that come out of his mouth.]

Yeah, that one. [He's visibly tense now, because the bitey asshole has already attacked three people he cares about, and he lives next door to Dean. At least Dean has a lot of experience dealing with that kind of thing, and out of everyone without superpowers, can probably handle Jerry without any help from someone else. Still. He doesn't like it.]

He's a vampire, which you apparently figured out. I'm trying to figure out the extent of his abilities, and what his weaknesses are. [Because they're going to need to know those things. He knows that much instinctively.]

[Dean completely ignores the wince; he's looked worse, he knows, and he doesn't want to talk about it. It'll pass. It always does, whether he wants it to or not, and this is no different in that regard.

What he is willing to talk about, though, is hunting and evil bastards, and this shifts his mood almost tangibly. The personal standard of wariness and distrust evaporates, and what might be a much more familiar tone starts to come out as he falls into business mode takes over instead. He pushes off the ladder and begins towards the table and the food there, settling heavily on the bench and looking over the offering between glances at Stiles.]

What've you done so far?

[The change in Dean's attitude is actually somewhat of a surprise to Stiles, but he lets out a breath, recognizing the familiar tone. He knows that if anyone on this ship can tell him more about vampires -- at least the kind from his world -- it's Dean. And the strengths and weaknesses might be entirely different for Jerry.

Stiles isn't plotting to kill Jerry. But he's smart enough to know that people on board the Barge need to know how to stop him when he attacks again. Because he will. It's a matter of time. He moves back a little to give Dean more space so he doesn't feel crowded and he leans against the wall by the door.]

Well currently I think I have every single book from the ship's library checked out. There's a lot of standard stuff: garlic, wooden stake through the heart, beheading, sunlight, fire. Fire's at least something he's not entirely immune to because when he showed up he was covered in burn marks according to the people he fed on. [There's bitterness to his tone that he can't, and doesn't even bother trying to hide.]

I know that he doesn't have a reflection. I know that since he's a supernatural inmate, he doesn't have all of his abilities, but he's strong anyway. It took a lot of arrows to get him to let go of one his victims.

[He shakes his head.] But as far as what else works so far, I haven't gotten much past reading. There's a lot of mythology which -- I know you know.

There's a lot of bullshit mythology. [This Dean replies dismissively as a kind of filler while he sifts through the rest; the list with vampires is typically pretty standard, and he starts shuffling them around in order or priority with the information Stiles is already giving him, crossing off a few, adding mental question marks to another couple. It's a process that never changes, only gets new data and different time limits.]

The reflection thing is weird. Vampires as most people know them tend to be corporeal, so there's no real reason they shouldn't show up in a mirror. There are other creatures that prevent similarly, but aren't actually fully on one plane of existence or another - typically they need to possess someone to have any influence on ours, and until then they don't have a physical form. Were they sunlight burns, or fire burns, do you know?

[He doesn't miss, of course, the bitterness. His ability to converse with and connect with people has been severely curtailed, but some things he knows intimately, and this distracts him from picking up a couple of the fries to munch on, tentatively at first, eyes lifting to Stiles to consider him while he chews.]

Pissed you off, did he? [Made you feel like you failed to protect someone, did he?]

Yeah, I know. [He knows it's a process of elimination when it comes to the supernatural because so much of the mythology does get it wrong. Like silver bullets and werewolves -- or at least the ones from his world. That's the other thing that complicates it. Even if some of the mythology he reads about gets it right for some vampires, there's no guarantee it'll have the same impact on vampires from another universe.

He nods at Dean's comment about the reflection.] There's a theory that if a vampire doesn't have a soul, it won't have a reflection. [Which makes him think of his conversation with Mason all over again. Mason who suddenly wanted to get sober and graduate so he could try yanking Jerry's soul so he couldn't hurt anyone. But if the soul thing was true, that tactic won't work on Jerry anyway.] I don't know if they were from sunlight or fire. They healed in a few days, though. Probably would've been sooner if his powers weren't tamped down.

[Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his neck, meets Dean's eyes momentarily.] He fed off two friends of mine. [He doesn't feel responsible for this, not this time. He hadn't been around, hadn't even met Jerry yet when it happened either time. But he does want to make sure it doesn't happen again. His main purpose in the pack is research, and he's throwing himself into it headfirst, the way he always does.]

[For Dean, whose life has continued to change rules again and again and swept him along ahead of it, it's simple to stop thinking vampire and start thinking that Jerry, whatever he is, is a different creature altogether. He can use the vampire knowledge he has to start with, but he won't depend on something until he's seen it with his own eyes. That, anyway, is typically simple enough.

It's almost laughably easy, knowing who, what, and where; knowing the when is up to him, and the why is already clear. It's the how he's tasked with discerning, and that? That's practically all he does now. Dean scoops up a few more fries, settling into the comfortable role he'd once lashed to himself as his life's purpose, one that is all he's good for now, if he's good for anything at all.]

Yeah, because souls are what reflect in mirrors. [This gets Stiles a doubtful look, although he's heard it too so it's not much of one. And maybe it's true - there are stranger things he's seen, after all - but he knows his own reflection doesn't show his soul. He still looks human. Mostly he figures that's the meatsuit.]

They still your friends? [Once upon a time he might have been more tactful with this. Now it's just a question, an exchange of information, deciding how many kills are on the list now: just Jerry, or his victims, too?] Vampires where I'm from mate for life. They go around building up family units and justifying it however they can if they still have a conscience.

Might be problematic, is what I'm saying, if this guy really is a vampire and that's true of him, too.

[Stiles wonders how his dad would react to the idea of vampires being a real thing when he's only recently started accepting the idea of things like werewolves and kitsunes. He chews his thumbnail, shrugging a little at Dean's skeptical look. Mythology and theories surrounding it are weird sometimes. But it's not like asking Jerry will pan out to be very helpful.

He's not even sure the mirror thing matters that much except it bugs him and he wants to know why the vampire doesn't have a reflection.] There's also a theory about most mirrors containing some kind of silver in them but I kinda doubt that applies here either.

[The question that Dean asks next makes his face pale a little, especially when he adds the explanation for the question. Though he wonders if it's really all that different from what Derek had done once upon a time back home with Erica and Isaac and Boyd.]

Yeah. They're fine. They didn't turn and they're not dead.

[Dean only cares about the reflection in so much as it's a clue to what he really is, or what kind of vampire he is. That's the part he's always hated: supernatural creatures are so picky. They have to be identified exactly right, killed exactly right, or there's just a world of hurt waiting on the other side of a botched hunt.

He tips his head to acknowledge the bit about mirrors and silver - it's an idea, one of the ones with a question mark after it instead of a line through it on his mental list - but doesn't get distracted. From that, anyway: he picks up the shake without seeming to notice he's done it. Having something else to focus on besides how shitty he feels, both physically and mentally, is enough for the time being, though he gives the shake a dubious look after he takes a drink of it and puts it down again, his gut twisting in otherwise unacknowledged protest.]

We need to find out why he's biting. If he's that weak or if he's doing something else.

If the bite does something else, like gives him access for possession or influence. That's as important as finding out how to put him down.

[It's not, Dean would say if he knew. It's not different at all.]

[And Stiles just like having the knowledge. Likes finding the answers. There's something within him that enjoys the challenge of figuring things out. And while he's been more than willing to take out a monster causing problems, Scott's way of dealing with other supernatural creatures is as different from Dean's as it gets. Stiles loves Scott for his optimism. For his willingness to see the possibility of perpetual light at the end of the tunnel. For his belief that everyone can be saved.

Everyone can't be saved. But Stiles also strongly desires to help his best friend keep that belief as long as possible. It's part of what makes his best friend who he is. But he's also willing to do what his best friend can't. He already has blood on his hands and Scott doesn't. So if and when the time comes -- and he knows it will eventually -- he'll do what he has to. He holds his breath at the mention of possession and influence.]

Like thrall.

[Which he does have serious concerns about when it comes to Lydia, especially, considering it's happened before.]

[The reference Dean has for that is too far in his own past, and not that complete: Sam never believed everyone could be saved, not on the supernatural side of the coin. He just wanted to save some of them. Dean had fought him on it, capable of optimism only insofar as it applied to those directly around him; in the end, though, he's practical. Too practical for most people to stomach, especially now.

The hunter nods, but misses the way Stiles reacts. He's rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to think.]

You said he was shot full of arrows. What were they made of? How many, and where did they hit?

What finally stopped him?

[Stiles operates on various levels. He doesn't want to see anyone innocent harmed or killed. But he's not going to cry over someone he doesn't care about or be overly sad if it's someone he doesn't know or if it's someone he doesn't like, either. He's definitely not going to be upset about the death of someone who's hurt people he cares about.]

Military grade titanium arrowheads. About half a dozen. I think they were all to his arms, but I'd have to doublecheck with Allison on that. Two other wardens showed up as backup and hauled his undead ass down to Zero.

[Dean makes a wordless sound of acknowledgement in his throat, finally picks up the burger, puts it down before he takes a bite and pushes the plate away for now.

Christ, why can't he think straight? Dean nods.]

Okay. Maybe I will talk to her.

[Probably not, though. That sounds suspiciously like interaction with other people, and he's already chafing at Stiles' presence.

It's about here, too, that he remembers he doesn't really have a reason to care, fingertips digging into the corners of his eyes as if that will help anything.]

Good luck with your research, anyway.

[There's worry in his eyes as he watches Dean push the plate of food away.]

Do you need to go to the infirmary? [His voice is quiet, uncertain.]

[There's a part of Dean that bristles at the concern, as graceless at accepting it now as ever he was. It gets bogged down in the nauseous part, though, blunting the edge of the frown he turns on Stiles.]

The fuck are they supposed to do for me there?

Dude, I don't know. You look like you're about to hurl or something.

[His own frown deepens.]

I could go see if there's soup in the kitchen.

If I hurl, I hurl. It's just...

[He rubs at the corners of his eyes again, impatient but without the energy to back it up.]

This is what happens. That's all. Drink and then stop and then this. Christ, it's not like I can die.

[He's hungover. Stiles isn't sure how he missed the signs. He considers Dean for a moment.]

You're probably dehydrated. Have you ever tried burnt toast?

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