knowthyexits | (no subject)

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hank

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She's exhausted, but if she stops moving, Sarah knows she's going to have to think about what's happened in the last week and if she does that, it brings her back to the feelings of loss and the feelings of grief that she's terrible at processing. She's been serving at the Winchester since it happened, only goes home to sleep and feed the dog, but keeps going, otherwise.

As it stands, her shift has been over for hours, but she's still there -- at the bar, with a glass of Scotch in her hands that she's not sure she even wants to drink. Mostly, she wants something to blame, but there's no way to do that here because it's not the fault of machines or fate that Cal is gone.

There is no fate but what they make. Maybe she's contributed, helped to lead them down this road? Maybe she should just accept that some things happen and they can't be stopped -- but that implies that she can't stop the impending apocalypse, that implies that she's useless and Sarah refuses to accept that as a truth. Still, here, in the bar, she pretends that she can control what she feels. She pretends that it doesn't wreck her inside to know that someone she loves is gone. Kyle is gone, Andy Goode is dead, Charley is gone and remarried.

She always had John, though.

Now, she doesn't even have him. That's the thought that drives her to drink back the alcohol, summoning another with a muted request.

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"Then you should definitely read something of mine," he told her. If she did, she'd see right away how his writing could turn even him on.

He probably shouldn't have done it but when Sarah laid down, Hank pushed up from his seat and joined her on the bed with a bounce, crossing his legs beneath him Buddha style.

"Um." He huffed out a laugh. "All kinds of shit." For a lack of anything better to do with his hands, he fished out another cigarette and twisted it between his fingers, leaving it unlit. "How about you?"

She cranes her neck to look at him through the haze of what little hair she's managed to grow back. She stopped wearing the wig when it got long enough to style in a pixie-like style, messy in all ways and worse for the wear now that she's been drinking and in disarray. "I meant with writing," she clarifies evenly.

Still, she's about to answer, even though she's not sure why. "I don't know. I guess deep down, I just like the idea of something -- someone -- normal. When it comes down to it." It's why she could see herself with Charley and Andy Goode. Still, what she wanted and what she fell into were two different things, always, and she always managed to find a way into the difficult.

Hank makes the noise of a buzzer on a gameshow when a contestant has just gotten the answer wrong.

"'The idea of someone normal'?" He echoed, deeply unsatisfied. "That's what turns you on? I'm talking about instinct, passion, all the stuff that sits just below the surface, ready to light up like flashpaper. Normality can't turn you on."

"Says you," she counters stubbornly. "There's something to be said for the knowledge that someone is good. Someone is normal. Someone isn't fighting against an impending future that may or may not happen." She offers a wistful smile. "Also, I like a man who can take care of himself."

"Fuck," Hank said bluntly around a laugh. "You must dislike me immensely then." But that was okay. He usually won women over eventually.

"Isn't that what I keep saying?" she asks with a smirk, rolling her eyes given that 'liking' Hank is something that's come with a great deal of time and pressure -- she likes some of her wounds as much as she liked him when they first met. "Immensely is a good word for it."

"That's cold, woman. How can you not love a face like this?" Angelic wasn't a look Hank could pull off well but that didn't mean he wouldn't give it a go. "That's just the liquor speaking, I knows it."

Sarah gives him a wary look. "Isn't the liquor something that usually makes someone like them better? Because it's not doing any favors for you in either direction right now, positive or negative. "And your face has no effect on me, either way."

"Nonsense," Hank argued, pushing to his knees and flopping further up the bed, head on the pillow now. "Women would pay to wake up to a face like this. Fortunately, I don't charge."

She rolls her eyes, nudging at his hip with her knee as she shifts onto her side. "Don't be an idiot," she says, then waits for a moment. "I wouldn't pay anything for this."

"What tha what tha?" Hank replied, slipping a hand between his face and the pillow to keep it in safe quarters. Some of his greatest conversations with Karen had been during pillow talk. Of course, that was mostly after all the sexing when his libido wasn't controlling his mouth. Still, he was quieter here, less boisterous. Despite what it might seem, Hank thought beds were sacred places.

"You be seriously fucking mistaken, lady. I know we don't be having currency here but you wouldn't even give me a chicken for this? Or a cow? Some magic fucking beans?"

"Maybe an egg," Sarah says after giving it a moment's thought. After all, she's talking about waking up to his face. Given that she tends to wake up from nightmares -- most often -- it's not really Hank who will give her the assurance that she's able to fight off those nightmares.

He's not...completely terrible to look at, she supposes. "Okay," she sighs. "And maybe a quart of milk."

Hank let out a small howl, having the gaul to look bashful now that he had gotten his compliment. "Stop that sweet talk. You're making me blush. Besides, you've already gotten me into bed." Fully-clothed but it still counted.

She glares at him, but with the amount of alcohol in her system, it's somewhat muted. "I'm drunk, Hank," she reminds him in an utterly even tone of voice. "The fact that you're in bed has to do with my inhibitions being lowered enough that I don't want to find out how rewarding it would be to see your ass hit the floor."

"I'm in bed because you secretly likes me," Hank argued, emphasising the 'likes' with his fingers as he drew them up to his chest in a heart shape. "It's just a shame I'm a gallant gentleman when I'm sober otherwise I could be taking a-to-the-d-to-the-fucking-tage of you right now." And he totally would have had booze to blame it on in the morning.

"Hank, if you ever took advantage of me, I'd shoot you. And I would shoot for the heart." She's only killed a human being once, but she feels like Hank could provoke her to that point. She shoves at his fingers to get them out of that ridiculous shape, but they linger a moment too long -- evidence that yes, she does like him well enough to keep him alive. "Or I'd just take away your manhood."

"Well, that's unfortunate. My heart and my cock happen to be the two best parts of me." Even the love of his life had admitted to that after some prodding. "They're like a tag team. A one-two punch. Heart cock heart cock heart cock heart cock," he continued, until he became tongue-tied. "Watch out, female demographic. One of thems gonna getcha."

And her tolerance isn't that patient. She rolls her eyes again -- they always managed to get a workout when Hank's around -- and she grips at his shoulders, just long enough to shove him off the bed and reclaim his side as hers, leaning over the edge of the bed to give him a sympathetic look. "You brought it on yourself."

Anyone within a mile radius would hear the wind knocked out of Hank as he hit the floor. At least she hadn't hit him anywhere pretty.

He looked up at her, the shock subsiding on his face. "So I guess spooning is out of the question?" Couldn't blame a guy for trying.

Sarah presses her lips together to avoid showing him that she's actually smiling at his suffering. She can't have him figuring out that it gives her a small amount of pleasure to see him like this. "I'm drunk, Hank, remember? If we spoon, you lose little-Hank tomorrow morning."

"Hey!" Hank pointed a finger of warning up at her. "Less of the little. Besides, spooning doesn't count as taking advantage. It barely counts as first base. Can I interest you in a platonic snuggle instead?"

She gives him one last considerate look, shifting onto her back as she stares up at the ceiling. "I'm going to sleep. You decide what you want to do, but if you go, make sure the door's closed. I don't want Cato getting out."

Hank didn't think it was much of a choice. Sleep sober on the floor versus absolutely anything else at all. He knew which he'd prefer.

"Alright," he groaned, pulling on the side of the bed to get himself up. "Be gone wit-chu. Cover yourself up and don't choke on your own vomit," he told her, brushing his jeans off and heading towards the door. "Charming asshole out."

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