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Sam's poor, tousled head is all filled up with angst at the moment.

He's a few streets away from the house they're all staying in, perched on somebody's porch, drinking a purloined beer and thinking Very Deep Thoughts.

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"Ow."

Sam sighs and kisses her cheek.

"I'm going to start doing that every time you hit me."

Glare.

He's taking all the fun out of it.

Beam.

He totally knows that.

"Brat."

Grumpy.

Sam is just going to keep beaming at her.

He totally wins.

Yeah, yeah.

That's what he thinks.

"Also? Turns out there really are vampires."

Distraction time!

Son of the Bride of the WHUT Face Returns.

Part Two.

"Hunted near to extinction, but there's a few of 'em around still."

"Fuck," she sums up.

"Yeah."

Pause.

"And uh. You know those powers I've got? Some of the Hunters sort of figured I was fair game."

Information dump?

Not going so well.

"Man name of Gordon Walker...we met him hunting vampires. Sadistic bastard. Killed his own sister when she got turned. Killed her without thinking twice. Don't think he even regretted it."

She keeps silent, because the hell is there to say?

"And he's telling Dean he has to kill me, just like Dad..."

This would be the point when Sam realizes what he's saying, shuts his mouth and looks away.

She opens her mouth, finds nothing to say, closes it.

"...The hell are you doing?"

".....I don't...."

Sam covers his face with one hand.

"I don't want you to go through what we did. If, you know, something should happen and you should get dragged back there.....I don't want you to hurt the way we did."

He's trying to protect you, Dianne. He's just doing it in a weird way.

After a while, she laughs, shakily and with a distinct lack of amusement.

"You have a hell of way of doing that, Sammy."

"I'm sorry."

Sam rubs the bridge of his nose, looking rueful.

"You know this family. Crappy coping mechanisms."

"My coping is fine, thanks."

...Clap your hands if you believe in fairies, too!

Eyeroll.

"Yeah."

Defiant look.

Once said, she will stand by it.

Sam pats her onna head.

"Whatever you say, honey."

Oh Sam. Sam, Sam. That was not a good idea.

She narrows her eyes, aims a punch for his solar plexus, and walks off.

(This isn't saying much for her coping mechanisms.)

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