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At the wall where the farmhouse is afforded the least possible visibility from the more crowded areas of the farm, a quarter-lump of brick falls pointlessly to the ground. Mel, nursing her knuckles, glares at it.

She's familiar with the practice, when you're so pent up with frustration and anger and hatred that you have to punch something, of finding an innocent wall and taking it out on that, and is annoyed to fins out that a) it's not nearly as satisfying as common wisdom holds, and b) it's much much less of a good idea when there's a possibility you might actually win a fight with a building.

She nudges the brick against the base of the house, deciding she'd better get Toph to reattach it later, and turns her attention back to her hand.

Frustration not satisfied, hand hardly injured, house probably not hurting that much from its loss. All in all, a completely no-win situation.

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"S'not your job. This family isn't. We handle our own toy."

Don't think she's not grateful, though. She's just too attached to her own feelings of guilt. Her eyes are wet, but she has the growing hint of a smile when she turns under his hands so she can face him, reaching her own hands up to his shoulders.

Dean leans back against the wall, hands sliding down her side to her waist, and regards her thoughtfully.

"Yeah, a'ight."

If he's OK with it, she's OK with it. and she knew he'd understand.

Mind for 'we handle our own toy', Mel includes using Winchesters as living stress toys. She pulls on his neck gently, reaching up so their lips meet.

Dean is more than okay with this. But he's slightly hesitant, pulling back after not very long at all.

"You want this, right?"

It kind of goes without saying that he does. But hell, if she wants to use sex to heal, Dean's not gonna complain.

"Yeah," Mel says, without hesitation.

"It's like you said; I like things that're alive."

"A'ight."

Dean doesn't need any more persuading to shift one hand to the back of her neck and to tighten the other a little more possessively on her waist, leaning in to kiss her again, intent and focused.

Mel's breathing deepens with the kiss, and with her eyes shut the tension continues to pour out of her. Instead of the tense and fierce energy that she had last time, there's a sense of deliberate letting go, and she lets him set the pace.

Dean can go with that.

"Sofa's occupied," he murmurs, lifting her up against him, eyes nearly closed himself. "Your room? My car?"

"Whichever," Mel says, wrapping her legs around him to keep her with him. Her fingers have found his head and are stroking lightly. "Car's closer."

Dean already feels like there's way too many clothes between them. "Mmm. 'Kay."

The Impala is closer.

"Don' break my car," he murmurs, grinning, and catches her lip in his teeth for a second. "I like it."

Mel's already working to fix that. One hand slides down his shoulder to push his jacket away: it's not like she needs his arms to support her weight.

"I'll be gentle," she promises. She's in the mood for gentle.

Dean smirks at her, wrapping his hands around her to get a better grip, so that he can lift her up more easily.

"Let's go."

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