I'd love to be able to tell you all about the dining room, give you some glowing description or other, but honestly I just don't remember that much. I'm sure it was every bit as gorgeous as the ballroom, but I guess the details were drowned out by the company and conversation. Mostly I just remember a very large room, lots of empty tables, and Dean. Go figure, huh?

I do remember following Charles in—Dean just a few steps behind me—and fully expecting him to seat us at one of the many tables scattered around the cavernous space. Honestly, that probably would have been pretty uncomfortable considering how empty it felt, with even my steps echoing back at us. Thankfully, Charles did nothing of the sort, instead leading us to a table nestled in its own little alcove at the back of the room.

"Is this acceptable?" Smiling, Charles gestured to the U-shaped booth that curved around one side of the small table, a more intimate setting than I'd anticipated. ...not that I was complaining and Dean looked downright thrilled. Of course, that could have been because we were about to get a meal that consisted of actual food, but somehow I doubt it. "When The Arcadia was built, this was the owner's private booth. I thought it might be suitable."

"This is more than suitable, Charles. Thank you." 'Suitable', hell, it was fantastic. I may not remember all the little details, but I certainly remember that much. "Though I do feel a little underdressed."

"You look fine." Sliding into the booth, Dean didn't look the least bit phased as he leaned back and raised a brow in my direction, his gaze lingering in places it probably shouldn't have. Like I'm not going to notice? "You just gonna stand there?"

"Maybe." Turning around and going right back up to the room did cross my mind. It's not that I didn't want to sit and have a nice dinner with Dean, I just really wasn't looking forward to the conversation I knew was coming. Luckily for me, the voice that was screaming 'Romantic Dinner' was way louder than my anxiety. A beer or two and I'd be just dandy. Probably.

Catching Charles' eye, I rolled my own and got a sympathetic smile in response before sliding into the booth, trying to maintain some kind of distance from Dean. You'd think after days in the car, I'd be used to close quarters with the man, but not really, no. He just takes up so much space. Just for some perspective here, he is over a foot taller than I am and weighs twice what I do. Literally. The whole damn family is fucking massive.

"Indeed. You look lovely, Miss Skyl-" Charles caught it before he could finish the last syllable, correcting himself and offering me a smile in silent apology, "-Skye."

Looking entirely too relaxed for my peace of mind, Dean swallowed a chuckle and leaned back against the booth, briefly turning his attention to Charles. "So, Alfred, what's for dinner?"

No way Dean didn't remember 'Alfred's' real name. He might be a dumbass, but he's not dumb, which meant he was doing it to either be irritating or because he thought he was funny. My bet was on the latter, though if you'd ask me a day earlier, I'd have gone for the former. It was kind of like, I don't know, my attitude toward Dean was shifting in general, almost as if I wasn't automatically attributing malicious intent to every single word out of his mouth. I wonder why that could possibly be.

Still, it seemed Charles had a sense of humor, responding as if Dean had called him by name. "For dinner this evening I will be serving steak-cooked to your preference, of course-with baked potatoes, salad, and a loaf of French bread I took out of the oven not an hour ago." Drawing himself up to his full height, all five-feet-eight of it, Charles looked down at Dean. "I trust that meets with Master Wayne's approval?"

"Sounds good to me." Dean didn't so much as twitch at Charles' response, though his smile might have gotten just a tad wider. "Medium-rare." Clearing my throat, I caught Dean's attention and raised an eyebrow, giving him the same look Anthony used to give me when I was being rude. "...please."

Biting back a smile, I answered Charles' questioning look before he could open his mouth to ask, "For me as well, please."

"Excellent. And to drink we have wine, iced tea, lemonade, beer, and water." As if that wasn't enough of a selection, Charles thoughtfully added; "Or whiskey, if you'd like something a bit stronger."

Honestly, I don't think I'd ever wanted a very large whiskey so much in my life, but that probably would have ended badly. I'm not really a big drinker. I'm not really a big anything. (Not true. She's a big pain in my ass. -Dean) "A beer and a glass of water would be great, thank you."

"Beer for me, please." This time Dean didn't even glance in my direction, adding the 'please' all on his own. The boy can be taught! Of course, it helps when he wants to get into the teacher's pants, but still. "Thank you, Alfred."

"My pleasure, Master Wayne."

Shifting around to sit facing Dean, I crossed my arms and leaned a shoulder against the back of the booth, breaking the silence before it could get awkward. This was going to be weird enough with that, thanks. "You think you're funny, don't you?"

"I think I'm fuckin' adorable." Couldn't really dispute that because he was, in fact, fucking adorable. Picking up the butter knife, he spun it idly in his hand, not paying the least bit of attention to what he was doing. He'd started fidgeting almost as soon as Charles had walked away. Not a lot, but if I didn't know any better, I'd say I wasn't the only one that was a little anxious about all this, though he managed to hide it better than I did. Mostly. Dammit.

Catching me eyeing the flash of silver spinning between his fingers, Dean abruptly put the knife back down, the metal clinking against some very fine china. The comfortably faded leather under him creaked when he shifted, leaning back against the booth and crossing his arms as he tried to hide behind one of those 'I-Am-Just-So-Gosh-Darn-Cute' smiles. A popular tactic, right up there with 'intimidate into cooperation'. Neither is particularly effective. (Sure they're not. -Dean) "So...you were a bartender?"

"Yeah, for like four years." Way to deflect attention, Winchester. Alright, if that's how he wanted to play this… "I worked at a bar called Taps in Bartlesville for years and then a place called Black Jack's in New Orleans for the last few weeks." Well, really I'd been working at Taps since I was old enough to hold a broom, but all that was a little complicated to explain. And not exactly legal, not that that's ever made a good goddamn to any of us. "Anthony got me a job with a friend when I moved down there."

Eyes narrowing as he looked at me, Dean couldn't keep the stupid skeptical look off his equally stupid face. It wasn't hard to figure out he thought I just might be lying. Not that I could really blame him, but still kind of a dick move. "Don't you have to be twenty-one to tend bar?"

That was why he thought I was lying? Seriously? "...says the felon with a glove box full of fake IDs and an arsenal in the trunk." What, did he think no one else ever did that kind of thing? Shifting in my seat, I dug my wallet out of my back pocket and flipped it open, slipping the ID I carried out of its sleeve and sliding it across the table. It was identical to my legal ID in every way, except for the date of birth. "Anthony has had a new one made for me every year since I was fourteen. I needed the money and he needed a decent worker."

Picking up the plastic, Dean examined it for a second before peering over it to arch a brow at me, his lips twitching like he couldn't quite believe I'd have a fake ID. And a good one, too, not one of those 'I-bought-this-for-sixty-bucks-off-a-guy-named-Vic-that-lives-in-his-mom's-basement' types that college kids pick up so they can hit the local liquor store. "Twenty-two? No way in hell you can pass for twenty-two." Flipping my ID back at me, Dean couldn't manage to keep quiet, his mouth running a few seconds ahead of his brain. Anyone see a trend there? "I mean, I could maybe see twenty in really bad lighting or if you were in a bikini or somethin'..."

"Why you picturin' me in a bikini?" Watching his face turn bright red was (and still is) one of my very favorite pastimes. "With the right clothes and make-up, I can look anywhere from around twelve to twenty-five or so." (She's not lying and honestly it's kind of creepy. -Dean)

"I call bullshit." Hands clasped on the table-top in front of him, Dean seemed to have forgotten to fidget. Also possibly forgetting to breathe as he asked a question that had probably been on his mind for awhile because… I mean, do I really have to spell it out for you here? "...but just to double-check, you are eighteen, right?"

"It's okay, Winchester, I'm eighteen. You don't have to feel creepy for lookin' at my ass." Okay, so that was flirting. Kind of. I wasn't exactly good at it but it seemed I didn't really have to be because he was blushing again. Considering he was the one with all the experience and I had exactly none, you'd think it'd be harder to make him turn all kinds of red, but you'd be wrong. And it's glorious. "I turn nineteen on Christmas Eve."

"I never-" Was he really about to claim he's never looked at my ass? Did I have 'stupid and oblivious' tattooed on my forehead? Probably a good thing Dean didn't get to finish his protestations —because no way I would have been able to keep my big mouth shut—due to Charles' fortuitous arrival. Saved by the butler. Again.

"Here you are." Pushing a wheeled cart, Charles stopped next to the table, ignoring the flustered look on Dean's face and my own laughter—like any good butler would—before depositing one of those fancy serving trays onto the table—the kind you really only ever see on TV—and lifted the top to reveal a large bowl of salad and a loaf of French bread, followed quickly by just about every condiment anyone could ever want, two glasses of water, and two very cold bottles of some beer I'd never heard of. "I trust you can serve yourselves?"

Clearing his throat, Dean managed to recover enough to speak, looking eager for Charles to be gone again. Though I guess it's possible I could have been misreading that. (She wasn't. -Dean) "I think we can manage. Thanks, Alfred."

"Of course, Master Wayne." Inclining his head respectfully in my direction, Charles couldn't quite smother his chuckle, "And Dr. Isley." Ooo, Charles had a little nerd cred. Nice. "I'll return shortly with your meal."

Relaxing back against his seat, Dean retrieved one of the bottles Charles had brought, twisting the cap off and sliding it across the table to me before grabbing the second one for himself and arching a brow at me. "Dr. Isley?"

"Come on, how do you not know Pamela Isley?" Leaning across the table, I snagged Dean's plate before he could stop me and scooped up a decent serving of salad before he could say anything. Dude needed to eat a vegetable and I wasn't above shaming him into it. "Poison Ivy? Only one of the best villains in Gotham? Teams up with Mr. Freeze in Batman and Robin?"

"Like anyone ever watched that movie." Eyeing the salad like it was made of dog food, Dean reluctantly took his plate back before picking up the bread knife, a smile twitching on his lips. "I'm pretty sure I knew that, though."

"I'm gonna pretend to believe that, but only 'cause you're armed." To be fair, he had proven to be a much bigger nerd than I'd previously given him credit for, but I had my doubts about this one because it really was a terrible movie. Ignoring me as if I hadn't even spoken, Dean took it out on the bread instead, handing me a somewhat squished slice before cutting one for himself.

Wrapping my hands around the cold glass bottle, I took a long drink of my beer before sagging back in my seat, finding my appetite a bit less than expected. Really, I just kind of wanted to get this part over with, which was difficult considering I didn't even know where to start and it didn't look like Dean was going to be much help if I didn't say something. I mean, I could probably have pushed it off, but I had promised… "So, are we supposed to be talkin' about somethin' or other or are we just gonna do the whole 'sit in uncomfortable awkwardness' thing?"

Putting the bread knife and his own squished slice down, Dean brushed the crumbs off his hands and pushed his plate away like he hadn't been looking forward to real food all damn day. It's probably a good sign that a guy is interested if he ignores fresh baked bread to pay attention to you instead. (She's not wrong. -Dean) "You know, I think I've about had my fill of that last one over the last week or so."

"Okay. So." Now it was my turn to fidget. Somehow or other the napkin that had been by my plate had ended up in my lap and if it hadn't been made of cloth, it'd have been torn to itty-bitty pieces in seconds. "...I don't know, how do people talk about shit like this?"

"No idea, but I think we can figure it out."

If he could have looked a little more frazzled and a little less amused, that would have been great, but of course he wasn't, which funnily enough made it that much more difficult to keep from plucking that napkin apart thread by thread. "Remind me why I agreed to this?"

"Because we're stuck with each other for God knows how long, so we might as well be friends because neither of us wants to wake up dead?" Dude has such a way with words, doesn't he? "And because I bribed you."

"Is that what that was? A bribe?" Abandoning the napkin for a fork, I stabbed a cherry tomato and moved it to the side of my plate to get it the hell out of my salad. "I would have called it blackmail."

"You gonna eat that or you just gonna play with it?" (Translation for those that don't speak Winchester: 'You need to eat because I am concerned and care about your well-being'.) Lifting his half-empty beer to his lips, Dean's spring-green eyes laughed at me over the lip of the bottle as he threw my own words back at me. "...and I prefer extortion, it sounds classier."

"Have you always been like this or is it somethin' I did?" Rolling my eyes, I ate a small piece of bread, swallowing hard to force it past the rapidly growing lump in my throat. There were reasons I didn't tend to talk about myself beyond the purely superficial and broaching the subject was proving to be more nerve-wracking than I'd thought it would be. "You realize you're basically askin' for my life story here, right?" Abandoning any pretense of actually eating, I reached for my still mostly-full beer instead and leaned back in my seat, turning abruptly serious. "You sure you wanna hear it?"

Dean sat up a little straighter at the change in tone, setting his empty bottle down. Moving his untouched plate (hypocrite) out of his way, Dean leaned forward, hands clasped on the table as he gave me his full and undivided attention. (Which, for those of you who haven't had Dean Winchester's full and undivided attention, can be very unsettling for a variety of reasons.) All while also somehow managing to answer what amounted to four different questions with a single word. Because talent.

"Yes."