He's unraveling or he's seeking comfort or he's working on a solution with the functional half of his brain while numbing the half that's a liability. It's all a matter of perspective.
Last he saw Dean, he was in the kitchen trying to find a recipe Jack could keep down when he wakes up. Last he saw Cas, he had the bedside vigil covered. The few other residents who aren't on a case or running an errand in town have gotten the message that the archives where he's retreated are closed for business right now. He's ransacked every file box and drained two glasses of whiskey and now he's sitting at his laptop and scrolling up and down the same archive's index as if something on the screen might jump out like it didn't when he was physically tearing through the files. His left hand hovers an inch from his phone, waiting for it to buzz.
Rowena's stilettos are unmistakable.
He tells her to fuck off, not in so many words but with a pronounced lack of politeness in how he says he'd like to be left alone. She doesn't turn heel, of course. Her stilettos keep clicking loud across the floor.
"Look at you," she says. "All dressed up in big brother's anger and alcoholism. Is this because I had the temerity to repeat your own oh, so hypocritical advise on accepting the death of a son?"
She pulls up a chair, puts her elbow on the table and rests her chin on the heel of her small, deceptively delicate hand. She's already gotten a new outfit from somewhere. The clothes and the eye-shadow are grey and sober for her, almost a costume of mourning.
"Not the same," he says, hauling the words up from the back of a mind that is too drunk and not nearly drunk enough. "You're not s'posed to give up until you're a hundred percent certain that it's over...Anything less is a betrayal."
"My poor boy," she says and shakes her head softly, her hair falling over the slope of her right shoulder while she shrugs the other. "It's just human limitation and your tendency to treat every weakness like it's unforgivable. My, my, I wonder where you get it from."
"Is this still you trying to help?"
"I'm a practical woman. If I were trying to help, I might suggest some more concrete manner of channeling your hopeless anger at the universe."
"What, is there something that you want me to kill for you?"
She chuckles, the glint of her smile sardonic and knowing. "No, and if there were I'd still turn first to your brother. He's the one who knows how to work his manly suffering out in controlled bursts of aggression. I think you require a little more velvet over the steel."
"Oh," he says, then, "oh," not surprised, not really, except that they've come to this now. He stares at her. "Why?"
"Why ever not? Woman, man, alcohol, loneliness, heartache, frustration--it's a royal flush."
"I don't do that sort of thing."
"Your publicly well-documented sexual history says otherwise."
He flinches. "Not anymore."
"Is it because you're too self-loathing to think you deserve the release? Or is there some other reason?"
"Rowena," he says, tense and brittle as hairline-cracked glass. "Leave it alone."
"Alright," she says, a softening of her face and voice, a sudden understanding. She looks as though she really might. She looks as though she might get up and leave him. He realizes that he doesn't want that.
"Even if it weren't the wrong time, which it is...Whatever we have between us, it would just mess it up if we did anything--if we took it there."
"Between 'us'? Why, Samuel, that's practically relationship talk! You don't want to ruin our friendship? How romcom-ish and sweet. I hope this isn't out of some noble desire to protect me from the fate of love interests past, because need I remind you, dearie..."
"No," he says. "I remember."
"Or fear that I'm seducing you out of some Lady Macbeth-ish motive?"
"Rowena...I do like you, sometimes. But I don't think I could trust you enough for--that."
"For a quick fuck on or under the table? Or against the shelving, maybe? Isn't your life complicated enough without analyzing every bit of human interaction to death?"
He presses his eyes shut and when he opens them again she's leaning around the corner of the table, her neckline modest and her eyes lowered, shadowed and almost demure.
"You could let this one hang-up go," she says. "That much is in your hands." She reaches out, slow, giving him plenty of time to retreat and when he doesn't she brushes her fingertips along his jaw, smooth skin scraping the bristling five 'o clock shadow. She smells of apples and sage, perfume and magic.
"I don't have time for this," he says, his last best defense, the selfishness of what he's even thinking of doing with her, taking something for himself when he's needed...But he doesn't feel needed so much as he feels useless and hopeless and yes, angry. And maybe she's right after all, maybe she can take these feelings away and he'll be wiped clean and better able to function, after.
He leans his cheek into her hand. Her lips curl, the slits of her eyes darkening further under her heavy lashes. He grabs her upper arm, pulls her off her chair. Her tiny, powerful body slots in between his thighs. Then her fingers are smoothing over the pulse in his neck and her thighs are riding his and it isn't the time for thinking. No time for second guessing himself. He lets his eyes slip closed again. Riding his legs, she rubs and ruts against him and lets her thigh get close to him but not close enough. But this he can do, he can grab hold of her and pull her closer, there, just there and yes, that's what he needs, like that. He lets her kiss him, lets her suck his tongue into her mouth. They're kissing and they're tearing at each other's clothes with no co-ordination, knocking elbows and hands and noses together.
He fucks her hard, hurried and he keeps kissing her, not soft nor sweet but not with simple punishing fury either. He watches her in slit-eyed glimpses, the strange sight of her with her cheeks flushed pink and her hair tousled, and he smooths it back off her face while she tangles her hands in his hair and rides him with a smile on her face. It's not the hyena smile, not mocking or cruel. A little smug, maybe. He comes with his tongue inside her smiling mouth and his thumb against her clit working harder, faster.
She lets out a little high whimper as she comes, his fingers sunk into the soft flesh of her hip and her hot, slick folds and his face pressed up against her breasts, soft and warm, heartbeat steady.
There's surprisingly little unpleasantness afterwards. She faces him, astride his lap while his softening cock skims her belly, stretches her arms up behind her head with her fingers interlaced like a ballerina and says, "Thank you, Sam." Tells him she needed that—"And I still flatter myself that you did too"—and he doesn't say anything out loud. She leans across the table and pours another two fingers into his glass. She surprises him by sipping from it and grimaces in entirely predictable reaction, then passes it to him, but he puts it back on the table and tucks her head under his chin instead. Holds her a while, both of them silent. He thinks maybe he should be panicking over what he's just done, is doing, that there might be something wrong with him that he's not. The thought subsides and for a little while he doesn't think about anything at all.
He holds her until she shivers, the human vulnerability of it making something in him ache, and then they re-assume their clothes as best they can and go their separate ways.