Dean held the bottle of scotch loosely by his side, not entirely sure why he'd gone to Jaimie's apartment. He knew that he'd been hard on her (and that wasn't the innuendo the gutter part of his mind screamed) but he hadn't seen anything special in her record - at least, not until he'd discovered her whole reinvention, the web of carefully constructed lies she'd built around herself as some sort of self-preservation. Then he could identify with her; he'd reinvented himself, of sorts. He'd been born into a family of lawyers, doctors and corporate executives, and had never ever believed the same as them. He'd spent the time he should have been in Sunday School teahing himself to blow things up with the household cleaning and gardening products. He was smart, but not in the academic sense - he knew how to get himself out of any situation, was an expert (without official confirmation) in many forms of fighting and martial arts, could take apart and reassemble most firearms with his eyes covered, and was a sharp shooter. Once his father, the corporate lawyer with a name around town, had discovered his unusual talents, he'd urged his son to join the Armed Forces, to become a sniper, or Special Forces, but Dean's inability to follow orders without making sarcastic retorts had limited his options somewhat. Carter had found him in the midst of an IA investigation for planting evidence on a drugs case, and brought him into his... unit.
And now Jaimie was part of the machine. He almost felt bad for her; it would chew her up and spit her out as it had Ty (and by default, Melissa). He'd already been screwed up when he joined, so the lying, the hypocrisy of breaking the law in the name of upholding the law... it didn't affect him. Though the irony wasn't wasted.
He rapped lightly on the roor, waiting until it opened an revealed Jaimie, stood in tight jeans and a tank top, looking... disappointed? He paused for a second, wondering if the best thing would be to just turn around and walk away, but the look in her eyes stopped him. He was good at reading people - body language, microexpresions... he knew it all. He just knew it as instinct reading - and in that moment, Jaimie was screaming disappointment, her eyes filled with pain and exhaustion. So he stayed put.
"Thought you might have some trouble winding down." he announced gruffly, leaning against the wall, before raising the bottle and shaking it a little. "I've found this helps."
Her gaze flitted between him and the bottle, and after a second she stood aside, allowing him past. "Come in."
He glanced around, struck by her apartment. It was neat and pale, a nod to maturity. It might as well have been a showhome. It wasn't Jaimie. She stood two glasses on the table, holding up his hand to stop him as he went to pour. "Why are you here?"
"I told you, I-"
"Why are you here?" she repeated quietly.
He answered truthfully. "I was worried."
She held his gaze. "You going to judge me if I get totally wasted?"
Dean laughed, genuinely amused by her question. Her habits following a tough case seemed to mirror his own, so he was in no position to judge. "No. Not at all"
"Good." she replied, guesturing for him to pour, frowning.
He caught the look, and tipped the golden liquid into a shot glass. "Reuben, y'know... stuff happens." he handed her the glass, explaining his thoughts in his typical laid-back manner. It was jaded of him to talk about death in such a manner, but it came with the territory. "You just gotta shake it off."
She took the glass, sitting on the arm of the couch, not looking like she belonged in her own home. "What, just... try and forget about it?"
Dean sat back into the couch. "No, no. Nope, can't do that. That's yours; put it in a box, file it away 'cos you got plenty of time to look at it later."
She shot him a look that suggested she questioned his logic, but remained quiet.
"And look, Carter?" he continued, remembering her daddy issues from earlier. "He's just rigid. He'd probably go crazy if he knew I came over here tonight." smirked Dean, slightly pleased that he was still able to defy his boss, even though the standards for doing so were fairly high.
"So we won't tell him." she murmured, draining the shot in one, standing and turning up the music which had been playing in the background. As she begun to dance, hips swaying to the music, Dean's eyes became fixed on her, watching her move. He was intoxicated by her, intrigued, even. he knew who she really was; he'd looked up her record following her confession earlier, and knew of all the mistakes, arrests... and still, he found himself warming to her.
Rising slowly, he approached her, setting his hands on her hips. "You really wanna forget?"
"Yes." she breathed, and despite the flirtatious smirk on her lips, her read her eyes. He could see the pain, the desperation. So in one fluid movement, Dean slid his arm around her waist and lowered his lips to hers. he would make her forget.