so fucking out of my head; i was running at full steam...

[nextinline]

It doesn't take any sort of super-sensory perception to realize when they've made it to Vegas. The billions of lights on the buildings make it nearly as bright as daytime, and the noise itself is sufficient to wake the dead. Stark fights wakefulness for a few moments, but eventually gives in to the inevitable and straightens up from where he's been reclining in the spacious backseat. Naturally, the first thing he does is light a cigarette. Then he clambers over the front seat and drops into the passenger position, peering around curiously for landmarks. It doesn't take long.

"Take the second left, up there." Stark waves with his cigarette in lieu of pointing, then continues scoping the place out. After a moment, he adds, somewhat nonsequitorially: "You really gotta admire a man bold enough to take huge amounts of acid in a place like this."

With further terse directions, he leads Winchester to a parking garage beneath a hotel with which he's familiar. It's, expectedly, gaudy and bright and something like twenty stories high, hidden behind a French Quarter facade. Once the Lincoln is parked, Stark opens his door and rolls out into the glamor-less garage with an absurd sort of grace, stretching. He unfolds the back door, as well, to heft out the bags from the floorboard.

Comments

[whiskeynpie]

All Dean can think is thank fucking God they made it in once piece. Luckily James slept most of the time and that left Dean to his thoughts milling around in his head. The bright lights and neon signs welcome them as they head into the city. It's certainly been awhile since he's been here, not in years he thinks.

When James wakes up and crawls back into the front seat he acknowledges the directions with a grunt and follows them, side-eyeing the man as he drives. He snorts a little laugh at that and has to agree. It must be a trip with all the blinking and flashing neon lights. When he parks the car and gets out, he looks around and can't help but ask.

"Can you really afford a place like this?" Because Dean sure as hell wouldn't be able to, even if he had saved up whatever earnings he made for a year.

[nextinline]

Once his bags are in hand, Stark slams the back door and ducks back through the front, to grab the black knife from the ignition. Then he closes that door, not bothering to lock it. Probably he won't drive the car again.

There's a little bit of a smirk for the question; it appears he's finally waking up completely. "Of course not. I'm just gonna break into a suite." This is said in that tone Stark has that could be serious, but could just as easily be sarcastic; even the few people he's close to usually have trouble making out the difference.

But it is apparently sarcasm, because when they take the elevator up to the ground floor of the hotel - with the main casino floor flashing and ringing and making those falling-coin noises all around - Stark approaches the front desk. The concierge eyes him up, and Dean behind him, obviously coming to his conclusions and offering a faked, polite, but still condescending smile. The tuxedo'd idiot might as well have a cash register for a brain, and he's clearly not expecting much from these two.

Stark's mother always did say he constantly exceeded expectations.

Leaning offensively on the fancy marble counter, Stark nods towards the concierge shortly. "Reservations."

"Of course," the concierge says, nearly as dismissive. "Name...sir?"

The 'sir' comes very reluctantly. Stark just smiles, vulpine. "Beherit."

The penguin clicks at his keyboard, checks the monitor. Then his eyes seem to grow three sizes bigger, just like the Grinch's heart, and flick rapidly between the monitor and the proposed guests a few times. "Ahh...welcome to the Orleans hotel and casino, sir." 'Sir' is a lot more emphatic this time, and the voice is pure smarm. "Let me call you a valet. Do you have other luggage we can fetch? We'd be happy--"

"Don't," Stark cuts him off. "Just give me the keys."

The concierge falls all over himself to follow this order, passing over a pair of cards, along with a glossy brochure about the hotel's current entertainments. "Here you are, Mr. Beherit. And please, if there is anything I can do, don't hesitate to call."

Stark takes the keys, and leaves the desk without another word, heading past the casino for the bank of elevators. Only when he's about ten yards away from the front desk does he allow himself a small, but more genuine grin.

[whiskeynpie]

Dean's pretty sure that was sarcasm, but what he's seen so far from James he's not really sure. Honestly he doesn't care as long as it keeps them off the radar and they'll only be here a day or two at most, so he might as well make the most of it while he's here. Who knows when he'll come down this way again. Probably not for a long time.

He follows the man into the elevator, leaning against the wall as it lifts them to the lobby, the ding of the doors opening signalling their arrival. He hates that he's being led around but he's got nothing better to do anyway until they get back on the road again, so he follows James up to the counter, scowling at the look the man behind the front desk gives them.

Fucker.

The reaction the guy has makes his brows raise as he all but falls over himself to do what he can for James. It makes him wonder just who this guy is that has this asshat freaking out. When Dean turns to leave he gives the man a sharp smile and a little salute before falling into pace beside James.

"What the hell was that all about?"

[nextinline]

In the elevator, Stark leans against one chrome wall as he waits for it to ascend all the very many stories to the top. He shrugs dismissively, though the grin still hovers around the corners of his mouth. "I made arrangements." Yes, in the fifteen minutes Dean gave him to wrap up affairs in LA before bolting. He narrows one eye, thoughtful for a moment. "Ya know, this is actually the first time I've been to Vegas since I was legal. Too bad we aren't staying long."

When the elevator finally reaches its destination, Stark heads out, traipsing along the dizzingly-patterned carpet down a short hall to a pair of black lacquered double doors, the lintel over them bearing a sign in green and gold reading 'Crescent Suite'. The key works, so he doesn't have to break in after all. The main room is large, of course, with muted colors and expensive-looking furniture, a huge picture window on the far wall giving an aerial view of the strip a few miles away, all lit up. Unsurprisingly, Stark heads straight for the bar and starts plundering it, speaking as if talking to himself. "Hell yes, it's good to be king." He shortly emerges with a bottle of top-shelf whisky.

[whiskeynpie]

"Uh huh," was all he says to that as they head into yet another elevator. He would have prefered stairs but guessing where about the room was the elevator was fine for now. He raises a brow at that, curious. "Just how old are you, then?" He asks, not bothering to hide his curiosity.

When they get out he follows at a sedate pace and is only a little surprised when the door actually opens under the keycard. He almost expected James to break into it just as he'd said down in the parking garage. When he steps inside he lets out a low whistle. "Don't spare any expense, do you?" Dean asked as he moved further into the room, looking around what seems to be the living room.

Walking up to the window he peers out over the skyline, a myriad of lights blinking up at him. Looking back he snorted softly and smirked a little. "They got any more of that back there?"

[nextinline]

Stark sort of mentally freezes at that first question; no smart-ass remarks come to mind, even though it shouldn't be hard. "Thirty." He answers as if this is something of a surprise to him, and truth be told, it is a little disorienting. He hadn't been too concerned with emotional maturation while stuck Downtown; sometimes he still feels nineteen.

Shaking his head to dismiss the uncomfortable feeling, he looks over the bar again and then around the rest of the room, clearly looking for distraction. "Apparently I don't." Eyeing a somewhat out of place and completely distasteful Bosch print on the opposite wall. How fitting. Stark waves a hand at the bar in invitation as he heads for a small conference table. "If they don't have it here, my minion at the front desk will probably beam it up post-haste."

Reaching the table, he roots around a pocket of the frock coat to unearth a folded map of the continental U.S., the sort that never folds back together the same way once you open it. Tossing it on the table, he shucks the coat and drops it over a chair, then snags one of his duffel bags before sitting down.

Then, first things first, he cracks the bottle of Black Busch, not bothering with a glass. After a satisfyingly long pull from the bottle, he starts to unfold the map. "You have anything of your brother's on you? A photo, a memento, even a gift might work..." The map spread out, he unzips the duffel and starts to search through it, first piling unfolded clothes onto another of the chairs.

[whiskeynpie]

Thirty? Little younger than himself then, not that it's surprising. Dean wanders over to the bar, ducking down to root through and surprised by the selection in stock. He hasn't seen this good of liquor in a long time. Normally when he hits up the store he gets the cheapest he can find and while it's certainly not even close to the best, it does it's job. Shifting around the bottles, he finds a bottle of Jim Beam and pulls it forward, looking it over before picking it up and standing. Turning, he grabs a glass, blows it out out of habit and peels off the seal, then twists the cap open to pour himself a drink.

Grabbing the glass and taking a drink, he picks up the bottle as well and walks over to where James now is at the table. He sets the bottle down on the edge and takes a seat in one of the other chairs, kicking his feet up on the edge of the desk as he allows himself to relax. "Of Sam's?" He doesn't think he does. He has a few pictures in his wallet but... hmm. Sitting up a little he pulls out his wallet and flits through the pictures tucked away in the back.

A grin lights up his face as he spots a picture in the back, one of when they were younger; Dean roughly seventeen and Sam thirteen, standing with their dad and for once all three looked mildly happy. He ran his thumb over it a few times before handing it over, though he pulled his hand back for a moment. "Do not ruin it," the man said dangerously before finally holding it out. "What are you going to do with it, anyway?"

[nextinline]

While Winchester approaches and sits, Stark finds his necessities, which in this case, aren't much. The stick of lead works to draw a double-circle on the map, which has been weighted at the corners by odds and ends from the bag to keep it from folding up again. He adds a few words and symbols here, Latin mixing with more arcane signs but, thanks to Stark's chicken-scratch scrawling, bearing not much more resemblance to any modern alphabet. He only looks up when Winchester speaks again.

Taking the photo cautiously between two fingers with a serious but sort of distracted nod, he looks it over briefly. "This'll work." At any other time, the photo's contents might garner more commentary, but for now, the blood and weapons and happy-family smiles only earn a moderately amused, "'s touching." Setting the photo to the top of the circle, Stark looks his preparations over briefly and nods to himself. Improvising a sort of dowsing pendulum from a small throwing knife with a chain looped through the pierced-work hilt, he sits forward to concentrate, holding the knife suspended over the map.

Though it could be used easily for nefarious means, there's nothing inherently hostile about a locator spell, so no words have to be spoken aloud. Instead, it's more of a focusing, narrowing will to a sharp point and directing it with mental commands. Within a few seconds, the knife begins to spin, seemingly on its own. It wavers over a few different places, first to the north of the map, then lower, and easterly. For a moment it sways pendant over the midwest in general. Stark narrows his eyes, mental concentration kicking up to a barely-audible tuneless humming. The knife shivers then, sudden as a lightning blast, veers away west sharply before the chain jerks itself from Stark's fingers. He snatches his hand back to his chest instinctively, as if his fingers were burned, while the knife buries itself a few inches deep in the table.

Recovering from the surprise easily, Stark leans over the map. Seeing that the point is embedded centered in the state of Nevada, he snorts emphatically. "Sonofabitch." This is all he has time to get out, before the knife burns literally red hot, igniting the map. With those fast reflexes of his, Stark snatches the photo before the flames can get close and offers it back to Winchester calmly, like this is all normal behavior.

[whiskeynpie]

Dean watches curiously and a little warily. He's used location spells before though he hates using them as he hates pretty much all other magic. Humans used magic and humans were crazy sons of bitches in his book and he'd rather deal with a frigging pack of Wendigos than a human with a magic book. It takes him a moment but he realizes that James means to find Sam and Dean doesn't know if he likes that at all. He'd planned on getting to Bobby's then ditching the guy to haul ass and find his brother.

But this guy who he doesn't know and certainly doesn't trust knowing where Sam is? Yeah no, Dean no likey. He has little time to say anything, though when the knife spins and pulls from the man's grasp and slams into the map and the table. It's sudden enough that he sits up sharply and stares at it, then jerks back himself when it lights up.

Dean snatches the picture back, smooths it over to make sure there are no scorch marks, then glares at James. "The fuck was that? What the fuck just happen? What does that mean? And the next time you want to use that witchcraft fuckery you let me know so I can get the hell outta Dodge. I don't deal with witches."

[nextinline]

Rather than try to put the fire out, Stark takes the opportunity to light a cigarette off the flames, waiting for them to extinguish themselves. This they do in short order - the map is obliterated, but the table beneath is untouched, excepting where the knife has imbedded itself.

Though he's probably planning on making some explanation, Winchester's little tirade stops him. "Witches? You see me flying around on a broom? Talking to a black cat, or chanting over a cauldron? I'm not a fucking witch." From the flat tone of his voice, it's obvious that he really is ticked off this time, instead of just faking. Reaching a hand over, Stark loops his pinkie finger through the hole on the knife's hilt and plucks it from the table, but only to toss it back into his bag. "If I heard right, you're the one who made a deal with the devil. Seems you fit the bill better than I do, Mrs. Proctor."

[whiskeynpie]

"I don't know what the fuck you are so for all I know you could be," he snaps back. Or a demon, a skinwalker or a myriad of other creatures. Christ, he wishes he had some salt or holy water. He's getting those things the moment he can, a silver blade on top of it.

His lips upturn in a sneer at the mention of his deal. "I made that deal to save my brother's life, asshole. That's different," he bites out. It was always different when they do it. Witches were bad, evil, he's never met a good witch and he doubts he ever will. "And I would do it again and again to save him. They're not the same, that witchy spell and my deal. It's different."

[nextinline]

"Ahh, the I-did-it-for-my-family defense. Lucifer likes that one, I bet. He probably even gives you time-and-a-half on your hours of torment." And just as quickly as it appeared, Stark's ire seems to have dissipated. If he's irritated now, it's only in an amused fashion. Likely this is because Winchester himself is so easy to rile.

Leaning back, he recaptures the bottle of Bushmill's whisky and takes another long drink, before setting it down and continuing to smoke. "But you're right, it's not the same. For one thing, nobody gets hurt with the spell I just did. On the other hand...mine was completely useless. Someone's put some sort of protection around your brother, or cloaking, so the spell rebounded. I could try something else, but - " Another pause, for another swig of whisky. " - wouldn't want you to get all 'Bell, Book and Candle' on my witchy ass."

[whiskeynpie]

"I don't give a rat's ass what the devil thinks or wants or does. What I did I did for my brother, he deserves his life," more than he does, he almost says, because that's how he thinks. Sam deserves more of a life than he does and there's a part of him, albeit small, that hopes he got away from it - though the bigger, selfish part of him hopes that Sam's still out here fighting the good fight and looking for a way to get him out.

He cocks a brow at that, grabbing the bottle he'd been drinking from himself and taking a couple swigs from it. "Protection? The hell would he need protection from. You think the whoever put me back together did that?" It worries him that someone thinks his brother is in danger enough that he needed to be protected by an outside source, a strong on at that. "You're right, I don't. We'll leave in a day or two to head up to South Dakota. I got a friend up there who'll know where my brother is." Once he's convinced Bobby he's the real deal.

[nextinline]

"Oh, stop. I'm starting to tear up." He sounds entirely sincere. No, really. But he does seem somewhat relieved to get off the Lifetime-special topic, when Winchester changes it.

"No, The Whoever definitely didn't do that," and Stark truly does sound sincere about this. "I didn't mean protection in general, just a protection from seeking spells. Someone's trying to hide him, either for his own good, or theirs. Someone with some power." He pauses again, as if for thought, then adds pointedly: "Maybe a witch."

Stubbing his cigarette out in a convenient ashtray, Stark tears the tape on the bandaging on his burned arm, and starts to unwind the gauze, using the material to wipe up the traces of the weird herbal mixture he covered the burns with.

[whiskeynpie]

Dean rolls his eyes at the others tone, because he doesn't really think that James gives a shit and he's sure the guy has his own agenda in all of this some how. The guy can't be doing it just outta the goodness of his heart, that's for sure.

"Well ain't that peachy. Perfect, looks like I'll have to find him the old fashioned way." Dean sneers at the mention of witches. Fucking witches, he hates witches. Monsters he can deal with, people are just plain crazy and stupid. Though he certainly doesn't like the fact that something powerful and possibly old is hiding his brother, keeping him from being found. But like hell he's gonna let that stop him.

He watches, curiously, as James pulls the bandage off and tells himself he doesn't care. Doesn't give a shit. He's only going along with this until he gets to Bobby's, then he's ditching the guy to find his brother, won't need his help then. But for now he'll go along with it.

"Gimme one a'them key things, I'm hittin' the strip."

[nextinline]

That's a pretty good assumption to make; Stark doesn't do much of anything out of the goodness of his heart. Or if he does, he'd deny it under pain of death.

"Great idea." The flat, unreadable tone again, sarcasm or seriousness or plain indifference, it's hard to tell. "Even though that's probably what they want you to do." Of course Winchester will attempt to find his brother anyway. Nothing else could be expected.

Stark doesn't look at the hunter, concentrating just a little too much on cleaning the gunk from his arm. Tossing the wadded bandaging onto the singed remains of the map, he swipes a few last smears of alchemical goo from his skin and looks it over. Though it's only been around six hours, eight at most, since he sustained the injury, he's glad to see that it has healed completely. The forearm is back to its usual scarred, lined state, only perhaps a tint of pinkness remaining from scraping at it with the bandaging.

That next comment finally does divert his focus. Turning his head, he looks at Winchester doubtfully, scanning his face silently for a long moment. Well aware that Winchester plans to slip the leash as soon as possible, Stark can also tell that it isn't his primary concern at this exact moment. And why not celebrate a little after escaping Hell?

Stark lifts his hips from the chair to slide the cards from his back pocket, and offers one to Winchester. Only to pull it back as soon as the other man reaches for it. "Don't think I won't find you, if you take off. Vegas isn't as crowded as Hell, and it'll be much easier to navigate." A couple of seconds to let that sink in, then he extends the card again with a last piece of advice: "And stay away from the men's rooms in the Golden Nugget if you value your heterosexuality."

[whiskeynpie]

"I don't give a shit what they want or don't want, we're finding Sammy." And that was that. Cause right now finding Sam is way more important than whatever the hell is going on with him being back from the dead. At least he's not a zombie.

He waits for James to dig the card out, then walks over to snatch it up only to be pulled back. Dean scowls because he hates shit like that though he listens and rolls his eyes. "I'm not takin' off - not outta the city anyway. You gonna give it to me or what." Nope, not retracting that now that he's said it. When the card is able to be snatched up he does so quickly and pockets it before heading to the door and opening it up.

Dean pauses and looks back, unsure if the guy is joking or not. He doesn't think so. "Good to know, thanks." Then he's out the door and down the hall. He wastes no time in getting out of the hotel and finding a bar so he can order a few drinks, downing them in one- two gulps. The others go more slowly, not wanting to get too drunk too quick, besides he wants to enjoy Vegas and all it's trappings.

[nextinline]

Stark may have been planning to do something along the same vein as enjoying Vegas' trappings, but it isn't long after Dean leaves that he gets a call on his cell. Expecting Kasabian with some news on research, Stark's surprised when it's Lucifer's voice on the other end, instead. Terse and commanding as ever, Mr. MacHeath tells James that he's requested and required to meet him in his usual suite at the Chateau Marmont with all due dispatch. It's lucky that the Key is still with his chest, because Stark isn't sure how he would explain that he can't meet the Devil in LA, because he's in Vegas, carrying out a mission on which he was put by an angel.

Not surprisingly, Lucifer knows of said mission. More surprisingly, the infernal majesty doesn't disapprove. In fact, he endorses it, and instructs James to carry on, and offers some further information on the Winchester duo, and requests updates on the progress. Stark is grateful that he left Kas back in LA - at least he can choose, personally, what information passes along to Lucifer instead of having a dismembered head spying on him. To seal the deal, Lucifer gives Stark a bottle of Aqua Regia, Hell's favorite moonshine, and sends him off.

It's very late when Stark returns to Vegas, but the town is more active than ever. He steps out of the Room and into the parking garage, not wanting to poof into the hotel room in case Winchester is back from his roving.

Reaching their suite, Stark opens the door with his key-card. The place is dark, darker than when he left it, and there's something playing on the surround-sound stereo that he's uncomfortably certain is AC/DC. 80's rock? Really?

Stark stalks further into the room, fully intending to change the music and berate Winchester for having no taste, but his train of thought is derailed by the sight he's met with on the balcony. Winchester is in the hot tub with a girl who probably just walked off the stage of some burlesque show, judging by her overdone make-up and topless state. Those have to be fake. James spends a moment staring, debating several remarks, but eventually interrupts them with a brusque: "Get a fucking room. This one's mine."

Of course, of course, Stark has been back from Hell for nearly a year and the closest he's come to getting a piece of ass was a kiss from a Jade; meanwhile, this Harlequin-Romance-Cover-Model isn't even back for a whole day and he's already got a stripper on the hook. Fucking typical.

Turning away, Stark stalks towards the bedroom of the suite, fully prepared to do his best at emptying Lucifer's bottle of Aqua Regia. He's nowhere near prepared to be attacked from behind by a mostly-naked, slippery, surprisingly strong Tempest Storm - but that's what happens, because his life just works that way.

Grasping the wrist of the arm wrapped unexpectedly around his throat, Stark removes it by main force and pulls the woman off his back, twisting at the same time. Not wanting to be too rough with the girl, who is obviously on some major drugs judging from her inhuman strength and eyes so blown that the black pupils seem to engulf them, he shoves her into the recently-scorched table and traps her there. His right hand still holds her arm captive, but the left presses against her sternum to pin her against the table. Good thing she's flexible; Stark's maneuvering has her bent at an almost 90-degree angle.

"What's the deal, sugar, 's it two-for-one night?" The stripper predictably tries to knee him in the crotch, but he quickly evades, turning his hips sideways and shoving the closer one into her lower stomach for further security. "Not saying I don't like it rough, but a little foreplay would be nice."

[whiskeynpie]

Dean makes his rounds to the bars and clubs, stopping at another strip club in a long line of them, seated near the stage watching as the woman shakes her ass as she drops her top. His brows raise when she sees him and grins. She's off stage before he can make heads or tales of that look. Though it's not like he's never fucked a stripper before but usually he's the one to approach them, not the other way around - which is exactly what she does as she gives him an impromptu lapdance and tells him to meet her outside in fifteen.

He does and he's not disappointed. She's wrapped around him as he leads her back to the motel, murmuring how impressed she is and yeah, she's a good actress, this one. But he takes it because he needs this distraction for now. Inside the hotel room they move toward the hot tub, filled up and steaming, clothes being torn off as they make their way over, hands and lips roaming. She straddles him once they're seated in the water and he's got his hands all over body, squeezing her ass as she moves over him, mouth at her breasts as she tips her head back.

Dean hears the door but it doesn't quite register until he hears James' annoyed voice and he can't help but laugh. The girl, however, has a completely different reaction. Her eyes go black and Dean swears loudly but before he can do anything she headbutts him hard as she scrambles up off of him. He curses again, rubbing his head where she hit him. Stumbling up out of the tub he at least snags his boxers to tug them back on before following her only to see her attack James, watching as the man pins her down to the table.

"What the fucking, fuck!"

[nextinline]

The girl laughs mockingly at Stark's quips, which doesn't really surprise him, because he is a funny sonofabitch. However, her verbal response does take him by surprise. "Please, Stark. I wouldn't fuck you with Azazel's dick, no matter how much you begged for it."

His mind might be shocked and bewildered, but his body reacts without any input from upstairs. Transferring the hold from her chest to her throat, Stark shoves the girl down, hard, her head making a hollow noise against the heavy wood of the table. He leans with her, eyes narrow and colder than ever. "Sure you've got me at a disadvantage, darlin'. Have we met?"

"Didn't expect you to still be with Dean," the girl-demon goes on. "I guess it is two-for-one, after all. Imagine how pleased my new master will be when I can hand over both of you."

Stark curses to himself. He expected to encounter Hellions somewhere along their road, but this is sooner than he'd hoped for. "Your new master?" Though speaking as if casually, his mind is all over the place. He can't get to the knife in his boot right now, not without releasing her, and that's undoubtedly a bad idea.

"Yes, you killed my previous one. Under orders, from your previous master. You thought no one was watching, but I was there." Any playful tone the stripper had is gone, now; she's furious, but nowhere near as calm as Stark is. "I was there, and I saw exactly what you did. So when Dean here, and his friends, opened a gateway to Earth, I took my chance. I was going to find that girl of yours, and give her an instant replay."

Whatever Stark's face was doing before, it's worse now; harder, more intent, and he's maybe losing his cool, too. His teeth are clenched so hard that he can't reply, and the hand around the girl's throat is so tight that, were she human, she would have been fully asphyxiated by now.

"How disappointed I was to find that Mason had already done away with her. But this is okay, this is better. Do you think Alice will be waiting for you back in Hell?"

And that's enough. It's too much. Stark's mind shuts down somewhere around hearing Alice's name, and he jerks the girl off the table by the chokehold. Once she's in the air, her feet off the ground, Stark barks a single Hellion word that sends her flying across the room to crash through a pane of glass and onto the balcony. Once's she's landed, Stark is crouching to bring the black blade from his boot, fully intending on leaving her body in small, undead chunks, to suffer eternally. As he takes measured steps across the room, he doesn't appear to even see Winchester.

[whiskeynpie]

Stark. Stark.

That name sets off all sorts of warning bells though he's not too keen on why. He knows he's heard it before but he can't remember where. In the Pit? The ring? On the Rack? He's not sure but right now isn't the time for trying to figure it out. He'll do that when there's not a demon in their hotel room aiming to kill one of them - possibly both.

He can't just stand there, needs to do something but he's got no salt, no weapons of any kind that could kill a demon and the Colt's probably locked up in the Impala which is with Sam, whom he can't even locate. But before he can even come up with a plan, James' has her up in the air and across the room in a blink, crashing through the wall of glass and onto the balcony.

Nope. James is certainly not human and that makes him more nervous now that he knows. The guy is either a demon like the bitch over there or he's a witch - though with how pissed the guy had been at the mention of being one, he's gonna go with demon. Fucking demons. Fuckers looked like everyone else.

Seeing the knife flash, Dean's at his side in a second and grabs his arm to stop him. "There's a human in there, man, she's being possessed!" And the only thing that works on a demon to get them out is an exorcism, and that's just what he does. He exorcises the bitch back to hell.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica," Dean starts, voice rough and full of intent. He watches as the woman thrashes and screams but doesn't stop. "Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."

The screaming ceases as she throws her head back and black smoke erupts from her mouth, billowing down where it seems to seep into the ground, the demon returning to hell. The woman lays there, unconscious but alive if the rise and fall of her chest is anything to go by.

"Christ," he huffs out. "I can't even get laid without everything going to shit."

[nextinline]

Even when Winchester grabs onto his arm, Stark only vaguely seems to notice him, giving him a hard-faced but brief glare as he almost effortlessly yanks his arm out of the hunter's grasp. The idea that a human woman is being possessed doesn't carry much weight with him at the moment; though he'd normally feel bad about it, all Stark can think of is carving up the bitch's face until it can never bear that gloatingly self-satisfied smile again.

How long are these bastards (by which, he means the ENTIRE world) going to use Alice to get to him?

Probably as long as he keeps letting it happen.

The rapid-fire burst of Latin catches Stark off guard, and he stops halfway between Winchester and the demon bitch, watching with the same dark, blank expression as the woman shakes and screeches and eventually vomits up what looks to be a years' worth of LA smog in a manner of seconds.

And then Stark is left with an unconscious, nude burlesque dancer; a seemingly only mildly disgruntled hunter; and a fury that's still making his limbs tremble. He can't quite force his jaw to unlock itself yet, so he simply glares at the stereo console, which dies in the middle of AC/DC's "Going Down" with a pathetic warble and a couple of sparks.

Looking from the stereo to the stripper, then to Winchester, confused but much too angry to admit it, Stark exhales a forceful huff and stalks back across the room to reclaim the bottle of Aqua Regia he'd set down. He uses the black blade to spear the cork out of its pretentious cut-glass resting place and swallows the liquid down like it's water. A few moments of this, and he can finally speak.

"I'm going to sleep. When I wake up, we're leaving." With his tone, it's clear Stark is still pissed, and if it's not directly at Winchester, the guy at least comes in as a misdirected outlet.

[whiskeynpie]

Dean just stands there, silent and buzzing with adrenaline as he watches and waits. He has no idea what for but he'd be pretty surprised if the whole room didn't light up in flames from how pissed off James - Stark? - is right now. Whoever Alice is... he definitely doesn't wanna be on his bad side.

"Yeah, sure, you do that. I'll go clean up the... mess," Dean says, gesturing to the woman on the balcony. When the guy walks off, Dean doesn't even wait for a reply and looks for his shoes and puts them on, then goes out onto the balcony to get the woman, carefully picking her up out of the broken glass and gently puts her in one of the chairs. He haphazardly dresses her and goes to open the door to the room, then moves back to retrieve the girl.

Taking her out of the room there's a small seating area where the elevators are and he gently sets her down, then hits the down button on the elevator. He leaves her there for the moment and goes down to the front desk, not even caring he's in his boxers and boots. The little weasel from before is still there and at the desk Dean leans in close.

"There's a woman on my floor that needs lookin' after, might do good to get to hospital and have her checked over or somethin'," he says, making a motion with his hand. "Now, I want a canister of salt, some red chalk, a bottle of holy water and a rosary, all in a canvas bag. You have exactly ten minutes." The little asshole just smiiiiles at him. "Of course, sir." Fucking creeper. Dean pushes off of the counter and goes back up to their floor, shoves into the room and starts getting dressed. He half-ass cleans up the glass and by the time the ten minutes are up he's back downstairs again.

He's only a little surprised to see the bag sitting there and he checks the contents. They're all there. "Thanks," he mutters, taking the bag back upstairs. He knows he won't have long, so he'll make it quick.

[nextinline]

Stark doesn't quite have the energy to be grateful that Dean didn't argue with or question him; all he has is focused on not letting himself explode. Metaphorically speaking, of course: Stark doesn't explode himself, he explodes other things. So he just gives a tense nod and takes his liquor, snagging the duffel bag with his clothes on his way to one of the bedrooms of the suite.

Slamming the door with unnecessary but not quite breaking force behind himself, Stark drops the duffel bag and carves some protective runes against demons, angels, and Lurkers in general, into the door one-handed. He's not really tired enough, physically, to sleep, but knows from experience that the Aqua Regia will help with that. By the time he sets the bottle down to strip off his (miraculously not-yet-ruined) clothes, it's nearly half empty.

By the time the bottle is empty, Stark is sprawled amongst the satin sheets and has stopped picturing the varied ways in which Mason might have killed Alice, in favor of dreaming about her mostly-imagined reproaches. It never makes for the most restful night, as he also knows from experience, but he'll currently take what he can get.

[whiskeynpie]

Once he's back inside the room he sets the bag on the table where the map had burnt up and opens it up, pulling out the water and the chalk. While he waits, wanting to make sure James is asleep, Dean takes the time to rifle through the man's weaponry.

He takes a silver knife, something that looks like a clever, stuffing both in his own bag. Then he finds a gun that looks remarkably like the Colt they had in their possession. Shrugging, he shoves it in the bag as well. When enough time has passed, Dean goes into the man's room, makin sure he's asleep.

Then, very, very carefully he painstakingly draws a devil's trap on the ceiling. It takes a lot of manuevering so he doesn't wake him and takes a lot longer than he'd like, but he gets it done, pleased with his work. Then as an afterthought he sprays some of the holy water on him, frowning when it doesn't sizzle or he doesn't wake up screaming. He looks at the bottle and wonders if it's even holy water to begin with.

Dean doesn't have enough time to bless the water so he leaves, shutting the door again and tosses everything into his bag. He grabs the bottle of booze he'd been drinking, as well as some others and shoves them in the bag along with anything else he deems useful, then heads out of the room. He exits the hotel by way of the back entrance, not wanting the weasel at the front desk to say anything.

It takes him about twenty but he finds an abandoned for the moment car and hotwires it in a few more, shoving the bag in the passenger seat. Getting in he shuts the door and pulls out of the spot, heading out onto the street. It's late enough that there's not too much traffic on the roads so he easily heads for the interstate to get the hell outta Dodge.

[nextinline]

Stark wakes up itching.

It's early morning, early enough that the sun is barely hinting its way through the window drapes, and the city beyond is as quiet and sleepy as it ever is. Flat on his stomach, face buried in pillows, Stark can still sense a weird disruption in the aether in his direct vicinity. At first, he thinks this is the cause of the uncomfortable itching sensation that's manifested on his left side, arm, shoulder, and neck.

Shifting around to sit up, Stark pushes away post-binge fuzziness to try to locate or at least identify the weird, tuneless, high-pitched sort of feeling in his sinus cavities. It warbles and it's messy and whoever did it, they're obviously a complete rube at magic. He peers around the room suspiciously, but can't spot anything or anyone out of place, and absently scratches at his arm.

Only when the light starts to strengthen does he notice that the skin he's scratching at is reddened and somewhat rough. A quick inventory shows that the itching definitely has a corporeal cause, though he's not sure what the hell caused the rash. He doubts it's Lucifer's top-grade sheets bringing him out in hives. With any luck, it'll go away with the usual speed of any other wound, but for now, he does his best to ignore it, which is peculiarly difficult.

That sloppy magic trail he can sense is still unanswered as well, but he gives up on finding the reason in favor of getting dressed. He stated his plan of leaving as soon as he wakes up, and will stick to that. Lacing his boots up in his usual half-assed way, he grabs the duffel to head out and collect the rest of his artillery, and the hunter.

Only, when he stands from the bed, something tugs at him. It's a subtle thing, a snap followed by a tingle in his vertebrae, like popping his spine. He takes a careful step away from the bed, as if testing whether he can, before turning to look over the rumpled bedclothes. His gaze finally travels up and spots the configuration haphazardly painted on the mirrored ceiling. It takes a moment for Stark to work out the sigils and what they mean, and once he does, he can only laugh grimly. "Oh, you son of a bitch."

It requires checking, but Stark is completely unsurprised to discover that Winchester is gone from the suite, and has taken part of Stark's luggage with him. What a pain in the ass. With resignation, Stark calls the front desk and requests the materials he needs to perform another locator spell.

About twenty minutes later, Stark steps out of a shadow and onto the sunlight-washed pavement of a mostly abandoned highway on the west side of St. George, Utah. He takes up a position smack in the center of the two-lane road and crosses his arms, waiting. It's only a couple moments before he spots the car coming his way - a bright red, classic 70's Stingray, as if that's going to improve his mood. Once the vehicle is close enough for him to make out Winchester's features through the windshield, and for Winchester to make out Stark's, he tilts his head and raises one eyebrow expectantly.

[whiskeynpie]

Dean's on the road with classic rock as a backdrop in a fancy classic car. The only way life can get any better is if he's got Sam with him in the passenger seat. But that's gonna wait.

He's well on his way to Bobby's, though he hasn't tried calling him again, not since the first time. He stops off once at a bar to hustle up some money, pleased those skills haven't gotten rusty, then hit the nearest diner for some grub to go. He's on the road again in no time and reaches over to adjust the station as the one he's been listening to goes static-y.

Thankfully he looks up when he does to catch sight of the man in the middle of the fucking road. "Son of a bitch!" Dean exclaims, hitting the break to the floor, the tires screeching to a halt and the car stopping a miraculous foot from James.

"Mother fucker."

[nextinline]

Stark doesn't move, doesn't even flinch, as the Corvette barrels towards him, keeping his arms crossed and his gaze dourly disappointed. When it has stopped, he takes his time in picking up the bag at his feet (he left the others in the Room) and rounding the testosterone-fueled monstrosity.

Yanking open the passenger-side door, Stark drops into the low bucket seat as if this were all a pre-arranged pick-up. He stuffs the duffel into the tiny backseat and belts up before sitting back, not looking once at Winchester.

"Ya know, Wobbles...I'm kinda mad at you." He doubts Winchester will get the joke, but that's nothing new. Digging in the pocket of his jeans, he procures his slightly battered pack of Maledictions and lights up.

[whiskeynpie]

Dean just sits there, cursing to himself he waits, watches James - Stark, whatever - round the car and get in, shoving his bag in the back. His fingers drum against the steering wheel and he's just waiting for it - the blow up, the snappy attitude, hell for the guy to stab him in the neck or somethin'.

But he doesn't and Dean snorts a soft laugh and shakes his head as he eases his foot off the break and back on the gas to start up down the road again, lucky there'd been no one else on the road but him.

"Time sure flies," he says. "It's already past twelve."

[nextinline]

With this sensation of triumph dampening the displeasure Stark woke up with, he can magnanimously allow himself to grin some for that response. He rolls the window down enough to flick ashes out, and shifts restlessly, trying to find room in the floorboard to fit his long legs. As entertaining as it might be to quote at this guy for the remainder of the journey, there are other things to be addressed.

"You really thought I was a demon?" It's very little a question; obviously, Winchester did think he was a demon, what with the containment circle. Presumably he knows better now.