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.
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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.