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

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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.

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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."