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.

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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?"

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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?"

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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?"

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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."

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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."

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"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.

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"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."

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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.