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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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."

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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.