you get up but you, you give blood, even on a good night

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The smell of the arena hasn't changed in the nine months since Stark broke out of Hell. Dust and blood and cordite, with the same underbite of sulfur and shit that exists everywhere Downtown. The tens of thousands of spectators, Hellions and damned souls and demons, still give off the same dull roar of bloodlust. The tone changes noticeably when Stark's about halfway across the killing floor, but by that time it's too late for any of them to do much to stop him.

The soul he's been sent to save is still on its feet, which is pretty impressive, considering that the Hellion opponent is about six times its size and has three times as many arms. Stark will have to remember to ask for an autograph later. Moving low and fast, he rams his left shoulder in Winchester's stomach then lifts, throwing the soul over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Simultaneously, he snaps the na'at in his right hand out, twisting the grip to collapse the shaft and flicking it like a whip to tangle up the Hellion opponent's ponderous rush. Big but stupid, the creature falls hard, and Stark's starting to enjoy himself almost enough to go back to behead it. The chaos in the stands and the malformed guards advancing from the corners of the arena are enough to convince him to stick with the plan, instead, and he heads for the nearest door to the underground, which is open, and dark.

Stark keeps his eyes on the guards as he bolts for the shadow, remembering chains, remembering psychic rape. This turns out to be a mistake. The guards apparently remember Stark, as well; they're moving slow, cautious, with microscopic head-twitches left and right while they check that none of their buddies have backed off - which would give them an opening to back off as well.

The idiot Hellion gladiator, on the other hand, has found his feet. Just as Stark, with Winchester still wheezing over his shoulder, reaches the shadow, the gladiator reveals his secret weapon. A Devil Daisy. It's easily recognizable, considering that Kasabian tried to kill Stark with one about six months back. Taking the last few feet at a leap, Stark nearly outruns the explosion. Nearly. He lifts his free right arm to cover his face, and a second later, falls back through the Door of Fire into the Room with his jacket smoking and the arm inside it done medium well.

But there are more pressing concerns, currently. As soon as Stark reached the Room of Thirteen Doors, the soul over his shoulder started to fade. Winchester doesn't look well. Aside from the bruises and the blood from the fight, he's flickering in and out like a bad Star Trek hologram. This is what happens to souls bound to nothing when they start to near the physical world again. With a muttered curse, Stark hauls ass through the Door of Nothing.

It's dark there, as it always is, so he digs Mason's lighter out of a pocket. The zippo ignites the empty realm with more candle power than it should ever be able to put out, and Stark quickly finds the binding circle he'd scratched into the formless floor before heading into Hell. As soon as he dumps the soul inside the circle, Winchester's form solidifies again. He's not breathing, but that shouldn't be too concerning, should it?

Stepping back from the circle, Stark rolls his head from side to side to crack his neck, and peers out into the empty dark.

"All right, angel. Come out, come out, where ever you are."

There's no immediate response, but Stark isn't surprised. Angels don't set much store by time, and that's only judging from the Earth-bound ones he's met before. Probably the celestial type are even less worried about punctuality. Dropping onto his ass, Stark lights a Malediction and wiles away the time by checking out the damage to his jacket. He ought to buy a ranch, as much tanned cow hide as he goes through.

The light of the angel's appearance dims Mason's lighter into inconsequentialness. Stark squints, and can barely make out the winged form within the light. Once his eyes (sort of) adjust, he waves his cigarette at the soul in the binding circle. "There you go. I would've added a bow, but I was busy getting my ass parboiled."

The angel regards him impassively, which the angel almost always does. Finally, it nods. He's pretty sure it nods, anyway; the silhouette among the light is hard to look at directly. "You've done well." The voice is, as always, completely expressionless.

"Good on me," Stark responds, almost as blankly. "Tell your boss he can keep the plaque, just send me a bonus."

There's another long silence, one that seems somewhat bewildered, and Stark shakes his head. "Forget it. Just do what you need to do; I have to go home and drown myself in a bathtub full of Jack."

The angel nods, he thinks, and steps to the edge of the circle. The angel Speaks. The sound of Enochian grates on Stark's ears, just barely on the edge of pain, and he looks away as the light intensifies. When it fades and he looks back, the soul is no longer only a soul. Winchester is unconscious, but obviously alive, and in much, much better shape. The wounds, the scars from fighting in Hell are gone. Stark knows better than to ask the angel to heal his wounds.

Stark flicks the Malediction into the chaotic aether, and draws the black blade from his boot to break the circle. Winchester weighs more when corporeal, it turns out, but is still fairly easy to toss over a shoulder. Settling the body, Stark looks back to the angel. He feels the need to say something, but it's never easy to initiate small talk with a creature who feels nothing at all. Instead, he nods once.

"You're still an Abomination," the angel says. Stark offers a blatantly false grin in return, so it continues. "But your cooperation in this matter is appreciated."

It's impossible to shrug, so Stark waves a hand dismissively. "Just glad to be doing virtuous work." The sarcasm couldn't be more obvious, but the angel seems perplexed, anyway. It stares blankly at him for a few more moments, then says flatly, "Watch him."

And it's gone. Rolling his eyes at the theatrics, Stark sidles through the shadow and back into the Room. Through the Door of Ice and, finally, back to the hotel in LA. He drops Winchester onto one of the beds and, as instructed, watches. But only for a moment.

He's not sure how long angel-formaldehyde will keep the guy out, but in the meantime, he wants a shower. Digging through the paraphernalia piled on the other bed, Stark unearths a pair of leather manacles that Candy provided him with, and uses them to strap one of Winchester's wrists to the headboard before heading to the bathroom. It wouldn't do to have the guy he's supposed to be watching take off without warning.

Stark could find him again, of course, but what a pain in the ass.

Comments

[whiskeynpie]

When Dean wakes up it's to an ache that runs through his whole body, like he's been asleep for years and his body's just been sitting there, unused. Which, it kind of was, sort of, actually. But whatever. Blinking open his eyes he takes in the crackled, yellowed ceiling above him, then the to the curtained windows as he turns his head. A motel. He's in a motel? The fuck is he doing in a motel?

Dean tries to sit up but when he does he's jerked back, pulling his arm and making him wince. Looking back he sees his wrist cuffed to the headboard of the bed. "Mother fucker," he mutters, then scoots back so he doesn't pull his damn arm out of socket as he tries to undo the cuffs to free his arm. It's taking way longer than it should, hands and fingers not working like they're supposed to, he still feels a little sluggish from just waking up.

He's not thinking about it. Nope, nope, nope. He knows where he's been for the last... god knows how long, what he's been doing, been forced to do but he doesn't know how he got here or where he is. He wonders if it's another trick, if he fucked up somehow and they tossed him back onto the rack. He's been careful to do what they wanted, what he was supposed to do. It was how he got into the ring in the first place.

But now he's here in this motel that he has no idea how he got to, tied to the frigging bed.

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Another tally to go on Stark's repertoire of murdering clothes; he shoves the soiled material out of the way with a foot and dries off. Maybe the jeans and t-shirt could be cleaned of the Hell-stink, but aside from the boots, he'll never wear any of that outfit again. In retrospect, it may have been a good idea to carry clean clothes with him, since when he emerges nude from the bathroom, the captive is awake. Oh, well; undoubtedly the dude has seen naked dudes before (given that he is one himself, sometimes) and the scars covering much of his torso and pretty much all of his arms undoubtedly draw notice quicker than anything below belt.

Stark does have a towel, but he's using it to scrub at the fried skin on his right forearm, reddish-black flakes falling to the shag carpet underneath. He stares at Winchester for a moment, then gives a single nod. "Welcome back."

Though he's not what anyone would call shy, this is slightly awkward, so Stark crosses to the bed whereupon all his belongings are piled and unearths a pair of relatively clean jeans, pulls them on. Then he pulls a duffel bag from under a pile of shiny killing toys and starts rooting through it, not offering any explanation for the moment. It'll be easier to answer questions once they've been asked.

[whiskeynpie]

Dean stills when the door is opened and some guy walks out buck naked. Not the first thing he notices, honestly, mostly because there's someone else here and he's chained up like a wild dog to the bed. He's been in worse positions, let's be honest, but this one isn't a favourite either. The scars do indeed draw his attention more than anything else, the man scowling as he watched the other guy scour for clothes.

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean asks, voice rough and more gravel like than it usually is. It's not like he did a lot of talking on the rack or in the ring. "What do you mean 'back'?"

Because yeah, he'd like an answer to why the hell he was in a motel. Last he knew they didn't have motels in Hell.

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There are totally motels in Hell, only the damned have to pay an extra deposit, and you don't want to eat the mints on the pillows.

Stark keeps digging, checking different pockets on the bag. He has a sneaking suspicion that Candy didn't give him the keys to the manacles; it's the sort of thing she would find funny, maybe spiced with a little jealousy. If she only knew what he would use them for. Eventually he shakes his head, giving up, and snags the black blade from the dresser where he left it.

Rounding the bed and walking up the narrow space between both, he leans over Winchester and slices through the cuff attached to the headboard. He would have cut the one around Winchester's wrist, but the guy seems sort of flustered, so probably coming at him with a knife wouldn't be a good idea.

"No, not 'the hell'. That's what I mean. Welcome back to Earth."

Stark shoves some of the paraphernalia out of the way so he can sit down, stretching long legs out. He's not incredibly tall, perhaps 6'1 or 2, but seems taller due to lanky limbs, a leanness that seems comprised of thick bundles of resilient wire rather than soft human flesh and fragile bones. There's certainly something hardened in his face, though it's less scarred than the majority of his body; one long, thin white scar cuts from the left temple, barely missing the corner of the left eye, and continuing down to bisect his cheekbone and ending a quarter-inch from the corner of his mouth. The opposite cheek also has a pair of short, bisecting scars, that work like a dimple on the (somewhat infrequent) occasion of a smile, and a thicker diagonal scar that comes from his hairline to intersect with the right eyebrow.

Despite this, the eyes are probably the hardest thing about him, a light grey like brushed nickel and colder than a Hollywood pimp's heart. They inspect Winchester for a moment, looking for signs of impending attack. Apparently finding none, Stark flicks a quick gaze back at the mess on the bed and snatches a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels, then offers it to the other man. "So, cheers."

[whiskeynpie]

Seeing the knife, Dean instantly tenses, then scrambles back against the headboard and wildly looks around for something to use as a weapon to defend himself. He falters a little when the cuff was simply cut away, the man pulling his arm quickly back, shaking it out and rotating his shoulder a little. He was quiet for a long moment, gaze hard and cautious.

"Earth," he says slowly because clearly he doesn't believe this guy. Nor trust him. How was he to know this wasn't one of their little games they were playing with him? That happened often on the rack, a wonderful way of torture. "I'm on frigging Earth? Are you shitting me? What the fuck do you mean I'm on Earth? How does that even happen? Because it doesn't."

Despite his misgivings, Dean takes the proffered bottle because holy fuck he needs a drink right now. He can't be on Earth. This has gotta be some kind of sick joke or torture device. "How the hell did I get out? Cuz last I checked, pal, there was no escaping Hell."

[nextinline]

Stark continues watching Winchester for a long moment, like he's never seen anything like him and doesn't quite know what to do with him. When he, Stark, came back from Hell, he knew immediately that he was home. But then again, Stark walked himself out of Hell. Finally he shrugs one shoulder, addressing the last question flippantly. "It's just a trick I can do."

Redirecting his gaze, Stark scrubs the towel over his arm a few more times then tosses it towards the bathroom. Most of the flash-fried flesh has come off, leaving the flesh beneath raw and red, fading to a deep sunburn at his wrist and bicep. Another dip in the duffel bag comes up with a thick glass jar full of a reddish-brown paste flecked with plant matter, which when opened proves to smell like gasoline with a musky, pungent herbal underbite, sort of like pennyroyal. Stark scoops a bit out with his left hand, wrinkles his nose at the goop, but starts slathering his arm with it.

[whiskeynpie]

"It's a trick you can do? Seriously? That's what you're going with? A trick?" Dean made a face at that, because really? Really? "Well that's a hell of a trick then, too bad I don't buy it." Because how can he? They'd looked over and over for a way to get him out of going to hell and he had no doubt (he hoped at least) that Sam had been - might be still - trying to find a way to get him out and this - this guy just waltzes the fuck out with him?

No, no way that's real. It seriously can't be.

Dean reels back a little at the stench of whatever the hell is in that jar, scrunching his nose. Then he notices the raw pink look of his arms and raises a brow. "What happened to you?"

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There's a little compressed almost-grin forming on Stark's face in response to Winchester's cynicism. Who could blame him, after hanging out in Hell for a while, if he doesn't believe everything he's told? But it's still funny. As if the very air in the room doesn't give away the lack of Hellion influence. "A hell of a trick is right." Stark looks dispassionately at his arm. "Still, even I can't walk into Hell and expect to get away without a souvenir or two."

Finishing when the nasty-smelling potion, Stark caps the jar and tosses it back into his bag. He reaches over to reclaim the bottle of whisky, and grabs the room service menu off the bedside table while he's at it. Takes a swig, scans the menu, then tosses it at Winchester. "Hungry? The food here's barely passable, but dead cow still tastes better than sauteed manticore or unicorn salad." Setting the whisky down again, he hauls himself to his feet and starts digging for socks and a shirt.

[whiskeynpie]

Scowling at the half-grin, Dean takes another couple swallows of the whiskey. He still doesn't get it, but this place feels... cleaner, lighter, easier to breathe than it was down there. That isn't something that can be fabricated in Hell. He lets out a breath so deep it's like he's been holding it all this time. "So, what, you can just walk into Hell and walk back out? What are you?"

Snatching up a couple menus, he looks them over and snorts softly to the statement. Man, he could eat a frigging Unicorn right now he's so starved. He will certainly be ordering quite a bit. "Starving, actually," he said, then continued. "So how am I back here, like this? Last I remember the hellhound was making a chew toy out of my guts."

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After pulling on an old Germs shirt with the sleeves ripped off, Stark shoves the mess on his bed aside enough to flop onto it, stretching out. His arm is itching like fury, but he does his best to ignore it. "What am I?" He gives Winchester a look that seems offended, lowering his voice in mockery. "Seriously? That's what you're going with? What?"

Shrugging away the (mostly fabricated) annoyance, Stark starts flipping channels on the seriously outdated television. "Order me a cheeseburger. Rare, with bacon and extra onions." Finding a program that appears mindless but not too obnoxious, he leaves it there, mostly for something to stare at. "You were in Hell; I got you out." Like most of his responses, this one is casual, like it happens every day. No way is he going into the angel involvement, not yet. "A Hellhound? The thing I saw you fighting looked more like the lovechild of a sidewinder and the Hulk, only with extra appendages. You don't remember that? Or the explosion before the credits rolled?"

[whiskeynpie]

Dean rolls his eyes so hard his head rolls with it as he turns back to the menu. "Yeah, you heard me. What. As in you're probably not human if you can just walk right on into Hell and back." Because really, who could do that? No on. No one human or alive anyway.

Opening his mouth to retort he snaps it shut and just grunts out an affirmative that he heard him and would do it, though he wouldn't like it. If this guy did get him out then he at least owes him that much, he supposes. "What?" Dean asks, confused but then shakes his head. "No no, I meant my body. Pretty sure it got torn to shreds when I died. How am I here without my guts hanging out?"

Oh, no, he remembered all of that. He remembered every torturous moment on the rack and he remembered every fight in the ring up until the point he was pulled out. Though the rest of that was a blanket of blurry mess to him.

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There's a strong exhalation through the nose, not quite a snort, but of the same derisory quality. "Right. What I am is smarter than to tell a hunter what I am. Racked up enough injuries for the day." Stark lifts his paste-slathered arm as evidence.

"As for the rest of it...do you remember anything after that Hellion set off the miniature nuke? Where we went after that? Anything at all?" Winchester wasn't exactly coherent, but angels tend to leave an impression on anyone. And Stark isn't exactly looking forward to explaining any of that, nor why he assisted the process in the first place.

[whiskeynpie]

Hah, point. Well he had to try, at least. Dean's still betting on not human. "Yeah, well, thanks," he says, meaning it, cause otherwise he'd still be downstairs.

"It's all sort of blurry. I try to remember but it just gets fuzzier the harder I try," which confuses him because one) he has a great memory and b) if he could remember everything else that happened down there, why can't he remember that? Unless something or someone doesn't want him to.

Dean takes a moment to order them food first, otherwise he'll never eat with all the questions needing answers. He puts in the guy's order first, then his own; a couple bacon double cheeseburgers and fries, oh and pie. Man, he hasn't had that in forever. He makes sure they don't forget the pie.

[nextinline]

Well, that throws Stark, if nothing else has. Thanks? He peers sidelong at Winchester, not moving his head, just his eyes, looking uncomfortable and confused. After a moment, he makes a dismissive sort of noise in his throat. Since when do people thank him for saving them?

Looking again at the television, he gives up on distraction and turns it off. Sighing, like this is all a big pain in the ass, he nonetheless turns halfway to face the other man, with an air of getting down to business. Or of confession. "It wasn't all me. Waltzing into The Killing Fields and hauling your pretty ass out, I can do; creating a human body from thin air is still beyond me. After your Hellion pal charred me, we went to..." Trailing off, his eyes get a slightly unfocused look. How to explain that part? There's a miniscule shake of the head as he mentally throws explanation out the window. "I took you to Nothing, and that's where the shining white knight put you back together. It was a tag-team effort, so you don't only have me to thank."

That's probably more than Stark intended on giving away, immediately; he still doesn't know enough about this guy to satisfy his own curiosity, much less bare his soul. Grabbing a pack of Maledictions, Hell's favorite cigarette, he uses Mason's lighter to ignite one, following it with a shot of Jack from the bottle.

[whiskeynpie]

Once he's done ordering the food he sits back and tries to work the other cuff off of his hand, though he's certainly paying attention when the guy starts talking again. He pauses and looks up, surprised. It hadn't been just him? Though he makes a slight face to being called pretty. But the part that really caught him was the fact his body was re-made. He'd felt that damn thing tearing into him, there shouldn't have been much left and his brother should have burned him in a Hunter's funeral, but if Sam thought he could get him back, he'd likely just bury him instead.

The thought that there's someone else behind the scenes makes him a little jittery. Just what the hell's going on? Why has he been brought back, pulled out of Hell in the first place? "What's the Nothing? It's not some creepy Neverending Story shit is it? So where's this other guy at? He just give me a body and disappear?"

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There's another sigh, and smoke comes out with it this time. Maledictions smell kind of like a tire fire in a candy factory, not like anything made on earth. "You're never satisfied, are you, Atreyu?" Of course the bastard has more questions.

"No, Nothing is pretty inoffensive. At least, it is now, since it's empty again. And it's not the Nothing. It's just, nothing, formless space, the chaos at the edge of the universe that God didn't bother to fill up and forgot about." Stark pauses, ashing the black cigarette carelessly on the shag carpet. "The 'other guy' had other business, so he delegated babysitting to me. If I were you, I'd just send him a thank-you note. He isn't exactly easy on the eyes."

[whiskeynpie]

Dean snorts softly as he shifts finally on the bed to stretch out on it. Obviously, by now, the guy wasn't going to attack him or something so Dean lets himself relax a little, practically sinking into the bed.

"So it's just a huge blank space? Huh, okay." Because really, who's he to argue about something like that? Whatever it's starting to make his head hurt anyway. It's a lot to process in a day, especially after one is apparently resurrected from Hell with a brand new body. "Yeah, I'll do that once I find where I wrote down the address," he replies, laying back with his arms pillowed under his head. Christ, to be able to breathe like this again.

[nextinline]

No, attacking is nearly the last thing on Stark's mind, particularly with his right arm all screwed up. Not that he couldn't easily take a human, even a human hunter, even an exceptionally skilled human hunter, but what would be the point? The fucking angel would probably just resurrect him again.

"Theoretically blank," he responds, then falls silent. Waits, then waits some more, but is pleased - and more than a little surprised - when no more questions are forthcoming. There's a knock on the door, followed by a muffled voice calling "Room service!" and Stark rolls off the bed to answer it, since he is closer. He takes the cart, hands the teenager wheeling it along some cash, and closes the door before the kid ceases staring in horrified curiosity at his scarred face and mud-plastered arm.

Directing the room service cart into the space between the beds, Stark collects his own burger - served with aplomb on a fancy china plate, which he finds ridiculous - and collapses back onto the bed. "Speaking of addresses, you should find out where your brother is. We can leave in the morning; I have a few things to take care of tonight."

[whiskeynpie]

Well thank god for small favors.

Finally, Dean thinks when the food shows up. He pushes himself up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed as the guy rolls the cart over. He can smell the food and his mouth practically waters. Dean grabs one of his own burgers and takes a giant bite from it and groans a little at the taste. Damn it's good to be back. He's definitely missed the burgers. He grabs a handful of fries and dips them in ketchup he pours for himself and shoves them into his mouth.

His head snaps up though, at the mention of Sam, eyes narrowing immediately. "What do you know about my brother?" He asks, voice hard. Fuck, did something happen to Sam? Christ, he should have tried calling Sam, Bobby at the least, the moment he woke up and realized he was out. "I'm sorry, did you say we? There is no 'we'. Once I'm back to good I'm out of here." Because even he's not dumb enough to not realize he's a little wobbly on his feet yet, what with getting resurrected and put in a new body and all.

[nextinline]

Maybe Stark eats a little less enthusiastically, but he is glad that the food cleans the last lingering traces of Hell from his nasal passages.

Almost as soon as he suggests it, Stark realizes it was a mistake to mention the brother. Winchester's heart rate spikes, and his breath catches before coming back harder, and Stark doesn't need to see his face to sense the defensiveness there. Like he'd insulted the hunter's girlfriend or something. Pretending he didn't notice so much, he shakes his head passively. "I only know he's your brother, and he's a hunter, and that you're bound to want to find him." Perhaps a little more than that, but who's keeping count?

Stark finishes the last few bites of his burger, tossing the plate back onto the cart afterwards, taking his time in coming up with a response - nothing that's ever been his strong point, because thinking? For people with less firepower. Thoughtfully, he cleans the last traces of burger juice from the corners of his mouth with a napkin, then balls it up and throws it onto the discarded plate. Straightening, he turns to face Winchester, a serious but relatively non-threatening expression in his eyes.

"Look, I'm not saying I'm joining the Winchester fan club, but you were brought back for a reason. And I was asked to help bring you back for a reason. It doesn't end there; I've only paid off part of my debt. Reneging on deals isn't my style, and neither is pissing off someone who might impale me with a fiery sword." Actually, that kind of is his style, but it sounds good. "So we are leaving in the morning, and it'd help if we knew where we're going. So call Sam."

Doubtful it will be that easy to convince Winchester; Stark knows the alpha-male lone-ranger type and knows they don't give up their stubborn insistence on being tough enough to break the world's balls, not without a fight. After all, he wouldn't give in with so little effort, himself.

[whiskeynpie]

Of course he'll want to call Sam, shoulda been the first thing he did. He doesn't like the thought that this guy knows as much as he does. Though it's not uncommon for the Winchester name to be known in Hunter groups and circles, they had quite a reputation after all and rightly so with the shit they've been through. But he doesn't quite like having to reply on people he doesn't know or trust, and that's pretty much what this guy's asking him to do.

Dean finishes off the first burger through the course of their conversation, then starts on the second. He pauses at the look the guy gives him, brow raising a little. He hates to admit that the guy's probably right. There was a reason he was brought back and neither of them knew it, or he assumes the guy doesn't, at any rate. Though he scowls a little at the thought of having to travel with him for any length of time.

Whatever, it isn't like he can't ditch him somewhere and head out on his own once they're on the road. But he's right, he does need to call Sam. Later, when he's done eating.

[nextinline]

Though he doesn't trust the easy acquiescence for a second, Stark is glad that Winchester has apparently decided not to argue with him for now. He continues watching silently for a moment. The hunter is ridiculously easy to read, Stark could probably feel out his exact thoughts word-for-word, which isn't something he can do with everyone. The reluctant half-hearted agreement is obviously temporary, and Stark's sure this guy plans on shaking him loose as soon as possible.

Stark releases a little noise of exasperation, but doesn't pursue the ended conversation. Instead, he turns to face the mess on his bed. Finding an empty duffel bag, he starts to load it with anything that might possibly come in useful on this roadtrip to Apocalypseville. The black bone blade he stole from Azazel; the stone Lucifer gave him the last time he saw him; Kasabian's Hand of Glory; Michael's athame; a couple of quirky things he took in trade from Muninn for various jobs. And the more mundane artifacts: lead for drawing circles; salt for ghosts; hodge-podge of herbs and minerals and liquids for potions and spells; silver for just about every-damn-thing. And guns, enough guns for the Confederate Army, various shapes and sizes. A few human-made blades for good measure. He hefts an ancient-looking book into his lap, glowering at it for a moment for not coming in a Cliff-Notes version, but throws it into the bag, as well.

He's going to have to steal a big car.

[whiskeynpie]

As Dean finishes up his food, hungrier than he thought he'd be, he watches curious the things the guy shoves into his bag o'tricks. None of them are really things he recognizes aside from the generalized fact they're weapons. And a lot of them, Jesus. "You plan on arming a task force or somethin' with all that?" Dean asks, unable to help it really. It's a lot of sharp things.

The book has him raising a brow and has the idle thought Sam would love to get his hands on something like that. Which reminds him, he needs to call his baby bro and let him know he's topside again. Dean grabs the phone on the nightstand and pulls it onto the bed beside him, tucking the receiver against his shoulder and head as he dials Sam's number. He frowns when he gets the disconnected message, then tries the other two backups he knows Sam has.

Nothing. All disconnected. He does not like that and it doesn't sit well with him. He hesitates a moment before calling Bobby. "Bobby?" Dean asks when the old man answers. "It's me." A pause. "Dean." He's just a little surprised when Bobby hangs up, but Dean calls again. "Bobby, listen to me," Dean starts, but pauses with the man's reply before he hangs up. Heaving a frustrated sigh, Dean sets the phone down and shoves it away, then stands up and pushes the cart out of the way.

"We're leaving. Now."

[nextinline]

Not bothering to turn to look at Winchester, Stark answers simply, "I break things. Extras are usually a good idea." He lifts a bottle of Spiritus Dei, sloshes the liquid around in the opaque glass to check the level, then wraps it in a t-shirt and tucks it away. He'll need to get more from Muninn before leaving.

Only halfway listening to the half-conversation he can hear, Stark piles the remaining clothing atop his mobile armory and zips the bag up. The rest of the crap he'll leave with Kasabian. Needs to stop by Max Overdrive, anyway, to--

"So it's 'we' now?" Stark finally does turn to peer at the other man, an eyebrow arched, the scar cutting through it making it a very sharp arch. "And where are we going?" He doesn't seem averse to leaving quickly, precisely, but he's obviously thinking fast, doing what passes for planning when one is Sandman Slim. Standing, he looks over his preparations, snagging the black blade from the side-pocket of the duffel where he'd left it in easy reach, and starting to the bathroom to get his boots.

[whiskeynpie]

"Well I doubt I'll be able to get rid of you," Oh though he'll try, "so yeah, 'we' now. So let's get your shit together so we can bounce. I don't wanna waste any time if we don't have to," he says as he pats himself down, surprised to find his wallet but no keys. Huh, well damn. The Impala is probably with Sam anyway. That little shit better not have douched it up.

"South Dakota, to a friend's. He'll be able to find Sam." He hopes, anyway. He'll kick his brother's ass otherwise. How the hell's he supposed to find him if he doesn't keep in touch?

"So c'mon', let's go.... What is your name anyway?"

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Leaning against the doorjamb of the bathroom, Stark folds his legs up in succession, pulling on one boot and then the other but not bothering to lace them up. There's a conceding nod of agreement for Winchester's first question, because no, he will not be gotten rid of. Even if he might prefer being gotten rid of to driving this fucking ingrate to--

"South Dakota? South Dakota?" He sounds bewildered, shocked. "Does that actually exist?" Stark hasn't spent much time out of LA (except all those years in Hell), and he sure as fuck hasn't spent any time in the fly-over states. He continues staring like he's waiting for a punchline while he ambles back to the bed and grabs a hoodie, for lack of a jacket.

Oh, a name. He hadn't given that, had he? More fast thinking, skillfully concealed behind that disbelief. Winchester spent a little time in Hell, and part of it in the arena. Stark knows what kind of rep he's got around those places; the stupid name the Hellions gave him, Sandman Slim, the monster who kills monsters, and he knows Winchester will have heard of it. If he spent any time around any of the fallen angels or high-caste demons, he might have heard the name 'Stark' too, and in the same context. To cap it, the guy's a hunter, and maybe a touch unbalanced - it's not implausible that he might try to take Stark out, if he knew he was Stark.

Normally, Stark wouldn't give a damn about any of this, but it won't go any distance to convincing Winchester to work with him, much less trust him, if the guy starts thinking Stark is the most blasphemous thing since Cain. So in the end, he just says, on his way to the door: "Call me James. And give me fifteen minutes."

[whiskeynpie]

Dean just gives him a look as if to say 'are you really asking that?' but then just nods and makes a 'get with it' motion with his hand. "Yes, it's a real place, a place we're going and one I'd like to get to some time this century." And okay, he knows he's being kind of a hard ass here but his brother's out there somewhere and he can't get a hold of him. He'll be damned - already was - if he gave his life just so that little shit could get himself killed.

"Right, James," he doesn't look like a James but whatever, a name's a name. It's not like he's never not used his name before, like a hundred and one times. "Fifteen minutes. If you're not back by then I'm leaving on my own." It isn't so much of a threat as a statement. He doesn't have time for pussyfooting around.

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"Weird," Stark says, in response to South Dakota being a real place. "Next you'll be telling me that ghosts and vampires actually exist." There's a little bit of a grin for that, pulling at the scars on his right cheek and dimpling them, as he backs out the hotel door.

He needn't actually use the door, of course, but like Hell he's going to show his whole hand. There's a rapid jump to Vidocq and Allegra's apartment, and another to Max Overdrive to see Kas and leave the hotel sheet full of extra extras in the little loft he's called home. One last jump to Bamboo House of Dolls to say goodbye to Carlos and find a good bootleg leather jacket. He'd like to stop by Kinski's clinic, but he knows it's pointless; neither the Doc nor Candy have been there in weeks.

So instead, he walks along Hollywood Boulevard from the video store until finding a likely-looking vehicular victim. Precisely fourteen minutes after leaving the motel, he's parking a monstrous silver '65 Lincoln Continental, beautifully restored with suicide doors and black pinstriping, outside the door. Shoving the door open, he re-enters the room - now wearing an ankle-length black leather rifle coat atop the hoodie - and heads for the bed, collecting both duffel bags. Without stopping, he spins on his heel and gives Dean an impatient sort of look. "Haven't even tried to ditch me yet? Bad form."

As if Stark gave him time to.

He pulls open one of the back doors, backwards to the way the front ones unfold, and tosses in first one bag, then the other, leaving them on the backseat with a third bag of the things he acquired in his speedy errand-running. Slams the door and reclaims the drivers seat, once more retrieves the black blade from his boot, and jams the point into the ignition with a twist to start the monster motor growling.

[whiskeynpie]

He opens his mouth but just snaps it shut and scowls, though his lips twitch up just a fraction at the smart ass reply. When James, though he doubts that's his real name, is gone Dean heads outside a few minutes later to see where they're at. Off the bat it's no where he recognizes and that bothers him. He likes knowing where he is, where he's been and where he's going. He hates being caught off guard like this. It's warm and balmy so he thinks maybe they're in the south somewhere.

It's about ten minutes before he's back in the room with no other idea where he's at. The front desk was out of newspapers and he hadn't wanted to 'ask' where he was, not wanting to come off as someone who needed help or was hurt, even though he'd checked himself out in the mirror and whoever put his body back together did a real fine job. Not a scratch or scar on him.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, his knee bounces, antsy, as he waits for James to return. He's tried Sam's numbers again and any other ones - even his dads old cell - but none of them are working. When the guy returns, in the door and almost out it again, Dean's on his feet. Fifteen almost to the minute. The hell could he have done in only fifteen minutes?

"I had a feeling I wouldn't have been able to get far enough away if I tried," he says, then follows him out the door. He takes pause at the car, whistles as he walks around it to the passenger side. Somehow he doesn't think it's actually James', but he's gotta admit the guy's got style. He isn't even going to ask what he had to do to get this sweet ride. In the passenger seat, he raises a brow as he watches James turn the engine over. Inventive. And yeah, definitely not his car.

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Well, it's his car now. For the time being. And after he ditches it, the cops might even return it to the bereft real owner.

Stark checks the mirrors, then backs out of the parking lot and onto a side-street. Within minutes they're back on Hollywood Boulevard, probably answering Winchester's question about where they are; if that's not enough, the gigantor letters spelling out HOLLYWOOD on the hill definitely gives it away. Though it isn't the typical fire season, the huge sign is back-lit with burning palms and jacarandas, just one more indication that LA is going (literally) completely to Hell.

It feels weird, leaving town at such a critical time. Who knows if there will even be an LA to come back to after this is over? On the other hand, if there's no LA, most likely everyone will be dead. Luckily it's early evening; late enough that the worker bees have gone home, but early enough that the club kids haven't come out to choke the roads into uselessness.

Stark acquired what he could from his revolving-door trip through the Room, but there are two things he didn't get. Therefore, he pulls off the boulevard into the parking lot of a small convenience store. The Lincoln is parked by one of the pumps, and the blade is again removed from the ignition before Stark gets out. He throws a "Fill it up" in Dean's direction, heading for the tiny store with no explanation. While Stark's behavior hasn't done a total 180, it's clear that his lethargy and dismissiveness have vanished in favor of focus and energy. Within only a few minutes, he's coming back out of the store, stowing some things in the pockets of his new coat.

[whiskeynpie]

It's when Dean looks around that he catches sight of the Hollywood sign and raises a brow. "We're in frigging California?" He asks, though he had figured by the weather they were probably in some coast city he hadn't expected it to be Los Angeles. But whatever as long as they're on their way out and hey, at least now he can say he's been to L.A. When they stop so soon after hitting the road he side-eyes James a little and frowns.

Almost, he almost doesn't and just sits there to be a dick but then he gets out to fill the tank. The faster they can get out of here and on the road - for real - the better. He needs to find Sam, it's like an itch he can't scratch not knowing if his brother's okay or not. When the pump clicks, signalling the full tank he puts the hose back on the hook and gets in the car. Thankfully he doesn't have to wait long for James to come back, brow raising a little at whatever he'd gotten inside.

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Stark rounds the car to get in again and starts it up in the same questionable manner. He drives almost mechanically, finding the 101S exit and taking it, for just a second, before merging onto another interstate, and after a few moments, exiting onto yet another interstate, apparently oblivious of the hell-for-leather traffic on all sides as he stares out the windshield with that unfocused look. Wrapped up in deep thoughts, or maybe just trying to remember all the lyrics to Our House, which was playing in the convenience store.

Finally, after about half an hour of rapid street-changing, Stark aims the behemoth onto the I-15, settles back against the seat, which resembles an overstuffed sofa more than any modern car seat, and side-glances at Winchester curiously. "So, South Dakota. Couldn't find your brother?" This is clearly a rhetorical question; Stark doesn't give much time for an answer. "You think the chances of him still being in the country are good?"

[whiskeynpie]

It's a little too quiet for him so he breaks his own rule - not like it's his car anyway - and turns on the radio to find some decent classic rock station. He keeps it low but loud enough he can quietly hum along to the words. Surely he's missed this, being out on the open road like this, with the purr of an engine beneath his feet and music blaring from the speakers. The only thing missing is Sam and the Impala.

His leg bounces a little every now and then, not really used to being in the passenger seat of a car or with someone he doesn't know, having to trust them. When Sam's mentioned Dean opens his mouth to reply but then gives the man a disbelieving look. "Of course they are, he wouldn't leave the country, and no I couldn't. All of Sam's phones and backups are out of service." And Bobby didn't believe he was back, though not he can blame the man.

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The radio receives a distrustful look when it gets turned on, but so long as it stays away from Pink Floyd and the Grateful Dead, Stark might not have to smash it. He makes a noise of understanding for Winchester's response, canting his head to the side some. "Yeah, but, you were gone for a couple months. Maybe he just had to switch phones."

The silence didn't bother Stark nearly so much as the tension and discomfort pouring from the man in the passenger seat, which is much more noticeable now that Stark's started noticing things outside his head. This time, he actually turns his head to watch Winchester, noting every tiny, invisible-to-the-human-eye twitch of leg muscles, the incessant eye movement, the way the jaw flexes impatiently.

Giving in after a couple of miles, Stark inexplicably directs the car into the break-down lane, but leaves it running as he gets out. Waits for a few trucks to go by, then circles around to the passenger side and yanks the door open. "Scoot over. You drive."

[whiskeynpie]

"Maybe," he replies, and he can only hope that's what it is. They usually leave at least one of the backups on in case one needs to get a hold of the other and if Sam had any hope of getting him back then he would have kept one of them on. It makes his stomach knot up to think that Sam might have just moved on. Had burned or buried him and just gave up or kept going without looking back.

When the car suddenly pulls over, he whips his head around as James gets out and when the door's opened on his side he quickly scoots over into the driver's side, instantly feeling better and relaxing behind the wheel.

Much better. Much, yes.

Looking behind him and making sure there's no traffic yet, he pulls back out onto the road and continues driving, feeling so much more at home now, despite it not being his baby. He always felt better when he was driving.

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Yes, much better. They're not what anyone could call comfortable with each other, but at least Stark doesn't feel so much like he's riding with a particularly twitchy cockroach with a temper, anymore. Digging into a coat-pocket, Stark lights himself another Malediction and manages to untense somewhat, himself.

Come to that, just what the hell is he riding with? Is Winchester a zombie, a particularly solid ghost, or just some unknown quantity? Stark turns his head, cocking it a bit to the side narrowing his eyes curiously as he looks Winchester over more closely. The inspection culminates in a blunt (and possibly confusing), "Are you the same?" Because really, one has to wonder - it is an entirely new body the angel gave him.

[whiskeynpie]

Dean's tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the song playing on the radio, silently mouthing the words. He's more relaxed now, more comfortable. He knows where he's going even if he doesn't exactly know who he's with. Not that that'll be a problem for long. He plans to ditch James the first chance he gets. He'll get there faster on his own anyway, can't chance bringing some unknown to their small fold.

The question catches him off guard and he glances over once before looking back to the road. "The fuck does that mean, am I the same? Course I am. I'm still me." He felt the same, really. A little... off kilter maybe, from coming back from the dead and what not. He doesn't think he's a zombie, he doesn't have the urge to eat the guy's brains or anything. He's just a little tired and a lot anxious.

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Stark smirks at the blatant defensiveness in that quick response, but stops staring, turning to look out the window though the night is dark enough, and they're near enough to the edge of the suburbs, that there isn't much to see there. "Yeah, you feel the same, it's still your soul - I'm sure of that - just like before." He pauses a second, then qualifies. "With some added post-traumatic hell syndrome, or whatever. But mostly like before.

"The rest can't be all you, though. It made you out of, y'know, nothing, so what you were before isn't what you are now. Scars, wounds, muscle-memory, that all musta been erased, some." This all sounds merely philosophical, because like fuck Stark knows for sure what that angel did, exactly; he's not trying to actually get any answers from Winchester. He flicks ashes out the wing mirror absently, musing silently. What else is he supposed to do on the road to Vegas, with an uncertain resurrected creature and a radio playing shitty 80's rock?