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."
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Date: 2013-04-06 11:44 pm (UTC)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."