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.

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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."

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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.

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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.

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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.