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

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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?