It's cold. Thank god Cas gave me this sweater. Even though it's way too big, it smells good and it's comfy and warm. Technically, I'm on a hunt right now, but we've had no leads for a few days and, honestly, I think we should move on. But, as long as I can use it as an excuse to be on my own for a few hours, I'm cool with whatever. Even walking up and down badly lit streets and looking for somewhere to hang out. Maybe I can use my badge to get into a bar or two. Sam didn't think it would work for a while, he says I'm "too short", but I'm almost 5'7". I told him there are short adults. Either way, it's about time for a bar crawl. Maybe I can find some cute waitresses, work my charm.
One bar catches my attention immediately. There's a damn bouncer out front. I walk up to the door, and he steps in front of me, holding out a hand for my I.D. with his arms crossed. I reach into my pocket and flash my badge without hesitation. "FBI," I say, putting it back in my pocket with a now practiced flick of my wrist. He raises an eyebrow. "I'm off duty, alright?"
The man nods, opening the door to let me in. I hug the sweatshirt tighter around my waist as soon as I'm inside. "Cold!" I whisper to myself. It's almost as cold in here as it was outside. My teeth chattering, I take the hair tie out of my hair. It falls to the small of my back. Dean keeps complaining, saying I need a haircut. Whatever, though. If I get a haircut, Sam has to. And we all know Sam isn't going to cut his hair any time soon.
I look around the place, trying to find somewhere to sit, when something catches my eye. A girl (a cute girl) sitting at the bar next to some guy who definitely has no reason to be talking to her. She brushes away the grip he has on her shoulder with a nervous laugh, trying to turn away from him. Man, this guy is fucking wasted. I almost feel bad for him, until he puts a greasy arm around her shoulders.
Nah. Fuck this asshole.
"Hey!" Several people turn their heads as I walk over to him, pull him off the barstool, and slam him on the floor. The chick looks bewildered, but all I care about is getting this douche out of here. "She's obviously not interested, you prick," I growl. He's still grinning until I flash the wooden knife handle sticking out of my belt. "Back off." He's, thankfully, the only one who sees. He hurriedly picks himself up off the floor and runs from the bar. I'm surprised he was even able to get in. But now there are more pressing matters at hand. I swing myself around and sit on the previously occupied barstool. "So," I begin, resting my chin on my hands. "It's my first night in town," I tell her. Which is technically true. My first night away from the guys, praise the lord. "What's it like here?"
Before she answers, the bartender sets a shot in front of her. A shot of whiskey. I try to find my voice for a second, raising an eyebrow.
"You ordered that?" I'm starting to wonder if she's okay. I haven't even heard her speak, but she doesn't seem all that heavyweight. "You don't look like a heavy drinker to me," I say, hoping that if she doesn't know what she's doing, she'll take my surprise as a precaution.
"It's my first time here," she tells me, as if it isn't obvious. I'm still trying to figure out how she got in when she picks up the glass and immediately tries to down the entire thing. She can't get through it without choking, and I'm nearly on the ground. My stomach hurts already as she coughs and rubs her throat. I hear the glass slam the bar as she chokes.
"Oh my god," she rasps. "What was that?" I wipe my eyes and try to catch my breath.
"Holy shit," I manage to say between giggles. "You just tried to drink whiskey." I take a deep breath, managing to calm down after a moment. "You've never had a drink before, have you?"
She fixes me with a death stare and it takes all my willpower not to start laughing again, before she picks the glass back up and downs the rest of the drink. "No," she spits at me. "I'm not sure I want to have any more drinks after that," she concludes, returning the glass to the bar and glaring at it. "That was terrible."
I scoff. "Of fucking course it was terrible. You gotta build up to heavy shit like that," I inform her, thinking back on personal experience. "You can't just jump up to it right away." She looks totally lost, and I can't hold back a grin. "Am I gonna have to teach you how to drink?"
Her glare returns. "You do not have to do anything," she grumbles. I giggle, biting back an urge to begin reciting the lord's prayer. She's just like Cas. "What?"
I grin again. "You just sound like someone I know," I reply, figuring that's the only way I can really put it. "The way you talk, it's very…" I try to find the word. "Formal." She frowns at me.
"I know, I know. It's not my fault," she says quietly, tapping the shot glass in front of her. While she's looking down at it, I call wordlessly for the bartender, whispering quietly in his ear to bring the most low-key fruit cocktail he can possibly produce. When I look back at her, she looks confused.
"Of course it's not," I reassure her, fixing my sweater. "I never said it was." She points to the bartender.
"What was that?"
"Oh," I sigh, shaking my head. "Nothing. You'll find out. It doesn't matter." I look around the bar. "What are you doing here?" She shrugs.
"I'm here," she says, rolling her eyes. "Does it really matter?"
"Not really." The bartender returns with two flowery drinks, and honestly, I've never felt more gay. I slide a glass into her hand. "Try that one. Should be better."
She looks skeptical. "I don't know."
I shrug, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. "Just talk to me, then." I realize I haven't introduced myself. "I'm Mickey, by the way," I say, not realizing I've just given her my "real" name. I mentally curse myself. Dean would kill me if he found out.
"Alyssa." The name rings a bell, but I shrug it off. I've heard a lot of names in this profession. She finally gets comfortable and takes a drink, almost smiling at me. "That is… much better. Thank you."
"No problem," I tell her, finding myself humming while I take a drink. It's not that bad. Reminds me of my lightweight days. "A little weak for my taste, but you need to start small." She laughs, and I feel incredibly triumphant. She seemed so locked up before. Maybe it was the alcohol.
"No more of that whiskey for me, then?" I whistle.
"Oh, god, no," I breathe, shaking my head. "No. Not for a while." She continues to drink her cocktail while I alert the bartender to bring us something else. He immediately goes to work on the new drink. I make a mental note to give him a good tip. Suddenly, Alyssa is shaking her head, pushing her glass away.
"I don't think I want another one," she informs me. Her face looks sour.
"Really?"
"Yes, really. I don't want to lose my reason tonight." Suddenly, something clicks in my head. I know this girl.
"Wait- holy shit, did you say Alyssa? As in, Alyssa Showman?"
She freezes. I take her drink from her hands and turn her to face me completely. "I knew you looked familiar! Your face is everywhere! What the hell are you doing here?" Dean is definitely going to kill me.
She shakes her head, freeing herself from my grip. "No," she pleads. "Please, keep it down. Also, no," she snaps at me. "My face isn't everywhere, my parents' faces are everywhere," she corrects, looking me in the eye. "I am not them. I refuse to be locked in my home without any normal influences in my life." She turns away from me as the bartender sets two new drinks on the bar. "I'm just a kid."
"A kid whose parents own half of America," I mutter, mostly to myself. I size up my drink, pull out the straw and chug the entire thing. "I'm drinking with Alyssa fucking Showman," I lazily rub my forehead. "You'd better pay for the damn drinks."
Instead of smiling, she steps off of her barstool and hands me a massive wad of cash. "That should cover it," she says tiredly. "Along with any wasted time I've caused you." She smoothes her skirt, fluffing her hair out behind her. "It was nice meeting you, Mickey, but I should probably be leaving." I'm trying to process the amount of resentment she was able to fit into one sentence and the cash she handed me at the same time while she walks out of the building. Looking up at the drinks, I scowl.
"She didn't even fucking pay," I say to myself, slamming a $50 on the bar and running out after her.