"Cas, get your feathery ass down here!" Dean shouted at the peeling paint of the motel ceiling, for what felt like the millionth time. No response, no wings flapping, -nothing. Dean had seen no sign of the angel since the incident the day before. Dammit Cas, Dean thought, what did I screw up now? I love -
Beer. He loves beer, and he's going to get some now. He remembers driving by a nice looking bar when coming into the town. Better tell Sammy where I'm going, Dean thought quickly, as he grabbed his phone and keys, and headed out of the motel.
"- So, uh, this guy was not marked by Cupid, but his death is definitely suspicious." Sam informed him, as he parked his car outside the bar.
"Yeah, well, I just went through the police blotter, and counting him, that's eight suicides since Wednesday and 19 0Ds. - That's way out of the seasonal batting average." Dean replied, smiling as he walked by two blondes who couldn't keep their hands off of each other. Kinky, he thought, probably high as the clouds, but kinky. They probably don't swing my way though.
"Dean!" Sam shouted through the phone, bringing him out of his lustful thoughts. "Are you even listening?"
"Hm?" Dean replied intelligently.
Sam sighed. "I said, if there's a pattern here, it ain't just love. It's a hell of a lot bigger than we thought."
Dean's eyes scanned his surroundings. Man, was it him, or did everyone look drunken beyond oblivion? Sheesh, and they're eating like they haven't seen food in years. Pigs.
"Huh? Yeah sure, all right. Great. See you in 30." Dean said quickly and hung up as he spotted a sexy bartender. He sat down next to some passed out old drunk and waited for her to walk over. This guy looks familiar, Dean thought, looking over at the man.
"What can I get you?" The bartender asked, bringing Dean's attention back to her.
He looked her over. She had shoulder-length curly black hair, pale skin except for a nice pink blush on her cheeks, nice curves, and red lips. But her most striking, and actually most unnerving feature, were her eyes. He found himself staring into a pair of strikingly bright blue eyes as the bartender waited for him to order.
They're too bright, Dean thought. Cas' are a bit darker and much more attractive than this chick's… I miss him. Wait, what? What the fuck is going on? He does not miss Cas. Not after yesterday, when he left to go to God knows where without explaining a damn thing or at least leaving with a fucking good-bye. But then again, something was wrong with Cas. That cupid did something to him- to both of them. He hopes Cas is okay. Dammit! When did he become such a girl?
"Um…uh, I think I'll take some water," Dean finally replied, having lost his appetite for beer. What the fuck is wrong with me? Dean couldn't remember the last time he drank something that wasn't alcohol. (Sam would later agree). Next thing you know, I'll start eating rabbit food like Sammy. (Actually, Dean would try eating a salad later on. Sam almost died of a heart attack when this happened).
As he waited for her to get some water, Dean turned to look at the old drunk. Why does he look so familiar? He thought as he tilted the man's head and checked his pulse. Dammit the coroner's dead! He didn't even recognize him - he looked like he drank until he saw stars, ran out of alcohol to drink, and then decided to find a gallon of bleach to guzzle down instead. As the realization hit him, Dean began to check the pulse of the other bodies strewn across the bar, hoping that they were just passed out, and finding every one cold, drunk, fucked up beyond up beyond all recognition, and lifeless. Shit! Shit! Shit! Dean thought.A wave of nausea hit him as he suddenly became sick at the sight of alcohol, couples ignorantly making out in a room full of the deceased, and the smell of sex in the air. Everyone's OD'd! What the fuck is going on? I better call Sammy.
It was as Dean pulled out his phone and began to leave the bar that the bartender came back, and with something completely different than the water he had ordered previously. "Hey, mister!" She shouted from behind him. Both her hands gripped a Winchester rifle, (which he still can't recall the model of because he was too busy laughing at the irony), and pointed them at his face. Dean stood there long enough to think, again, what the fuck is going on?