21: [Video/Action] Dark Side of the Moon
Sam?!
[It's playing on a loop in Dean's head.]
Mom? Mom! Dad?! C'mon, this isn't funny!
[The...the Dean in the television had been screaming. For an hour.]
Bobby? Dad! You guys, please! Don't just...don't just leave me here.
[Until his voice was raw. Until he couldn't scream anymore. Until he curled up and sobbed. Dean can remember it ( Read more... )
He's currently lying in a lounge chair at the pool on the second floor. Which wouldn't be so unusual if he wasn't wearing a thick winter jacket on account of the entire room being covered in ice and snow.
The image sways along with the communicator in his hand. ]
Wow, you l--
[ He laughs and puts the device down on a little table beside him. ]
You look like shit, Dean.
[ ...Did we also mention that he's completely wasted? ]
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[Dean manages weakly, feeling his neck starting to cramp. He's been hunched over for God-knows-how-long, unwilling to venture into the rest of his 'house' should he find something too familiar for personal comfort. He clears his throat a little.]
And you're drunk. Are we done stating the obvious?
[It's not snarky or sarcastic, just...tired. And scared. Terror is an unusual expression on Dean Winchester.]
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[ He leans down, fishing for a glass and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. There's an all-empty bottle standing on the table too. Oh yeah, he's been at this for a while and mind you, the things such a virus does to your tolerance level are quite amazing.
Philip pours himself a generous amount. ]
I'm barely sober at all! [ He blinks. ]
...perfectly drunk, I mean.
[ Pauses. Catches the second error. Giggles and falls back into the chair. ]
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Making a mental note to go drinking with Phil the next time there's not an event fucking with him, Dean runkles his brow speculatively.]
Dude, you're trashed.
[What the fuck is with all that snow?]
...and why are you in like...Antarctica?
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[ Philip raises his hand. Some of the icicles on the ceiling are ridiculously long and Philip breaks off one of their tips to drop it into his glass. ]
Free ice cubes and all and- and- and anyway, it's--
Greenland, home of the mostsss- scenic artic lands- landscape and the most pesky virus on the whole- the whole planet.
{You're breakin' my heart when you're being like that, Philip. But I'm forgiving you, because I know that's just the alcohol talkin' and you don't really mean it. }
Of course I bloody well mean it!
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Greenland. Right. [Well, that would make sense. Not that he'd be able to tell the difference between Greenland and Alaska - they all look the same, anyway. Assuming that Philip is either talking to someone Dean can't see, or rather- Well. He's probably talking to Clarence. Three guesses says it's the alien virus that produces such unsavory, bitter declamations.]
...how's our, uh. Our old buddy Clarence doin'?
[On other words: is he driving you to drink, or are you doing that all on your own?]
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He's uhhh, he's good.
[ Philip raises his glass and chucks down the lot of it in one gulp, then slams the glass onto the table. ]
Fine. Great, never- never been better, right?
{ Might have to move out if you keep soakin' your brain in booze, but sure, I'm peachy and you know why? Because the TV was right.
...Not that I haven't been tellin' you plenty of times now already. }
[ Philip laughs, almost hysterically. ]
Right!
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Pot calling the kettle black, shut up.
Sitting upright and clambering over to his communicator, stupid angel statue still in hand - Dean grabs the thing and pulls it closer, concern clouding his features. Now that he really thinks about it, the laughing is what bothers him. Phil is allowed to laugh, sure, but not like The Joker on nitrous oxide.]
Hey.
[He can't possibly comprehend what it's like having another set of thoughts in his brain, but since a stupid television program can mess with Dean's head and reduce him to this, it doesn't bode well for Professor Physics over there.]
...what'd your Sunday Night Special say to you?
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A Philip in his current condition only takes a deep breath for show and sits up in his chair, attempting to convey the message loud, clear and with a serious face and ample gesturing. ]
Clarence is great, Clarence is always right, just shut your fucking face and give him your body, because sooner or later he'll take it anyway and kill those useless bastards you think are your friends.
[ He pauses and sinks back into the chair, this time taking the entire bottle with him. ]
...'course I'm parp-- parphh-- para, uh... not quoting, but that's the idea.
Cheers!
[ Philip toasts towards the camera, then grins and takes another gulp. ]
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Swift and slightly-slurred babbling aside, Dean catches the drift pretty quickly and the alarm bells go off. If Philip gets it into his head that he should do what the whatever-the-fuck-those-things-are said and pull another "Here's Johnny!" in the mansion, the shit's gonna hit the fan pretty damn hard. Dean is fairly concerned about Phil's constitution, no matter how much he appreciates a good impersonation of Jack Nicholson.
What does strike him, though, is the fact that he's even regarded as a friend. Dean honestly can't remember the last 'friend' he had in his own world that wasn't a mentally unbalanced hunter or a civvie that he drove away from, never to see again.]
...you know that's not true, right?
[Dean finds that he kind of likes the idea of having friends, but certainly won't say so out loud lest he be dubbed sentimental.]
Right, Phil?
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And howwww--
How're you so sure about that? Callmme an-- a pessimist, but... but I'm not esssactly getting very positiveff-- feelings on this... this everything.
[ One last smile before the familiar gloom appears on his face, this time only visually deepened thanks to alcohol addition and sleep deprivation. ]
And thisiss what--
[ He swings the bottle wide, spilling a little while gesturing at the ice deco around him. ]
What I get back home to, even if I make it through Wonderland.
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Don't get all existential on me, buddy.
[Dean advises carefully, eyebrows furrowing deeper and mouth tightening as he realizes how much Philip's had of the bottle of Jack, and how much he had to have had before this to get to the state he's in.]
You know what I got to look forward to, too.
[It's all apples to apples, really, because their lives are shit, but they're still worth living.]
You wanna put that bottle down before you knock yourself out? Hell, aren't you freezing? I could-
[Dean's gaze slides to his right, out his door, to look at Sam's room. He doesn't want to walk past it. He really doesn't. He'd rather chew glass than re-live anything like that again. He always told his father that he hardly recalled that night, but Dean remembers everything. The heat from the fire, the smoke ( ... )
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Most of everything else Dean says is just flying past his head at this point. ]
Help... drinking?
No, I'vethis one covered. [ Conspicuous gulp from the bottle. ]
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Where are you? In the - the mansion, I mean.
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[ He tentatively shakes what's left of his liquor. ]
And another bottle.
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[Dean grunts, standing and frowning a little at Philip through the screen. He looks like an absolute wreck, and this coming from someone who spent most of the night shaking in a ball in the corner of his room.]
Don't- Well, I'd tell you not to go anywhere, but I think you got that covered.
[Dean switches off the comm unit, stuffing it in his pocket and making his way warily towards the door of his room. Jesus, the floor's creaking and the whole thing feels like it's settling while he's in it. Taking a deep breath, he slides around the jamb and pauses in the hallway.
It's quiet.
The rest of his trek is fairly uneventful, actually, as he strenuously avoids looking at his brother's room, because he doesn't want anything to be a possible catalyst for more insanity. Once he's out of his "house" and back in the mansion, Dean feels the crushing, overbearing weight lifted (for the most part) from his shoulders, and he can breathe freely once more ( ... )
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