Bates Motel, Wednesday morning
Dean had tried going back to his place. Sort of. Briefly, anyway. But the whole "back from the dead" thing had him anxious and the vague threat of horrible nightmares had him twitchy and sleepless. So he'd decided to try for more familiar, comforting surroundings.
Which, for a guy who grew up in random motels, meant getting a room. Where he still couldn't (or maybe just wouldn't) sleep. Instead, he sat on the bed and watched reruns of old eighties sitcoms.
Then the TV went on the fritz. And no amount of whacking it or salting the windows seemed to help.
Then the noise started. Just a low buzz at first, then growing in pitch and volume like feedback until he slammed his hands over his ears, trying to block it out. It was no good -- the sound seemed to go right through his hands, sending piercing stabs through his brain until his knees gave out and the windows shattered, raining glass down onto him.
Ten minutes later, when the noise had stopped and Dean was left only with a headache and a lot of ringing in his ears, Dean was out in front on the curb, resting his elbows on his knees and wondering if anyone would hold it against him if he decided to get stinking drunk before he'd even had lunch.
[ooc: Open, natch.]
Which, for a guy who grew up in random motels, meant getting a room. Where he still couldn't (or maybe just wouldn't) sleep. Instead, he sat on the bed and watched reruns of old eighties sitcoms.
Then the TV went on the fritz. And no amount of whacking it or salting the windows seemed to help.
Then the noise started. Just a low buzz at first, then growing in pitch and volume like feedback until he slammed his hands over his ears, trying to block it out. It was no good -- the sound seemed to go right through his hands, sending piercing stabs through his brain until his knees gave out and the windows shattered, raining glass down onto him.
Ten minutes later, when the noise had stopped and Dean was left only with a headache and a lot of ringing in his ears, Dean was out in front on the curb, resting his elbows on his knees and wondering if anyone would hold it against him if he decided to get stinking drunk before he'd even had lunch.
[ooc: Open, natch.]