entrancelogs | I'll tell you a story of whiskey and mystics and men.

Who: Philip, Dean Winchester, and all the Wonderland residents ever
Where: Fifth floor, Room five
When: RIGHT. NOW.
Rating: PG for suggestive themes and the consumption of alcoholic beverages in the presence of minors.
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures. "Desperate measures" meaning ...
The Story:

It is an auspicious night. Your transmitter crackles excitedly, bearing good tidings in the form of Dean Winchester standing proudly in front of a door, Philip LaFresque at his side, expression rather put-upon. Your resident hunter beams.

"Evenin', ladies and gents!"

"Do we have t--"

"Shaddup, Phil. Come one, come al-"

"We've constructed a bar in room five on the fifth floor," Philip interrupts, stepping forward to save the day. "We all know that getting alcohol has never exactly been a problem here, but you also know that everything tastes better when you--"

"Apple-bobbing! Pie-eating contests! Classic rock! Wet t-shirt competition!"

”There is no wet t-shirt competition!”

The feed cuts short in a haze of white noise, but the offer still stands.

[[ ooc note; Both Dean and Philip will be available for separate threads, so you can interact with your friendly ~~and charming~~ bartenders. Please feel free to use the free space below to interact with anyone else in Wonderland's new ~~roadhouse~~ ~~pub~~ ~~gin joint~~ ~~speakeasy~~ whatever! :D You are not obligated to talk to either of the classy fellows behind the counter. ]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Wow. [ Sigh. ] A studying person. I don't know if you forgot, but we did go to school.

Yeah, but that was like a million years ago.

[Hello, where have you been?

...oh. Wait. College. Right.]

There's a few people I know who hang out there a lot, though - the library, I mean. Kinda-crackpot conspiracy theorist who goes by the name of Mark Meltzer, and then there's Phil's girlfriend, who's like...

[He pauses, trying to find the right words.]

...she's a librarian from nineteen-twenty-something who really digs Egypt. Figuratively and literally, too.

[Knock yourself out with the history lectures, Sammy.]

[ Exactly! Learning about law things and whatever. ]

From nineteen-twenty-something. [ He repeats, his eyebrows disappearing into his bangs. Finally, he just chuckles, shaking his head. ]

Are you sure this isn't some insane dream?

[Law things. Pshhhhh. Who needs 'em? When has the law ever given them anything but trouble, really?]

Everything checks out. It's only mostly-crazy. Not crazy enough to be a dream, believe it or not.

[ Well, that's what he was trying to fix! Y'know, apply his virtues as a hunter to a real-life profession. Or something. ]

Still not sure if I do. [ Believe it, that is. Sam shrugs. ]

... I know this isn't really the place. [ Oops, he's suddenly serious. ] But where I was before this, a lot was going on.

[ Yes, Dean, he wants to talk about that. Cold Oak. Did you see this coming? ]

[Virtues. That's hilarious. They're good guys and all, but does virtuous really fit the hunting bill?

Dean's smile flickers, just a bit.]

Yeah?

[This isn't the sort of appropriate bar talk he'd like to indulge in, but since when does Sammy actually want to talk about things like this? Touchy-feely crap aside, Cold Oak is pretty goddamn serious.]

[ He doesn't want to talk about it. Not at all. But, ever since his arrival, something's been nagging at him, hinting that maybe he should let his brother know what had happened. What was happening, back home. ]

Yellow-Eyes. [ The memory stirs up some anger inside him, and Sam takes a deep breath. ] He's the reason we were all stuck there-- me, and the other psychics. Andy, Ava--

[ He casts a quick and furtive glance around, as if someone they knew was standing nearby, eavesdropping. Then, he heaves a quick sigh. ]

... It was like we suspected. He wanted--wants--a leader for his army. And... he's not letting people leave, not until there's one left standing.

[ That had been the last thing he'd heard, before he'd been spirited off to Wonderland. The memory of his dream is still fresh, burning in his mind's eye. ]

I know it doesn't matter while we're here, but... [ It's still haunting him, clearly etched into the lines of his face. ]

Hey.

[Dean almost interrupts Sam, almost. But he holds his tongue until the end, biding his time, careful about not letting anything slip. Because God, what if he did? What if Sam knew while he was here? He'd never forgive Dean.]

You don't hafta worry about a damn thing, 'cause we'll get you out. Me 'n Bobby on it like white on rice, you got that?

[And don't you ever fucking forget it.]

Yellow-Eyes, whatever- whatever the Hell he's cookin' up, it doesn't mean jack to us, and you're gonna be fine.

[ He could find out otherwise, you know. Somehow. Still, for now, he's still in the dark. At the declaration, his expression falters, his brow coming together in slight frustration. ]

Dean-- I didn't mean that. [ "I can take care of myself." ] I'm just worried, you know, for the others. Someone was already killed trying to get out of there. And I feel like... I mean, if I can't calm everyone down, more people are going to get hurt.

[ You can see how badly this weighs on him. ]

I'm not worried about me.

[The Hell are you talking about? Sam can't take care of himself. That's why Dean is there.]

So just-

[Don't worry, because you're not going to die. Everyone else is.

Perhaps that's not the sort of thing he should be telling his younger brother, even if it's the truth.]

...Sit tight. Do what you can, yeah? It's not somethin' you oughta worry about right now.

[What else is he supposed to say? Don't let that huge black dude stab you in the back? Shit.]

[ BUT SAM WANTS TO TAKE CARE OF HIS BIG BROTHER TOO OKAY ]

I know, I just thought I should tell you. [ Something's a little off about this whole conversation, but this is supposed to be a fun, carefree night. So, he swallows his questions, already guilty at the flashes of expression he's seen on Dean's face.

He attempts a sort of half-smile, rubbing at the back of his neck. ]

Sorry for bringing it up. I just, ah... yeah.

[NO HE IS NOT ALLOWED. So there.]

Nah, it's okay.

[It's not.]

Just don't want you t'get stuck in a rut, y'know? I've been here a friggin' long-ass time, and it was pretty crap for the first few months.

I won't. [ He probably will, but that's just Sam. Y'know, the whole rainy windows deal. ] I get it; this is different.

[ Won't stop him from worrying like a fiend. ]

So don't worry.

[Dean stresses, hoping for a subject change as he pushes another drink in Sam's direction.]

Chill out. S'what this place is all about.

[A beat.]

...sometimes.

[ He takes the drink, bobbing his head in a weary nod. ]

Yeah, I got it. And we've got time, so...

[ Hopefully, he thinks. Hopefully. ]

Well-- [ And he holds up the drink, with a half-smile. ]

Here's to... this place, I guess?

And here's to endless beer.

[He clinks their respective glasses and throws his alcohol back.

Sometimes the pros really outweigh the cons, here.]

I'll tell you a story of whiskey and mystics and men.

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sob

;___;

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