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[Paint thinner always messes him up the most. He really shouldn't use it.

But there was a perfectly good tin of it, and let it be known: when he's in a bad way, Charlie Kelly does not let a single drop of poison go to waste.

He either doesn't know Dean lives in the basement, or he doesn't remember; the outcome is the same, anyway. He's as quiet as a mouse — sorry, quiet as a rat. He moves a lot like them, even when he's high as a kite, and so he wanders down into the depths of the cabin without waking a soul. A glassy-eyed gaze doesn't particularly land on any one thing in Dean's sparse room; nobody here just yet, not that Charlie was particularly looking for anyone. He wanted somewhere dark like the sewer, somewhere quiet like his Bad Place, and he found it. He doesn't break bottles against walls like he usually does at the pub, but he does proceed to wedge himself into the nearest corner and curl up to try and sleep it off.

His eyes play awful tricks on him, though, and his dreams aren't any kinder when he fades in and out (or at least he thinks they're dreams, though he's not sure if he actually sleeps or not). He twists and turns and his shoulder blades scrape uncomfortably against the meeting walls like a whittling knife on wood.

Whenever poor Dean gets back from whence he'd vanished, he'd probably notice something was off just by the smell of JASCO brand thinner as he lays down, honestly... That is, if the sensation of something else just living in the darkness of his room doesn't immediately throw him into hunter mode.

It's the bogeyman, obviously.

A bogeyman who is currently curled up tight in a fetal position, looking every sort of pathetic and entirely isolated compared to the fast-talking, over-energized goblin that had been using his shower and eating all his food. A bogeyman who sniffs loudly, his nose red, one smear of blood under one nostril.

You let this wretched thing into the house, Dean. You invited the awkward moonshine-making, paint drinking vampire through the doorway. He wheeled in a little bit of baggage behind him while he was at it, that's all.]

Edited 2021-05-31 15:08 (UTC)

[ There is a lot going on in the Winchester cabin these days; there are a lot of people staying in the month of May, there is a lot of noise, a lot of people coming in and out.

That's not to say there aren't moments of solitude to be found - there is a surprising amount of nooks and crannies available in the cabin where someone can find a moments peace, away from the monsters and from the other people who are coming in and out.

The basement is one, especially before Cas arrives. Dean and Sam spend most of their time above ground, patrolling the perimeter, making sure monsters don't get too close and killing the ones that do. It isn't as difficult as one might think to slither into the basement unseen, which is what Charlie manages to do.

Sam's got the grounds covered, taking over from Dean this evening; Dean is so exhausted he thinks he may drop onto his bedroll when he gets down there.

The moment he opens the door to the basement, though - he's on high alert. Spidey-sense tells him there's someone or something already down there and lurking, and he's got a gun out and trained into the darkness, coming down the stairs one by one, with all the training of a military soldier. It's not just the paint thinner he can smell - there's a presence, a soft exhale of air, a disturbance in the force.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and reaches over, silent, and flicks his zippo open to light one of the candles, other hand still gripping his gun, aiming it into the darkness.

Dean is not expecting to see Charlie in his goddamn basement, and it's a damn lucky thing Dean is as trained up as he is; anyone else may have shot the bastard out of sheer surprise. ]

Charlie? [ Fucks sake. He lets out a breath, tucks his gun back into his belt and comes over, kneeling down in front of the little gremlin, brow furrowed. ] Hey, what's going on? You alright?

...

How did you get in here?

[If there's one slimy creature that can get past a Winchester's defenses, it's a Charlie Kelly. He knows where to go, knows how to be invisible when he really wants to be.

Charlie must certainly be pretty far gone, because he doesn't even so much as flinch at the gun being pointed at him. He just looks at it with furrowed brows, the back of his head against the wall as he squints at the light that casts over him. Sniffing and running his sleeve across his nose, he stains it red, and he looks from that to Dean as the man crouches down in front of him. He blinks in slow motion.]

Oh, yeahman. I — s'nothin'. I got man, I broke some bottles, I remembered the stuff I stashed in the apartment vents. [The chemical smell on his clothes, yeah. He untucks the paint thinner can from next to him, holding it up and sloshing around the liquid inside.] I dunno know when I got here, I just know I ran outta bottles. But s'cool, man, I wouldn't break any of your stuff. That'd be a shitty thing to do to a friend.

I didn't know anyone lived down here, though; you must've lost a bet or something.

[His pupils are very large, like they're trying to absorb the rest of the darkness in the room. He doesn't look hurt, though. Not on the outside or anything; Charlie usually isn't hurt on the outside anyway.

... 'Cept when people hit him with their car, or shoot him in the head, or whatever stupid shit his friends do to get him hurt.]

[ You know -- truthfully, it really doesn't matter how Charlie got in. Dean's home is open to those who are in need, who need a place to crash. It's a safe place, where those Dean cares about are welcome. Charlie is...in need, obviously, and the basement is a place the guy feels safe, so who is Dean to throw him out and scream when he's in a state like this?

He barely has any idea what Charlie's even talking about, and he reaches to take the tin, examining it, brow furrowed. ]

Charlie, man. Are you...are you high on this? Dude...this is bad stuff.

[ Like, keep it organic, at least. Dean's had his fair share of drugs, and in the end his vices are alcohol and weed; inhibiting things that allow him to keep all his faculties and probably not die.

He tugs his sleeve over his hand, gripping the hem, and wipes Charlie's upper lip free of blood, setting the tin way out of reach with his free hand. ]

Can you stand? You can take my bedroll for the night.

Edited (repetitionnnn) 2021-06-04 16:57 (UTC)

[He shoots a pained look at the thinner drifting away from him, his hand chasing it half-heartedly before Dean wipes at Charlie's face and he jolts a bit, caught off-guard. Don't touch me, man, is his first thought, followed immediately by no, wait, don't leave me alone right now. He looks skeptically at Dean; there's a hazy look, a herculean effort to focus.]

It's not bad, man. I'm good as new. [He rubs the back of his head against his sweaty forehead, smearing bangs across his temples.] You say a breadroll? You got bread? I don't know, feeling kinda pukey, but food's so good. I'm dying for grilled cheese; monster meat's not vibing with me these days. My ma was always good at making those kinds of things.

[He moves to stand, swaying like a branch in the breeze. He keeps talking, his words more than likely running over any of Dean's like river water. He's talking fast, a beat too fast, as if he's just someone trying to hyperventilate in a coffin to get it over with, or maybe like if he can't get it all out right now, he'll explode into little squishy bits on the basement walls.]

I found one of those gasmask people with blood all over 'em. I take stuff out of their pockets when they're dead, you know? Recycling, n' shit; you don't take anything with you when you die. But this one kept saying my name like my ma, which didn't make any sense because my mom's always been kinda bigger, and this person was kinda skinnier? So I took off their weird mask, and it was her. She kept saying sorry for everything, and I just — she was really skinny to be losing that much blood. I tried to hold it in, but it just wouldn't... yeah.

[He's trying to reach for the paint thinner can again.]

I burned my clothes, but I still got some blood under my fucking nails, dude. Can I use your sink?

[His voice wobbles on 'sink'.]

[ Charlie moves to stand and Dean picks up the paint thinner, keeping it out of Charlie's reach when he makes a move to take it, slipping it in the depths of his jacket. ]

The Wastes. I saw them, too. [ Maybe that's the root of this spiral; Charlie seeing his mother, the blood, the death. Dean still feels some kind of way about burning some version of himself and Sam, seeing his body wrapped and on a pyre, smoke curling and flames licking at the sky. A spell of nausea churns in his belly at the memory, and his fingers flex as he reaches to steady Charlie, wrapping around his upper arm. Easy, there.

Shit, he needs a drink.

And in that moment he understands; the paint thinner is an addiction, probably, but also a coping mechanism. Dean understands that, on a very intimate level. Everyone has them, some more unhealthy than others.

Some are deadly, in excess. ]

Yeah. You can, c'mon. I got you. [ It's upstairs, though, they'll have to maneuver those steps if Charlie wants to wash his hands, his face.

As much of a gremlin as Charlie is, he'd called Dean 'friend', and that -- well, that hits a little different, and he's not gonna let Charlie spiral alone. ]

I won't let you fall.

[Charlie blinks at Dean with those glassy eyes. He looks exhausted, or like — he'd been crying, maybe? Oh, surely not. Not Charlie Kelly. He never cries in secret, in isolation. It's probably just a symptom of the fume-huffing.

He wobbles on his feet and one hand moves to steady himself on Dean's shoulder.]

You can if you want. It's cool. I fall a lot; got enough meat on my bones to break my fall, though. [The other hand sort of just hangs, left to sway at his side; it looks like there's a cut on it, but it's not bleeding. It's just fresh.] S'all stupid, anyway. This is all fake; it's not real, so I don't know why m'so upset. It's not even real paint thinner... C'mon, man, lemme keep at it.

[He doesn't exactly move to try and wrangle it back, though. Damp with sweat, he just limply complies with wherever Dean drags or pushes him, honestly. Easy breezy. He'll just go where the wind takes him — the wind being Dean.]

Nah, friends don't let friends fall. [ He might've once. Probably would've, actually. But not anymore. He likes to think he's changed, and while he's a selfish asshole these days, he's...

Well. Not great, but a little better. ]

I'm gonna help you up the stairs, okay? Lean on me. [ And without further questioning or talking, Dean gets an arm around his waist and practically hauls him up the stairs and towards the kitchen. The paint thinner stays firmly tucked into Dean's jacket, as far away from Charlie as he can get it. ]

Here. Wash your hands, splash your face. How's your stomach holding up? Can you keep something bland down?

[He looks a little unsure of that.]

Friends let friends fall all the time. S'what friends do.

[Charlie's never really had the most stable friend group in the world. Like... yeah, sometimes they're there for each other. Most of the time, though, they get into some real crazy shit and fend for themselves. (And little did Charlie realize, his friends are actually nicest to him than they are to each other; he's their small modicum of niceness, half the time).

His fingers curl, and he wants nothing more than to breathe in the thinner until his vision washes out and he's out cold. He almost seems like he's about to pass out once or twice, from the way his eyelids flutter, but he adjusts and persists in walking. One hand finds balance against the rim of the sink, and he seems to intentionally avoid looking at the mirror.]

It's cool... I'm good. It's stupid. This whole thing, man, it's so stupid. What was she even apologizing for? Doesn't even matter anyway. What was I even s'posed to do? I'm not a doctor, I don't know how to fix people like that. [He rubs his sleeve across his eyes clumsily.] Fuck this place. It's not real; it doesn't even matter, man. I'll just wake up on my couch.

Doesn't sound like you've got very good friends.

[ Not like Dean has any trophies for being a great friend, but you know. He's getting there.

Dean frowns, listening to Charlie, reaching to turn the water on for him before getting a hand towel so he can wipe his face. ]

It's not your fault. They're all dying, no one can stop it. I couldn't.

Nah, they're fine. They're dicks, but s'fun company to keep.

[Charlie, for all his obliviousness — all his faults and issues and horrible choices — he's not quite as stupid as people assume; he's fairly self-aware, for all the shit he does. He knows God's certainly not watching out over him of all people. He's super screwed in the head, and normal people think he's a total garbage weirdo, and the gang is what he has to crawl back to through the grime.

Charlie scrubs at his face with the towel, and it comes back smelling strongly of something that can't be safe to put in your body. Charlie's a survivor, though. He gives himself that much credit; a little paint thinner, a little bleach, a little booze or glue or aerosol, it won't slow him down. He's reliable. Yeah.

Sniffing again, the red-nosed man glances at Dean.]

It wasn't her, though, right? Like, we're dreaming. I'm just dreaming about her.

It's not like she's really dead or nothing like that.

[For all the times his mom has let him down and let him erode in his youth, he still sounds like a nervous kid worried for his parent, like she's ever really kept him safe.]

[ Dean doesn't seem convinced, but if Charlie wants to think that, then. Well. Alright then. ]

...I don't know anymore, man. I thought it might've been purgatory at first, it's a little too vivid to be a dream. But with the way everything is breaking down and that kid either dying or dead...

[ Dean lifts a shoulder into a shrug, leaning against the bathroom door. He really just isn't sure. ]

The Wastes, though...they're apparently different versions of us, of people we know. I uh...I saw one of me, too. And my brother.

[Charlie's expression slides into something pained. He really hadn't thought much about the kid — whoever the fuck she actually was. To him, this had all been so fake for the longest time, he hadn't... even entertained the backstory of this tragic little spit of land. If anything, he just thought it was all in his head; maybe it is, too; maybe it's all just him making shit up, high as fuck and sleeping restlessly.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he shakes his head, and then gives a bleary look at Dean's jacket pocket. He looks a little defeated, his shoulders slumping, his nose red and raw from the abuse.]

You're not gonna give that back, are you?

C'mon, man, nobody even overdoses to death forever here.

No, I'm not. I already saw my brother die here, you don't get to do that to me.

[ Because Dean's already been through this shit, and he's not keen on seeing anyone else do it again anytime soon. Acquaintance, friends, whatever the hell he and Charlie are -- Dean's not gonna give him fucking paint thinner so he can OD. ]

What I am gonna do is make you something bland to eat, and you're going to spend the night on that couch where I can keep an eye on you. You hear me?

[He frowns at that, because it seems like a lot of people die around here. Not him, though. He's pretty indestructible — as long as he's not choking down poisonous eggs, anyway. But the addiction-born frustration that hits him is stronger than the sympathy he should have, and he huffs in annoyance, folding his arms, hands shoved under his armpits because he's suddenly feeling cold and hot and — ]

Fuck you, dude. That's some real bullshit. That's mine. I didn't steal your moonshine out of your hands, you asshole alcoholic. [But Charlie only bites back (literally) at touch, and Dean isn't touching him, not right now, so he just grits his teeth and scrubs his nose and stumbles a little, slurring his words as much as his thoughts.] The fuck does bland mean, anyway? Buh-laaand. Sounds like some bullshit Owen would say, that British bastard.

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..... and now something serious, dated whenever; cw: drug abuse

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