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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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