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[venatoris]

This is Dean Winchester. If this is an emergency, leave a message.

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[venatoris]

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?

[kingoftherats]

[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.