Just Your Typical Friday Night Crowd

Torrid extracted himself from Paul's grip ever-so-slowly, nodding towards the bar with a giant "Mick's" sign written overhead on a wall-mounted canoe, which had no place here. The bartend saw him, did the chin-up thing of understanding, and Torrid had his excuse to escape for a refill. Paul watched him with a dark grin on his face the whole time, and Torrid wracked his brain to see if maybe he killed the guy's son or somethi-- Wow, that's an instant stop on that train of thought.

He'd just folded his arms on the bar, when the door swung open, blasting him with cold air for the duration of it being open. Before it had even opened, Torrid caught the tail end of an argument, and glanced up curiously at the two dudes who came in after. Big guys, sure, and he could smell gunpowder under their fingernails, and more than average testosterone, but nothing else all that noteworthy.

Paul looked up from his beer, grinning with what teeth he had left. "You Sam n' Dean?" Paul sat up a little more, extending a hand to the closest Winchester. "Robert. Cousin' Rudy sent ya?" Wow, Torrid was way off with the name thing. And why were the other hunters looking so... not thrilled to see them?

Might have something to do with one of them being that guy that threatened to kill that pretty little blonde thing Sam worked with during the apocalypse, and tried forcing demon's blood down Sam's throat before he got his ass whooped and left. Yeah, some bad blood's there. Torrid didn't know any of this, but did notice how that one guy kept his glares surreptitious and brief.

Oh man! It really is Sam and Dean. Guess they're real, after all. Torrid's faced with a choice: run, or charm, and that's about it. He's not about to fight these crazy mofos, and he suspects they're gonna keep hunting until Torrid throws them something else so... Charm. Charm should be his best option. Except, he can't move. He's glued to the floor, metaphorically. They're... not what he was expecting, to be honest.

Torrid watched the scene from his few, glorious paces away. What goldmine has he stumbled upon here?! He knew the hunters he'd surrounded himself weren't exactly upstanding citizens, but watching the silent interaction between them and Sam had Torrid absolutely brimming. He might not have to do anything at all; He could just let the hunters fight with each other, watch the show, then haul ass out of there. He's staying for the entertainment value alone. The urge to instigate roiled inside him like heartburn and left him a little giddy.

Tim and Reggie sneered back at Sam as they caught his eye, but said nothing. They were all here for a common purpose and, let's be real, they weren't ever going to follow through on that whole "This isn't over" thing.

Robert missed the whole thing, as he was too focused on Dean. "Better than that ol' fruitbat gettin' his ass whooped. Thanks for showin', boys." He sat down and pulled out a few articles, and then his phone, gesturing for the two men to join him. The articles were "John Does" found in several states, who he explained were hunters. "But it ain't no spectral black dog nothin', Jim swears up and down. Even got a video ta' prove it." On his phone, he was about to play the video-- why did that redneck have a smartphone?-- when something occurred to him. "Says the things hair was that color-- Ay, greenie, get over here!"

For all they knew, Torrid was a new hunter, and he wasn't breaking character. He slinked on back to the table, looking a little chagrinned. "Hey, guys," he greeted, expecting to be ignored. The video Robert was playing was dark, and shaky, but there was the hazy outline of a wolf-like creature tearing into dead flesh. Except for the red eyes, and red mane.

"And here's the weird part," Robert goes on, ignoring Torrid, "It's eating 'im, takes the heart, but then... spits it out." And buries it. Yep. Like Torrid said, it was chewy in all the wrong ways. "Like it was pretending to be a werewolf."

Torrid felt eyes on him, and returned Dean's suspicious stare with an amicable smile. He knew that Robert dragged him over to make a silent association between him and the monster. Look at him, thinking he's got plans and things! Torrid's almost proud. Though, the "almost proud" becomes "overwhelmingly proud" when Dean orders six shots. Bad blood between hunters? Check. Mean redneck? Check. Drunken brother, looking pissed off at the world? Check.

The temptation to instigate a drunken brawl is unparalleled.

"Oh-hoh. Damn," beams Torrid, brows raising and grin widening. "Is that how real hunters do it?" He noticed the waitress eyeing Dean, and didn't seem to be in a rush to get away, and he saw it. His opportunity. He made eye contact with Tim, then Reggie, as if to ask if they were gonna take that. Neither of them looked thrilled, or convinced, but the seed had been planted.

"Nah," Reggie spoke up, lip curling in a false smirk. "We're professionals. Don't partake, on a case." A challenge at Dean, and by extension at Sam. Torrid suppressed a snicker, eyes glinting with mischief as they bounced back and forth between the belligerent bodies. Best case scenario, they all fight and Sam and Dean whoop their asses into wheel chairs. Worst case, they all split up, and Torrid gets to bring in a moose. Today's gonna be a good day.

Reggie stood up quickly, his chair scraping across the floor loud enough to interrupt everyone else's conversations. Tim stood with him, if a little more slowly. He'd been in a fight with one Winchester, and it didn't turn out well. He wasn't really relying on old Robert to bail them outta this one. "What?" Reggie barked back at Dean, meeting his challenge. Ironically, it was the little golden glow of liquid courage in his blood giving him the oomph to fight over how unprofessional it was to drink on a case. "We didn't ask that basket case to call you two in! We had this without the guys who started the apocalypse!"

The bar seemed to exchange a confused look with itself at the crazy talk spewing from him.

But the chaos had begun. Robert was yelling for Reggie to sit his ass down, Tim was looking like the world's flakiest backup, and Torrid looked like he might burst into song and dance at any moment.

Reggie had his own share of pent-up emotions, and boy was this asshole at the top of his list for them. If it wasn't for Dean-fucking-Winchester, his buddies might still be alive. He might not know every detail of the story, but that's perfectly fine. All he knows is that he's finally got his chance to get a little retribution for all his suffering. He got up in Dean's face, chests bumping and effectively getting Robert (who is the human personification of Switzerland), out from between them. "Oh, good for you! You want brownie points for wiping your ass, too?!" He bellowed, then shoved Dean back with both hands towards a table.

Torrid glanced to all sets of eyes, did his absolute best to make sure everyone was watching the distraction, and then turned invisible in a blink of an eye. He punched one random civilian across the face, who blamed the person immediately next to them, and a fight broke out there. He grabbed a woman's breast and ducked just as she threw a drink in some man's face, and another rushed to her rescue fists first. Bottles were knocked over and shattered, people were yelling, a few women screaming. Torrid had to stop and concentrate on staying invisible, dodging the flinging fists and snapping pool cues in his attempts.

Robert was trying to keep Sam back, which was hilarious considering the staggering height difference. Torrid found himself a cozy corner of the bar, undisturbed by the havoc he had wrought, and sipped his rum with a little smirk.