[ Dean Winchester, oblivious as the stars blinking in the sky, is buying gas at a shitty little outpost in bumfuck nowhere, doling out what little cash he has to put as much gas as possible into the tank of the black impala that sits out front when he's approached by some fuck full-naming him.
Truth be told, Dean's done some fairly unsavory things in his life and there's a reason he's out here alone with only a wad of cash and no one else within sight. A troubled past, questionable decisions, a daddy who's sitting pretty in prison and a brother he hasn't spoken to in years Dean is...
Well. On the outs, that's the best way to put it. He's gotta make a living somehow, and sometimes that means hustling idiots at dive bars, running scams, doing a bank job or two and then hitting the road, driving as long as he can before the car runs outta fuel.
Sometimes it means vigilante work in whatever town he's near; putting someone else besides him behind bars, hiding an abusive bastards body, you know. Shit like that.
There's an arsenal in his trunk fit for a guerilla veteran, stowed under the hidden bottom of his trunk and when he's approached in the gas station by a stranger his blood runs cold and he wishes he'd grabbed more than just the pearl handed colt that's tucked into the waistband of his jeans. ]
No thanks, [ He says, tossing the money down on the counter and giving the man behind it a tip of his Red Sox baseball cap. ] Find someone else.
[ For whatever you need, for whatever reason. Dean is not interested in your bullshit. Not today, Satan. ]
no subject
Truth be told, Dean's done some fairly unsavory things in his life and there's a reason he's out here alone with only a wad of cash and no one else within sight. A troubled past, questionable decisions, a daddy who's sitting pretty in prison and a brother he hasn't spoken to in years Dean is...
Well. On the outs, that's the best way to put it. He's gotta make a living somehow, and sometimes that means hustling idiots at dive bars, running scams, doing a bank job or two and then hitting the road, driving as long as he can before the car runs outta fuel.
Sometimes it means vigilante work in whatever town he's near; putting someone else besides him behind bars, hiding an abusive bastards body, you know. Shit like that.
There's an arsenal in his trunk fit for a guerilla veteran, stowed under the hidden bottom of his trunk and when he's approached in the gas station by a stranger his blood runs cold and he wishes he'd grabbed more than just the pearl handed colt that's tucked into the waistband of his jeans. ]
No thanks, [ He says, tossing the money down on the counter and giving the man behind it a tip of his Red Sox baseball cap. ] Find someone else.
[ For whatever you need, for whatever reason. Dean is not interested in your bullshit. Not today, Satan. ]