[ It's the worst part of this all - all this sitting around on his ass with nowhere to go. Nowhere to drive; escapism is Dean's finest art and one he was taught to achieve at an early age without even the solidity of meaning behind it. But it's all Dean knows - how to go, how to run, and there's none of that here except within the bottom of a bottle of booze. The God's have forced him here and he hates it, can't stand the walls closing in on him and the terror on the edge of his seat is enough to propel him into stupid acts just because he has nowhere to hide. ]

But they've got such good ones. [ It's bitter sarcasm and down with it goes another shot, this time Dean foregoing the chaser just so he taste the acrid twist of it across the back of his throat, the burn that chokes. ]

Keep telling myself it could get worse and then, hell- [ but he doesn't truly mean the gods. Not really. Not when it's himself he's starting to hate more than everything else. ] Lookit that, it just keeps getting worse.