The Winchester is a peculiar species whose characteristics seem to change with the seasons - a sociable creature in the spring and summer months, but a dangerous predator in the darkness of winter. There is, however, one constant trait about them: their natural habitat is a bar. A Winchester can be found rather consistently in a nest he will have claimed as his own, returning to it on a near-nightly basis to perform a strict set of rituals.
Unlike most semi-solitary animals, Dean isn't territorial of this nest. Quite the opposite, in fact, he seems to derive joy the more populated it becomes. He also develops a certain rapport with other frequently returning visitors.
End narration.
Thanks to the simulation Bellamy was a familiar face even before he started swinging by, but now they've got an easy understanding and a pretty regular rhythm. He comes in, Bellamy gets him a double without even asking anymore. Dean nurses it on a good day and switches to beer, or shoots it on a bad one and plunks the glass down for round two. He usually spends a couple hours here shooting the shit before he packs it in, whether it be playing pool with anyone who doesn't know better yet or just occupying a little space with other solitary-social drinkers to make small talk.
Tonight it's the latter. It's a Friday, and the place is absolutely slammed. That's not unusual in the slightest, nor is it unusual that a few people are getting maybe a little too carried away. It's not typically a problem, particularly for the displaced who have a pretty level respect and understanding for the owner and the staff.
Locals are another thing altogether. There are two of them tonight; a sturdy man with hair down to his shoulders and a wasted-looking woman in his lap, lulling to either side. One of the guys at their table makes the crucial mistake of pointing out maybe the girl's had enough, and in the way angry drunks are wont to do it escalates from zero to sixty in no time.
The girl hits the floor, because apparently her man cares more about fighting over her sobriety than her physical well-being. It isn't all that noticable at first over the din of noise, the what did you just say to me, the following hey man, calm down--, and then don't you fucking tell me to calm down--
It's when he grabs the table and flips it over that the patrons around them get quiet to observe the sudden scene. A quick glance around the room doesn't show the guys who work security right off - probably handling something in the back, or caught behind the wall of people forming. They'll surely get there, but it'll take a few minutes. ]
ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ → ʙᴇʟʟ,ᴍʀ ᴅʀ | ᴛʜᴇ ᴏ̨ᴜɪᴄᴋᴇʀ sᴏʙᴇʀᴜᴘᴘᴇʀ
The Winchester is a peculiar species whose characteristics seem to change with the seasons - a sociable creature in the spring and summer months, but a dangerous predator in the darkness of winter. There is, however, one constant trait about them: their natural habitat is a bar. A Winchester can be found rather consistently in a nest he will have claimed as his own, returning to it on a near-nightly basis to perform a strict set of rituals.
Unlike most semi-solitary animals, Dean isn't territorial of this nest. Quite the opposite, in fact, he seems to derive joy the more populated it becomes. He also develops a certain rapport with other frequently returning visitors.
End narration.
Thanks to the simulation Bellamy was a familiar face even before he started swinging by, but now they've got an easy understanding and a pretty regular rhythm. He comes in, Bellamy gets him a double without even asking anymore. Dean nurses it on a good day and switches to beer, or shoots it on a bad one and plunks the glass down for round two. He usually spends a couple hours here shooting the shit before he packs it in, whether it be playing pool with anyone who doesn't know better yet or just occupying a little space with other solitary-social drinkers to make small talk.
Tonight it's the latter. It's a Friday, and the place is absolutely slammed. That's not unusual in the slightest, nor is it unusual that a few people are getting maybe a little too carried away. It's not typically a problem, particularly for the displaced who have a pretty level respect and understanding for the owner and the staff.
Locals are another thing altogether. There are two of them tonight; a sturdy man with hair down to his shoulders and a wasted-looking woman in his lap, lulling to either side. One of the guys at their table makes the crucial mistake of pointing out maybe the girl's had enough, and in the way angry drunks are wont to do it escalates from zero to sixty in no time.
The girl hits the floor, because apparently her man cares more about fighting over her sobriety than her physical well-being. It isn't all that noticable at first over the din of noise, the what did you just say to me, the following hey man, calm down--, and then don't you fucking tell me to calm down--
It's when he grabs the table and flips it over that the patrons around them get quiet to observe the sudden scene. A quick glance around the room doesn't show the guys who work security right off - probably handling something in the back, or caught behind the wall of people forming. They'll surely get there, but it'll take a few minutes. ]