and she said oh oh oh [i'm a disaster]
Drunk!Dean for theysayimdoomed (So any OOCness is all me, yo.)
"Carm's gonna kill me," the guy down the bar mumbles. The he snorts at the notion. The bartender quirks an eyebrow in question and the guy looks up with this shit eating grin on his face. "She won't fuck a corpse."
He'd got a gash across his forehead that's so straight it's obvious it's been opened more than once and something like a black eye rimmed in dried blood that he's too drunk, lazy or tired to wipe off.
Voice recognition (and half beat up face recognition) isn't exactly his strong suit when he's drunk enough to tell a table to fuck off after he'd walked into it, so Miles doesn't connect the voice to the face until he actually puts some effort into it, narrowing his eyes and squinting, albeit a little unfocused.
"Dean?"
The guy turns his head and peers at Miles over the neck of his beer. It may or may not be his seventh, but it's not like Miles was checking him out enough to notice.
"Lawson!"
So okay, it's Dean, looking a little worse for wear. Or as Miles likes to put it, "You look like you got your fucking ass handed to you."
"On a silver platter," Dean quips, slipping (or falling, really it's up for debate) off of the stool and ambling (or stumbling, again it's up for debate) over to Miles. He sits down and slams his left hand down on the bar, something silver glinting against the wood.
"...Fuck man you got married?" He can't help it, he's laughing. At Dean.
Dean shrugs and takes another long swig of his beer before signaling the barkeep for another for him and one for Miles. "About four hours ago."
"Carm's gonna kill me," the guy down the bar mumbles. The he snorts at the notion. The bartender quirks an eyebrow in question and the guy looks up with this shit eating grin on his face. "She won't fuck a corpse."
He'd got a gash across his forehead that's so straight it's obvious it's been opened more than once and something like a black eye rimmed in dried blood that he's too drunk, lazy or tired to wipe off.
Voice recognition (and half beat up face recognition) isn't exactly his strong suit when he's drunk enough to tell a table to fuck off after he'd walked into it, so Miles doesn't connect the voice to the face until he actually puts some effort into it, narrowing his eyes and squinting, albeit a little unfocused.
"Dean?"
The guy turns his head and peers at Miles over the neck of his beer. It may or may not be his seventh, but it's not like Miles was checking him out enough to notice.
"Lawson!"
So okay, it's Dean, looking a little worse for wear. Or as Miles likes to put it, "You look like you got your fucking ass handed to you."
"On a silver platter," Dean quips, slipping (or falling, really it's up for debate) off of the stool and ambling (or stumbling, again it's up for debate) over to Miles. He sits down and slams his left hand down on the bar, something silver glinting against the wood.
"...Fuck man you got married?" He can't help it, he's laughing. At Dean.
Dean shrugs and takes another long swig of his beer before signaling the barkeep for another for him and one for Miles. "About four hours ago."