entrancelogs | I'll tell you a story of whiskey and mystics and men.

Who: Philip, Dean Winchester, and all the Wonderland residents ever
Where: Fifth floor, Room five
When: RIGHT. NOW.
Rating: PG for suggestive themes and the consumption of alcoholic beverages in the presence of minors.
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures. "Desperate measures" meaning ...
The Story:

It is an auspicious night. Your transmitter crackles excitedly, bearing good tidings in the form of Dean Winchester standing proudly in front of a door, Philip LaFresque at his side, expression rather put-upon. Your resident hunter beams.

"Evenin', ladies and gents!"

"Do we have t--"

"Shaddup, Phil. Come one, come al-"

"We've constructed a bar in room five on the fifth floor," Philip interrupts, stepping forward to save the day. "We all know that getting alcohol has never exactly been a problem here, but you also know that everything tastes better when you--"

"Apple-bobbing! Pie-eating contests! Classic rock! Wet t-shirt competition!"

”There is no wet t-shirt competition!”

The feed cuts short in a haze of white noise, but the offer still stands.

[[ ooc note; Both Dean and Philip will be available for separate threads, so you can interact with your friendly ~~and charming~~ bartenders. Please feel free to use the free space below to interact with anyone else in Wonderland's new ~~roadhouse~~ ~~pub~~ ~~gin joint~~ ~~speakeasy~~ whatever! :D You are not obligated to talk to either of the classy fellows behind the counter. ]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Beiste squints, trying to follow him. It's...a little harder than usual, with alcohol in his system.

"Are you tellin' me you were possessed?"

"No!"

Well.

"Not exactly."

Well.

"...Actually, that probably sums it up."

Philip sits with his fingers tightly entwined, wishing he had a large mug of beer to hold for support. But the table alone will have to do.

And at least he's sitting down.

"I don't... want to bother you with the details, but--"

He straightens up.

"It's a virus. It's a... a kind of virus, nobody I've met has ever heard of, not even in my world. Well, except for the ones who discovered it, obviously."

Philip clears his throat.

"I was infected just before I came here and, erm... it turns out the- the virus can think. For himself. And, er, and talk. To me, anyway."

A quick breath. This is getting off the tracks and beginning to sound even more ridiculous than it truly is.

"It's a sentient virus. A separate personality from mine."

That should sum it up, right?

"And there have... there have been a few- erm, a few occasions when... when he took over."

Beiste gapes quietly for a moment.

"And he took that opportunity to hit on me?"

She doesn't quite know what to do with that information.

"Huh." Another awkward pause. She bites her lip, runs her tongue over it. "And here I thought you got dared to make a pass at the ugly old chick."

"He took that opportunity to--"

Philip thinks that there should be a heavy contradiction in his answer and soon, but while he can't make a guess at Beiste's age he does have a very clear opinion on her physical appeal and it's not one he trusts himself to conceal or sugarcoat well.

"He likes to make people miserable. Me and just about anyone else I talk to."

'Oh, so I'm your convenient excuse again, huh? Shame on you, monkey. Shame. On you.'

"Look, I'm-- you shouldn't have had to put up with that, I'm- I'm really sorry."

She shrugs. "It's alright. Not like it's news. Kinda feel better knowin' you aren't just a butter knife on a ledge, so, uh, it all works out."

She takes a drink and sighs.

"You know, if he was being serious-- and for a second there I thought he might be --I can't tell if I should be flattered or insulted." She squints. "I mean, he's a virus and all. Maybe his opinion is okay, or maybe it's...really really not."

Philip has been wondering about that himself. At times Clarence seems almost sickeningly sincere and obnoxiously persistent about his attraction, but the longer he plays the game the more Philip is convinced that it's an act to make him uncomfortable.

"You should be..."

And with the way things are going with Evie right now? It wouldn't surprise him, even if it's more dedication than Clarence usually gives a single pun.

"You should be glad you're alive."

Philip frowns, but the moment the words leave his lips he knows that he's made the right point, the one that needs making. To even consider the validity of Clarence's advances? It's sickening.

"He's not human, he's not-- He played a bloody prank on you, but that's... that is not what he usually does."

She flicks her eyes back to him, her attention suddenly rapt. "Seriously? What would he get out of hurting me?"

After all, other than average human guilt...why would Phillip care what happened to her?

Nope, average human guilt is pretty much it. Soothing his conscience by telling himself that he warned her. Not being the one with memories of her slaughter.

Philip answers with a mirthless laugh.

"He's the one in my head. Not vice versa."

She looks away. If he cared much about her, he would've said it was that, right? That the virus would prey on his pain at having hurt her...

But he doesn't care, or at least not enough for him to think of things that way.

One would think that this sort of pain would get easier with time. It doesn't.

"Alright." She turns back eyes level and as dry as she can get them. "You have any idea what signs I should look for to know he's in charge and you're not?"

Something about her look Philip can't quite place. Unease about the virus? The danger? It didn't seem like that before, but who knows?

Philip doesn't. Definitely not that everything Shannon Beiste assumes about him is true. That, granted, he would care no less than somebody should care about the safety of another human being. But that, in her case, he wouldn't care an inch more. That the football coach falls right through the cracks where Philip's main concern is with other people.

"I'm afraid not. He can--"

Philip struggles. It's more credit than he wants to give Clarence.

"He can imitate me almost perfectly if he tries. And if he doesn't then you'll know."

The way he walks. The way he talks. The American accent that sounds so jarring, coming out of his mouth. All that and more, red flags he finds impossible to miss.

Philip looks at Beiste.

"But he won't get another chance."

'Sounding pretty confident there, Philip. Don't tell me you wanna make a bet of it...'

Far more confident than he is, but he won't allow himself to look like a loose cannon.

"Right. Well. I'll still keep an eye out." She clears her throat, feeling awkward and vulnerable. "For your sake."

"Right."

Can't fault her for that. Philip thanks her with a smile.

"Um."

Speaking of which.

"For my sake, could you-- Could you, uh... keep this to yourself? I tell--"

Whoever he has to, if keeping the secret makes things worse than giving it away.

"I tell whoever I can, but... but it's not exactly something I'd want on my business card."

He gives her a look. You understand, right?

[She nods sharply.]

You got nothin' to worry about. So long as you aren't a danger to others, I ain't got a reason to bring it up, frankly.

"Thanks."

Philip's nod is grateful, as is his smile. The latter may be a bit strained by his knowledge that danger to others is a relative term given his circumstances, but where his conscience nags he finds that a quick, 'He's the danger, not me' gets it to shut up soon enough.

"Thank you, um..."

He stands up and nods towards the bar.

"Care for another drink? It's on the house."

She snorts and nods. "Guess I can't pass that deal up."

I'll tell you a story of whiskey and mystics and men.

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