Rowan approached the only remaining table in the bar on Sixth Street. An eager bouncy blonde waitress arrived to the table at the exact moment Rowan's hand touched the chair. The waitress, Gemma, as her perfectly placed name badge suggested was irate because this woman was about to take her last table even though she was obviously alone.
" you sure you wouldn't want to just sit up at the bar?" Gemma practically begged the question in hopes to save the table and any promise of future tips. She was rudely ignored by the screeching of the chair legs being slowly dragged across the concrete floors.
"Here is just fine." Rowan snagged a drink menu simultaneously whilst the hostess walked by them holding a handful. She studied the menu briefly and a wry smile pursed her lips as she read the name of the house red, "I'll have a glass of "Devil's Staircase" please." With the flick of her hand, she waved off the irritated, less perky, Gemma, who waited a full five minutes before delivering the wine.
Rowan continued to study the room. The bar was safely tucked away between two little shops that must close around sundown to avoid the noisy outpouring of midnight drunkards that shout in the streets while littering the nearby alley with piss and the scent of sex. The bar lived up to its name, 666. Although, the theme wasn't exactly consistent throughout. It kind of ended abruptly with the menu items. The clientele was its only truth in advertising.
She was taking in the scenery when she caught his eyes reflected in the mirror behind the bar. He shuffled to the end of the bar, straddled the empty stool and began unbuttoning his coat. He pulled a twenty from the inside pocket and slammed it onto the bar without a word. The bartender walked over to retrieve the money and exchanged it for a glass of whiskey. As she stared at him, she noticed the harsh lines on his face etched deeply, the lowest pits of them invisible shadows. She wondered how many times he and the bartender had performed this little dance to have it perfected now without words. To the world, he was unapproachable, but to Rowan, he was perfect.
Her gaze never quite met his and she was glad since she wanted to simply observe him before making a move. He was devastatingly handsome and heartbroken; qualities she admired in a man. He raised an empty glass and supplied a couple more bills that must've indicated he wanted the whole bottle. The bartender obliged and poured him another. By this point, it was clear that he was already several drinks into a kamikaze mission and his liver was the poor bastard pilot that would be going down in flames tonight.
Dean held the bottle of Jack Daniels to pour it into his empty glass and a tremor betrayed him. He slid a napkin off the stack in front of him and clumsily wiped the drops of Tennessee's finest from the bar. He quickly drank the remainder and motioned the bartender to pour his fifth glass. The dance was over, the bartender slid some bills back across the bar to indicate he was done. With pleading desperation in his eyes, Dean silently begged for one last drink and the bartender once again obliged. Dean stared at his poison as if it could change things, change everything. He couldn't change anything though. He was alone and the only thing that was good had died and he'd just buried the last bit of goodness in him alongside his brother, Sam.
Rowan studied Dean with a growing curiosity. Clearly impressed by his immense tolerance for alcohol. He was only exhibiting signs of being slightly inebriated, not yet drunk. She narrowly escaped being noticed when he stood up to walk across the bar to the jukebox. It was only after his selection, 'brother' began billowing out into the bar that caused her to laugh audibly enough for him to hear her. She felt briefly he might curl those lips into a smile, but she was wrong. It was a peculiar song choice to the outside world, but to Dean, it was a heartfelt anthem for Sam. He returned to his stool. Lifting the glass to his mouth, he drank in the last of his poison. He walked out of the bar before the song even finished playing.
He was approaching a black impala when he heard the footsteps behind him. The alcohol had not slowed his instincts because he whipped around to stand face to face with the woman from the bar, Rowan. His intensity and almost instant sobriety caught her by surprise.
"I'm sorry, but I just couldn't let you drive home like this." Her hand attempted to signify his intoxication, however, minimal it appeared in that exact moment.
"Like what, exactly?" His cockiness was as appealing as his former silence, "drunk, devilishly handsome?"
"Alone. I was going to say alone." Rowan held her chin up when she spoke. She attempted the same confidence, but it didn't quite live up to her expectations.
"Fine," he seemed ready to resolve himself to his fate of a somewhat drunken one night stand, "get in".