better man/worse than nicotine » arthur ketch

two: go to hell.

A/N: peep my favorite Ketch video edit up there. Check it out!!

you're the only one/who could lock this wild heart up in chains

I hate to say that I am shocked to wake up the next morning, completely unscathed. Something about a British Men of Letters – the bad guys – sleeping in the same building as me wasn't enough to scare intoxicated me into staying awake all night, but it's enough for now-sober me to be confused that he didn't try anything. At all.

The only proof I have now that last night wasn't a total dream is the headache threatening to rip my skull in two. Obviously from the four beers and glass(es?) of whiskey Ketch and I shared while he tried and failed at giving me the signature sales pitch that Sam and Dean had already told me about – though the one they told me included more colorful language, added in mostly by Dean.

Then I remember. Sales pitch. Ketch knows I'm a Winchester.

Sometimes I forget how much of a dumbass I am when I'm drunk.

But it's also his fault for barging in uninvited.

I groan internally. Let's hope he was telling the whole truth last night. Last thing I need is him ratting me out because not only will I have the British Men of Letters on my ass, I'll also have to deal with the wrath of my brothers.

When Amara brought me back, Sam and Dean and I made a deal. A pact. That no matter what, I stay dead, metaphorically. We all consciously know that when I was alive before, I was the main target because of, well, simply who I am. So when Amara brought me back, we all knew what we had to do. Keep me hidden.

And it hasn't been hard to do that. I can't hunt, so I'm almost automatically off the radar. But I don't think they were counting on a British guy to waltz into the bunker one night while they're hunting, or for me to spill secrets to him, or for me to share a drink with him, or for me to let him stay the night—

I groan again, grabbing one of my spare pillows and covering my face. I sigh heavily, the cold pillowcase soothing my pounding skull. After a moment, I move to hug the pillow to my chest, my mind wandering back to him. Maybe he'll keep a secret. Maybe he won't.

There isn't much I can do about it at this point.

I fumble around on my nightstand for my phone, squinting at the brightness in the dark of my room when it lights up with a missed text message.

>Sasquatch: Headed home. Should be in around eight.

As if on cue, I can hear someone in the kitchen rattling pots and pans. Most likely Dean making some heart-attack of a breakfast.

I sit up against my pillows, throwing the covers off my legs before attempting to stand. And, as usual, the twinge of pain in my right knee is rearing its ugly head this morning.

I lean over to my nightstand, pulling the drawer out. I fish through the many folded papers and pens, finding nothing even resembling my knee brace. Great.

I manage to get on my feet, holding onto the walls as I head down the hallway toward the kitchen. I glance at the doors as I go, trying not to seem suspicious, but I am beginning to wonder if Ketch is already gone.

If he knows what's good for him, he probably left before the sun rose. But I don't know him well enough to know if he's that smart.

When I stumble into the kitchen, I throw myself down in my spot on the bench at the table. I immediately recognize the breakfast as pancakes and bacon. My favorite.