Chapter Text
📍FA Club Parking Lot, Miami FA - 2002 ⏱︎ 1AM
55…57…..75…? He can’t even read the package anymore. Numbers turned to letters turn to hieroglyphics as his eyes leaped lazily from label to label. This is the last time Dean gets cross-faded this badly. Some unknown amount of edibles down, a bite of a brownie maybe, a hotbox in a stranger’s rental— he’s got a beer next to him….maybe several. He’s not sure. But never again, whatever it was.
His baby’s gone to college.
It’s not that he’s using his brother’s departure as a reason to indulge, but damn it if he didn’t. He did everything he could for Sammy and still the not-so-little guy decided to leave without a goodbye. Another person he now prays to see in a parking lot’s red-eyed delusion.
Is he in his own car this time? Yeah, he is. His Impala sits crooked in the club’s parking lot as the bright lights from inside creep through the window, blinding his blown out pupils.
He grabs the beer next to him—warm— and finishes it off before climbing ungracefully to the backseat, reeking of substance abuse.
Dean places his hand on the window handle like she’s alive: “I’m sorry baby…please don’t leave me. It’s my last time, promise. You know I promised to keep the leather pretty.” The engine’s off and she’s not responding. In that horrid moment he believes his car has left him too. Amidst the blur, he whimpers out a sob, curling up with himself and that strange trenchcoat he’s kept for the last ….unknown.. years. A filthy thing that rots under the drivers seat next to the extra ammunition and loose rosary beads. He forgot where it came from— at least when intoxicated— but he knows there’s something special about it. It never stops smelling like indulgence.
He’s supposed to be on a hunt on John’s behalf. On a shifter case that’s taking the lives of young men at bars and nightclubs. The trail's been hot all week to no avail at actually finding the damn thing until tonight. He knows he’ll have to crawl out of his misery and do the job in the next hour if he wants to go home without an ass beating.
The radio is on the Russian channel, the sounds of a foreign rock band playing softly from the speakers rumbling the car ever so slightly. It reminds him of something he can’t pinpoint; he’s so immensely tired.
Not just from the drugs, but from the dreams that cross him like a one-way street of recognition. He softly inhales the scent of the trenchcoat like it’ll point his memory in the right direction.
___
📍FA Club Interior - ⏱︎ 2:14AM
No shifter spottings yet, even with the alcohol out of Dean’s system and in a nearby bush instead. His footsteps follow the beat of the music: a repetitive bump bump bump in tune with flashing lights and random mens’ hands unknowingly reaching and grabbing for them to inevitably place the blame on their own alcoholism once morning comes.
“C’mon you sonovabitch…I wanna go to sleep.” Dean mutters. He places his hand on his stomach where his gun stays concealed. Music continues to blast and hands keep wandering without welcome. Dean blinks away the bad thoughts that follow— how touch starved he must be to accept a groping or two without complaint. “Please. Hurry up and give me something. Fuck— dad’s gonna kill me.”
Sweat builds up on Dean’s face as the search goes on, enough for the club to cycle through the night’s playlist a third time. Hands. Hands hands hands hands. He doesn't like it, actually. Where’s the bar? It’s becoming too much. He can take an ass beating tonight.
With heavy eyes he scopes out the exit, a glowing green light with sweet release blocked by a sea of partygoers. It’s the only exit; he could’ve stood watch there, he could’ve avoided this whole thing, he wouldn’t have to be buried in an undulating rush of noise and bright lights. Dean wipes the sweat from his brow. It’s the first time he’s ever abandoned a hunt for the selfish reason of being tired, but he can’t take it anymore. He’s shoved hard by the crowd on the dance floor, toppling over. Thank God for gun safety.
It doesn't make it hurt any less. Shoes clobber his fingertips, somehow hurting more than the unwelcome hands of alcoholics. “Get the hell up, Dean…” he whimpers to himself. “You’re 24… you ain’t a baby…” Trying to get up, another barrage of feet stomp him back down. His head connects with the ground and the music turns into a high pitched ringing. Ow. Ow ow ow. The waterworks greet him, hands over his ears to block out any noise he can. Nobody’s coming to save him. Loud, ugly sobs erupt from and get drowned out by the noise. His voice gives out just as his mind is.
“Please….dad..someone….”
___
📍FA Club Parking Lot - ⏱︎ 6:00AM
Dean jolts awake, thinking he’s fallen from wherever he is. His back aches and his legs dangle off the hood of his impala that he’s sprawled on, still parked in the now empty lot from the day before. He doesn’t recall having anything to prop his head on, but he’s rested gently on something with an ice pack sandwiched on top. The trenchcoat from inside the car is now draped over him…who broke in? He looks up, making eye contact with the flame of a lighter, unable to make out the face of the man who offered his lap as a pillow.
“That coat belongs to me.” The voice croaks with a heavy accent. The man lights his joint and takes a puff.
Dean coughs on the exhale of smoke to his face. There's no way he was dragged from the bar like an idiot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about buddy, but I’m calling bullshit.” It's a pathetic brave face he has on. Dean reaches to the front of his pants for his gun, only to see it beside the smoking man, magazine unloaded.
A cold hand lands on Dean’s forehead, then cheek. “No fever. Good. You were running hot earlier.” The man places a water bottle on Dean’s belly, waiting for him to grab it. “Drink. You had a terrible fall.”
Dean sits up to drink. He sets aside the ice pack and maneuvers himself to sit beside the man, his face still obstructed from the smoke and the dark. Even if he did see the man’s face, he’d forget the next moment from how much he’s aching. “I gotta get back to my dad.”
“—What happened? Your brother?” Said the man. Another wave of smoke.
“How do you know about my brother?” Water dribbles down Dean's chin when his mouth reflexively spills open. He's interrupted before he can get another word out.
“Same way I know of Baywatch.”
The smoke finally clears and the man waits patiently for a reaction. Dean can look at the man who’d gripped him tight and dragged him from the club dance floor. Blue eyes, black hair, tired eyes. Who could he--? Oh god.
It’s him.
Trenchcoat. A fever rises again in Dean's body like clockwork. How stupid did he have to be not to know from the rhythm of his voice? the sitting on the car? The grossly strong funk of something illegal. Dean fumbles over his words trying to remember the boy— well— man’s name, overwhelmed by the influx of conflicting emotions.
“Y-you. Ca..Cas..Castiel?” Dean whimpers. “What the fuck....”
Dean throws his weak arms around Castiel and buries his face into his shoulder, pained and heartwarming cries spilling over into too much. It's hard to tell if it's the gut-wrenching loneliness or genuine relief to have pushed out the motion. Or more likely, the absence of John's judgement. Knowing so, he suddenly reels back in disgust. “Fuc-fuck you! You're a piece of shit! This is all your fault, that my dad thinks I'm an addict.” Castiel doesn’t react to the accusation. Instead he lets Dean whine and writhe in his presence, knowing that if he didn’t, Dean’d be doing it to some other person who didn’t care about him. Smoke calls to Castiel once more, but Dean needs it more.
Castiel places the joint between Dean’s fingers anyway. “You are an alcoholic, Dean. You had it in you long before I met you. Parenthood is hard, yes?”
Dean barely calms himself with a hit. It's stronger than what he can afford. “You have no goddamn idea.” He cries softly. “Why are you back here, Castiel? Shoulda gone somewhere better.” His snarls come out like the pouts like a baby, as if coming back is the worst thing he could be doing.
“I’ve said before, lands of opportunity—“
“This city’s a shithole.”
“I am happy here.”
“You think this bar is 'lands of opportunity?' Big dreams you got.”
“Attractive men come here often. Opportunity is not always money. …I’m glad you finally visited. I hoped you were still around.”
Dean inhales the joint and hands it back to Cas. He still can’t believe he’s here, that this stupid boy who’s haunted and fueled his green dreams manifested at the exact moment he needed it. He holds his hand out for the joint.
The sun is beginning to rise, and Dean’s reality begins to set in: Dad’s going to kill him. “Yeah well…I won’t… be here anymore after today.”
“Why?”
“I’m still on the road with dad.”
“You could leave.”
“No.” Dean stiffens at the notion.
“It’s what you were wanting with me,” Cas hums. He finishes his smoke and tosses the remnants on the floor. “To leave Ana and stay in Miami. Not to return to Russia?” His hands move to grab Dean, manhandling his face so he’d look at him right. His hands are cold, save for his thumb and fingertip.
“I was a stupid kid.” Dean surrenders to Castiel’s treatment. His lips quiver once more, leaning into Castiel’s touch. “Stupid that I let you sit on my car. Stupid for talkin’ to you…”
Cas leans in while Dean speaks.
“…Stupid for not leaving with Sam, stupid for bein’ an addict, s-stupid…for…”
“Do you know any other words than stupid?”
Castiel presses his lips against Dean. The din of Dean’s statements were not pleasant to the ear. Castiel pushes Dean back on the hood to drag out what should’ve been their everyday since the 90s. Dean doesn’t fight it, going limp against the angel. Castiel doesn’t let go until Dean is crying from overwhelm.
“I’ve been in the United States not long and I know more words than you. You are stupid, Dean. But this stupidity is not your fault.” He cradles Dean against him tightly.
“I don’t know what to do…” Dean gulps. He collects himself barely, forcing himself through the conversation.
“Right now you don’t have to know.” Cas digs around in his pocket for another joint. “Tell me about Baywatch. I watched it. I found it entertaining.”
“Y-yeah. I like it.”
“Is that all?”
“It’s goddamn art.” He whines.
“Hm.” Castiel grunts. “I wonder if you ever say that about yourself.”
“The hell would I do that?”
“You must only be able to say it to yourself by accident, when the television shuts off and you’re forced to see your reflection.”
“Only you could think of that shit.”
“It is because you are ‘stupid’?”
Dean looks like he’s going to start crying again. Whether Castiel is aware of it or not, he is a bit rude.
“That’s….that’s all?” Dean suddenly blurts. He gets a kiss and a half-assed therapy session from a guy he hasn’t seen in years? To get cradled like some damn baby just for him to blow smoke in his face?
“Have I missed something?”
“No- yes, goddammit!” Dean forces himself up, pressing his palms against his eyes. A strangled groan gurgles from the back of his throat. He’s trying to rationalize it, to understand how Cas can be so nonchalant and uncompassionate while dawning the touch of the opposite. He’s confused and angry and so deeply miserable all at once. Castiel doesn't even move, or react for the matter.
Then Dean’s phone buzzes— probably dad in a fit of rage. It's to be expected— his father's rage has only gotten worse as he’s grown. “Thank god. I have to go. Stop smoking shit around my damn car.” He shakes off the burning in his eyes.
“Dean—“
“No! I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here and listen to you think back on something you can’t give me. You want your damn coat back? You got it. I’m not dealing with this half-loving bullshit.”
He slides off the hood of his car, waiting for Castiel to leave too. He doesn’t. Castiel merely pockets his unlit joint to watch yet another emotional meltdown. At this point Dean is trembling like the ground is moving beneath him.
“You’re not stable, Dean.”
“I’m not stable, because of you. It all started with you! Now get the hell off my car!”
By now, the sun completed its breaching the sky. A soft glow casts over the faces of what should be lovers, both wearing eyes red with separate reason. The water bottle is littered on the floor and the ice pack has melted into a puddle on the Impala hood. Castiel slides off, careful not to knock off the gun he disarmed earlier.
“I had hoped you weren’t so miserable and dense as you presented in school.”
“Off.”
Castiel hates the look on Dean’s face, and his mouth tugs into something upset. Dean could look up and see that Cas isn’t an unemotive freak, but the sun is high enough to provide reason not to. So he’ll never know.
“….Did you find that creature you were looking for in the club?” Castiel coughs.
“No.”
The silence is deafening.
“I hope you can find peace with yourself, Dean. And with your activities. If you can believe it, I do not want to die in a club from any creature, man, or woman. I want to wake up after long nights of indulgence to good food and an attractive man in my lap uninebriated with sorrow.”
Dean’s phone buzzes again. More insistent this time.
“Yeah well…we can’t all get what we want.”
Dean walks to his gun and removes it from the hood, not sparing a moment to climb into the driver’s seat right after. No goodbyes, no farewell kisses, and no successful hunt. The engine roars awake to peel out of the parking lot.
His fingers idly drum the wheel while thoughts try to work themselves out, zoning out from the buzzing of his dad’s texts:
>Did you get it?
>Send proof.
>Why aren’t you picking up?
>You were supposed to be checked in last night.
Tap tap. Dean snaps out of it, irritated. What does Castiel want now?
“Can you drive me to my home? I am not fit to drive.”
>Dean. Don’t be a shithead. Pick up.
>Dean shakes his head. Fuck it. He takes his phone and tosses it beneath his seat, silenced. He rolls down his window to face Castiel. He takes a deep breath:
“You, um, wanted to wake up to good food?”
Cas nods.
“There’s…um…a breakfast joint, down the street. I kinda wanna go.”
“I thought you were wanting me to leave you alone.”
“Sudden opportunity. It’s what you came here for. Take it. Get in the car, don’t forget your coat.”