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Summary
None of this would have happened before Chuck died. Dean would have gotten distracted by the girls, or the bartender, or a vampire would have come in and started fucking drinking everyone in sight or—or even just, Dean would have been angry, angry about something else, and he would have sat and stewed and not looked anywhere but right in front. That’s what would have happened before.
And there’s a sense, as Dean thinks about it in the next few days, letting his thoughts burrow from shadow to shadow, that all of that has happened before, too. That when he remembers coming up to these older guys, loose with fake drunkenness, when he let his body drape over theirs, over the pool table, ass up, trying to slip their money out of their pockets in one way or another-- there’s a sense that maybe all that was there, but he was too focused on the goal to see it. The money. Sammy’s new shoes. Gas for the next week. Beer for today, tomorrow. And he was too afraid of his Dad, and what his Dad would say, to entertain any ideas but the ones sanctioned. Maybe that’s why Chuck let him keep doing it. Because he never got too close.