Chapter Text
Beau was drunk. Then again, it was a Saturday night, so of course Beau was drunk. Almost nothing could be less surprising than that.
He’d gone out with Dean and the guys after their huge 5-1 takedown of Northeastern, and it really wasn’t that hard to get a ton of shots if you were with the hockey team after a win. They’d had tequila at the first bar – or wait, maybe it had been vodka first and then tequila? Beau supposed it didn’t really matter, because either way he’d ended up here: completely wasted on a street corner and absolutely unable to find Dean.
His best friend had been distracted all night. He wasn’t his usual self, cracking far fewer jokes than Beau had come to expect from him. Beau had known Dean for a long time, but he’d never seen the guy so… quiet? If he didn’t know better, he’d say his friend was almost sad.
Beau had been chatting with a couple of puck bunnies the last time he saw Dean. Well, okay, if chatting included one of them sticking her tongue in his ear while the other one had her hand… actually, that didn’t matter either. What mattered is that he was a terrible friend and while he’d been getting carried away with those chicks, Dean had sulked off to god knows where. And when he went to check in with Dean and let him know he was heading out with the girls, Dean was nowhere to be found.
So, okay. Okay. This was fine. This had happened before, and everything had been fine.
Except, it kind of hadn’t. Beau and Dean were attached at the hip – they rarely went anywhere without the other, especially on a night out. They’d follow each other into bars, into bathrooms, and on more than one occasion, into the same girl’s bed.
He’d tried calling, which hadn’t worked. Fucking asshole had either lost his phone or it was already dead. He’d asked the bouncer, who said he hadn’t seen Dean leave (but also that he’d only been working for the last 20 or so minutes, and he couldn’t attest to anything that had happened before he got there). All that was left was to comb back through the party to find someone who knew where Dean was, or more ideally, to locate the blonde himself. Perfect.
Beau tried to sober himself, taking a deep breath and focusing on the task at hand. He was good in a crisis, and somehow, he’d allowed this evening to become one.
“Hey, have you seen–” “Sorry, I’m looking for–” “My friend, did you happen to–”
No one had seen him. Beau had shouldered his way down the bar top, elbowed past a crowd towards the dance floor, and scanned as far as he could see for his friend. Also, not that it mattered, but the Rangers had allowed two goals in the time he’d been back inside the bar. Fucking Shesterkin… he’d probably have an easier time tracking down Dean if he wasn’t weaving through a crowd of Bruins fans celebrating wildly every time the puck hit the back of the Rangers’ net.
Finally, Beau had made it to the back of the bar, following where the waitress had pointed when he’d asked where the bathroom was. There was a couple making out against the wall, but he quickly ducked past them and into the men’s room.
He felt relieved as soon as he opened the door – he’d know the back of Dean’s head anywhere. But relief quickly turned to concern (definitely not panic, because Beau was good in a crisis and panicking wouldn’t help anyone) as he realized that his friend was even more wasted than he was. He squatted down next to the crumpled form of his best friend.
“Dean, my man, I’m glad I found you”
“Beauuuuu! You w‘re lookin f'r me?” Dean pronounced maybe half of the syllables in that sentence, but Beau was well practiced at deciphering his friends drunk banter.
“Of course, brother, I was looking everywhere for you.”
“Wish ‘ly w's lookin f'r me.” Dean sounded… wistful, maybe? That was a word Joanna had used before, and it seemed right for the painfully longing tone in his friends’ voice. Beau had never seen his best friend like this before. Honestly, it was kind of freaking him out.
“Wish who was looking for you, bud?”
“Not s’pposed to tell ‘nyone,” he slurred
“Hey, man, you know you can tell me anything, right? I’m your best friend.”
“Nooo, Beauuuu, ‘s a s’cret shhhhh” Dean lifted his finger up to his lips. “Not tellin'. Would be sooooo mad a’ me.”
“Okay, bud, that’s okay. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Would you be able to tell me why you’re on the floor of the bar bathroom, maybe?”
“Oh, um. I am?”
“Yeah bud, and I love you, but this is pretty gross.”
“Huh. I don’ remember–” Dean was cut off by the evening’s tequila shots making their way back up and splashing into the urinal next to him. “Ohhhh. Tha’s why.”
“Alright, bud, that’s okay. I think we’re gonna get you out of here, though, if you’re okay with that?”
Beau shifted his weight to support Dean’s limp body. Beau felt completely sober now, focused only on making sure Dean made it home (and secondarily, making sure his friend was okay. Beau didn’t know what was going on, or what secret Dean was talking about, but something wasn’t quite right.)
He hoisted Dean up and slowly began making his way out of the bathroom and back through the bar. He clutched Dean tight to him as everyone in the bar cheered loudly for whatever was happening on the TVs (fucking Shesterkin again. Why was his home team working against him? Couldn’t the Rangers do him this one solid?). As the game cut to a commercial, the music playing over the bar’s speakers turned up. Dean let out an excited gasp.
“Beau! Beau, Beau, Beau… she looooves this song!”
“Who does, buddy?” Beau’s question went unacknowledged as Dean started nodding to the beat.
“Loves it, loves this one. Beau, I wanna tell her. We gotta call her, can you call ‘er? Wan’ her to know.”
“Want who to know what, brother?”
“Jus’ wan’ her to know I think about ‘er. Ev’ry song makes me think of her.”
Jesus Christ, who was this hopelessly romantic motherfucker and what had he done to Beau’s best friend?
“Beauuuu, call ‘er! Call her call ‘er call ‘er!”
God help me, Beau thought. “Call who, Dean?”
“My phone’s dead, you gotta, Beau, can you call ‘er? Call Allie?” Later, once he’d had time to process everything, he’d yell at Dean for letting his phone die while they were out. But for now, he had bigger questions.
“Allie? Dean, Allie who?”
“Allie! Allie-Cat! Beau, come on, can’t you jus’ call ‘er for me?”
“Are you talking about Wellsy’s friend? Allie Hayes?”
“Alllllie Hayes. Allie-Cat Hayes. Dean Hayes. Mr. Dean Hayesssssward-Di Laurentis. Mr. and Mrs. Hayes– Hayes… hey! Wait, how’d you know I was sleepin’ with Allie? S’pposed to be a secret!”
“Good lord,” Beau muttered under his breath. “I didn’t know, buddy. You just told me.”
“Oh.” Dean pouted, sounding defeated. “Um, can you, like… c’n you maybe not tell 'er I told you? I’ve fucked up enough, she’s already gonna be mad.”
“Fucked up? Dean, what are you talking about?” They’d made it out of the bar by now, by some miracle.
“Was s’pposed to be caaaasual. Cashhhh-u-al” Dean was sounding out the word like it was a foreign concept. “Beau, I don’t think I feel casual ‘bout Allie-Cat. Mm-mm, nope. No sirree. But I told her, ‘whatever you say, Allie-Cat,’ I said. I said we’re caaaasual. So, you know, I fucked that up. But Beau, you gotta keep it a s’cret. Issa s’cret, kay?”
“Okay, bud. It’s a secret, I got you. I’m just gonna help get you home, okay? I’m gonna help you get home and then we can call her once your phone is charged if you still want to, okay?”
“Can’t you call ‘er now, Beau? Jus’ wanna hear her voice.”
It did not escape Beau’s notice that Dean wanted to hear her voice, but had not said anything about wanting to fuck her, or missing her body, or any of the things he’d have expected his horny best friend to say. If Beau didn't know better, he'd say Dean sounded... in love? But that was crazy. That was crazy, right? This was Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis he was talking about.
“No, buddy, we can’t call her right now. I don’t have her number and since you told me it’s a huge secret, I can’t just ask Garrett for it. So we’re gonna call her in a little bit, okay?” The ‘once you’ve sobered up’ part of the sentence went unsaid, but Beau had created a game plan. He pushed Dean into the back of the uber he’d ordered from the bathroom, and ran around to hop in on the other side. The driver confirmed Beau’s address – it seemed better to take Dean back to the football house, rather than hoping his loose-lipped best friend could keep this apparently major secret from his own housemates.
Beau ushered Dean – who was by now more sleepy than anything else – into his own bedroom, and forced two tylenol and a gigantic glass of water into his best friends uncoordinated hands. While Dean studied the pills and sipped the water, Beau plugged Dean’s phone into the wall. He pulled his friends shoes off and helped him get horizontal, moving the desk trashcan closer to the bed, just in case.
“Listen, bud, I think you should wait and call your girl in the morning, okay? It’s pretty late and she might already be asleep.” He also didn’t want Dean to regret anything he said to her tonight, but he left that part out.
“Mmm, my girl. Wish she w's m' girl.”
“Okay, bud. I know. I’m gonna go crash in Jeff’s room, ‘cause he’s at Lacy’s this weekend, okay? But you yell if you need anything. I got you, brother.”
“‘Kay,” Dean was practically already snoring. “Love ya, Beau.”
“I love you too, man. Get some sleep.” He quietly shut the door behind him.
Holy shit, Beau thought as he flopped onto Jeff’s empty bed.
Dean was in love with Allie Hayes.
Dean Di Laurentis was in love.
Holy shit.