The morning was served sunny-side up with a side of transparent clouds and a sky that mocked Dean with its inevitable giveaway. You're boring Dean, they sang. You're alone in a full house and you're just so boring.
He was careful when pushing himself out of bed to avoid waking Lisa, the girl he found himself sleeping by every night, but never with. He wasn't sure if he loved her still, or if the last time he said those forbidden words meaningfully accounted for the times he said it thereafter, when its luster dulled.
The coffee mug with World's Greatest Step-Dad and the coffee it held were old and bland. He drained the black liquid into the sink and checked the dishwasher. It was full with clean dishes, so he set the mug on the counter and went outside to get the newspaper.
And so a day in the life of Dean Winchester begins.
The bus rocked along the bumpy, old, patched road. It was the bus that took you to where you wanted, to where you hated, to where you knew, where you didn't. More often than not the bus was used for runaways but Dean was not running away. His truck broke down. He was late for work. His coffee was bland.
The passengers increased with the sunlight and by seven-thirty the bus was packed. But the bus driver kept stopping for passengers and Dean could feel the temperature rising with the body count. The vehicle came to a halt and entered one more passenger – the one that made Dean look twice. Made him see. The man walked slowly, making intense eye contact with everyone he passed, leaving them stiff and either awestruck or perplexed. He considered Dean before taking the seat next to him.
The man turned, his well-worn trench coat brushing against Dean's bare arm, and in a voice much deeper and raspier than assumed, "Hello, Dean."
Mastering the art of utter acceptance of your life is difficult. You sign the contract saying yeah, okay, I'll be content and then you get slapped in the face with clauses and subclauses and subtext, the worst kind, because those are implied and implications should not be legal.
But being content he was, and the little clauses he did not mind, and the only issue he had was the buzzing of the alarm clock. He knew how to reset it, for it to go off at five in the morning, but he did not know how to change it to seven in the morning, or to turn it off completely. So he did as he always did. He reset the alarm clock.
His usual routine consisted of – if he even slept – waking up at four-thirty, sometimes four, in the morning and waiting for the buzzing. It was loud and akin to the wings of a horsefly. These he thought of constantly – the little clauses and subclauses and subtext. The horsefly flew away with the touch of a button and he began his day.
There was a time when he did not need a contract to be content with his life. This was a story in a book he misplaced after something happened. What happened, his recollection gone, long forgotten within the pages of the mislaid book, along with other things, like alarm clock manuals.
The world did not truly wake up until around six-thirty, seven, which so rationally explained his want for the horsefly to arrive at seven, not five. He would never sleep in so late but he yearned for the horsefly to arrive at seven. One day, not today. Not tomorrow. Perhaps next week.
He fetched a bowl out of his cupboard, setting it on the table and watching it intently for twenty minutes. He had hunger but not want. Eventually he would have to eat, one day, but not today. He put the bowl back in the cupboard, like he did everyday, thinking about subtext and horseflies. He shrugged into his dirty trench coat and left the house unlocked, the lights off.
He waited at the bus stop. He didn't frequent the bus, as it wasn't his favorite form of public transportation, but who even favors it? The screech of the brakes, the slight rush of air as the doors pulled open, and he entered. It was packed uncomfortably, people shoulder-to-shoulder with people they didn't know. He eyed them all, making small nods, until he spotted the man sitting alone.
He was so odd, his green eyes looking up twice, his name tag with the words Dean, his face flush.
He took a seat next to the man, taking in those eyes and those freckles and the smell of coffee. He turned, his arm accidentally brushing against the other's, and greeted, "Hello, Dean."