A/N: Hello lovelies, I'm back with a new story. It's a really strange headcanon of mine and I'm absolutely persuaded that it happened. It might seem AU-ish, but in the end it'll make sense and it'll definitely coincide with the canon Supernatural universe. Don't forget that it's rated M, therefore it'll be a little more… um, suggestive than my last story. (It's very very different from my last story, I'm sorry.) Also, the first chapter is depressing as fuck, but it gets better, I promise. It also doesn't explain much, so you'll have to wait 'til the next chapter (or the one after that) to understand what in the name of God is going on. Well, enjoy!
November 2nd, 1996
The abandoned glass of whiskey on the counter reflects the first rays of sunshine. That must mean that it's early in the morning. Dean doesn't know how he suddenly ended up in front of this bar, but that didn't stop him from entering.
The fights between Sammy and dad always leave him drained. He endures it for Sammy – he has to be there for him – and as soon as it is over, he crumbles. He needs to get out of the overcrowded motel room, needs to get away from his life for a moment. Ever since Sam blew the tenth candle on the cake (figuratively speaking, of course – Sammy never got to celebrate his birthday with a real cake and candles) he wouldn't stop drilling in Dean's head that he'd leave as soon as possible. Sam's constant babble about college is slowly killing Dean, but that's nothing in comparison to John's reaction, especially when he returns home intoxicated. This time, Sam excitedly chatted about Stanford when John came home from "the research" and yelled at Sammy for being a selfish brat. Sam was never a perfect little soldier like Dean. And so the fight began.
The disputes between them are normal. Dean grew used to it, usually even joins in to protect Sammy from his father's harsh words (or hard fists). But why tonight? The only day of the year that Dean wants to crawl into his bed and cry until there are no tears left.
The young hunter properly inspects the bar for the first time since he entered. The whole room is empty save for the short, light-haired man, probably twice Dean's age, who busies himself with tidying up the tables. He doesn't even look at Dean, focusing on the already clean tables instead.
Dean considers coughing to get the man's attention. After all, he did come to drown his sorrows in liquor, didn't he? He doesn't have any other explanation for the sudden pull to this bar that he felt earlier on.
"Excuse me?" he speaks up experimentally.
The man doesn't flinch.
Only a moment later, a different man walks into the bar through the back door that Dean hasn't noticed before. He can't be much older than Dean, if at all, but his aura emits such wisdom and deep understanding of life that Dean can't help but immediately gain respect for him. The cerulean eyes that stare him down shine animatedly, yet Dean feels that something is hiding behind them. His unruly hair appeared onyx black in the shade, but as soon as he steps in the only ray of sunshine in the room, Dean actually notices the strands of dark brown. Dean's emerald eyes travel to the stranger's plump, pink lips and linger for a moment until he sees the corner of them lifting upwards.
Dean doesn't find it in him to feel embarrassed. The man in front of him is staring at him shamelessly, too, that must mean he is not bothered by it, right?
Somehow Dean gets stuck in this staring contest. It could be seconds, five minutes, maybe an hour before the realization dawns on him and he breaks his gaze, trying to hide his flushing cheeks. Now is not the time for a make out session. He's supposed to be drowning his sorrows in alcohol, isn't he?
The man stands behind the counter and casually asks, "What can I do for you?"
Dean's words hitch in his throat. He didn't expect the man's voice to be so deep and… arousing. Damn, he has to drink real fast to stop thinking like that. No hook ups. Not tonight.
The blue eyes bore into his skull intensely and as much as Dean tries to let any words slip from his mouth, they're not coming. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Smooth, Winchester.
The man clears his throat and repeats the question, shifting his glare to the wooden counter.
Finally, Dean's brain allows him to form a coherent sentence. "Are you not closing soon?"
The man shakes his head. "We are not closing until the last customer leaves satisfied."
Dean laughs bitterly at that statement. This will be a long day for him, then. He's not planning to leave until he can barely remember what the reason he came was. He orders a beer and scrunches his face in confusion when the bartender doesn't move a muscle.
"I don't suppose you are of legal age?" he states severely.
Dean sighs and prepares to move on to another bar. If any decent place is even open at this ungodly hour.
Surprisingly, the bartender squeezes Dean's shoulder and forces him to sit back down.
"I was only joking," he speaks in the same tone of voice as before, his face expression solemn as ever. "Do I look old enough to work here?"
Dean quirks a smile and nods in understanding. He waits for the gorgeous man to deliver his much needed beer, watching his movements appreciatively. The fact that he can't touch doesn't mean that he can't look. Dean's eyes travel on his lean body, from his not overly muscular or weak arms to the jean clad legs. A runner's body, Dean guesses.
For a moment, he wonders what his dad would think if he knew that he's slept with guys before and doesn't consider stopping, but the thoughts drift away as the bartender pushes a beer towards him.
He chugs the whole beer in an impressively short time span, tapping the glass lightly and waiting for the bartender to refill it.
The man frowns and focuses his azure eyes on the forest green ones.
"Are you attempting to get intoxicated?" he inquires, his voice dripping with genuine curiosity.
Dean chuckles. "You haven't been working here for a long time, have ya?"
"I don't understand how that relates to my question."
Dean shakes his head, snickering under his breath. He stares at the boy (and now can't believe he referred to him as "man" before – the innocent and young features on his face are obvious) until he gives up and refills his glass.
"My name is Castiel," he informs Dean as he lays another beer in front of him.
Dean smiles to himself. Here it is, the flirting bartenders. He usually charms his way to drinks, even though he's only seventeen, and eventually in their pants without trying much. He'd appreciate it any other day, but today is supposed to be special. He wants it to be a respectful day that would make her proud of him. He doesn't believe she's somewhere out there watching him, but if there's any possibility that she is…
"Dean," he hears himself saying before he can bite his tongue.
She probably wouldn't want him drinking until he passes out either.
"Well, Dean," Castiel commences, and Dean can't help but notice that his voice is completely emotionless, not changing a bit as he speaks, "what seems to be the issue?"
Dean contemplates staying quiet and staring at this Castiel guy until he gets uncomfortable and goes away. However, Dean has had the honor of participating in one of Castiel's staring contests already and he doubts he'd win this time. Castiel is a complete stranger. He's never met him before and he most likely never will. What could be the harm of confiding in someone?
"Family trouble," he sighs.
Castiel nods knowingly. "I will listen if you want me to." When Dean measures him with distrust, he adds, "Who am I going to tell? My cat?"
Dean considers that a fair point and makes a decision to trust this boy. He never talks about his life with anyone but Sammy, and even he can't know everything. Tonight, he will act like a normal human being, just like she would want him to.
"My little brother, Sammy – he's still a tiny thing, just thirteen – decided that he wants to go to college when he's older. He's already working on it, he's working so hard," Dean stops to take a deep breath, "he really wants this, y'know? But our dad doesn't agree because… well, we sort of have this family business. And dad wants him to carry on with it, not abandon us. That's fine, I get it, I'll miss Sammy, too, but does he have to scream and stomp on the kid's dreams every time he brings it up? Don't get me wrong, I don't want to let Sammy go any more than he does. And I face these kinds of fights on daily basis, I shouldn't be so thrown off, right? I just… I just didn't want this to happen today," Dean's voice trails off and he can't bring himself to say any more.
A silence engulfs him as he finishes drinking the remnants of the second beer.
Castiel is studying him intently. For the first time, Dean spots the change of his countenance. It's not obvious at first, but when he inspects Castiel's eyes closer, he finds something in them. He'd guess that it's pity if he didn't know better. It's sadness. That kind of sadness you feel when you know that children in Africa are dying at this exact moment and you can't do shit about it. That kind of sadness that he saw in Sammy's eyes this morning when he remembered what date it was.
Dean assumes that Castiel won't speak up and almost breaks the silence by ordering something stronger when he hears the deep voice again.
"What's today, Dean?"
Dean almost chokes as he tries to fight off the tears. His dad told him that men don't cry. They suck it up and get over it. That's what he must do. That's what he was taught to do. Fuck that, Dean's subconscious spits, that hypocritical son of a bitch sobs every time he gets his ass drunk.
He shoots Castiel an indignant look, hoping that it's enough to keep him from prying. But that concern in his sparkly eyes…
"It's been thirteen years since my mom died in a house fire today," his voice breaks in the middle of the sentence.
And there it goes again. That sadness in Castiel's eyes, as if Dean's words hurt him in the same way it hurts Dean to talk about it. Castiel's hand gravitates towards Dean's cheek and Dean wants it. He craves the human touch. He eyes Castiel's delicate, long fingers, wondering if they'll feel like his mother's. In his head, distant hum of 'Hey Jude' takes place and the tears are seriously threatening to spill now. He lets his eyelids fall, anticipating the warmth on his cheek, but it never comes. His eyes fly open to find Castiel facing the opposite direction. Dean ponders if he imagined the whole thing. Maybe he wanted it to happen so badly that he saw it in his head. Weirder things have happened to him.
Castiel hands him a glass of something (the burning in his throat suggest that it is scotch) wordlessly and smiles tensely. Whatever Dean perceived (or thought he perceived) in his eyes before is gone.
The mood transforms and they continue their conversation, turning it into small-talk ("What about your family?" "About as good as yours."), and after Dean swallows a few drinks, a light-hearted banter ("Any girlfriend?" "No, I am told I can be a tad bit intimidating." "If you stare at them like you stare at me, then I'm not even surprised.").
Dean lost the track of time. Talking to Castiel is so easy that for a moment, he chooses to forget what's been happening the whole day and takes a moment to appreciate the way the skin around Castiel's eyes slightly wrinkles when he smiles or just how pink his lips really are. He wonders how it'd feel to capture those lips between his and kiss his way to oblivion, how it'd feel to have those lips leaving wet trails on his neck and collarbone until nothing would matter anymore.
But then he remembers. Not today. He wouldn't be the same fuck up as always at least this one day.
On Monday, he will start going to a new school yet again and there'll be plenty of pretty girls and boys who will be more than willing to disappear between cheap motel sheets. There always are.
At some point he mentally nicknames the bartender Cas and imagines Cas's chapped lips whispering in his ear tenderly as he works magic with his hands – that's his cue to leave.
Dean stands up abruptly and smiles at the way the whole world spins. That's exactly what he aimed for. The pure bliss of barely being able to recognize his surroundings and not recalling the reason why he wanted to feel this way in the first place – those are the things that always make him keep drinking even if he honestly doesn't like the burn in his throat very much.
He grips the counter, the weight of his body suddenly too overwhelming for his legs. Cas observes him with something that Dean would like to call concern, but he'd be lying. His stare is just as blank as before, piercing through Dean like a million needles, and Dean seriously reconsiders if he doesn't want Castiel inside him right here, right now.
"Do you want me to take you home? You don't look so good," Cas asks tentatively.
Dean really wants to say yes. He wants to bring him to the motel, get them their own room, and let Cas fuck him until neither of them can speak or move.
"No," he slurs instead. "Thanks, but I live pretty close and I… yeah… I'm fine, I think."
"Maybe I could call you a taxi."
Dean shakes his head. "It's all good. You go get your beauty sleep or somethin', it's almost seven in the mornin', man."
Cas smiles and nods, which Dean takes as a goodbye. He leaves a few crumpled bills on the counter and stumbles his way out of the bar. The bartender seemed like pretty cool guy. Maybe they can fool around another day before Dean has to move on to another hick town.
Cas's brows furrow as he scrutinizes Dean's ungraceful attempt to walk straight. When he finally manages to close the door shut behind him, Cas lets out a deep sigh.
"What in the name of our Father are you doing?" the light-haired man who cleaned the tables before reappears. "He was kissing your feet! He'd let you do him right on this counter, you dork!"
Castiel grits his teeth. "I tried, Gabriel. I don't want to use him."
"Just like you're using Harry, one of the Novak twins?"
The younger angel's silence prompts Gabriel to continue.
"Let me tell you a thing, bro," Gabriel smirks, "Dean-o's thoughts about his dick in your mouth kinda suggest that he wanted to use you. So pull your head out of your ass and work fast." He pulls a chocolate bar out of his pocket and offers it to Castiel. When the blue-eyed angel only shakes his head, he shrugs and proceeds to talk. "Look, you've got your orders. You know I don't usually give a rat's ass about anyone's orders, but this time I decided not to leave my brother to suffer alone in the human world. So stop being a pussy and go get that d. He wants you, you need to do this, everything will work out just fine. He's really important to that ass Michael and you know that. You can't fuck this up, Cassie. Not that I care, but I don't want anything to happen to you. Understood?"
And like the good soldier he is, Castiel nods. "Understood."