A/N: This is my first attempt at writing any sort of fanfiction...so be gentle. If anyone wants me to I'll turn this into a multi-chaptered fic, but as of now it will be a stand alone piece. None of these beautiful creatures belong to me. The title comes from the song "Love Love Love" by The Mountain Goats. AU (obviously)
The street lights pulsed and buzzed against the fading light of the November sky, keeping him from forgetting who he was and how far he had fallen. In ripped jeans and a stained wife beater, Dean strongly resembled an after school PSA. Don't do drugs, kids, and stay in school, he thought, looking down at his shaking hands. The first symptom of withdrawal. Great.
He thought of what his parents would say if they could see him now, a homeless junkie hiding in an alley, desperate for his next hit. His father, undoubtedly, would have the same dissapointed features that he always wore as he ranted on and on about family lineage and good choices. The son of the great John Winchester, stumbling about the streets, smelling of cheap beer and exhaust fumes, and wearing wrinkled pants, no less? Unacceptable. His mother would have simply said "what have you gotten yourself into?" Nothing more than that. It had always been things like- ow. He had stepped on a piece of broken glass. When had he taken off his shoes? Had it been tonight? Yesterday? Even this month? Sinking to the ground, he thought about the lapses in his memories, big, gaping holes that had consumed the past year. He didn't know the date. Why didn't he know the date?
The fatigue that had been building up since the beginning of the year overtook him and he slowly laid down on the rough cement of the city sidewalk. He thought of who to blame before he realized that it wouldn't help him. Hating wouldn't do it, fighting wouldn't do it, and it had become certain that praying wouldn't. There was nothing to do but lay still.
A bug crawled into view, six skinny legs carrying it up and over the trash that littered the alley way. A brief moment of wistfulness came over him and he wished for his old life. He wished for forgiveness, for redemption. He wished that he could get up and take control and be somebody, anybody but himself. Mostly though, he wished for an end. He wished that the darkness would consume him bit by bit until no one could distinguish him from the mixed palette of faded reds on the wall behind him.
With that thought, he closed his eyes, wondering if this was rock bottom or if there was some seventh layer of hell that he had yet to go though. That question was soon answered as dull footsteps rounded the corner. With his luck it was the cops. He hadn't done jail yet, miraculously,but he wasn't ready to become a full fledged delinquent just yet. Sighing, he focused what limited energy he had left on getting up and walking out of the alleyway, rubbing his dirt-encrusted eyes as he did so. Upon looking up, the first thing that he saw was a person. An up close person. Like really up close. You're going to run into each other, his fatigued brain provided and, lo and behold, he was right about one thing in his life. He stumbled backwards and hit the sidewalk ass first, but not before attempting to catch himself and driving his hand directly onto shards of a newly broken bottle. Well wasn't that just the icing on the cake.
Several rivulets of blood had already began to drizzle lazily down the palm of his hand before a voice broke though to him. "...am so sorry! Are you alright?" The mystery man bent down, cerulean eyes traveling down to his injured hand. "Oh god, you're bleeding!"
"It's not bad. I'll be okay." Dean almost started at the sound of his own voice, low and gravely from disuse.
"My apartment's right upstairs, you can wash it and I'll get you a bandaid and I am so sorry." The man turned and began to walk toward a towering, brick building, running his hands through his inky, unkempt hair, causing it to spike in all directions. Too exhausted to argue any further, Dean followed after him and began the daunting task of ascending several flights of stairs.
Once inside the apartment, the stranger ran off in search of band-aids and hydrogen peroxide and God knows what else. Dean stood awkwardly in the door frame. When was the last time he had been inside a house? Three months, his masochistic brain provided, dredging up long forgotten memories of the past. Dean quickly buried them once more and glanced about at his surroundings. The apartment was small, but homey, with random tchotchkes burrowed in every nook and cranny. A bookshelf took up most of one wall crammed with tomes of all shapes, sizes and colors. A white table with two mismatched chairs stood catty corner, with a stack of plates of varying colors in the middle. From their designated places on the wall stared Humphrey Bogart, Marlon Brando, Greta Garbo and nearly every other classic movie star in existence. It was chaotic but almost an organised chaos, if that made any sense.
"Okay. I have everything ready" The low voice of the man broke his concentration as he handed him gauze, band aids, neosporin, hydrogen peroxide, a dripping wash cloth, and a bar of soap. Seeing the incredulous look on Dean's face he added "I know, I know, I went overboard. I just figured better safe than sorry, speaking of which, I am really, really sorry. I had a long day, and I had just gotten home when I realized that I was out of milk and that I had to go to the grocery store and pay for a taxi just to go and get a gallon of milk which is kind of crazy and," He paused for a moment and looked at the amused expression that Dean was currently wearing. He stopped, took a much needed breath and continued at a much slower pace, "I'm rambling. I do that. I'm Castiel. I know weird name- religious parents. And you are...?"
"Dean."
The stranger-Castiel, Dean reminded himself- nodded, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face.
"Alright, Dean. Tell you what. You fix up your hand and I'll make some soup." Dean began to protest but his words were quickly cut off "Look, I was gonna make it anyway. It's no trouble. Just let me feel like a good host, okay?" And with those words, Castiel turned and walked towards his miniscule kitchen, pulling out an offensively orange sauce pan and a packet of ramen noodles.
Dean spent the next few minutes fixing up his injured hand as Castiel made his soup and put it into two mismatched bowls. The savory smell of the broth wafted towards Dean and his mouth watered at the thought of a (somewhat) home-cooked meal.
The warm atmosphere of the apartment seemed to perfectly match Castiel's personality and soon enough, Dean found himself being dragged into amiable conversation that lasted long after the last of their meal was gone.
"And, long story short," Castiel finished,"that movie is the reason I'm skeptical about staying in motels that don't offer room service."
Dean nodded, jokingly. "I believe the word your looking for is paranoid, not skeptical."
"How about I say a healthy fear and we call it even?"
Dean laughed and glanced at the clock, doing a double take to make sure that he had read the numbers correctly. 11:54. He had mooched off of this stranger for nearly two hours? Suddenly, all of the friendly vibes that had filled the room seemed to dissipate and Dean shifted uncomfortably. Castiel noticed his lengthy stare at the clock and cleared his throat.
"You can stay here. I mean, if you want."
Dean quickly fixed his stare on Castiel and stammered out something along the lines of "No offense but we just met and-"
"Get your mind out of the gutter!" Castiel gave a short laugh before sobering up. "I just didn't know if you had anywhere to stay tonight and I have a couch. I'd feel terrible if you had to sleep outside so...?"
"You realize that you've known me for like two hours and that I could be a serial killer or something, right?"
Cas paused and scrunched his eyebrows, obviously in deep thought.
"Well, are you?" He asked, after a few minutes of contemplative silence.
"Am I what?"
Blinking like it was the most obvious question in the world, Cas slowly explained, punctuating each word with a small pause.
"Are. You. A. Serial. Killer."
"Umm...no."
A small smile spread across Castiel's face.
"Then it's settled." He declared. "You can stay on my couch for the night."
With those apparently definitive words, Castiel walked into his room.
Dean stood awkwardly, once again, unsure of what was to come. After a minute or so, Castiel returned, brandishing a faded gray t-shirt, blue flannel pajama pants, a pillow, and a stack of blankets. He set the pile down on the couch and turned to address Dean.
"Alright. Bathroom's that way." He pointed to a white door, partially obscured from view by a potted plant. "I hope you don't mind getting up early because I do have a job. I think that's it. Any questions?" Dean looked up from the bundle on the couch to see Castiel looking at him expectantly.
"No, no, I'm good." He hesitated for a brief moment, watching as Castiel began to walk towards his room. "Oh, um, Castiel?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"It's not a problem. Stop thanking me." He flicked off his lights and gave a quick "goodnight" before shutting the bedroom door.
Dean changed into the shirt and pants that Castiel had provided, noting the way the soft cotton felt against his skin. Sinking onto the couch, he pulled the blankets around him and, for the first night in weeks, drifted off without feeling the insatiable need to use.