Dean hates the chairs more than he hates the low wattage buzzing lightbulbs they huddle around like moths. He hates the smell of piss covered by the obnoxious odor of bleach at this downtown Methodist joint. He hates the stale donuts. He hates everything.
It must be Thursday.
"My name is Dean Winchester and I haven't had a drink in three years," he grumbles when it comes to him, but his heart's not in it. Hasn't been since that night three years ago when he really thought about what his name meant, what being Dean Winchester meant. It was the same night that cop had found him dangling just above the bridge, then nose of his beloved Impala tilting down further and further into a watery chasm.
And those had been the good old days.
"Hello Dean," comes the lackluster murmur from the rest of the room. Dean doesn't even sit like anyone else in the group, his hostile little way of thumbing his nose at the world. He folds his arms across the back of his chair and lays his chin inside them, hiding his mouth. He's so sick to death of talking about himself and of being himself. He tunes out most of the meeting as much as possible.
Until they get to the Castiel character. The guy wears a rumpled trench coat like the damn thing is going out of fashion. He wears a disheveled tie like its permanently the day before tax season ends, and Dean is pretty sure that his face is stuck in permanent serious mode because nobody has been able to get him to see humor in anything since the third grade. Guess mom was right.
"My name is Castiel," he says as he stands yet again, even though it's his nine month anniversary and nobody really stands past their first month in the group. He held up his coin at the beginning of the meeting like it was some damn ending to a Star Wars movie.
"Hello Cas," Dean says above everyone using Castiel's full name. Castiel has asked Dean repeatedly not to do that. Dean's favorite response is, of course, "Blow me, Cas". Then he smirks and juts his hips apart as though he doesn't hate himself and life is a big joke. Only problem with this approach is that it's hard to know if he's the punchline or just getting punched most days.
Castiel is still standing as he continues the same introduction he's been using since the start of his "new life in NA/AA/SA/CA/All the A's", as Dean has referenced them, "It has been nine months, fifteen days, eight hours, and thirteen minutes since I have used prescription medication. My daughter is now able to talk to me on the telephone again, with her mother's consent. For this I am grateful. I was able to convince the church to allow me to host a family barbecue and for this I am also grateful to Him above that makes all things worthy and beautiful."
People applaud after the simple statement. They applaud because they believe that he believes. Even Dean, true skeptic that he is, can't help but be taken in by the fantasy of Cas' words. He wants to believe they're true. But he's not a sap. He hasn't been a sap since mom died in that church arson when he was four and still living in Kansas. He hasn't been back to Kansas in a long time.
The rest of the meeting is a blur. No one else is as fun to antagonize as Castiel. Dean's not even sure he has a last name, no one uses it, least of all the man himself. Dean watches Cas move around the room, befriending each person. Not for social standing but because the poor bastard actually likes people. He laughs at their jokes. He looks at the pictures of their third adopted cat in a year. He sympathizes. He empathizes. He's the goddamn AA Robocop Ninja Blender with extra attachements and a four year warranty if you call now.
He burns Dean's biscuits something fierce, so, when he approaches Dean in good faith, Dean does what Dean does best. He stuffs his mouth with stale donut and makes a face. Castiel clasps his hands behind his back, giving Dean the feeling of having a searchlight sear through his very face and burn away his facade.
"Mr. Winchester, good evening. I hope you find your week is going well."
"Maoidi;a adhaoid oadijfdklm ;daikjd;," Dean replies while chewing and swallowing, Cas far too polite to mention the little flecks of spit and donut going all over his shirt. After Dean swallows, he continues, "What I meant to say was I made mac and cheese and didn't pop my head in the oven afterwards, so there's that."
Cas quirks his eyebrow at Dean's smirk. "Mr. Winchester, may I ask you a question?"
"Fire away," Dean says as he bemusedly stirs coffee as black as his soul, mostly to have something to do with his hands.
"Forgive me for my bluntness, but why are you here? I have yet to see you truly try to connect with anyone, you openly mock the steps, your surly attitude and Clint Eastwood demeanor is clearly a rouse, tell me- why, if you care so little, do you continue to attend?"
Dean sighed. "Look, I guess it's because I had to come here for a year, court order. After that, it sort of became a rut for me. But seriously, you don't know. The Twelve Steps don't work. They never can."
"You lack faith in the process yet propose no way to enhance it?"
"No, what I'm saying is that the Twelve exist for the people outside of this room, not for the people in it. Look, I'm going on year three now and I'm miserable. Maybe being a drunk wasn't the best thing in the world but I was good at it-"
"You could be good at things now," Castiel added, trying to be helpful.
Dean shook his head. "I've lived behind the 8 Ball my entire life, Cas. Things aren't going to get better just because I apologize to people that don't even want to hear that shit."
"Your cynicism must make life quite difficult."
Dean shrugs. "Well, it's shorter that way too. I'll die of a heart attack long after your hippie ass moves into the forest to mill his own grain."
"I see," Castiel says with a short nod, "Dean, if I can call you that, I'd still like to learn more about you. You once spoke of a brother you had?"
"Oh yeah, Sammy. Haven't heard from him since I unofficially started the steps over. He does pretty well for himself, finishing up his law degree. I'm proud of him. I don't blame him for not wanting my screwed-up carcass around."
"Do you not miss him or are you hiding under bravado?"
"Hey, the bravado I hide behind is my business."
"Do you realize that in the past six months, that is the first honest answer I've gotten out of you?"
"Why do you care if you get an honest answer out of me at all?"
Castiel shook his head at Dean and looked at him with intensity. "I cannot tell you how much this program has meant to me. Perhaps for you it is different but maybe one day you will be able to pull your ass out of your head once and see that there is value to this."
Dean snorted. "You helped cowrite Imagine, didn't you?"
