Dean would never have believed that it was possible to be so completely bored at something that was supposed to be a party. He fills his time by gawking at what he can see of the coach's huge house. He doesn't know the first thing about furniture and decor, but everything looks like it is worth more than he is. His hands are playing with the lint in his pockets to keep himself from touching something he can't possibly replace. Hell, they're entertaining in the 'parlor.' The only kind of parlor he's ever been in before is of the ice cream variety.
Jo had managed to scare up a clean white shirt and a tie for him. He's got on that and the least worn out pair of jeans he owns and his black chucks.
The Winchester's parlor is filled with cigar smoke and the rumbling, deep laughter of half drunk old guys. Dean had expected the rest of the team to be there, but he and Jo are the only kids in the house, and she spends most of the time in the kitchen with her mother. Those two are the only females, both of them in snow white dresses and open-toed shoes.
The coach places his tumbler of whiskey on the table beside his antique sofa so that he can use both hands to tell his next story. "Where is Dean? Get over here, boy."
Until that moment, Dean had been carefully tucked into a corner behind a burly thirty-something. He laughs at every damn thing Winchester said, funny or not. This is Dean's first birthday party, but he supposes that is what people are supposed to do; kiss the birthday guy's butt.
When the coach calls him, Dean's mouth is full of the first bite of his third slice of super rich chocolate cake. Jo's mother had dropped it onto his plate and he has never been one to turn down cake. Or any food, for that matter. The fancy silver fork clanks against the fine china. He puts them both down and dutifully takes the coach's side.
The alcohol is pretty rank on the old man's breath. He's overdone it with the cologne, too. Dean coughs as the coach drapes a heavy arm over his shoulder and starts telling this war story about how he had to lean on some guy after an explosion or something like that. Dean plays the part of Some Guy. Judging by the rapt faces of Winchester's guests, the tale is gruesome and hilarious. Dean isn't really listening.
His mind is occupied with how and when he can get the hell out of here.
Jo and her mother look like the Golden Goose and the Golden Gosling. Dean would put money down that Mary Winchester was a sweet little virgin when the coach first got his hands on her; she has that 'only one man for me' look. The expression on Jo's face is all adoration for her dad or Dean or both.
That is when he sees him.
On the other side of Jo's mother there is a tall man with both hands stuffed in the pockets of his dark jeans. A blaze surges through him. i'Who the fuck is that?'/i
All eyes are on the coach, except for Dean's. He is staring at This Guy like he's getting paid to do it. They're dressed the same, with a few minor differences. Jo had given Dean a green necktie and made some comment about his eyes. This Guy's tie is blue. Also, his jeans are not falling apart at the seams. His shoes are the kind that need polish and shine.
He looks damn good in his clothes, but Dean is way more interested in what lies beneath: broad shoulders, strong arms, slender hips and legs that won't quit. He's got one hell of a handsome face, too. Wavy brown hair just the right side of too long. Damn near six and a half feet of fun.
"Mary, bring the boy a bourbon," the coach bellows in his ear without bothering to face his wife.
He squeezes Dean in closer. Dean wills himself not to shove the old man away. He treats himself to another extended tour of the tall guy, who is left standing with Jo when Mrs. Winchester disappears behind the bar.
"Don't you tell a soul I let you drink."
One sniff and Dean immediately knows it is stronger and of a better quality than anything he's ever had before.
One of the men whispers to the coach, who is still leaning on Dean's shoulder. The old man's back stiffens. The coach glances slightly over his shoulder, directly at The Guy. Then, he nudges Dean to drink up. He starts telling a new story, as if he hasn't seen The Guy at all.
Of course, Sam sees him. He is quite sure that no one ever fails to notice that boy's face. It's pretty difficult to overlook when someone is giving you the kind of undressing Sam is receiving.
He also notices the arm slung over the kid's shoulder. Sam knows what it feels like to be favored, but it's been a long time. He intentionally avoids the young man's eyes.
He leans down to give Jo a hug. She reaches up and slings an arm around his neck before deciding that lower would be better. He fumbles, too, unsure of how tightly to squeeze the petite girl. He doesn't know how to hug his own little sister anymore.
He whispers an apology to his mother. She rests a hand on his arm. Sam kisses her cheek and makes a beeline for the door.
Even with the brisk steps he takes between the tidy rhododendrons, he hasn't made it down the walkway when the front door opens behind him. He turns, expecting to see his mother or his sister, but certainly not that kid, his father's new pet, leering back at him.
"Hey, I'm Dean … Smith."
Sam shifts on his feet, uneasy under the weight of Dean's attention. The kid is not remotely subtle about letting his gaze take a slow trip along the length of Sam's body yet again. Sam purses his lips and shakes the warm hand thrust out at him. "Sam. Winchester."
The boy's mossy, clear eyes pop wide. "Winchester? As in … You related to Coach or something?"
"Or something." Sam attempts a curt smile that shrivels before it can reach his lips. "Well, bye, Dean."
The kid stands there and watches Sam fold himself into his car. He drives off and does not look back.
Sam quietly shuts the door behind him. He takes a deep breath and tries to peer through the darkness. He whispers, not wanting to wake Cas, if he's asleep. No reply is forthcoming. He steps into the living room and flips on the light. His breath halts for a moment as he surveys the carnage; his hand flies up to cover his gaping mouth.
The glass coffee table is in large shards. The handmade clay vase that had served as a centerpiece is in pieces as well; the two have obviously been used to destroy one another. Purple and orange rose petals are strewn all around the jagged bits. It occurs to Sam that someone could call this a work of art. Of course, the installment would have to include the bloody footprints that lead across the eggshell carpet and onto the balcony. They could entitle the piece 'Fury.'
Castiel is perfectly visible through the glass door. He is gazing down at the parking lot with a half-empty bottle in one hand. There isn't a stitch of clothing on his milk-white body other than a pair of black calf socks. This man is a similarly disturbing masterpiece. Sam hasn't worked out a title for that exhibit yet. Nothing seems adequate.
Sam grabs the grey cashmere blanket from the back of the black, Italian leather sofa that Cas picked out when they'd moved in. Practically everything in the apartment- the blanket, the sofa, the demolished table and vase, all reflect Castiel's taste and Sam's money.
Sam steps up behind his shivering, naked lunatic of a boyfriend and attempts to wrap the blanket around him. "Come on. It's cold."
Castiel spins gracefully before Sam's arms close. He yanks the cover out of Sam's hands and drops it over the railing. Sam watches it flutter prettily through the air, eleven stories to the ground.
"Don't you fucking touch me." Cas storms into the apartment.
Sam sighs. "I'm sorry."
He lunges forward just in time to jam his foot onto the track of sliding glass door as Castiel tries to drag it shut. Sam has learned from past experience that Cas has no qualms about trying to lock him out overnight. The last time that happened, it had been too cold to wait out Cas' volatile temper.
Sam had been left with no choice but to climb over to Mrs. Kimball's balcony and pretend that he had locked himself out by mistake. Then he had been forced to stand in the hall, in his boxers, knocking on his own door, muttering apologies for over an hour until Castiel relented and let him back inside.
Good times.
It doesn't take much energy for Sam to hold the balcony door open. They are certainly not equally matched in physical strength. "I needed to see for myself what the atmosphere was. They're not ready."
Castiel strains for a moment, still trying to slam the door. Then he lets go. Once Sam is inside, Cas hurls the bottle at his head. Sam ducks out of the way just in time to avoid a trip to the hospital. The glass smashes against the wall behind him, Bordeaux splashed on the ruffled clam wallpaper; emerald glass on the eggshell carpet. Sam admires yet another beautiful mess while Castiel screams in his face.
"You! You're not ready. It's you, you fucking coward."
"Okay. You're right. It's me. Okay? I'm sorry." Sam's fingers slide over Cas' arms as he slips out of the room.
A door in the back of the apartment slams shut. Sam stands, stunned, in the torn-apart living room. He winces at the muted sounds of Cas raging, screaming and breaking more of their exquisite, expensive belongings. Things Castiel had chosen and Sam had paid for.
He kneels and finds two complementary fragments of the shattered vase. He holds them to each other in a futile attempt to salvage from all this wreckage.
When Dean drags himself through the door, the voices, beeps and dings of some game show rerun float in from the next room. He drops the cord that holds his key on the kitchen table and loosens the green noose Jo Winchester's had tied around his neck.
Jody is sprawled on the ratty, slightly piss-smelling, thrift store sofa. She doesn't even try to make space for him. "Where ya been, D?"
He crosses his arms over his chest. "Where you been, Jojo? Move."
When she still doesn't budge, Dean grabs her legs and hoists them around to the front of the sofa to make room to sit down. The tattered hem of her jean skirt rides up her thighs. She kicks at him, but he holds her ankles together with his hands. She squirms. "You little shit."
"Yeah?" Dean pounces and tackles her. He easily pins both of her shoulders back, smirking down. "Dude, your breath is foul."
She opens her mouth wide to puff the disgusting odor up into his face. A styrofoam box lays open on the floor with a plastic spork sticking out of three day old lo mein.
"You're so gross. I can't believe you ate that. I'm not taking you to the emergency room."
Jody smiles up and wipes a cool hand over his forehead. When the music on the screen changes, she turns back to the TV and gives him a shove. "Get up. My show's back on."
Dean slumps back, rubbing one of his eyes with a balled up fist. "Jojo, I think I'm in love."
"You're always in love." She prods him with her bare foot.
"Yeah, I know. But I mean it this time."
"'Course, you do. And what is the cure for love?" She crosses her legs over his lap.
"Fucking," Dean answers by heart, the same as if you had asked him to recite his ABCs.
"That's right. Never forget it. So, fuck her and be done with it." She's not even looking at him. She's only got eyes for Bob Barker.
Dean tickles her behind a stubbly knee. "It's not a her. Tasty straight guy."
"Same thing. If you think you're in love, the fault is yours."
"I don't actually think I'm in love. I just want to fuck him." He points to the moron on the television. "That is a stupid bid."
Jody grins, reaches over and ruffles his hair. "Horny boy."
"Shut up." He swats her hand away.
"Well, what's his name, lovesick puppy?"
Dean rolls it around on his tongue for a moment, like he hasn't been saying it to himself for hours already. He tries not to smile. It doesn't work. "Sam."