Limit your Love
Chapter I: Swanlights
Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls
Thursdays might be the worst. Mondays are a close second, but as Dean makes himself ready for another thursday morning, his heart cringes in his chest. There is a thick lump in his throat, right under his Adam's apple, lingering since he went to bed yesterday.
Nevertheless, he puts on his ugly jeans and a grey, faded t-shirt in a hurry. He almost forgets his bag before heading out of the house, only remembering because of the brief, brief, glance in the mirror.
The keys burn hot in his hand, the way they always do, the key to his baby. He doesn't even notice the gloomy clouds or the neighbour throwing a big smile his way. Dean only has eyes for the Impala, practically stumbling over his own feet the last few steps before reaching the vehicle.
As he turns her on, sliding the key into place and turning, the radio starts with a jump, instantly blaring AC/DC at the loudest volume. The neighbour shakes his head and continues to rake the leaves.
Dean is always eager to get out on the road, even after three years of having a licence. He is also in a hurry, kind of, to get out of the suburbs and get downtown to the Harvelle family.
The drive is short but pleasant, music roaring through the newly installed stereosystem, and Dean can be himself for a moment. He daydreams of a day when he can feel like this all the time - free, comfortable - and he imagines wearing lipstick without guilt and shame. He dreams of wearing a dress; this time with people around, admiring his confidence and addressing him by a pronoun that feels so incredibly right.
However, his train of thoughts come to an instant halt as he parks the car in the lot and gets out, only now noticing the tiny rain drops falling from the sky.
The bar is practically empty, only a few regulars sitting in booths and devouring a greasy breakfast. The smell of fried potatoes and bacon is thick in the air, but Dean is used to it. He nods his greetings to the guests, getting low grunts back, before heading back to the kitchen door.
The kitchen is calm so far, Ash doing the breakfast pots clean for lunch hour, and Dean heads through to Ellen Harvelle's office, not even bothering to knock. She isn't surprised when the door almost swings open, a sigh passing her lips as she motions for him to sit. Dean closes the door and has a seat on the other side of her desk, fiddling a little with the papers on her desk.
"Here," she says, raspy voice and tired eyes, and throws him a pack of menthol cigarettes. He puts one between his lips, groping for a lighter in his pocket and reaching to open the window a notch at the same time. "You're here early, sweetheart."
Dean's heart swells as the sweetheart passes her lips, smiling genuinely at her nicknames. He lights the cigarette, watching Ellen do the same. Her nails are long and painted red, just like her thin lips.
"So, kiddo," she starts, leaning back in her chair and blowing smoke through her nose. She looks so comfortable - stressed, maybe a bit frustrated - but comfortable nonetheless. "How you holdin' up?"
"Yeah, no, I'm fine," Dean says, hating the way his voice rumbles as he stumbles over the words. He looks around, eyes wandering over photographs of Ellen and her daughter, the cheesy romance literature in her bookshelves. "Mom's been on my ass about college all week. Don't think she knows it's too late to apply."
Ellen shakes her head. "That's not what I asked and you know it."
"I'm fine," he insists, teeth clanking together. These questions make him so incredibly at unease, makes him want to shout and curse in their faces, but he can't, not when he's guilty for worrying them in the first place. "Where's Jo?"
Dean thinks of the only girl in the world who doesn't ask him if he's okay, the only girl in the world that can make him feel so at ease in just being near.
"She's in school," Ellen says, her tone hinting that he should know this. "She took the bus to Saint Louis two days ago."
He takes a long drag of the cigarette, the ash falling down on his blue jeans. Ellen doesn't notice, and Dean doesn't mind. He can only think of Jo being all alone, new and eager, at the college she got accepted to. He can only think of himself, all alone, dead on the inside and wrong on the outside, all alone without someone to understand.
"I have a deal for you," she says and puts out her cigarette. She is quick to light a new one, nervously glancing out the window and then down at her messy desk. Dean can't help but get nervous; if Ellen is nervous then it means something serious is going on. She continues, "If I raise your pay next month, will you promise to save for your own place to stay? Somewhere not here."
"What? But—"
"Honey, listen," she interrupts, "Joanna has a scholarship and she doesn't need my money. She is used to working, just like you. I want to help you."
Dean takes a long drag, putting out the cigarette at the first taste of filter. He doesn't know what to say. Ellen is not the kind of woman to change her mind once it is set, she won't take no for an answer. He doesn't know what to think, why she wants him to move further away and how she could know that living with his parents is slowly killing him.
"I know, sweetie," she says and there is something weird in her voice. The same kind of tone she used when she tried to tell them that her husband had died. "I know."
He wonders what she knows. If she knows about the bruises on his waist, if she knows about the hidden stash of money in his car, if she knows that he has a box of make-up in the back of his closet.
"Joanna told me before she left," Ellen admits.
Dean is filled with rage before Ellen can even finish the sentence, standing up quickly enough to drop his cigarette and stumble over his feet. The air seems tighter, and Ellen stands up too.
"You sit your ass down this minute or I swear to God that I will fire you. Sit the fuck down," she says, voice harsh but words full of love. He obeys, sitting down and picking up the cigarette. "You listen to me now, Dean. You need help. I'm going to help you."
It takes him a few hours after his shift at the bar to gather up enough courage to look for a new place to live. The sky is turning orange and pink, the entire house asleep this early in the morning. He lies in his bed, laptop on stomach and searches for apartments in Kansas City.
He has enough money hidden in the Impala to pay for three months of rent for the most places he finds. The bag under the passenger seat is full of fifties and twenties, the receipt for his hard work on his body. Bruises and scratches, sometimes a back ache and a sore throat, but the money are real and they will take him places.
He doesn't know how he ends up looking for apartments – shoe box sized, shared kitchen ones – in the outskirts of New York City. It feels unreal when he sees that with his saved up, dirty money and the raised pay at Harvelle's, he could afford one of those. A shoe box, but an own place nonetheless, only room for a bed and a drawer for clothes. There is a tiny bathroom with a tiny shower, shared kitchen area with the other tenants on the floor.
He had expected it to be full of cockroaches and mold, but it seems clean and well-kept by the previous owner. Not a luxurious place by any means, but it would be only a twenty minute trip to New York's downtown. Living there would be anonymous and perhaps even lonely, but it would suit him perfectly.
There is minor work to do with the place – a day full of scrubbing and sanitizing, new furniture and rugs and curtains, a new shower drape and obvious things like that. Dean is tempted to call the landlord and claim it immediately, knowing that he could add a few extra hundred to sweeten the deal.
Saving the tab, Dean looks at places in Saint Louis. Jo might have been a bitch to tell her mother about his problem, but she only wanted him to be safe. He can't find it in him to blame her for that, even though his mind is a mess.
Ellen hadn't changed her usual way of being around him during his shift, but he can't read minds and it makes him so nervous. He wonders what she actually thinks of him – fucked up, wrong in the head, perhaps even mentally ill. He knows what he thinks of himself, everything from disgrace to disgusting.
He ends up falling asleep with his laptop still on his stomach, blankets balled up under him and eyelids burning from unshed tears.
To Be Continued
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