The punks piled into the Roadhouse, chattering excitedly as they all headed into the kitchen. Ash and Pam were already there, breaking into a few 40s. Dean scrunched up his face in disgust at the bottles.
"Forties? Really guys? This isn't just a Saturday night show! Let's break out the good stuff and celebrate!" he chastised.
Pam rolled her eyes, but she smiled affectionately as she replied, "We can't all get paid to pee on rich dudes, Dean. This is all we could get after flying signs last week. Homebum."
"Fucking oogles," Dean shot back, "Always wanting my whiskey. C'mon Sammy, let's go grab the Jack."
Sam shuffled forward, following his brother to the ladder that led up to the attic space they both shared. Up they climbed until they reached the landing, then walked through the room, shoving piles of clothes, empty bottles, and Sam's massive zine collection aside with their feet. Five minutes later they emerged victorious, holding two bottles of Jack and a space bag. Everyone cheered.
As glasses were located, Dean stood against the wall, watching his friends happily. Everyone was laughing, joking, smiling. Pam was flirting with Sam again, much to his constant discomfort and Dean's constant amusement. Only when she started trying to push her glass of whiskey into Sam's hand did Dean step in.
"Aw come on Pam, you know Sammy here is edge. All that 'my body is my temple' and crap, right Sam?" Sam scowled.
"It's all a big joke, man, until you all die at 30 and I live long enough to sell out."
"Punk for life!" Pam shouted with a grin, lifting her glass in the air like a toast. The rest of the room followed, echoing "punk for life!" from person to person.
"Y'all are impossible," Dean drawled, "I don't know what to do with any of you."
"I have a few suggestions," Pam winked flirtatiously.
Dean just laughed. "I thought you weren't fucking anymore, Pam. Something about the estrogen? Shitting all over your sex drive? Or did I make that up?"
Pam scoffed, "Like a little thing like that would stop me from bedding a Winchester."
"I'm like family to these boys!" Ash piped up, "Honorary Winchester, swear to God!"
"In your dreams, honey," Pam retorted, but not unkindly. Everyone knew Pam had a soft spot for Ash. Soft spots weren't the issue, though. Dean left them to it, turning again to Sam.
"How're you doing man? Everything go ok outside today? Those guards weren't too bad, were they?"
"Nah," Sam answered, "nothing we couldn't handle. You know the drill."
And that's how it usually is at the Roadhouse. Dean has his crew of misfit toys and he likes them well enough. But given the choice, he'd rather be here in the corner with his brother, glass of whiskey in his hand and a kombucha for Sammy.
Someone must have texted one of the kids over at the Garden because 20 minutes later Gabe and Chuck and Balthazar were piling into the living room where Dean and Sam were sitting on the falling-apart couch.
"Dean-o! Congrats on the successful terrorizing of the God-fearing Christians. Where can we put our bikes, my good man?" Gabe hollered, pointedly avoiding even a glance at Sam. Dean snorted. Men could be so obvious.
"Gabe, I know you were raised in a god damn barn, but come on, man. Get yer dirty bikes out of my kitchen. You've been here how many times, for how many fake reasons just to stare at my kid brother? You know where the damn bike rack is." Sam choked on his kombucha, though Dean wasn't entirely sure if that was the fault of his words or the drink. That shit was nasty. Like liquid salt and vinegar chips. Blech.
Chuck, Balthazar, and the rest of the room laughed uproariously as Gabe made a face.
"Now now, Dean. Flirting will get you nowhere. I know it's been a while…"
"Low blow, dude. Uncool." Dean snapped before regaining his cool, "I don't know how you think you're gonna get into Sammy's good graces by insulting his hero."
"Hero, Dean?" Sam rolled his eyes but his cheeks were flush with embarrassment, "And I'm right here, you know."
Gabe ducked his head as he laughed, wheeling his bike around to take it to the rack, his roommates following. Two minutes later they were back, Balth holding up a couple of space bags and Gabe pulling a 24 pack of PBR out of his tattered and patched up pack.
"Peace offering, Deaner?" the shorter man grinned.
"Yeah yeah, party on or whatever. I'm going out for a smoke. Keep my seat warm, yeah?" Dean smirked as Gabe's eyes widened slightly before bounding over to sit beside Sam on the grungy couch they had dragged off of the sidewalk a month or two back. Sam smiled nervously.
Dean sighed. Kids these days. He found himself out on the front stoop, leaning on the door as he cupped his lighter with one hand, inhaling as he lit his cigarette. He listened too the happy noises floating out the window of his home. Laughter and flirting, mostly. Someone, probably Chuck, had taken out a guitar and was strumming that damn Against Me song. It wasn't long before The Roadhouse was practically shaking from the force of the words barreling out of 30 punk throats.
"Through the best of times! Through the worst of times! Through Nixon and through Bush!"
Dean chuckled, taking another puff and savoring the burning taste of nicotine. If someone had told him ten years ago that this would be his life…
"…We're all hypocrites! But you're a patriot! You thought I was only joking when I screamed 'KILL WHITEY!' at the cops in their cars and the men in their suits. No I won't take your hand and marry the state!"
It wasn't the easiest life. It wasn't the safest. He had more than his fair share of close calls. He'd been tear gassed and kettled at actions, though never arrested. He had a particularly nasty scar on his scalp from when some neo-nazi son of a bitch had hit him with a lead pipe. He'd had food poisoning from dumpstered food and scabies from traveler kids.
He'd never had a rough John but it was always a possibility. Sam didn't understand why Dean hooked when he didn't really have to, but Sam didn't know about the savings account that was slowly growing fatter and fatter by the month. The savings account would be Sam's ticket back to school, he just didn't know it yet. Dean was thinking of it as an investment: lawyers weren't cheap and having a genius working pro-bono for you and your cause would be a huge relief.
"CAUSE BABY, I'M AN ANARCHIST!" the chorus echoing through the dark West Oakland streets, "YOU'RE A SPINELESS LIBERAL! WE MARCHED TOGETHER FOR THE EIGHT HOUR DAY AND HELD HANDS IN THE STREETS OF SEATTLE! BUT WHEN IT CAME TIME TO THROUGH THAT STARBUCKS WINDOW, YOU LEFT ME ALL ALONE ! ALL ALOOOONE!"
It wasn't the easiest life, but right now, Dean wouldn't trade it for the world.
Which is probably why the cops picked that exact moment to descend. As the blue and red lights flashed heavy on the walls of The Roadhouse as everyone gathered behind the door, Dean had a moment of absolute clarity.
"Sammy?"
"Yeah, Dean?"
"Where the fuck has Ruby been all day?"
"Oh. Fuck."