Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), AU, Homelessness, Profanity.
Beauty is a strange concept. It's something the scurriers consider almost every second of their lives, but seem to miss the point of. Spending so much of his life on the streets has given Dean ample opportunity to observe the shifting trends of what is, and isn't beautiful in the minds of scurriers. People watching is a sport he's well versed in, and the longer he competes in it, the more he realises that people are becoming more and more the same. Just as cities are being homogenised into identical places, people are becoming identical. Beauty, true beauty, is something that scurriers will never understand. Beauty should be something that it hurts to look at. Beauty should be something that when you're in its presence you're not sure what to do. Beauty should be something that some people are confused, disgusted, or scared of. There is no universal beauty. Anything, anyone who everyone can agree on as beautiful simply isn't. It's nothing more than an accepted level of pleasant. Universally accepted beauty is bland, banal, and uninteresting. It's not beauty, it's wallpaper. Real beauty should make you uncomfortable, real beauty should make you shy away from it, part in awe, part in fear. Based on the way the homeless are taking a step back, the way they're are standing watching from behind each other, or trees, leaves Dean thinking that this fight is a thing of true beauty.
It had started when some drunk, rich scurriers had made a comment on finding the lean-to. The flimsy walls had been kicked in, and a few standard insults had been thrown that Punk had taken exception to. Dean knows from experience how much a kick from Punk hurts, and the fact that it'd taken the one scurrier who had thrown the first insult a good thirty seconds to stand once more shows that he knows how much they hurt too. It's five on two, and there's a part of Dean that thinks this isn't fair to the scurriers. Punk fights like a dervish, everywhere at once, and Dean's well practiced in avoiding getting his ass kicked. He's been in more than his fair share of fights, he knows how to handle himself. These scurriers had clearly expected some easy quarry to end their night of drinking, it's not fair to them that they chose so very badly. Between Punk's kicks, and Dean's fists, these drunk scurriers don't stand much of a chance.
It takes maybe five minutes to render them incapable of sustaining the fight, four of them slinking off, the audience of homeless that had crowded around trailing them. There's no doubt in Dean's mind that those four will find themselves relieved of most of their possessions by the dispersed crowd. The fifth is laying in a heap of drying blood, Punk standing over him, his eyes narrowed, thin chest heaving slightly.
"We should move him." Punk nudges the unconscious scurrier with his foot, and Dean nods vaguely. Leaving the scurrier where he is isn't a good idea. It's too close to the lean-to, that they'll need to rebuild for now, but move tomorrow, because now the position is compromised. Once the night scurriers find you, they will hound you. They'll keep coming back, again, and again until they've exhausted all possible entertainment opportunities, and Dean doesn't doubt that this group would come back with their friends to try and kick the shit out of Punk and him.
"I'll check his pockets first, then you grab his arms, and I'll get the feet." Dean walks over to the scurrier.
"No." Punk bats Dean away, his expression hard and tight.
"You wanna check him yourself?" Dean laughs, straightening up to meet Punk's eyes easily. "Go ahead, but we don't have all night."
"We're not robbing him." Punk moves to stand by the scurrier's head, and nods down to his feet.
"Like hell we aren't!" Dean scoffs, moving to search through the unconscious man's pockets. Punk's foot makes a swipe for Dean's hand, missing, but just barely. "Hey! C'mon, it's not like he's gonna miss a few bucks."
"We're better than that." Punk sniffs. "We're not robbing him. We already beat him, that's enough, Dean." Punk snaps, and Dean sighs at him, but does move down to grab the scurrier's ankles, and haul his lower half up off the ground. Punk takes the man's wrists, lifting the rest of the man's body up into the air slightly. Nobility is all well and good, it's plenty nice, but this noble spark merely makes Punk even more of a riddle to Dean. Punk's a white whale trapped in the situation of a homeless man. Yet, there's a mean streak in him that makes it possible for him to thrive in a World like this. There's too many contradictions to Punk, too many parts that make up the whole that just shouldn't fit together, but they do. "Thank you." Punk murmurs softly, and Dean glances up at him. There's something gentle on Punk's face, some kind of sweet expression that fills Dean with a trickle of unexpected warmth.
"Yeah, well... Whatever, let's just get him outta here. I wanna get some more sleep tonight." Dean starts walking, and Punk nods, following Dean's lead. They dump the man on the pavement outside of the park, leaving him propped up against a wall. There's a sluggish trail of blood from his broken nose, and an impressive bruise taking up most of his face.
"You okay?" Punk asks suddenly, and Dean turns to him. The bruises that had been on Punk are still there, but to accompany them there's now a set of grazed knuckles, and a manic grin. The thrill of a fight suits Punk incredibly well, adrenaline brings out the fire in him, and in the harsh orange glare of the streetlight, he's breath-taking in his beauty.
"I'm good... Why? Don't I look it?" Dean smirks, hiding a wince as it makes what feels like a split lip making itself known.
"No... You look like shit." Punk laughs, and Dean shakes his head. Despite the instinct to, he doesn't duck when Punk comes closer, and swipes some tissue paper pulled from his pocket over Dean's cheek. "You've got some blood... I don't think it's yours though." Punk licks the paper, and swipes Dean's cheek again, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "There... That's better." He smiles awkwardly, his hand still against Dean's cheek, the tissue feels a little rough, but there's a spark of electricity where Punk's fingers are touching Dean's skin, an unfamiliar tingling that Dean finds he more than likes.
"Thanks... I don't have anything to clean you up with... Even if I did, I don't think it'd help. You need a shower." Dean smiles, and Punk laughs, a deep genuine laugh that lingers in Dean's mind as they walk back into the park.
"We should move on." Punk mutters once they get back by the dumpsters, the sheets of plywood are surprisingly still there, as are the ratty blankets. Dean had expected them to have been stolen, and added to someone else's horde. It might be that the other homeless are still picking over the four scurriers, or it might be that they're too scared to come back to the scene of the beating. It's hard to tell, but Dean supposes it doesn't matter much either way.
"In the morning." Dean rubs his eyes, yawning. Punk starts reassembling something like a shelter, propping the wood up against the metal, Dean helping him eventually. "Fuck, I'm tired." He feels worn out, as well as beaten. Tomorrow they're finding a shelter for the night. He wants something like a good night's sleep and a shower tomorrow. A shower where he's going to spend some time lingering over Punk's naked body. He wants a better look, wants to see if there's evidence of other people's hands on Punk beyond his face, wants to try and work out if the bruises on his face are from his clients or from fights. He wants to check Punk over now if he's honest, but it's too dark, too cold, and too public. A shelter might not offer any more privacy, but it offers the illusion of it, and Dean intends to grab that with both hands. After tonight, after this fight, he's grimly aware that he's attached, that he's sentimental over Punk. After tonight, he's decided that Punk is his. Not his friend, not his travelling companion, not his riddle to be solved, just plain his. Punk's dangerous when he has to be, sweet when he can be, but always interesting. Dean isn't letting him go. He's going to cling to Punk, not just for his system and his connections, but for him. There's something about him that keeps Dean's attention, something that keeps Punk in the back of Dean's mind. It's something that Dean can't deny to himself, he needs to keep Punk around, and he's going to do everything he can to keep him.
"Yeah, well... To bed then?" Punk waves his hand at the little makeshift shack, and Dean gets in, squinting in the darkness to watch Punk pull the last sheet of ply behind him, sealing the little hut up.
"Hey... C'mere." Dean holds his arms out to Punk, sighing contentedly when Punk settles against him once more, his head on Dean's chest, the ratty blankets wrapped around them both.
The night is a dangerous time for those who live on the streets. At night, you're asleep, and asleep you're vulnerable. As you dream your body is open to attack, unprotected by your watchful eyes against those who wish to harm you, and they find an opening under the cover of darkness. Night is the abyss, and the scurriers that lurk around the edges, peeking in tentatively are a threat. Dean's always thought he sat in the abyss alone, that his smirk in shadows was the only one, but it's not. Curled up in his arms once more is one who wears a Cheshire Cat grin with him in the depths of the abyss. Punk's a good man at his core, but over that core are layers of darkness, his light carefully wrapped up in thick shadows to keep it safe. With Punk, Dean's a little safer, Punk proved that most eloquently tonight. There's not usually safety in numbers for groups of men on the streets, especially groups of just two. It makes you more of a target, but with Punk by his side, Dean's sure there's not much of anyone who'd come off better than them in a fight.
"You're staring at me... I can feel it." Punk mutters, and Dean chuckles at him, smiling when Punk shifts so that his face is turned up to Dean. "Why?"
"Why what?" Dean laughs. There's an impossible to resist urge to touch Punk's face, Dean's finger trailing over his features gently. Beneath the dirt, beneath the exhaustion, Punk is beautiful. Not the homogenised beauty of the scurriers, but something truly beautiful, something that some people could never appreciate because they don't have the eyes to see.
"Why are you staring at me?" Punk's eyebrow twitches when Dean's finger ghosts over it, his lips quirking in a half-smile when that finger trails over them, lightly flicking at the little loop of silver resting over the thin bottom one.
"You're interesting." Dean smiles, parroting back his words from earlier in the night. Words said before Dean had come to the conclusion that he's keeping Punk, that Punk is his now. His hand moves to the back of Punk's neck, resting there, but not drawing him any closer. As sure as Dean is that Punk would allow a kiss, Dean doesn't want to be presumptuous. The decision to kiss is one Dean will let Punk make. He thinks it's inevitable, but he's not going to rush it, time is something he has more than enough of after all.
"Interesting, hmm? Second time you've told me that tonight." Punk's voice is soft, almost breathy as he moves closer to Dean, their lips almost touching. Dean smiles at him, pleased, and a little relieved, that Punk remembers their earlier conversation. It's always a concern that Punk will forget things, especially things that Dean thinks are more important than they first seem, and with Punk Dean's beginning to think that everything is more important that it seems at first glance. "You keep telling me that, and I might remember it." Punk murmurs, and Dean lets his eyes slide half-closed, watching Punk through his lashes. It's hard to see him in the darkness, but Dean doesn't think he needs to be able to see Punk to know what's coming next. There's only one of two ways for the tension between them to be relieved, and Dean's hoping that Punk will choose the most enjoyable of options.
"I'll write it on your wall." Dean's words are barely out before Punk kisses him, a kiss that had been intended to be light and short, but that Dean deepens hungrily. He's not kissed someone in a long time, and even if Punk doesn't taste particularly great, dental hygiene isn't something you can be too picky about on the streets, the kiss itself is incredible. There's a well of passion, of fire inside Punk, and Dean can feel it in that kiss, can feel it in the way Punk's tongue dances with his, the way his fingers had slide into Dean's hair, the way his body moves over Dean's own. Punk is a riddle, a mystery, a liability, a threat, but more than all of these things, to Dean, he is beautiful, and more importantly Punk is his.
Many thanks to those kind enough to review:
littleone1389, Rebellecherry, AshJovillette, Hyrde, VKxXx92, and Moiself.
I really didn't think I'd find myself writing fanfictions in the office during my lunch break, and then staying late to finish it again... But apparently I did. Was it worth it? I'm not sure...
If you enjoyed - Please review. A few kind words are an elixir to my weary soul.