Warnings aka what you're signing up for: Alternate Universe - Human; Alternate Universe - Criminals; Crack with Plot; Crack Treated Seriously; But Also Serious Issues Treated Crackish; Kidnapping; Angst and Humor; This Fic In A Nutshell: Dean Gets Kidnapped And Treats It Like A Roadtrip; Smart Dean Winchester; Sarcasm; Mental Health Issues; Winchester Coping Mechanisms; Inappropriate Humor; Also Fluff; Epic Friendship; Protective Everyone; Dean Winchester's Sense Of Self-Preservation; Castiel And Dean Have A Bond In Everything I Write Okay; Morally Ambiguous Character; Lots of Law-Breaking; Health Issues; This Is Genuinely Not As Dark As It May Seem; Unreliable Narrator; No Love Triangle.

Part 1

How Not To React When Two Armed Assholes With An Attitude Problem Fail To Steal Your Car
a.k.a. Dean has a bad day

Fuck Mondays. Seriously.

— Dean Winchester

The day starts out fairly decent, as far as Mondays go. Looking back, that should have probably been Dean's first clue.

It isn't. Dean blames his staunch belief that not every single day in his life can be meant to suck for that error in judgement. Because surely there is some justice in the world. Some cosmic balance to even out the shit hand he's been dealt.

Fuck, he sounds like a gullible sucker, doesn't he? Dean really, really should've known better. Optimism is for people with a stable living situation and a future, who don't live on ramen and expired painkillers.

On the bright side, it could have been worse.

[On the other side, Dean is of the firm opinion that this line doesn't help shit when your life falls apart around you. He's less than impressed to be proven right.]

Still. The point stands. It could have been worse. At the very least, Dean isn't doing anything important when some bored, fucked-up personification of Fate turns around and lowers the quality of the shitty, overly dramatic soap opera than calls itself his life even further. After that incident two months ago that had him fainting like a maiden fair in terrible distress — or so Charlie insists — Dean didn't think that was possible.

Apparently someone out there took that as a challenge. Of course they did.

He is hanging out at this small, comfy coffee shop near Sammy's school, blocking a whole table — much to the prissy waiter's annoyance — mostly just killing time until school runs out. More precisely, the waiting is killing him.

So is the chai latte Dean has accidentally ordered. He is convinced the barista is low-key trying to poison him — because there's no way any drink is supposed to taste this terrible, people pay for this shit — and has spent the past two hours observing the guy out of the corner of his eye. Which might be an alternative explanation for why 'Dave' is so damn twitchy. But he's not Charlie — Charlie, who makes terrible jokes and greets Dean with the daily updates on the Stony vs. Stucky war, Charlie who would have never handed Dean a fucking chai latte [except, possibly, to film him try it for the first time] and Dean has a hard time forgiving the guy for that. It's not Dave's fault that Charlie doesn't work on Mondays, but that's not really the point. Of course, Charlie might actually refuse to serve him anything but chai lattes if she learns that Dean has been terrorizing the new guy again.

Deciding to give the kid a break, Dean settles for glaring at the still mostly untouched cup in front of him. No way is he going to drink this crap. Bad enough that he had to pay for it, he's suffered enough. And clearly spent way too much time ordering Sammy's drinks because there is no other excuse for answering a perfectly disinterested "What can I get you?" with chai latte of all things.

Clearly, Dean is losing his mind, sense of self and possibly his soul. That or the murderous headache that has been building behind his temples since he made the inexcusable mistake and got out of bed this morning is messing with his mind. Either is possible at this point.

Did he even take painkillers before he left the house? Dean can't remember. Which probably isn't a good sign.

The air-conditioning doesn't help. It is turned on full-blast, so even though Dean has been sweating all day in the unnatural pre-summer heat, now he has got goosebumps on his skin and determinedly refuses to shiver. His skin feels clammy and wrong, and all Dean really wants is to punch Dave in the face — or curl up under all the blankets he can find and never resurface again.

One of the baristas is walking around between the tables, handing out free samples of double-chocolate chip muffins and vanilla donuts without sparing Dean a single glance.

Well, thanks a lot, assbutt.

It's undoubtedly the final sign of the universe telling Dean in no uncertain terms to give up the vague hope that this day will miraculously take a turn for the better and just go home, crawl back into bed and forget about the rest of the world. Dean has gotten the message, loud and clear. Sammy is just going to have to walk.

[Never mind that his bossy, little bitch of a brother would take one look at Dean and demand the keys with judgy bitchface No. 11. Because "You're not driving in that state, Dean, are you trying to get yourself killed?" Which would mean Dean would be obligated to refuse to hand the keys over and have to deal with Sammy's pouting and complaints the whole drive home. And Dean loves his brother to pieces, but just no. He's not in the mood for that shit.]

With a too-loud groan — if the affronted glares from the study group two tables down is anything to go by— Dean collects his books and pushes them into his worn-down backpack with a careless shove. Unlike certain someones, he doesn't worship books. Especially not long-winded, headache-inducing bullshit thick enough to serve as a murder weapon. One Dean is tempted to wield. He likes vanilla donuts, damn it.

Striding out of ChemicalCoffee with a brief nod of acknowledgement towards Dave behind the counter — because Charlie would skin him if he didn't, but if Dean has to exchange another word with the kid, he's going to kill someone — Dean focuses on not stumbling when the heavy, too-warm air hits him like a brick wall the moment he steps outside. The bright afternoon sun does nothing to soothe the piercing pain behind his head. Neither does the noise of too many cars driving too fast or slow, howling engines and frustrated honking everywhere. Yeah. This day is so done.

Dean takes a few slow, deep breaths. Reminds himself that he really doesn't want to throw up in front of all these strangers. Except maybe the asshole who almost bowls him over. He'll make an exception just for that fucker. Why does he live in the smack middle of a city again instead of a lovely cabin high up in the mountains, far away from civilization? It sure sounds tempting right now.

A couple of minutes pass like this, with Dean leaning against the nearest wall and desperately gathering his bearings, before the intense wave of dizziness-slash-pain-slash-motion-sickness finally passes. For the moment at least.

Dean really, really hates migraines.

Thankfully, ever since the disastrous zoo trip on Sammy's seventh birthday, Dean is prepared for days like this. It takes a bit of fumbling and grabbing blindly because his backpack probably should have been cleaned out two years ago, but finally his hand closes around the small bottle of pills. They're stronger than your usual painkillers, definitely the prescription kind — which Dean has somewhere in his bag as well, thank you very much — and Sammy probably isn't too far off with his insistence that Dean shouldn't drive after swallowing two of them dry.

But, well.

Listening has never really been Dean's strong suit. Besides it's like a four minute drive. He could find the way home drunk off his ass just fine, these pills aren't going to be a problem. [And yes, Dean knows that from experience, just don't tell his father. Sammy will bitch and whine, but John might actually murder Dean.]

So instead of calling a cab, Dean slowly but steadily walks down the street. Taking a turn to the left, the tense muscles in his neck start to relax the further away from the main street he goes. It's a short walk, maybe five minutes, but the small backstreets are almost abandoned at this time — too early for the school kids, to late for the moms at the grocery store — and it's too damn hot to hang out on plain asphalt if you have a better option. Like the park a few corners over.

Don't get Dean wrong, this isn't a bad part of town. Sure, it's a little quieter and the houses are rundown, paint peeling off on doorways and graffitis adorning every free space of mural. But it's not the type of neighborhood where you're wary to leave the house after eight o'clock. Seriously. Families live here. With little kids. There's a small, pink bike leaning against the wall on the other side of the street. Yeah, a couple of homeless guys hang around sometimes, but that's it. Hardly a reason to upgrade to full-on Armed and Dangerous™ status, is it?

Except Dean maybe sort of comes to regret that relaxed attitude a little bit when he rounds the corner, only to see two guys trying to break into a car. His car.

And maybe those pills are as strong as advertised, because instead of the usual, easily ignited rage at the thought of anyone touching his car — a gift from his parents when he turned sixteen, one of the last gifts his mom ever gave him — Dean feels weirdly detached from the sight. And well. Since he apparently isn't going to throw himself at those guys any second, he does the only other thing that comes to mind in the face of this unexpected development: he freezes right where he stands.

Somewhere in a shitty bar in the really fucked up part of this town, his dad is probably crying into his whiskey at Dean's stunning display of common sense and self-preservation.

In Dean's defense: He knew he shouldn't have gotten out of bed today. And at least he hasn't screamed. That would have been truly pathetic. As it is, Dean is honestly considering just leaning against the wall until the world stops feeling like it's wobbling under his feet. Then maybe he can call the police or just sit down until someone else comes by to do it for him. Always a good plan. And sure, losing his car would suck, but working up the proper indignation that thought deserves requires energy Dean simply doesn't have right now.

So yeah. He's doing a good job of coming to terms with the situation. Or at least that's what Dean likes to think. Why these assholes chose his car is a bit of a mystery, a classic Impala 76 isn't the most inconspicuous ride, but whatever. There's probably a good reason for that, and Dean's just too out of it to figure it out.

On second thought — and after watching those wannabe-robbers for a couple more minutes — maybe there isn't. Maybe those guys have no idea what they're doing. Dean can't think of any good reason why they would pathetically fail at stealing a car like this. It's so sad, it's almost funny.

Fuck, he really, really hopes he doesn't giggle. Not that Dean giggles, it's just those meds make him do strange shit sometimes. He'd deny it, but Sammy the bitch unfortunately has evidence. Blackmail, more likely.

Dean blinks. Forces himself to focus. There are two hot guys trying to break into his car — clearly a situation that demands his attention — and seriously why does he always meet attractive guys under weird circumstances? Hot girls are one thing, Dean is good with those. But flirting with hot guys is harder, especially when you don't know whether they're gonna punch you in the face for it or not.

That's not to say that Dean has never met hot guys. It's just that most of the time the circumstances of those encounters have been pretty weird. Even by Charlie's standards. Which is all the warning a guy needs.

Like that one time a guy sort of maybe bought Dean a hot chocolate — he was thirteen, okay, let it go — in the most roundabout way known in human history. Or that time his prom date ditched him and Dean spent the latter part of the night on a swing on a playground with a surprisingly cool guy and a bottle of vodka. [By the way, vodka sucks. The buzz just isn't worth it.] Or that time he was locked in an elevator with a guy. Who didn't tell Dean his name, even though they were trapped in there for five hours. But he stole Dean's lighter, so Dean figures that makes them friendly acquaintances.

Right. There was supposed to be a point to this internal monologuing Dean has got going for himself here. The point being that these guys are terrible thieves — though Dean very much appreciates that they haven't just shattered one of his baby's windows — and there is only so much time he can spend watching them try and fail to crack the door open.

So, Dean does the natural thing and clears his throat. Loudly.

Both guys jump, which almost makes Dean scoff. They are out in the open after all, not standing in a safe room. If they weren't as jittery as they appear right now, Dean might not have even suspected anything off about them. Well, and if it wasn't his car they are trying to break into. That's a pretty big clue too.

Dean takes a moment to evaluate the possible future owners of his car. The one on the right is wearing dark, torn jeans, a white muscle shirt and a very impressive scowl. His arms and shoulders are covered in tattoos, some of them even reaching his chest all the way up to his neck, which helps upping the imposing do-not-fuck-with-me air the guy has going for himself. He's taller than the other guy, maybe even has an inch or two on Dean and has the kind of muscled built that would make Dean wary of taking him on even if he couldn't see the dark look in his eyes. Friendly guy, that one.

The one on the left at least doesn't look at him like he's imagining how Dean will look bleeding out on the ground. For that alone, Dean already likes him better. He's a good deal shorter too, and a bit thinner. A tattoo peaks out from under the oversized band t-shirt he's wearing, but he has a good deal less than his companion. He also has light brown hair long enough to almost brush his shoulders and is eying Dean up shamelessly with the kind of amused twinkle that would make a lesser — or quite possibly saner — man run for his life.

Naturally Dean returns the favor.

They both look pretty surprised, considering the fact that they're standing in broad daylight in the middle of the afternoon. Although the street is empty apart from the three of them, so there is that. Still. Dean feels a little let down by the entire experience. Hollywood has prepared him for dark, rainy nights, thunder rumbling in the background, and hollow footsteps following young girls home. Not— whatever this is.

Maybe that's why Dean is confronting them like this, instead of doing whatever a sensible citizen would do. His dad may have taught Dean how to throw a punch, but right now even Sammy's tiny friend Meg could probably lay Dean on his ass in two seconds flat. Or perhaps there's just not enough room for rational thought when you struggle to remember how to walk in a straight line.

It helps that Dean has a hard time taking these guys seriously. They haven't managed to break into his car yet, which probably isn't that difficult if you know what you're doing. Added to that the fact that they look like Sammy and his friends when Dean used to catch them sneaking T-rated video games in, and well.

"Need some help with that?"

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