Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), AU, Homelessness, Profanity.
Apathy is an affliction that the World of the scurriers suffers from greatly. They live in a fog of apathy, greedily consuming without ever giving back. There is no recompense given to those who give to them. There is no reward to be gained from the scurriers. They consume. They devour. They're a plague of locusts that destroy everything in their path. They're consummate in the art of being socially connected without ever being part of a society. There is no society in the lives of those who scurry. They have nothing that connects them to the people around them. They have Facebook, and Twitter, and Instagram, but they are solely connected to their cell phones. Eyes fixated on a small screen, never seeing what's around them. They measure their worth in their hits, they take pride in being so connected to everyone in the World, but never once do they stop to realise that they're merely spewing what's in their tepid minds out into a vast basin of tepid thought. Anything too cold, or too hot is rejected. They live in a Goldilocks' zone where everything is just right for them. Everything else is discarded. Though in all honesty, as Dean sees it, in the World of the scurriers everything is disposable.
Gentrification, urban renewal, discovering undiscovered parts of the city, and modernising them. What the scurriers mean by that is taking the streets from the people they once belonged to, and turning them into the same bland strip mall, coffee shop hell that every other city Dean has ever passed through has. He's seen enough cities to know that slowly but surely, they'll all be the same, carbon copies of one another, homogenised into one grey, pulpy mass of the Goldilocks' zone, fill with homogenised people, a cell phone in one hand, and a Starbucks cup in the other. There's no room for people like him in these cities, no place for people like Punk either.
Punk is an interesting quandary for him. Dean's not a friends kind of guy. People fall neatly into one of three categories for him. The scurriers, busy with their lives, occasionally giving him a handout to make themselves feel better. The white whales, genuine philanthropists, motivated by some honest goodness, and the other homeless. Dean has acquaintances amongst the homeless, but he doesn't have friends. If he ever had friends, he left them behind lifetimes ago, because in some ways he's like the scurriers. There are some things that Dean consumes, and the kindness, the friendship of others is one of those things.
Punk is different though. He doesn't fit into the nice neat categories of people, because Dean's seen him do things to make it seem like he's one of those honestly good people. He helps where he can. That first day they'd spent together, Punk had explained everyone who had helped them, who had given them something, was doing it because of something he gave them, some kind of aide or service he'd rendered that had left those people in his debt. Yet, Punk's on the streets, he'd very much part of the homeless. Punk's a riddle, and Dean's fond of considering riddles. Riddles are something he's fascinated by. Life is one big riddle, and no matter how long Dean considers it, he's never sure he's got it solved. Just when he thinks he's got life all figured out, he'll read another article in the library, and his thoughts will morph to include this new idea. He's not been to the library in a while, and he's sure that there'll be all kinds of new and interesting research to peruse once he visits again.
He and Punk spend several weeks in each other's company. Punk's complete inability to remember Dean's name is something that's slowly beginning to intrigue him. Every day, several times a day, Punk asks him his name, and Dean tells him. He's almost tempted to tell him different names to see if one will stick, but he doesn't for fear of Punk remember something like Barbara McCunt-Cookie, and then introducing him to people as such. So every time Dean repeats his name, and every time Punk nods after repeating it a few times, and every time Punk forgets. It's almost depressing, but there's a comfort in the routine that Dean's come to appreciate.
Punk is a man of routine. The time they've spent together has followed Punk's system, and Dean's grown fond of it. Punk's got a good thing going here, but he's so steeped in a strange kind of mystery. He's never explained where he was for the week Dean had filled his morning pitch. He's never offered a single drop of information regarding his scar, or his forgetfulness, or his occasional bouts of wobbliness. He never comments, and Dean thinks that asking would be unwelcome to say the very least. He'd like to know, but not to the extent that it might cost him this routine.
Nights they usually spend in a park, curled up in an odd little lean-to at the side of some dumpsters. The smell isn't great, but there's shelter, and it's fairly quiet. The middle of the park is often populated by the more vocal, drunken homeless, who are more vulnerable to the drunken, bored scurriers who will make promises of all manner of things to them if they perform for their for entertainment. Violence is their preferred form of sport, from paying two drunk old men to fight, to paying some pretty girl to let them rape her, only to beat her and take the money back. There's nothing pleasant about those that scurry under the cover of darkness. Dean knows how to play them though, knows how to use these dark scurriers to his advantage, because whilst they stand staring into the abyss, thinking themselves above it, Dean sits in that abyss, and stares back at them with a smirk on his lips.
There's a darkness in everyone on the streets. It's inevitable. They live in horrors. It's only proper that they become filled with those horrors, and whilst some are consumed by the darkness, Dean has befriended it. He doesn't tremble in fear of what he's done, or what he's become, because he knows the other option is death. He's not spent all of his time puzzling over the mysteries of life only to willingly walk into those of death.
Habits form quickly on the streets. Habits designed to keep you alive. Habits that have Dean sleeping close to, but not touching Punk. Habits that have him seeking warmth from the nearest living thing when his dreams take him. Habits that have never quite taken hold of Dean in his sleep, and he realises a second too late that he was too close to Punk, that his hand, his arm, his leg, some part of Dean at least touched Punk, and Punk doesn't like being touched in his sleep. The punch in the face shocks Dean from his sleep, leaving him blinking slowly, his head filled with a low buzzing.
"Get the fuck away from me!" Punk's on his feet quickly, shaking slightly. Dean raises slowly, hands raised in a non-threatening, surrendering gesture, trying to placate, trying to soothe.
"Punk?" He tries softly, but Punk's not listening, or more likely can't listen because instinct has kicked in. The kick to Dean's shin sends him crashing to his knees, and the follow up boot to the chin snaps his head back, the taste of blood filling his mouth.
"Who the fuck are you?" Punk's screaming, hysteria in his voice. "What the fuck do you want? C'mon asshole, get up! Answer me!" Dean's temper is scrambling to mount a defence as Punk's foot connects with his ribs; instinct grabs Punk's leg, and pulls him off balance. Anger is Dean's most familiar friend, his closest ally.
"Calm down." Yet, Dean's more rational side is telling him that this is a bad idea, that he needs to calm Punk down, then get them out of here before the cops show up, and they're in the cells for the night. Anger won't help him, not tonight, not with Punk, not right now.
"Lemme go!" Punk's fists are vicious, and his voice is a desperate hissing. "Fucking lemme go!" Dean pulls his leg again, Punk losing his footing and landing heavily on his back, the air leaving his lungs with a pained whoosh.
"Punk." It's a stupid idea to have straddled him, to be pinning him down, because Punk fights all the more violently, struggling against Dean's weight and height advantage with a strength borne of fear. The noises he's making aren't recognisable as real words, more like the screams of a banshee, screeching for his freedom. The single punch Dean throws he regrets. Punk stills instantly, blood trickling sluggishly from his nose, his chest raising and falling rapidly, his eyes wide with fear. "Punk... It's me. It's Dean." The words mean nothing. Dean can see that they're having no effect, and he stands, careful to not move too quickly and spook Punk anymore. In the near distance, there's the sound of a siren. Dean turns to look in the direction of it, and he hears Punk scramble away. He doesn't look to see where he's gone. It's not the time to worry about that, he's got more pressing concerns, like his own freedom.
The shelter is pretty empty, but Dean supposes he's there pretty early. The few staff on hand, that recognise him, eye Dean warily. He's been in some trouble here before, none that he'd started, but plenty that he'd finished. There are some people on the streets that don't like Dean for various reasons. His sexuality, his tendency to run volatile, his habit of never quite knowing when to shut up and take it. Dean makes few friends, and keeps even fewer, but he wishes he'd kept Punk a little longer. They'd gotten on fairly well, and Punk was interesting, but since the fight in the park a few nights ago, he's not seen hide or hair of Punk.
It's strange, but Dean had gone looking for Punk, had followed the loop they'd taken over the few weeks they'd known each other, but no one had seen Punk. He'd been assured that sometimes Punk vanishes. It's not uncommon for homeless people to vanish. Death is a perpetual hazard of those without a roof over their heads, but Dean doesn't think Punk's dead. He doesn't want Punk to be dead. He wants Punk to be okay. He wants Punk to come back. The man at the deli, Sammo, had assured Dean that Punk was like a stray cat. He comes round all the time for a few weeks, and then one day he's just gone. You keep looking for him, keep worrying about him, and then one day he's back, no explanation, no reason, no nothing to tell you where he's been, just back until he's gone again.
There's something about Punk that keeps Dean's attention in a way he can't ever remember anyone else being able to. It might be the slightly unpredictable nature of Punk. The incident in the park is something Dean can't forget. He still aches slightly every time he moves thanks to Punk's feet and fists. It might be that Punk has some interestingly useful connections in the city, or it might be those eyes of his. They're interesting eyes, a pretty colour, and there's more than just another sob story behind them. There's the tale of that scar, there's the tale of Punk's mood swings, there's the tale of his terrible memory. There's more than a story behind Punk, Dean's certain of that, behind Punk there's an epic, and he's always been drawn to the thicker tomes on the library shelves.
His bed for the night is unpleasantly close to the bathroom, and Dean can only hope that the shelter doesn't get too full. Knowing his luck, he'll get puked on by a drunk again. It's never particularly fun being someone's vomit catcher, and he can only hope that the drunks make it, or that there aren't many of them.
He heads to the showers quickly. Communal bathing has never been his thing. He's a pretty private guy, and despite his preference for men, there's rarely a guy from the streets that catches his eye. Once or twice, he's scored a hook up in one of these places with some pretty young thing that's just run away from home, but on the whole, Dean's sexual exploits have come with some cold hard cash to accompany the warm hard flesh. There's one other guy in the showers. Thin, bruises all up his back, tattoos all down his arms. His movements are slow and cautious, but jerky as though he's worried about being so exposed. Dean ignores him, and washes quickly. Even if he's not alone, the water feels good.
You learn to live with being filthy on the streets, but when you can, there's nothing like being clean. Hot running water is a luxury that Dean would revel in if he were ever a scurrier. He'd take hour-long showers if he could. It's not a good idea here though. Naked is vulnerable, and vulnerable is the first thing you have to learn to not be on the streets. By the time Dean's done washing and dressing, the other guy has finished up, dressed, and is standing in front of a mirror, trimming his beard with a pair of clippers.
"Your nose okay?" Dean doesn't come too close, isn't entirely sure that Punk won't swing for him again.
"It's fine... Are..." Punk's reflection closes its eyes, and a soft sigh escapes him. "I'm sorry I freaked out." He offers instead of whatever his question was going to be.
"Hey, don't worry about it." Dean takes a step closer, and Punk nods, turning to face him. "You look like shit." It's not a particularly pleasant remark, but it is an accurate one. Punk looks awful, his skin a strangely sallow shade, deep bruises from a lack of sleep under his eyes, with his hair still damp and plastered to his skull, he looks terrible.
"I've been awake." Punk shrugs, and Dean squints at him, not too sure how to answer. "I'm sorry I hit you... I just... Are you okay? Have you been alright?" Punk's fingers start twisting up in the ends of his sleeves, and Dean nods, staring at him critically.
"You've not been eating have you?" He looks thinner, and without all of his layers, his naked body had looked so thin. Now that Dean knows what Punk looks like naked he can't shake the image. If it had just been some random it wouldn't be in Dean's mind. He'd have filed it away as another thin homeless guy with a nice ass, but now it's Punk's thin body, it's Punk's nice ass to go along with his untold, but undoubtedly interesting story. Punk is a mystery Dean wants to get to the bottom of, and it surprises him.
"I eat." Punk mutters defensively, his arms wrapping around himself. "You gonna trim that beast on your face?"
"Gonna shave it off." Dean laughs, rubbing his hand over the beard on his chin. "It's too fucking ginger for my liking." Punk smiles at him, and turns back to the mirror, tactically moving over, leaving enough room beside him should Dean wish to stand by him. It's an invitation that Dean takes, foaming his face, and shaving quickly.
"You look so young like that." Punk's voice is soft, and Dean turns to him, a towel pressed to his newly beard-less chin.
"I'm not that old... Twenty-six." Dean smiles, and Punk nods vaguely, his fingers once more twisting in his sleeves. "How old are you?" It's an easy question, but Punk pales. His hand, still tangled in his sleeve, comes up to press against the scar on his forehead.
"I... I don't know." He mutters, and Dean frowns at him, gently taking hold of his wrist, moving slowly, giving Punk every opportunity to stop him as he draws Punk's hand from his face, and stares at the scar. It's slightly raised, and starkly white. An old deep wound.
"What happened to you?" Dean trails a finger above the scar, not touching, not daring to for fear of Punk swinging for him again. Punk steps back, shaking his head, and gathers the few things he has. "Hey... Don't vanish on me again." Dean calls to him as he moves to leave the showering room. "I missed you." Dean shrugs, and Punk stares at him in disbelief.
"Sure you did." Punk scoffs, and Dean comes over to him quickly, his paltry possessions tucked under his arm.
"I did... I got used to your forgetful ass." Dean misses out the fact that now he's seen it, there's more to Punk's ass than being forgetful. For all his skinniness, Punk has a nice ass, softly curved, firm, pert. The sort of ass that Dean knows would be a good fuck.
"Sure." Punk scoffs once more, and leaves the showering room, making his way into the sleeping area. "The bed by me is free... It's further from the toilet." He doesn't look back at Dean, but Dean thinks he knows that he'll follow. A bed in a better location is a good idea, further from the toilets greatly reduces the likelihood of being puked on.
Dean lies on the bed beside Punk's, surreptitiously watching him settle under his blanket, getting ready to sleep, his back turned to Dean. It's stupid, but Dean doesn't want him facing the opposite way. He wants to lie facing Punk, and try to fool himself that he's not in a shelter. He wants to try and picture his scurrier house, and his never-ending supply of hot water. He wants to imagine knowing the story behind that scar on Punk's brow, he wants to imagine how Punk would look if he wasn't so thin, if he was well fed, fucked out and curled up to sleep in a soft warm bed wrapped in Dean's arms.
"Hey Punk?" Dean calls softly after a little while. The room is slowly filling with other people, their voices low and rough, occasional loud hacking coughs interrupting the hush that's filled the space, so he pitches his voice quietly, hoping Punk will hear.
"Uh-huh?" Punk turns around, and his face appears from under his blanket, in the dim light the pale scar, and the sliver of metal in his lip are about all Dean can really see.
"Goodnight." Dean smirks, and Punk snorts, tugging his blanket around himself tighter, but not turning away from Dean again.
"G'night, Dean." A sly smile spreads over Punk's lips, and Dean stares at him, willing him to explain how he remembered Dean's name, but somehow completely content with at least being remembered.
Many thanks to those kind enough to review:
AshJovillette, Moiself, Hyrde, Rebellecherry, Brokenspell77, and littleone1389.
Should be about three, maybe four chapters of this left - depends on a few factors really...
If you enjoyed - Please review. A few kind words are an elixir to my weary soul.