Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), AU, Homelessness, Profanity.
There are few guarantees in life. There's very little you can say is certain. In fact the only certain thing is uncertainty, and it's something that Dean has always taken comfort in. Guarantees make you complacent, and complacent makes you lazy, and lazy makes you dead on the streets. There's no handouts for the lazy. Scurriers see the homeless as living on handouts, and whilst in some ways that is the case, there's nothing free on the streets. A trip to a soup kitchen, or to a shelter is fraught with hazards. There are dangers on the streets that most people don't see. Even if you make it to somewhere the white whales are engaging in their charity, there's no guarantee that there'll be charity for you. First come, first served is the law of charity. Survival of the fittest is the law of the streets.
The scurriers live lives with guarantees. They have security in their own little worlds. Worlds with food, with warmth, with shelter. Their problems are small. He's heard their complaints his whole life, has heard them change, or at least expand to include new and exciting minor niggles. He's heard everything from whining about heating systems being too complicated to understand, to windowless bathrooms. Having a heating system, a bathroom, windowless or otherwise, isn't something Dean's ever experience. He can't remember a time when he'd ever lived somewhere. He can't remember ever having a home. The biggest problem that the women sitting near him, in that they're in a coffee shop, and he's huddled outside, face is that there's no free wifi, and their shoes aren't as comfortable as they'd looked in the store. Such minor things to find to complain about, but they're scurriers, they have guarantees, they have certainty, and Dean doesn't.
The major complaint of most scurriers is that they're bored. All their money, all their comforts, all their guarantees don't bring them the happiness they seek. It's the problem of needs once more. They have everything they need, so they seek out something else to satisfy themselves with, never realising that they're searching for something so fleeting that it's impossible to attain. For Dean, boredom isn't a problem. Boredom isn't a luxury he's afforded. Even in these moments when most could find the time to be bored, Dean fills his mind with thinking. He's of the opinion that most of the scurriers don't think. He's sure that they have thoughts, but he's also sure that they don't contemplate anything of note. They fill their heads with empty white noise to stop themselves from thinking too much. They worship at alters of celebrity so they don't have time to consider the meaning and value of their lives. Lives that are wasted on self-indulgent boredom. Scurriers are comfortable, and comfort breeds apathy. Scurrying breeds nothing but death.
"Hey." Punk's voice is a surprise, a welcome surprise. After the night in the shelter, a night Dean had spent mostly watching Punk sleep, considering the lines of his face, and the now known lines of his body, contemplating the curious beauty of him as a whole, Punk had vanished once more. He's been gone from Dean's life for a week, and now he's returned, looking as tired as ever, holding two cups of something steamingly hot in his hands.
"Thanks." Dean takes the offered cup, and Punk sits beside him, sipping at the steaming hot liquid. A silence falls over them, one that Dean would like to break by asking Punk where he's been, but he's not sure that he'd get an answer. In all honesty, Dean isn't sure if he'd get anything other than a fist to the jaw for enquiring after Punk's business. He's a secretive man, and Dean isn't sure if that's because Punk simply doesn't remember where he's been, or if it's something else entirely.
"You thinking about anything interesting?" Punk sounds like he actually is interested in Dean's thoughts, but they're the only things Dean truly owns, and he's possessive of them. He's not inclined to share his contemplations on the human condition with the most contradictory creature he's ever met. He's not sure how to classify Punk. He refuses to fit into a nice, neat category, and it frustrates Dean. Punk seems to live to defy classification, to defy the order Dean has given his world. Despite the frustration Punk causes, Dean isn't inclined to give up trying though. He's never met someone he couldn't work out, and he doesn't mean to start with Punk. Given enough time he'll slot Punk into a classification, all it'll take is time, and time is something Dean has plenty of.
"Nothing much." He shrugs, and Punk snorts at him disbelievingly.
"You look like you've got the weight of the World on your shoulders." Punk very slightly nudges him with his shoulder, and Dean glances over at him, properly looking at him for the first time since he showed back up. There's a bruise on Punk's left eye, deep purple, and sore looking, his lip-ring looks too tight from how his lip's swollen. Dean stares at him, wondering where the injuries came from, but knowing better than to ask.
"You look like it crushed you." Dean takes a drink from his coffee, feeling it scalding its way down his gullet. There's something reassuring about the pain of the too hot liquid burning him from the inside, something that reminds him that he's alive.
"Hmm... Maybe a little." Punk sighs, and closes his eyes, his head resting against the wall behind them. "You wrote your name up by mine on the wall." He says suddenly. "Its how I remembered it, in case you were wondering." A smile spreads over his lips, and Dean can't help but laugh at him. He had written his name there. The morning after Punk had beat him in the park, he'd gone to the spot by the subway hoping that Punk would be there, but he wasn't. An old discarded marker pen was though, and Dean, in a fit of pique, had scrawled his name up beside Punk's, claiming the spot as his own.
"So... That wall is how you remember things?" Dean chuckles, Punk's laugh is little more than a puff of air, but it's a pleasant sound all the same, one Dean would like to hear again.
"I remember things better when I can see them... I don't know why, I just do." There's something off about Punk's tone, something distractedly miserable, and Dean downs the last of his coffee, getting to his feet.
"C'mon." He offers a hand down to Punk, but it's ignored as he stands, pointlessly dusting his pants off.
"Where we going?" Punk finishes his own coffee, and tosses the empty cup into the trash, taking Dean's and doing the same with it.
"Somewhere else... It's too cold here." Dean starts walking aimlessly. It is cold, and sitting on the ground wasn't helping, though he's not sure walking will help much either. It's depressingly windy, and walking is exercise Punk doesn't much need, he's thin enough, Dean's thin enough too. They should be conserving the little energy they do have, but sitting gets old when you can't lose yourself in your own musings, so walking is as good as any other pastime.
They wander about for hours, pointlessly spending energy they don't have, and wind up at the back of the restaurant where they'd helped unload a delivery weeks ago. The man who owns the restaurant had popped his head out of the back, and greeted Punk, and by proxy Dean, as old friends. He'd even gone as far as to pull Punk into a hug, then held him out at arm's length as though surveying a long missed old friend. He talked to them for a while, rambling about business, answering the few questions about when he might need some more help vaguely, then gave them some calzone, and a large bottle of milk that was close to its expiry date, leaving them with a cheerful goodbye.
"We should head somewhere to eat..." Dean starts walking, and Punk follows along by him in silence. There's something on Punk's mind, and as much as Dean wants to pick his brain to try and solve the riddle that is Punk, he knows that asking won't get him much of anywhere. Punk is the sort of man who has to trust you to share what's on his mind, and Dean supposes he is too. His thoughts, his past, his future, those are the only things that are Dean's, and he's not inclined to share them lightly. The few things you own you have to cling to when you've got nothing of any substance, and Dean clings to his thoughts desperately, the only thing he holds more dear is his trust, but Punk's slowly earning that.
"Do you ever think about dying?" It's an unexpected question that Punk delivers without looking up from the ground, his voice soft, barely audible over the wind, and Dean turns to him.
"What?" Considering death isn't something Dean does often, and he's not entirely sure he can pull off a more eloquent answer at such short notice. Death is a subject he doesn't like to consider, not when he's so fixated on avoiding it.
"Death... Do you ever think about it?" Punk repeats a little louder, tugging the collar of his coat up some more. He looks cold, even colder than Dean feels, and there's an unexpected stab of concern in Dean's gut for him.
"Not really" Dean answers honestly, turning into the park. There's no point in them wandering around in this wind any more. They've got some food, and something to drink. They may as well head to the lean-to by the dumpsters, and call it a night. They clamber into the little shelter, Dean against the cold metal, Punk closer to the draughty wooden wall, and sit staring into the darkness.
"You spend a lot of time thinking, but you don't consider dying?" Punk's voice is hushed out of habit. Being quiet is second nature on the streets. You don't want to draw undue attention to yourself, especially if you're on your own. Punk has clearly been on his own until Dean forced his way into Punk's routine, but then Dean had been on his own until then too. He's part of Punk's routine for a reason though. Punk has a good system, and Dean's taking advantage of that. The fact that Punk's an intriguing, and pretty, riddle is a bonus. Nothing more, but certainly nothing less.
"I worry more about living, Punk." Dean unwraps one of the calzone they'd been gifted by the restaurant owner. It's not hot anymore, but it's heavy with some sort of filling, and smells good. When he breaks it in half, handing half of it to Punk, the cheese inside is still stretches a good long way before it breaks, and the delicious scent increases. Punk takes a bite, his eyes drifting closed. "It's good?" The first bite Dean takes has him wanting another, but he's careful to savour the food in his mouth. He's not eaten something that tastes this good in a long time. It might be cold, but it's filled with meat, cheese, and the most amazing tomato sauce.
"You worry about living, but don't think of dying... Kind of weird don't you think?" Punk seems to be looking to have this conversation whether Dean wants to or not. It's not that death isn't an interesting topic; it's just that the mysteries of life are more interesting to Dean.
"Not really... Dying is inevitable, and for us, living is a more important struggle, wouldn't you say?" Dean opens the milk, taking a swig, and setting the bottle between them.
"I guess... I think about dying." Punk takes another bite of his calzone, chewing slowly. "I think I might have come close, and... It plays on my mind sometimes." He shrugs, taking another bite of food.
"Your scar?" Punk nods in response to Dean's question, leaving Dean with the problem of wondering what to say next. It's an open invitation to ask more questions about that scar, but the right question isn't coming to Dean easily. The wrong question will have Punk clamming up, of that, Dean's certain, but the right one is elusive. "Do you remember how you got it?"
"Kind of... I remember there being a lot of blood, and people standing around me... Then a whole lot of nothing." Punk takes the milk, drinking slowly. "I think it was an accident... A car maybe? I don't know." He shrugs, and Dean waits to see if he'll add anything to his explanation. "I woke up in a hospital, and couldn't remember anything." He sighs, his eyes drifting closed, a forlorn look on his face.
"Nothing?" Dean prompts. It's not quite the great reveal he'd been hoping for; it's a story that leaves him with more questions than answers. Even with the answer of how Punk got that scar, he remains a riddle.
"They had to teach me how to use a toilet, Dean." Punk snaps, setting the milk down firmly, and biting at his calzone once more.
"Really?" The extent of Punk's memory loss is surprising, but the scar is big. The trauma that caused it must have been extensive. It's probably a miracle that Punk's still alive. He really must have come close to death the day he received that wound.
"Really... They said it was something to do with oxygen getting to my brain, and damage from the accident... I..." A frown settles on Punk's lips, one hand coming up to rub at his forehead. "It hurts sometimes... It makes me shaky sometimes. I can't remember things all that well... I don't even know my birthday." He laughs, but it's tinged with a slight mania, as though some part of Punk was reliving an old, familiar mental breakdown. "All I know is that the name I had before the accident was Phil." He smiles slightly, and finishes his half of the calzone. "I couldn't be Phil anymore, so I became Punk instead." His arms wrap around himself, and Dean fidgets, torn between comforting, and asking more questions. There are so many he wants to ask, but they're fighting for the right to be asked first, and comforting isn't something Dean's had a lot of experience with.
"Wasn't there someone there with you? Someone to tell you who you were?" The question comes more easily, more naturally than giving comfort ever would. Dean watches an odd little expression flit over Punk's face, something at once hopefully, but utterly lost, and completely miserable.
"Sometimes I remember faces... At least I think I do." He sighs, and scrubs a hand over his face. "I think about it sometimes when I'm begging. I wonder if any of the people walking past knew me... If they could tell me who I am... Who I was." Punk's eyes fall closed once more, and he shakes his head. "It's stupid..."
"No." Dean moves a little closer, not really sure what he intends to do, but there's an utterly foreign part of him that's calling out to comfort Punk in his distress. "It's understandable that you'd want to know who you were."
"I'm never sure if the faces I remember are from the hospital or before, or if I just made them up... It doesn't matter much either way, I guess." He laughs bleakly, and Dean finds himself staring at Punk's face, staring into his eyes, caught by the depth of the pain in them.
"Why doesn't it matter?" The whisper that question is delivered in sounds far too loud to Dean's ears, as if it's breaking some kind of odd spell with its unruly volume.
"Whoever I was clearly wasn't a good enough person for anyone to want to stick around him." The smile that stretches over Punk's lips is brutal. A smile shouldn't look so much like the physical manifestation of a wound to the soul, but this one does.
"You're a good person, Punk." Dean mutters, his fingers twitching with the urge to pull Punk close and hold him. He looks vulnerable in that moment, and as much as vulnerability is a lethal liability on the streets, Dean wants to protect Punk from his right then.
"No... No, I'm not." Punk laughs again, and lies down, settling to sleep. "But you do what you gotta do to survive, right?" He smiles over at Dean, and Dean nods vaguely.
"Yeah... You gotta survive, and sometimes surviving isn't easy." Dean glances around the little lean-to, and fishes the ratty balled up blankets from where they're wedged between two of the dumpsters. He drapes one of them over Punk, and huddles up in the other.
"What have you done to survive?" Punk sounds like he's drifting off to sleep, in the darkness his features aren't visibly, even the starkly white scar is hidden beneath his beanie.
"Same thing we've all done... Stole some shit, sold some shit, myself included." Dean laughs, and Punk snorts, squirming slightly to make himself more comfortable as he lies staring up at Dean.
"I've only ever sold myself... It's where I go when I'm not here." There's a heavy pause, and Dean considers what Punk just said. "Well... G'night." Dean's not happy with Punk deciding to call the conversation quits. It feels like it's just begun, but there's not too much point in arguing with him. So he settles to lay on the ground near Punk, but far away enough to not touch him in his sleep, and considers what he'd learned about the other man so far.
The law of the streets is survival of the fittest. Dean knows that to be a fact, but there are some things he wishes he didn't know. Survival at all costs, that's what Punk is doing to himself. A week with some grubby businessman who wants a bit of rough as a pet. It's not a huge surprise that Punk would stoop to whoring himself out, Dean's done it more times that he cares to remember, but it's strangely upsetting that Punk has to do it too. It sullies Punk in a way Dean doesn't like. The idea of someone touching Punk for any reason other than appreciation doesn't sit well with him. Punk's a creature of riddles to be admired and contemplated, to be touched with the care and concern that something so intriguing deserves. A man who pays to indulge in Punk has no business being near him. A man who pays for Punk won't understand the mysteries of him, and even if that man did understand, there's no way he'd put the effort required into appreciating them.
"I can feel you staring at me." Punk mutters, and Dean laughs at him. "Why?" Punk's eyes are on him, Dean can feel the weight of them, and it's too much to bear.
"Why what?" He closes his eyes, and hears Punk moving closer, feels him settle down beside Dean, pressed against his side.
"Why are you staring at me?" Punk's entirely too close. Even through the many layers of fabric, Dean can feel the warmth of his thin body. The mental image of Punk's naked form asserts itself in Dean's mind, demanding his full attention.
"You're interesting." Dean offers vaguely, and tries to back away, but there's nowhere to go. He's pressed against the side of the dumpster, the plywood, and space, of the other side of the shack are behind Punk. He's caught between a rock and a hard place, with not options but to let Punk trap him where he is.
"Interesting?" Punk laughs, his head resting on Dean's chest, his arms snaking about his waist, making himself comfortable half on top of Dean. "You're warm." He yawns, and Dean lies rigidly still beneath him.
"You can't sleep like this... You'll punch me." Dean doesn't move Punk off of him though. There's something nice about Punk using his chest as a pillow, something alienly pleasant about it.
"I won't, I promise. I'll know I fell asleep on you, so it'll be alright." Punk yawns again, and nuzzles against Dean. "Relax. Sleep. It'll be okay."
"Better be." Dean lets his arms settle lightly around Punk, feeling him relax even more, his body pliant in Dean's hold. "Your kicks hurt, I don't want another one." Punk laughs softly, but doesn't answer Dean, instead it seems like he's fallen asleep. As much as he'd like to, instinct keeps Dean from pressing a kiss to Punk's head. Lying like this is intimate, but it's also rational. It's bitterly cold, and body heat keeps you warm. A kiss is also intimate, but it would be nothing more than foolish sentimentality. There's no real place for sentiment on the streets. It's a place where the soft, tender emotions that scurriers get to indulge in are denied, because they're a weakness. You can't have anything that could be used against you on the streets. There's no bigger target to those who would want to hurt you, than the person you're sentimental over. Yet there's no denying to himself, that Dean would like to kiss Punk, he'd like to be sentimental over him, and there's no denying that that makes Punk a far bigger threat than Dean's comfortable with.
Many thanks to those kind enough to review:
Guest, Hyrde, littleone1389, Rebellecherry, VKxXx92, Moiself, Lucien Raven Black, and Brokenspell77.
An update before I'm back at work... My new timetable is prohibitive, I will finish this before the end of the month though.
If you enjoyed - Please review. A few kind words are an elixir to my weary soul.