Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), AU, Homelessness, Profanity, Mild Smut.
There's one advantage to being homeless in a world populated by scurriers, but it's an advantage with a double-edge. Scurriers are people watchers as much as Dean is, but they only see the people they want to, those that don't fit their worldview are invisible. Scurriers look up to those who are better than them, wishing for their money, their looks, their lives, and look down on everyone else. There's only one reason to see a homeless person, and that's to reassure themselves that they're at least better off than someone. They foster their own comfort by ignoring the discomfort of others, by making everything about them, and how it fits into their narrative. Most homeless are completely invisible to scurriers, and invisibility makes life a lot easier in some ways.
In many ways, the homeless are similar to scurriers in how they see each other. They see those who are lower on the food chain as prey, but inside every homeless person, there's a hint of white whale. There is solidarity in shared destitution. The story of the homeless is shared, there's a connection, grim and dire between them all. No matter where you go, if you're one of them, they'll find you, and even if twenty spit on you, one will help. There's nothing like that hint of white whale in the world of the scurriers. There's no fellowship amongst them, no community. It's a world of individuals bound by nothing but their shared belief that they are the most important character in everyone's story, not just their own.
Dean isn't the sort of person who's ever sought out the companionship of his peers. He's never felt the pull of another person drawing him into their orbit, but with Punk, it's there, inevitable, alluring, irresistible. Punk's is a tale that Dean feels like he's only skim reading though. He doesn't know any of the background, all he has are the cliffnotes, but then that's all Punk has. He can't imagine how Punk must have felt when he woke up after his accident. It's impossible for Dean to try and picture waking up, and knowing nothing. He can't begin to fathom the depth of frustration Punk must have felt, must still feel. A hole where the record of your life should be, pages covered in white out, and scribbles instead of the words and pictures of your memories. He can't begin to understand what Punk goes through, he can't being understand what it must be like having that emptiness, but he wants try, if only so Dean can know the whole story of who Punk is.
In the light of dawn, they moved on, carrying the plywood, and blankets from the park, seeking out another quite spot in a different oasis of greenery in the fetid grey desert of the city.
"Here?" Dean asks once they're in a new spot in a different park. It's sheltered, thick trees all around, and a solid wall covered in moss on one side. It looks pretty secure, and Dean thinks it'll be a decent place to build their little shack.
"It'll do... I'm not sure on escape routes, but it should be pretty dark at night, so we should be safe enough." Punk mumbles, setting down the sheet of ply he's carrying. The invisibility of being homeless had let them pass through the scurriers without too much notice. One or two had given them some strange looks, but on the whole, they hadn't cared about what the two homeless men carrying wood were up to. No one had time to spare in their far more busy, far more interesting lives to puzzle over their actions, and Dean's grateful for that. Answering questions to satisfy scurriers is generally difficult, and stressful. They think they're helping, but really, their false concern is nothing more than humbly showing off how much better they are. Oh gosh, I could never imagine is one phrase Dean despises above all others. The one phrase that drives home how much lower he is than the scurriers, how much more worthless he is to them, because they can't even bring themselves to empathise with him. Empathy is something scurriers have no time for, understanding how other people live means nothing to them. They put all their energies into themselves, into their own personal epic, so understanding, having simple empathy for someone else's tragedy is beyond them. That's the difference between Dean and scurriers, they don't care to understand, and there's nothing Dean wants more than understanding.
"You've been thinking." Dean comments as they start construction, using string and duck tape to secure the sheets of wood into a rudimentary shelter. Punk glances up at him briefly before turning back to his work.
"Yeah... But what else is there to do out here?" He laughs, and Dean frowns down at the wood in front of him. Punk's right, there's not much of anything to do on the streets but think. "You wanna know what I've been thinking about?" Punk asks with a hint of amusement in his voice.
"I wouldn't have mentioned it if I didn't." Dean grins over to him, and Punk nods, dragging the next sheet of wood over to the construction.
"I was thinking about last night... About the fight... About what happened after." Punk sounds thoughtful, his tongue flicking at the ring in his lip.
"You kissed me." Dean comments mildly, helping Punk secure the sheet of ply in place.
"I did." Punk nods, and turns to Dean. "Was that okay?" Dean chuckles at him, and cups his cheek, stroking the stubble covering it. "Dean, you're staring at me." Punk's eyes drift half-closed, watching Dean with wary laziness.
"Yeah... You're interesting." Dean mutters, leaning down to kiss Punk. Just as the kiss last night had been intended to be light, but got sidetracked, so too is this one, Punk's hands tangling in Dean's lank, greasy hair, tugging lightly on the strands.
"So, interesting really means I wanna fuck you?" Punk chuckles, and Dean smirks at him, his hands still resting on Punk's cheeks, holding his head in place.
"Interesting means that I think you're interesting, Punk." Dean shrugs, and Punk turns his eyes downwards, his shoulders slumping a little. He's clearly taken Dean's words in the wrong way, because Dean fully intends to fuck Punk as soon as possible, and then keep him. Punk is his, he's not letting go, and he's going to have Punk in every way possible. "More than interesting to fuck once, more than interesting enough to fuck repeatedly. You're interesting because you're a mystery." Dean laughs, and Punk tries to shake his head, but it's useless as Dean's still holding it in place.
"I'm a mystery to myself too." Punk mumbles, and Dean strokes a thumb over one of his eyebrows, drawing Punk's attention back to him.
"It's always there, huh?" Dean asks, letting go of Punk's head to pull his body closer, holding him tightly.
"What is?" Punk murmurs. He's almost snuggling againstDean, his hands sneaking under the top most layer of Dean's clothes to be closer to his skin.
"Your lost memories... The blank pages." Dean closes his eyes, and tries to imagine Punk's cold fingers dancing over his bare skin, tries to conjure up how holding Punk's thin body against his will feel without the thick barrier of their clothing.
"Blank pages?" Punk sounds confused, but doesn't seem inclined to leave Dean's arms; seemingly, he's more than content to be embraced like this.
"In your story..." Dean laughs awkwardly, and Punk shakes his head, pulling back from the embrace to look at Dean. "Everyone has a story, and your background is missing... It makes sense." Dean mutters defensively, and Punk chuckles at him.
"A nice way of saying I'm fucked up, huh?" Punk laughs, and moves away from Dean, returning to working on the shelter. "So... What's your back story?"
"My back story?" Dean rubs the back of his neck, licking his lips nervously. He's not one for talking about himself. His story is his, and he's selfish in sharing it, but Punk's shared as much as he can, or at least as much as he says he can, so perhaps Dean can give a little in return. "Was born in Cincinnati, my mother was a junkie whore." Dean holds a board in place as Punk secures it, his attention on the thin piece of wood. "We jumped around from place to place in the city, dealer to pimp, and back again."
"Sounds shitty." Punk mutters, and then swears under his breath, fishing another piece of string out of one of his pockets.
"Yeah... I drifted away from her when I was young, was put into care, fostered all over, and wound up here about two years ago." Dean's glossing over a lot of the story, but that's the gist of it. He doesn't think Punk needs to hear all of the gory details, at least not yet. If this thing between them becomes something more, then Dean will share the full tale, the arrests, the beatings, the unpleasant incidents with unpleasant men in dark alleys, or dark dank bedrooms will all be dredged up from Dean's memories. There've been a lot of things that it would probably be good for Dean to forget, but forgetting isn't an option, and even if it were, he'd lose a part of himself. It might be the bad parts, but they'd still be parts of him, and he's no intention of letting them go.
"You've been in Chicago for two years?" Punk asks softly, and Dean nods. "Why have you stayed?"
"It's not been bad to me... It's given me you, if nothing else." Dean laughs, and Punk snorts, finally finished with the shelter.
"You're laying a claim on me?" Punk asks, his voice heavy with dubious amusement.
"I'm laying a claim on you." Dean repeats firmly, his hands catching Punk's, tangling their fingers together.
"And if I object?" Punk raises an eyebrow as he looks at Dean, a smirk on his lips.
"I'm still claiming you, still gonna have your back, still gonna think you're interesting, still gonna wanna fuck you." Dean returns that smirk, and Punk shakes his head.
"I'm probably gonna forget all of that, you know that right?" He smiles slightly, his eyes narrowed, as he tugs one hand free from Dean's, and rubs at his scar.
"Yeah... I know." Dean kisses the knuckles of the hand he's still holding, and Punk nods slightly. "Lie down, I'll go find something to eat, then we'll head out. I wanna grab a shelter tonight. We need a shower, and-"
"You wanna perv on me naked again?" Punk laughs clambering into the little shack, lying down on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes.
"Yes." Dean laughs, and Punk groans waving him away.
"There's a little bakery about a block and half to the left... The woman who owns it knows me... She might give you something if you tell her I sent you." He pulls his beanie off his head, and tosses it to Dean. "She gave it to me, she'll recognise it."
"She might think I stole it." Dean mutters, fingering the fabric of the hat. It's thick, and more than likely nice and warm, a good gift to give a homeless man. He can only hope this lady is willing to be a white whale once more. "I guess I'll just have to hope she trusts me." Dean mutters as he leaves the little shack behind, heading out of the park in search of this bakery.
"Where did you get that?" A small woman standing outside of the bakery looks at Dean coolly, and he takes the beanie from his head, turning it over and over in his hands, watching her assess him with a calculating look in her eye.
"Punk gave it to me, said you'd recognise it as the one you gave him." He offers, and the woman smiles slightly.
"How is he? Is he okay?" She heads into the store, and wanders behind the counter, taking a box, starting to fill it with delicious and expensive looking cakes. Whatever Punk did for this woman, she's very grateful to be so generous.
"He's... He seems okay, but you know what he's like." Dean offers vaguely. He's not sure what else he can say about Punk really. He only ever seems okay, you can never really tell how he is, because the scar will randomly start to hurt, or he'll grow pale and fragile, or his temper will fray and he'll snap or clam up. He's as unpredictable as the weather.
"Yeah... He's a strange one." The woman pours two coffees, and hands Dean a large bag, the box of cakes, and coffees inside. "He saved me from an armed robber." She smiles slightly, the expression soft and fond. "Refused to let me give him anything for weeks afterwards, but eventually I brought him around. Tell him to come see me next time." She waves Dean out of the store, and he nods, leaving her with a quiet goodbye.
Another person, another tale of Punk's contradictory goodness. There's entirely too much charity in him, too much altruism, too much white whale for a man in his situation, but Dean supposes it's a fine complement to his own utter lack of compassion for most people he encounters. Punk fits him almost scarily well, but Dean isn't sure what he gives Punk in return. There has to be some reason Punk's allowed him to stay with him. Though, with Punk it might just be that he saw letting Dean hang around as an act of philanthropy, in all honesty Dean wouldn't put that past him.
"Hey." Dean pokes his head into the shelter, and pauses, staring at Punk in surprise. He's curled up in a ball, trembling slightly, his skin pale, a sheen of sweat on the patches that are visible. "Hey..." Dean approaches him carefully, gingerly touching his shin. "It's me, its Dean... Punk? Are you okay?" There's a miserable groan from Punk, and Dean creeps closer.
"Shh..." Punk hisses softly, and Dean reaches out to touch his forehead, surprised when Punk allows the contact. He sits in silence for a long while, gently stroking Punk's skin, quietly watching whatever episode he'd walked in on pass.
"You okay now?" Dean asks once Punk's stopped shaking, getting a vague nod, and Punk's hand desperately reaching for his, squeezing tightly.
"I'm okay. Did you get breakfast?" Punk sits up slowly, not relinquishing his hold on Dean's fingers, if anything he's squeezing tighter.
"I did, got a whole box of stuff, and some coffee too." Dean smiles, moving to sit by Punk, their shoulders pressed tightly together. "Here, it'll be cold enough to drink by now. You know how takeaway coffee is, always too hot to drink when you first get it." Punk lets Dean's hand go to take the cup from him, sipping at the liquid inside. "Does that... Punk, does that happen to you often?" Dean watches Punk fidget, fussing with the box of cakes he's pulled closer to himself.
"Not too often, just... Just when I think too much. It's... I don't know how to explain it." He sighs, curling in on himself, and picking at the cake he'd taken, nibbling at the mountain of frosting on top of it.
"What is it? I... How can I help if it happens again?" Dean's not one for philanthropy, but Punk is his, and he looks after the little he owns.
"I dunno." Punk answers absently, chewing on his cake. "What you did was nice... No one's ever seen me like that before... I usually just hide out, and wait for it to pass, but what you did was good... It helped."
"I didn't do anything." Dean takes a cake for himself, taking a bite from it, savouring its sweet deliciousness.
"You stayed with me, Dean." Punk murmurs softly, turning to look at him. "You stayed with me, and that's more than anyone has ever done for me."
The rest of the day, they potter around the city, hanging out close to the areas where the shelters are. It's too early for any of them to be open, but Dean knows the one he wants them to spend the night in. The nicest of the bunch, the showers in cubicles, the dorms for sleeping in with fewer beds than the others, but they're comfortable, and altogether more private than the majority of the shelters in the city, so it fills up quickly. Dean intends to hang about, and get them through the doors as soon as they're open.
Punk seems quietly subdued, his mind clearly elsewhere, and whilst Dean thinks that since last night he might be allowed to ask what Punk's thinking about, he's not sure he's earned the right to be answered. Punk has even less than Dean that he can truly call his own. Dean has his thoughts, he has his opinions, and he has his past. Punk lacks that, his past is a void, and Dean isn't sure if he pities or envies him for that. Forgetting the past would be a benefit, there are things Dean's done that he's not proud of, but they're part of what makes him himself, so he wants them. They might shitty, but they're his, and he's keeping them.
"Dean?" Punk's voice shakes him from his thoughts, and Dean glances over at him.
"Uh-huh?" Dean empties some of the coins out of his cup for something to do, there's an air around Punk, something heavy and dark, and Dean's not too sure he wants to know what's caused it.
"I... I've been thinking-"
"What about?" Dean interrupts. He's not sure he likes the idea of Punk thinking too much. The episode in the lean-to lingers in his mind, Punk's pale skin, his fragility. It's not how Dean wants to see Punk, he wants him to okay at least, not curled up in agony.
"I... It's getting late." Punk stands, offering a hand down to Dean, a smile on his lips. "We're aiming for that one hostel with the shower cubicles... Maybe we can share?" He winks, and starts walking, Dean tailing him quickly. He's sure this isn't what Punk had wanted to say, but he supposes that Punk will tell him what's on his mind in due time, Dean just has to wait him out.
The shower cubicle is small and cramped, but Dean can't say he minds all that much. Punk's sleek, wet body slides against his, their chest pressed together, their lips locked, one of Punk's legs wrapped around Dean's calves.
"Fuck... Want you." Punk pants in Dean's ear, sending shivers down his spine. "Want you to fuck me, Dean. Want you inside me." Punk's teeth scrape over his throat, and Dean's hands trails down his back, groping at his ass. It looks pretty and firm, but it feels even better, firm with just the right amount of give. Punk's skin is sleek despite the hair on his body, dark strands down his legs, over his chest to his groin, hair that matches Dean's own in pattern if not colour. Feeling Punk's body against his own is nothing like feeling one of the dainty pretty boys he's picked up in hostels before, or the flabby middle-aged and older men that find Dean attractive enough to pay for a fuck. They'd all been smooth, waxed or shaved out of their body hair as though it was something to be ashamed of, as though the fact that adults grow hair on their bodies was some kind of sin. Dean's never quite understood the obsession scurriers have with removing their hair. It's strange to him, the bizarre idea that puberty shouldn't have happened, and that body hair is unsightly and should be exterminated has never resonated with Dean. He likes the feel of the hair on Punk's skin, likes the feel of it rubbing against his own, likes that Punk feels like an adult.
"No here... Don't wanna fuck you here, Punk." Dean murmurs in his ear, nipping at the lobe. "Wanna fuck you on a bed, wanna fuck you somewhere better than this... The first time's gotta be special." Dean nips Punk's earlobe again, and Punk snorts against Dean's throat, nibbling once more before pulling back to face Dean.
"It's hardly the first time for either of us." Punk smirks. The leg he had wrapped around Dean's calves rises, wrapping around his hips instead, bringing Dean's half-hard cock into contact with Punk's own.
"It's our first time... I... I'll make us some money, get us a room." Dean mutters, rutting against Punk briefly. It's tempting to thrust against Punk's length like this until they both come, but it's too risky. They've already been in the shower for a while; the staff will start to get suspicious soon enough.
"Urgh... Fine." Punk groans, and steps away, starting to get washed quickly. Dean reaches out to him, draws him closer, and pulls him into a kiss that leaves Punk panting, and gazing at Dean fondly. "You're a dick." Punk laughs, and Dean nods, kissing Punk's scar.
"I am... And you're my asshole." Dean laughs, and Punk rolls his eyes at the thinly veiled innuendo of the joke.
"You assume that I'm bottoming." Punk mutters, and Dean squeezes his ass, then trails a finger between Punk's asscheeks, teasing his hole, and smirking when Punk rocks back against that one finger greedily.
"I assume right." Dean kisses Punk's temple, and lets him go. "C'mon, we better hurry." Punk nods, kissing Dean once more, this time slow and soft, the kind of kiss that leaves Dean clinging to him tightly.
The dorm they're assigned to fills quickly, and Dean's almost annoyed he'd not pushed for the little room he knows they have for couples, but he's staying with his conviction. He's not fucking Punk until it's somewhere he's paid for, until is somewhere private. He's going to do this right for a change, not in some cramped shower stall in a shelter, but a bed, a real bed where it's only them, no outside distractions.
"Dean?" Punk's voice is muted, but Dean can hear him loud and clear. It's almost as though his ears are highly tuned to pick out Punk's voice no matter what.
"What?" Dean reaches over the space between their beds, taking Punk's hand when it's offered to him. It's a simple gesture, but for Dean it means much more than he'd expected. This simple physical contact is a connection of Punk, one he doesn't want to break.
"I need to go tomorrow morning... I... I've got a night with a client." He looks away, and Dean squeezes his hand tightly, drawing Punk's attention back to his face, a little smile flits over Punk's lips. In the dim light, the stark white of the scar is brighter than ever, and it takes a lot of will power on Dean's part to keep his gaze from that little mar on Punk's forehead.
"The bruises on your face?" Dean thinks that he should have phrased the question better, or tried to lure the information out more skilfully, but he's too tired, and too keen to know where and how Punk was injured for eloquence.
"No... No damaging the goods." Punk laughs softly, and Dean stares at him. It might be the creed of all who sell themselves, but poverty's need for money can override almost any creed. "I got jumped on my way back to the spot... It's why I'm going back so soon... I... We need the money." Punk sighs, his fingers tightening around Dean's. "I'll get a fair bit even for one night, and I want to use it to get us a room somewhere for a little while." He smiles tentatively at Dean.
"A room?" Dean smiles, and Punk nods. Dean thinks he knows what Punk's saying. He's up for doing something more than just staring, and teasing in a shower cubicle, and if Punk wants to get the room, then Dean supposes that's okay, it'll still be private, it'll still be just them, even if Dean isn't footing the bill.
"Somewhere with just us... I..." He sighs, looking down awkwardly. "I can't take you staring at me anymore." He looks at Dean through his lashes, a coy twist to his lips.
"I stare at you cause you're interesting, Punk." Dean leans over the edge of his bed, and presses his lips to the back of Punk's hand. "You want me to show you just how interesting I find you?" Dean laughs quietly.
"Hmm... Yeah, I do." Punk smirks at him, and Dean squeezes his hand once more, letting it go. The other homeless nearby are getting restless, he can hear them stirring; if he and Punk talk much longer, their conversation will be interrupted by someone telling them to shut up. "I'm gonna go tomorrow morning, and see my client... I'll be back the next day though."
"I'll wait in the usual spot, look for somewhere cheap to stay while you're seeing." Dean mutters, and Punk nods, tugging the blankets up to his chin once more. "Don't make me wait too long, okay?"
"I'll be there, don't worry. G'night." Punk yawns, and Dean watches him in the half-light. He can't help but worry though. Tomorrow is going to be a day Dean spends with an unsettled panic in his stomach, because more often than not being seen by scurriers isn't a good thing, and he can only hope that the one who sees Punk is more white whale than scurrier.
Many thanks to those kind enough to review:
AshJovillette, Lucien Raven Jacobs, ash64, Moiself, littleone1389, VKxXx92, Rebellecherry, and Brokenspell77.
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