Two weeks.
At least two weeks.
Maybe it had been a whole year.
Dean glanced at his watch, then at the crumpled ticket stub curled in his fist. No. Same date. It had only been a few hours, but the combination of stunned confusion and strong alcoholic spirits lengthened minutes into months, or perhaps he just didn't give a damn about time anymore.
People were filing in and out of the room, exchanging tipsy flirtations, congratulations, etc, etc. They congratulated him, too, for such a wonderful performance that was sure to 'shock those asshole critics into awe'. Dean replied to none of them. The only time anyone had his undivided attention was when they walked into the room, because there was a slight possibility that they might be wearing a familiar smile and a badly put together tie.
Eventually, Dean rose to his feet and slouched out the door, his mind a buzzing mess of misery and memories, somehow prevalent through the whiskey haze. Anger, regret, anger, frustration, anger, self-pity, anger. On his way through the back alleyway behind the club, Dean kicked everything in front of him as though it was personally offensive. Fuck you, Dean, he thought vehemently, stumbling forward and picking up an empty bottle before launching it at the nearest brick wall, reveling in its satisfying destruction, looking a hell of a lot like his entire life. He wanted to yell and storm and swear but in the midst of his violent anger he also felt a tiring desperation, which brought him to the ground and forced his back against the wall. He'd never be able to get up. Ever. Dean squeezed his eyes shut.
Great show tonight, Dean, someone congratulated. I really liked the last song.
Thanks, Cas. The ghost of a smile. I liked it too.
Dean's fingers itched to grab the cell phone from his jacket pocket. Then he remembered all the sniveling romance movies where the guy called the girl and begged her to take him back, that he'd made a mistake. He hated those movies. So instead of calling the one number he had on speed-dial, he crossed his arms and stared at the garbage dumpster opposite him.
Hey, Dean? Cas' sleepy voice.
Hey what? A gruff answer.
Do you like show business?
A moment of silence while past Dean considers. I guess.
Isn't it stressful though?
I guess. I don't think about it much.
Silence again while they lay back to back, half naked on the motel bed. The sheets smell like cigarettes but Dean focuses more on the sweeter things, like the soft curve of Cas' spine, the movement of his shoulders when he breathes. Somehow Dean could remember the intricacies of Cas' palms better than his rehearsal schedules.
Dean leaned his head back, his eyes still squeezed shut against the truth of what he'd done. Fuck you, Dean, he repeated, lifting his trembling hands to his face. You changed, remember? You changed for Cas.
His stomach throbbed. Maybe it was regret. Maybe it was just that he was over the legal limit. Didn't matter anymore. He was back to the wild partying and the drunk fangirls throwing their clothes off for him.
He was back to being pathetic.
Part of him expected a sympathetic grin and a helping hand, a voice telling him to sleep it off, it'll be better in the morning. All of him wished it, wanted that comfort so bad it made him nauseous. He was still the same idiot child as before. Slowly, Dean pushed himself into a standing position and shoved his hands into his jacket, knowing he'd have a killer hangover to face in the morning, and no one to face it with.