Chapter 3: catastrophe it reigns


6:15 am came mighty early the next day and Dean pauses slightly as he sits up in bed, once again thinking about how creepy it was that he set an alarm just to ogle some hot piece of ass every weekend morning. This couldn't be healthy. He thinks about that for about three more seconds before shrugging it off.

"Fuck it." He passes through the kitchen, flipping on his coffee maker, and makes his way to the window just as 'Hot Guy' runs past. Dean offers him a two-finger salute. Bless him for managing to get up every godforsaken weekend morning to better himself. Dean is just a horny pervert. He thinks about that for another three seconds before shrugging again and busying himself over the next half hour with putting laundry away and making himself a cup of coffee. He pads back into the living room just as 'Hot Guy' rounds the corner. The sun is up so he gets an eyeful of a sweat-covered chest and raises his cup in a toast of thanks. Oddly enough though, 'Hot Guy' slows to a stop at the end of Dean's driveway and checks the watch that is strapped around his wrist; he's breathing heavily, shoulders lifting with the effort and Dean shudders, mind briefly wandering to what it would feel like to be under all that. He shakes his head and watches as 'Hot Guy' pulls the shirt out that had been tucked in the waistband of his shorts to mop the sweat from his neck and chest. Dean gazes over his mug as 'Hot Guy' removes his baseball cap, shakes his hair out, and jams it back on.

"Shit." Dean mumbles to himself, he really needs to get laid. 'Hot Guy' turns towards the window just then, towards Dean, and gives a gentle but very fucking deliberate waggle of his fingers in a friendly 'hello'. Dean still can't see his face but just knows, down to his very bones, that 'Hot Guy' is smiling at him. "Oh, sweet fuck, kill me now." Dean panics and turns away, all but running back to his kitchen.

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.

He is so fucked. So fucking fucked. There is no fucking way in hell he is going to that barbecue now.

No. Fucking. Way.

He tries, of course, to bail at the last minute but when Lisa had caught wind of it, he hadn't told her directly, leaving it to her husband Vic to do that; She shows up at his house at 6am, again, to yell at him.

"You're coming, Dean." She snaps as soon as he opens the door. No coffee in hand this time though, oof he was in trouble.

"I can't Lis," Dean tells her, definitely not whining.

"Oh? You can't? And why not?" She has her arms crossed over her chest and is tapping her foot.

Big trouble then.

"Because I …" Dean trails off, unsure how to get out of this without having to actually explain it.

"Because you what?" She stares at him, tapping her foot more aggressively and he fights the urge to wring his hands like a pup that got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Fuckin' hell he's older than her. "Out with-it Winchester!"

"He caught me staring at him!" It's out of his mouth before he can stop it and he turns around and stomps away when Lisa dissolves into a fit of giggles.

"He caught you?!" She laughs, following him to the kitchen.

Dean gives a non-committal grunt and flips on the coffee maker. This is going exactly how he thought it would.

"Do you watch him every morning?"

"What?! No!" Dean grumbles, pulling down two mugs and heading to the fridge to pull out the last of his fancy creamer he definitely didn't buy just for himself. "Only on the mornings he's here." He mumbles to the bagged lettuce that needed to be thrown out about three days ago. He doesn't even know why he buys lettuce, he should just skip a step and throw it directly into the damn trash as soon as he gets home from buying it.

"What was that?" Lisa manages; the little shit is still cackling.

"Nothing." Dean gripes. The coffee maker gurgles to a stop and Dean pours two cups while Lisa calms down. She takes the cup from his hand and blows gently before taking a sip, still laughing a little. "Thanks."

"Uh-huh."

Lisa turns away then and makes her way toward the door, "You are coming by the way." She calls over her shoulder. Dean sighs and takes a sip, grimacing when it burns his tongue.

"No, I'm not Lis. That guy knows I was watching him like some weirdo."

Lisa faces him again, jaw set in determination. "Listen, you're coming. You know I'm gonna win this. I always win." She takes another sip. "And if you don't show up, I will drag him here instead."

Dean makes his way toward her, his own cup still in his hand, "The hell you will."

She grins, showing teeth. "Oh, I will." She turns to the door again. "Besides, he's asked about you, you know."

Now that stops Dean, "Wait, what?"

"Yup." She pulls open the door and steps out. "You're coming and I'm taking this with me." She holds up the cup. "I'll bring it back when I feel like it. I'll see you tonight!" Then she's out the door, shutting it behind herself.

Dean follows after her and opens the door. "What do you mean he asked about me?" He calls after her, stepping out onto his porch and she waves him off, continuing to make her way toward her house. "Lis! Lisa!" Great, now he's shouting at his neighbor at six in the morning. He stands there for a moment, coffee cup in hand, and sighs heavily. So, what if 'Hot Guy' asked about him? He was probably just wondering about the creepy dude who was watching him every weekend for the past month and a half. Movement caught the edge of Dean's vision, and he blanched as 'Hot Guy' was approaching his house for his Sunday run.

"Sweet fuck." Dean curses and he steps back towards his door, turning quickly to make his way back inside. Unbeknownst to him though, his front door had closed, and he smacks directly into it, spilling boiling hot coffee all over his chest. "Shit!" he shouts, fuck that fucking hurts. He pulls at his robe and blows down his chest, trying to relieve some of the pain. He's such a fucking idiot. The only blessing is that 'Hot Guy' must have passed by either without seeing Dean or -more likely- just completely ignoring him because Dean can't hear his shoes hitting the sidewalk. Small blessings and all tha-

"Are you alright?"

A low voice asks behind him and Dean wants to fucking scream. Can he not catch just one fucking break?

"Dean?" The voice questions and what a voice it is. So goddamn low and gravelly and honestly a little familiar but Dean can't quite place it. He feels like he would remember that voice if he had heard it before but when nothing comes to mind, he shakes himself out of his stupor. "Dean, are you alright?" This time the voice, 'Hot Guy's' voice he assumes because of course it would be, is significantly closer and Dean jumps.

"Yup'm fine, thanks." He squeaks and shoves open his door, practically throwing himself inside and slamming it shut behind him. He leans all his weight back against the door and breathes like he just ran ten miles. He shoots a glare down at his now empty coffee cup and winces when he runs his fingers across his chest. Fuck that still kinda hurts.

A soft knock on his door makes him jump so hard that his coffee cup falls out of his hand and smashes to pieces on the tile.

What. The. Fucking. Fuck.

"Are you sure you're ok Dean?" It's him again. The voice. 'Hot Guy'. Christ this man will be Dean's fucking demise.

"Yup. 'm good man. Just …go on with your run or whatever." He calls out, loud enough to be heard through the door.

"Are you certain?"

Fuck, can't this guy take a hint? Dean's embarrassed as hell. He really doesn't need this fucking smoke show, with a voice Dean could get off to, to keep asking him if he's 'alright'. No. Of course, he isn't. His chest hurts, that was the last of his favorite coffee creamer, and again, he's embarrassed as shit.

"Yup. 'm good. Hit the bricks, man." Sure, it might be shitty but goddamn, Dean doesn't need his help. He's got this. He can clean up his own fucking mess and deal with his own BS. 'Hot Guy' is just being nice anyway and Dean's crappy response seems to be enough because the only response that comes his way is a soft 'alright' and the sound of footsteps making their way down his porch.

He really has to come up with a reason to not go to that damn barbecue now. There's no way on god's green earth that he could face 'Hot Guy' now. No way in hell. Lisa will just have to deal with it.

Dean sighs heavily and turns to watch out of his peephole as 'Hot Guy' pauses at the end of his driveway and then turns to continue his run that Dean managed to fuck up.

He shakes his head and pushes off the door, he needs to grab the broom to clean up his mess. He carefully steps around the shattered ceramic and goes to the kitchen. He grabs the broom and dustpan, making his way back to his front door. He stops beside his mess and almost starts to cry. He kneels down and picks up the broken pieces of the cup. Fuck everything. This was his favorite fucking mug. For his 26th birthday, a lifetime ago, Castiel had taken Sammy to one of those pottery places where you could paint a bowl, or a plate, or a cup and they would glaze it for you so you could take it home. Sammy had painted a car that was bright red, and the wheels were all different sizes, and Castiel, after Sammy's encouragement Dean was sure, had painted a small coffee cup that had a similar-looking red car with mismatching wheels on it.

It was very meta, very Castiel, and Dean had gotten the biggest kick out of it. They had both signed it with their names, Sammy's wide sideways scribble on the bottom and Castiel's loopy, almost cursive-like handwriting.

"Do you like it Om?" Sammy had asked excitedly, and Dean absently wiped away a few errant tears that had made their way out of his eyes.

"I love it bud. Thank you so much." He pulled his little pup into his arms and breathed in his smell. "This is the best gift I've ever gotten."

"Really?" Sammy wiggled his way out of Dean's arms and pulled at Castiel's arm to bring him forward.

"Cas helped a lot! He even paid for it 'cause you won't lemmie get in my piggy bank."

Dean looked at Castiel and smiled, "Thanks." He glanced back down at Sammy. "Well, I'll tell you what, I'll pay Cas back an' then ya can spot me later when we do break open that piggy bank." He was never going to do that of course but it wasn't in Castiel's job description to pay for gifts for Dean.

"Absolutely not." Castiel rumbled out, his voice still in that stage of wobbling in and out in the way that puberty made it do.

"Yeah! 'solutely not!" Sammy fumbled over his words and Dean looked up at Castiel, surprised.

"Sammy and I made a deal. He's going to help me make flashcards for my upcoming midterm in history and I paid for your gift."

"Sammy is gonna help you make flashcards?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Hey! I can do it!" Sammy piped up, indignant.

"Yes." Castiel nodded and held out his fist that Sammy immediately bumped with his own. "He gets to practice writing and vocabulary and I get help on my midterm." Despite Sammy being, quite literally, one of the smartest kids in class, his penmanship left something to be desired.

Dean held up his hands in mock surrender, appreciating that Cas had somehow managed to get Sammy to work on his penmanship while simultaneously buying Dean a gift. "Alright then. My bad Cas. You guys clearly have this all worked out." Dean scrubbed a hand through Sammy's hair and laughed when Sammy made a face. "I'm sorry bud, you forgive me?"

Sammy seemed to contemplate this carefully before nodding once. "Yes. I forgive you Om." On occasion, it would surprise Dean when Sammy would speak in a way that reminded him very strongly of Castiel, but he supposed it made sense. They did spend a lot of time together.

"Also," Castiel continued, making his way to the kitchen. "The gift is from the both of us. I signed my name and everything."

Dean conceded and smiled. "Good point. I love it. Thanks."

Castiel paused and swallowed heavily before nodding. "I believe cake is in order given it is your birthday."

"Yeah, cake Om! Time for cake!" Sam exclaimed and Dean laughed, time for cake then.

Dean shakes himself out of the memory and tilts his head back to stop the tears that are still threatening to fall. Fuck this day. He runs his thumb along Sammy's signature and picks up all the broken pieces. He should probably throw it away; it's pretty much unsalvageable but he can't bear the thought of it being in the trash, so he just leaves all the pieces on the counter near the coffeemaker. Maybe he could do something else with the broken pieces.

His chest aches from missing his pup and he jams a hand into his hair; He's really gotta get outta this barbecue. He knows it's fucking pointless honestly, Lisa is like a dog with a bone and she'll just send Vic over to collect Dean. Or worse, Charlie. Talk about a dog with a bone. He loved that little Omega but she was honestly and truly terrifying.

He sighs and resigns himself. He can just avoid 'Hot Guy' like the fucking plague, Lisa's final barbecue of the year is always big anyway. He'll tell Lisa he doesn't want to meet him and that'll be that. Right?

Yeah.

She'll for sure respect his wishes and not try and 'set them up' -what a fucking joke- or some such shit.

Yeah.

Sure.

"Fuck."

It isn't until midway through getting ready later that day that Dean even realizes that 'Hot Guy' had somehow known his name.

Weird.