Chapter Text
“...If I try running off into the deep-purpling scrub brush,
you will remind me,
There is nowhere to go if you are already here,
and pat your hand on your lap lighted
by the topazion lux of the moon through the window,
say, Here, Love, sit here — when I do,
I will say, And here I still am.
Until then, Where are you? What is your address?
I am hurting. I am riding the night
on a full tank of gas and my headlights
are reaching out for something.”— Natalie Diaz, If I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert
Dean wishes he could hide behind the counter at the bar forever.
This thick-walled structure not only creates a barrier, it helps him to provide the only peace offering he has these days. Being stuck behind the monotony of wiping down spilled droplets of alcohol for hours on end is relaxing. When he’s here it’s easy to fall into the lull of pretend aliveness. The people that come in are ones that Dean has known and seen for years. Placated by the alcohol, they might leave him alone on the other side.
That’s why it shakes Dean out of his thoughts when a man walks in, dripping water droplets down his trench coat from the pouring rain outside. He’s not from here. Dean knows this because he has never seen this man before. But if it wasn’t for that, it’s obvious from the guy’s actions. The way he walks directly over to Dean instead of sitting down and barking his order over. The way he looks at Dean like he’s a real person and not just some being that provides a service that they want.
The mystery man sits down on one of the bar stools while wincing at the water dripping off his hair. He grabs a few napkins from the stack in front of him and wipes off his face and neck. Dean stands there, mesmerized by his actions.
“Can I get a jack and coke?” the man finally says looking up to Dean, his voice gravelly deep.
Dean immediately gets to work setting the glass out and pouring off a little more than a shot of whiskey before topping off the drink with Coke right in front of the guy.
In return, Dean receives a soft smile as the guy reaches for the glass. He maintains eye contact with Dean as he takes his first sip before making a noise of contentment.
“Excellent pour,” the mystery guy says before licking the sticky sweet soda off his lips and it hits Dean right in his chest.
This feels different. Dean is struck by the urge of wanting to joke around with him. Ask him how his day was. Strike up a conversation so that for once in his life he can talk to someone about something that wasn’t a direct order.
Instead, Dean mumbles a “thank you” as the guy gulps down his drink rather quickly. He smiles at Dean as he asks for another drink, this time minus the Coke. Dean laughs softly and instantly realizes the exhaustion must be getting to him for finding the way this guy has acted since the moment he walked in endearing. However, the guy seems to light up at Dean’s quiet laugh.
“Sorry,” the guy says apologetically, “I didn’t get your name?”
“That’s cause I didn’t say it, but it’s Dean.”
“Castiel,” the man responds softly with what must be his own name, “but you can call me Cas if you’d like.”
“Well, Cas,” Dean starts, feeling more confident in his conversation skills now that this one has been initiated by the other person, “what brings you in here tonight?”
“I just moved here so I figured I would check the town out. This was the only place that was open.”
Dean laughs again, much to the delight of Castiel.
“Yeah, that’s kinda what happens when it’s 10:00 PM on a Sunday night ‘round here.”
Just as they’re getting into the groove of conversation after Dean pours Castiel another drink, one of his regulars shouts across the room for another drink.
Dean winces. He forgot anyone else was here. Dean pours one of the house beers into a new glass and takes it over to the guy who is sitting with his friends watching the recaps of this afternoon’s game.
When he walks back over he can clearly see the incredulous look on Castiel’s face. His brows tight-knit and eyes observing.
“Is that the typical way of ordering here?” Castiel asks.
Dean just shrugs. He didn’t anticipate this feeling of embarrassment he’d feel at Castiel seeing that. It’s one thing when all the people in the town know what Dean did. It’s another to have to explain to an outsider. Besides, Dean was enjoying this very rare opportunity for conversation that wasn’t stilted by people’s preconceived notions.
Dean pours Castiel two more drinks at his urging, but Dean can see the way he’s starting to lean over the bar too far. Face soft and eyes glazing over. Castiel’s giddy laugh tells Dean he’s starting to reach his limit, and any self-respecting bartender would know to cut him off if he keeps it up. Dean wishes he could take the guy home, but knows that’s a bad idea. For one, Dean doesn’t mess with any guy close enough to this town to know who he is. But when the desperation of loneliness gets to be too much and the shame he always feel is momentarily forgotten, he’s been known to travel several towns over to places where people don’t care what your name is when they’re fucking you from behind.
He doesn’t have to, as Castiel stands up and thanks Dean for his hospitality. Dean’s worried about him driving but is reassured that he actually walked here. Castiel pulls out his wallet and places a folded one-hundred dollar bill on the counter before leaving.
Dean gawks at that kinda cash. Minus the drinks, it’s a huge tip, a lot bigger than anything he’s ever gotten before. He watches Castiel walk out into the still pouring rain before he runs the till and gets back to closing duties. Thank god the bar closes early on Sundays.
It’s not until he makes it back to his apartment above the bar that he’s drowning in the silence. Wishes for once the lights would be on, beaconing him inside. Wishes there would be food on the table and someone to know when he was late. But it’s enough for now that he at least has someplace to come back to. It’s small, but Dean’s thankful the guy who owns the bar also rents this shithole to him when no one else in this godforsaken town wants anything to do with him.
He pulls down a coffee can from the cupboard and takes out two envelopes and all his tips for the week and adds it up. He sets a small amount aside for spending money for necessities and splits the rest evenly into two piles; one for Sam and one for John. He’s tempted to keep the full amount of the tip from Castiel, like it was special present given especially to him. But with Sam in college he needs the extra funds. And well, John could use them too. He writes down the amount on the outside of the envelopes and makes a note that he needs to run to the bank this week, if he even has the time.
He swallows a spoonful of peanut butter for dinner and slumps down on his sagging futon mattress. Too tired to do much else but take off his boots and jeans, he lays down on his side and curls up in his blanket pretending he can hear anything besides the humming of the fridge.
Leave it to Dean to forget his last fucking vest was still sitting dirty and crumpled in his hamper. He’s already running late and this has the potential to be the thing that breaks him.
When he makes it to the Gas-N-Sip he’s over ten minutes late and greeted with an unhappy nightshift worker. Spewing apologies, he tries to make amends while starting his duties. It’s not until an hour or so into his shift that he starts to feel somewhat settled. Everything’s in order and there’s a lull in customers, like usual, so the boredom sets in.
It’s not like this is where Dean imagined himself to be. When he was in high school he always thought it would be cool to work with machines. Cars were even better. Liked the way that when there was a problem it could be solved, even if it took some trial and error. Hell, he even managed to do well under the hood in Bobby’s junkyard sometimes.
But a lot of that was before.
Instead, he’s a 27-year-old high school dropout who barely managed to get his GED and works not one but two part-time jobs in the shitty town he grew up in. On a good day, he manages to be ignored by everyone. On a bad day…. well.
Yesterday was a fluke. No one talks to him unless they need something. The guy at the bar, Castiel, was too good to be true. If he’d been passing through town that’s one thing, but this guy is here to stay. Sooner or later he’ll find out just what this town thinks of Dean and his family. Dean doesn’t want to be around to see that soft gentle expression he bestowed upon Dean turn into a glare. He’s imagining it now– only it looks more like confusion.
No wait that’s real. Castiel is standing in front of him. At the gas station. Looking confused.
“I didn’t realize you worked here too,” Castiel says.
“Ah yeah,” Dean replies, hand lifting to rub the back of his neck which is growing red rather quickly, “gotta pay the bills y’know.”
Castiel smiles sympathetically, but Dean remembers the way he indiscriminately placed down that $100 bill. Like it meant nothing for Castiel to part with it. Like that $100 didn’t mean the difference between eating or not.
“Of course, financial stability is important.” Cas smiles at Dean warmly like it’s not the most awkward thing to be caught struggling to get by.
“What can I get ya,” Dean says with his best customer service voice to break the silence.
“Oh yes! Right. Can you put $30 on pump four? Oh, and can you ring me up a large hot coffee?”
“Sure thing,” Dean responds, hitting the keys on his register and taking the bills from Castiel. He doesn’t mean to, but his hand touches Castiel’s just for a second. It’s enough, though.
Castiel looks around the small shop with various snacks and food stations.
“The coffee is to the side over here,” Dean says, pointing to the left wall where Castiel follows.
Dean watches the guy pour a wild amount of sugar into his cup before topping it with the fresh pot of coffee Dean had made a little bit after he got in.
“Do you have any creamer?” Castiel says looking around. Dean curses himself for forgetting to refill the little bowls that sit nearby.
“One sec,” he replies, leaving the counter and walking over to kneel beneath the counter where Castiel is standing. Pulling out three boxes worth of three different flavors he looks up at the guy overshadowing him. “Pick your poison,” is all he says while hoisting the boxes further up, keeping them pressed together in an effort to put tension on the box in the middle to keep it from slipping.
Castiel’s eyes darken as he reaches into the middle box to pull out a few hazelnut creamer pods. Dean realizes he looks kinda stupid kneeling on the floor of the gas station beneath this man he just met last night. He quickly stands up and puts the boxes on the counter, his cheek reddening as he rubs the back of his neck again.
“Hazelnut, good choice man,” he says awkwardly.
“Yes, thank you for getting them for me, Dean.”
Oh god, even the way he says Dean’s name. Social conventions tell Dean he needs to walk back over to the counter, but he’s compelled to stay in that one spot watching Castiel pour his creamer into his coffee and put the lid on squarely. Stands there as Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s upper arm and squeezes.
“Hope to see you around town,” Castiel finally responds in a gentle tone and smile. With that, he picks up his coffee and walks out of the gas station and over to pump four.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. That is all Dean can think.
This guy isn’t part of the plan. He doesn’t fit anywhere within Dean’s life. Dean doesn’t talk to people in this town let alone flirt with them, with men. Dean takes the weekend flyer to the next closest town every few months and gets a pity fuck at the gay bar. It’s dangerous to be involved with someone in this town. Sooner or later it all comes back to bite him in the ass. Sooner or later they all find out who Dean is. And it’s an eat-or-be-eaten mentality that leads people to follow the path of least resistance and conform to the town’s belief of making Dean bear the brunt of the worst thing to happen here.
If Castiel doesn’t learn that soon then Dean’s going to have to make sure he knows.
He’s only a little disappointed when Castiel doesn’t show up to the bar that night.
10 years ago
In the days following the accident, the school hallways are more quiet than ever before. It seems that people only whisper. Except when Dean walks past. When people see him they tend to stop to turn and stare him down. Dean shrinks down in himself each time. He’s lucky Sam doesn’t have to deal with this. The students at the middle school he goes to have got to know what happened, but none of them were directly friends with the kids.
Dean is constantly reminded of it. He sees their old lockers decorated with memorial plaques. Sees their faces printed out in the entrance hallway. Sees the flowers and the small stuffed animals and the candles and the notes and everything people left for them. Sees it in the faces of people who look at him in disgust. Like he was the one behind the wheel instead of his father.
Dean sits down in his homeroom class. School had been out of session for a few days while everyone tried to wrap their heads around the loss of the football team’s star quarterback, his long-time girlfriend, and their two friends. The supposed cream of the crop for what this poor excuse of a town seems to pump out.
Dean and other students have only been back since the start of the week, but it has felt like years for Dean. Homeroom, in its general unstructured nature, has been the worst 20 minutes of each day so far.
Someone throws a crumpled paper at Dean’s head.
Dean tries not to react, but it’s hard not to flinch. He opens his notebook and works on his sketch of a Thunderbird under the hood. He yawns, knowing he’s not getting enough sleep.
It’s just been hard with everything going on and CPS making sure him and Sammy have an emergency placement now that John is detained and waiting for sentencing. Thankfully after spending a few days in some wack-ass group home in the next town, they were able to get help from Bobby.
Dean still feels so guilty for springing both of them on Bobby like that. It’s one thing to visit him once a month and scrounge around the scrapyard– but to need him like this? Dean does his best to stay outta the old man’s hair and take care of Sam so Bobby doesn’t have to worry about it too much.
Another ball of paper gets thrown at Dean’s head. He has no choice but to whip around and see who threw it. Of course, the group of kids clustered together diagonally from him act like nothing happened. They aren’t afraid of him though. Instead, they choose to stare right at him. Like they know he has nothing to say. Turns out they’re wrong.
“Knock it off,” Dean grumbles and then turns back to his notebook.
Another ball. This time Dean can feel the weight of something heavy inside giving it a kick.
“I said knock it the fuck off,” Dean says louder as he turns back.
“If I were you I’d keep my mouth shut,” the bigger guy in the middle says.
“Yeah,” adds the other guy next to him, “You got nothin’ to say to us, your Daddy’s a killer and for all we know you played a part so turn the fuck around and shut up.”
Dean cringes and turns back to his drawing, defeated.
He can hear their loud whispers behind him that they clearly want him to pick up. Can hear them say it should have been him in the car instead of the other students.
Dean can’t find it in himself to disagree.