Chapter Text
Dean can smell rain coming on as he watches the sun come up for the third dawn in a row this week. Well, at least from behind the curtain. He lets his worn Vonnegut rest in his lap, leaning against the headboard of his frankly too-big bed, and stares into space a little. It doesn’t matter. He would look out the window, but he wouldn’t see anything new, which is fine. He sinks into his mattress and pulls his covers over his head.
Any day now, he thinks, he’ll get up too early for the town to be as perfect as it always is. He’ll wake up, dawn not quite caught up, and catch sight of a starless void that starts across the threshold of his perfect little house. Ridiculous. A house for just one person. He thinks back to when he was younger, when he would revel in an empty house, free of Mary, free of Sam, just for the afternoon. He’d sit out on the porch with a pilfered beer and watch the fields, alone but not lonely.
Well. He’s not in Kansas anymore. Christ, and how many times has he made that particular joke to himself? Obviously not out loud. He’s a writer, for fuck’s sake. Literary integrity and all that shit. Plus, the sheer cheesiness of it all. Donna would have a conniption, or maybe - shock horror etc. - assume he got his sense of humour back. God forbid.
Even if he’s been up for hours already, Dean hasn’t actually taken a look outside. Hasn’t even left his bed. He pulls back his covers from over his head and lays them back down, every movement careful and deliberate. He moves deliberately, these days. No imprint in the bed beside him, no stolen blankets, just the right amount of pillows for one person. It’s fine.
He passes the trench coat on its usual place on the coat stand. He doesn’t run his fingers along the worn fabric anymore, but it’s a close thing this morning. Probably the lack of sleep. He grabs his fitted peacoat because God knows he’d have an easier time picking winning lottery numbers than predicting Connecticut’s weather. But it’s fine! Of course, it’s fine! Connecticut’s beautiful this time of year, it’s gorgeous.
And the cherry trees are in bloom; how could he be sad when those pink blossoms line his walk to Jody’s Diner, home of the best coffee this side of the Atlantic? He couldn’t be. He shouldn’t be. Relocating to Chester was the best thing he ever did. So that’s that.
Jody’s is a blessing to counteract his bullshit insomnia, but Jody herself is no-nonsense. Weird, he’d always heard that small towns were either beyond backwards, or so saccharine as to give you cavities. Chester leans towards the latter, what with the festivals every five minutes, and the town meetings in that cutesy pastel-coloured town hall, and fuck, the general picturesque-ness. Enough to make a guy puke at every rolling hill and duck pond, but vomit doesn’t necessarily fit with the aesthetic, so he keeps it to himself. But Jody, oh, Jody’s the best. She’s gruff, competent, and brews coffee strong enough to kill a man. They’ve barely exchanged more than his coffee order in five years. She’s probably his best friend here, and isn’t that a great thought?
Dean settles with his joe at his usual bench in his usual corner of the town square and just… watches. Some habits die hard, and Donna’s voice of wisdom tells him you can never let yourself slack in writerly observation, Dean-o!, so he sips his coffee and waits for the town to unfold before him.
It doesn’t take long. He spots Rufus Turner, never has a nice word to say about anyone or anything in town, having a smoke just outside his front door. Dean loves him, his turns of phrase, his way of smiling at you as he rips you to shreds for even looking funny at his lawn. He’s the life of the town-hall meetings, gives them that extra bite. Dean suspects he’s got an arsenal of land mines hidden in a very particular pattern underneath his beloved lawn, maybe resembling a hand flipping the bird at the sky. He’s an old coot, but he’s Chester’s old coot, and apparently when he reads in Temple, it’s mesmerising. So he can’t be all bad.
He spots Pamela Barnes walking by with her flavour of the month. Every strapping young man in town has taken a turn escorting Pamela around on her Sunday walks. Dean knows for a fact that, even if she’s blind, she can tell exactly how good she looks with her barely legal helpers. She’s the town psychic, and she goes full-ham, or so he’s heard; he’d tried getting a reading a little after he arrived, but Pamela had pawned him off with some mumbo-jumbo about his aura being too clouded with pain, whatever the hell that even means. Probably clocked that he wasn’t easily won over by her schtick. Probably. Hopefully.
And Ajay, quiet but consistent, takes his daughter Hael out for some air every morning like clockwork; she’s a curious kid, very serious-looking, even at the ripe old age of three. Very blue eyes. Dean tries not to get choked up every time he sees a pair of baby blues, but it’s a hard thing. He worries that it always will be. But Ajay, he’s a good dad, he talks to Hael like she’s a grown-up, which she probably appreciates. Kids prefer not to be talked down to. Sam always hated it. Shit. He makes a mental note to call Sam. It’s been too long.
Although he technically knows of everyone in town (with a population of less than four thousand, it’s hard not to), in just five years he’s managed to earn the rightful title of town recluse. He exchanges a little small talk when necessary, he smiles at the right moments, but people are quick enough to notice he’s never really engaged. It’s acceptable, but not forgivable. There’s always one part of his brain that’s comparing. He knows it. He hates it. He can do nothing to change it. So it goes.
Speaking of which, he needs postcards. The bell above the door at Mark My Words tinkles as he walks in. Samandriel, sweet, wispy Samandriel Marks, smiles at him. Dean wishes he wouldn’t. He walks over to the fiction section, even though he knows he doesn’t need to, doesn’t even really want to, but hey, it’s something to do. His eyes scan routinely over the names, T, U, V… There. D. Winchester. The Android’s Rapture. He cringes. He still hates that goddamn title, and the shitty two dollar art on the front of this year’s edition. He hates that minimalism has made a comeback. He hates that his beautiful house in this beautiful town in this beautiful part of the country is all thanks to those 300-odd pages of complete shit. Everyone’s their own worst critic, but Dean thinks he’s his best. Most likely the only thing he’s good at these days. He’s sure there’s a consensus or something.
He picks two postcards, twin black and white photos of a pit-bull struggling with a plate of spaghetti.
“Will that be all today, Mr. Winchester?” Samandriel’s voice has deepened the way a puddle does after a bit of rain overnight. He probably thinks it’s a drastic change, and he doesn’t meet Dean in the eye.
“That’s all,” and his voice is rougher than even he’s expecting. He goes so long without speaking, it’s a wonder he still remembers. “Thanks.”
Samandriel looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes. Dean swallows, audibly. “$2.00.”
Dean slides the two notes over, picks his postcards up from the counter and leaves before he can breathe again.
He’s almost finished with his first postcard when he gets a call from Anna. He flips the little widget thingy onto his wall panel and waits for the call to connect.
“Hello? Dean? Can you hear me okay?” Anna’s right up against her camera and Dean gets a good view of the inside of her nose.
“Back up, Milton.”
She shuffles and he gets a good look at her, hair cropped tight on her head, still a flaming red. She smiles and waves. Nice to know some things remaining the same are all right. “Well, we can’t all be sci-fi nerds, now, can we, Winchester?”
“I wish you could, book sales can always go higher,” he jokes, settling on the stool in front so he can relax. “How’s tricks?”
“Gallery opening went okay, press was a pain in the ass, but you know all about that,” she waves him off, “anyway, I got some really nice coverage and I have an interview next week!”
“With who?”
“Oh, Comely? Some editorial. Looked kinda indie, which I’m down with, but aw, the girl on the phone sounded so sweet!”
“They always do,” he rolls his eyes, and he can hear her scoff, “how’s Jo?”
“Oh, y’know, this and that,” she says quickly. Oh, Anna, couldn’t be subtle to save her life. “She went, uh, back last week.”
“Back to Kansas?”
“Kevin’s birthday.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Oh, please, that’s ancient history,” she waves him off again, and it’s such a Jo gesture that his heart tugs a little with how much he misses them, “and besides, I’m pretty sure I’ve given her enough incentive not to leave me in the dust.”
Dean flinches a little at that, and hopes the connection’s not good enough for Anna to have picked up on it, “Yeah, well, watch out. Sam tells me Tran’s a real heartbreaker these days.”
Anna nods sagely, “Yeah, all those Princeton grads, they’ll do that to you.”
There’s a long pause where there didn’t use to be long pauses, but that’s sort of the name of the game on calls like this. Especially when Jo’s not there to buffer.
“So… how’re you?” she says, and it’s like she’s on a tightrope, he can hear it in her voice.
So he doesn’t bother pushing her off, “Oh, y’know, this and that.”
“Ha ha, still the comedian,” she snorts.
“You know me,” he lies.
Anna gives him an awkward smile, one of those closed-lips types, the ones that mean the conversation’s gone dead.
“Well, better get back to the grindstone,” he mutters, already getting up to terminate the call.
She makes no move herself, “Oh, no, already?”
They say their goodbyes and Dean’s staring at his reflection in the GateGlass™ and notices his stubble is coming in nicely. Which explains some things. Well, no point in grooming, who’s it for? He runs a hand over it and decides that it’s fine. He looks fine. He doesn’t look himself in the eyes, but that’s okay.
He goes to his desk and opens his old school laptop, with keys and everything. He knows people assume he likes old tech because he’s a grumpy old fart (which, uncool, he’s only just pushing 30), or because he revels in the concept of a sci-fi writer not being interested in modern tech, or just because Aesthetic. But, like with most assumptions, they’re wrong. He just likes the feel of his old laptop. He likes interacting with something he’s been interacting with for a decade. It’s the longest, most rewarding relationship he’s had.
He opens a document, takes out his notes (pen and paper, real stone-age shit) and writes.
Well, kind of. The sun’s set and he’s written at least a hundred- no, wait, less than a hundred words. Fuck. At this rate, he’ll get the book done in a little over three years! Great!
He closes the document and storms over to GateGlass, throws up some older bookmarks. He just needs to let off a little steam, that’s all. He can afford just one more bad day, no, one more wasted day, right?
PornHub’s an old haunt. He flicks through some favourites, and still gets pissed off at the names. He likes the ones with a bit of scenario, usually manages to get off before the real action even starts, but fuck, the writing’s so bad sometimes. It’s nice when the actors try a little improv, try to make it sound a little naturalistic. Dean wonders, as he plays with his balls, if writing scripts for porn would be somewhat lucrative. Maybe he could play around with character, maybe-
And the video’s over. His dick’s not being terribly responsive, not as much as he’d like. He turns on his phone for the first time that day and writes out a message.
+913 897 4356
Hey. Come over?
He waits, biting at the skin against his nails.
+203 659 1272
yeah, sure, when?
+913 897 4356
Now
+203 659 1272
sure thing, baby ;)
+913 897 4356
Don’t.
+203 659 1272
sorry!!! forgot.. be there in 20 :)
Dean hears the bell ring fifteen minutes later.
“Hey,” Samandriel greets, bearing a six-pack, “you o- woah.”
Dean yanks him inside and immediately starts undressing him, kissing down his neck and cupping his ass. Well, not cupping, more grabbing. Grabbing at every free bit of skin that he can.
“Jesus, Dean, Dean, what, no hello?” He’s already breathless. He always is. “God, there, fuck…”
Dean’s single-minded when it comes to this. He shoves Samandriel’s pants down, takes stock of his ruined clothes and how sweet he looks panting against his front door.
“Upstairs,” he says, and Samandriel is quick to almost trip over his pants to hurry to obey. Dean hates the sharpness he sees there. The intelligence. He’s stupid to come here. Dean’s even worse to let him. “Get yourself ready.”
Dean fucks him hard, lights off, no talking, except the sound of Samandriel’s whining and pleading. He comes quickly (as usual), lies sweating and panting in the middle of Dean’s bed, clearly hoping to stay the night (he never learns), and looking up at Dean like he hung the moon.
It’s nights like this Dean hates himself the most, for pushing his bullshit onto someone else. He tells himself it’s okay, that Samandriel knows the deal, knows this is just sex. He doesn’t convince himself, let alone the kid.
“So, uh,” he swallows hard, “that was fun,” he chatters, somehow with enough energy to keep trying to engage with Dean. A glutton for punishment. Dean can relate. “Boys at Harvard sure are smart, but they don’t, well, wow. Like you.” He circles a thin finger on the sheets. He knows Dean doesn’t like to be touched after. It’s considerate, and he doesn’t deserve it.
“Yeah, sure,” Dean manages, “anyway. Gotta get back to work.”
Samandriel shifts, “Y-Yeah, of course, sorry-”
He leaves without a sound, without Dean having to show him out. He knows the way. It’s fine.
Dean buries his head in his hands. Fuck.
He goes through his phone contacts, finds Sam’s name. He gets a voicemail about Sam being way too busy with depositions, but he’ll try to get back to you asap!
He finds Charlie’s name. He calls. He gets told for the billionth time that the number’s disconnected. He calls again. And again. And again. Just in case.
He finally curls up and pulls the covers over his head. Maybe he’ll smother himself in his sleep. He doesn’t cry, which is fine. He hasn’t cried in years, not since he bought the house. It’s a lovely house. He’s fine.
Everything is fine.