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1
When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading.
~ Henny Youngman
“Ruby just went to put down the deposit to rent the VFW for the party this year.” Sam spoke these words to his brother, Dean, before Dean had even gotten a chance to loosen his boot laces and shrug out of his flannel shirt.
Sam was already sitting in the living room area of Dean’s home (formerly both Sam and Dean’s home) when Dean had arrived, and the possibility that Dean might have come in to find her sitting alongside Sam, acting like she had some kind of open invitation to his house had set his teeth on edge in the driveway when he pulled up behind Sam's car.
“The Vets Club? Seriously? That's like $300 just for the room.” He knew he sounded butthurt. He didn't want to be like this all the time, but the smallest things seemed to trigger him, lately.
“Try $175. Relax, Dean. It's a great idea. There's a bar there, so we don't have to worry about beer, and it's the cheapest space that will fit everybody.” Sam put on his gentle logic face and brushed his soft, brown hair behind his ear with a practiced flip. Dean rolled his eyes and huffed out of his nose.
“We don't need a bar. We're not inviting people to a party where they have to buy drinks at a bar.”
Dean trudged towards his kitchen, which was open to the living room thanks to a half wall. He filled a glass with water and took a gulp. It wasn't beer, but if he popped a cold one open for himself, then Sam would either look at him disapprovingly, or ask for one. And just no.
“Don't worry about the $175. It's paid. It'd be cool if you could bring some liquor and help us set up on Friday, but if you can't that's okay. We've got a lot of volunteers.” Sam clearly believed that he was defusing any and all issues that Dean may have with the myriad of decisions that he had just been informed had been made entirely without him.
Dean was not defused. He was straight angry, and the fact that Sam, the person who knew him best in the whole world, could be so wrong just meant that she had gotten to him with her careful words and her manipulating pouts. Dean had seen it a dozen times already. She would just tell Sam that up was down or left was right or whatever preposterous lie suited her needs at the moment, and Sam would fall for it, hook line and sinker. It was almost funny, during the times when Dean could shake his head and make a whip crack noise to mock his brother for being completely at her mercy. However, lately she'd been making up stories about Dean. She'd been advising Sam of Dean's ”hidden motives” or “true feelings” and Dean wasn’t stupid. He knew it was all just a clever way to appear to care about Sam's brother while also training Sam to assume that Dean was too repressed or just plain depressed to be able to express his own thoughts and opinions coherently. Fuck that noise. Case in point, a world where Dean Winchester would voluntarily leave the planning and setup of The Annual Winchester Halloween Bash to Sam, her, and a bunch of unknown volunteers was a world that didn't exist. But at the same time, in Sam’s mind, Sam was living in that fucking made up world. This shit was starting to get out of hand.
“Of course I'll help set up. I'm going to the liquor store tomorrow. And no matter what you say, I'm getting a keg.” Dean dipped his chin and gave Sam a glare that dared him to argue.
“Cool, man.” Sam put his hands up in patronizing surrender, but Dean accepted, relieved that Ruby had not reassigned his I-mean-business glare some pathetic new meaning. But then Sam had to go on. “Awesome. I wasn’t even sure if you were into putting the party together. You didn’t stay that long last year.” Sam stood up, casually, as if he hadn’t just stuck a metaphorical ice pick of unwanted memories through Dean’s brain. He made his way towards the door, pulling it open before he turned back to hear whatever response Dean could muster.
“Last year-” Dean cringed around a hard swallow. “First year without Charlie.” He finished, gruffly. Sam was close enough to the door now. It was time for that beer.
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice was quiet. “I guess we each handled that our own way.” Dean turned back from his fridge to watch Sam look at the floor for a moment, then exit without a final goodbye. This was probably for the best.
Each handled it our own way? Dean scoffed. Is that your brilliant way of implying that my drinking a little more and leaving a party early is the same as you cheating on your girlfriend while high on painkillers? He rubbed his face, but it didn’t work to turn his brain off. My best friend gets cancer and dies, and you use it as a fucking excuse to move in on your dealer because at least she won’t give you shit for taking prescriptions that aren’t yours? Handled it our own way, my ass. You didn’t handle shit. I handled you. I moved Charlie into a hospital. I moved Charlie into a fucking graveyard. I moved Jess out of our house. Then I moved you out. And then I got fucking drunk. At that point I think I was entitled!
Why was he standing in his kitchen, holding a beer, silently ranting about the shitstorm known as 2015? Oh yeah. The party.
And I leave one fucking party early, because I don’t want to sit around and watch my nodding brother hang all over his “friend” Ruby while his girlfriend’s outside crying, and that’s supposed to mean I don’t want to go to the party ever again? I built that fucking party!
The Halloween party is a Winchester tradition that I fucking started and that you didn’t even show up to, the first year, because you were only 16 and you thought that drinking and smoking was just for degenerates like your older brother Dean. My, how the tables have turned. You’re the one who I should be asking if you’re sure you want to help, because you’re the one that brought all your stupid drama in and ruined the party last year. But in your selective fucking memory I’m sure that since Ruby was there you think everything was fucking rainbows and candy corn. Rainbows and fucking candy corn.
He sipped his beer. It was cool, so he let the physical sensation wash through him. He was starting to get a headache. Luckily, he lived alone now. It was 6:30pm on a Tuesday, and he was in for the night. There was ground beef and beer in the refrigerator and all of the Sunday and Monday night line-ups on his DVR. He picked up his phone, and with one quick swipe it was set to ‘silent’ and all was right with the world.
2
Keep your words soft and sweet just in case you have to eat them.
~ Amish proverb
Dean didn’t like to drive the Impala in the snow. It was a bit of a beast, and he had never bothered to buy snow tires for her, because as I said, he didn’t like driving her in the snow. He had a 2005 Ford pick-up truck he used in the winter that was rather small, but all wheel drive. Unfortunately, said truck was out of inspection, and the first squall of the season decided to come a week before Halloween.
The Impala growled through the slush just like she growled through rain or sleet or over piping hot pavement, or the Mountains of West Virginia. But the snow plow had pushed back the banks to cut down on drifting, which left the road deceivingly flat and wide where there was actually a nasty ditch. Dean rounded a right hand corner, veered right ever so slightly to clear an oncoming pick-up truck (road hog) and suddenly he was sucked away from the median as if there were a black hole at the base of that one deer crossing sign. Snow sprayed up over the right side of his Baby, and he came to a weirdly soft yet jarring halt, “oofing” against his seatbelt.
“Well fuck.”
He shifted into reverse with little conviction, because just simply reversing probably wouldn’t cut it now that his left ass cheek was sitting higher than his right. Baby spun her tires in soft snow and air.
He couldn’t call Sam because Sam was delivering the mail in his Chevy Blazer/bathtub/deathtrap so he was on a time schedule and more than likely already in a similar predicament. He couldn’t call Bobby because Benny had already called-in sick, to work on his misfiring furnace and it was Dean’s day off. Bobby was on the tractor loading big bales on the trailer for a delivery to Roman Ranch, all by his lonesome. Pausing his hard work to pull a joy-riding Dean out of the ditch was the last thing he wanted to do.
This left two options: calling a legitimate towing operation, or waiting around to see if whomever was spreading cow shit all over the adjacent field wouldn’t mind lending him a hand. He racked his brain to see if he could remember who farmed on that road, and nearly called Sam to ask what name was on the nearest mailbox. If it was Turner then he was golden. If it was Crowley, then not so much.
The decision was suddenly made for Dean as a sleek red and white tractor grumbled up behind him. The driver put it into park, and popped open the cab, climbing gingerly down the steps with more grace than Dean ever had as he exited the Impala. It was not a Turner or a Crowley. It actually looked like an Amish guy, complete with the stiff-brimmed straw hat. He wore a blue collared shirt, with Navy blue slacks, and white suspenders, which seemed unnecessary, considering the way the slacks and shirt lovingly hugged their owner. Dean’s driver side window was starting to fog, so he rolled it down. The air smelled like cold manure.
“Can I be of any assistance?” The Amish guy’s voice was strange and low. He stopped about a foot away from the car, and ducked his head sideways to peer through Dean’s open window.
“You can drive tractors now? Is that if you’re doing it for someone else?” Dean squinted up into some confused, blue eyes. He huffed at his own lack of social grace, and tried again. “I mean, ‘cause your Amish. You guys usually use horses.” That did not fix anything, but was blessedly coherent.
“Ex-Amish.” The ex-Amish man stated. Dean struggled to keep himself from asking the man if he was cold. It was pretty cold outside, and he was just in a shirt. Possibly with a tee shirt underneath, but that still shouldn’t have been enough in this weather. It was October, and Dean’s car was idling in a ditch, thanks to the cold weather. Yes, the guy was probably cold.
“I- yeah I could use a hand. Let me get out.” Dean did not point out that the man was underdressed for the weather.
“I have a chain.” The man walked to the front of his tractor and picked up the end of an old chain attached to a manual winch. He walked purposefully towards the trunk of the Impala, and Dean had to make a conscious effort not to slide tackle him. He settled for bending himself in half so that he could identify a tow-hook-worthy piece of undercarriage and also block the progress of this Luddite with a rusty hook
The man stilled and coughed, before crouching beside Dean and jutting his arm under Dean’s baby.
“Wait a second.” Dean tried not to snap, but this guy probably hadn't been all-American long enough to appreciate that Baby had some nigh irreplaceable parts.
“Here.” The guy retracted his hand and held the hook out to Dean, who had lowered his hind end into a crouch. They made awkward, crouching eye contact.
Dean narrowed his gaze, before realizing that you shouldn't look a gift tow in the mouth.
"I'm Dean, by the way." He asserted, before shoving a knee into the slush and dipping his head under his bumper.
"Castiel." Dean heard, distantly. The farmer must have been standing now. Dean placed the hook as gingerly as he could, silently apologizing to the spirit of '67, before standing up and shaking the muddy fabric away from his knee.
"Put the car in neutral, and steer." Castiel turned abruptly and and marched off to his tractor. Dean rolled his eyes. Duh. He wheeled around on his heel and trudged through the muck, back to the car.
Dean watched in the rearview mirror with a critical gaze as the tractor gently lurched into motion, and the chain between them was slowly pulled taught. At least he’s takin’ it easy, he thought. Rufus would have floored it just to watch Dean thrash and yell in protest.
Baby was pulled out of the ditch, with very few horrific scraping noises, and a final groan of what could be interpreted as relief. Dean mirrored his car, and threw her in park, glancing in his side mirror to see what kind of follow-up would be necessary. Obviously the hook had to come off. Castiel was already strolling towards the back of the car. Dean paused, wondering if he should just stay in the car, and pull away with a wave. That'd be rude, right? Yeah, probably. He slipped out of the driver's seat and jogged back to the trunk.
"Thank's, man. I feel like I should pay you or something."
"That will not be necessary." The man stood and watched as Dean unhooked the chain and held it out to him.
"Well thanks, Ca-..." Dean trailed off.
"Castiel."
"Yeah. Thanks, Cas. I woulda been stuck here a while if you hadn't come along. You're a lifesaver."
Castiel turned his head to the side and squinted.
"I fail to see how I resemble a peppermint candy."
"No, it's a-" Dean gestured as if to toss a frisbee. "You guys eat Lifesavers?" Castiel sighed, his eyes never leaving Dean's, which was odd, considering Dean was almost positive he could hear them rolling. "Well, you love your ice cream, I know that." If spontaneous combustion were a thing, Dean would be a perfect candidate, but in his defense, he'd stood around more than one summer day, waiting behind sweaty guys in suspenders, arms loaded with half gallons of Stewart's frozen confections.
"Assuming that your very broad generalizations regarding the eating habits of the Amish are actually correct, I am, as I said, no long Amish."
"Right."
The two men stood looking at each other in the melting snow.
"Right." Dean reiterated. "Thanks for the help."
He trudged back to the idling Impala, and threw it in drive, pulling away from the side of the road slowly, though his tires still managed to spin for a moment in the muck.
I fucking suck. Dean shook his head at himself and brushed little droplets of water off his hair.
3
Never send a boy to do a woman’s job.
~ Kate Libby (Hackers, 1995)
Charlie had been Dean's best friend. He hadn't known her all that long, in the grand scheme of things. They hadn't gone to school at the same time, and they didn't have any other friends in common, and he wasn't 100% sure where she originally came from or the gritty details of what had happened to her parents. But, Dean didn't have bosom buddies or friends from high school, or even a crew of dudes he'd shoot pool with in the bars. If you took Sam and Bobby out of the running, Charlie was it.
Her persistence was one of her best qualities. It would have been easy to simply keep a wary eye on him as she cheerfully greeted him from the counter of the local cafe. (For the record, Dean was just fine drinking coffee from Stewart's Shop, but the cafe had free wifi.) Charlie, however, didn't do "easy". Her eyes sparkled at the challenge Dean presented. How exactly did you befriend the beautiful lumberjack who laughed a little too loudly at videos of cats being frightened by cucumbers, as his ringtone blared Motorhead? Feminine wiles were the obvious answer. Dean Winchester's reputation proceeded him. But Charlie's brain didn't compute when it came to batting her eyes at a boy. Charlie only had eyes for the ladies. It was their first commonality.
Despite their initial bonding over the objectification of a tall, leggy brunette, the friendship between Dean and Charlie was as wholesome as Dean had ever had. He had easily found time to miss her every day since she passed.
4
“The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now.”
– Chinese proverb
"Dean."
"What?"
"I'm working on the playlist."
"What do you mean, 'the playlist'?"
"The playlist for the party."
"Yeah. And?"
"Well do you have any requests?"
"Requests? Sam, I'm the only one who actually listens to real music. Maybe I should make the playlist and you can give me your requests."
"Be serious, Dean. No one wants to spend all night headbanging to shitty hair bands. You can ask for some Def Leppard or Journey, but that's it. There has to be some contemporary music too."
"Oh, yeah. Wouldn't want all the little kiddies to be sad because they don't recognize good music. You take care of the music, and I'll work the door and ID everyone."
"Dean, I'm only four years younger than you, and everyone's gonna be at least over 18.”
“They better be over 21, or we’re gonna get kicked out of the Vet’s Club.”
“ You're such a drama queen."
"Fuck you. I'm a drama handmaiden."
"...Right." There was pregnant pause. "That was a Charlie thing." The silence became grave, which was a slight improvement over thinly veiled hostility and disdain. "Just text me some songs you want on the playlist."
5
Coffee is a language in itself.
~Jackie Chan
Cafe 42 was too hip for Dorloo Springs. It had big plate glass windows in the front, and reclaimed industrial fixtures, topped with thick, oak countertops. The prices were nearly reasonable. Its hours of operation were 5am to 11pm and they even managed to have indie acoustic acts strumming away at a zither or a guitar in the corner on every other Friday night. It was clearly too good for the village, just as Charlie was too good for this world. Dean continued to show up there, like clockwork, in an effort to appreciate and enjoy its presence before the Fates (or someone's accountant) pulled the plug on the whole operation.
He sat at his usual table by the window, and opened up his laptop with very little purpose. Maybe he'd download some decent music to stick on Sam's Ipod, for the party. Maybe he'd do a crossword puzzle. Maybe he'd just stare at the screen and listen to goofy Garth as he hunt and pecked his way through his latest Craigslist escapade on the Charlie Bradbury memorial computer that was open for the public's use. The tower for Charlie's computer was monstrous, partially because it was full of powerful hardware, and partially because Charlie was always nostalgic for the bulky, hard edges of electronics that had lately been replaced with soft corners and halos of white plastic. (Perhaps her propensity for outdated bulk was one reason she was so fond of Dean.)
"Hello, Dean."
Dean looked up with a start. The village was small, but Charlie had been gone long enough now that the jingle of the bell over the door didn't immediately interrupt the flow of his thoughts anymore. Before him stood a stranger, but for the odd sense of deja vu he felt as their gazes met and lingered.
Why do I know this guy? And why is he staring at me? Why's he wearing a trench coat? Someone lose their accountant?
"I assisted you when vehicle was stuck in the ditch." The man explained, as if he'd read Dean's thoughts, and was slightly bewildered about why anyone would question his trench coat.
"Yeah." Dean lied about knowing that before he was told. “You’re Cas…”
“Castiel.”
“Right.” Castiel just stood there. “You look different. Less Amish.” He had traded the faded blue collared shirt for a crisp white one, and his trousers were pleated and black.
“Thank you.”
“I mean, not that Amish was bad.” Dean faltered.
“I had noticed that it caused people to make rather ridiculous assumptions about me.” Castiel pulled out the chair across from Dean- Charlie’s chair- and edged into it. Only then did Dean notice that Castiel had been holding a steaming mug of coffee during their whole exchange. Said coffee was placed gently on the table, a few inches from the back of his laptop.
Oh.
“Right. Now they’ll be trying to get you to do their taxes instead of- I dunno- shoeing their horses.” Dean pulled his computer towards himself, glanced at solitaire on the screen, and clicked the top down. Castiel just blinked at the joke.
“I apologize. Am I interrupting you?”
Uh, more like that seat’s taken.
“No. Not at all. So what’s… going on?
“I have developed an affinity for the coffee here.” His eyes flicked down in what had to be embarrassment. “It’s an indulgence.”
“Yeah it’s good stuff.” Dean supplied. “You’re English now, right? We’re all about indulgence.” He leaned back in his chair, but aborted stretching out his arms to pat his tummy, instead. Castiel remained stoic, but Dean was starting to catch glimpses of amusement around his eyes. “I tell myself that I’m just here to use the wifi. I got shit for internet at home....” Dean trailed off as Castiel took a sip of his coffee, then set his mug back down.
“I know what internet is.” Castiel assured him, patiently. “I was actually hoping to use the computer tonight. I also do not have internet service in my home, and I’m afraid I’m too spoiled by this computer to go out and purchase a much lesser version for myself.”
“Yeah, it’s a pretty sweet machine. Charlie was great.” Dean drummed his fingers on the table, impatient for absolutely no reason. “Did you know her?”
“Her?” Castiel tilted ear towards Dean, thinking he’d misheard.”
“Yeah, Charlie Bradbury. She used to work here. Ran the place, really. About yea high.” Dean cut the air with his fingers. “Thin. Red hair. Big smile?” None of it seemed to be ringing any bells for Castiel. “When’d you get out, anyway?”
“It will be exactly one year ago, tomorrow.” His voice was very low when he answered, and his eyes wandered the room. Dean’s followed.
Garth was still squinting at the monitor of the public computer, his hands poised above the keyboard like the arms of a praying mantis. Jo was at the service counter, probably more because she missed her friend Charlie than any need for the money. It also probably didn’t hurt to spend a few nights away from the Roadhouse, in an establishment didn’t have five or so dirty drunks pouring alcohol down their gullet and complaining loudly about political opinions that seemed to hearken from an alternate reality.
“The computer is in memoriam. “ Cas noticed. “Is she deceased?”
Dean shut his eyes for a moment and breathed in slowly through his nose. Upon exhale he rejoined the conversation.
“Yeah. Just over a year now. If you didn’t come in here before then you probably never met her.”
The bell over the door chimed. This time it was a welcomed interruption that swiped all of Dean’s focus.
“Castiel Yoder. So this is what happens when you stop letting your mother dress you, huh?”
Fregus Crowley strode into Cafe 42 like he owned the place, which was not the case. He did own a very impressive farm just outside of the village where he raised Black Angus cattle that he shipped off to a midwestern chain of steakhouses his family supposedly owned and operated, but his holdings stopped there. Tonight he was dressed all in black, with an expensive wool overcoat and designer boots. Dean was relieved that Castiel didn’t seem impressed with his entrance.
“Crowley.” Cas acknowledged the newcomer, politely, from his seated position.
“And little Deanie Winchester.” Crowley continued as he loosened the fingers of his black leather riding glove before pulling it off completely. “A birdie told me you and your phallus on wheels fell off the road the other day. You should have called me.” He pouted, which made everything from his oval face to his thinning hair seem all that much more pathetic. “What I wouldn’t have given to have Dean Winchester owe me a favor.”
Is he leering right now? Dean slid an inch lower in his chair. That is definitely leering. He is so leering. I feel gross now. Jesus. And when the hell did Castiel go and tell him about me being in the ditch? I didn’t mention it to anyone else who’d tell Crowley. It had to be Cas.
“Dean, you do not owe me anything.” Cas’s face said, like it was interrupting Dean’s thoughts with a very important message.
“Huh?” Dean pulled his eyes back to Cas and tried to blink Crowley’s maniacal grin out of its flashing impression inside his eyelids. “Well sure, I owe ya one. And with me, that’s like money in the bank. I got your back now.” He leaned forward, and Cas’s eyes grew wide. “And believe me, I did not want to owe that guy any favors. It’s all good.”
“Your distrust is so very hurtful.” Crowley breezed up beside them with a disposable cup that promised his eventual departure. “Castiel here didn’t realize I had GPS installed in all the tractors. We watched him idle for 20 minutes before getting back on course.” Cas looked impassive, but Dean suddenly felt guilty. It must have shown on his face. “Oh come now, I’m not that unreasonable. I docked him half an hour and he was back on his way.” Crowley patted Castiel on the shoulder with two quick taps. Dean bit down on a sneer.
“Well, as much fun as it is hanging out with my lackeys, I’m afraid I’ve got places to be.” He turned and took two steps towards the door, then pivoted back to face Dean.
“Oh, Dean. Tell your moose of a brother I’ve gotten Talbot’s bloody Redbook in my box for the last three months. I was under the impression he was supposed to be the smart one. Is he on drugs or something?” He whirled back around and made his exit.
Dean fought to keep the red out of his face, but having Crowley reference Sam and drugs in the same sentence, in public made his skin crawl. So Crowley knew Sam’s terrible not-so-secret? Fantastic. All he needed now was for it to get back to Post Master Jody, and Sam would be called in for drug testing, and immediately fail. Fucking Ruby, he lamented as he ran his left hand through his short hair, fingers pulling bits of pommade up from the roots to the tips.
“What does your brother do?” Cas disrupted Dean’s scalp massage with the low-voiced question.
“Opiates.” Dean mumbled, before wiping his hand down his face and neck.
“What does your brother do for work?” Castiel repeated, nonplussed by Dean’s accidental confession.
“He’s a mail sub.” Dean spoke to his lap. “It’s supposed to be part-time, but he’s the only sub for this office so he has to fill in for all three routes. He ends up working three or four days a week.
“Oh, your brother is Sam Winchester.”
“Yeah. How d’ya know him?” Dean looked up, eyes curious.
“Outside of our family and local church, our relationship with the mailperson is paramount.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. You ever talk to Sammy?”
“I believe I have. He once handed me the mail, then proceeded to ask me for tips on growing watermelons in our climate.”
“Oh yeah? What’dya tell him?”
“That it was a waste of time.”
Cafe 42 was only occupied by Garth, Jo, Castiel and Dean. The lights outside were beginning to glow against the twilight, and Dean was starting to feel like his clothing was trying to kill him. It was hot in there. Is it hot in here? Maybe it was just him. He needed air. He needed to get away from the smell of freshly ground coffee, which would always trigger his favorite Charlie memories. He needed to stop looking across his table and seeing a weird, old ex-Amish guy in the place where his vibrant, technologically inclined friend was supposed to be sitting.
“Well. I gotta go.” Dean slid his laptop off the table and tucked underneath his arm. “See ya around, Cas.”
He walked to the door without a backwards glance, unsure of the final expression on Castiel’s face.
6
Gossip needn't be false to be evil - there's a lot of truth that shouldn't be passed around.
~ Frank A. Clark
“Dean. It's not a big deal.”
“Sam. It's a huge deal. Stop acting like your job is not important.”
“I'm not gonna lose my job, and if I did- well, people get other jobs. But everyone loves me there. it’s not going to happen!”
“There are no other jobs! What, you wanna deliver car parts? Make subs at Stewart's? Shovel horse shit?”
“Yeah, what if I do? There's nothing wrong with any of those jobs. But that doesn't matter because I haven't even come close to losing my job!”
“Well after Crowley announces your fucking habit to everyone …”
“He can't just do that, and you have no clue what I'm even-“
“Like hell he can't!“
“Methadone. It's not even recreational.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Oh. That's - that's really great. And that's a prescription, so Crowley can't say jack.”
“...”
“You got a prescription, right?”
“Well I'm only a mail sub. I don't get healthcare benefits, but I make too much money to qualify for ObamaCare.”
“Yeah, how sad for you. So where do you get your fuckin' methadone?”
“You know what? You're just going to keep attacking me, and I seriously don't need this right now. Get a grip, Dean. Stop trying to micro-manage my life. And stop acting like I've got some moral obligation to do exactly what you want me to! Your life is just as fucked as mine is. And your constant negativity and judgement are the reason I'm like this in the first place!”
“Ruby is the- !”
“Ruby doesn't make me feel bad about being who I am. She loves me unconditionally. Not even Jess could say that.”
“I'm sure she still loves you, but you cheated on her and developed a drug habit. People aren't supposed to just let that shit slide because they ‘love you unconditionally’.”
“Your always gonna take her side, so we don't even need to talk about this. You have zero respect for anything i say or do, but just remember, I’m better educated, I've got a better job, I make more money, and I've got a supportive relationship.”
“Right.”
“I'm sorry you don't have that in your life, but it's not my fault.”
“Yup.”
“And don't call me next time you infer meaning from one offhand comment a guy makes at the coffee shop. Save it for your therapist.”
“Gotcha.”
“See you Saturday.”
“Yeah. Happy fucking Halloween.”
7
I believe that if life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade...
And try to find somebody whose life has given them vodka, and have a party.
-Ron White
Saturday, October 29th was balmy. There's was a thick fog hanging in the trees, highlighted by the sun beaming out of a clear blue sky. It was crisp, but not cold. There was very little wind.
The one year we actually have the party in a building that has heat, and we won't even need it. Dean shook his head.
“Whadyrya doing here, boy? Don't you got a big shindig to plan?” Bobby's voice pulled Dean out of his thoughts. He stepped away from the teal Ford truck that he's been leaning on and gave Bobby a nod, leaving his arms clasped over his chest.
“You comin’ tonight, Bobby?” Dean had to clear his throat to get his voice to work properly.
“Interesting question.” Bobby pulled his trucker hat up off his head by the brim, and scratched at his forehead. “I don't ever remember being invited.”
“Well the music ain't gonna be your scene, that's for sure. But you can come down and see everyone, all dressed up.” He tried not to sound too eager. “There's whiskey. That part is your scene.”
“Right.” Bobby looked at him with more curiosity than a friendly invite should have sparked.
“How's Sam?”
“Ah, you know. Smarter than me. Better job. Perfect relationship.” He cringed. That shit hurts to say out loud, sweet Jesus. “ You know what? Why don't you come see for yourself?”
“Hmm.” The older man pondered. “Maybe I will.” He stepped towards Dean and patted him on the shoulder. “Well, get on outta here. This rust bucket can wait. I don't want to take the blame if you don't win the prize for best costume.”
“I got no one to blame but myself.” Dean chuckled. “See ya, Bobby.”
8
Concern should drive us into action, not into a depression.
- Karen Horney
Dean stood in front of his closet, eyeing his tunic and chainmail. It was high quality, crushed velvet and steel. He had worn it three years ago, almost to the day. It was one of the only costumes he’d ever put any effort into, partly because he was usually too swept up in providing snacks and booze to worry about his own costume, and partly because it doubled as his LARPing getup, which made it multi-functional and therefore worth every penny.
This year he was uninspired. He’d make a decent Captain America, but he didn’t want to go out and buy an overpriced onesie with a plastic shield. True, Captain America meant you didn’t have to bother with a mask, but… It just seemed too plastic and like too much of a hassle. Maybe next year.
With a sigh he snatched up an old black tee shirt and went looking for a can of white spray paint.
9
I don’t do drugs. I am drugs.
~ Salvador Dali
When he arrived at the VFW he had to begrudgingly admit that the place looked nice, at least on the outside. There were bunched corn stalks on either side of the door, with rainbow of specialty pumpkins stacked artistically around their bases. Sam was always big on farmers markets, or pumpkin patches. This kind of needless frivolity was right up his alley. Dean grunted as he released his booze-laden box for a split second to grab the door handle and whip it open. He was greeted with the sounds of some indie rock band crooning about ghosts in their house. Great.
“This is just the the party set-up music!” Sam greeted him, loudly. “I know you were about to say something. The dance mix is saved for later. Put that on the table with the purple skeletons.”
Dean gave his brother a nod and trudged off to the drink table. It was covered with Day of the Dead sugar skull decals and oversized purple glitter. More useless crap. Thanks, Ruby. Whatever. They make so much more than me. I guess they can afford it. He unloaded his liquor store haul onto the table. Two bottles of Jack, and a bottle of Old Crow. Some spiced rum that had been on sale, with a mail in rebate that he knew for a fact he would never mail in. Then he had the girlier stuff, cake flavored vodka and a bottle of 99 bananas. Finally, a can of chocolate, alcoholic whipped cream. You never knew when one of those would come in handy.
“Oh my God, Dean. Were you PMSing when you bought this?” Ruby was suddenly beside him, waving his whipped cream around in an attempt to attract the attention of some of her minions. Dean scared most of them, so they continued whatever kiss-ass task they were working on and simply watched the exchange covertly.
“Probably.” Dean answered, pulling the can out of her hand and placing it back on the drink table.
Ruby crossed her arms and smiled a devil-red grin at him. Her hair was dark and straight, held back by a little red devil-horn headband. She wore a tight black turtleneck and a short black skirt, made somewhat more exciting by a pair of fishnets. Of course her shoes were red leather, and at least three inches high.
“What are you supposed to be, anyway? Are you going to change before the party?” Her voice was cloying and too loud for a normal conversation. That was Ruby. How the HELL does Sam not notice this shit? What the HELL is he thinking? She can literally dress like Satan and he still doesn’t get a clue.
“I’m the Punisher.” He piped up, defensively, pulling is jacket open to reveal the dripping white skull he had spray painted onto his tee shirt, over his black cargo pants and black work boots.
“Oooh. Nice.” Her eyes rolled, clearly indicating it was not that nice.
“What’s Sam, anyway? Other than your loyal disciple?” This was Dean’s party too. He still had it. He was like 12 years older than this chick, and he was looking for someone to push him into drinking with a purpose.
“Sam’s not dressed yet. But yes, always.” She smiled in a way that was supposed to suggest that she and Dean had a little inside joke. The only thing Dean had inside at that moment was Punisher-style vengeance. She could probably tell, but that didn’t stop her from grinning at him. “And if you see a Harley Quinn around here, hands off! That’s my cousin, and she’s too young for you, and she’s a total slut.”
“Well it takes one to-”
“Hey Dean, could you come over here and help me with this?” Sam interrupted. Dean shrugged and walked away in the most abrupt manner. But the more Ruby caught on to his posturing, the more she seemed amused by him. She just really, really sucked.
“What.” Dean walked over to see Sam messing with a free-standing curtain rod.
“This is the photographer’s backdrop.”
“The photographer? Is someone getting married?”
“Very funny. No, it’s one of Ruby’s friends. They go to school for photography, and they rented this fancy camera out of their school’s photo lab.”
“Oh, so they’re getting a grade on this?”
“No.” Sam grimaced. They had found themselves once more on completely different pages, and it was making Dean want to Hulk out on the powder blue curtain that Sam was installing onto the rod. “With Charlie gone, I realized, life is precious, you know. And it’d be nice to have some more pictures, you know, of our crew.”
Dean looked around the room. There were people there he knew. A few people he would smile at or joke with. A couple of girls he’d be talking up later, dressed as Anime schoolgirls in little plaid skirts and ties. The one thing that he did not find in his inspection of the room was ‘his crew’. Ash was supposed to get there later, after a late night at the neighboring town’s hospital. Jo was going to stop by after closing up Cafe 42. Garth had promised to ride along with her and stick to soda so she could ‘get a little crazy’. Sam. Sam was the only member of Dean’s crew, standing in a room of 12 people. And he’d gotten a photographer to immortalize this collection of pretentious art students and junkies who all probably secretly hated one another.
“Hey, man. That’s a good idea.” He patted his oversized brother on the shoulder. It was a good idea. He just wished he had thought of it, five years ago, when he was too busy being carefree and intoxicated. At least Sam had learned something from all of this. “Everything looks good. I’m gonna go sit at the bar for a minute, see who’s working.”
“Cool. Thanks for bringing the liquor.” Sam steadied the photo corner curtain, and Dean noticed that it was printed with colorful neon lasers shooting across it. Okay, that’s funny. I can appreciate that everyone is gonna be photographed, in costume, in front of a 90’s school photo backdrop. But shit, I wish Charlie were here.
At the bar he plunked down a twenty and slid it to Donna, the cute, blonde, perpetually single sheriff who tended bar at the Vet’s Club on the weekends.
“Keep it, but stop me when I get to $15.” He requested. She smiled.
“Hiya, Dean.”
“What’s happening, Donna?”
“Well you and Sam and your little party here has got me going. I got my eye on a pretty little Colt45, and tips from tonight just might be enough.”
“I’ll tell my friends to be generous.” He took a swig of the Budweiser she had handed him without him specifying a brand. “And if they don’t deliver, let them get good and drunk and then tell them you ran out of ones.”
“Oooh. I like the way you think.” She grinned. He smiled back. Donna was good people. It was too bad she was always blowing off Dean’s flirtations and then agonizing over boring relationships with the kind of dorks who had bouquets of daisies delivered to her at office, next to the county jail.
“Finally, someone likes me for my mind!” Dean toasted his friend. “This one’s a keeper.” He nudged the elbow of the guy next to him, whose receding hairline and faded letterman jacket made him look just lame enough to actually be Donna’s current crush.
10
The sudden disappointment of a hope leaves a scar which the ultimate
fulfillment of that hope never entirely removes.
-Thomas Hardy
The party was… it just was. It wasn’t epic. Bobby and Ellen stopped by around 9 and admired everyone’s outfits, then flitted away to sleep, or get up to whatever trouble people got up to when no one was bothered to wonder where they were anymore. Ash showed up as- Ash from Evil Dead, which no one really saw coming. Nobody puked (in an attention-worthy fashion). Journey came on in the middle of what felt like an hour long block of Rihanna, and the older/hipster partygoers merged into some sort of amoeba of fist pumping and eyes-closed-singing. Dean joined them, half-heartedly, drunk enough to fake it until he made it. Ruby looked on with her arms crossed, a little pout on her face that read that she never had time to listen to the classics and she didn’t like being left out. She was a sore loser. She should have just used that time to recover from all the ‘getting low’ she had accomplished prior.
Last year, Dean’s drunk brain supplied as he whirled his head around to the guitar solo, Jess was here. Well not here. It was at the garage. She was dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, and Sam was the fucking Cowardly Lion. That bitch Ruby had the nerve to be Britney from the Circus video, and follow Sam around, flicking him with her whip all night. She got him to take something, and then they fucking sucked face in the middle of the dance floor while Jess cried all over me in the Impala. And let’s not forget I did my fair share of crying after I told her how much Charlie had liked her, and how Dorothy was one of her favorite characters. That was last year. Great fucking year.
Dean wandered out of the mob, back to what he thought was the safest corner of the room. He was proven wrong when a harsh flash of white light indicated that he had wandered into the photo corner.
“Ooo take my picture with The Punisher!” A school girl squealed, coherently enough that Dean guessed she’d chosen to spend the majority of her night posing for the camera instead of smudging her lipstick with food or drinks. “You’re Dean, right? Smile!”
Dean dipped his head and gave the camera an angry glare. He was The Punisher, after all. After another mind-numbing flash he sidestepped out of the spotlight, and immediately felt eyes on him.
“Hello, Dean.” He was greeted by a fresh-faced Castiel, dressed similarly to the way he looked when Dean first met him. “What are you?”
Dean blinked, not ready to enter into a conversation quite so abruptly.
“I’m the Punisher. What’re you?” He observed Castiel’s home-sewn trousers, and crisp blue shirt, admiring the way he made suspenders look kind of badass, even in their full and upright position, instead of dangling behind him the way the punks like to wear them.
“I’m Amish.” Cas smiled.
How did he get here? Dean wondered as he smiled back. Did I invite him? I should have invited him. I think I just kind of bailed on him at the coffee shop. Shit.
“My friend Meg invited me to come out for Halloween. She has since abandoned me. I’m a poor companion. I’ve never celebrated like this before.” He glanced around a bit suspiciously, eyes finally landing on his red plastic cup, which smelled an awful lot like bananas.
“How do you celebrate stuff? Did you? How did you?” Dean was more tired than he was drunk, but he guessed that Cas wouldn’t know that. Oh well. Free pass to sound drunk. At least they would both be able to assume he didn’t remember his blatant cultural insensitivity next time they ran into one another.
“We didn’t celebrate much. We came together in communion after completing laborious tasks.”
“Sexy.” Dean deadpanned.
“Personally I enjoyed finding time to commune with nature in some way, when I wanted to reflect on my successes.”
“Hey that’s a good idea.” Dean brightened, taking Cas’s cup out of his hand and setting on the nearest flat surface. “Let’s do that.”
“Do what?” Cas tilted his head.
“Commune with nature.” Dean answered, matter of factly.
11
Love isn't something you find. Love is something that finds you.
-Loretta Young
Sober Dean would most definitely not have giddily led an ex-Amish guy away from what may have been his first real party experience, to farther down Main Street where his childhood climbing tree was still standing tall. Sober Dean spent a lot of time internalizing his feelings. Drunk Dean, on the other hand, just wanted someone in this godforsaken town to be feeling the same feelings as him at the same time.
So there they sat, 15 feet up, both wearing shoes that didn’t really facilitate easy tree climbing, Dean’s due to bulk and Cas’s due to their flat, plastic soles.
Dean watched Castiel in a flickering beam of street lamp light. Cas was wedged between the trunk and a strong bough, in a position that looked uncomfortable, but Dean knew the tree well, and remembered there was a smaller bough behind him, offering low back support. He looked peaceful, and curious at the same time. I did that. Dean thought, breathing in a deep breath of satisfaction. Go me.
“Why are you here?” Dean asked, surprised at the sound of his own voice. Castiel turned his gaze from wherever it had been scanning, and blinked at Dean.
“Because I’ve been shunned. It’s supposed to make me reconsider my sins, but it’s rather freeing. Why are you here, Dean?”
“Because Charlie got Leukemia and died and she was too important for me to figure out how to deal with it and move on. It’s gotta have a lasting effect, right? If it’s really a big deal? It was. It was a big deal. But everyone just keeps… living.”
“Isn’t that what Charlie would want?” Castiel asked, cautiously.
“Yeah.” Dean laughed tonelessly. “But she ain’t here.”
They sat in the tree for a few more minutes, until Dean’s left leg began falling asleep, at which point he slowly climbed to the ground.
“Ugh, I’m losing my buzz.” He tested his weight from foot to foot. Cas dropped silently to the ground next to him.
“Now I am hungry.”
“Me too. Let’s go get burgers.” Dean started walking towards the diner, certain that Cas was behind him.
“Good idea.” Cas followed.
12
And in real life endings aren't always neat, whether they're happy endings, or whether they're sad endings.
~ Stephen King
Eating at the Chief Diner had been a crime against Ellen when it first opened about five years ago. Once the hubbub died down and Benny began moonlighting there to make a little more cash, her ire softened enough that Dean felt comfortable popping in every once in awhile, when the Roadhouse was closed. The Chief was an ugly little restaurant, with cheaply veneered booths and far too many whiteboards as signage, but it was reasonably priced and open 24 hours a day
Dean picked a clean looking booth and slid into his seat, facing the door, immediately picking up his hips to pull his wallet from his back pocket.
“You got cash for this? If you don’t, it’s cool. I got cash.” He eased the wallet back into his pants and settled himself. Castiel arranged himself across from Dean, removing his hat and trying, fruitlessly, to calm his hair by referencing his reflection in the dark window.
At the diner’s white, formica counter, Dean spotted Crowley, who had the contents of an accordion file folder spread out around him. He was muttering to himself as he tracked his progress down the page with a pencil that he trailed in the margin. At the bottom of the page he took a moment to moodily rub his brow, then produced an orange bottle from his inside pocket, and proceeded to dose himself with some kind of large white pill.
“Your boss is here.” Dean said, quietly, nodding his head towards Crowley. Castiel gave a casual glance over his shoulder, and nodded. “What’s he taking?” Dean asked, his filter still apparently missing.
“He has an ongoing issue with his back. I believe he was injured in an accident.” Castiel and Dean continued to watch Crowley, unabashed, as they discussed him. “The pain can sometimes cause him to be …” Castiel turned back around to face Dean. “Less than civil.”
“Aww. You gonna tell me he’s a nice guy, deep down?” Dean mock pouted.
“No.”
Their waitress was a dark-haired woman that Dean had once drunkenly made-out with at a pep rally bonfire, but he and Castiel were both done ordering the same meal before he could decide whether he’d be willing to go down that road again. High school was a long time ago, and he was pretty sure she had at least one kid now.
Kids. That’s crazy. People my age have kids who are six and seven and it’s not even weird. Dean picked up his spoon and fogged the convex side with his breath. He tried to hang it from his nose the way Sam always could, but it dropped down into his waiting hand. Castiel cleared his throat.
“Perhaps I should tell you why I was shunned.” Cas swallowed, and looked down at his hands.
“Okay, shoot.” Dean didn’t look up from trying to warm the spoon in his hands with some vigorous rubbing.
“I had no… “ Castiel frowned, and glanced around the diner. Crowley was pouring over some calculations on his cell phone. The cook was back in the kitchen singing Cajun songs, and the waitress was nowhere to be seen. “I did not agree with the way my church treated women, children, and those who were… different.”
Dean nodded, still looking at the spoon in his lap. He smiled a little, and suddenly reached across the table to give Castiel a quick pat on the shoulder.
“Thanks for telling me, man.” He pulled his arm back just in time for their food to be delivered. Dean rubbed his hands together with glee as Castiel squinted at him across the table.
“You are welcome?” Cas glared at his burger, before sighing and reaching for the ketchup.
“I mean-” Dean paused as he was lifting his burger to his mouth- “there’s obviously more to the story than that, but I’ll get it out of you eventually.” He craned his neck forward and took a giant bite.
“You will?” Castiel tilted his head to the side. Dean chewed and nodded, focusing the majority of his consciousness at his food. “Oh.” Castiel licked his lips. “Alright. Eventually. And you can also continue to tell me about your friend. Eventually.”
Dean put his food down and coughed, nodding and punching his chest, and looking utterly flustered for about 30 seconds. He finally swallowed hard, his eyes watering slightly from the effort. He flinched, then looked across the table at Cas, who seemed to be blinking and staring with concern.
I can do this. I can do this. Fucking meat. Breath, Dean. In, out. Who cares if it’s fucking weird? Weird is this town’s middle name. You got this, man.
“Yeah.” Dean managed a smile that was nearly 30% genuine. “I can do that.”
Cas gave him a fleeting smile in response.