Chapter Text
With all the power you're releasing
It isn't safe to walk the city streets alone
Anticipation is running through me
Let's find the key and turn this engine on
I can feel you breathe
I can feel your heart beat faster...
***
The A/C had gone out in the Omni three days before, and Dean hadn’t had a spare fucking moment to fix it. On his way into work that evening, he took a moment to stop on the side of the road, at one of the overlooks where the trees parted enough to see the summer sunshine gleaming off of Paugussett Bay. He turned off the engine, and climbed out to stand beside the narrow two-lane highway that led into Lebanon proper. There was a cool breeze coming in off the water, and he could hear the buoys dinging out in Gold Harbor.
Dean took a deep breath. Dark clouds bubbled out over the ocean, but the blue sky over land was unbroken. Just a minute, he thought, even though he would soon be late if he didn’t hustle up. Just give me one goddamn minute.
It was quiet. This road was really only used by locals who lived on the edge of town; the main road was probably blocked up by the late crowd of tourists crowding their way in at the end of a Friday. It would be busy tonight; a blessing and a curse.
He counted to a slow one-hundred in his head, then forced himself back into the sauna of a car, and drove to the Roadhouse.
***
“Dean!” Pamela called. “Are you gonna let me buy you a shot tonight or what?”
Dean glanced up at her. She was sat at a clump of tables with the rest of her biker crew, thumbing her lighter on and off. Some of the guys started to laugh, and Dean blushed but grinned through it.
“You know I can’t drink on the job, sweetheart!” he called back from the bar. “You can buy me a burger, though!”
Pamela threw her head back and laughed.
The Roadhouse was packed. Friday night in the summer – full to the gills with bikers, tourists, and day-shifters getting off for the week and cutting loose. Someone had a cycle of 80s music playing on the jukebox, grating on Dean’s spine like nails on a chalkboard. Eddie Money was howling out his third song for Chrissake – but the energy was high, and people were loose with the tips.
It was also hot as shit. Dean’s tee-shirt was sticking to his back, and he had to wipe his forehead on the sweatband that held his bottle opener on his arm every few minutes. It didn’t help that he was sardined behind the cramped horseshoe bar, bumping elbows with Jo at the one working ice bin. He was going to playfully shove her back, but her face was pinched and she looked pissed-off. Another fight with Ellen? Probably, he thought. Dean finished pouring the twelve drinks for Pamela’s pals, then quickly opened two bottles of Bud and slid them across the bar to the trucker who’d been waiting, hovering in his eyeline.
“Sorry for the wait,” he said, and the trucker shrugged and dropped a ten on the bar, then took his beers and walked away. Hell yeah.
“Hey, someone better take that trash out,” Ellen snapped from the register, gesturing to the full container of musty cans.
“Why doesn’t she take it out?” Jo groused, dropping an orange wedge into a Blue Moon. “She’s just sittin’ on her ass over there.”
Dean winced; definitely a fight. Ellen and Jo, mother and daughter, constantly at each other’s throats. It reminded Dean a little too much of his own family. “Uh… I got it,” Dean said. “Can you and Ash cover for now?”
Jo tossed her bleachy-blonde hair over her shoulder. “Whatever.”
Dean bit back his retort, and stooped down to loosen the bag from the garbage can. He heaved the cans up, getting a waft of sour, warm beer, and tied off the bag. He had to squeeze back behind the bar, past Jo, Ash, and finally Ellen to get back to the kitchen door.
It was sweltering in the kitchen, like Dean just stuck his face right in the fryer. The back door was propped open with a brick, but it was doing little to create a breeze.
“Holy shit,” Dean said, pulling at the neck of his shirt. Benny grinned up at him from the grill.
“Tell me about it, brother,” he said. “I’m about to melt into my boots back here.”
“You want another water?”
“Could ya? When you get a second.” Benny moved over to the deep fryers and pulled two baskets of wings up, then hooked them back on the edge to drain. “Takin’ the trash?”
“Just the recycling. Cans.”
“Can you grab the kitchen garbage? If you’re goin’ out anyway.”
“Sure.” Dean set the bag of cans down beside the open door, and moved around Benny to the kitchen trash can. It was full to the brim with cold fries, chicken bones, a few half-eaten burgers, wilted lettuce, and other scraps.
“Thanks, man,” Benny said. “Haven’t had a damn second back here since that asshole called out.”
That Asshole being Garth, the other cook. Dean tied off the trash, and heaved it out of the can. It was crammed in so hard that it took three tries to get it out of the damn thing, and he could feel the bag starting to tear.
“He said his wife was sick or something.” Dean set the bag carefully on the ground, and checked around it to see if it would hold together long enough to get it to the dumpster.
“She’s and adult, ain’t she? Can’t take some Tylenol and hop to?”
“I dunno, man. She’s pregnant, and they’re weirdos.”
“Yeah.” Benny dumped the baskets of wings into a bowl of sauce, and flicked them up in an artful arc. Dean watched Benny for a moment, his close-cut reddish-grey beard, the muscles in his arms as he worked, sweat gathering in the hollow of his throat. Benny reached up and wiped the sweat off of his face and head with a paper towel, and caught Dean staring. He grinned, and said, “What?”
Dean jolted, embarrassed, and shrugged. He picked up the bags to hide his blush. “Just wonderin’ how someone so slow got into this kitchen in the first place.”
Benny barked out a laugh, then lifted two baskets of extra-hot wings to the window, and rang the bell. “Well, fu-huh-huck you very much, Winchester!” Benny wiped his hands on his apron, and yanked another ticket out of the window.
“Sure you don’t need a walker, old man?” Dean said.
Benny’s laughter followed him out of the kitchen. Dean dragged the bags over to the dumpsters, and heaved the cans up into the recycling first. Then he held his breath, and lifted the lid of the garbage dumpster, and chucked the kitchen garbage in over his head. He let the lid slam down and he winced at the smell, pulling the collar of his tee-shirt over his face, and moved quickly away from the stench of the garbage –
- and ran right into a man cutting through the parking lot. The man let out a surprised grunt, and fell hard on his side on the pavement.
“Shit!” Dean choked out. “Oh, shit. Sorry, man, are you okay?”
The man blinked up at him, clearly a little stunned. He sat up. “Uh… yes. I’m all right.”
“Goddamn! I just slammed right into ya.” Dean stuck out a hand to help him up. The man took it, and Dean pulled him to his feet. He had messy, dark hair and disarmingly blue eyes, and he was wearing a suit despite the heat. He had a bag, one of those briefcase-messenger-bag-purse things, which he’d dropped when Dean knocked him down. Dean crouched down, picked up his bag, and handed it to him. “Sure you’re all right?”
The man took his bag, then bent his arm to examine his elbow, which he scraped on the pavement. “No harm done,” he said. His voice was pleasantly deep, actually sent a little shiver down Dean’s spine, and he blushed despite himself. “I’m fine.”
Benny stuck his head out into the night air and said, “Dean! Ellen’s out for blood, better hustle up.”
“Comin’!” Dean called back. “Sorry,” he said to the man. “Hey, if you’re headin’ in, I’ll give you your first one on the house. Sound good?”
The man gave him a weak smile. “Thank you,” he said. “But I’m just on my way to the bus stop.”
Slightly disappointed, Dean shrugged. “If you change your mind.” He went back into the kitchen. On his way in, he glanced back at the man; he was walking away, off toward the street, to the bus stop on the corner. Dean watched him go for a moment, thinking of his blue eyes had practically glowed in the flood lights, how his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and his tie pulled down a little.
Dean’s blush darkened. His ass wasn’t bad, either.
***
There were a bunch of fries and an order of wings left over after closing, and Benny boxed them up for Dean. He walked with $200, way more than usual for their divey, beloved little dump of a bar, and he was overjoyed; it would be enough for groceries and for Sam’s school supplies. More than enough – shit! He might be able to put some away in the Fix-the-Impala fund.
The weight he’d felt on his shoulders lifted as he drove home, windows down, Zeppelin blasting to keep him awake. He pulled up to the house at just before three in the morning. Dad’s truck was parked out front, and Dean breathed a quiet sigh of relief. One less thing to worry about.
Their house was a boxy little two-story with chipping grey paint, which someone had thrown together in the 40s with three bedrooms (one bedroom and two half-bedrooms really, Dean and Sam’s rooms were tiny) and only one bathroom, no A/C and a furnace that barely chugged along. Not that Dean needed to worry about that now; he’d save that problem for another day.
Dean grabbed the box of leftovers and walked up the slightly droopy porch to the front door. He keyed in, and was grateful to see that someone had opened all of the windows on the first floor, so it had cooled way down inside. Dean kicked his shoes off and added them to the shoe pile, picked his way over the scuffed wood floor and cracked linoleum in the kitchen, and shoved the food in the fridge.
The TV was on in the family room, and in the flickering light he saw his fifteen-year-old brother Sam flopped on his back on the couch, face turned toward a box fan that was blowing on the highest setting. He had the blue comforter from his bed thrown over his feet, and he was watching an infomercial for unbreakable wine glasses.
“Hey,” Sam said, as Dean came into the room. He was in nylon shorts and a thrift-store-shirt – Boston College Blood Drive 1994. “How was the bar?”
“Fuckin’ slammed. There’s fries in the fridge if you want any.” Dean watched a man throw an unbreakable wine glass out of a window – it landed on the street below, and didn’t even crack! Call now, and we’ll throw in the unbreakable beer stein, absolutely free! “What are you still doin’ awake?”
Defensive, Sam said, “Who cares? It’s summer.” He scrubbed a hand through his sandy brown hair, so long it hung in his eyes. “Besides. It’s too hot upstairs.”
“Did you open the windows up there?”
“No.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Great.” He picked up a frayed couch pillow, and chucked it at Sam’s head. “Thanks a lot.”
Sam shoved the pillow to the floor, and turned on his side. “Sorry,” he said, not sorry at all.
Exhausted and sore, Dean teetered up the narrow stairs to his room. It was sweltering upstairs, like walking in to a goddamn oven. He could hear Dad snoring away down the hall, and for a moment, Dean envied his stupor. The only way to sleep in this heat was to do so under the influence.
Dean’s room was small and hot, and he yanked his window open and lifted the fan up to lean on the screen. He turned it on high, and tugged his shirt up over his head. The bed looked real inviting, but he could smell the BO wafting up from his pits and knew he had to shower.
The bathroom was even warmer than the rest of the house, and Dean furtively shoved the tiny shower window open and turned the spray on lukewarm, edging toward cold. He scrubbed off quickly, not even able to muster the energy to whack off.
Dean wasn’t in the shower long enough for it to fog up on the bathroom. He dried off and took a moment to study his reflection. His dark blond hair was getting a little too long, and his summer freckles were starting to burst out on his skin. He hated them; they made him look younger than 24, made people think he was a joke. He wished there was a way to wash them off.
He returned to his room, pulled on a pair of boxers, and dropped onto the bed.
When he turned off the bedside light, the old glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling glowed soft and green. Dean took a long, slow breath, and put a hand behind his head. The fan droned, and the white noise lulled him to sleep.
***
The heat was bad enough by 9AM that it forced Dean out of bed. He pulled on some clothes and ambled downstairs, and found Sam snoring on the couch, the TV still playing infomercials. Ankle weights! Lose weight walking to the bathroom and back! Call now, and we’ll through in the wrist weights – absolutely free!
Dean shut all the windows downstairs. Then he rummaged through the kitchen and threw together a ham and egg sandwich. He ate it over the sink, standing with one bare foot on top of the other, flexing his toes on the cool floor. His back was sore from the night before – it had been a long night, and he hadn’t been able to take any breaks after eight.
Finished with his sandwich, Dean flopped onto the other end of the sectional couch, down by Sam’s blanket-covered feet, and picked up the remote. He clicked around until he found reruns of South Park – Hell yeah, he thought – and settled in.
Sam woke up a little later, yawning and stretching. He sat up, blinking like an owl, his ridiculous hair like a rat nest.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” Dean said.
Sam grunted, and laid back down on the couch.
The pipes groaned as the shower upstairs started, a few minutes later, John lumbered down the stairs. Dean heard him plod into the kitchen, pull a bottle out of the freezer, and take a quick nip of something. Dean sucked his teeth to keep his mouth shut; he could see Sam scowling.
“Hey, Dad,” he called, and John grunted back. He appeared in the doorway to the family room a moment later, scrubbing at his face, hair damp from the shower, wearing clean jeans and a slightly wrinkled shirt. “Goin’ in to work?”
“Yup,” John said. His eyes were bloodshot and his beard needed a trim, but he was otherwise presentable, thank God. “Closin’ the garage tonight.”
“I’ll be at the bar ‘til two again at least,” Dean said. John didn’t respond – he was already heading for the door, yawning. Sam grumbled something quietly, but wouldn’t repeat it when Dean nudged him. The door slammed, and Dad’s truck roared to life, then rumbled off down the road toward town.
Sam shoved the blanket off himself, and climbed to his feet. “I’m gonna go for a run,” he said.
“Really?” Dean said. “It’s like, 90 out there already.”
“So?”
“Well…” Dean frowned. “Eat somethin’, at least. Drink some water.”
“Whatever.”
Sam jogged upstairs, and returned a few minutes later in the same shorts he slept in and a faded soccer jersey with a gaping hole in the seam. Dean watched him pull on his running shoes, which were worn, second-hand things from the thrift shop. Dean thought about the tips he’d earned last night, wondered if he could put any of it toward new shoes for him.
“Be careful,” Dean said. Sam hopped up, and a moment later, the front door slammed. Dean stretched out on the couch, and shut his eyes.
***
It was almost six in the evening, and Dean was in the laundry room, putting another load in to rum before he left. After folding Sam’s clothes, he gathered them up in his arms. “Sammy?” he called. When he got no response, he walked into the family room. “Sammy!” he said again. Sam looked up from his videogame.
“Yeah?” he said, and looked back at the screen. “What?”
Dean shook a folded shirt in his face until he paused the game and looked up, a pissy look on his face. “I got laundry goin’ in there. When the washer’s done, will you please switch it over to the dryer?” He dropped the pile of clothes down next to Sam on the couch.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Yes, I-…”
“My uniform shirt’s in there for tomorrow. I’m gonna be dead when I get home, and I know I’ll forget to check. Please don’t let it sit in there all night. Okay?”
“Okay, okay!” Sam said, and looked back at his game. “Shit.”
Dean left the house and drove to the bar. The place was packed all night – they had to sweep the drunks out at closing, and it took until after three to finish the clean-up. He was too tired for anything when he got home, didn’t even have it in him to shower. He fell asleep on top of his blankets in his clothes, and burst awake in the sticky heat after 11AM, to the sound of his emergency alarm screaming at him.
He launched himself off of the bed and straight into the shower. His shift at Supermart started at noon, and if he was late again, he was done, he was dead. He finished his shower and jammed himself into his underwear and jeans, then dug through his laundry for a full minute before remembering that, Thank God! He washed his uniform yesterday!
He rushed down to the laundry room, almost tripping on the impossibly narrow stairs, and yanked the dryer door open –
The dryer was empty.
Dean swore violently, and opened the washer. There was all the wash that he’d asked Sam to switch over for him the day before, sitting musty and stinking in the heat. He wanted to bang his head against the wall.
He dug through the still-wet mess until he found the indecently bright red polo shirt, and he tossed it into the dryer with a dryer sheet, and cranked it as high as the temperature would go. Dean stared at his watch, calculating his drive time with the summer tourist traffic between home and the Supermart. He had maybe five minutes to spare before he would officially be late. He stood there seething until he didn’t have a choice but to pull the shirt out.
The shirt was still damp at the collar and seams. Dean laid it out on the car seat and pointed the vents at it as he drove, furious. He managed to clock in with thirty seconds to spare.
***
The weather remained stubbornly humid, the air thick and heavy. Dean was at the bar on an early evening shift during the week. There weren’t many people at this time of day – a few people catching early dinner or watching the game, some bikers.
Dean poured another whiskey coke for Pamela, who was holding court with her group by the dartboards. He walked the drink over to her, and she winked at him as he turned away. His eyes fell on the bar’s front door, and saw him walk in – the man who Dean had knocked on his ass by the dumpsters the week before. He was dressed in a suit again, his blue tie loose and slightly twisted up. Chief stopped him at the door to see his ID, even though he was clearly in his early thirties – Ellen’s summer law, tourist law, everyone gets checked no matter what.
Jo breezed past him on her way out of the kitchen. “Hey, baby,” she called, and set two greasy burgers in front of two grizzled fisherman at one of the booths. “Sit wherever you like.”
The man waved her down, and said something to her. She nodded, and walked back past the bar to the office, where Dean knew Ellen was finishing payroll. The man sat in one of the empty booths off in the corner, and pulled a laptop out of his bag. He set it on the table and opened it, and Dean watched, mystified. Jo came out of the office with a little sticky note. She gave it to the man, and pulled their small, laminated menu out from behind the napkin-holder, then returned to the bar.
“Did you know we had wi-fi?” she said.
Dean frowned. “We have wi-fi?”
“Uh-huh.” She leaned back against the counter, and discreetly checked her cell phone.
Dean leaned on the bar and watched the man type. So weird. This wasn’t a café – not the kind of place people usually came to work. Dean straightened up, squared his shoulders, and walked over to him.
“Hey, there,” Dean said. The man looked up at him, and Dean grinned. “I’m Dean. I think I owe you a drink.”
The man gave him a vacant, what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about smile. “I’m sorry?” he said.
“Uh…” Dean felt warmth rise in his face. What the hell was he doing? “The other night? I, uh. I kinda knocked you down?”
The man frowned, and then said, “Ah! That’s right. I remember.”
Dean tried to laugh. “I didn’t mess you up too bad, did I?”
“Oh, no,” the man said, and looked back at his computer. “No worse for wear.” Dean hovered there a moment like an idiot.
“Uh…” He cleared his throat. “So… you want a drink, or…?”
The man looked up at him, and shook his head. Then he said, “Actually… do you have iced tea?”
Dean scratched he back of his head, thinking. “Yeah… um, I think it’s just Lipton or something, though.”
“That’s fine,” the man said. He picked up the menu and studied it for a moment. “And a basket of fries?”
“Basket of fries and an iced tea. Comin’ up,” Dean said.
“Thank you.” The man didn’t look back up at him. Dean scurried away from the table, face stinging.
***
The man returned to the bar late the next afternoon. He was a little stubbly, his dark hair still messy, and he was reviewing information in a notebook and working away on his laptop. He picked the same small booth in the back, and this time he ordered a cheeseburger (extra cheese).
Jo wandered over to him, her apron tied low under the waistband of her jeans, her skinny hip bones jutting out like headlights. She hovered by his table, resting a hand on the back of the booth. “You want anything else, baby?”
The man looked up, straight in her face, his eyes not lingering anywhere that she was trying for. He said in his deep growl of a voice, “I’m fine for now. Thank you.”
“All right, you just let me know if you wanna drink or anything.” Jo ran a hand over his shoulder as she turned away and wandered back to the bar – the guy didn’t even glance at her ass – and she slid into a bar stool in front of Dean.
“What’s up with him?” Dean said, glancing at the man, who was laser-focused on his laptop, his dark eyebrows together.
Jo shrugged, and picked at the fries she’d ordered for herself. “Dunno. Just workin’ away, I guess.”
“Is he drinkin’?”
“Water.”
Dean snorted, and shook his head. “Weirdo.” He glanced over at the man again, and saw the man was looking back at him, his startlingly blue eyes clear in the dim bar light. The man gave him a small smile, and Dean looked quickly back at the sink.
When the man left the bar, Jo called to him – “Bye, sweetie!”
The man nodded to her, and as he passed the bar, he said, “Good-bye, Dean.”
Dean looked up at him, shocked that he’d remembered his name. “Uh, yup. Bye.” The man smiled at him again, and left the bar. Dean knew his face had to be glowing like an ember, and he busied himself wiping down the liquor bottles.
***
On the man’s third visit the next day, Jo approached him and said, “Hey, honey. What’s your name?”
The man looked up at her and smiled. “Castiel.”
Jo cocked her head to the side, grinning. “That’s a new one.” Dean was bussing a table nearby, and pretending not to listen. He turned the name over in his head – Castiel. It sounded strange; foreign and elegant. Jo continued. “Are you here on a work trip or something?”
“No,” he said. “I moved here recently. I don’t have any internet set up at my new place yet, so I’m afraid I have to leech of off yours. I hope that’s all right.”
“No worries,” Jo said, giving him a flirtatious smile. “Since you’re our newest regular, you’re welcome to it. No one else is using it, anyhow.” Then she giggled, and the man gave her a slightly confused half-smile.
Dean dropped the empty bottles into the buss tub, and stalked away from the table. It was fuckin’ weird. This was a bar! Not a library! Not a coffee shop! Why didn’t he go somewhere else to work?
But, Dean had to admit, the guy tipped well, 20 or 25% each time. He supposed as long as the cash was flowing, he didn’t really mind.
Castiel’s routine continued for almost two weeks. He’d appear in the late afternoon or early evening, have a water or an iced team, sometimes a sandwich or a cheeseburger, and then disappear before the bar got too busy. It seemed like he’d make a point to pass the bar on his way out – Jo would chirp a good-bye to him, and he would tell her good-night as well, give a blandly pleasant good-bye to Ash. But it felt like he would make a point to pause and say, “Good-bye, Dean.” Or, “Have a good night, Dean.” Dean would give him a nod.
The way he said his name made the back of Dean’s neck prickle with something like heat. He hated himself for the shiver that ran through him when he heard it.
***
Dean came in on a Saturday afternoon to start his shift. The bar was starting to fill up; Pamela and her crew were camped at the pool tables, fisherman having dinner in the booths, a group of hotel workers cheering to the end of their shifts, some tourists watching a baseball game. Castiel was there already, not at his usual booth, but at a table in the center of the floor. And he wasn’t alone – another man was sitting across from him, a fancy-looking older guy with greying brown hair and a neat beard, in a blue checked shirt, with a brown vest and tie. He was sitting back in his chair with his arm slung over the back, legs crossed, looking calm as anything.
Castiel, on the other hand, looked raging pissed. It almost made Dean gasp; he didn’t think he’d ever seen any expression on Castiel’s face that wasn’t vague contentment or work-focus. His face was red, and he had both his hands on the table. He was speaking quickly, and the other man spoke back slower, looking more composed, almost irritated. Castiel also wasn’t in his usual suit, but jeans and a grey tee-shirt. It looked (Dean blushed at the thought) good on him.
Dean went quickly to the bar, where Jo was mixing a gin and tonic. “What’s goin’ on?”
“With what?” she said, and slid the drink across the bar to the woman waiting for it.
“With…” Dean looked back at Castiel. “Nothin’. Never mind.” Dean clocked in on the register, surreptitiously watching the confrontation at the table. He felt something, an ambiguous protectiveness for their regular, best-tipping customer.
He ignored the customers waiting at the bar, walked over to the table. Unsure what was driving him, he stood over them, catching the other guy saying, “-…acting like such a child about this…”
Dean cut him off. “Doin’ all right, fellas?”
Castiel looked up, surprised, and then looked away. The other man scowled, and waved a dismissive hand.
“We’re fine,” he said.
Dean grinned bigger. “Sure?” He gestured to the wine glasses on the table, Cas’ half-full, the other guy’s untouched. “Refills, a menu, anything?” Then he laid a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, a friendly, purposeful gesture.
“No,” the other man said, looking up at Dean, frowning deeply. “Are you not able to see that we’re in the middle of something?”
Dean gave Cas’ shoulder a gentle squeeze, then put his hands up. “No problem. I’m at the bar if you need anything.” He swung around and went back to the bar.
Not long after, as he was pouring beer, he noticed that the other man stood, shaking his head, and picked up his blazer. He swept out of the bar, leaving Castiel sat there, staring furiously at the table like it had stolen his money. As Dean watched, Castiel picked up his wine glass, and slammed it, then reached across the table, grabbed the man’s ignored glass, and gulped it down as well.
Dean took a tray of drinks over to Pamela’s group, dropped two beers off at a booth that was clearly an awkward first date. When he came back around to the bar, Castiel had moved to a bar stool, and was sitting and staring blankly at the liquor bottles. He looked fucking morose, his face slightly wine-flushed.
“Hey, Castiel,” Dean said. “Is everything-…?”
Castiel cut him off, and said quickly, “I’d like a drink, please.”
Dean paused, setting the tray down on the counter. Jo, who was circling for tips like a shark that smelled blood, had edged over to ‘help.’
“I.” Castiel cleared his throat, looking mildly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. I don’t usually drink liquor.”
“You want somethin’ sweet, honey?” Jo said. She leaned forward on the bar, her shirt dipping low, flashing the edge of her lacy, pink bra. “How ‘bout a Sex on the Beach?”
“Um, a what?” Castiel said, looking from Dean to Jo and back again. Dean thought his face got a little redder.
Dean tried to smile. “You’ll like it,” he said. “If you like sweet stuff. It’s sweet.”
“Um.” Castiel watched him for a moment, then shrugged. “All, all right.”
To Jo, Dean said, “I got it,” but she was already pulling a mid-range vodka off the shelf.
“It’s cool, I’m on it,” she said, and grabbed a glass. She nodded over to the pool tables. “Your girl’s waving you down.”
Dean looked over to see Pamela, who was shaking an empty glass at him. He forced a smile onto his face over his scowl. “Great,” he bit out. He edged behind Jo and around the bar, over to the pool tables.
“Hey, sexy,” Pamela said, grinning at him slyly. She was tall and slender, with dark, wavey hair and intense eyes. She had a Ramones tank-top on, and from the look of the table, she was kicking her opponent’s ass.
“Hey, yourself,” Dean said. He held out his hand for her empty glass, and she gave it to him. “Another whiskey coke?”
“You know it,” she said.
“Guys?” he said, looking around at the bikers and the biker-chicks around the table. He took orders for a half-dozen more drinks, and returned to the bar.
Ash finally showed up, late as usual, and Dean put his head down as the evening rush started to hit.
He couldn’t help himself, though; he glanced over to Castiel every few minutes, watched Jo pour him a second, then a third Sex on the Beach.
Not my problem, he thought. But it was, wasn’t it? Jo didn’t seem to give a shit, and after hearing Castiel order ‘a drink,’ when he ‘didn’t usually drink liquor,’ Dean felt like he was on alert.
Dean paused a moment in front of him when he went to get another glass. “You drivin’ tonight, Castiel?” he said.
Castiel quickly shook his head over his drink. “No-o-o,” he said, and Dean almost sighed in relief. “I don’t drive. I mean, I can drive. But I don’t have, um… a car.”
“You don’t have a car?” Jo said, leaning on the bar.
Castiel shook his head again. “I’ve never needed one before. It’s a little different living here, though. I may need to… um… purchase one. The bus schedule is terrible.”
“Where did you live before?”
“The city,” Castiel said. “Um, that is. New York City.”
“Oooh,” Jo said. “We get a lot of folks from New York who like to vacation around here.”
Castiel nodded. “I moved here… um… a few weeks ago. It was… impulsive,” he said, and then he started to laugh.
“That’s enough for him,” Dean mumbled to Jo.
“He’s fine!” she said.
Dean caught her eye. “I mean it. No more. Okay?”
She rolled her eyes, and waved a hand. “What are you, my mother?” she snapped.
Dean didn’t answer. Why the hell was it on him to be the only responsible one when Ellen wasn’t hovering over their shoulders? He left Jo flirting and went to take a basket of onion rings out to tourists at the dartboards.
***
The crowd started to wind down around midnight. Benny emerged from the kitchen, sweat darkening the back and underarms of his tee-shirt.
“Hey, brother,” he said, giving Dean a friendly nod. He dug a plastic cup into the ice bin, then poured himself a water from the soda gun.
“Sorry,” Dean said. “I coulda got that for you.”
Benny shook his head. “No worries. Had to get outta that kitchen.” He took a long drink, surveying the crowd at the bar. Then he said, “Uh-oh. What’s goin’ on with your boy down there?”
“Who?” Dean looked down the bar. Castiel was still sat in his bar stool, hunched over an empty glass. “Oh… shit. I got it.” Dean walked quickly over to him. “Castiel?” Castiel didn’t look up, and Dean reached over and gently shook him by the shoulder. “Castiel? Hey. Cas? You okay?”
Castiel looked up at him, and Dean could tell immediately that he was drunk – really drunk. His eyes were barely staying open, and he was weaving in his seat. His face split into a huge grin.
“Dean!” he said, wildly loud. “I missed you!”
Dean grimaced. “Shit, man! How’d you get so drunk?”
“Mmh.” Castiel rubbed his eyes, and then tried to pick up the empty glass, but ended up knocking it over instead. “Don’t drink mush. Jus-s-s had a little too mush. Noth… Nothing t’worry ‘bout. I’m ‘kay.”
Dean whirled around to glare to Jo, who was filling a beer behind him. “Chrissake, Jo!”
Jo rolled her eyes at him again, and Dean had to resist the urge not to shake her. “I just poured him a few shots,” she said. “What’s the big deal?”
“He’s fallin’ down drunk!”
“Oh, please,” she said. “He’s no worse than anyone else in here.”
More tip for her – what did she care? “Great,” Dean said. “Perfect.” He shook his head, and looked back at Castiel. Fuck. He went around the bar and helped him out of the bar stool. “Okay, buddy. Let’s get you a cab, huh? Let’s get you home before Ellen finds out how bad we overserved you.” Castiel immediately started to list to one side, and Dean caught him, and held him upright.
“Mmh. You’re so… s-strong,” Castiel murmured. He leaned heavily against Dean, hooking an arm around his back.
“Yeah, I try,” Dean said, and angled him toward the front door. Chief straightened up from his place at the door.
“Need help?” he said, but Dean waved him away.
“I got it, it’s fine,” he said, and tugged Castiel out of the bar and into the night air. The air felt cool and damp, like it would rain at any moment.
“You… mmh.” Castiel stumbled a little bit on the pavement. “Called me ‘Cas.’”
“Uh…” Dean swallowed. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
Castiel laughed quietly. “I like it.”
“That’s good,” Dean said. Castiel almost fell again, and Dean had to heft him up to his feet. “Okay, okay, let’s flag a cab for you.”
“You can… take me home,” Castiel slurred, his face pressing against Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s body tensed; he felt heat rush through him, and his face burned. “You know,” Castiel said, his breath hot and liquor-heavy. “Dean. De-e-ean. I couldn’t believe… the firsht… firsht time I shaw you. You were so… sexy.” Dean stood frozen in the parking lot, a cloud of cigarette smoke pluming over them from the smoker’s porch that was just a few feet away. His face was white hot. And then Castiel put his lips to Dean’s ear and said, “I can’t get you out of my head.”
Dean was so lightheaded that he thought he might pass out. “Oh, my God.”
“C’mon…” Dean felt Castiel’s hand slide down his back to squeeze his ass hard, sending a jolt directly into his cock. “Pretty boy. Why don’t you come… come home with me tonight.” Dean felt himself jarred back to alertness.
“Whoa, there, cowboy,” he said. He grabbed Castiel’s hand and pulled it off his ass. “Hey, now. No-no-no. Where you goin’ with that?”
Castiel started to giggle absurdly, and covered his face with his hand, still leaning heavily against Dean’s side.
“Come on,” Dean said. “Let’s go out to the street. We’ll get you a cab. They usually patrol this area lookin’ for fares. Okay?”
Castiel nodded, and dropped his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. It didn’t take long for a cab to roll by – Dean raised his hand and flagged it down, and it rolled up to the curb, all four windows down and smelling like a dirty ashtray. Dean opened the back door, and dropped Castiel down into the seat.
“You know where you live, right?” Dean said.
Castiel nodded, slowly pulling his feet into the cab. “18 Moon Creek Road,” he murmured.
Dean looked up at the driver, and said, “You got that?” The driver nodded. “All right.” Dean shut the door, and Castiel leaned against the edge of the open window. “No throwing up in the cab, okay?”
Castiel nodded again. “Okay,” he said.
The cab drove away, and Dean stood there for a moment, still slightly shaken, grateful that no one else had seen that whole display. He ran a hand back through his hair, and went back into the bar.
***
The house was dark and silent when Dean walked inside. Sam wasn’t on the couch, so he was probably in bed. Dad’s truck was was gone. Hopefully he was with Bobby or Caleb. Hopefully not at a bar. Hopefully not dead in a ditch.
Dean pulled his shoes off, and dropped them on the shoe pile. He walked upstairs, and opened the windows. He undressed slowly, and got into the shower.
He stood in the water a while, then looked down at his stupid dick, persistently half-hard since Castiel had grabbed his ass. Dean slid his fingers down into his pubic hair and pressed them against the base of his dick. It jumped to attention immediately.
“Fuck,” he whispered. He wrapped his hand around his shaft and gave himself a slow stroke.
He fucking wished he had the balls to take Castiel up on his offer. Castiel… Cas. Maybe… mmh. Dean stroked his cock slowly, and then thumbed his nipple with his other hand, then pinched it. Maybe he could sneak Cas into the men’s room, if they were busy enough, nobody’d miss him for a few, no one would even notice. Cas could hustle him in, lock the door behind him, still grabbing his ass. Oh. Pretty boy, Cas would purr in his ear. You’re so sexy. Dean pinched his nipple again, harder, hard enough that it made him gasp, and kept working his cock. Touch me, Cas, he’d say. Ugh, maybe, mmh, maybe Cas would push him against the wall and, fuck… Dean pushed his cock up against his stomach, and started to jerk it faster. He imaged Cas making him beg for it, and he would, he’d fucking beg. His hand was Cas’ hand, work him fast and sweet, Cas growling dirty in his ear. Beg for it, Cas would say. Beg for my dick in your ass.
Dean reached back behind himself and teased his fingers against his hole. Fuck, Cas… he’d murmur. Gonna do this right here? Right, because they’re in the men’s room at the Roadhouse, and anyone could walk in, anyone could hear them, but they want each other so bad that they’re just gonna do it now.
Cas… Cas would say, I’m going to do whatever I want.
Dean slowly pressed a finger inside himself, and bit back a groan. “F-Fuck…” He bit his lips together as he fucked himself with his finger, working his cock faster, and then then he pushed his face against the shower wall as he came.
Dean crawled into bed a few minutes later, exhausted, and embarrassed at himself. The fan was blowing cold air into the bedroom, and he stared up at the glowing green stars until he fell asleep.
***
Take me home tonight
I don't want to let you go 'til you see the light
Take me home tonight
Be my little baby...