Chapter Text
Judging by the pathetic excuse for sunlight bleeding through the cracks in his blinds, the light hanging low enough on the horizon that the world still technically counts as “night” in Dean’s book, it is abundantly clear that he should still be unconscious. Like, full caveman hibernation unconscious. Buried-under-three-blankets, drooling-into-his-pillow, dead-to-the-world unconscious.
Instead, Dean Di-Laurentis finds himself roused by some absolute menace to society currently trying to break his front door off its hinges.
The pounding rattles through his apartment again-aggressive, repetitive-the kind of knocking that says either someone’s dying, the building’s on fire, or Summer has once again locked herself out while drunk and stupid, which, statistically speaking, is the most likely option.
Dean groans into his mattress with all the suffering of a man wasting away.
What kind of psychopath is awake right now? And worse still, what kind of psychopath thinks Dean should be awake right now?
Another series of bangs echoes through the apartment, louder this time, and Dean feels something primal and violent begin to uncurl in the depths of his soul; rage. It's the kind of rage usually reserved for dads trying to set up IKEA furniture without the instruction manual or hockey players getting body-checked on the rink.
Whoever’s at that door has approximately ten seconds before Dean starts making criminal decisions, because Dean Di-Laurentis before noon is not a man; he is a liability.
His bleary blue-green eyes crack open just enough to glare at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him.
The pounding starts again and Dean’s eye twitches.
Okay. Cool. Awesome. Great way to start the morning.
Whoever is currently trying to cave his front door in with their fist seriously needs to piss all the way off.
Another bang shakes the door. Dean drags a hand down his face because seriously, if whoever’s outside isn’t actively bleeding to death, they are about to be.
For one beautiful, infinitesimal moment-right in the middle of Dean mentally calculating whether a jury would sympathise with him after committing second-degree murder before sunrise-the knocking stops and silence reigns.
Sweet, glorious, heavenly silence. The kind that makes angels sing.
Dean lies there motionless, face mashed into his pillow. The aggressive pounding fades from his ears, leaving behind nothing but the faint, pleasant ringing caused by repeated blunt-force trauma to his sanity.
Peace at last.
Dean figures that maybe they gave up and or that maybe whoever was outside, finally realised waking Dean Di-Laurentis at this ungodly hour was a direct violation of human rights. Maybe they died. And honestly? That'd be the best-case scenario.
Before Dean can fully appreciate the blessed quiet settling over his apartment, the screeching abomination that is his ringtone suddenly erupts from his bedside table causing him to startle so hard he nearly headbutts the wall.
“What the fuck-”
The sound slices through the room like a car alarm; loud and aggressively obnoxious. Past-Dean had apparently chosen the ringtone specifically to inflict psychological warfare on present and Future-Dean, which feels like a betrayal of the highest order. His phone vibrates violently against the wood of his bedside table, buzzing with the determination of a tiny possessed appliance and Dean stares at it in utter disbelief.
No. Absolutely not. There is not a single universe in which the same person both pounds on his front door and calls him immediately after; that level of persistence borders on clinically insane.
The ringtone continues shrieking and Dean contemplates throwing the entire phone through the wall, but mercifully the call drops out before he can muster the energy to take the shot, but then the phone rings again.
“Mother-” Dean slams a hand down onto the device with all the grace and coordination of a concussed caveman. His fingers fumble blindly across the screen before finally managing to swipe the answer button, immediately bringing the phone to his ear purely so he can scream into it. “-fucker!” he roars, voice shredded with sleep deprivation and homicidal intent. “Leave me in peace!”
“Never,” John Logan replies instantly, sounding way too awake for this hour of the morning. There’s traffic in the background. And birds. Birds should not be conscious yet. “I have coffee. Answer the door, dick-”
Dean hangs up on him mid-sentence with absolutely zero remorse, before flopping dramatically onto his back, eyes squeezed shut as a long, guttural groan drags itself out of his chest like his soul is physically trying to evacuate his body.
Of course it’s Logan. Of fucking course. Only John Logan would possess both the confidence and the death wish necessary to harass Dean before sunrise and somehow survive the experience.
Worse than all this though is that Dean can already feel himself losing the battle, because Logan is a manipulative bastard. An evil, scheming little rat of a human being who knows Dean better than anyone else on the planet and weaponises that knowledge accordingly.
Namely: coffee.
Dean swears Logan could end wars with a medium iced double-shot espresso and the right amount of emotional blackmail. The asshole knows exactly what he’s doing, too. Dean can practically hear the smug grin in his voice. Coffee isn’t a peace offering-it’s bait. A carefully orchestrated trap designed specifically for Dean’s sleep-deprived ass.
And the truly pathetic thing?
It’s working.
And Dean hates that it’s working, because right now, despite every ounce of common sense telling him to ignore the door and fake his own death, his exhausted brain has already started picturing the coffee. Hot. Caffeinated. Life-restoring. Probably still in Logan’s hands.
Traitorously, his body begins considering movement.
“This,” Dean mutters to himself from beneath his pillow, “is what toxic male friendships look like.”
It is, honestly, an agonisingly difficult decision to make.
On one hand, Dean could drag himself out from the plush, heavenly warmth of his bed, stomp to the front door half-naked, violently snatch the coffee from Logan’s unsuspecting hands, and immediately slam the door shut in his face before the asshole can even get a single word in. On the other hand, he could reject temptation entirely. He could ignore the coffee. Ignore Logan. Ignore society as a whole, actually. He could burrow deeper beneath his blankets, wedge himself further into the mountain of pillows currently cradling him like a beautiful Scandinavian cloud, and allow sleep to once again mercifully drag him back into unconsciousness where responsibilities, human interaction, and John Logan cease to exist.
Frankly, it’s the superior option; sleep is free. Sleep doesn’t pound on his front door like a debt collector. Sleep has never once called him a dick before sunrise.
The more Dean thinks about it, the more appealing the second option becomes. His mattress is warm beneath him, his comforter heavy and soft, and his room still carries that perfect early-morning chill that makes staying in bed feel borderline religious.
Leaving this cocoon voluntarily would be an act of self-betrayal.
Unfortunately, there is one massive, unavoidable flaw in both plans; Logan, or, more specifically, the fact that John Logan is physically incapable of giving up. The man treats rejection like it’s a mild suggestion at best. A fun little obstacle. Especially where Dean is concerned. If Dean ignores him, Logan will call again. And again. And again.
Dean would sooner outlast an FBI interrogation than outlast Logan’s persistence. The guy once called Dean thirty-seven consecutive times because he thought it would be “funny” to show him a raccoon wearing sunglasses.
Thirty-seven times.
Even if Dean turned his phone off entirely, Logan would simply adapt. Evolve. Overcome. He would stand outside that apartment pounding on the door until his fists dissolved into bloody little nubs at the ends of his wrists. And somehow-even then-he’d probably still keep knocking out of pure spite, which means the deeply unfortunate reality of the situation is this: Dean is going to have to face him either way, which is totally unfair because no one should be expected to interact with another human being at this hour. There should be laws against it. Government protections put in place.
Dean firmly believes that anybody capable of functioning like a normal member of society before eight in the morning is either deeply disturbed, or powered exclusively by cocaine.
There is simply no other explanation.