Chapter Text
Everything’s hot and slick and right on the edge of falling somewhere even hotter.
Every song is for you, every come hither look and sultry laugh, every praise, invitation, everything worth a fuck is for you.
Hands and lips and tongues, beguiling; teeth and nails, punishing — all the sensations of our earthly bodies are shards of crystal swathed in satin and velvet, tied with pure golden thread.
There’s a lustful cacophony, a symphony surrounding you, everything sounds like fucking, and it sounds like it’s coming from inside of you — like it’s part of you.
No matter how loud it gets, it’s never too loud. Nothing’s ever too much or enough.
You want more, more, more, fuck yes, more.
“Winchester,” Dean mumbles, squinting at the incoming number and the time. His vision swims from side to side before he figures out that it’s 4:45 AM and the call is from dispatch.
“Chief, we have a conflagration at Midland High School, north on highway 59.”
Dean murmurs a swear as he rolls to his back and drags a hand over his face.
He was at Gordon’s until 3:30 this morning, when he downed a Triple V and then walked six blocks back to his place to crash. He hasn’t even had time to dream, but his dreams aren’t usually the good kind anyway.
“A’right. Chief Novak in?” He swings his legs over the side of his bed and slumps upright as he slides the drawer to his nightstand open.
“Yes, sir,” replies the dispatcher. “All hands, sir.”
She doesn’t apologize for calling him on his morning off, and she shouldn’t. This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last time that Dean’s called in on his day off. As Battalion Chief, it’s his duty to lead big jobs like conflagrations.
He’s fucked up, though; his brain isn’t firing on more than one single cylinder at this point, so he’s going to need an extra pick-me-up this morning.
“Thanks, Mia,” he rumbles before disconnecting the call and dropping his phone to his pillow.
He lifts a small mirror from inside the drawer upon which lies a razor blade, a small amount of white powder, and a short, thin stainless steel tube. Dean deftly cuts two thin lines with the blade and quickly snorts them.
Before running out the door, Dean blasts himself with a 45-second cold shower while brushing his teeth and pockets a small vial of blow for later; there’s no telling how long this’ll last.
Dean and his team pull up to the school amidst a scene of first responders, police, and news crews. His most recent ex... whatever she was to him, Casey Wood, is the reporter closest to them.
Dean drops from the driver’s side of the truck to his feet and throws her a wink which earns him an eye roll and a cold shoulder. Snapshots of Casey crying, throwing things, and slamming doors whirr through his mind, as he secures his gear.
“Casey, Casey, Casey,” Victor sing-songs as he joins Dean.
They always banter as they gear up, but Dean’s a little more on edge this morning than usual. Casey's name so casually on Victor’s lips raises Dean’s hackles in a way it doesn’t usually. He recognizes it and steels himself to keep up the facade.
“The things that girl can do with her mouth,” Dean says with a wicked smirk.
“Whoa-ho-hoooa!” Victor hoots.
It’s a cheap shot, and Dean knows it. Casey’s fucking smart and tough. She never faked anything in her life, she said what she said, and she loved him, too, if he’d have let her.
“Good morning, misogyny!” Jo hops down next to them, buckling her harness.
Dean feels unreal and unmoored, but they’ve got a job to do. He closes his eyes and breathes, then shrugs out an eye roll.
“Aww, c’mon, darlin’, I appreciate her skill. That ain’t a hateful thing,” Dean slams the door shut, and Victor snorts beside him.
Jo glares at him in disbelief. “You’re a fucking pig. Let’s go.” She turns on her heel and slaps her hand against the side of the truck as she walks, hurrying up the other two members of their team.
Dean blinks rapidly. He’s queasy and buzzing. He remembers the vial in his pocket, under layers of uniform and gear, and berates himself for not having better access to it. His mind starts to spin around excuses to stay back and dig it out before Victor claps him on the back.
“You heard the lady, boss.” Victor grins, and Dean flashes a tight smile in response. They’re fully suited up as they jog to catch up with Jo, Zeke, and Nick.
Under lights and camera, Casey tells the story of the day.
“Fire Chief Castiel Novak has informed us that a group of Midland High School boys has admitted to starting the fire,” she reads from the teleprompter to the camera.
“One of the four arsonists was injured in the blast and is trapped inside the school’s chemistry lab with dangerous chemicals and potentially open bunsen burner outlets,” she continues. “The boy’s cries can be heard through an external window broken for ventilation. The other three boys are currently being examined by paramedics onsite.
“Just now,” she pauses and motions toward the retreat of Dean’s team, “Battalion Chief Dean Winchester has arrived to lead the rescue team. We’ll provide more details as we receive them.”
Dean’s team is always the same. They know each other like they know their own selves. Some of them have known each other their whole lives, like he and Jo Harvelle. Dean and Victor Henriksen have known each other since middle school. Zeke Gadreel and Nick Iblis served two tours in Iraq together, and no matter how unhealthy or co-dependent their relationship may be to outsiders, Dean’s grateful for their bond.
He talks the way through even if he repeats himself because he needs it to stay grounded, and they need to hear his voice. This is where he shines, leading his team and making them feel safe.
Two corridors over from the lab, he stops.
“A’right, we’re gonna do this clean and sharp. Keep your eyes and ears open and listen to Cas.” He taps the com in his ear as the team triple-checks each other’s rigs. “We know there’s one kid in here, based on testimony from the other little fuckers who started this thing, but let’s not rule anything out.”
He makes eye contact with each and every one of them for final confirmation before he nods one last time and turns toward the worst of the smoke.
“Like I said, eyes and ears open.”
When they reach the lab, Dean makes a motion to hold, and his team complies.
“Cas, you there?” he asks.
“Hold in position,” Chief Novak states over the radio. “We’re going to try to cut through the roof for sightlines.”
Dean pulls a glove off to test the heat. “Door’s hot as an oven, Cas, and I can still hear ‘im cryin’ in there. Fuckin’ kid.”
Dean grits his teeth. His daughter Emma just started school at Midland this fall. She’s a freshman. This kid’s probably in her class.
Not that he’d know; Emma hasn’t talked to Dean in five weeks.
“All stop,” the head chief states with new information. “Dean, we can’t open the roof.”
“Fuckin’- of course not.” Dean sighs and pulls his glove back on.
“If we get too much oxygen in there before we know what other chemicals we’re dealing with, the explosion will blow the door and the rest of the roof off that lab with you and your team in it.”
Dean nods his head as the chief rattles off everything they all fucking know. He’s about to come out of his skin from the heat and urge to rip the door off the hinges all by himself just to be done with it.
“Right,” he mutters, rolling his neck and picturing the precious, unattainable vial in his pocket.
The boy’s screams roar over the din of the event, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut tight. His mind scrambles around memories of his baby brother crying in his arms as he ran from his home’s blaze more than 35 years ago. He shakes his head to clear it, which only serves to make his stomach lurch.
“Dean? You OK?” Jo asks, concern marring her soft face.
Dean doesn’t answer her. “Has anybody got eyes on the fire line?” he asks, assessing his gear for anything he can unload, anything that might weigh him down.
“Chief,” someone utters, and the uncertain eyes of his team are burning hotter than the fire. Zeke takes a step toward him, and Dean snarls.
Chief Novak’s voice cracks through the com. “Dean, I’m telling you, we couldn’t open the roof the way we opened the hallway. The oxygen will-”
“Yeah, Cas, I heard ya the first time, and this ain’t my first fuckin’ rodeo.” Dean turns to his crew, dropping rope and gear.
“Dean, y’heard Cas-” Victor reaches for him.
“Get out,” Dean says, and Victor drops his hand and turns to Jo. “I’m goin’ in alone. Now!”
+
“All stop! All stop! All stop!”
+
An invisible force pushes Dean from behind, and he lands on his shoulder.
The kid rolls in one direction, and Dean rolls in the opposite. A boom sounds, and the smoke takes on a remarkably orange hue.
On autopilot and half-conscious, Dean crawls to check the kid’s pulse before a rush of bodies, shouts, and lights knock him out cold.
“Fuck, that’s good, Case.” Dean brushes her hair to the side so he can watch his cock disappear between her stretched lips like a shining piston into a slick cylinder.
Casey hums, slowly bobbing her head, and twisting her fist around his girth. Her other delicate hand rests on Dean’s denim-clad knee as she kneels between his booted feet on her living room rug.
There’s still enough K in his system that every slide of her tongue feels like magic skittering along his dick. He slides a hand into her hair and twists it.
Twenty minutes ago, Casey tried to slam the door in his face, but not before calling him a liar. He didn’t lie, though. He fully intended to be there for dinner with her parents; he just lost track of time.
Besides, why in Hell would she want her parents to know she lets him in her house at all, let alone inside her body?
“I’m so sorry, sweet girl,” Dean mutters, gripping the base of his cock and gently lifting her by her chin. “Lemme make it up to you.”
He’s on call starting at 6 AM tomorrow, so it’s good he’s there. Casey won’t let him do anything stupid. Instead, he can sober up and fuck it out, go to the station fresh in the morning.
As he pulls her from the floor to lay her back against her couch cushions, she looks at him like he’s something extraordinary, and his belly flips.
“You’re too good to me, Case,” he whispers, twisting his body and hers, sliding his hands up under her dress, and wedging his shoulders under her thighs.
Her eyes soften, and he can’t stand looking into them so deeply. He brushes his thumbs up along the satiny edges of her panties before closing his eyes and dipping in to press kisses to the damp fabric.
Casey moans, writhing under him with a smile.
She thinks he lied to her, but she still lets him in. Dean doesn’t lie; he just sucks at keeping promises. He’s better at apologizing.
He slips his fingers inside the leg of her panties to lightly knuckle her slit as he reaches around one long lean thigh to lace his other fingers with hers over her smooth belly. When he pulls the fabric of her panties aside to kiss and lick her bare pussy, he groans at her heat and taste.
He wants to dive in and devour her, but this isn’t about what he wants.
Casey’s free hand lands on the back of Dean’s head, and she rolls her hips up into his face.
“That’s right,” he breathes and slides his tongue down one side and up the other of her clit. “Take what you want, princess.”
“Dean,” she whispers, twisting his hair in her fist. “I just want you...”
Dean wakes up in the hospital. He’s hooked up to machines and bags of fluid. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and painful when he tries to separate it. He draws a deep breath and immediately hacks, wincing from the pain that radiates from his shoulder, chest, and hips.
“Fuck,” he groans in a broken whisper.
Dean hates hospitals. No one likes hospitals, but Jesus fucking Christ, Dean’s never had a single positive experience in one. He can’t breathe. It’s all in his head, but that doesn’t make it any easier to try.
“You dislocated your shoulder,” Sam speaks from somewhere in the room.
Dean freezes and closes his eyes. He doesn’t bother to find his brother by sight. If Sam’s there, this is bad.
“Broke two ribs and strained your hip. You’re lucky to be alive, and not just because of your injuries.” Sam’s voice draws closer with each word.
“You here to finish me off?” Dean asks, trying for a joke, but he doesn’t have much of a voice. He ends up sounding like he’s choking, which is appropriate.
Sam doesn’t laugh. “I’m here to tell you that you’re done, Dean.”
Dean scoffs, shifting in his bed, increasingly agitated by the tubes and wires attached to him but without the energy or brain space to do anything about them. He clears his throat and swallows.
“Done with what, exactly?” he asks, finally laying eyes on his brother.
He looks good — healthy and strong. Sad, though. Or maybe he’s mad, Dean can never tell anymore.
“Your bullshit, playboy, disaster of a life,” Sam replies with clear contempt.
Dean stares at him, waiting. He doesn’t have a comeback. He’s out of them.
Sam starts to pace. “Your team got the fire and hot spots out about eight hours after you collapsed. Cyrus Styne, the 16-year-old kid you went in after, is in critical condition.”
Sam stops no more than a foot from Dean’s bed, looking him dead in the eye.
“You tested positive for marijuana, hydrocodone, diazepam, and cocaine, and your blood-alcohol level was .23. That’s almost three times the legal level of intoxication. I don’t even fucking know how you walked into a burning building-”
“Hmm. And did I consent to these tests?” Dean murmurs, derailing the very clear direction Sam was headed with his diatribe.
For the first time since the last time Dean saw his brother, Sam is obviously confounded by how Dean isn’t dead already — so is Dean.
Sam scoffs and shakes his head. His gaze is strained, and his jaw is tight. “Dean, I... I can’t get you out of this.”
Sam has worked magic in the past. One of his greatest efforts was winning joint custody of Emma for Dean. Sam works by the letter of the law, but the best lawyers know how to make the law work for them and their clients.
Dean is suddenly very, very tired. He can’t remember the last time he did anything to make Sam proud. He doesn’t even know if he ever has.
“I need a cigarette,” he mumbles before looking up to study the ceiling.
“Look, the only thing I could do was get them to agree to 28 days in a rehab facility-”
“Ugh, Sammy,” Dean wails, sitting up and immediately tugging at the IVs and monitors. An alarm goes off, and Sam turns his back and moves toward the large window overlooking the parking lot.
Three men rush into the room, two orderlies and a nurse, to restrain Dean. He immediately gives up, feeling wasted, sick, and terrified.
“Your other option is jail,” Sam mutters from the window, and Dean’s stomach drops. His throat convulses as he attempts to swallow back the bile rising in his throat.
The orderlies stand back as the nurse assesses the damage Dean’s done with his little outburst. Dean closes his eyes and breathes as he re-fastens the patches and IVs.
He won’t cry, he won’t cry, he won’t cry...
“You’re suspended from the department, probably indefinitely,” Sam continues quietly. “I can’t even get Cas on the phone. You endangered the lives of your entire team and everyone onsite. Your team, Dean. Jo. Victor. Casey was there.”
Dean burrows into the thin, lumpy bed, shivering from the feel of needles in his veins and the low vibration of the monitors attached to his chest. He doesn’t see when the nurse and the orderlies leave, but he can feel the shift in the air.
“I know.”
He doesn’t know any more about the fire than what Sam’s told him, but he damn well knows what an absolute disappointment he is to his little brother.
“Dean, why-” Sam sighs, sounding as weary and distraught as Dean feels.
Dean is silent as he stares at the ceiling, and Sam doesn’t seem surprised.
“Forget it.” Sam grabs his jacket from the visiting chair and starts to shrug into it. “As soon as you can be released from here, someone’ll pick you up to transport you to the facility. Text me a list of what you need from your apartment, and I’ll make sure it gets packed.”
Sam draws a final breath before leaving the room, and Dean wills himself to sleep.