Chapter Text
Dean’s back slams hard into the bathroom stall wall. The one —if Dean may add—that's barely holding on by a thread.
Or Screw.
Whatever.
Dean cringes, brain conjuring up the nasty, purple pigmented area of skin that’s bound to synthesize any minute now.
Foreign stubble, scraping at his collarbone, brings him back into the current task at hand.
Dean takes in a breath and forces the tension he allowed refuge into his muscles out. He platers a serine grin onto his face, forehead evening out. Dean knows that this guy—who'd been making out with him for the past five fucking minutes isn’t very likely to notice. Yet, Dean blinks his eyes open, lashes fanning out in a quite overexaggerated manner, if you ask Dean.
But hey, the wad of cash in his pocket isn’t complaining.
So, neither will he.
The man below him grunts, the low sound of victory echoing throughout the bathroom’s walls. The stubble trails down his own happy trail in an unhurried manner. The man makes a few pit stops along the way, scattering sloppy kisses all over Dean’s skin.
Dean exhales.
Shakily.
The man’s chin is venturing dangerously close to his zipper.
Dean’s hands fly out, searching for a solid keep him standing upright.
To no avail.
Dean lets out a high whine as the man’s hand reaches up and palms him.
And massages him.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Once again, Dean’s hands blindly reach out, desperate for something grounding. Like the guy, oh-so conveniently in front of him. Yet, just as Dean’s fingers hover too close to the guys head, the guy stills, casting a warning glance Dean’s way.
The hunter places his palms onto the cold surface of the bathroom stall. Dean clamps his eyes shut, a new crease blossoming in his forehead—the hunter’s sure.
‘No touching.’
The music, much too loud and energetic to be played at a bar of this size almost mutes the syllables whispering from the guy’s lips.
Dean had to suppress a flinch from attacking his body when he heard them.
He’d never had a guy come up to him.
His noggin promptly whirls towards the perpetrator of the words, still unsure of if he’s the one meant to hear them.
The doubt diminishes the second Dean sets sights on the guy.
Dean, ever the poster boy for safety, does a quick once over for the guy.
Brown eyes.
Glasses —the kinds with the nose pads.
Brown, wavy hair—about shoulder length.
Green t-shirt with some sort of pattern.
Blue jeans.
Dean’s eyebrows lift—a mix of appreciation and a tight knot of apprehension making a home in his gut forming. Dean takes a slow breath, lips parting to make a rather wobbly excuse to soften his rejection. But before the hunter could, his eyes followed a jerk of movement close to the guy’s pocket.
Dean shuts his trap.
The guy nods approvingly, fingers coming up to comb through his hair. That little dose of ego flooding his features does not make it past Dean in the slightest.
A mix of nausea and ease flow through the hunter, conflicting emotions fighting each other—just as they always do when all the men Dean’s slept with turn into one.
The hunter deflates, hips shifting from off the stool from which he was leisurely lounging in just moments ago celebrating Sam’s report car-
A stack of bills—mostly one’s to be fair—is firmly placed into the palm of his hand.
The guy backs away from where dean failed to notice his approach and makes a bee line for the restroom.
Before he can form a second thought—or fully feel the shot of guilt sprinting through his veins—Dean's boots plant themselves onto the wooden floor.
Dean curls his first as his legs trail after the man.
He hates it.
He always hates it when his body makes up his mind before his...well, his mind.
Dean spills into the other guy's mouth.
The guy below him gives a low moan, shuddering through the aftershocks of what would be assumed of his own personal high.
Dean keeps his eyes closed.
`-`-`-`-`-`-`-`-`-`-`-`
Dean walks out of the bar with his hands in his pockets—now a little fuller than when he’d walked in, at least—on a mission to find Baby.
God, he’s always worse after this than stumbling out of the bar, more than a little buzzed. At least then, he’d be more likely to have a grin plastered onto his face after drunkenly conversing with the locals.
Then, at least he’d have a reason to stumble.
He’d have a reason—if he was really fucking drunk—to feel as though the world was slowly but surely caving in on him.
Though the world doesn’t display the same gentleness as it does then when he’d be enjoying the buzz of the many drinks he’d shot back as it does right now.
The black sky resembles the terrible vastness of space.
Mostly empty, just like his chest.
To space, the planets and galaxies and everything residing inside were nothing but a speck of dust on it’s surface.
What is space?
If not for the things that just happen to live within its perimeters?
Dean doesn’t want to fucking find out.
Dean picks up the pace, although he’d already taken a lap around the parking lot once already within the span of his swirling thoughts.
He hates it when he gets all philosophical like this.
The dusk looms over Dean, mocking his distressed state.
Threatening to swallow him whole, pulling him into the misery that is nothing.
Dean hugs his arms to his chest; car keys still grasped in his palm like a lifeline.
He realizes his feet have come to a stop—without his approval—and his breath has become increasingly shallow.
He cranes his head to the side, taking one final look over the vicinity before contemplating the conversation he’d have with Bobby if he called him up.
Dean let’s out a sigh.
The hunter can talk a great talk about how family can lean on one another upon times of need, yet he can’t deny that he takes a great deal of pride in dealing with his personal shortcomings himself. No matter how many times Bobby had given him a speech about how he can always come to him if he needed, how many pats on the back, or how many new wrinkles form on Bobby’s forehead—Dean never takes him up on his offer. Unless it’s completely necessary. He reaches his hand into his signature leather jacket’s pocket and leans onto Baby.
Baby.
He’s leaning on Baby.
Dean drags his palm down his face before unlocking his car and sliding into his seat. He rests his forehead onto the steering wheel and rubs his hand back and forth onto the dash.
Dean’s phone rings, causing him to groan. He pulls it out of his pocket, fingers ready to decline whoever’s calling him at this god awful time of night. Yet, the unpleasant expression that formed onto his face fades as soon as he sees who’s name it is.
Sam.
Dean picks up.
“Hey, Sammy” Dean greets, forcing his posture upright again. He pushes his keys into Baby’s ignition and puts her in reverse, finally getting onto the road.
“Hi Dean...I’m guessing we aren’t going to the movies tomorrow?”
Dean’s heart clenches at the tone in his little brother’s voice. Even though he’s most definitely milking it for some snacks at the gas station, Dean can’t help the mental imagery of the poor kid’s puppy dog eyes. Sammy should be getting at the age where he’s little too old for these tactics, but at this point Dean’s sure Sam’s expression will always have the same effect. Even though Sam has just graduated the eighth grade and is in that awkward pre-teen stage of development, Dean’s sure that expression will always soften him up.
“Oh, shit, bud—uh you coulda called me earlier...” As he says it, Dean feels a tinge of guilt as he looks at the clock.
11:12.
Damn.
Both he and Sam know that it isn’t that simple. Dean’s been working nonstop lately just to keep he and Sammy afloat. And sadly, Sammy wasn’t at the age anymore where he couldn’t see through his bullshit.
Which meant Sammy wasn’t at the age anymore where he could remain blissfully ignorant to whatever shit mood Dean was in. Dean couldn’t just plaster a smile on his face and tell him he was out with dad or friends or some other lame excuse.
Nope.
Sammy couldn’t not be aware that hopping from school to school and being drowned in extracurricular activities wasn’t the norm for kids his age.
And that knowledge killed Dean.
Yet, that didn’t change the circumstances of the eldest Winchester’s shitty schedule.
Since dad had left them in Ohio and took off to hunt that vampire nest—he’d gotten straight to business—scrambling for jobs the second Sam had gotten his bearings of the motel room. And for the past couple months…life hadn’t been…great per say. After all, this is chalking up to be one of the longer stays they’ve endured during one of Dad’s hunts. But, hey. This wasn’t the worst stretch of time he’d soldiered through by a longshot. Dean had been rather lucky this time around job hunting.
For the last three months, Dean had been balancing three jobs—well…as of now two jobs.
The bar he’d been bussing at—which was of course his favorite job—had officially gone out of business as of today. His very last paycheck from the place had been dished out mere hours ago, no matter how long ago it seemed now in Dean’s dazed state. The wads of cash—despite how transparent they seem—sit solid into baby’s storage compartment.
The whole exchange seemed unreal.
It was kind of sad—and not just for the obvious reason at hand. Dean was made aware of the businesses’ shortcomings by the owner and widow, Ms. Scotts who had come to own the place after he husband's death. She’d been scrambling to make ends meet despite approaching the seventy-five years marker soon. All of it, to preserve Mr. Scotts memory. The original owner of the bar’s hard work must be preserved, Ms. Scotts said, eyes years away from where she stood talking to her employee.
Dean’s heart goes out to the lady.
He could relate to her. The devotion. That fierce stance of not going down without a fight for what you believe in. Though, Ms. Scotts wasn’t stupid to turn away from the facts. She never shied away from the fact that the business would enviably be shut down with how sales were going. It just wasn’t shutting down without a fight.
Dean also supposes that’s why he, a twenty-two-year-old man without a high school degree had gotten hired by Ms. Scotts in the first place.
Dean clears his throat after the science had been going on for a breath too long on Sam’s end.
“You have anything good for Dinner?” Dean tries not to let the tremble in his voice loose.
“Yeah. I had the last of the Mac n’ cheese cups.” Sam’s voice sounded dreamy.
“Kid, you’ve gotta be made of those things by now…”
“Well, it’s not gonna be for much longer.” Sam whines, “PB&J’s are all I got left now…”
“Hey, you leave my PB&J’s alone! We both gotta be appreciative of the delicacies we’re offered in life!”
Dean can hear a wheeze in the background—although stifled through the piss-poor quality his burner phone possesses for the time being.
“How about this…” Dean pauses, clicking his tongue. “Next time I come by, I go to the gas station…get you some fine grub for your troubles—and then go to the movies?”
“Yes. Tomorrow is movie day. That’s when you get me my bag of veggie straws” Sam deadpans, the little shit.
“Whoa, Sammy.” Dean raises his hand from the steering wheel in an offended manner—despite the physical absence of his little brother. “Don’t get all greedy on me now.”
“Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
A pause.
“Alright, talk to you later. And see you when you finally get here.”
“Uh-huh.”
“With my bag of—”
Dean can hangs up, giving Sammy a little huff of laughter for his troubles. He turns the radio up, tunes providing a nice hum as he drives to his destination.