Chapter Text
*
*
*
*
*
Dean was unprepared for the wind chill wrapped around his body as he stepped off the shuttle bus. It was cold for September but not unusually cold for Maine. With his duffle over his left shoulder, he approached the closest bar. The lights above him flickered a reddish/pink; the sign read The Beehive . That is an unusual name for a bar. Dean didn’t mind; he was looking for anything to quiet the voices in his head; he’d drink cold medicine if he could; he just wanted the voices to stop.
Dean’s hands shook as he hesitated to turn the knob before quickly retracting. This wasn’t where he pictured his life, twenty-one, alone, and going to a bar, drinking his pain away. He shoved his shaking hand into his pocket, pulling a few crumbled bills. This was it; this was the last of his life from the Army, his severance pay. You would think you'd get more by risking your life for your country. With that, Dean decided that a few drinks wouldn’t hurt.
It was louder inside than Dean had expected. The lights were dimmed, and people scattered around all corners of the bar. People were in the back, looking for what Dean could only assume were hookups—people scattered around the pool table, racking up their next match. Dean will have to get on that before he leaves.
With a hesitant walk, Dean finally made his way up to the bar, taking the last stool on the left. The bar stretched as far as the length of the building, with two bartenders tending it—one male and one female. Both of them were pretty attractive; Dean’s been known to admire male and female physiques. Not that he was comfortable with his sexuality. He would never admit that out loud, not to himself or anyone.
Dean assumed it was a Friday or a Saturday because of how crowded the bar was. Lately, he hasn’t been able to keep his days or times straight. The voices are too loud, louder than a drum, a repetitive sharp rapping sound. He clenched his fists into balls, pressing them against his eyes to quiet the voices.
The music around the bar faded into a muffled hum. Before he got too into his head, he was ripped back into reality by a soft, yet faint, voice.
“Hey, sweetheart, you look like you could use a drink.”
Dean removed his fists from his eyes, staring at the young redhead; the dimmed lights of the bar were suddenly too bright. Dean stared at her momentarily, his brain trying to catch up to what she had just said.
He huffed a humorless laugh, shaking his head as if to tell her no shit.
She leaned in close, looking him dead in the eyes. “What’ll it be?” Something about her accent was drawing him in. Not quite Boston, not quite New Yorker.
Dean just pointed to the bottle on the bottom shelf. Dean didn’t care which one was; he just wanted something cheap and something with a heavy alcohol content. Lucky for him, the cheap stuff hits harder.
Dean watched as the redhead turned her head around, grabbing the bottle Dean pointed to and pouring him two fingers. He didn’t know what kind of bottle it was; it was a brand he had never seen before. By the color of the amber liquid in his glass, it must be Whiskey, neat. He pulled the glass up to his lips, resting it there before throwing it back all at once, lubricating his dry throat. Yup, whiskey. Dean tapped the glass onto the table, his silent way of telling the redhead he needed more.
Without questioning it, she poured him another two fingers, gulping it back. The burn of the whiskey was precisely what he needed. Not being able to drink for three and a half years, the whiskey was starting to make his fingers and arms tingle. That familiar tingle brought a smile to his lips. He tapped the glass again, winking at the female as a thanks.
With his glass in hand, he went to the pool table, bumping into a few people along the way. Dean slammed a few crumbled bills onto the pool table, squaring the guy up. The guy Dean found out was named Gabriel, who was racked while Dean broke. The game did not go as Dean planned; he lost. Though he wasn’t surprised, he was drunk, close to black-out drunk.
He went to grab his crumpled-up bills, but Gabriel’s bony fingers, grabbing his wrist, stopped him.
“No such luck, bucko. You lost fair and square.” The voice was more feminine than he had expected. The man reeked of sugary artificial grapes.
Dean wasn’t doing this, not tonight. He needed that money to find a hotel to stay in until he could return home to his family. Why did he decide that Madison, Maine, was beside him? Sam and his mom were in Lawerence, Kansas. He needed to get to them fast.
Dean’s elbow connected with Gabriel’s jaw without thinking, sending him tumbling backward, hand gripping his nose.
“Give me my money back, man. That’s all I have.” Dean’s voice was rough due to the lack of use.
A group of people began to gather around the table. Dean was not one for crowds; they made him anxious and stressed him out. He needed to leave the bar and remove himself from this situation. He needed his money more.
Regardless of how much he had to drink, he knew betting all of his money was a bad idea. Being the dumbass that he was, he had no good reason.
When Dean had time to think, Gabriel regained his balance, shoving Dean into the nearest wall. In an attempt to scramble away, Gabriel shoved his arm into Dean’s throat.
“Just because you lost your money doesn’t mean you get to be a bitch, jackass.” Gabriel continued to shove his arm further into Dean’s throat, cutting off his air.
Dean was sure this was it. This was the way he was going to die; by some random lunatic who smells like fucking candy. Not the landmine he survived, not the abuse from his father by some random lunatic.
Dean was well aware that he could beat Gabriel’s ass. Three and a half years of military training under his belt gave him more of an upper hand, but something within him said it wasn’t worth it. He didn’t know if it was the voices in his head or himself talking, telling him to choke the life out of Gabriel.
He knew blaming Gabriel for losing his money wouldn’t get him far. To be fair, it wasn’t all Gabriel’s fault. It was Dean’s. Dean deserved this. He deserved every ounce of pain that Gabriel was giving him.
Before Dean’s vision fully blackened, the arm that was pushed against his throat was ripped away quickly.
“Gabriel, that’s enough.” The voice was something he had never heard before. He needed to listen to it again; he was dreaming. No voice sounded like that—rough but also super smooth, almost angelic. It sounded as if he had just been woken up. “Go back, clean yourself up, then wait in my car.”
There it is. There’s the voice.
Dean soaked it in a little bit longer before forcing his eyes open to put a face to the voice. The man looked not much shorter than himself, with these insane blue eyes and his unruly brown hair, which Dean had likely been correct about. He must have just woken up.
What time was it?
Dean blinked at the small hand stretched out in front of him. Dean was hesitant to grab it; he was more than capable of getting up himself. However, Dean yearned for the touch of the angelic-voiced man. Once Dean could get his feet under himself, the man with the stunning blue eyes removed his hand from Dean’s. Instantly, he was struck with a wave of wanting to reach out and hold his hand again.
When Dean looked up from his feet, the blue eyes stared directly into his soul. What was with him and staring? It was not that Dean minded it, though it was a little creepy; it reminded Dean of the ocean.
The number of emotions running through Dean’s mind was starting to get a headache. Part of him wanted to punch the shit out of this mystery man, at the same time; he wanted to fuck the shit out of him too.
How sick does that make him?
He felt a slight blush creep onto his cheeks as he tried to sift through these thoughts. He seemed to be a lovely man, the opposite of everything Dean is, everything that Dean didn’t deserve. It was time for him to leave with all the unfolding events.
Dean grumbled something along the lines of Excuse me before brushing past the man.
Before Dean could leave, the guy grabbed his bicep, forcing him to stop in his tracks. Without thinking, Dean’s military training kicked in. Dean turned around swiftly, punching him right across his jaw.
He threw his hand over his mouth in shock. Dean moved closer to the blue-eyed to look at the damage Dean had caused. Dean knew he could throw a mean right hook; he fought people in the Arm, for Christ's sake.
“Shit, man, are you okay?” Dean tentatively reached his hand to the man's face, not wanting to spook him. Instead, the man slapped Dean’s hand away, pulling his hand away from his, most likely, broken nose.
“I don’t know what your deal is, but you need to leave before I call the police,” Dean watched as the man's eyebrows furrowed in anger. Dean should be used to that look, but coming from the blue-eyed boy, it was terrifying.
Dean didn’t want any trouble. He just nodded.
“And don’t come back.” The voice called from behind him.
Dean hadn’t planned on it.
He wandered around the small town, oblivious of where he would sleep tonight. He’s still beating himself up over betting all his money; he had been too confident he wouldn’t lose it. What an idiot he was.
Instead of looking into hotels or motels, Dean was looking for a bench, anywhere suitable.
Dean was unaware of it, and maybe it was because he was still drunk that Madison was small, so much so that he was walking in circles. It hadn’t clicked until he saw the stupid reddish/pink sign come into view. Seemingly, he had returned to the bar.
Dean scoured the area for a suitable place to sleep. He’s used to sleeping in uncomfortable places; this isn't anything new. Ultimately, he leaned against the dumpster, arms folded over his chest. He had secured his duffle bag by looping the straps with his legs, something he picked up along the way.
It wasn’t hard for Dean to fall asleep, but something about what happened at the bar tonight Was Something He couldn’t get out of his head. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he desperately wanted to see the blue-eyed boy again.
Dean fell asleep with ocean-blue eyes on his mind.
A soft yet aggressive voice woke Dean up, and what felt like a shoe nudged him. Dean opened his eyes and blinked a few times to adjust to the sun's brightness. Dean realized he had laid down at some point while he was asleep. Upon fully adapting to the sunlight, he was met with the same blue eyes he had fallen asleep thinking about.
The man was crouched in front of him this time.
"Have you been out here all night?" A hand was placed on his shoulder suddenly. It wasn’t reassuring, but it wasn’t malicious.
Why was he being nice to Dean now? The man threw him out of the bar. Technically, he had not left his property and was still on it. The man could have called the police, and they could have arrived any moment now. Dean needed to go before he was arrested.
He smacked his lips several times, trying to rid his cotton mouth. He had only put alcohol in his system yesterday, which had explained why he got drunk so quickly. He wiped his hands on his jacket before sitting up and looking directly at the man before him. He could see him clearly in the morning light shining behind him. He looked a bit more put together than he did last night.
Dean smiled at the man. He couldn’t help himself; he was beautiful.
Dean self-consciously shrugged his left shoulder. "I didn't mean to intrude on your business. I had nowhere else to go.”
“There are motels everywhere in Madison, all having some vacancy.” The man tilted his head slightly, obviously not understanding what Dean was saying.
Dean let out a sigh and ran a hand down his face. A chuckle escaped him, wondering if the man was unaware of who he was or just pretending.
“I’m not from here. I lost all of my money playing pool last night. You kicked me out.”
The man made a sound to indicate that he had heard and understood what was being said. He stood up and walked into the bar's back door without another word.
Dean packed his things, put on his jacket, and slung his duffle bag over his shoulder. He started walking, but the back door opened before he got far enough.
"Would you like to eat something or have a coffee?"
As if on cue, his stomach growled.
"May I please have something to eat?"
The man opened the back door wide enough for Dean to squeeze in as he walked, his dog tags clanged against the outside of his shirt. The man looked behind at Dean, watching as his eyes fell on the dog tags.
Dean silently thanked the man for not mentioning the tags; he didn't want to discuss it.
Dean willingly let the man lead him to the bar and to the same seat he had sat in the night before. He told Dean to sit tight while he whipped something up and brewed some coffee.
After a five-minute wait, the man returned with a plate of pancakes, eggs, and what appeared to be sausage. Dean stared in awe as the plate was placed before him. It looked delicious.
Halfway through his meal, Dean looked up and noticed the man had been staring at him.
Dean subconsciously put his hand over his mouth and asked, "Do I have something on my face?"
The man laughed, which surprised Dean as he hadn't expected to find it attractive. As he placed his fork down, it clinked against the plate, drawing his attention to the man.
“No, you just ate quicker than I had expected you to. When was the last time you had a decent meal?”
Dean swallowed his food, his throat clicking as he swallowed.
“Well, they don't exactly serve five-star meals in the Army.” Dean retorted. He didn’t mean to share that part of him. He didn't know why he felt comfortable sharing his secrets with this blue-eyed man.
The man tilted his head to the side, a gesture Dean correlated with him being confused.
Dean dropped his head to his hands, huffing out a sigh.
“Yes, I was in the Army, now I’m not, and I don’t even know where I am. That’s my story.” He was not about to tell the stranger his entire life story.
Silence fell over the two of them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Dean could tell that the stranger was attempting to pick his words carefully.
“It’s fine, and you don't have to pity or thank me for my service. I’ll be out of your hair after this meal.” Dean didn’t mean for his tone to shift.
Dean could see the annoyance written all over the man's face, something about the way Dean had spoken pissed him off.
The man finally spoke up as he moved around the bar, finding a seat beside him.
“How about we start over?” the man offered. Dean nodded. I don’t think we’ve formally introduced ourselves.” He paused, his eyes searching Dean’s face. What’s your name?”
“Dean Winchester, Sir.”
“None of that, sir shit. My name’s Castiel Novak. This bar here, I own it.”
Dean couldn’t help but chuckle. He picked up on that last night when the same man kicked him out.
Castiel held out his hand, but Dean was too busy shoveling food into his mouth and wanted to show no interest. He swallowed his last bite and washed it with coffee before turning to him.
Dean studied Castiel, looking at the mysterious man in front of him. Castiel had to be older than him, somewhere in his mid-twenties. Dark brown hair stuck every which way and dimpled on either side of his cheeks every time he spoke. Dean wondered if they stayed when he smiled.
Castiel , you don’t come by a name like that much, Dean thought, wondering where he had heard the name before.
“Alright, I see how it is then.” Castiel huffed before grabbing Dean's empty plate and retreating to the back.
Dean had already planned his retreat; he’d leave when Castiel left. Something deep within him wanted him to stay so he could keep looking into those blue eyes some more. He didn't know why something had drawn him to this town, but now he’d figured it out.
Before he could gather his bag, Castiel came back.
“Wait, please, stay.” Dean could feel the pleading in his voice. “It's the least I can do. I feel bad for kicking you out last night. If I had known…” Castiel gestured toward Dean, indicating his homelessness and being fresh out of the army.
Dean held his hand up, cutting Castiel off.
“Again, I don't need any of your pity. I’ll be fine. I always am, sir.” Dean added the sir more out of habit than anything.
“I hate to intrude more than I have been, but where are you gonna go?” Castiel looked at him, tilting his head. “I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself if I let you go back to the streets. It’s getting cold out.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’ve slept in worse conditions.” Dean shouldered his duffle as he made his way towards the exit.
“Dean, please,” Dean glanced down at where Castiel grabbed his arm. He wasn’t one for touch, so Castiel must have noticed his discomfort and removed his arm. “At least let me put you in a hotel,” Dean said.
Dean sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He could tell Castiel had a kind heart.
“Thank you, but I don’t need any handouts.”
Castiel began to beg him. He was kind and also seemed stubborn, as was Dean. He didn’t want to give in, but he did want this man to shut the fuck up. It was starting to hurt his head.
“If you shut up, maybe I’ll consider,” Dean glared at the blue-eyed man.
Dean observed Castiel as he raised his hands in a defensive position. He gazed at the man, considering the advantages and disadvantages of his situation. It would only be for one night; the next day, he could leave and figure out how to get back home. Plus, he couldn't recall the last time he had slept in an actual bed.
“Fine, but only one night.”
Dean could tell Castiel would protest, but he shook his head. Dean could be stubborn, too.
With Dean’s duffle thrown over his shoulder, he followed Castiel to his car. Dean expected a nice car, but not a Mercedes Benz.
Walking over to the car's passenger side, he chuckled softly. He was getting into a stranger's car and being driven to a hotel, all because the man felt terrible.
Upon arrival at the hotel, Dean immediately noticed its luxurious nature. He stepped out of the car, eyeing the man cautiously.
They walked side-by-side, making their way into the hotel. Dean looked around in awe; he had never seen anything so majestic . When he was growing up, his family didn't have much money. Although they lived in a beautiful house in a good neighborhood, his mother had to make do with the bit of support she received from his dad. His dad was always traveling for work and kept his earnings to himself. John had a rule: 'Whatever money you make is your money. No one else's.’
“Dude, this is too much,” Dean spun around, looking at Castiel. “I would have been fine with the crappy motel that was down the road.” He pointed at the main doors behind him.
“Don’t be dumb. You look like you haven’t had a decent night's sleep on a bed in ages.”
Dean didn’t respond; how could he? By telling the stranger that he was right? Hell no.
“Just a reminder, I’m only doing this for one night, then I’ll be out of your hair.” He stood behind Castiel, listening in as he spoke to the front desk receptionist.
“Good afternoon. I’m looking for one room for this gentleman here for two nights.” Castiel pointed at Dean. Dean’s eyes widened. Did Castiel not listen to a word he said? He only said he was staying one night.
The receptionist checked her computer for available rooms, leaving an awkward silence.
“We only have one room left,” she said, turning to the boys, “It has a queen bed, a kitchenette, and a living room. Is that okay?”
“That will do just fine,” Castiel flashed the receptionist his best smile.
Just fine, he thought to himself, more than just fine. He only needed a bed and toilet, and he was satisfied.
The receptionist returned to Dean and handed him a room key card with the number 207 written in black ink on the front.
“So if you just go down these hallways, you will find the elevators, and you are on the second floor, room 207, right to the left of the elevators,” she told him with a significant customer service smile plastered on her face.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, nodding in understanding.
Dean wanted to slip to his room, but Castiel followed right behind him when he started walking away. He followed right into the elevator and all the way to his room. Dean slid the key into the slot in the door, waiting for the beep, indicating it was unlocked before turning the knob.
The room was nothing like Dean had ever seen in his life, and from on his face, he seemed to give that away too quickly.
“It’s for two nights. You don’t need to use the second night, but it is there if you need it,” Castiel said, breaking the silence.
Dean watched as Castiel walked over to the bedside table. He seemed to be scribbling something down before stepping back and handing it to Dean. Dean looked down at the paper, and Castiel gave him his number if he needed anything.
After exchanging a few words, Castiel had to leave, and Dean was left alone. He decided to call his home phone number.
After four rings, he heard his mother's voice.
“Winchester household, Mary speaking.”
Just like that, everything in the world was okay. His mother's voice brought him a sense of calmness in every way. Her voice was gentle and quiet. It almost reminded him of a soft blanket.
“Hello?” Dean hadn’t realized he hadn’t said anything until his mother spoke again.
“M-mom?” Dean might’ve been in the Army bandaging the wounded and taking gunshots, but hearing his mother's voice after nearly four years, he damn near broke into tears.
“Dean?” Mary's gasp made Dean acknowledge that she couldn’t believe what she heard.
On the other end of the phone was a scuffling noise, followed by a shout to Sam. However, Dean didn't feel like talking to Sam at that moment, as he knew he would get an earful about not reaching out sooner. All he wanted to do was hear his mother's voice.
“Mom, don’t put him on. I want to talk to you.” Dean felt a wave of shame washes over him. The last time Dean spoke to Sam, he was thirteen, almost fourteen. He sat on the bed against the headboard, dropping his chin to his chest as he heard his mother sigh.
“Dean, it’s been a while; he wants to talk to you.”
Something in Mary’s voice rubbed Dean the wrong way; of course, he knew Sam would want to hear from him. He also wanted to talk to Sam more than anything. But he can’t; he’s not in a great place and can’t show Sam that. Dean needed to protect him.
He sniffled, tears flowing freely down his face. He didn't know what to say, and perhaps he should have thought about it before making the call, but it was too late for that now. His mother remained silent, waiting for him to speak, as his quiet whimpers filled the void. Dean took a deep breath and wiped away a few tears. He knew he had to tell her where he was and what was happening, but keeping it simple seemed like the best option.
His mother beat him to it before Dean could tell him where she was. “Bubs, where are you?”
Bubs was Dean's childhood nickname that persisted into adulthood. When he heard the name, tears rolled down his cheeks, and he cried audibly.
He put the phone down and spent the next few minutes crying again. Why couldn’t he stop? He’s an Army man. He should be able to keep his emotions locked away. Once he felt like he was done crying, he returned the phone to his ear.
“I’m uh, I’m in Maine, Madison, I think.” Dean sniffled.
“That’s over twenty-four hours away, Dean.” Dean could hear the disappointment in her voice. “Why didn’t you just come home? I could have helped you.” Dean knew what was being left unsaid. ‘I know you were medically discharged, and that doesn’t come without baggage.’
He didn’t want to burden his family, especially his mother. She was a nurse; she’d sit by his bed and hold his hand as he had nightmares and PTSD episodes. He couldn’t put her through that; it was exhausting.
“It was the cheapest and closest place when we landed in New York. I couldn’t afford to get to Lawerence.”
Dean knew the second those words left his mouth, he’d get an earful from his mother.
"Dean Henry Winchester," she said with a hint of disappointment, "I know you can handle things independently, but you could have at least called me or your uncle Bobby. We've been worried sick about you." Her tone was stern, but it was evident that she was more concerned than angry. Dean could sense her love and care through the phone, and it made him feel grateful for having someone like her in his life. Despite the gravity of the situation, he couldn't help but feel comforted by her words.
Despite his fondness for staying up all night chatting with his mother, he couldn't help but notice the weariness in her voice. She was likely at work all day, and her ordinarily clear and cheerful tone grew sluggish.
"Mama," he said, dragging out the ‘a’. "How are you? I want to hear about you," he dismissed everything his mother had said.
“Sweetie, you don’t need to worry about me. It's been fine.” He understood that she didn't want to trouble him with her worries.
Dad died two years into being in the Army. He hadn’t been able to make it home for the funeral. He wrapped his car around a pole while drinking and driving. Unfortunately, he had always struggled with drinking and was known to become belligerent when drunk. Only Sam and his mother remain home, although Sam is occupied with school and theater. His mother had no one.
Sometimes, Dean missed his dad; conversely, he deserved what he got. He was thankful that he didn’t hurt anybody in the process.
Dean was ripped from his thoughts when his mother cleared her throat. “Where are you staying, bubs?”
Dean debated on telling her the truth, that he was homeless and some random stranger he had just met paid for a hotel room. He decided to go for a partial truth.
“I found a decent hotel and will stay here for a few days.” Dean slouched in the bed, getting comfy. He turned the TV on for some background noise and was pleasantly surprised that Dr. Sexy MD was still playing.
Mary hummed her approval, stifling a yawn in the process. Dean frowned, knowing he’d have to say goodbye to his mother.
“Dean, sweetie, as much as I would love to stay and chat, I must let you go; I have to work early.”
Dean cleared his throat before saying, "I'll call you soon. Goodnight, mama. And tell Sam I said goodnight, too."
“Goodnight, bubs. I love you.”
After hanging up the phone, Dean shifted his gaze toward the TV, staring at it blankly. After spending almost four years in the company of military personnel, he found himself completely isolated. The silence was deafening, and the emptiness of his surroundings was suffocating. He had never felt so alone in his entire life.
Dean’s heart began to race. He knew what this was. He spoke to his mother. He knew he was going home soon, so why was he having a panic attack?
As he found himself trapped, he struggled to slow down his breathing. His heart raced as he frantically searched for a way out but couldn't find one. Fear crept up his spine as he realized that he was alone and no one would rescue him. He knew his men were out there, fighting for their lives, and he couldn't disappoint them. He heard the sound of explosives and gunfire in the distance and knew that he had to act fast. His men were counting on him, and he couldn't disappoint them. That’s when he heard it. That’s when he heard the click of the landmine trigger being released. He listened to his men yelling at him to get back and run as quickly as possible. He did as he was told and booked it; unfortunately, in his path was another landmine.
As he awoke abruptly, he sat up with a sudden gasp, his hand immediately reaching towards his hip. The memories of his past injuries had come back to haunt him as the phantom pains kicked in with full force, causing him to wince in discomfort.
He blindly reached for the side table, looking for the phone. Who would he call? Noticing how dark it was outside, it had to be closer to three in the morning. His mom was asleep, and most of the men in his platoon were still in.
Dean was feeling anxious and desperate for someone to talk to, so he picked up his phone and dialed the only other person he knew was awake. His heart raced as he listened to the phone ring as hyperventilated. He couldn't sit still and roughly started tapping his foot against the bed.
After what seemed like an endless wait, the phone began to ring. Dean's heart started racing as he reached for the receiver, eagerly anticipating a response. However, after six rings, there was still no answer, and his hope dwindled. Just as he was about to give up, the phone finally rang for the seventh time, and Dean let out a deep breath of relief. The wait was over; he wasn’t alone.
“Cas?” Dean whispered.