Chapter Text
Most of Dean Winchester’s life has been consumed by fire.
When he was four, he lost his mother in an accident. A house fire. Well, Dean tells people it was an accident. He doesn’t tell people that it was arson, that the man who had set their house on fire had known his mother since she was a kid. Doesn’t tell people that the guy had basically been stalking her since high school, getting crazier and crazier with every passing year.
He definitely doesn’t tell people that the guy had snuck into the house first, had stabbed Mary Winchester in the stomach and had almost done the same to Dean’s infant brother, Sam.
And then there are other things he doesn’t talk about at all. Like how he dropped out of high school at sixteen because he kept seeing things – sparks and bright flashes out of the corner of his eye, far too similar to the lick of flames for his comfort – and it had kept him from concentrating. Had, in fact, almost led to him having a total breakdown on several occasions. He doesn’t talk about how him nixing any chance at higher education he might have had pissed Sammy off so much that they essentially stopped talking to each other for a year. He doesn’t talk about the deeper issues beneath that - that seeing Sam occasionally reminds Dean of the night he lost his mother, a night that Sam doesn’t remember, can’t even comprehend, because he was too young. Practically just born.
He doesn’t talk about how his father was basically gone by the time he’d turned twenty, only occasionally dropping by in order to make sure he and his brother were alive, leaving him to take care of Sam by himself.
How John Winchester had gotten into a car accident not even three years later. Dead on impact. The entire car had gone up in flames. How, when he had been asked to identify the body, Dean had thrown up, and had needed to spend an hour in a small room, calming himself down, while an uncomfortable-looking cop had repeatedly tried to offer him shitty coffee.
So yeah, Dean’s life is…less than ideal. His brother simultaneously loves and resents him, his parents are dead, he has recurring dreams about twisted and snarling creatures tying him up and covering him with gasoline, and he occasionally panics because he sees fires that aren’t really there.
Life still finds ways to get worse.
~
“You’re what?”
On the other end of the line, Sam takes a deep breath. Dean wonders what he was doing, before he decided to call his big brother and pretty much ruin his life. Was he eating? Probably not, there isn’t anything in the house to eat aside from bread and lunchmeat and a few microwave dinners. Maybe doing his laundry. Sam does his laundry way more often than any sane person would.
“No personal calls on the clock,” the foreman calls out, and Dean resists the urge to give the guy the finger. Construction isn’t the safest job, and most days he has to spend his break focusing on his breathing and struggling not to panic, but, in the past nine months, he’s managed to bring in enough money that Sam can continue going to school and they can keep a roof over their heads. He isn’t going to let his stupid fucking panic attacks get in the way of his brother making something of himself.
“I’m leaving,” Sam says, after a long silence. A pause, and then (like he needs to fucking clarify), “I’m moving to California.”
“Sam,” Dean says, “if this is about me…freaking out because you used the stove the other day…”
“It’s not that,” Sam says immediately. Another pause. “It’s just…everything, Dean. And Ruby says…”
“Yeah, Ruby says what,” Dean mutters. “She’s a fucking tweaker, Sam, you shouldn’t trust anything she says. Not to mention you met her on the goddamn internet.”
“She’s been clean for three months,” Sam says quietly. “And she’s been going to therapy. Which is more than…” He cuts himself off abruptly, but Dean doesn’t need to hear the words to know what they are.
“More than I can say for myself,” he says. “Thanks, Sammy, for that awe-inspiring display of confidence in me.”
“Dean, I just…I want to actually do something with my life! And I’ve already done all the paperwork, I’ve already…Stanford’s one of the best law schools in the country, and I’ve been offered a full ride, Dean. I’ve got some money saved up, you won’t even have to help me pay for plane tickets…”
“What, University of Kansas isn’t good enough? You can’t get your fancy law degree here in Lawrence?”
“Dean, please,” Sam says. “Just…let me do this. For once in my life, just…let me be my own person.”
“Winchester!” the foreman shouts. “Either hang up the phone or leave!”
“We’ll talk about this when I get home,” Dean says.
“No,” Sam murmurs. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
Dean hangs up. He stares at his cell phone for a long time, hand clenched into a fist at his side. Sam is leaving. Sam is leaving and the insinuation is that it’s because of Dean. Because Dean wasn’t smart enough to get the hell out of Kansas while they still had the money, or because Dean is so fucked up in the head that Sam just can’t stand living with him anymore. Hates it enough, in fact, to move all the way across the fucking country.
Dean shoves his phone down into his pocket, and takes a deep breath. Another. Another. His vision’s starting to blur – not a good sign. He needs to get someplace where he can just…sit, for a while. Sit and not think.
It’s too hot. Dean squints until his eyes are very nearly shut, because sometimes that helps – it doesn’t keep him from feeling like he’s about to combust, but there have been times where it has kept him from breaking down because he thought he saw a spike of flames out of the corner of his eye. He fumbles his way towards the break area, drops heavily down onto one of the benches and then buries his face in his cupped palms. He can hear the foreman shouting, but it’s difficult to make out the words through the blood rushing in his ears.
Maybe Sam has the right idea, some small part of him whispers. Maybe it’s time to leave Lawrence. There’s nothing but bad memories, here.
Yeah, Dean doesn’t want to think…but, usually, he ends up thinking anyways.
“Dean?”
It’s Ash. Ash is quite possibly the only person on the team that gives a damn about him – he’s fixed Sam’s laptop more than once (first for a faulty hard drive, recovering about ninety percent of Sam’s data for forty bucks and a six-pack of PBR, and then again when Sam accidentally spilled soda all over the keyboard), and occasionally he manages to convince Dean to go out drinking with him, instead of just locking himself in his shitty apartment and nursing the cheapest bottle of whiskey he can find. Ash is a good friend. Dean cautiously opens his eyes, peering at Ash through the cracks in his fingers.
“Dude,” Ash says, “you really need to see someone about this. It’s getting worse.”
“It isn’t,” Dean insists. It’s a lie. He knows it, and Ash knows it, too, but neither of them is going to admit to it first.
“Whatever,” Ash says. “You should at least see about getting some…fuck, I dunno. Some of those anti-anxiety pills.”
“Yeah, because I’ve got the money to waste on pills I don’t need,” Dean mutters. Even the health insurance that the Harvelle Construction Group provides him with wouldn’t be enough – not with him paying for Sam’s tuition, for all his books, as well as paying for food and rent.
Although he guesses that won’t be as much of a problem, now.
“Look,” Ash says quietly. “I know you don’t need ‘em, Dean, but I know a guy who pops Xanax like fuckin’ Pez. I can ask him if he’ll give some up, you know, just in case. There’s no shame in it, man. My cousin’s on medication.”
“Your cousin thinks that she can talk to bears,” Dean says dryly. “I’m pretty sure you told me that she’s been banned from at least four different zoos.”
“Yeah, but she’s still on medication.”
“Look,” Dean says, “I appreciate it, I really do, but I don’t need pills, and I don’t need therapy. I’m fine.” He can barely use a stove without spending an hour mentally preparing himself for it, but he’s…fine.
“Maybe you just need a change of pace,” Ash suggests. “Like, a new hobby or something. Or maybe take a vacation.”
“Like I have enough time for a vacation,” Dean scoffs.
But, six hours later, he still can’t stop thinking about it. What if a change of scenery is exactly what he needs?
~
“You’re having a mid-life crisis,” is what Sam says, immediately, upon hearing Dean’s (admittedly tentative) plan. “Oh god, I’m the one who brought it on, aren’t I? Look, Dean, you can’t follow me all the way to California, it would be weird and uncomfortable for everyone involved, and…”
“And if you’d let me finish a thought, I’d tell you that I’m thinking about New York,” Dean says mildly. “But, you know. Go ahead, keep going.”
Sam opens his mouth, and then closes it abruptly, teeth clicking. He looks like someone just ran up to him and slapped him. Dean reaches for another slice of pizza, humming softly. He’s…he’s doing better, much better, than he was earlier. The drive home wasn’t punctuated with the need to pull into any parking lots, and he even managed to listen to the radio without worrying that the wires would somehow break, and set the engine aflame. Dean’s taking it as a sign that this is the right decision. He sort of has to. Otherwise he’ll just be…
Lost. Hurt. Terrified.
…angry that Sam apparently made all his plans to leave without telling Dean, first.
“New York,” Sam repeats faintly. “That’s just…Dean, New York is huge.”
“It is,” Dean agrees. That’s part of the beauty of New York – it’s large enough that he’ll be able to find a job (even if the rent is a bit more expensive than he’s used to), and he won’t have to run into any people he knows. No Ellen looking at him sympathetically on her weekly inspections of the crew, no Jo throwing him cautiously flirtatious one-liners…No Ash, either, but Ash does the whole email thing, so Dean figures he can probably figure it out, if he has to.
And no Sam.
Dean will be on his own.
He keeps telling himself that that’s a good thing. That even if Sam is going to live with a chick who’s both a Satanist (Dean isn’t exactly particularly religious, but still, kind of weird) and a former meth-addict (and Dean uses the word "former" very hesitantly), he’ll at least be getting the best fucking education free government money can buy. And California is big, too. Sam’s young, good-looking, he works hard. He’ll be able to get a job wherever he wants. Dean doesn’t have any reason to worry, apart from the whole Ruby thing.
“I don’t even know what to say,” Sam sighs. “Dean, you’re…you’ve got issues. Ones that you’ve been refusing to deal with for the past twenty-three years. What makes you think that you can live in New York and not be eaten alive?”
“What makes you think I can’t?” Dean throws back, angrier than he should be, considering that Sam is…is worried about him. But Dean’s so sick of this patronizing bullshit, and Sam always tries to pull it with him.
“I’m just saying, you won’t even see a therapist…”
“Because I don’t need a goddamn therapist, Sammy! I took care of you, didn’t I? Since we were kids, I took care of you! I made sure you got enough to eat, I got you new clothes when your old ones wore out, I did everything that dad should have done! Is that the sort of thing a crazy person could do? Huh?”
Sam rocks back on his heels, looking stricken. Dean shoves the rest of his pizza crust into his mouth. He chews and tries not to think about how Sam is looking at him. Like he’s a little bit sad, a little bit angry, a little bit ashamed, all at once.
“Fine,” Sam says. His mouth is pursed into an uncomfortable-looking moue of discontent, and he reaches for his own slice of pizza with the air of a man who would rather be doing anything - would rather be anywhere - else. He holds his pizza like he’s afraid the thing is going to attack him – Dean isn’t sure why, especially considering he went out of his way to order an everything pizza, just so Sam would have some peppers and onions with his grease and meat.
I’m still making sure that he eats his vegetables, Dean realizes. He’s twenty-three and he’s going to be a junior in college and I’m still taking care of him.
“Sam,” he says, and then pauses, swallowing down a thin note of panic. Sam looks at him expectantly; Dean makes a conscious effort not to pay attention to the flickering out of the corner of his eye. In fact, he closes his eyes, just for a moment, and that makes him feel a little bit better, even if he can sort of sense Sam leaning a bit closer. Just in case he freaks out, he guesses.
“I’m not happy about this,” he says quietly.
“I figured.”
Dean holds up a hand, eyes still closed. “Hear me out. I don’t trust Ruby. And I think you’ve made enough stupid mistakes before that you’re probably going to keep making them. But…you aren’t my kid brother anymore. I mean, legally, you can smoke, drink, and screw just about whatever you like…”
“Way to put it in the least flattering terms possible,” Sam says, nose wrinkling. Dean laughs, because Sam’s seen the worst of him, has seen Dean panicking over the smallest, stupidest things (like stovetops, and lighters, and microwaves), has seen him come home slurring drunk, and has probably walked in on him having sex with at least four different people (at least, those are the times that Dean remembers actually noticing Sam), and yet it’s still language that offends Sam the most. Fucking words.
“I’m trying to have a serious conversation here,” Dean protests, and Sam bows his head, his stupid floppy hair falling about his face.
“I hear you, Dean,” he murmurs. “That…it means a lot to me. Seriously, thanks.”
“Don’t make a huge deal out of it,” Dean warns. “All I’m saying is that you’re a grown dude and I can’t stop you. If you want to…to move to California to live with your Satanist girlfriend, then that’s your decision.” He opens his eyes completely and levels Sam with a severe look, the kind that only older siblings and moms are really capable of pulling off. “But if you think for one second that I’m gonna feel any sympathy when she eventually fucks you over, then you’re out of your mind.”
“Point taken,” Sam says dryly. He doesn’t exactly look pleased with that, but Sam underestimates precisely how much Dean hates Ruby. How much he hates her for taking his little brother away from him, for saying things like "you could be so much better than your brother" and "maybe it’s time you thought about getting a life of your own, stop letting Dean leech off of you". Both of which, by the way, are things that Dean has actually heard her say. Skype’s a bitch when you’ve got an older brother with excellent hearing in the next room.
“So,” Sam continues, “where does this leave us? I mean, are we…?”
“We’re whatever,” Dean says. He holds up his hand when Sam’s mouth flaps open again, threatening to spew empowering bullshit about embracing their feelings and accepting their inner selves. “No chick flick moments, Samantha, not while you’re still under my roof.”
“Jerk,” Sam says, mouth turning up into a smile that’s a little bit wistful.
“Bitch,” Dean says, and then snags the last piece of pizza before Sam can protest. He feels…well, he’d be lying if he said he felt "good", because there’s still the continuous threat of the stove (and the toaster, and the microwave…), not to mention everything that can go wrong outside, but Dean is feeling confident, if nothing else. He can do this. He can let Sam go and he can move to an entirely different city, and he isn’t going to let it get to him. He isn’t going to let himself be consumed by bitterness at the thought of Sam ‘moving on’.
Everything is going to be fine.
~
Two months later, and Dean’s revising that opinion.
It only takes Sam one month to get himself packed up and ready – just in time for him to enroll as a full-time student at Stanford University. As promised, he doesn’t let Dean help him with the plane tickets, doesn’t let him put anything towards textbooks, and Sam doesn’t even dip into their meager inheritance (something that Dean avoids like the plague, because having a bit of money set aside is always comforting). He does it all by himself, and if Dean had needed proof that his little brother was no longer quite so little, then he got it, and then some.
Dean drives Sam to Kansas City, only needing to pull over into a rest stop once (considering it’s a forty minute drive, that’s pretty impressive), and he punches him in the shoulder as Sam’s gate starts to board.
“You’ll be okay, Dean,” Sam tells him before he leaves. “Everything will work out.”
Dean doesn’t have the heart to tell Sam that he’s the one who should be saying that, and, either way, it would probably still be wrong. He watches Sam’s plane take off through the huge windows near the waiting area, and then drives himself back home to Lawrence. He has to stop six times in order to calm himself down and, the next day, he calls Ash and asks if his friend is still popping Xanax like Pez.
Which, in turn, has led to this: Dean, sitting with his own luggage at gate seventy-seven, waiting for his flight to board and quietly counting to ten, over and over, in order to stave off the inevitable panic attack.
I’ve got nothing to worry about, he tells himself – Ash knows a guy who knows a guy in New York, and Dean’s pretty much set as far as an apartment goes. It’s cheap, it’s centrally located, and, best of all, the neighbors are apparently "quiet" (though he isn’t sure why Ash put a fucking winking smiley face after the word). And he’s got a potential job, too. He’s not exactly proud that he needed to ask his boss’s daughter (his boss’s daughter, who has a fucking crush on him) whether she knew of any companies looking to hire in the New York, New York area, but it’s not like the economy is particularly kind these days, and Dean needs to have a job waiting for him. Or at least the possibility of a job.
He rolls the bottle of aspirin that Ash gave him between his palms. Of course, it isn’t full of aspirin, but rather about a year’s worth of Xanax, if he uses it sparingly. And Dean doesn’t plan on popping pills like Ash’s friend…just using them when it counts.
Like now.
He thumbs the cap off the bottle and pours out one of the small, yellowish pills. Should he take half? He has no idea how strong it is, or even whether it will affect him at all.
He glances out the window at the runway, and decides that yeah, combining his fear of flying with his already ridiculous fear of things catching on fire warrants the use of a whole pill. He puts the cap back on the bottle and then tips the tiny pill into his mouth, swallowing. It sticks in his throat for a moment, awkward, and Dean shudders. He knows that, if he thinks about it too much, it won’t take very long for him to convince himself that planes are death traps at the best of times, and this one is going to be cruising along at thirty-one thousand feet where there isn’t going to be any help, and the best he’ll be able to hope for is a quick death by drowning if they happen to be flying over an ocean, otherwise he’ll be burning up along with the jet fuel…god, jet fuel burns at a temperature of, what? Two thousand degrees? It would only take twenty, thirty seconds and there’d be nothing left of him but a smear of grease and charred bones, and…
And his hands are shaking. Dean takes a deep breath, his vision blurred and narrow. He takes another, and another. Shit. The plane’s bad enough on its own – why did he think it was a good idea to fly to New York?
Because driving would take too long, he reminds himself. You’d have a nervous breakdown while you were on the highway and you’d crash into a semi or something. The plane is not being flown by a guy who’s terrified of jet fuel or stoves or lighters. He’s a professional and the chances of the plane crashing are like, next to none. So get a hold of yourself and stop fucking panicking.
Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. The woman sitting across from him looks like she’s thinking about calling the police. Or maybe the hospital. Dean makes a focused effort to slow his rapid heartbeat, thinking about…pie. Pie is a good topic. Pie that he can buy at the grocery store’s bakery for like eleven dollars. Apple pie and strawberry-rhubarb pie, and chocolate pie…Sam prefers cake, because he’s a tool and because he’s probably trying to make up for all the birthdays they couldn’t afford to celebrate when they were kids, but Dean knows that pie is where it’s at. Luxurious without being pretentious. Comforting. Pie.
Attention. Now boarding gate seventy-seven.
Dean feels his breathing beginning to even out, and he clutches at his carry-on duffel with the sort of desperation normally only exhibited by drowning men. He can’t tell if it’s the Xanax or the thought of pie that’s calming him down, but he’s grateful either way, and he hauls his duffel up onto his shoulder and then stands, digging around in his pocket for his plane ticket. The woman checking tickets has obviously dyed blonde hair and a hair clip shaped like a dragonfly holding back her bangs. Dean smiles at her, and she gives him a look that’s mildly interested, but mostly sympathetic. He doesn’t blame her – he probably looks like a crazy person, the way he’s clutching at his duffel, fear-sweat still clinging to his temples.
Dean follows the shuffling line of people until he actually sets foot on the plane, and the panic from before…stays mercifully gone. Pharmaceutical help or no, he’s going to take what he can get while it lasts. He finds his seat and shoves his duffel into the overhead compartment, wondering how long it will take his furniture to reach his new apartment – the U-Haul had been expensive, but he hadn’t seen any other way to get all his stuff from Kansas to New York in one go.
Dean drops into the aisle seat, sighing. There are two women sitting next to him, and they both look at him with mingled suspicion and disapproval.
Dean rests his head back against the seat.
Two and half hours to go.
~
The plane touches down almost three hours later with all the grace of a wounded water buffalo, and the only reason that Dean isn’t freaking out and hyperventilating is the fact that he can see the ground, almost close enough to touch. The Xanax had helped with the first half of the flight, and he’d managed to fall asleep for most of the second half, but the last twenty minutes? Torture. Dean hauls his duffel from the overhead compartment with slightly more force than necessary, and he utterly forgets to smile at the attractive flight attendant. He just wants to have both feet safely on the ground again.
LaGuardia airport is roughly a thousand times bigger than Kansas City, and Dean spends almost fifteen minutes just trying to figure out where to go and pick up his luggage. By the time he finally has his two "expandable wheeled duffels" back in his possession (fifteen percent off on Amazon, bought specifically for this occasion), he’s feeling sort of like he’s been picked up by a tornado and hurled off into Oz. The constant press and movement of the crowds is bad enough, but there’s also the noise, the smells, and, as always, the constant threat of the airport burning down around him. Logically, he knows that’s unlikely – it’s an airport, it’s probably got the fire department on speed dial, just in case. But, even so, he has to hightail it to one of the benches out in front, has to sit there with his luggage and his carry-on and hold his head in his hands while he breathes and his vision threatens to narrow down to a fine pinprick of light.
His cell phone vibrates. Dean splays his fingers slightly and glares at nothing in particular. There’s a guy sitting on a similar bench a few feet away from him. He’s giving Dean a look. Dean feels his mouth curling in a vague sort of grimace, and the guy looks away.
Dean’s phone vibrates again. He takes one more deep breath, then pulls the cell from his pocket and flips it open.
2 unheard voicemails
The first one is from Sam:
”Hey Dean, it’s Sam. Just…wanted to know how your flight went, if you’re okay, that sort of thing. California is nice. Well, I mean, you know that, I told you already, but…it’s really, really nice. Classes just started. They’re a lot more intense than I thought they would be, but they’re fun, too. I’m taking…well, a bunch of law courses, but for one of my gen eds I’m taking a course on the history of classic rock. I thought you’d get a kick out of that. Ruby’s doing great…I went with her to her CMA meeting…Um, Crystal Meth Anonymous. She’s been clean for almost seven months, now.”
A long pause. And then Sam takes a breath.
”If you ever need any help, just…call me, Dean. I know we’re on opposite sides of the country, now, but if you ever need money, or…”
Dean deletes the message. He gets where Sam is coming from (not even three weeks ago he was offering Sam money, "just in case"), but he’s a grown fucking man, and he doesn’t need anyone else’s charity, least of all his little brother’s.
The second message is from Ash:
“Dean! Buddy! You touch down yet? Let me know how the, ah…herbal supplements are working out for you.”
Dean snorts so hard he thinks he might break his face. Herbal supplements, Jesus Christ.
“Anyways, I called Andy, and he says that the apartment’s got an old couch you can crash on until Rufus can bring the U-Haul your way. Not exactly living in style, but any port in a storm, I guess. He also says they’ve been having a problem with bats or mice or some other pest...Stuff going bump in the walls, you know? He says he’s called an exterminator but they haven’t gotten back to him yet – fucking New York, am I right? Anyways, the apartment’s clean and he hasn’t actually seen any creepy crawlies yet, so you should be safe. But either way, you might want to invest in some traps or something, just in case.
“Oh, and Bobby Singer, the guy Jo told you about? I sent him an email and showed him a picture of that Thunderbird you fixed up for those douchebags from Philadelphia. He said he owns a side business you might be interested in, restoring old cars, asking rich dicks if they remembered to change their oil, that sort of thing. You know, if you feel like getting out of construction. The pay’s a little bit better, especially if you can work on some classics. Oh, speaking of classics, Rufus says he can bring the Impala up after he gets the U-Haul to you. A week after, maybe? Says you owe him a favor, though, after all this driving. Okay, Ellen’s shouting at me – gotta go. Gimme a jingle once you’re all settled!”
The message ends, and Dean closes his phone and shoves it back down into his pocket. He feels…a little bit better. Knowing that he won’t need to be too long without his car helps – it’ll probably take Rufus two or three days to drive up to New York, so a week, two weeks? He can survive that. Especially considering that Rufus was generous enough to rent the U-Haul in his name.
There’s a line of taxis waiting for customers in the parking lot. Every so often a harried-looking man, woman, or family will flag one down, load all their shit into the trunk, and then drive off. Dean sees a lot of guys in business suits carrying briefcases, but not a lot of people like him – jeans, Zeppelin t-shirt, boots. He feels vaguely out of place, but he can’t let himself dwell on it. That way lies madness.
He hauls himself up off the bench, making sure that all of his luggage is accounted for before heading for the taxis. He snags one that’s empty and waves off the cabbie’s attempt to help him load his duffels into the trunk. He’s probably still a little pale, maybe a little sweaty, but he can carry his own bags, thanks.
“Where to?” the cabbie asks him, and Dean climbs into the back seat and lets his legs splay as much as he possibly can. The plane had been uncomfortable in more ways than one. Once he’s finally certain that he isn’t going to bang his knees against anything, Dean digs around in his pocket for the scrap of paper with the address that Ash had given him. He squints at it, then gives up on reading Ash’s squiggly handwriting and passes it up to the driver instead. The guy makes an unattractive noise, but he doesn’t say anything out loud, so Dean lets it slide.
“You from out of town, then?” the cabbie asks. Dean would think that was obvious, considering he just left the airport, but he nods anyways.
“Kansas,” he says, trying to be polite. His headache is threatening to come back, and with a vengeance. “Lawrence, actually.”
“Never been to Kansas, myself,” the cabbie says, pulling out of the LaGuardia parking lot and almost immediately into some of the worst traffic Dean has ever seen. He winces – even if he does get his baby within the next two or three weeks, there might not be much of a chance of driving her. He’s simultaneously relieved and disappointed. When he had been younger, driving had been his only way of coping. Now he can’t even drive the two days it would take him to go from Lawrence to Queens.
Fuck, his life is miserable.
“So, what’s bringing you to New York? Business?” the cabbie asks. Dean rests his head against the window, watching the city pass them by. None of the buildings or streets are familiar. Dean has no idea where he is, or even if the cab is taking him in the right direction. God, he hates having to let other people do things for him.
“My brother’s calling it a mid-life crisis,” Dean sighs. The cab smells like smoke. It’s beginning to make him nervous. “I’m moving here.”
The cabbie whistles, a low, soft sound. “Big move! Crisis or not, you got stones, man. Is Lawrence a big city, then?”
“Not like this,” Dean murmurs.
“Well, good luck then. You got some changes to get used to.”
The cabbie falls silent, curiosity apparently satisfied. Dean’s grateful for the quiet. It means he has less to distract him from the smell of smoke, but it also means that he doesn’t have to answer any more questions. He doesn’t feel like justifying himself to a complete stranger.
The drive from LaGuardia to Jackson Heights (which the cabbie reassures him is exactly what it says on that stupid scrap of paper) is roughly fifteen minutes; the traffic, Dean is told, isn’t that bad, today. If this "isn’t that bad", though, Dean’s almost positive he isn’t going to be driving anywhere. Not on a regular basis, anyways. His baby is meant for open roads and speed limits of fifty-five or higher, not smog and bumper-to-bumper traffic.
Dean’s almost surprised when the taxi finally stops, and the cabbie gestures towards a neat row of apartment buildings. They’re modern without being pretentious, and the streets are bustling with people.
Then the cabbie says, “That’s not the building you’re looking for.”
And he points across the street, at what, to Dean, looks like someone took two houses and some superglue and then roughly smashed them together, and then dropped the resulting monstrosity in the middle of New York like a forgotten child’s toy.
“Shit,” Dean says. “No wonder it’s so cheap.”
“How much you paying?” the cabbie asks, and Dean digs around in his pocket for his wallet, huffing softly.
“Seven-hundred bucks a month,” Dean mutters. “Most utilities included. Gotta pay extra for cable and internet.”
“Boy, you best be prepared for a rough time of it, because seven-hundred a month will get you jack,” the cabbie says matter-of-factly. “Unless you want to share your place with roaches, that is.”
“A friend told me this place was okay.” Dean finally pulls his wallet free, slipping his Visa out and handing it to the cabbie. “I mean, he knows the landlord, and he says it’s clean enough.”
“Well, a cave would be livable, if you spruced it up enough,” the cabbie says sagely. He swipes the Visa, then passes it back to Dean, who tucks it back into his wallet and stuffs the whole thing back into his pocket. “You want for me to help with your bags?”
“Nah,” Dean says. “I got it.” He isn’t sure that he does, though. Still, he manages to get all his bags out of the cab, and if he has a little trouble dragging them across the street, well. Nobody here knows him. Nobody cares. And if he has to pause when he reaches the converted house in order to breathe, because everything smells like car exhaust and smoke and some kind of Indian restaurant down the street, and Dean’s sure that any minute he’s going to lose whatever calm he’d managed to grasp while he was on the plane, well…same thing. No one knows him.
No one cares.
It’s not as comforting as it was, before, but Dean has to make do.
~
Andy Gallagher became a landlord through a series of bizarre coincidences involving his grandmother, and then his uncle, and, finally, his brother (who may or may not be his twin, Dean hasn’t figured that part out yet). He’s obviously not terribly interested in the job, and it shows in the way he escorts Dean through the converted house, lit joint in one hand and the biggest chocolate-chip cookie Dean’s ever seen in the other. Dean keeps eyeing the lit cherry of the joint, but Andy doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort as he leads him up a flight of creaking stairs, talking languidly the whole time.
“I mean, your brother, dude, Ash told me. You’ve done a lot for him.” Andy waves the joint around as he talks, and a cloud of smoke drifts towards Dean. He leans away from it, flinching.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, and resolves to call Ash later and tell him to keep his big mouth shut when it comes to Sam.
“Seriously, putting him through college. Better late than never, right?”
“Right,” Dean mutters.
“I took a few classes at the community college in LaGuardia,” Andy says sagely, stuffing the cookie into his mouth and then digging around in his pocket for what Dean hopes is the key to the door they’ve come to a stop in front of, and not another joint. Or, God, like a mini-bong or something. Do they make those at all? Dean is endlessly fascinated by the ingenuity of stoners, but it’s not a lifestyle he understands. Or wants any part of. “Got an Associate’s. It was pretty cool.”
“Nice,” Dean says, desperately trying to maintain at least a thin veneer of politeness. Andy seems like a laid-back kind of guy, nice, if a little baked, but Dean just wants to get all his shit into his new place.
“All right, layout,” Andy says, finally pulling a ring of keys from his pocket. He painstakingly pulls one of them off and then hands it to Dean. “Two apartments upstairs, three downstairs. Two communal kitchens, but if you want to keep a mini fridge or something in your place, I don’t care. Two communal bathrooms, but you’ve basically got everything to yourself up here. Downstairs you’ve got me, Becky Rosen and her boyfriend Chuck, and Bela Talbot. Lock your doors at night, by the way, ‘cause I’m pretty sure Bela’s a klepto.” Andy grins. “Hot, though. Smokin’.”
Finally, finally, he turns the doorknob, and Dean is allowed to step into his new apartment for the first time.
It’s…definitely less than he’d hoped for. But, to be quite honest, it’s also about as much as he’d expected. The carpet needs to be vacuumed, and the walls are covered with paint that’s roughly the shade of very watered-down chicken broth. There’s an ancient sofa shoved up against the far wall, and Dean notes that the entire "apartment" amounts to a tiny bedroom (and that’s fine, he doesn’t need much space), two closets, and the "living room", which Dean strongly suspects was part of the original bedroom in the first place, and things were just walled off.
“What about upstairs?” he asks. Andy pauses, then deftly licks his thumb and presses it to the smoldering cherry. Dean watches with barely-contained horror; the urge to hyperventilate is incredibly strong. Either Andy doesn’t notice, or he doesn’t care…Dean’s betting on the former. He doesn’t know much about weed, but that seems like some pretty good shit to him.
“You won’t have to worry about upstairs,” Andy says, waving his now-unlit joint like a baton. Dean can feel some of the panic beginning to ebb, but not by any significant amount. “Trust me, dude.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Andy tilts his head, smiling serenely. Then, without another word, he backs out of the room and closes the door, leaving Dean alone with his luggage.
“Fuck,” Dean says. He thinks he hears someone snorting, but there’s no one else in the tiny apartment – just him. So obviously he’s hallucinating sounds as well as fire. Awesome.
After a long moment of just standing there, Dean grudgingly starts hauling his duffels into the bedroom. He might not be able to put any of his clothes away, not until his furniture arrives, but he can at least get out his Walkman and the three bags of beef jerky he packed before he left.
Dean kicks all his baggage into the bedroom, then goes to lie down on the sofa. Almost immediately a spring starts digging into his spine.
“It’s going to be a long two days,” he says, and slips on his headphones, beef jerky balanced on his stomach.
~
Dean meets Bela Talbot on his second day in his new apartment, when she walks straight into his living room without even knocking. Without even knocking.
Andy comes by with a padlock about an hour after Dean gently (but firmly) escorts her back out into the hallway, looking vaguely apologetic and significantly less high than before.
“So, you weren’t kidding when you said to lock the door.”
“Yeah,” Andy says sheepishly. “But I guess she’s learned how to pick the new locks, so…This’ll have to do until I can get them changed again. Honestly, I’m surprised she even came in here, I mean, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Just stuff,” Andy says vaguely. Dean scowls at him, but then Rufus texts him to let him know that he’s parked outside, and suddenly everything is lost in a flurry of movement and trying to figure out how to get the bed up the stairs, not to mention his dresser, and where the fuck did Dean put his Walkman, because it was right there, he’d left it right there on that shitty couch…
“Dude, did you put your CD player in the hallway?”
Andy has it. Of course he does. Dean drops his box of clothes down on his newly set-up bed, grabbing the Walkman away from Andy and then setting it on top of one of his duffels.
“Must have knocked it off the sofa or something,” Dean mutters. He’s got the beginnings of a killer headache and he has the feeling that if he so much as smells smoke today he’ll freak out.
Andy looks less than convinced, but Dean manages to get him to help bring in two more boxes before he cries "landlord duties" and then flees back downstairs. And Rufus isn’t going to be any help, considering his bad knees, so Dean’s left on his own, bringing in boxes, his lamp, his small bookshelf, until the entire apartment looks like an IKEA exploded in it and the U-Haul is finally, finally empty.
“I’ll bring your girl up in the next few days,” Rufus tells him – well, shouts at him, because Dean doesn’t step beyond the threshold of the building, and Rufus doesn’t really leave the cab of the truck. “Just let me rest these old legs a little first.”
“No problem,” Dean calls back. The smell of car exhaust is making him dizzy. He wants to go back inside, where at least he has his stuff to comfort him. “Take your time, man, I don’t think I’ll be getting too many opportunities to drive her, anyways.”
“Damn shame,” Rufus says, shaking his head. Dean watches him pull away from the curb for a moment, and then, feeling stupidly grateful, he shuts the front door, blocking out the noise and the harsh light and the overwhelming smells of New York. He leans against the wall, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, counting. One. Two. Three –
“Oh, hi!”
Dean doesn’t open his eyes. It’s a woman’s voice, but not Bela’s – this one is louder and happier and definitely less focused on sex appeal.
“You must be Dean! Andy said you seemed nice! I’m Becky Rosen. It’s nice to meet you…?”
Dean opens his eyes. Sure enough, he’s faced, not with a sultry brunette, but a younger, perkier blonde chick wearing a black shirt with a white backslash on it. Dean doesn’t get it, and he doesn’t want to be accused of looking at her tits, so he focuses on a point somewhere over her left shoulder while she smiles and waves at him.
“Uh, yeah,” Dean clears his throat. “I’m Dean. Andy hasn’t said anything about, uh, you?”
“That’s okay,” Becky says cheerfully. “I mean, Chuck’s the famous one, not me!”
“Chuck?” That name seems familiar. Oh, right. “Your, uh, boyfriend?”
“My boyfriend.” Becky sighs dreamily. “He’s an author! Published, even! He’s written this series of books about these two guys who drive around and hunt monsters and ghosts!” Becky leans closer, whispering conspiratorially. “He’s a big fan of the Buffy series. Do you watch television at all?”
“Not really,” Dean says faintly. Becky looks vaguely disappointed, but she does rock back on her heels a bit, allowing Dean to breathe easier. He thinks he feels something brush against his hand, and he jerks instinctively, wiping his palm against his jeans. Christ, he hopes the place doesn’t have spiders. Rats or cockroaches he can handle, but spiders are just freakin’ weird. He’s not scared of them or anything, but those are way too many legs for him to even begin to comprehend.
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” Becky is saying. Dean tunes back into the conversation (and he uses the term loosely) just in time for Becky to smile at him and say, “If you need any help at all, just let me know! There’s this great medium I go to, really helpful if you need to balance your energy, but I’ve heard from my friend that he does some awesome cleansing rituals.”
“What,” Dean says, but Becky is already twirling around on her heel and skipping off. Literally skipping.
Dean wonders if she was smoking something, too, or if that’s just her personality. He can only imagine what her boyfriend’s like.
His phone rings. Dean stuffs his hand into his pocket, glaring at nothing in particular. He pulls his cell out, and his expression lightens somewhat when he sees who’s calling. He flips open the phone and holds it to his ear.
“Hey, Mr. Singer,” he says, and then pauses. “Uh, okay, Bobby. Nice to finally talk to you. Yeah, sure I can come in. Tuesday?”
Dean glances out the door’s small window, considering the world outside. He needs a job. Bobby Singer is his best bet. And he’ll be able to work on cars – cars that are safely turned off while he takes them apart and puts them back together. No chance of any errant sparks.
“Yeah, I can do that,” he says finally. He gets that feeling again, something brushing across his hand – his other hand, this time – and he shakes it irritably. “No problem. Can I get the address?” Dean listens, and then winces. He doesn’t know the layout of New York yet, but it sounds like he might have to take the bus or the subway in order to get to Bobby’s shop, if he doesn’t get the Impala back quickly. Which is…which is fine. He can deal. Public transportation has never been his thing, but he supposes there’s a first time for everything, right?
“Looking forward to meeting you too, Bobby.” Except Bobby had said something more along the lines of "you’d better be as good as Ash promised you were, or else I’m gonna be pissed." The click of the phone hanging up has Dean grinning. As much as the idea of going out makes him nauseous, he can’t help but like Bobby on an intrinsic level. He seems like the kind of guy that Dean likes to think John Winchester would have become, if he’d had the chance to live past forty.
He flips his phone shut, then tucks it back into his pocket and makes his way back up the stairs to his apartment. He’s got a lot of unpacking to do, and he wants to get it all finished as soon as possible.
Hey, he thinks he hears. He pauses mid-step, and then cautiously lowers his foot to the stair, peering over his shoulder.
“Andy?” There’s no answer. Dean cranes his neck, trying to see into the tiny kitchen just past the front hallway. He can’t see all of it, but he’s pretty sure there’s no one in there. The whole downstairs area is quiet.
“Huh.” He shrugs, and then turns back, continuing up the stairs. A shiver runs down his spine, and Dean rubs at the goosebumps that have suddenly appeared on his arm.
“Cold drafts in summer, what the fuck,” he mutters. No one answers him.
Thank God for that.
~
Dean sets up his furniture without needing to worry about whether or not Sam’s gigantic, noodle-like limbs will accidentally knock anything over. His bedroom is tiny, but there’s enough space for his desk (if he shoves it against the far wall), his lamp (if he doesn’t mind having it directly in his face while he sits at his desk), and, of course, his bed (it’s normal to sleep in the fetal position, isn’t it? It’s not like he has enough room to do otherwise). Dean comforts himself with the photos that Sam keeps sending him of the apartment he’s sharing with Ruby – the place isn’t as small as Dean’s, but it’s got an ant infestation, it smells "funky" (Sam’s word, not Dean’s), and the neighbors are obnoxiously loud.
Dean has yet to meet his neighbor. In fact, he’s starting to suspect that the apartment next to his is empty – he hasn’t heard a peep out of the guy (or girl?) for four days. Which, in Dean’s experience, isn’t all that long a time to go without hearing from someone (there had been times when Dad would disappear for weeks at a time), but still. He thinks about maybe bringing it to the attention of Andy, but then reconsiders when he remembers that Andy had mentioned, in passing, spending some personal time with “Big Betty”, quite possibly the largest bong that Dean has ever seen. Andy is probably immobile on the floor of his apartment by now, so Dean is on his own.
And it’d be fine, really, if he didn’t keep losing things. First it was his Walkman (so far he’s found it on his bed, on the stairs, and out in the hallway), and now it’s things like socks (under the bed when they were in his dresser before), his wallet (stuffed behind the couch when it should have been on his nightstand), and his phone, which, weirdly enough, only ever shows up in one place: right next to the wall in his bedroom. The wall that separates Dean’s apartment from the one next door.
“This is bullshit,” he mutters, scooping up his phone and stuffing it back into his pocket. He can’t lose it if he just holds on to it twenty four-seven, right? He leans against the wall, forcing himself to breathe. He has all the curtains pulled shut, so it’s…better, than it normally is. He doesn’t even want to think about Tuesday. About going to meet Bobby.
Going outside. He isn’t sure when "outside" became such a horrifying thing – all he knows is that he doesn’t want to get lost in the haze of smoke and traffic. He can’t think of a single logical reason as to why he’s so worried, but then, he guesses "logic" doesn’t really have anything to do with it. He’s been afraid of things since he was four years old, and this is just another fear to get over. If he can convince himself that he can operate a microwave without it exploding and setting his head on fire, he can convince himself that he can go outside…
Right?
“I’ll be losing my fucking keys next,” he sighs, resting his head against the wall. “Or my head. Jesus.”
“Perhaps if you purchased a key ring.”
Dean’s head snaps up.
“For your keys. I do not know how to avoid misplacing your head.”
“Christ,” Dean mutters. He has no idea where the voice is coming from, but it’s got to be somewhere nearby. Through the wall? He cautiously puts his ear against the plaster, listening. “Uh…hello?”
“Hello.” It’s right there. Dean realizes, with sudden clarity, that he’s talking to his neighbor. Through the wall that they share, which is…admittedly a weird first meeting, but still. The guy actually exists.
“My name’s Dean Winchester,” he offers, speaking loudly. “I, uh…I’m your neighbor?”
“There is no need to shout, the walls are very thin. And I am pleased to meet you, Dean.”
Oh. That’s…good to know. Dean rocks back on his heels, trying to figure out when, exactly, his life got so weird. Not even tragic, just bizarre. He’s got one neighbor who’s already broken into his apartment once, another who will only talk to him through a wall, apparently, a landlord that’s perpetually stoned and a kid brother who’s shacking up with a (formerly, but Dean’s still skeptical) meth-addicted Satanist while he tries to work towards a fancy college degree.
“My life is weird,” Dean laments.
“It is not so strange as you might think.”
“Yeah?” Dean scoffs. “How would you know?”
“I know.”
There’s a quiet certainty in the voice – it’s a man’s voice, soft-spoken but deep. Intense. Dean wonders what the guy looks like. He’s probably like, Sam-size. Some huge, muscular dude, judging by his voice.
Dean shrugs. He doesn’t want to get into an argument about how crap his life is, especially not with a total stranger. That would just be…weird.
“So, uh…What’s your name?” Please don’t invite me over, Dean thinks. He really doesn’t think he could stand it if the guy turned out to be some nutjob in a homemade tin hat.
A pause. And then, “Castiel Angioli.”
Dean blinks. Okay. That’s…not a lot to go on, but whatever. If the guy wants to play twenty questions, Dean can do that.
“Castiel? That’s an…unusual name.” There’s a long silence. Dean idly pulls his phone out and flips it open, closed again.
“My father is a man of great faith.”
“Huh.” Dean eyes Sam’s number on his contact list. “So…Christian? Jewish? Buddhist?” Please don’t say "Satanist".
“He believed in the love and truth of God. I do not think he ever gave a name to it.”
“What about you?”
There isn’t an answer. Dean looks back on what he just asked and winces. “Uh, sorry. That’s kind of a personal question, you don’t have to answer that.”
“I do not mind. I…have not spoken to anyone in some time.”
“Kind of a recluse, huh?”
“One could say that.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Dean wonders what Castiel is doing over there. He doesn’t hear anything, no shuffle of footsteps, no sounds at all, just the guy’s voice, drifting through the plaster. Is he standing over there, perfectly still, just…talking, the way Dean is? It’s been so long since Dean had a conversation with a stranger that he can’t tell whether that’s weird or not.
“I do not think that I am particularly religious, anymore,” Dean hears. Huh.
“That sucks.” Dean has never been particularly religious, so he isn’t sure how much it sucks…but he has the idea that having something like your faith taken away from you is a pretty big deal. “So, uh…do you want to come over? I don’t really have anything to offer you to drink, and I’ve been living off of takeout for the past few days, but…yeah.” God, that was the most awkward "get to know you" invitation ever. Dean thumps his head against the wall, groaning quietly. When Castiel answers, his voice is tinged with amusement.
“I think it might be more prudent for you to procure some sustenance.”
That startles a laugh out of Dean, because…seriously? This guy talks like a fucking Vulcan or something (and it’s Sam’s fault entirely that he even knows what a Vulcan is), and Dean just…it’s weird. His life, goddamn.
“You’re probably right,” he says, and absently rubs the back of his neck. The whole room is chilled – he really needs to talk to Andy about getting the heating and air conditioning fixed. It explains a lot as to why the place is so cheap, though.
Luckily, he has yet to encounter the rat or bat or whatever problem that Ash mentioned, although he’s heard Bela complaining bitterly about them in the early hours of the morning. Dean hasn’t heard a thing.
It’s just so freaking cold.
“Well, as soon as I get around to stocking the fridge, I’ll be sure to let you know.” Dean shivers. Jesus, he can see his breath. That’s weird, isn’t it? Even with the air conditioning malfunctioning or whatever the hell it’s doing, it shouldn’t get cold enough for his breath to actually freeze...right?
“I must go,” Castiel says. Dean rubs his hands together in a futile attempt to keep them warm. “But…I have enjoyed speaking with you, Dean. I hope that you decide to make this your home.”
“I don’t really have anything to go back to. But…you don’t want to hear about my sob stories. It was good to meet you, Cas.”
There’s a pause.
“No one has ever given me a nickname before. Thank you.”
Dean blinks.
“Uh…you’re welcome?”
But he doesn’t get an answer. Either Castiel is ignoring him, or he’s left his apartment entirely. Dean didn’t hear a door open or shut, but it’s possible. Maybe Castiel’s door is just better oiled than Dean’s.
It’s only then that Dean realizes he’s gone almost an hour without needing to stop and calm himself down.
“Huh,” he says, and then begins to work on moving his nightstand to the side. He isn’t sure if Castiel can only hear him through that particular stretch of wall, but Dean doesn’t mind moving things around in order to accommodate him.
~
Bobby Singer is a man who doesn’t accept any bullshit.
At least, that’s Dean’s impression of him, and he’s proven right the first time a customer comes into Singer Salvage and Auto Repair and complains that their car has been making odd noises "for months". Bobby immediately calls the man an idiot (although he’s got a Midwestern drawl that turns the word into "idjit"), and then sends him to a far more expensive repair shop a few blocks down the street.
“I’ve never seen someone turn away customers before,” Dean says hesitantly. He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand – it’s hot out, today, and he’d been unable to work up the courage to use the bus. It hadn’t been too long a walk, but Dean was still shaking and uncertain by the end of it. He can’t wait to get his car back. Driving might not be as easy as it used to be, but even just sitting in the Impala, with the engine off and all the windows rolled down, sometimes helps.
“There’s a difference between a problem and a paying customer.” Bobby jerks his head towards the front door. The inside of Singer Salvage and Auto Repair functions as both Bobby’s office and his house – his living room is crowded with so many books that Dean’s intimidated just looking at all of them, and his "office" consists of a desk that’s been shoved up against one wall. Stacks of paper are piled atop it, swaying slightly whenever the door opens or closes. “That boy would have kept coming back.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
Bobby gives him a look. “I don’t feel the need to coddle fools, Winchester. If that makes me a poor businessman, then so be it.”
Dean carefully steps over a pile of books as Bobby leads him into his kitchen, and then pulls two bottles of beer out of the fridge. It’s definitely the most informal job interview Dean has ever been through, but…he likes it. He likes Bobby. The guy obviously knows what he’s doing, and he doesn’t take shit from anyone. Dean can get behind that mentality.
Bobby hands him one of the bottles, and Dean barely thinks, just twists the cap off without looking. Bobby nods like he approves. Dean gets the feeling that asking for a bottle opener when it’s unnecessary is grounds for intense scowling and muttering in this house.
He surreptitiously checks to see if the stove is on. It isn’t, and he breathes a quiet sigh of relief when he thinks that Bobby isn’t looking.
“So, you think you can handle this job? It’s not construction, but Ash says you do well with cars.” Bobby doesn’t open his beer, which makes Dean wonder if maybe he wasn’t supposed to, either. He takes a pull anyways. Molson isn’t his favorite, but it’s hot outside, and the beer is cold.
“My dad was a mechanic,” Dean says quietly. It’s a sore spot, but if it helps him get the job then he’ll use it. “He taught me everything he knew.”
“Your father would be John Winchester, right? Ash told me about him, too. Said he knew his cars about as well as he knew his liquor. I’m assuming that means he was good.”
Dean swallows, and makes a mental note to call Ash and yell at him as soon as he gets back to the apartment. “Yes, sir. He knew what he was doing.”
Bobby studies him over his bottle, eyes narrowed. Dean really doesn’t want to get into his issues with his father, but he still throws back his shoulders and stares right back at Bobby. Because damnit, Dean Winchester doesn’t take any shit either.
Bobby twists the top off his beer and then raises it, like a toast. “You’ve got the job.”
Dean blinks. “Really?”
“Did I stutter, boy? You start on Monday. Be here at eight and we’ll talk about your pay. And your arrangements.”
“My arrangements?”
Bobby gives him another look. “When you walked through that door you were shaking like an aspen in a windstorm. I don’t know what barrel of issues you’re toting around, but I trust Ash not to steer me wrong. If he says you’re worth the trouble, then you’re worth it.”
Bobby jerks his head towards the front door.
“Now get out, before I get sick of looking at you.”
Dean, perhaps wisely, takes his beer and flees.