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“Gabriel, there’s an intruder in my house.”
“Mhmm.”
“Gabriel,” Castiel whispered a bit more loudly, “wake UP! There’s an intruder in my house.”
“Lock yourself in a bathroom and call 9-1-1,” Gabriel offered his advice sleepily. After all, it was 3:28 in the freaking morning and his brother’s call interrupted his sleep.
“Well, I mean, he’s not in my house exactly.”
“Cassie, are you stoned again? Remember when you ate that edible and you were sure aliens were probing you, and it turned out you were just digging around in your belly button with a pen?”
“Gabriel, I’m serious!”
“And I’m confused! Is there an intruder in your house or not?”
“Well, he’s on my deck.”
“And are you sure it’s a person and not, say, a racoon or bear?”
“I’m sure,” Castiel answered. “I’m looking at him from my kitchen window… he’s cooking something on my barbecue grill. And singing. Badly. Classic rock of some kind, I think.”
“Cassie,” Gabriel sighed, “either call 9-1-1 or go outside and offer him a beer to go with whatever he’s cooking. Regardless of what you decide, I’m hanging up now.”
Before Castiel could say anything further, his brother did, indeed, hang up. He glanced out the window and could see a man flipping burgers on his BBQ grill, lighting the way with the flashlight app on a cell phone. The man also appeared to be dancing and singing to… yes, the faint voice of Robert Plant singing Ramble On could be heard from the cell phone over the sizzle of cooking meat and melting fat.
Castiel worried his bottom lip between his teeth, unsure of what to do. He gently tested the locked back door, shook his head, and went back to bed.
Dean wrinkled his nose and clenched his eyes against the sun hitting his face. He rolled over with a groan grabbed for his phone and cracked an eye open to check the time. It was nearing 1PM, and he prayed the hangover would be mostly over. However, he could ignore the need to pee for only so long, and that, combined with the smell of coffee and the sun hitting his face, finally had Dean trying to untangle himself from his blankets and get out of bed. He sighed in relief as his bladder emptied, inspected his bleary, bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth, and shuffled to the kitchen, following the scent of coffee.
Sam set a mug of freshly poured coffee on the kitchen counter and turned to the fridge when Dean made his appearance. Dean snagged the mug and slurped some of the bitter, hot liquid, grimacing as it mingled with the minty taste of toothpaste, leaned a hip against the counter, and closed his eyes with a sigh. Sam whirled around at the sound and gave Dean bitchface #26.
“Hey!” he groused. “That’s m-”
Dean cut off his brother’s whining with a raised forefinger and another noisy slurp. Sam huffed and snagged a new mug, filled it with coffee, and grabbed the milk from the fridge. Dean set the mug of coffee on the counter and rubbed the back of his neck with a hand.
“Dude, I had such a weird dream,” he said.
“Clowns or midgets?” Sam asked.
“Huh?” Dean looked at his brother like he’d just sprouted a second head.
“Clowns or midgets?” Sam repeated.
“Dude, neither,” Dean scoffed. “Dreamed I was at a barbecue. Alone.”
Sam went back to the fridge and opened it, pulled out a package and tossed it onto the counter where it slid to a stop next to his brother. It was a package of ground beef, torn open, with what was very clearly about a handful of meat missing.
“Wasn’t a dream, Dean. Just how much did you drink last night that you don’t remember grilling, jerk?”
“Bitch,” Dean muttered defensively. “C’mon, it was Saturday night, the garage isn’t open on Sundays. I’m allowed to cut loose!”
“Dean, there’s cutting loose and then there’s blackout barbecuing,” Sam remarked. He snagged the package of meat and put it back into the fridge. “Hey, when did you buy charcoal?”
“What?” Dean was in the process of trying and failing to surreptitiously sniff his hands, scowling and flinching back at the telltale smell of raw meat on his fingers. He looked at the mug of coffee, weighing his need for caffeine against the need to disinfect immediately against E. coli, salmonella, and gods only knew what else. He could swear he could feel bacteria crawling over the back of his neck now. Dean looked over to his brother. “What are you talking about?”
Sam pointed to the grocery list on the door of the refrigerator. “We’re out of charcoal for the grill. When did you buy a new bag?”
“I… I didn’t,” Dean replied. He looked back at his hands, inspecting the nails specifically. They were clean with no hint of charcoal. He went to the sink, turned on the hot water, and squirted dishwashing soap into his hand. He scrubbed vigorously, muttering under his breath.
“So you blackout barbecued on someone else’s grill?” Sam asked. “Dude, that’s seriously…”
“Yeah, I know that’s fucked up,” Dean interrupted. The hand washing got increasingly more aggressive under Sam’s disappointed scrutiny. “I need a friggin’ shower.”
Dean shut the faucet in the kitchen and headed for his room, ignoring the stolen mug of coffee still on the counter. The need for hot water, soap, and a sisal scrub outweighed his need to caffeinate his bloodstream.
Once he felt decontaminated enough, he shut the water and steam curled throughout the bathroom as he stepped out of the shower. Dean shuffled into his bedroom, pulled on comfortable clothes (who was he kidding, his style was comfort over class, almost all his clothing was comfortable), and padded downstairs to pull on his boots.
“Where are you going?” Sam asked, as he leaned against the doorjamb between the kitchen and the living room. He had half a bagel with cream cheese in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. Sundays in the Winchester house got to a slow, late start.
“Gonna take the dog for his morning… afternoon walk, and then maybe tire him out in the back while I try and figure out where the hell I was last night,” Dean grumbled, giving the boot laces a tug before tying. As if knowing he was being talked about, Miracle came padding down the hallway, toenails clacking on the hardwood floors. Dean rubbed the dog behind his ears, grabbed the harness and leash, and the two headed outside to the street so the dog could do his business.
Once Miracle finished sniffing at trees and rocks, marking the side of the curb, and doing his thing, he and Dean headed around the condo to the shared backyard. Dean tossed the crap sack (his term, Sam called them the less juvenile name poop bags) into their garbage can, unclipped Miracle from the leash, and grabbed the tennis ball in the basket on the last step to their small back deck.He draped the leash on the hand rail and chucked the ball towards the center of the grassy area.
While Miracle took off after the ball, Dean scoped out the 20 back porches of his neighbors. The way the community was designed, 21 condos shared a large grassy area with several trees. The space was used a lot during the spring and summer, less so during autumn, and very rarely in winter. Dean looked over the back porches of the other homes before setting out to wander. Nine houses didn’t have a grill of any kind on the porch and seven - including his - had charcoal grills. So that left five possible houses.
He began meandering clockwise from his property, glancing at the decks of the other houses, not quite sure what he was looking for. Occasionally he’d take the ball from Miracle and toss it into the center of the commons. When he came to the third house on the row that was directly across the grassy area from his own condo, he saw a gas grill with its hood open. He looked at the other decks, and all the other grills were closed, some even covered with a tarp. It looked like Dean had found the grill he’d hijacked in the middle of the night. He noticed small clay plant pots on the deck, but instead of plants, each one had a small rainbow flag planted in it. The HOA allowed plants on a home’s deck, but frowned at having flags displayed outside year round. Dean supposed this was the owner’s way of getting around that particular clause. Mystery solved, Dean made his way back to his own condo, tossing the ball for Miracle as he went.
Seventh circle of Hell. That’s what this giant blue-colored building was. Maybe third. Could be fourth too. Dean stared at the cheery yellow spark and the oversized shopping carts. He knew better than to be here on a Sunday, but he had an apology to make.
Serves ya right for blackout barbecuing at some stranger’s house, ya idjit, he could hear his adoptive father’s gruff voice in his head.
He sighed and got out of his car and headed into the big Walmart. He snagged one of the shopping carts, traded it out for one with better wheels, and walked into the store. First stop was the Patio and Garden section of the store. A brand new 20 pound propane tank went into the cart and as he walked down the aisle, he snagged a variety of barbecue grill utensils. Then it was on to Party & Occasions for some bows, with a detour through Arts Crafts & Sewing for some funky burlap material and raffia. He paid for the items, loaded them into Baby, thanked both the automotive gods and the goddess of malls that Baby was left unscathed, and headed back home.
Once back home, Dean schlepped his purchases into the dining room and set everything on the table. First, he slapped a bunch of the self-adhesive bows onto the propane tank. This was when Sam came in.
“What’re you doing?” Sam asked looking over the mix of barbecue paraphernalia and arts and crafts stuff scattered on the table.
“I’m gettin’ ready to dance around the bonfire naked. What’s it look like I’m doing, Sammy?”
Sam opened his mouth with a comeback remark, but closed his mouth with a click of teeth instead. Nope, he didn’t have a rejoinder for his brother. “Dude, I got nothing. I honestly have no idea what you’re doing, Dean.”
Dean placed a couple pieces of burlap on the table, offset from each other and then placed the grilling tools on the cloth. He folded and twisted the cloth around the handles of the utensils, and then wound strands of raffia along the handles. He fluffed up the edges of burlap and held it proudly, a smile lighting his face, tongue pressed against the back of his teeth. “It’s a barbecue bouquet.”
Sam was about to make a snarky comment, but the look of shy pride on his brother’s face stopped him. He knew Dean suffered with severe self-esteem issues, putting himself down constantly, usually turning to self-deprecation when complimented. He also knew his older brother sacrificed for him - continued to sacrifice for him - even though it wasn’t necessary any more. Instead, he smiled. “That looks awesome, Dean,” he said, with a slight softening in his face. “That’s a fantastic idea. It’s really thoughtful, original, and the presentation is adorable.”
Dean scowled and turned away from his brother, ears, face, and neck turning pink. “Hey, no chick-flick moments, Sammy. I think I’ll take it over now.”
Sam smirked at his brother’s emotional constipation and let Dean escape, not bothering to offer to help him take the stuff out to the Impala. He heard the trunk close and the driver’s side door creak open and closed, and smiled at the familiar rumble of her engine. It was a good thing the neighbors liked him and Dean, otherwise Dean would probably be getting noise complaints from the HOA on a regular basis.
“Glad to hear you’re still alive, Cassiopeia,” Gabriel said with a laugh. “Did you give him a beer to go with whatever he was cooking?”
“No, I did not ,” Castiel said, grumpily. “It was stupid early o’clock. I’m just grateful that whoever it was remembered to shut the gas off. Otherwise… well, it’s outside, I’m not sure if the gas would have accumulated in the air to cause an explosion. As it is, I doubt he cleaned the grill.”
Castiel looked out from the window on the back door, the open grill staring at him.
“Don’t be such a worrier, Castanets.”
The doorbell chimed, shaking Castiel out of whatever road he was about to head down, despite his older brother’s admonition. “I have to go, someone’s at the door.”
He hung up with Gabriel and opened the front door, to be met with a brand new propane tank decked out with gaudy gift bow stickers and barbecuing utensils presented like a bouquet of flowers. He frowned in confusion and looked at the person holding the items.
It was as if the rest of the world had just fallen away and all Castiel could see was sandy brown hair over moss green eyes, speckled with gold and amber. A spattering of freckles dusting cheeks and nose. A cupid’s bow lips, and dear Lord, a jawline under blonde stubble that could cut glass.
“Uh…” he said, struck dumb.
“Hi, my name is Dean,” the other man said in a voice that slid down Castiel’s spine like a caress. “I’m kind of a neighbor of yours, and apparently I used your grill last night.” Dean hefted the propane tank and the bouquet. “Sorry?”
Castiel blinked and stepped away from the open door, taking the bouquet. “Hello, Dean. Would you like to come in for a beer?”