Chapter Text
ACT ONE
The screeching siren strikes as it invades the motel room, violently waking the sleeper from his slumber. The auditory attack is nearly too much to bear, ravaging the space between the man’s temples, waging relentless war against each electrical impulse passing through his brain. Battle-weary hands seek contact with the enemy, fumbling to land a fatal blow. The man finally identifies the pest, pulling at its life source, ceasing its incessant blaring. Having vanquished the digital red menace, Dean falls back into the massive bed, whimpering at the familiar pain pounding beneath his forehead. He does not want to greet this day. Still prostrate, he fixes his gaze towards the plastic chandelier hanging over the king size bed as his fingers fold around the royal blue blanket covering him from shoulders to toes. Its hue holds a certain comfort.
Reluctantly Dean’s arms extend to the brass frame behind his head, fingertips gripping the cool metal, mustering up the strength to lift himself upright. Seated, he is able to more thoroughly inspect the damage of the latest assignment to his body. Purple tones painted across his bare arms and legs. A small gash near his clavicle. Scrapes across his knuckles. The lingering ache within his belly, none too pleased to have been transformed into a punching bag the previous night. A previous night that Dean has only hazy recollections of, thanks to the wonders of ... was it whiskey? It was probably whiskey. After he has completed his inventory of injuries, he manages to swing his legs over the side of the bed, toes curling into the shag carpet beneath. He stands and stretches out his arms, as if they were wings.
The serenity of his angelic pose stands in sharp contrast to the mess he has made of the room. Stumbling, Dean begins to collect his clothing from the night before, hiking the ten-foot trail from bed to door. As he reaches his destination, he curses the brightness as a steady stream of sunlight oppressively breaks through the window. Carefully wrapped in an impromptu garment made of curtains, he peers out, deductive skills put to the test to place his current location. "The vermillion crustacean," as his partner had so eloquently and unnecessarily put it it, emblazoned on the billboard across the road, beckoning diners with someone’s idea of a witty saying involving heads and tails. New England. Even amidst the regional foilage, it is clear he's in the seedy-underbelly-section of town, where Dean always chose lodging, as it nearly guaranteed a great diner was nearby. With great diners comes great pie. Finally his eyes land on the now unlit neon proudly announcing the Waterville Inn has vacancies it is ready to fill. He was still in Maine, awaiting directions for his next case. There are worse places one could wait.
Dean strips the curtain off, carrying his recovered clothing back towards the massive bed that seems to occupy nearly the entirety of the room. He grabs the duffel bag at its foot, shoving the assorted fabrics into its cavity. As the last sock is pushed in, an overwhelming sensation hits Dean. Dryness. Like he's being force fed sand. As if he has been stranded in the desert, giving Moses a run for his money for the length of his residency.
Water, source of life, renewal, birth. Water, the first step of recovery for a truly wicked hangover. And so Dean fumbles his way towards the bathroom nearly tripping over his own feet as he hooks down his underwear, letting it fall to the floor. He is simultaneously relieved, shocked, and annoyed to see that there is at least one part of him left unscathed by both the brawl and the subsequent boozing. In his weakened state, it is almost as if his dick is mocking him, standing upright with ease when Dean’s body cannot manage the same.
It should bother Dean that so much of the last case is hazy, details obscured and out of focus. It should bother him, and it will, once his body isn’t simultaneously fighting dehydration, a possible concussion and a vast array of flesh wounds. His body must recover before his mind has any chance. He sets himself on that mission: soap and shampoo in one hand, the other pulls aside the royal blue shower curtain, stepping into the shower, fiddling with the taps. As he pulls a lever, he nearly falls over as a shot of cold, ice cold, can’t-believe-it’s-coming-out-liquid-because-that-shit-is-freezing cold hits him square in the chest.
Welp, that took care of that, he thinks to himself, staring at his defeated vestige of manliness. The shower is perfunctory, aside from the three or four times Dean fills his mouth with water and squirts it back out like a fountain. It would be funny if he was sharing the shower, but, as it is, it is more like he’s regressed to childhood, playing pretend during bath time. The exercise in immaturity leaves him with a very grown-up feeling of loneliness, a longing for a shower buddy in a space most certainly built for one. The momentary lapse into feelings is enough to motivate Dean to once again brave land.
His feet land on the cool porcelain tile, planting firmly as he grabs a towel from the adjacent chrome bar. He swipes at the droplets condensed over the lengths of his limbs, the planes of his face. Satisfied, he wraps the towel low on his hips, moving through the fog towards his next step to recovery. His hand wipes at glass to clear the mirror, taking in a lacerated lip and the undeniable start to a black eye. After applying the stripe to the brush, he holds himself steady, grasping the sink’s edge, entranced by the swirling vortex below as he takes care of his pearly whites. When he spits, there is a stream of red travelling amongst the white foam. Dean runs a tongue over the abrasion in his cheek he thinks to be the source. One more injury to add to the list. As he rinses the last of the minty residue from his mouth, he looks up once more in the mirror, startled by the sudden presence of a figure behind him.
He forcefully lands the palms of his hands on the sink.
“How many times … don’t do that.”
As he turns, he notes the proximity of the other man, feeling as if the bathroom has transformed to the size of a closet. The other man is fully dressed: suit, tie, sensible shoes. As a set of eyes, royal blue, wander over his compromised state. Suddenly the towel feels like a washcloth.
“Hello, Dean.”
“Feeling like a broken record here, Cas. Personal space?”
The other man takes a step back, crossing the threshold from tile to carpet, thrusting forward a styrofoam cup and paper bag from behind his back, unleashing an unfairly charming smirk.
“My apologies.”
Dean collects his gift. The bitter aroma of the coffee and the sweet, buttery scent of the pastry waft up towards his nose. This will help. This will be good. The simple declarations pass through Dean’s mind, but they do not seem adequate to express his gratitude. His indecision must be perceptible, as the other man once again closes the admittedly narrow distance between their two bodies, and speaks again.
“I know you are always a bit of a monster before caffeine,” he says, the gravel in his voice accompanied by an air of intimacy and warmth. He lifts himself up on his toes slightly, pressing a quick peck to Dean’s forehead before turning and putting a door between himself and Dean.
As Dean meets his reflection in the mirror once more, he wonders how long that flush has been painted across his cheeks.
xxxxx
Dean emerges from the bathroom sans towel, clad in the navy undergarment and little more. He makes a casual beeline towards the garment bag hanging from one of the room’s three hangers. Dean glances upon Cas, reclining on the bed, legs crossed, shoes dangling over the edge, hands cradled behind his mop of dark brown hair. The look of quiet contentment on Cas’s face - the way he seems so utterly at ease in this place, with Dean - sends feelings of warmth surging through Dean’s system. He moves to more rapidly put on his suit pants, hoping to conceal the re-emergence of something the cold shower seems to have only quelled momentarily.
Castiel turns to Dean’s direction just as he begins to make progress with the buttons on his pressed shirt. Rolled onto his side, like Manet’s Olympia. His brows constrict, eyes narrow, head tilts in wonder at the arrangement of items scattered across the floor. The unplugged alarm clock. The lamp. Their badges. Dean’s phone.
“Dean, were you attac-”
Castiel is unable to finish the inquiry, interrupted by a flustered Dean, loosening and retightening his tie.
“It was a rough morning, okay?”
“Dean, we are going to have to work on your precision,” Castiel declares, in a mock-serious tone.
Dean, ever the adult, responds with a fake laugh before sticking out his tongue at the other man.
Cas responds with a grin with too much gum, nearly a grimace, but nonetheless a smile Dean has come to acknowledge as superior to all others. And he swears, it makes him hurt just a little less.
One by one, Dean collects the items off the ground. He arranges the lamp and alarm clock on the bedside table. He slips his cell phone into his pants pocket. He pulls open the first badge, glancing at the name – Castiel Edward Moscone.
“Here,” he thrusts it towards Cas, feeling another healing sensation as his partner’s fingers graze his own before clasping the leather, allowing Dean to let go. He opens his own, as if it could be someone else’s, before slipping it into his suit jacket – Dean Alonzo Mosely, agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Dean is multitasking, drinking his coffee, eating his breakfast, clearing the last remnants of the wreckage of his previous evening as Castiel receives a call. He scribbles down some notes as he listens attentively to the man on the other end of the line. Presumably, their boss, the assistant director. Dean looks with accomplishment at the motel room, having left all evidence than a functional alcoholic resided within its walls for a week’s time within the trash receptacle near the front door. Castiel ends the call, relaying to Dean the details of their next case.
Dean stuff the last oversized piece of baked good into his mouth, mumbling a “let’s roll” through chunks of the pastry. A bit of cherry filling finds itself at the side of his lip. Castiel walks up to him, playfully licking it off.
“Have to keep you professional. Boss’s orders.”
“Cas, I doubt that’s what he means.”
“Dean, when have you known me to ever question my superiors?”
They continue to argue as they move out the door, their possessions in hand, loading up the Impala for a new stretch of scenery, somewhere along the open road.