Chapter Text
Dean lost track of the name of the boat two switches ago. He knows that it’s something semi-related to the sky, or astrology, and it might just be the name of a Twilight book, but either way it’s crap. It pays the bills, which he doesn’t have a whole lot of because he gets board and food and doesn’t have a damn thing to spend money on anymore, so it suits him just fine.
“What can I get you?”
The guy’s on the attractive side of unremarkable, with a lopsided dress shirt, looking about as uncomfortable as Dean felt on his first day on the boat. He’s looking too intensely at Dean to just want a drink, so he could probably drag out some old lines and flirt, and it might even make his shift go a little faster, but he’s not sure he can be bothered. It’s already been a long fucking day.
“The most expensive dry white wine I can get,” The guy says, his voice deep enough that it reverberates around Dean’s head and pulls him into the present. He’s in the most expensive bar on the damn ship and this guy doesn’t exactly fit with the usual customer. And, scrap Dean’s earlier assessment, he’s frigging hot, with his half untucked shirt, bed head and blue, blue stare. It’s fucking depressing that Dean’s running on automatic too much to notice.
“Twenty three dollars okay?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow at him.
“For a glass?”
“Before service charge,” Dean says, “Eighteen percent is added as standard,”
“Perfect,” The guy kinda growls, handing over his room card. Castiel, apparently.
“You sure, dude?” Dean asks, even though he doesn’t need to. “Cause you know it ain’t covered by your drinks package which, woah, okay, is pretty crappy. How’d you draw the short straw kiddie-package, anyway?”
“My brother is paying,” Castiel says, “He thought it was amusing,”
“So you’re burning his money,” Dean nods, reaching for the good wine, “Fair enough,”
“You’re American,” Castiel says, name falling to his name badge, “Dean,”
“You caught me,” Dean says, handing over the glass, put on smile, “Lawrence, Kansas,”
“Never been,” Castiel says, “What does my drink package cover?”
“Uh, coke,” Dean says, glancing at the card again, “Bottled water. Filter coffee. The cheapest kinds of tea. Basically, Cas, the drinks package I get from working here gets me a whole lot more than yours gets you. How’s the wine?”
“Excellent,”
Dean leans forward on the bar and watches the guy’s – Castiel’s – eyes track his movements.
“Gotta say, it seems pretty early on for the domestics to start. We left to the port, like, three hours ago,”
“Do you have any brothers, Dean?” Castiel asks, blue eyes narrowing slightly.
He’s halfway through shaking his head when his mouth disconnects from his brain and he actually answers the question.
“One little brother,”
“Are you close?”
“Used to be,” Dean says, but by then there’s another customer waiting, who’s tapping her key-card-turned-ship-ID-turned-ship-credit against the bar like Dean’s properly inconveniencing her by not asking for her drink order instantaneously. He’s gone by the time Dean’s finished serving her and Dean tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care.
He gets off his shift three hours later and feels a little off, like someone’s removed his kidney, the anaesthetic is staring to wear off and the pain made him wake up. He does not tell random customers about his personal life, especially not on the first day of a month long stint round Europe. He doesn’t do that.
He definitely doesn’t talk about Sam.
Dean throws himself on his shitty bunk in his shared box room and reaches for his cell, which is displaying the zero messages he’s had since about Christmas. Dean grunts and reaches instead for the half bottle of vodka stuffed in his suitcase and pours himself a glass, straight. Mixer involves one of the bars, which are nearly all closed and full of first-night-guests, who always hit the drink way too hard so, fuck that. Dean stares at Sam’s cell phone number until his finished tipping the vodka down his throat and it’s then that he realises he still cares. He hasn’t cared about anything for a long, long time
By the time he’s drunk enough to sleep, he’s decided he’s going to call Sam in the morning.
*
You have reached the voicemail of Sam Winchester. Please leave your message after the tone.
Hey, Sam. Guess you can’t answer right now. I figured, with the time difference. I’m in England, kind of. Weather’s about as crappy as Brits always say, but cause it’s technically summer everyone wears shorts anyway, it’s weird. Oh, uh, it’s Dean by the way. Just checking in I guess. Bye, Sammy.
*
He runs into him again at the dumb LGBT meet and greet that Dean gets put on the rota for every frigging cruise, because apparently approximately three staff members on the whole ship answered the equalities monitoring part of the sheet honestly. He doesn’t care if a bunch of privileged strangers know he’s bisexual, so he never bothered objecting. It’s easier just to turn up when they tell him.
After he’s served everyone drinks he’s supposed to facilitate conversation and that means he can drink, which makes everything else a little more bearable. And Charlie’s okay, too. They make up a diversity tag-team, even if they’re both white and American, which represents a damn small amount of the crew populace.
Castiel. Dean’s sure the guy only sticks out in his memory because he actually called Sam.
Castiel blurts out a totally undignified ‘Dean’ that defrosts a little of Dean’s crappy mood, because Castiel was okay enough yesterday and it’s always a boost when someone fails to hone in how much they wanna bone you. He hasn’t felt actual attraction to someone for a while and it’s good.
“Heya, Cas,” Dean says, turning on the charm a bit, because that’s actually his job, “You sleep off that wine, buddy? You need another drink? Dry white, right? Or is that just when you’re pissing off your brother?”
Castiel orders more expensive wine and Dean overhears him telling the other attending guests that he’s bisexual.
Dean checks his cell when he gets back to the cabin, to find absolutely jack squat. He’s not sure what else we was expecting, but he tops off his coke with the rest of his vodka, before heading upstairs for his crew slot in the buffet.
Charlie’s saved him a seat, but he eats alone anyway.
*
You have reached the voicemail of Sam Winchester. Please leave your message after the tone.
Hey, Sam. Small town France today. It looks pretty sweet, but I’m working, so. Uh, yeah. You haven’t called me back yet, so I’m guessing you don’t wanna talk, which is cool. I hope school is going okay. You must be graduating soon, huh? Still wanna do law? Well, whatever, call if you want.
*
The third time, Dean’s singing a set poolside. The singing was another accident, in that half the singers went down with the shits at the port stop so weren’t allowed on the boat, leaving them three entertainers short of a full schedule. Someone said Dean sang in the shower and didn’t make everyone’s ears bleed, then management tricked him into admitting he could play the guitar and he had no real reason to say no. Next thing, he’s stood in one of the usually-dead bars singing acoustic versions of Led Zeppelin, given that’s about the whole total of his repertoire. It went down okay, actually, and he got a half-promotion to Entertainer/Bartender/whatever-else-needed-doing and, whatever, it was easy enough to go with it.
He catches Castiel eye. He’s with his brothers.
Dean had more or less talked himself into believing that the guy wasn’t that attractive and that the only reason Dean’s been noticing him is cause of the temporary insanity the guy inspired about Sam, but that’s pure bullshit. He’s damn attractive and more so when he pulls off his shirt to deposit it on one of the sun lounges. Dean hasn’t been properly attracted to someone for a while, but apparently some American guest with rich brothers is dragging him out of his rut, and it’s strange.
He shouldn’t do it. There’s a fine line between being charming and flirting a bit and actually giving the wrong impression, and one of them he’s supposed to do and other is going to get his ass fired. Still, Castiel catches his eye again midway through taking his shirt off.
Dean winks at him.
*
You have reached the voicemail of Sam Winchester. Please leave your message after the tone.
I just realised, main reason I called is cause of this guy. He’s got these brothers and he asked about me, my family. Told everyone here I’ve got no family, which is kinda true I guess, then this guy asked and I mentioned you. Dunno why, except he’s got these killer blue eyes and I’m a sucker for a bed head, apparently. He asked if we were close and I realised you don’t even know I’m into dudes. How fucked is that? Seriously, Sammy. And you’re my best friend. Were, I mean. So I guess I’m just calling to come out to your voicemail. Hah. Dad knew. I mean, he walked in on me and this guy screwing. You were at school. Fucking awkward. He wasn’t too much of an asshole about it, actually. Just made it clear it wasn’t something we were gonna talk about, so we didn’t. Don’t ask don’t tell, pretty much. Guess at least I can do whatever the hell I want now. I mean, except sleep with blue eyes, because I’d get fired. It’s Dean by the way, but you probably knew that.
*
“Bartender,” An offensively British guy says, ushering him over and passing over his glass for a top up at the same time, “Settle a debate. Are most of the staff here to work or travel?”
“Work,” Dean says, topping up his wine glass.
“How much do you get paid?”
“Balthazar,” Castiel says, turning up and frowning at the British guy – Balthazar – looking distinctly unimpressed, “And you say I am lacking social skills. Hello, Dean.”
“Heya, buddy,” Dean says, “The usual?”
“Yes please,” Castiel says, watching Dean as he reaches for the stupidly expensive wine and pours him a glass.
“One of your brothers?”
“Cousin,” Balthazar says, “Charmed, Dean. So, you were saying. About your pay.”
“It’s pretty crappy,” Dean says, “There’s a reason there’s not a lot of Americans working on the ship. The singing pay’s okay. You get board and food, too, but the money ain’t great.”
“Days off?”
“Used to be half a day a week,” Dean says “Now I get two full days, but we can pick up extra shifts. Lot of guys do that.”
“And you can leave the ship on your days off?”
“Can do whatever the hell you like,”
“Do you?” Cas asks, fixing him with that blue blue gaze.
“Not really,” Dean says, “Mostly just get steadily drunk in my bunk,” Dean says, because apparently his filter got fucked up at some point, and Dean’s fully blaming the intensity of Cas frigging staring at him. Damnit.
Balthazar barks a laugh at that and orders three shots. Dean’s pretty sure that breaks the bounds of reasonable shift-drinking, but he’s the only one at the bar (the ‘Captains’ super private one, again) and he’s already drank enough that his good judgement’s off, cause he usually drinks before singing and his set was at 11am, and then he was off till 6pm. So, he pours the three Sambuca shots and knocks one back at Balthazar’s request.
When Balthazar excuses himself to the bathroom, Castiel leans forward and asks “Why are you working here?” Dean just looks at him for a long moment, a little frozen. “If the money isn’t great and you aren’t here to travel.”
“The great escape, Cas,” Dean says, then heads to the other side of the bar to serve one of the other guests. He needs some space from Cas’ weird violation of his personal space and the fact that, apparently, Cas gets him a little too honest.
*
You have reached the voicemail of Sam Winchester. Please leave your message after the tone.
Hey Sam, I guess I’m just calling to apologise for calling. I mean, sorry. You made it pretty clear you didn’t wanna talk. You got your own life. You don’t need me offloading crap on you. Bet you’ve got a girlfriend and an apartment and a frigging dog. You remember Bones? Ha, good times. You in touch with Bobby? Seemed like you were before I left. He gave me your address, at least. He’s probably pissed at me for not calling. You should ask if he’s heard from Dad if you talk to him. If you want. I’m in Italy now. Damnit, this is a shitty apology. I won’t call again.
*
“You went somewhere nice today, Cas?” Dean asks, as Castiel comes in for his usual drink. He’s downgraded to the semi-decent stuff and Michael must have sanctioned a decent drinks package because his cards been updated, which Dean totally wants to ask about, but he won’t. He’s not supposed to care about crap. It’s been a long time since he’s cared. He’s been a walking zombie for near enough eighteen months and it’s just so typical Dean bullshit that he’s been woken up by a guy with nice eyes and stubble.
“Genoa is beautiful,” Cas says, “Have you looked around?”
“Nah,” Dean says. Dean’s pretty sure the only time he got off the ship in Genoa was to buy alcohol and cigarettes, before he quit (because Lisa made him). He doesn’t remember a damn thing about the place, except that the weather’s pretty decent.
“Would you like to see my pictures?”
“Sorry,” Dean says, “Gotta keep serving drinks.”
“What time are you off shift?” Castiel ask and the question’s almost too straight laced to be a come on. It’s Cas eyes that totally give him away because, yeah, Cas is definitely undressing him with his eyes. Only totally seriously and practically, cause he totally seems the type. Damn.
“At close,” Dean says, reaching for another glass for the blonde who always orders mojitos and nearly colliding with Lilith, who’s watching him with beady eyes. “Sorry, buddy,”
Lilith pulls him aside and orders him, in that creepy ass little girl voice, to suck up Castiel because ‘his brother is unfathomably rich’ and to use all means necessary, bar sleeping with him, entering his room or breaking any of the other guest-crew conduct rules, because they exist for a reason, to make him happy. Then she chucks him off shift and pushes him in Castiel’s direction which at least means he can get a fucking drink.
“Hey,” Dean says, sitting down on the other side of the bar and signalling for Pam to get him some whiskey. “I’ve been let out early for good behaviour,” Dean says, with a not entirely false grin, “So, those holiday snaps?”
“Are you alright?” Cas asks, frowning at him, “You seem… down today,”
“I’m fine, dude,” Dean says, even though that’s an absolute lie, actually, and it’s weird that Cas is aware enough of him to pick up on it, given their interactions are pretty limited.
“Are you sure?” Cas asks, as Dean finishes his whiskey and catches Pam’s eye again. “Is whiskey included in your staff drinks package?”
“Nah,” Dean says, “Probably why I drink half my wage. Anyway,” Cas frowns at him. “It’s cool, Cas, I’m basically a functioning alcoholic anyway.”
“I don’t think that’s funny,”
“Not really a joke,” Dean says through the lump in his throat, “Been a crappy few weeks, okay?”
“Switch to coke with me,”
“Okay,” Dean says, half because he’s supposed to do whatever the hell will make the guy happy (not that he thinks keeping Castiel occupied is the way to win Michael over, but whatever, it’s not his job to question orders) and half because it’s a long, long time since someone’s cared about his welfare. Lisa, probably. Lisa probably still cares. “Two cokes, Pam,” Dean says, pushing away the whiskey he’s already frigging paid for, and letting Cas wax poetic about Genoa, which actually looks pretty nice from the look of Cas’ photos.
In the end, he gets the whole Castiel-brothers rivalry story, along with a lot of the Castiel story, and he’s frustratingly compelling, as well as attractive. When Castiel eventually says he needs to force Gabriel out of the Martini bar just before close (“because he will start to believe that he is James Bond and we are on a boat”) and leaves with a ‘see you tomorrow’, Pam raises her eyebrows at him.
“Playing with fire, Dean,” Pam says, passing him back the whiskey he bought earlier, “He’s a guest.”
And Dean fucking knows that, it’s just his crappy mood temporarily lightened a bit, and Cas even made him laugh, and he stopped thinking about Sam for a whole thirty minutes. Except now he feels like the biggest pile of shit, because obviously a guest doesn’t actually give a damn about his life, or his liver, and Sam doesn’t care, and also, he’s a bartender on a cruise ship. He’s alone, with no plan, no friends, no apartment, no future. What the hell would a guy like Castiel want with Dean, except to avoid his brothers.
This is why Dean shouldn’t want things.
“Top me up, Pamela,” Dean says through gritted teeth.
*
You have reached the voicemail of Sam Winchester. Please leave your message after the tone.
You know what, Sam? I know I said I wouldn’t call, but fuck you, okay? Fuck you, Sam. I spent my whole fucking life looking after you. I did everything I could. So I am so goddamn sorry for whatever the hell I did to make you hate me, but fuck you. Don’t call.
*
“Get up, Dean,” A voice says, accompanied by someone pulling the covers off him. Dean swears into his pillow, which earns him a knee in the side. “I thought you’d quit doing this,”
Damn, but Dean feels crappy. Worse than crappy.
“Lise,” Dean grunts, sitting up. Oh, fuck, but his head is killing him. He’s pretty sure they should have reached port by now, but it feels a little like they’re still sailing. His stomach rolls. “Goddamn,”
Yeah, he’s definitely going to throw up.
Dean pushes past her and gets to the toilet just in time to throw up in the sink. Fuck, fuck and fuck. He called Sam last night, again. Dean needs to delete his frigging number again, like the damn thing isn’t burnt into his skull. Shit.
“What the hell, Dean?” Lisa asks, hand on her hip in the bathroom door, “I thought you were doing okay.”
“Oh yeah, Lise,” Dean mutters, “I’m fucking peachy. Why are you here?”
“Your shift starts in half an hour,” Lisa says, expression hard, “Pam said you were chatting up some guest and then decided to pickle your liver and, for some reason, I still feel obligated to make sure you don’t get fired,”
“Not your responsibility,” Dean says, running the water to try and wash his vomit down the sink. It’s mostly just whiskey and stomach bile. “Thanks.”
“Get your shit together,” Lisa says, folding her arms, “And talk to someone.”
“Right,” Dean says, before more or less shutting the door on her face so he can shower and try and feel a little more human.
*
“You don’t look very well,” Castiel says, approaching him as he sets up for an acoustic set in the library, where apparently Cas was searching for another book. He’s going on an excursion to Rome, or something, and wanted something to read during the hour and a half journey from port du Roma. Mostly, Dean’s concentrating on not throwing up and trying to work out how the hell he’s going to pay Lisa back for dragging him out of bed and still caring, even though he’s never deserved it.
“I’m fine,”
“Dean –”
“ - I’m hungover,” Dean snaps.
“You weren’t drinking last night,” Cas says, narrowing his eyes at him.
“Sorry, buddy,” Dean says, “Unfortunately, one night sucking up to some guy with a rich brother ain’t gonna save me from my self, as much as I appreciated the effort.” Dean’s so getting fired. So, so, so getting fired. “You should go catch your bus to Rome, Cas.”
Castiel leaves without another word.
Dean’s so fucking screwed.
*
He needs to leave the damn ship.
Castiel told him he should, before Dean was a totally asshole, and he might just have a point. They dock in Salerno and Dean has a whole day off, so he winds up drinking an unreasonable amount of Italian coffee on a café just across from the beach, just thinking.
Dean still has a job. Lisa’s not talking to him, not that makes a whole lot of difference, because they weren’t really talking anyway (she dumped him because he was a self-destructive, needy asshole, and it’s not like he’s changed since then), but now he’s pretty sure she’s got people spying on his alcohol intake. Then there’s Sam.
He decides he’s gonna call again – just once. Just to say that they’re gonna be spending the next whole day at sea, so Dean won’t be able to answer his cell. There’s not a whole lot of point, cause Sam aint answering, but Dean starts feeling a little nauseas every time he thinks about his last voicemail. He was drunk and angry and fucked up and he shouldn’t have called him, and he shouldn’t have called the time before, either (shit, Dean’s pathetic when it comes to his little brother), but he doesn’t want the last thing he’s said to his brother to be the reason Sam decides not to call. He’s gonna call the second he gets back to the ship, where he left his cell.
He speaks to this woman at tourist information who recommends a sweet Italian restaurant and Dean actually goes, even though he can eat on the ship for free. It’s actually pretty awesome and he’s almost feeling okay when he boards the ship again right before they set sail.
Except then he checks his cell and he’s got a missed call from Sam Winchester and an honest to god voicemail.
*
He can’t really decide why Cas’ room number has stuck in his head, or what temporary madness got him to the point where he’s outside it, wrapping on the door with his knuckles. Given it’s totally within Cas’ power (and rights, actually) to get Dean fired for acting like a total asshole before and given, apparently, Cas makes him do crazy shit like talk about Sam or talk honestly about his slight-drink problem, he should avoid him at all costs. Cas doesn’t even know why his offhand question about brothers was so damn significant, or how much effect Cas’ words have actually had on his life, so why the hell is he going to Cas?
It’s not Cas who opens the door, but Dean’s already halfway through saying ‘Cas, I need to…’ before he cuts himself off. “Is Cas around?”
“Didn’t know the ship did that kind of service. Cassie, you been ordering male prostitutes again?”
“Shut up, Gabriel,” Cas says, emerging from the balcony and frowning in their direction. The crease in his forehead deepens when he sees Dean there and, yeah, Dean definitely should have led with an apology. Or not showed up here at all. That would have been ace. “Are you okay, Dean?”
“My brother called,” Dean says, through the lump in the back of his throat. There’s no good reason why Cas should know that’s a big fucking deal, but Cas’ eyes widen with concern anyway, like Dean wasn’t a total jerk last time they spoke and like he isn’t the biggest screw up on the planet, and just a bartender who Cas probably shouldn’t give a shit about, anyway.
“Come in,”
“Um, I’m not really supposed to be in guests rooms,” Dean says, hand going to the back of his neck. This was a worse idea than calling Sam in the first place. Damn.
“If anyone asks, we’re old friends from home,” Cas says, “Gabriel.”
“Shafted from my own room,” Gabriel says with an exaggerated eye roll, “Make good choice, bro. Dean.”
Then they’re alone.
“I have never ordered a male prostitute, or a female prostitute actually,” Cas says, looking a little flustered, “Gabriel is…”
“A big brother,” Dean finishes, “Um, sorry. About before. I… it wasn’t like that. I mean, much.”
“I had no right to push,” Castiel says, tilting his head slightly, “You’ve just been doing your job. I’m sure you don’t need random strangers projecting friendship on you because they’re lonely and stuck on a boat with their brothers.”
“You’re supposed to call it a ship,” Dean says, hovering in the doorway, “Boat doesn’t sound pretentious enough.”
“I apologise. Stuck on a ship,” Cas says, smiling slightly, “You can sit down, Dean. I didn’t invite you in here to stand.”
“Kay,” Dean says, shuffling forward to pull up a chair next to Cas on his balcony. They’ve just started to pull off from Salerno and Cas has got a pretty decent view of the Italian coast. He can kinda see why people pay extra for the balcony. “Uh.”
“Your brother called,” Castiel prompts.
“We haven’t spoken in, like, two and a half years,” Dean says, fist clenched, “You, uh, after you asked me about him. I mean, you probably don’t even remember, but you asked if we were close. And I called him and left him a voicemail which… yeah, it’s been a long time. Been calling him daily since, but I got nothing back. Zilch. He called today.”
“What did he say?”
“I dunno. I missed the call. He left a message. I haven’t listened to it yet,” Dean says, staring out at the harbour, jaw clenched. He feels a little like his insides have set like cement. He doesn’t feel anything, which just goes to show how frigging broken he is. Sam called and he doesn’t feel a damn thing. “Was my day off. Went off the ship like you said I should. So I guess you could say it’s not… you weren’t projecting on me that much. I’m lonely and stuck on a boat, too, so.”
“You and your brother were close?”
“Yeah,” Dean swallows, “Yeah. He was my best friend. Pretty much bought that kid up.”
“Did you have an argument?”
“That’s one word for it,” Dean says, “You don’t have to listen to this crap, Cas. I should… I should go.”
“Why did you come here?” Cas asks, “That’s not a complaint, I’m just trying to understand.”
“I pretty much told everyone here that I don’t have any family,” Dean says, “Can you… can you listen to it? If it’s just Sam telling me not to call him, I don’t. I can’t hear it. It would break me.”
“Of course,” Cas says, for some fucking reason. Dean passes him his cell, stomach muscles clenching. Cas stands up to walk to the edge of the balcony and it’s then that Dean realises the guy is shirtless. His head’s too full of Sam to dwell on it but, fuck.
“Is it… is it bad?” Dean asks, when Cas sits back down.
“He wants you to call him,” Castiel says, gently, “And he wants you to come home.” Dean makes a wounded noise he didn’t think he was capable of making, then he swallows. He feels a little like he’s drunk, even though he actually isn’t for once. “He mentioned that a Bobby has been looking for you,” Cas continues, voice still painfully low. It’s pretty reassuring since Dean’s known the guy for about a week. “He also indicates that he didn’t have your current number to contact you on, which he seemed irritated about. He called you a jerk.”
“That’s a thing we used to do,” Dean says, still staring out to sea.
“I think you should listen to it,” Castiel says, then hits play after Dean nods at him.
*
You have one new message.
Hey Dean, it’s Sam. I just got all your messages. I don’t really use that number anymore. I keep it just… in case, I guess. I check it like once a month. Uh, this is weird. I wasn’t really expecting you to call. I mean, I’m glad you did. We’ve been really worried. I mean, Bobby said you just disappeared, but he wasn’t exactly looking in Italy. Where’s the impala? It seemed like you were moving a lot from your voicemails. Are you… are you coming home? I want to… I can’t do this to your voicemail. Call me back, okay? And next time tell someone when you get a new cell number, jerk.