#221cwrites

“Promise?” Dean whispered.

“I swear on everything I’ve got.”

Dean nodded and looked down to his hands. He adjusted the cuff of his leather jacket, the material smooth against his touch. “Me and Cas-,” Dean finally says, eyes still on his sleeve. “We’re uh- we’re dating.”

He chewed at his lip as the hum of the air condition filled the car. The brief thought of jumping out of the car crossed his mind. He didn’t think he’d die, and part of him didn’t care. 

“Cas like Castiel?” Bobby finally asked and Dean forced himself to nod, looking back up to Bobby who’s eyes were still on the road. “He’s a nice kid, quiet, but nice.” Dean nodded again. “How long have you two been together?”

“F-four months,” Dean managed to whisper. 

Bobby nodded, “And you asked him out?” 

“Uh- no, he asked me.”

“You’re a bitch.” 

Dean couldn't help the smile that spread across his face as Bobby sent him a teasing grin, the pressure that had weighed on his shoulders seeming a little lighter. “Look, he beat me to it,” Dean lied. He’d never had any plans to ask Cas out, he’d long ago decided he’d simply keep his feelings to himself, and one day die with them. “I was waiting for the right time!”

Bobby rolled his eyes, “you need to get your legs shaved first?”

Dean gave the other man’s arm a shove, laughing as the truck swerved into the other lane and Bobby quickly straightened them out, mumbling a swear in the process. The smile stayed across his face as he talent his head against the headrest and watched world blur past them in a mix of blacks and grays. An occasional street lamp or glowing window would disrupt the flow, a small reminder that not all of the city was asleep.

“You tell anyone else?”

“Sammy,” Dean replied. 

“What about your old man?” Bobby asked.

Dean pressed his lips together. He could see the moment they drove into the lower class part of town, working street lamps became less frequent as more people began filling the streets. They sat on the sidewalks or lent against the buildings with nowhere else to go. He recognized a few men, one or two who had helped him out when things got especially bad. 

 He exhaled slowly.

“Do ya plan on tellin’ him?”

No.

Yes,

“I don’t know,” Dean whispered, “Sammy’s sleeping over at his friends so I thought maybe I’d do it tonight.” When Sam was safe, away from the house, unable to be hurt if things went wrong. Dean closed his eyes, listening to the low rumble of the heater, the sound only broken by his own breaths “What do you think he’ll say?”

Bobby hesitated, though Dean already knew the answer. “I don't know kid, your dad- he’s old fashioned,” that was a nice way of saying homophobic, “he thinks he knows how things are supposed to be, and- I wish I could tell you he wouldn’t care but I can’t.”

“I know.” Dean felt as the truck turned right into the trailer park, slowing down as they drove through the rows. It wasn’t until the truck came to a complete stop that his eyes fluttered open, meeting the trailer they’d parked outside of, the kitchen light glowing through one of the windows and the impala parked outside. 

Was it too late to turn around? Bobby would let him spend the night.

Despite his shaking hands Dean unbuckled his seat belt and pushed the passenger door open.

“Dean,” He looked back to Bobby, meeting the other’s worried expression. “I’m proud of you, you know that right? You’re a good kid,” Bobby hesitated, “You remind me of your mom.”

The words hit like a sucker punch, leaving Dean to sharply inhale. “Thanks,” he managed to choke out.

“You’ll call me tonight if anything happens?”

“Promise.”

After a quick goodbye and thanks for the ride, Dean walked up to the door, his shaking legs somehow managing to hold him as he stepped inside. The main room was nothing more than a small kitchen and living room, barely fitting the furniture that filled it. A table and chairs, a tv pushed against the far right wall with a basketball game playing across it, and a couch a few feet in front of it where his dad was sitting. 

“Hey,” Dean said as he walked to the refrigerator, glancing at his dad’s direction. John's back was still to him, one arm rested across the back of the couch while the other rested on the armrest, a beer in hand. 

“Hey,” John replied. “How’d work go?”

“Good.”

“Busy?”

“Wasn’t bad,” Dean replied, “I was stacking shelves all night so I didn’t have to deal with customers.” 

John nodded, though didn’t say anything else letting the sound of the basketball game fill the small room. A mix of squeaking shoes and yelling players, interrupted only by the commentator as he described what was happening. Dean stared at the back of his dad's head for another second before turning to the refrigerator. 

“Grab me another beer,” John called, Dean’s heart stopping in his chest. With numb hands he pulled the fridge door open and grabbed two bottles before bringing them to the couch. Even against the cold glass his hands were burning, shaking slightly as he handed his dad one bottle, then twisted the cap off of his own. He then sat on the other end of the couch, his grip tight around the bottle and eyes staying locked on the tv. 

The words sat on the top of his tongue, ready to fall at any moment, as the basketball game went on. His dad sat on the edge of the cushion, foot bouncing slightly as he leant forward, the way he always sat when games got interesting. It wouldn’t be long before he began mumbling along, urging the players on or cursing them out. It didn’t matter what level he was watching, he’d do it while watching the MLA or while watching Dean’s own games when he had played as a child. 

He inhaled slowly then took another sip of beer. 

He could do it. John wasn’t a perfect dad, and Dean had long ago accepted that, but he was still Dean’s dad, nothing could change that. 

With one hand still around the bottle, he slid his other into the pocket of his leather jacket, wrapping his fingers around the small pin that Sam had bought him. “Dad?” He  received a hum in response and Dean’s grip around the button tightened, “could we talk?”

John glanced up, and eyebrows raised. “What about?”

“Uh- just stuff.”

“And it’s important?” All Dean managed to do was nod as his dad took another drink from his bottle and looked back at the tv. “We’ll talk at halftime.”

“Okay,” Dean whispered.

He watched the game until he’d finished his beer, then without a word left for his and Sam’s room, where he could worry without his dad noticing. He kicked his shoes off and fell across the bed before pulling the pin from his pocket. The bisexual flag had been printed across it and Dean slowly ran his thumb along the colours, from the pink stripe down to the blue one  

Telling Sam had been easy. He’d done it one evening after they’d gotten home from school. HIm and Cas had only been dating for a week, but we wanted his brother to know. His voice had shook as he asked if Sam could talk and it didn’t stop as he told his brother about him and Cas. The smile that spread across Sam's face was one of pure sunshine, ‘you’re bisexual,’ Sam had declared without hesitation, his voice filled with pride. Dean couldn’t stop as the tears fell, it was the first time he’d cried into his brother’s shoulder, clinging on as if Sam was his life line. 

Telling John would be the same. He’d walk out of his room at halftime and tell his dad everything, how he and Cas had gotten together, how the past four months had been the best days of his life, how he couldn't wait to introduce Cas to him as his boyfriend. John would be shocked at first but in the end happy for him. Proud of him. 

Dean closed his eyes, an uneasy breath parting his lips. And if that didn’t happen, he always had Sam and Cas. 

The sound of John’s footsteps eventually came, and Dean slowly stood, legs shaking under him as he walked out of his room and into the kitchen where John was standing at the refrigerator. 

“Half time?” Dean asked, watching as his dad pulled out another bottle of beer.

John nodded, twisting the cap off. He brought the bottle to his lips, taking a long drink before he leant back against the kitchen counter intense gaze on Dean.  

“Heat’s winning?

“Sixty two to fifty nine.” Dean nodded as if that meant anything to him and looked down to his feet, his father's eye contact too painful to continue holding. His socks were black, the right one with a hole in the toe while the left’s sole had begun to thin making it so he could feel the wood flooring against the ball of his foot. He should get new socks. “Well boy?” John said, “you wanted to talk.”

Dean looked back up, once again meeting John’s gaze, though this time he forced himself to hold it, straightening his posture and tilting his chin up in some kind of fake confidence. “I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while- four months actually.”

Dean took a shaken breath, John’s expression not changing from his serious stare, “You know my friend Cas?”

“The christian kid?” 

Dean nodded. He took another breath, shaking fingers tugging at the sleeve of his jacket, heart hammering in his chest. It was now or never. “Me and him- for the past months- we’ve uh- we’ve been- we’re dating.” 

John’s expression didn’t change, his lips staying pressed in a tight line and eyes narrowed on Dean letting the silence beat around them, loud and unbearable. Then John slowly raised the bottle to his lips, taking another long drink before he placed it onto the counter and looked back to Dean. “so,” John began, Dean’s breath hitching in his throat, “you’re a fuckin’ queer.”

“Bi,” he whispered, unsure what else to say. 

John’s jaw clenched, “get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” John said, voice steady, empty.  “You can either figure this shit out, or get out.” 

Dean froze, his gaze frantically darting over his dad’s features for some change, some indication that this was just a cruel joke, of course none of that came; John’s jaw remained clenched, his shoulders tense. “It isn’t that big of a deal,” Dean finally insisted, the words sounding frantic even to himself. “I won’t bring him around anymore, you’ll never have to see him.”

“And what about your brother?” John pushed himself from the counter, and took a few steps forward, leaving less than a foot between them. Despite his heart begging him to step back Dean stayed in place, he knew better than to step back. “How do you think he’ll feel about all of this shit? He’s a smart kid, he knows better than you.”

“Sammy doesn’t care,” Dean managed to whisper. “dad-”

The backhand came without warning, striking across his cheek and sending him crumbling to the floor. The pain spiking as his head hit the ground. Dean quickly curled in on himself to protect himself from any kicks that may come. They never did come and instead a chunk of his hair was grabbed, forcing him to his feet, his legs shaking under his weight.  

“Dad,” Dean begged, his voice sounding desperate even to himself as he was dragged toward the front door. “Please- please, I’m sorry- Dad!” 

The word was torn from his lips as he was thrown out, his back hitting against the ground in a searing pain, knocking the wind from his lungs.

As long as you think you’ll be safe. That’s what Cas had said when Dean had first mentioned wanting to tell his dad about them. Dean had laughed it off and rolled his eyes. He hated when Cas worried about him, his head tilted and a small frown across his lips as if Dean was a doll about to break. More than anything he had hated the possibility that Cas was right. A small part of him had truly believed that John would be okay with it. He would invite Cas over for dinner, dress up and cook something nice the way Cas’s parents had for him.

It was his own stupid fault for being hopeful. 

Dean wasn’t sure how long he stayed on the ground, though it was only seconds after he  managed to push himself to his feet that he was doubling over, throwing up whatever he’d eaten that day. When he finally managed to stand his house stood in silence, the windows dark. He’d been kicked out before. Every few months John seemed to find a reason to throw Dean onto the streets, though it had never been a big deal before. He’d walk away without a second glance and spend the night at Bobby’s or Cas’s, or if he didn’t want to worry anyone on a park bench, knowing that in a night or two he’d be back home. This time was different, he couldn't find it himself to turn away as if at any moment John would open the front door and ask Dean to come back. 

He’d never done that before, why would this time be any different. 

Ten seconds, that’s all Dean gave himself before he walked away, the taste of acid still across his tongue. His head pounded as he walked and when he managed to get to the bus the driver simply waved him on refusing to take any change. At the sixth stop Dean got off and caught a second bus, followed by a third, which he took to its last stop and left him to walk the last ten minutes. By the time he reached the Novak’s house the sky had faded into a dark black lit only by the moon and a few distant stars.   

He tapped his knuckles against Cas’s window and within seconds the curtains were pulled back and Dean was met with Cas’s confused expression. He’d been getting ready for bed, his dark hair was a mess of strands while his normal clothing had been replaced with one of Dean’s old t-shirts and a pair of fuzzy bee pants. 

“Dean?” Cas whispered as he slid the window open. His gaze darted from Dean’s face to his body, once then twice, then a third time before finally meeting Dean’s eyes. The corner of his lips had tugged down while the smallest crease formed between his eyebrows. “What happened?”

Dean shrugged, forcing an easy grin across his face. “Sorry angel,” Dean said, “I’d love to tell you but the first rule they told me was I'm not allowed to tell anyone about it.” Cas tilted his head and Dean sighed, “can I just come in?”

Cas frown deepened but he stepped back. 

“I don’t understand why you won’t use the front door,” he said as Dean pulled himself through the window. 

“I don’t  wanna cause a scene.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

Dean didn’t argue, instead taking a seat on the edge of Cas’s bed, the layers of blankets sinking under his weight. 

“Dean,” Cas whispered as Dean let his head fall into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut in some attempt to stop the pounding behind his eyes. Cas rested his hand against Dean’s shoulder, “are you alright?”

“Think I might be concussed,” Dean mumbled. 

“I’m going to talk to my father.”

Dean’s head snapped up, the corners of his vision blurring, “you can’t.”

Cas’s frown deepened. “Dean, you're injured, you need to see a doctor.”    

“Can we just lay together, please.” Cas sighed but didn’t argue, letting himself be pulled onto the bed and then against Dean’s chest. 

“Tell me ‘bout your day,” Dean whispered as he rested his chin against the top of Cas’s head. 

As the other began to talk Dean glanced around the room, his gaze trailing over the various things that Cas had deemed important enough to bring home, which was almost everything. Books spilled out of his book shelf, the extra stacked along his desk and at the foot of his bed, while the shelves that lined his walls were filled by jars of shells and sea glass. Small trinkets decorated any empty space, some that Cas had found thrifting while others Dean had gifted him. 

Dean frequently joked that Cas’s bedroom was like a child’s eye-spy book, if children’s eye spy books had a light academic aesthetic.

On his bedside table he had a photo of the two of them with Cas’s family at the beach. It had been taken only a few weeks after they’d started dating, when Dean still wasn’t comfortable around his family. They’d gone out of their way to make sure he was included. Cas’s mom had spent lunch sat with him asking questions about himself and his family. Lucifer and Gabriel had dragged him into teasing Castiel. And when they took a photo and Dean insisted that it should just be the family, Cas’s dad had shook his head and dragged Dean in.

He’d do anything to go back to that moment. Just him, Castiel, and the sun. 

“I told my dad,” Dean whispered, cutting the other off from whatever he was saying.

Cas grew still. “About?

“Us,” Dean replied, “Bobby too, he was happy for me, dad though-”

Cas shifted back so he could look at Dean, his eyebrows knit together and lips slightly parted. He hated making Cas worry, but he couldn’t stop his nose from burning or the tight feeling in his chest, as if his ribs were  crumbling in on themselves. 

For a brief moment he wondered if this was how the earth felt when it cracked open. 

“I know he isn’t great with the whole gay thing, I know that,” he continued, voice shaking as he spoke. “I just thought maybe it’d be different for me” 

“Dean,” Cas whispered, pulling him into a hug as the tears began to fall.

“I don’t- I don't get it,” Dean choked out, “I’m his kid.”   

Cas tightened his arms around him as Dean continued to sob, no matter how much he wished he could stop. 

Dean grabbed his leather jacket, stuffing his wallet and keys into the pocket. He should've known better than to ask Sam to come back, even if it was just for a night. It'd been selfish. There was a reason Sam had left in the first place, there was a reason he had left Dean. But none of that mattered now, Dean was fine on his own.

The bar he stumbled into was not only old but falling apart, with creaky floorboards and more drunks than actual customers. One of the back corners was filled by a worn down pool table where a few men stood around, seeming more interested in their beer than the game. Dean gave them a second glance but took a seat at the bar and ordered himself a shot of whatever was cheapest.

The thought that maybe he shouldn't be drinking to solve his problems briefly crossed his mind, though Dean had long ago learned to shove it aside. In less than three hours it would be his birthday and he could celebrate however he wanted. Black out drunk and alone.

The story of Dean's life.

A second shot soon followed the first, then a bottle of beer joined his collection of empty glasses, and by the time he'd downed a third shot a hand was pressed to his upper back.

"Mind if I join the pity party?" A voice hummed in a thick french accent.

Dean glanced to his right, meeting the man's eyes for barely a second before he glanced down his body. Hot. He was hot as fuck, the white t-shirt he wore clinging to his body, making his bicep muscles evident. His jawline was sharp and when he looked at Dean it was with an easy smile that border lined cocky.

"One inspirational quote and I'll kick your ass," Dean said as the man sat next to him.

"Not ready to make lemonade?" He teased with a grin. When Dean rolled his eyes, the man smiled wider, and maybe if he didn't look so good Dean would have complained. "Mathéo," he continued, offering a hand.

"Dean," he replied.

Mathéo's hand was soft in his own and when he pulled away, the warmth lingered. "Another of whatever he's having and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc for myself," Mathéo said to the bartender who quickly served them. His voice was smooth, the word 'Sauvignon Blanc' falling from his lips as if they had been made for him and only him.

Dean watched as the man's fingers gently wrapped around the wine glass, his lips just parting to take a small sip. He grabbed his own bottle and took a quick drink, the cheap beer bitter against his tongue.

"May I ask you why the pity party?"

Dean hummed, absently picking at the bottle's label. "Just shit."

"What kind?"

"That my friend, will cost you another two drinks."

Mathéo nodded in thought, his eyes darting along the wall of bottles that covered the back of the bar. His eyebrows scrunched together and he slowly took another sip from his glass. "I think that is possible, but not here, another bar."

"Wherever you want," Dean replied.

He knew better than to follow strangers into the night. Every story he'd heard while hunting had started with the victim being too trusting, but that night Dean couldn't find it in him to care. The way Mathéo's eyes lingered on him while he spoke warmed his chest, as if at that moment he was the only thing that mattered.

They laughed and drank, talking about anything that came to mind. When they finished their drinks Dean let the other man lead him into the city's downtown and into a crowded bar. Mathéo seemed to merge with the other people, gliding through it as if it was a ballroom dance he knew every step too, all while Dean stumbled behind him.

The night quickly became a blur, a mix of neon lights and shots that burned down his throat. At some point Mathéo had moved closer as they danced, his hands finding Dean's hips before sliding under his shirt. Maybe two shots ago Dean would have protested, but that was two shots ago and as the other's hands glided across skin all Dean wanted was more.

"Would like to go to mine," Mathéo whispered and Dean nodded.

They stumble up the staircase together, lips colliding as hands moved desperately, tugging at buttons and scratching over any reachable skin. It was rough and careless, electrifying Dean's skin as he was shoved against the wall, Mathéo's lips still pressed to his own. He could feel his head spinning. Mathéo's hands against his sides. His own cheeks flushed. Lips swollen. Heart hammering. No matter how many times Mathéo ran his hands down Dean's body it was never enough, only leaving him wanting more,

With shaking hands Dean reached out to the other's belt. Nothing but their heavy breaths filled the silent apartment, the city glow falling through the open window, giving just enough light to see silhouettes. No one would see them. They were left in the shadows, away from unwanted eyes, unwanted shame.

For a brief moment Dean wondered what his family would think as he undid the clasp. He'd be lucky if they were only disgusted, his father not one to hide his anger. 'I didn't raise a faggot,' he'd spit before striking the back of his hand across Dean's face the way he had a dozen times before. Worse, they would just leave. At least anger filled the room.

Mathéo let out a breathless moan, and Dean's fingers fumbled.

But Dean had already spent countless weeks in empty rooms. He'd wandered more cities than he could count, pretending that someone would notice if he didn't come home. As if everyone hadn't already left him. John's absence, whether physical or emotional, had always hurt, but Sam leaving for college had been the final blow. It was the final confirmation that Dean was only ever meant to wither. And with that thought, he dropped to his knees.

When morning came Dean tugged on his clothing quietly, double checked he had everything, and slipped out the apartment door into the cold air. A gust of wind burned against his cheeks as the snow crunched under his boots. Any other day he may have cared, but now, the pain was welcomed. The numb feeling that took over his fingertips kept him out of his head. The burning in his toes was just enough to distract him from how stiff the rest of his body had become.

A small bell chimed when he stepped into a corner store. The man standing at the front counter didn't so much as look up when Dean placed a box of cupcakes on the counter that divided them and asked for a pack of cigarettes to be added. He carried out the tasks as if Dean was merely another inconvenience in his life, only grunting a few words as he gave Dean his change.

When Dean stepped back outside the streets were still empty, covered in a blanket of snow. He took a seat on the edge of the sidewalk pulling his knees closer to his chest as he grabbed one of the cupcakes and lit a cigarette. He brought the cigarette to his lips inhaling the smoke before he slowly exhaled through his nose.

The skyscrapers loomed above and Dean couldn't help but feel small, sitting there staring up at them. The street's silence was suffocating, as if he had been divided from the rest of the world. Those who had fire places to sit in front of, blankets to share, children to care for, and those who could sit on the side of the street and never be missed. He knew it was a big assumption to make, the world had better things to do then torment him.

With numb fingers he slowly unwrapped the cupcake and took a small bite, the icing sweet against his lips. "Happy Birthday," he mumbled to himself, no one else there to listen.