#goldenmoosepack

Dean laid there across the huge and now rather empty bed and absently stared at the ceiling. From across the room, music flowed from the stereo speakers lowly and drifted through the smoke-hazed air. He had picked up smoking again. Who was there to say otherwise? Camael was gone, Gold was a mess, Scarlet was dead, and Dice...he didn't even want to think about that.

Hello, Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me Is there anyone at home?

So, instead of being a level-headed leader Bronze...he was back to being the broken Dean Smith. Some lonely man that gave up love and being happy for money. It was only too late that he realized it had been a stupid trade: on the run from the FBI in exchange for half a million dollars. His lover had been left behind, he could never make amends with his dad (if the bastard was alive still) for his pride and walking out. Nothing.

Come on now I hear you're feeling down I can ease your pain And get you on your feet again

Calloused fingers lifted the half-gone cigarette to full lips and he inhaled the toxic smoke into already tar-filled lungs. Exhale. The gray wisps curling past his nose lazily. 

What had he done?

Relax I'll need some information first Just the basic facts Can you show me where it hurts

He had pushed people away again. That's what he had done. Camael was off on a practical suicide mission. He hadn't stopped her. That's what killed him the most. Broken promises. 

Gold was dethroned and a mess. He couldn't help the man despite wanting to so badly. More broken promises.

Everything was coming undone and his hands weren't clean. Gold was a fucking Fed. He had gotten close to the one thing he tried to run from. Dean could practically feel the cage closing around him.

There is no pain, you are receding A distant ship smoke on the horizon You are only coming through in waves Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying

He was trapped, plain and simple. Dean Smith's days were numbered, he knew it.

----

 "Dean. Just... trust me on this. You butt your stubborn head into this problem... and they're going to tear you up and toss you into a prison. I told you, I'm not loosing anyone else."

"Then so be it. My promise to ya hasn't changed jus' because that guy ain't breathin'."

Camael took his head in her hands and stared straight into forest greens. He had wanted to smile, to reassure her things would be okay. Anything to make her feel safe.

And then...

"Dean, Sam's an agent working under cover. You try and help him and the FBI is going to ram your ass. Forget your promise just this once, please."

----

When I was a child I had a fever My hands felt just like two balloons Now I've got that feeling once again I can't explain, you would not understand This is not how I am I have become comfortably numb

Where had he gone wrong?

It could have been any of his choices really. From running away from his parents at sixteen over something so dumb. 'I can last out there just fine,' he had thought. Sixteen and still a bit babyfaced, he had run out into the world without any plan what so ever.

Odd jobs had gotten him enough to survive off of. Then one day, a man offered him two thousand dollars for help in a movie.

Who could say no to that?

O.K. Just a little pin prick There'll be no more aaaaaaaah! But you may feel a little sick Can you stand up? I do believe it's working, good That'll keep you going through the show Come on it's time to go.

Porn. Showing his dick to the world. The rush was incredible. Perhaps that had been the wrong move: becoming addicted to pleasure. Doing anything in his power to get that rush of endorphines again. Yes, he dabbled in clubs after that, got the taste for Ecstacy and women, soon men followed and it didn't matter

Oh, but the night he discovered Threshold. That beautiful dungeon that really opened his eyes that pain could be pleasure too. 'How to be like them?' The twenty-two year old got his answer. A man he only referred to as 'Papa Bear' (god, he felt his tattoo burn at the mere memory) came to him. A sub first, that's what made a good dom.

He wasn't supposed to care for the older man, not share his bed after sessions. Not got out to lunch with him or actually enjoy when those hands were on him. It had been the only time he willingly got on his knees for someone. Anything for him.

Years past and he grew in the BDSM scene, catching on like a duck to water. Soon he has a steady job, two permanent subs that helped him keep his sanity and, of cours, Papa Bear.

Pride came before the fall. Did he go wrong when he started to hang with thugs? When he accepted their invitation to become rich beyond his wildest dreams?

Tch. Bullshit.

A federal bank of all places. Dean had been terrified and popped off two guards and a teller before they hauled ass out of that building by the skin of their teeth.

He ran. Just packed up and ran. No goodbyes, it was easier if not more regretful. It wasn't until he heard talk of the moose packs that he even considered conversing with another being. He had needed protection, a place to stay.

There is no pain you are receding A distant ship smoke on the horizon You are only coming through in waves Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying 

Now, he lay here in Bronze Tiger's penthouse which a churning stomach. Ever since she left, he couldn't find himself to eat. His mind was overflowing with mixing thoughts and wishing he could go back to fix everything he fucked up on.

The only thing he could do is try to weight which was worse: hurting everyone he had cared for since Cowboy by packing up and disappearing on the wind...

Or giving up and letting himself go to jail right here, in his own territory.

When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse Out of the corner of my eye I turned to look but it was gone I cannot put my finger on it now The child is grown The dream is gone And I have become Comfortably numb.

He would be hated either way. So, he lay there and tried to harden his heart enough to make a choice.