Chapter Text

The oxygen stutters in Dean’s lungs, with a tightness that constricts his chest like he’s just been winded. 

This isn’t like the times where his heart is racing and his breathing is a sticcato as he tries to calm himself down - he’s had plenty of those times to know the difference.

His lungs seem to have simply forgotten how to work. 

“H-how long?” He finally manages.

“Dean…” 

“How fucking long Ellen?” He repeats himself, and if Ellen’s face is anything to go by, he’s not the only one who’s surprised at his tone.

When Ellen doesn’t answer, Jo steps in.

“The doctors say… they’re not sure, but it could be months…  it could be weeks-“

“Why the hell aren’t the doctors that are telling you all of this actually doing anything about it? Isn’t there a pill or an inhaler or something - a guy I went to school with used to have trouble with his breathing and he got an inhaler, dude was the fastest runner in the track team, it’s-“

“It’s not as simple as that, Dean.”  Ellen half whispers, “Don’t you think they’ve tried?” 

Dean shakes his head slowly.

“You’re giving up.” 

Now it’s Ellen’s turn to get mad.

“Don’t you dare, Dean Winchester. ” Her brow draws, “You have no idea what I’ve been through these past years - how much my body’s been through. Sure, if you know anyone with an extra heart and, I don’t know, half a million in dollars for medical expenses, I’d be happy to take it from them, but…. That just ain’t the world we live in. Sometimes things don’t work…. and we just- we just have to accept that.”

Dean swallows, and tries to stop the fury of it all from eating him up.

The pain and injustice boils in the pit of his belly until he feels it erupting upwards. It takes all of his strength to muster up a few words.

“Thank you for a beautiful dinner Ellen.” He spits through gritted teeth, and pushes past her.

“Dean-” Ellen murmurs, but he’s already thrown the door open and moved halfway across the maroon carpeted floor of their living room.

The remaining dinner party jump in their seats, startled by his sudden appearance. They all turn to watch in silence as Dean throws on his jacket. He adjusts the collar, throwing a pointed look at Cas, who is slowly rising from his chair as he tries to read Dean’s expression. 

“Happy?” Dean lets some of the venom in his tone slip through, because it’s completely Cas’ fault that he feels like his heart has been ripped right out of his rib cage.

Cas locks eyes with him, but Dean storms out before he can get a word in. 

For the first time in years - he needs a stiff drink.

He slides into the Impala - the others can make their own way home as far as he’s concerned - and speeds off, tyres screeching.

If he’s going to drown his sorrows, he needs to get out of Smith Center. He knows Ellen will come looking for him, and he knows the first place she’ll check is the Roadhouse. Billie’s isn’t safe either - stumbling home late at night and being found in a ditch by any one of the people sitting at that table isn’t a pretty thought.

And so for the first time in a long time, 

Dean drives out of Smith Center, alone.

—--

He doesn’t get far, settling on the first bar he sees on the outskirts a couple towns away - a modest shack, paint peeling off the exterior walls so much that the once bold nameplate has all but vanished. A wooden sign promising beer is hanging slightly off of its hinges, and the gravel cracks under the Impala’s wheels as he parks up outside. 

The two heavyweights standing by the front door eye him warily, as they take a drag of their respective cigarettes, cowboy hats covering their eyes. He steps out and makes his way to the door, slowly and unassuming, eyes down. Only when he gets closer does he nod to them, placating, and pulls the door open. They don’t seem to take too much notice of them, too busy reminiscing about the glory days that gave them the badges nestled on their chests.

The thick fog of cigarette smoke is the first thing he notices.

The second is the way everyone’s eyes turn to train on him, conversations tailing off as the twang of a country musician hums over the speaker. The small room is filled with older men, and the sea of camo makes it clear that most of them are vets. 

Dean’s no stranger to scenes like this - hell, places like this were a dime a dozen in his time on the road. He’s got the perfect formula nailed - order a drink, don’t speak unless spoken to, flirt with a lady and hustle enough for a night in the nearest motel. 

He parks himself at the bar, and the pretty barmaid flashes him a smile.

“Happy Thanksgiving handsome,” She casts a glance over him like she’s surveying him, eyelids drooped, “What’ll it be, darlin’?” 

Perfect.

His mouth contorts to the familiar facade he’s had in his back pocket for years, and suddenly the hollow pit in his stomach is taped over. 

“Whiskey - make it a strong one.” 

She nods, curling a strand of hair behind her ear, and moves to grab a glass when a hand slams down onto the bar.  

“You got some ID?” 

Dean looks up, startled, to see the man’s eyes pressed at him. His arms flex in a show of intimidation, his snake tattoo dancing on his arm,  and Dean swears he can see the steam shooting out of his fucking ears. He can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the request - he hasn’t been ID’ed for years, especially not in run down shitholes like this. 

“Man, what the hell-” 

“Show some ID, or you’re out.” 

Dean tries to hold his stare, but he feels the silence in the room, and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle at what must be a wave of darting glances.

Then the barmaid sighs and reaches over to take the guy’s wrist, seemingly to try to calm his outburst. That’s when Dean notices their matching rings.

Go figure.  

He sighs, but he obliges - he’s not drunk enough to make a scene in a place where he’s outnumbered. He slides off of his stool and makes his way back outside. He chances a wink at the brunette as he passes the barrel stacks, and the reaction that gets from the Incredible Hulk back there does make him reflect on the wiseness of that decision, but he shrugs it off. 

The two men he passed a few moments ago are gone when he exits. Looking around, he really can’t see what else would be enticing nearby - there’s nothing much of anything in this place. 

He reaches the Impala, swinging open the door and leaning in. He stretches out his arm as he rummages through the glove box for his wallet, his knees indenting into the upholstery. His fingers touch on calloused leather, and he smiles in triumph as he pulls it out. 

Something else follows, and Dean watches as it falls to the floor of the car. 

It’s a small, off-white rectangle of cardboard adorned with black text. The mere sight of it makes Dean’s stomach sink further, as if that’s even possible after everything that happened. 

But Dean doesn’t have time to wallow right now - there’s a whiskey in there with his name on it. 

He quickly bats the card, making it slide under the passenger seat. He clambers out and brushes himself off, bracing himself for round two. 

Dean knows it’s not going to be a great day the moment  he wakes up 30 minutes late, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed and almost collapsing to the floor, his breaking bedframe throwing him off balance.

He doesn’t even have time to stop to complain when his key jams in the door again, but that sonofabitch Zachariah will definitely be getting a piece of his mind - that’s if he’s ever around, at least trying to pretend that he’s performing the basic duties of a landlord.

He’s on the opening shift at the shop, as he is most days. As he unlocks the doors and switches on the Harvelle’s General Store sign, illuminating the still lightening sky, he wonders if the change in the wind he feels this morning is some sort of misplaced optimism, or maybe he’s just looking forward to his weekend off. As he’s getting supplies to restock the candy shelves and a box of canned beans falls, almost hitting him on the head, and spilling its contents all over the stockroom floor, he realises it’s probably the latter.

The day is filled with the middle-aged residents of Smith Center. The men are usually looking for spare parts for their tools or household machinery. Some of the women that come in wink at him suggestively as he cashes up their items, but today he’s in a pretty crappy mood, and so most of the time he doesn’t have the patience or the willpower to play along, shooting them quick, fake smiles as he hands them their bags. When the school day ends a flurry of teenagers pours in, counting out enough coins to buy packets of Sour Patch Kids and gummy worms. One boy complains moodily that the slushy machine still isn’t working - ‘-and it’s been four weeks now! - but Dean just shrugs with an apathetic ‘ Sorry kid ’ , asking if there’s anything else he can help him with or if he’s done taking up space in his shop.

Kevin calls in sick for his shift, and so Dean begrudgingly agrees to cover until Jo comes in at 5.

When she arrives, she can barely get out a ‘Hey Dea-’ before Dean is running out, grabbing his coat and throwing up a hand in a wave. She shakes her head softly, brow furrowing and drawing her lips into a hard line as she watches Dean slide into the driver’s seat of his Impala.

‘Excuse me dear, I was wondering when you’ll next be stocking up on your canned beans?’

- - -

As he pulls up, Dean’s too engrossed in figuring out the meaning behind the flashing light on the Impala’s dashboard to notice the U-Haul parked outside his apartment block. As he gets out the car, staring down at his phone to type in the number for Billie’s Pizza Delivery, he also doesn’t notice the guitar case falling towards him

‘Oh, look out!’

Dean barely has time to look up, before the hard case smacks him on the head. He falls back a few steps, one hand catching the guitar before it falls to the ground, the other holding his head.

“Ah-!”’

Dean looks up to see a girl who can’t be much younger than Sam was the last time he saw him. A strand of her red hair that has escaped her messy bun falls to drape around her face as she bends towards him, worriedly checking over his head as she reaches to grab the case from him.

“I am so, so sorry,” she rushes out, drawing the case towards her body as they both stand, “I pulled it out and it just flew completely out of my hands. I guess I don’t know my own strength…’

She laughs nervously, and Dean gives her a short smile, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead.

“Hey, don’t worry about it” he sighs, and all he wants right now is his couch, Dr Sexy reruns on TV, a triple meat feast deep dish and a four-pack of beer, “happens to the best of us...”

Before he has a chance to escape the conversation, she smiles excitedly and nods towards his apartment building

“You don’t happen to live here do you?” She asks, biting her lip worriedly, the slight blush across her cheeks a hint of the embarrassment she was still feeling.

“Who’s askin’, you the FBI or somethin’ ?” he replies, raising his eyebrows.

She laughs, her nose crinkling.

“Nah, just want to get to know the neighbours. Me and my brother just moved into Apartment 7 today!”  She says, jostling the guitar into one hand and throwing the other out in front of her and smiling, “Anna Milton”

“Dean”, Dean replies sceptically, looking down at her and dropping the hand from his head to shake her own, “And yeah, I'm in 5.”

“Ah that’s just below us!” She smiles, before looking back at the U-Haul, still mostly full of what looks to Dean like a mix of musical equipment and cardboard boxes, “Well, I better get back to that, these boxes won’t move themselves, nice to meet you Dean!”

Dean watches her turn and grab a guitar amp with her free hand, heaving it onto the pavement. She stands and enthusiastically wipes her brow.

His dad’s voice - Never let a lady carry her own luggage -  echoes in his head.

Dean sighs. This day just gets better and better.

“You want any help with that?”

“Wow! Yes, that would be so kind of you!” Anna replies instantly, before picking up a microwave and waiting expectantly, smiling widely.

He clears his throat awkwardly, picking up the amp and the guitar that he had just been viciously attacked by, and follows her into the building.

- - -

As the door to Flat 7 creaks open, he glances around. He’s never been in another apartment in his building before - it’s kind of disturbing to see an apartment identical to his that isn’t his. The identical shelves of the kitchen alcove on the left are packed with kitchen appliances not yet stored away. A ratty maroon couch sits to the left of the main room. A rolled-up rug leans against the far wall, between the two windows looking out onto the street below. The golden glow of the evening sun streams in, basking the floor in warmth.

“You can just put them down wherever” Anna smiles, placing the microwave on the kitchen shelf, before calling out, “Cassie, I met our neighbour!”

Dean places the items down and glances towards the source of rustling noises coming from the room on the left -  judging from the layout of Dean’s apartment , the bedroom. The door is closed just enough that he can’t see who’s there. As the door opens, the golden light filtering in through the bedroom window illuminates the figure from behind, casting a shadow over them so Dean can’t see their face, but can make out through his powers of deduction that it’s a dude.

‘Oh, hello…? ” A gruff voice tinged with surprise.

“Dean!” Anna interjects, “Dean, this is my brother Castiel.”

Castiel walks over, and Dean can make out his blue eyes, and the hints of stubble covering his face topped with a mess of brown hair. He holds Dean’s gaze, his expression not quite readable.

“Hello, Dean” Castiel says, smiling slightly before his eyes drop down to linger on the items Dean has discarded on the floor beside him

“Anna!” Castiel scolds, turning to her, “Please tell me you have not shirked your responsibilities onto someone you met mere moments ago.”

She wordlessly drops her gaze to the floor, guiltily scuffing her shoe on the wooden floorboards.

Dean could get mad, especially considering the guitar-to-head incident, but if he’s honest he just doesn’t have the energy. Plus, the kid looks like she could use a break.

“It’s fine really, I was just walking in and she looked like she could use a hand,” Dean says, turning to meet Anna’s gaze, “No biggie.”

Castiel huffs out an annoyed breath, running his hand through his hair and furrowing his brow, but he smiles anyway.

“Well… thank you Dean.” he says, before rushing to pick up the items, “We really won’t keep you any longer”

Dean doesn't let himself think that Castiel looks kind.

He takes the opportunity and leaves with a wave, hearing a “Thanks, Dean!” from Anna as he walks downstairs.

- - -

Dean doesn’t see a lot of the Milton’s for a while. Every now and then he’ll bump into Anna or Castiel on the stairs, and they’ll share polite smiles but nothing over the top. Sometimes Anna will be on her phone and won’t notice him, or Castiel will be searching for something in his bag and will be too focused to shoot Dean a glance.

Six weeks go by before he enters Apartment 7 again.

His recent car repair expenses mean he’s had to pick up some evening shifts at Benny’s bar, and as he lies awake at 2 AM having only got home an hour an a half ago, he realises booking one of these shifts before a 7AM Saturday start at the store could have been a massive mistake.

In all honesty, he’s never been that great a sleeper, but the intermittent bangs and cackles, and the faint thump of bass shaking the ceiling aren’t helping at all.

He waits half an hour before he decides to drag on his dressing-gown - yes dressing gowns are extremely manly - and trudge upstairs, rubbing his hand groggily across his face. Knocking on the door, he stares at the golden 7 for a few moments until the door opens, a woosh of warm air laced with the scent of cigarette smoke and sickly sweet cherry introducing him to someone he’s never seen before. She’s shorter than Dean, with thick brunette hair and red lips curved into what looks like more of a smirk than a smile.

She leans on the door frame, studying his face for a few moments before speaking

“Well hello there Freckles,” She says, her voice a sweet drawl, although she can’t help slurring her words slightly.

Grabbing his hand, she drags Dean towards the group in the centre of the room, his protests seeming futile.

“Found a straggler outside” she announces to the group, who all look up. There are only three people, sat sprawled in a circle: Castiel, Anna, and another man Dean doesn’t recognise sit surrounded by half-full bottles and glasses, with a deck of cards distributed between the members of the group. The man smirks up at him at the same time as Castiel’s face changes from tipsy to tipsy and alarmed. Castiel, Anna and the man speak simultaneously at the sight of Dean.

“Oh my gosh Dean I am so sorry, I told them to keep it dow-”

“Well, well, well… who do we have here then?”

“DEANNNNNNNNNNNNNN!”

Exclaiming excitedly, Anna jumps up and wraps her arms around Dean, squeezing him. He has a few moments to register the embrace, sleep still not allowing him his normal reflex time, before Castiel swiftly follows her up, dragging her arms off of Dean.

“Anna!”, he whispers, looking apologetically at Dean

“Sorry folks,” Dean continues, holding his hands up, “don’t want to intrude and ruin your little get together, just wondering if you could keep the noise down a bit? I’m up early tomorrow is all”

Castiel nods emphatically, Anna just smiles brightly at Dean. The others don’t act so enthusiastically.

“So… what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” The unknown man drawls, coming to stand next to the woman, leaning on her shoulder as she lets out a chuckle.

“This is Dean!” Anna interjects, “He’s our neighbour! Well, he lives downstairs …. Dean, this is our brother Gabriel, and our friend Meg. Guys, this is Dean!”

“We get it, name’s Dean,” Meg says, smirking at him again, and he feels the unsettled pit in his stomach grow, “Pity, I so preferred Freckles.”

“My little brother hasn’t told me much about you  Dean,” Gabriel says, as Castiel walks over to the speaker to turn the volume down, glancing to look at his brother at the mention of his name, “Stud like you could be living it up in the city, why you certainly wouldn’t be out of place at a frat party - plenty of boobs n’ beer amirite ?”

He chuckles, slapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder, before tilting his head, his expression quizzical. Dean doesn’t know why he doesn’t just leave the room.

“In fact, even Kansas city has enough of that. You don’t exactly seem like a layabout, so tell me - how do you end up in a town like this? Amazing job prospects? Excellent options for first time home buyers?”

Gabriel smiles.

“Running away from something?”

Dean’s face hardens.

“Not tryin’ to be rude, “ he says, gritting his teeth, “but that’s none of your business.”

He looks at Castiel.

“Like I said, ” Dean shrugs the hand off his shoulder, feeling himself get more annoyed by the second, “try and keep the noise down.”

He walks out before he can hear any more.

Keep to yourself, stay out of trouble, don’t get attached

If this is what he’s got for neighbours, he doesn’t want anything to do with them.

;___; thank you!!!!

shortshenanigans replied to your post “[[MOR]so i’ve never worn this dress without leggings/a shrug before...”

I'm so sad. You're so far away, making it impossible for me to slap up that skirt and touch the booty. *quietly sobs*

JILL YOU ARE THE WORST lmao don't worry i'll wear it just for you when i come back to canada

klarriel replied to your post “[[MOR]so i’ve never worn this dress without leggings/a shrug before...”

ahh you're so pretty ;u;

;A; thanks bb!!!

morbidmusing replied to your post “[[MOR]so i’ve never worn this dress without leggings/a shrug before...”

you are so incredibly cute ahhHHHHH

this coming from you YOU ARE THE CUTEST

lightsaroundyourvanity replied to your post “[[MOR]so i’ve never worn this dress without leggings/a shrug before...”

that is a really cute dress!!! it goes with your face