Chapter Text
Dean wakes up to the sound of an InstaSeal infomercial blaring—at max volume—going on about the wonders of vacuum-sealing food with supposedly sturdier plastic bags than Ziplocs.
For ninety-four-ninety-nine I’d sure hope so.
Barely able to open his eyes from the brightness, Dean fumbles around for the remote, finding it under his ass and poking out from under the band of his boxer briefs. No questions as to why it was inside his underwear—stange things happened when he was asleep. Things he couldn't—no—wouldn’t account for. With a click he shuts the TV off.
Lines of fractured light cast across his tousled navy comforter, the artificial shade indicating it’s the streetlamp just outside his window, which could only mean that…it’s still fucking dark out. Had he really slept so little?
Dean slides around in his bed, sheets all over the place, in search of his phone.
“For fuck’s sake…” he grumbles.
It’s dangling by his charging cord, swinging in the space between his nightstand and his bed’s siderails. Half bending over the side, Dean cranes his hand underneath, cautiously retrieving it—wincing slightly at the sudden full-brightness flash of his screen. Five-forty in the morning and…It’s fucking Sunday?
With a groan, he unplugs his phone and plops back down against his month-dirty pillow. Twenty-two hours of sleep. Nothing record-breaking but certainly enough to make him wonder what the hell happened Friday night. He stares up at his oak-bladed ceiling fan, watching as the strips of light coming from behind his blinds flicker with every turn. He felt weighed down—not the morning kind of heaviness, but something bordering on synthetic. Turning his head to the side he sees two pinkish pills on his dresser next to a half empty glass of water.
Son of a bitch.
Well, looks like he’d downed double the recommended Ambien dose and left two extras for a top up. Man was he tired. Nothing like sleeping so deeply that an entire day passes. He lets a big yawn out, and scratches at himself through his underwear, chuckling lowly at the semi he realizes he’s rocking. He was entirely too drowsy to get up and jerk over the toilet, so he closes his eyes and slowly rubs himself through the cotton of his briefs, his mind setting sail. Images of naked women flash in carousel-like style—a soft neck, a breast, the curve of the hip, a plump rear.
He scooches himself closer to his left-side nightstand, and squirts some store-brand moisturizing lotion onto his hand, smoothing it between his fingers. With an easy tug of his boxer briefs, he frees his cock—the cool breeze from his ceiling fan making him shiver from the sudden exposure. He brings his lathered hand down to grip at the base, and slowly drags upward to the tip, a surge of pleasure rippling through him as he thumbs at his frenulum. It felt so good, even through his sluggishness, and he could picture the warm heat of someone's mouth wrapping around him, taking his cock in, spit and slobber slicking him up—the squelches of his lotion-covered hand aiding in the imagery.
As he strokes, his free hand traces up his abdomen and ghosts just over his pectoral; even with how soft he’s holding it, his nipple hardens immediately—he’d always been so sensitive there. A soft sigh escapes as he lets his finger to circle the bud, causing the hairs on his arms to rise in attention. When he pinches it, he draws in a sharp, shuttered breath; the gold ring running through it adding to the steadily building pleasure. With his nerves in shock, and little stars dancing behind his eyes, Dean's cock twitches...wanting more.
He continues stroking, picking up the pace a bit as he brings his free fingers to his mouth, letting his index and middle finger tug down his bottom lip. His head floods with unfocussed images, colors and shapes blending together as he softly pats at his fingers with the tip of his tongue. God, how this shit worked him up. It was immediate, how much saliva accumulated by simply letting his fingers rest at the edge of his mouth. And as he pushes his fingers in, coating them in spit, his entire body shivers. His blood rushes, pumping loudly in his ears as he sucks whorishly, while his other hand works at his now-fully-hard dick, stroking his length in full. Pressure builds in his head from the lingering effects of the Ambien mixed with the overwhelming pleasure kindling from sucking his fingers—saliva dripping down his chin and trickling down his neck.
He works over the head of his cock, fingers vertical to the length and dragging up in a prong-like motion. A whimper escapes as he pads at his corona, until he lets his hand grip around himself again, pumping downward and dragging up while his pinky finger toys with his urethral opening. The sensation engulfs him in pleasure—his mind, a blur. Nothing is focusing, no clear images, only colors and swirls as heat begins to slowly pool in his gut.
And suddenly, a pair of sapphire eyes flash in his mind, deep and dark—their intensity shadowed with denigration. Dean’s movements halt and he snaps his eyes open.
No…
Dean lays there panting, his saliva-slick fingers resting against his neck as he stares up at the ceiling. His dick is still painfully hard, though the lack of warmth causes it to deflate ever-so-slightly. He doesn’t move, his mind scattering and attempting to cast away what he’d just conjured up. But it doesn’t work. The more he tries to think about something else—breasts, panty-clad hips, a gorgeous ass—the more the image of Novak’s vibrant eyes pervades his mind. Whatever drowsiness that had lingered after waking up, was now clear and fully gone.
Dean tucks himself back into his underwear and sits up slowly, propping himself on one hand as he wipes his other lotion-slick hand across his chest. Bits and pieces of Friday night’s events unravel across his mind, and he takes a deep breath in, and out, staring blankly at the edge of his bed where the streaks of light from outside drape over it and disappear. While together, it isn’t making much sense, what he can recall is…troubling, to say the least.
He remembers getting to Hunters just fine, getting through his set, entertaining Dick and his cohort of bumbling idiots, and the private room he’d ended up in with the bachelor, and…Novak. Dean rubs his hand down his face, stretching his skin. He was royally fucked.
Not only had he been bumping n’ grinding in front of his superior, donning the sluttiest version of a cowboy outfit known to man (if it could even really be called that), he’d also shown absolutely no restraint in taking Dick up on the offer to snort two lines of premium-grade coke, all with Novak a cushion seat away. And what’s worse, Novak had paid for the private room session himself—a whole seven-hundred-and-fifty dollars more than what was owed for half-an-hour. And the pair of them hadn’t even stayed the full thirty, recalling how Novak had dragged Dick out of the room, leaving Dean to pocket the money and—That look…
Dean blinks his eyes a few times and groans, sweeping his legs over the side of his bed to get up. He was in no mood to think about that night. It was bad enough it had even unfolded in the way that it had.
His back cracks loudly as he brings his arms up and stretches, causing a head rush from standing up too fast. Gripping his bedside table for support, Dean shifts his weight to his left foot and stares at a single spot on the floor, waiting for the purple spots to ease away. These blood pressure drops were getting more and more common in the mornings, (he could guess why) but Dean was in no way wasting time at some random doctor’s office—there were far more pressing matters that required his attention.
Shuffling around his bed, he heads out of his room and a few steps down the hall, to his bathroom. Groggily fumbling around for the switch, he winces as the harsh, cool white of his overhead vanity light comes on, momentarily blinding him. With a grunt, he feels around his bathroom, peeking through his eyelids for the shower curtain and pulling it back to get the water started.
As he waits for the warmth to kick in, (which in his shitty apartment meant waiting a solid five to ten minutes), Dean strips himself of his underwear and stares down at his now nearly-soft cock, his mind adrift.
What the hell had happened after Dick and Novak left? Dean racks his brain for anything to help him remember—a small detail, an image—but nothing was coming back to him. It was a mystery he was somehow home, but then again, it wasn’t the first time he’d miraculously made it back in one piece…after getting shit-faced.
Oh… He remembers it. Well, a fair bit of it.
After his private room session was complete, he’d gone over to Adam’s section on the second floor, to team up for some doubles polework. The second floor—the Canopy, it was called—was a lot different from the first and third. While on the first floor, there were huge stages meant for three-to-ten dancers at a time, large walkways, tables and couches surrounding the stages, and the third floor being a V.I.P. and private room area, the second floor was for “partying”.
It had two full bars on opposite ends, a dance floor and, of course, alcoves lining the balcony, with poles protruding from elevated platforms. This was the place for getting hammered, doing coke off someone’s chest, swapping spit with whoever was within reach, and possibly even getting jerked off in the middle of the dancefloor.
When Dean had reached the area, he distinctly remembers feeling very on-edge—due to the fishscale. Everyone around him had been glowing, with rings of colored light emanating off each of their bodies. He’d barely been able to locate Adam, though luckily, Adam had found him. He recalls the pair of them doing a few shots and dancing in the crowd, but that was just about all he could remember.
Now that the water was slightly less cold, Dean steps into his tub, taking a quick shower—the lukewarm water washing away the lotion from his cock and whatever grime might be left on his body (his water heater was finicky as all hell). He genuinely couldn’t remember if he’d showered early Saturday morning or if he’d gone to bed a mess. And, how the hell had he gotten home? Nothing was coming to him, nothing apart from images of getting fucked up in the second floor restrooms, flashing in half-seconds across his mind; only the details of the stall tiles coming into focus. He recalls the molly he’d bumped: a perfect little hill balanced on the tip of an outstretched pinky, offered by someone whose face he couldn’t place, edging toward him before getting jammed up his nose. He remembers how a flurry of stray white had fluttered towards the tiles, the glow of the blacklight catching on each speck. Of course, that’s what he’d remember.
Fuck…
He shuts the water off and stands in his tub, letting the water trickle down his body. Leaning one hand against the shower wall, he watches the water stream through his toes and down towards the drain. The pitter-patter from the showerhead’s lingering droplets echoes the beat of the sultry music that had played in the private room. He absentmindedly refocuses on the image of his ocean-eyed superior, that haunting look he’d donned—so stoney and vapid—nothing conveyed apart from those last few minutes, where he almost, for a moment, thought a flicker of recognition had graced them.
Dwelling on the night’s events wasn’t going to help him in any way, shape, or form. What probably would, was a quick workout, and a coffee. He quickly steps out of his tub and gets to drying himself and brushing his teeth. In the midst of it, he swipes at his mirror’s clouded glass and inspects himself. His hair is standing every which way, his nipples perked with little droplets hanging from them, and—What the…
A dark bloom rests just below his jugular, purple at the heart and rimmed with a pale pink. Dean traces it gently, twitching slightly at its tenderness—a consequence of the shower’s heat. He grunts against his toothbrush and spits into the sink. This was the problem.
While Dean held he had a reasonable amount of control over his recreational drinking and drug-use, it was charming little discoveries like these that made him teeter on the possibility that he actually…did not. What kind of state had he been in that had rendered him incapable of recalling how that mark had appeared? He did pretty well during the week, considering he needed to be in one piece and lucid to get his work done. But it was the stretch of weekend that to him, was basically like an extended zero-conscious sabbatical.
Limiting himself to a couple bumps a day and a beer or two after work was easy enough, but certainly not for the whole week. As soon as Friday hit, it was fair game for any stouts in his cooler, the Jameson Magnum at the top of his fridge, and the coke he carried with him routinely.
After gargling some mouthwash and spraying some Degree, Dean heads back to his room to throw on a sweatshirt and some shorts. Choosing to ignore the mess of his bed, (apart from re-adjusting the side of his comforter that had fallen to the floor), he searches around his room for his suit jacket, which he finds haphazardly puddled with his slacks and dress shirt, at the foot of his closet. He digs around its pockets and retrieves his treasured vial. There was barely enough left for a tiny bump, and it takes Dean a considerable amount of resolve to set it on his dresser and not indulge. But no pick-me-up that early in the morning, was not an option.
Dean heads over to the kitchen of his modest-sized apartment, dry scooping some Gold Standard and washing it down with the neglected Murphy’s that’d been sitting at the back of his fridge. No questions on whether that was a good idea or not, or whether it would impair muscle recovery—he could really care less. He sets a reminder to pick up his dry-cleaning, grabs his keys and earbuds, and steps out into the crisp Brighton morning.
————
After a grueling hour of back n’ bis, thirty minutes on the Airdyne, and another twenty stretching out the soreness in his hamstrings (never-ending due to the constant battering of his body while working the pole), Dean heads out back into the world.
The workout, unfortunately, hadn’t really helped him clear his head of any of his shit-storming. If anything, it’d made it a bit worse. The entire time he was doing standing straight-arm lat pulldowns, he kept checking himself out in the mirror, only to get worked up at the view of himself bent over, and a certain someone’s piercing blue eyes, watching. He wasn’t even under any kind of influence (except for the tiny bit of ale he’d had with his whey), and the images he kept conjuring were jumbling his thoughts up something awful.
He really needed to call Charlie—if anyone could help him clear his mind, it was her. Maybe she could offer some insight on what the actual fuck was going on, because it really wasn’t normal for him to be so on edge about a simple encounter at Hunters; plenty of asinine situations had played out before, all of which he’d share with her, offering up sickening particulars—laying it all out—and then laughing about it for hours. But this was different. This was something his potential success at Ridgeside and quite literally, his entire livelihood depended on.
She better be awake.
Dean walks briskly down the street, reminded he also needed to pick up a few items at the market. Luckily, it wasn’t freezing, which he was very grateful for—he all too often dressed either too lightly or too heavily for whatever the weather threw at him. And today, he’d opted for faded Nike Flex shorts (with a supposed five inch inseam, that felt much shorter than that; his fault for buying them at Ross) and his favorite, though overworn, Finch hoodie. Nothing at all appropriate for cold weather.
He quickly pulls out his phone and dials her number, waiting as the line rings.
Of course, she doesn’t pick up. With it being a little past eight, it was likely she was still in bed. He tries again, and after four repeated attempts, she finally answers.
“...Dean,” is all he hears, half-grumble, thick with rasp.
“‘Mornin’, sunshine.”
He can hear her moving around, obviously still in bed from the sound of sheets coming across the line.
“...What the hell is so important you’re calling me at…eight in the fucking morning?”
Dean snickers, always having found her morning, pre-coffee disposition, far too endearing—the disparity between morning Charlie and nighttime Charlie was truly something to behold.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I interrupt your beauty rest?” he chirps.
“Yes…as a matter of fact, you did. A girl’s gotta get her eight hours.” He hears her light something, likely her morning blunt, and a sigh follows before, “...Well? What is it?”
“Oh…maybe you wanna get up and stretch or drink some OJ first. Maybe take a piss too—”
“—Dean. It’s Sunday for fuck’s sake. I wanna go back to sleep.”
“Okay…so, don’t want you to get all fucking prissy with me, but I need to…get to the bottom of something.”
Dean waits for a second, expectantly. For what? He wasn’t sure. Maybe some kind of retort or for Charlie to read his mind from the other end and speak for him.
“...Okay? And?”
Dean stuffs his hands into his sweatshirt, gripping his phone hard enough to crack the screen. Thank God for earbuds. With his hands this clammy, adrenaline frothing from vividly replaying Friday night’s events the whole morning, he’d probably drop the damn thing the second he lifted it to his ear.
“Alright. So, first off, did you go to Hunters Friday night? After Biddy’s?”
“No, I went home. Why?”
“What about Jody and Donna? Did they go?” he pries anxiously, trotting across the street and earning a honk from a passing car—usual for him. Crosswalks existed; Dean had never cared.
“I don’t think so, no. Why?”
Why…
Dean stops mid-stride and takes a shaky breath in. He could really use a goddamn bump right now, but of course, he’d all but finished his vial. And he definitely couldn’t dip into his most recent purchase—it absolutely had to last him the whole week.
He shuffles over to the grassy patch lining the wide sidewalk, and wades through the overgrown blades to the small bench that rests just before a quiet pond. Still early, it’s slick with dew, cold droplets soaking his ankles and sneakers as he sits and stretches his legs out in front of him. A perfect place for seclusion. And with Whole Foods was only a couple of blocks away, he didn’t mind stopping and composing himself for a second—he’d rather not be having this conversation within earshot of a judgy, tight-ass soccer mom.
“Alright…so I think I’m kind of…fucked. Like, really fucked. After I left Biddy’s, I went straight to work, right? Everything’s cool. I do my thirty, easy-peasy, and went up to V.I.P., which to be fucking honest, was weird as hell—that assignment. Don’t know why they gave it to me, ‘cause that typically goes to guys that work through the week. Kind of a wild card, but hey, I ain’t complaining. Better chances to rake in cash so, works for me.”
Dean inspects his nails, intermittently gnawing at a pesky hangnail, little by little, tearing open the skin on his thumb.
“Alfie was there, that fucker. Always with the jabs and back-handed comments. God, just wanted to do his head in, real fuckin’ bad. Just his face, his stupid little bitch boy fac—”
“—Is this going anywhere?” Charlie cuts dryly, coughing a bit.
“Yeah alright, alright. Just hold on, okay? I’m building here.”
For some reason, Dean was finding it difficult to unload, even to Charlie. But the knot in his stomach wasn’t going to disappear anytime soon, and better to just have her weigh in rather than try to navigate choppy waters alone, and on a goddamn dinghy.
“So, I’m in V.I.P. and this one son of a bitch comes over and wants me for his section. And I’m thinkin’, alright—hell yeah. I mean, this guy’s fuckin’ loaded. Decked out to the nines, and it’s his bachelor party. I’d be flat-out stupid to turn this down, so I put on my act and head over with him. I do some dances and whatever, and the group is, for the most part, okay. And they’re all rich as hell. Like, the tens and twenties as ones kind of rich.”
Dean rips at his hangnail with his teeth, and spits it out. His nerves were all over the place, and he was babbling, which often led to him needing something to chew on or fidget with. His bottom lip was also trembling slightly, especially now that he was reaching the pinnacle of his tell-all.
“So, I’m dancing, and I see a lot of the guys get up to greet someone. I was busy doing tricks so I couldn’t really see, but when I finally did…” Dean winces as the memory flashes in his mind, “Goddamnit, man…this is harder to tell than I thought.”
“Anyone I know?” Charlie asks, a hint of curiosity edging her groggy voice.
“Yeah….” Dean takes a slow breath in and out, and fists his hands between his thighs. “Okay. It was…Novak.”
Dean hears Charlie gasp on the other end of the line, and Dean shuts his eyes tightly, reacting with her. He can hear her sheets ruffling, like she’s rearranging herself to sit up in bed.
“Dean…oh my fucking God,” she gasps through little coughs. “You’re being serious?”
“I know, I know…but there’s more.”
“Oh, so Novak just happening to be at a bachelor party at Hunters of all places, isn’t the worst part?”
Dean brings his hands to his face, hiding (from no one) behind them, feeling incredibly exposed. The heat creeping up his neck and warming his ears only making him want to crawl into a manhole and camp out in the sewers.
“Nope,” he groans exasperatedly. “Just hold on, let me keep going.”
“Well, first—I’ve gotta ask. What were you wearing?”
“My cowboy fit…”
“Oh God. Dean—”
“—I know! I know! Damn! Just…” Dean digs his fingers in just beneath his eyelids and drags down his face, all tense and jittery. “Just let me get this out, okay? I’m fucking dying here just thinking about it.”
He rakes his hands through his hair and hunches forward, resting his forearms on his knees and sighing as he stares out over the pond. It was so still, almost ice-like, reflecting the orange- and yellow-leaved trees encircling it. Then a dimple appears—tiny, concentric rings fanning outward before fading. The cause: a tri-colored leaf of red, orange, and yellow, softly parting the water as it glides across. Dean stares at the spot for a moment, pondering. A possible metaphor for his…no.
“Okay, so he’s there, probably coming straight from the office ‘cause he had the same thing on, and the bachelor, Dick, is chatting him up. So, they’re off to one side of the couch. You remember the V.I.P. lounges, right?”
“Mmh,” Charlie hums, through a breath.
“Yeah, so they’re over to the left side facing the platform—my right. All is good, except now I’m sweating like a damn dog and messing up a bunch of my moves. Don’t think any of them really noticed, since they were all completely blasted, but man…I was not doing too hot. But hey, the show must go on, so I keep at it until the group asks me to start on lap dances which, come the fuck on. But again, I’m thinking ‘fuck it’, and I head on down to stick my crotch in Dick’s face.”
He hears Charlie “oh”-ing and letting out soft gasps in reaction.
“Could you tell if he recognized you?” she asks between tiny coughs.
“Fuck if I know. You couldn’t pay me to look over at him. And thank God for my hat—the only lifeline I had.”
“Damn…you didn’t strip down to the G-string, did you?”
“C’mon, Char….hell no! You know me—I staying fuckin’ clothed. No one gets to see these cheeks,” he huffs.
“...Okaaay,” Charlie drawls, “But you were still in those teeny cutoffs, so what’s the difference, really.”
Dean chuckles, his foot bobbing restlessly against the grass.
“Touché. But uh…yeah. The bunch of them is getting rowdy as hell, y’know, being real annoying and fucking the space up like a bunch of damn kids. Sons of bitches don’t care about anything but themselves. Whatever though, they’re paying, and with this guy Dick getting all fuckin’ hard under me, it’s getting weird. So, I’m ready to leave, but not without a private room sesh. Gotta make my coin—top priority. So I ask, and of course, Dick is all for it. But then, like fucking kid, he waves over at Novak and demands he come with us.”
“Stop…oh my God, no,” Charlie chokes.
“Yup, and who am I to deny him the time of his life on his last night as a bachelor. Man, I’m telling you, I’ve never felt more crazed-out. Like, I was sweating bullets. But, we end up going, and I could feel Novak’s eyes on me, but I just couldn’t tell if at this point, he recognized me or not.”
“How could he not have?” Charlie barks, “I mean you were right there.”
“Okay, thanks,” he says flatly. “That makes me feel loads better.”
“Sorry. Continue.”
“So, we get to the room, and I start dancing and Novak’s on his phone basically the whole time, which thank fuck. But then Dick dumps some premium fucking coke on the table and offers me two lines. And like the dumb son of a bitch I am, I go for it. Right in front of Novak.”
“Dean…what the fuck. What on Earth were you thinking?!”
“That’s the thing! I wasn’t! I can’t explain what the hell was going on in my head, but I was like…gone. I’d only had two bumps before getting to V.I.P. so I wasn’t even really that bad, I was—I don’t even know how to put it. But it was so much worse after the fishscale. Everything was all fuckin’ glitchy and blurry, and I could feel Novak just looking at me as I was on this guy. I didn’t even realize I’d straddled him. Just, boom—I’m suddenly there. And then this fucking asswipe starts is getting all handsy, trying to get me to jerk him off and I’m…y’know…keeping it professional. But he’s not taking ‘no’ for an answer, an now he’s kinda…being forceful. And then, out of nowhere…Novak is right behind me and tells Dick, the bachelor to get up, dropping a casual fucking grand right there on the couch. And he’s forcing the guy up, who’s all drunk and slurring and shit…and that’s when Novak looks me dead in the eyes, holding it for a solid four seconds, until he just leaves.”
A pause, before Charlie hums over the line.
“He could tell it was you.”
“I don’t fuckin’ know, Charlie. But what I do know, is that…that look…it was somethin’ else.”
“Wait…how do you mean?”
“It was…like he was staring into my soul. His eyes were so fucking intense, especially with how stone-faced he is. And what’s worse, I can barely remember the rest of the night. All I know is that I went down to Adam’s section to do some doubles work, did some shots with him, and then ended up in the fuckin’ stalls doing molly off someone’s hand, and that’s it. No clue how I got home, no clue who I was with that gave me some big-ass hickey on my neck, but I woke up at five-something this morning—twenty-two hours of goddamn sleep, Charlie. Twenty-two."
Dean hears Charlie sigh on the other end of the line, and he knew what was coming.
“Dean…I—” she scoffs. “Where the hell was your head? Doing coke in front of your boss? Are you—look, I don’t know if he realized it was you or not, but you better pray he wasn't around to see you getting blasted out of your mind. I mean, these are grounds for termination. They don’t have to give a fuck if you’re actually routinely bumping blow or not—which you are—just the fact that you did it in front of him will probably set off some fucking alarm in his head, that you’re undependable, and that you can’t control yourself! Because, how did you just let yourself give in like that? It’s bad enough you’ve got your ass out twirling around a damn pole.”
Dean swallows dryly, the reality of it all crashing down on him.
“Look,” she sighs, “I know how much you care about moving up, and you know I’ll never judge you for needing a bump or two here-n’-there…but this is some serious shit you’re in. And Novak’s not known for being merciful—all his success comes from being a cutthroat-ass motherfucker.”
“I know,” he croaks.
“You need to get a grip, alright? ‘Cause Lord knows who got you home, or if you got yourself home, but—” she sighs again. “I’m sorry, Dean. You worry me sometimes, is all. You’re just…action without thought. And that’s a great philosophy of life, in theory, not in practice. You need to actually weigh the consequences of things, before you say ‘fuck it’.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“You know I love you,” she chuckles, her tone softer.
“But that’s not all Charlie…”
“Oh, come on. What else could there possibly be?”
Dean grips at his head, digging his nails into his skull as antsiness bubbles in his stomach.
“So, may be TMI but…we’ve shared this kind of shit before. I was…y’know…jerkin’ it this morning…and as I was about to…well…” he falters, the image re-appearing in his mind, making his stomach somersault and his breath to catch. “Uhh…well, Novak popped up.”
“…Huh?”
“Like, I didn’t actually finish, because I got so fuckin’ startled but…yeah. He just showed up, in my head, right as I was—God…this is so fucked,” he heaves.
“Dean…what the hell are you saying right now? What, that you—you fapped to Novak?”
“Well, when you put it like…”
“I’m sorry, no no, I’m not assuming anything. Don't worry,” she quickly says. “But…I mean, he just appeared in your mind, right?”
“Yeah, I just don't know what to think. It’s a lot…and I guess, I’m all over the place about everything.”
Dean checks the time on his phone, and decides he doesn’t actually want to talk about this anymore. It was all a bit much to relive, and he was never a fan of uncorking the deep and seemingly bottomless bottle that is Dean Winchester. Only with Charlie, and sometimes Sam—that was it. But the feeling surging through him—so foreign—was making him want to stuff it down and lock it away. He had far too much to worry about at the moment, and whatever that feeling was, wasn’t important.
“So, that’s what I’ve got going on, Char. Just a whole lotta bullshit, and a potential termination. But, thanks for hearing me out…I uh…gotta go,” he asserts, quickly.
“I’m sorry, man. I’ll be in tomorrow, per usual. But hey, before you go,” she hurriedly says, obviously picking up on Dean’s wanting to abort the conversation, “Don’t shy away from…the possibility. There’s nothing wrong with that, and you can explore it. Just don’t…shove it away.”
Dean holds his breath, not really wanting to answer nor address whatever that was supposed to mean, though, he knew.
“And please, for the love of God, reel it in a bit, okay? No one’s asking you to cold turkey it, but you do need to get a grip on it. For your own good.”
“...Yeah, I know. I’m gonna try.”
He stands up and starts heading back towards the sidewalk, casting one last glance at the pond and its once again, unstirred surface.
“Okay, I know you gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See ya.”
And with that, he hangs up, turning up his music once more, as walks off towards the Whole Foods—a.k.a his least favorite place on Earth.
————
After what felt like a century, Dean is finally back in his apartment complex—Whole Foods was not the place to be at nine in the morning. He lazily trudges up the mildewy steps just outside, shooting a sullen glance at Baby, draped in a thick aluminum cover, lonely and neglected. Boston simply wasn’t the city for needing a car, and he didn’t need another expense, like gas, added to the lengthy stack he already had each month.
He heads down the long stretch of hall, lined with rusty iron handrails, and a busted ceiling light that remained on and flickered at all times of the day. By the time he reaches his door, he’s unlocking it with a single hand, his groceries sagging and threatening the plastic’s supposed durability. Once inside, he kicks off his sneakers and speeds to his kitchen to set everything down but of course, the plastic gives out the moment he sets everything down. Typical.
As he puts some things away, Dean thinks about the conversation he’d had with Charlie. He knew what she’d been hinting at, towards the end, and it bothered him that she’d even think to have him “review” his preferences in…
“Fuck her,” he mumbles as he shoves four six-packs of Guinness Extra Stout into his cooler.
He unpacks some miscellaneous snacks and seven-days worth of sodium-heavy frozen meals, staring off into his living room. His place was small; the couch he had and the TV he’d mounted all appeared far too big for the space—cramped and out of place. Nothing matched, especially not the random red-orange triple-head lamp he had standing in the corner. He’d found it on eBay for eight bucks, so he figured it was a score…of sorts.
His mind circles back to the reality of his situation—how tenuous his current employment truly was, how easily he could lose it. He absolutely needed to keep this job. Ridgeside was the end goal, the place where people hoped to stay for upward of thirty years. To lose it all, only six months in, would be the ultimate self-inflicted letdown, particularly given the unlikelihood of anything better coming his way.
Dean scoffs inwardly, reflecting on how things always seemed stacked against him. Rarely did he catch a streak of luck—not that he ever believed in it, really, since his whole life had been one challenge after another, only ever overcome by working himself to the bone. The length of law school had been one of the most taxing experiences of his life. He’d never had Sam’s keen acumen—Sam had always been the smarter of the two. Things always seemed to come so effortlessly to him, something Dean had always envied. But that wasn’t to say that Dean’s hard work hadn’t paid off. He’d made it through law school, passed the bar in one try, and secured a position with the dream law firm. Was it all going to disappear? Just like that?
Realizing he’s daydreaming, and has been washing his hands for well over a minute, Dean heads off to take another quick shower and settle into some casual houseware—a pair of boxers. With enough time to knock out some drafts, he grabs his briefcase and laptop and sets up on his bar counter for an afternoon of legal work.
But as the five o'clock hour reaches (and after downing four stouts over the five and half hours he’d been grinding), Dean starts getting a bit antsy, desperately craving a pick-me-up. But he knew he needed to leave his coke good-and-well alone, so he whips out his phone to see if Benny was up for a little “happy hour, and some magic”. And thank God, he wasn’t working.
Relieved to be done with staring at his computer screen, Dean hurriedly throws on a black tee and a pair of jeans, topping it off with a somewhat clean brown and forest-green flannel. Luckily, Benny was picking him up, so he does a quick shot of Jameson and straps on his favorite Chippewa boots, before hustling out the door.
Of course, Benny’s already there waiting for him, honking annoyingly, to which Dean replies with a flip of the bird as he jogs down the stairs. Man, did he have one ugly piece of junk for means of transportation. Dean yanks at the handle of Benny’s run-down ‘87 Ford F-250 impatiently.
“Heya, brotha,” Benny grins, opening the door for him from the inside. “How’s it goin’?”
“Same shit, different day,” he sighs, slamming the door closed, which causes the whole truck to shake. “But uhh…when are you replacing this old clunker?”
Benny laughs as he backs out, the engine making a screeching sound which Dean knew meant, low oil.
“Ah, this ol’ gal? We ain’t partin’ anytime soon. She’s a part of me, same as your, Baby.”
Which was true—Dean could never part with his beloved, even if he didn’t have much of an opportunity to drive her around like he used to.
“But…you good?” Benny asks, giving him a quick lookover. Dean just shrugs, staring at the little gash on his thumb from that hangnail he’d bitten off earlier.
“I don’t know, man. Life, circumstances—they’re doing my fuckin’ head in,” he sighs.
“I know the feeling. But don't you worry your pretty little head. We’ll get a drink in ya, and you can tell me what’s eatin’ ‘atcha.”
“I’ve already had some, but if you’re buying…” Dean jokes.
“Anything for you, chief.”
————
They get to Biddy Early’s a little after six, and after two pints and a couple shots of Teeling, Dean’s feeling pretty fucking good. Sure, it had crossed his mind that he had work the next day, but at the moment, he wasn’t all that concerned. It hadn’t really weighed on him at all, plus, he’d survived far worse. On top of that, he and Benny had been chatting about the whole Novak situation, which absolutely warranted getting on the far side of tipsy. The implications alone—having a part-time job at a gay gentlemen’s club, and doing coke in front of one’s boss—were enough to drive anyone completely insane.
But despite feeling a bit better, and despite unloading on Benny, Dean had conveniently left out a tiny detail from that morning’s events—the damned image that had popped up out of nowhere and ruined what would’ve been a perfectly happy ending. And now it was gnawing at him, through the boozy blur.
“Hey, Benny…lemme ask you something,” Dean mumbles, slouching over the wooden counter and ploddingly tapping Benny’s empty coaster to get his attention.
“How can I be of service?”
Dean considers how best to phrase his question, careful not to be rude or insensitive—and certainly not wanting to tread where Benny didn’t want to traverse.
“So…you—I know you’re into dudes…but have you ever had a dream, or a thought about a woman?”
Even with his pre-planning, that hadn’t come out how he’d intended. But Benny smiles, eyes bright and humor-struck.
“Why boss, you know I like both. That don’t just go away, even if my last hoorah—well, my last thirty-sumthin hoorahs have been with men.”
Dean nods—that made sense.
“I don’t know why I thought you were just, gay,” Dean admits, tracing the edge of the coaster with his finger.
“Nah, I’ve been with plenty of women, and I plenty like ‘em. But when you’re surrounded by pretty men, six times a week for hours on end—it ain’t that much of a chore to find a quickie. It’s right there and up for the takin’.”
Benny takes a swing from his ale, and gives Dean his signature lookover.
“Why you askin’?”
Dean shrugs and finishes his shot, tapping at his glass when Rufus comes over to check on them.
“I…don’t know. I guess, maybe it’s the stress of going into work tomorrow, or…man, I…”
Dean drifts off. He was feeling that lump in his throat again, a knot in his stomach, something he thought would be stifled with enough liquor. Apparently, he wasn't drunk enough.
“What’s botherin’ ya?” Benny asks, his voice low and gentle—careful.
Dean draws in a sharp breath, which turns into a small burp. He chuckles, shaking his head as the next shot slides across the counter toward him. He downs it in a single gulp, wincing at the sting, then wipes his mouth and surrenders—he needed resolution.
“Well, this morning…I guess I…” he rolls his eyes, cringing inwardly, unsure of how to even word it. “I thought about…my boss. About Novak.”
Benny peers at him, not much reaction on his face other than expectance. Had he said that right? Did Benny get what he was hinting at? Dean shifts in his seat. He didn’t like this feeling, not one bit.
“You thought about him,” Benny echoes flatly.
“Yeah…like…in the morning.”
Benny’s lips curl slowly, realization spreading across his face.
“Oh…I see. How was it?”
“No! I didn’t—I wasn’t—I mean, I was…but not to him. He just…showed up, out of nowhere.”
Benny squints, a smirk annoyingly plastered across his face.
“And what’s the problem?”
Dean groans, the effect of the many, many drinks making him sound more whiney than he liked.
“Not a problem—other than it being my boss…but I…I’ve never…I don’t even know if it’s…that.”
“And if it was?”
“Goddamnit, Benny! I don’t know… I don’t swing that way. Never have.” His voice drops slightly. “You know that.”
Benny chuckles, clapping a warm hand on his upper back, kneading the skin just above his neck comfortingly.
“I know, I know,” he coos. “All I’m saying is…it wouldn’t be crazy to consider.”
“Consider…” Dean scoffs. “I’ve only ever thought about, liked, yanked it to, and fucked women. That shit doesn’t just change over night ‘cause some son of a bitch looks at me some way. And all the times I could’ve been tempted—like I don’t dance around half-naked at one of the gayest places in the state. Not once, not once have I ever looked at a man like that.”
It was the liquor talking, and Dean’s vehement disdain for the idea wasn’t exactly coming through how he’d intended, especially to a friend as dear to him as Benny.
“And I was barely alive from those fuckin’ Ambiens,” he adds quietly. “I just…don’t know what to think. And I don’t even know how I got…this.”
Dean tugs down the collar of his flannel to show off the purple bloom adorning his neck. Benny—ever kind, ever unmoved by Dean’s insensitive ramblings—runs a finger over it, then pats his back in consolation.
“It ain’t uncommon,” he says sheepishly. “Especally at a place like Hunters—plenty of fools get a little too far gone, and end up with some marks they can’t account for. And you…well, you like to take it a little far so…somethin’ like that was ‘bound to appear sooner or later. With the way you act sometimes, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean croaks.
“C’mon now, chief,” Benny croons. “Don’t you know how you look sometimes, when you’re up there dancin’? Or when you’re in the Canopy with Adam and all of ‘em. When you’ve got somethin’ in your system, you let loose. You let go. You’re just up there bein’ you. And for how much of a front you put up outside the place, holdin’ it together ‘cause of your place at your firm, anyone…and I mean anyone, can tell you ain’t as rigid as you think you are.”
Dean just gapes at him, unsure of how to respond.
“You really don’t remember things, do you?”
“...I uhh…huh?”
Benny laughs, heartily—cheeks all pink from the ale.
“Good grief, cowboy…you’re just too far gone each time. I know I’m doin’ ya favors with the blow and all, but ya gotta lighten up on it, especially if you can’t remember what you’re doin’.”
“...Wait. What have you seen me do?”
Benny shakes his head, regaining his composure.
“Nothin’ awful. Put it this way: when you’re drunk, or when you're high on something—be that snow or molly—you sure don’t act like a guy who only goes for women.”
Dean buries his head in his hands, groaning loudly, his drunkenness hitting far stronger now with the weight of this…surpirse. What the hell had he been doing? He couldn’t even account for whatever Benny was referring to.
“Don’t get worked up about it, bud. It doesn’t have to mean nothin’. It doesn’t define you either. Just, take some time to…I guess…think things over. And…” Benny puts a wad of cash down on the counter and starts to get up. “I think it’s best if we get you on home.”
They end up leaving, and after what feels like two minutes, Dean is back in front of his place—head buzzing from the alcohol, and from the evening’s revelations. Benny jumps out of his truck and hops around over to the passenger side to help him out. Dean’s in the middle of setting his seven back-to-back alarms.
“C’mon, brother. Step on out,” he nods, offering his hand for support. Dean fans him away.
“I’ve got it…don’t need to be fuckin’ babied.”
Benny titters, watching Dean near trip as he steps down.
“Need me to help you up, or do ya think ya got it?”
Dean only shushes him and waves him a goodbye, shuffling up the sidewalk.
“Oh…hold on a minute there.”
Benny walks over and up behind him, sliding him a small pouch of addies.
“I know you said you needed some. Just, don’t go overboard. Alright?”
Dean stares at them and nods slowly, to which Benny ruffles his hair, giving him a parting pat on the shoulder before he steps away.
“Take care there, Dean. I’ll see you…well…whenever you decide to come on by again.”
And in less than a minute, he’s gone—the clatter of his rusty old truck trailing off into the night.
————
Thank fuck for Apple Alarm. Without it, Dean would be in serious shit, waking up a day later, no doubt. But he’s awake—head splitting, still in last night’s jeans, his tee twisted halfway over his head. There wasn’t much time to get ready, let alone dwell on the conversation he and Benny had had.
Dean stumbles out of bed, takes the quickest shower known to man (brushing his teeth for lack of time), and throws on a gray button-down and his black suit, fresh from the dry cleaners, which he’d miraculously remembered to pick up. Hurriedly yanking a black tie into a passable knot, he fumbles around for his loafers while risking a quick glance at himself in his mirror.
Good God…
He’s got eye bags for fucking days, is just barely hiding the purple mark on his neck behind his collar, and his hair is still damp and unkempt from the shower. He darts back into the bathroom to brush it down, then speeds into his living room to gather his papers—stacking them as fast as he can before shoving them into his briefcase. He checks his pockets—phone, keys, wallet, vial. He was good to go. With less than twelve minutes to catch his first T connection, Dean bolts out of his apartment, praying to whatever god was up there, to give him a fortieth chance…to fucking work with him.
And by the grace of whoever was in charge, he makes it to Ridgeside with one minute to spare. A record, even for him.
He breezes past associates, nodding as he catches their eyes, and finally reaches his desk, setting his briefcase down with a drained slam. Garth sits in his usual corner, dressed in the same outfit, typing away and—true to form—barely noticing Dean’s arrival. Not that Dean’s in the mood to talk to anyone today. No, today was the kind of day for keeping his head down and staying low.
As he gets himself settled in, Dean quickly pops a single addy, swallowing dryly. With it being a Monday, he needed complete and utter focus. No getting up, no getting distracted, and certainly, no sauntering over to the break room to steal snacks and—God forbid—run into Novak. Dean logs on in, cracks his neck, and gets to work.
But after seven-and-a-half grueling hours—fielding Novak’s overflow of emails, drafting four separate pleadings for ongoing cases, and forcing himself to stay put so as not to draw attention to himself, especially in his current state—he hears a familiar click of heels against the main hallway’s marbled floor. The sound stops just at the entrance to his cubicle, and Dean shifts in his seat, turning to meet the eyes of their owner.
Hannah.
“Winchester,” she greets curtly.
He nods back, his eyes catching the stack of papers in her left arm. Towards the top, there’s a manila folder, and Dean’s stomach drops.
It’s so fucking over.
He gulps and looks back up at her.
“Before you head out today,” she starts, adjusting the stack and tapping a pen against the clipboard she has resting atop it. “Make sure you pass by Novak’s office.”
Huh?!
Dean stares blankly, feeling color drain from his face, a lightheadedness kicking in, even with him sitting down.
“Did you hear me?” Hannah spits, clearly not liking his lack of response.
Dean only nods again, his throat too dry to bother getting anything out. He turns back in his seat and continues typing, hearing Hannah scoff and clack back down the hall. He couldn’t tell if it was his hangover, his lack of nutrients for the day (considering it was now four-thirty and he hadn’t had an ounce of food nor water), or the effects of the addy, that was making him want to throw himself off the fucking building.
What he was sure of, is that he was absolutely fucked.