Work Text:
Dean slid out of the Impala with zeal, shutting the door behind him gently but with a satisfying thud.
Yeah...this was a great idea. This was the best damn idea he'd had all month.
Niggling doubts about the past, the future, Sam's pinched face as he'd declared he was going out for the night, Cas's radio silence--all those doubts were shoved forcefully down behind the vision at hand: a run-down, definitely crappy, practically hidden roadside bar, soon to fill him with the fortifying air of settled dust, stale beer, and unwashed clothing.
Maybe Willie Nelson would be playing through the jukebox? Obviously, if Dean had to put on a song himself, he would not pick Willie Nelson, but if someone else just happened to choose it, well...he wouldn't complain.
Dean took in a strong breath through his nose, picked up his pace across the parking lot, and continued to talk himself up in his head.
How long had it been since he'd rambled out on his own for a good ol' dive bar drink or two? Sure, technically, there had been many a dive bar during his time as a...hellish abomination, but...those didn't count. Not the same at all. Crowley had always been there, for one, and...
At the thought of Crowley an overwhelming cringe shot through his body and he shuddered, stumbling over a step in his otherwise enthusiastic stride.
Some things in his life were embarrassing, some regrettable, and some secret. But what had happened with Crowley was...the pinnacle of all those categories. As Dean swung open the door to the bar and stepped into the dark confines within he mused that, if he and Sam were ever stung, injected, or bitten with some sort of truth serum and the choice he faced was one between death or confessing the truth of his time with Crowley, he would clearly choose death. Death wasn't so bad in the scheme of things.
Dean swung himself onto the corner stool at the end of the short, empty bar and gestured with his fingers to the bartender, "Whiskey, double, on the rocks." The bartender was a thin, surly looking man who barely acknowledged him, but his whiskey appeared promptly which was all Dean cared about.
Dean took a long, deep sip and sighed in gratification.
Step One, accomplished.
He hadn't put thought into Step Two, really. Get drunk? Get laid? Get moody? One drink then back to the bunker? For now, he was content to feel the burn in his throat and watch the flies buzz over the bar in the late afternoon sun.
Contentment established, Dean fidgeted. He found himself glancing at his phone for the...well, not for the first time today. His last message to Cas stared back at him, unanswered.
Took some time off like you suggested. Went with Sammy to a lake.
He wasn't sure why he'd bother to text the freakin' angel in the first place. Dude ran off with his "female" to do more important-than-thou Heavenly shit. Which was...just fine. Completely fine, in fact. Standard. Dean exhaled slowly and hunched his shoulders farther down. He wasn't sure whether he was pissed Cas hadn't even bothered to reply or worried. Either way, he disliked the way the feelings it created were snaking through him, reaching their tendrils into recently opened areas he'd rather not think about.
So he wouldn't think about it. Dean shook himself off the stool with another internal, Damn straight, and launched himself over to the far too silent jukebox. Willie Nelson...maybe he swung that way a little--screw everybody. He defiantly chose the worst and best song he could have chosen then shoved himself back to the bar and ordered another double with a glare.
In the twilight glow I see them, blue eyes cryin' in the rain...
Goddammit. He wasn't even sure what, precisely, in his world of unceasing shittiness he was upset by, but he could tell he'd settled on his Step Two: 'get moody'. Awesome plan.
...Love is like a dyin' ember, only memories remain.
Through the ages I'll remember blue eyes cryin' in the rain.
Of course Cas was an element in his moodiness, but that was understandable. Anybody he got close to invariably became entangled in the crapfest of his head. And it's not like Dean had many other people to think about at the moment. Crowley? Verboten. Sam? Intractable. Everyone else? Dead. That left one stupid, blue-eyed angel. A stupid angel who smiled at him like he meant something then left him. Again. Not that he wanted him to stay. But still…
Dean began to get seriously concerned about the directions his moodiness kept wandering to, but just when he was starting to second guess his plan, the door opened and two more customers filled the empty space. Thank the lord, Dean thought with an ironic huff and swiveled on his stool to stare at the new entries inappropriately.
There were two of them, two women, one blonde and one brunette, and they stared right back at him. It was weird, but Dean felt a little stubborn about getting concerned over it. There was no danger, dammit. This was just a crappy nothing bar with Willie Nelson playing. Plus they were probably drawn by his inner magnetism. The two walked over to stand by him, never breaking eye contact. Dean shifted a little awkwardly but opted for endearing grin over knife in his back pocket. "Hello," he tried.
"Hello," the the blonde woman replied. She shifted her eyes over Dean curiously. "I'm Muriel."
"I'm Dean," He replied congenially with--he couldn't deny--a slight, fake drawl. Step Two had been getting uncomfortable but fast-forwarding to a Step Three was suddenly looking highly possible.
"I'm Ariel," the brunette provided.
"Like the little mermaid!" Dean exclaimed helpfully.
Ariel paused thoughtfully. "Yes. Like that."
Dean tried to run with it, though the whiskey in his head made it a crapshoot. "Can you sing then?"
Ariel frowned at him for a moment, possibly debating his coherency, but them smiled tightly and nodded. "I sing songs with my brothers and sisters."
Alright. Dean could work with that. "I have a brother. ...We don't sing though."
"That's too bad," Ariel said.
Dean didn't know what to say to that and the conversation lapsed for a moment. Willie began crooning about heroes and cowboys and Dean's attention started to wander again. Just when he was about to swivel back towards the bar for another whiskey and a return to Step Two, Muriel spoke up abruptly.
"Are you here because your heart is aching?" Muriel asked, breaking him out of his reverie. She stared so unabashedly into his eyes that Dean felt himself considering it.
What an odd question. Was he? He had told himself it had just been a rough week, werewolves and all, demon flashbacks, the life. But he told himself a lot of things, and those tendrils had been wrapping themselves around something... Anyway, was that supposed to be a pickup line or something? Before he could even summon an answer, Ariel piped up.
"Are you missing something in your life?" Ariel followed up.
Alright. Ah hah. Dean got it--these were Mormons. "Look, ladies, I appreciate--"
"Do you feel on the cusp of a great transformation?" Muriel interrupted.
"As though you're one step away from seeing a truth that is right before your eyes?" Ariel added.
What. The. Hell. Maybe the knife would have been better. Dean didn't want to be rude to the poor missionary ladies though. He sighed heavily. "I dunno. Maybe? But--"
The blow to his head came as soon as he spoke. His last thought as he faded into blackness was that, if he'd known those could be his last words, he would have chosen something more definitive.
Consciousness came slowly, like a drawn-out knife stab mixed with an awful mix of Tibetan throat singing set to electronic thrash metal. Fuck his head hurt.
“Dean,” the Tibetan throat singers grated.
No way, this was a concert to sleep through.
“Dean, can you hear me?”
It was way too early to wake up anyway. Why did the Tibetans care? Couldn’t a man get some peace after a night on the town?
“Dean?” A warm hand accompanied this inquiry, settling on the side of his forehead.
It seemed best to respond, if only to get them to let him sleep. “Mmmerrhhsgg,” Dean managed to get out. “Uhhnngff merggh.”
“I’m worried you might have a concussion. Can you open your eyes?” The hand made its way to his hair.
“Mom?” Dean wondered.
“She’s not here, Dean, I’m sorry.” The thrash metal seemed to be fading and the voice had become just one voice, a decidedly unfeminine one though.
Ah right, not his mother. Maybe he should check out who not-Mom was. The thought cracked Dean’s eyes open a bit. He braced for an unwelcome onslaught of light, but all that greeted him was inky blackness. His eyes opened widely in alarmed at this, seeking any sort of input, but there was nothing.
“I’m blind!” Dean gasped.
The hand in his hair stroked his head gently. “It’s dark in here, give it a moment.”
Cas?
“Cas?”
“Yes. It’s me.”
Dean’s eyes began to acclimate and he could almost discern a shape hovering above him. It could, possibly, be Cas’s head. Or a dark squid-shaped cloud. Something glittered in the cloud and suddenly Dean could make out Cas's eyes, reflecting back down to him in the darkness.
“Cas, where are we?” Dean whispered.
Cas sighed. “I have no idea.”