Chapter Text
Murphy’s Law: Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.
+
“Hey dickhead, thanks a lot for trashing the place last night and scurrying off with Andrea and leaving me with the mess this morning. I hope Jinx shits in your sneakers again.” Dean quickly checked his rearview and side mirror before maneuvering around apparently the oldest driver alive in Lawrence, Kansas. As he was in a hurry, naturally every single thing in the universe was working against him. Six red stoplights, a reckless cyclist with earbuds jammed too deep into his skull to hear Dean honking at him to stay in his lane, and the living, driving fossil notwithstanding found Dean about two blocks away from The Roost, near-homicidal with road rage in trying to find available street parking. Naturally, the only logical and mature thing to do was unfairly project this rage onto Benny, and rip him a new one for “continuing to show a blatant disregard for their shared living spaces” (Lisa’s words, not his).
“I know your smelly, hairy ass is still sleeping right now in a soft, clean bed that probably smells like goddamn flowers while I’m running late to a breakfast with Dr. Fuckstick and his motley crew.” Fifty feet in front of him, a shiny white Prius zipped into a newly vacated parking spot that--in his mind--already belonged to Dean.
“FUCK!” Dean might’ve been a little meanly happy upon seeing how terrified the driver looked as he slowed down to glare at them; they deserved a lot worse for taking his spot, and holding their hands up in an apologetic yet terrified gesture did nothing to quell his growing frustration.
“As I was saying, fuck you for bailing last night. I don’t care what hoodoo Louisiana bullshit you need to conjure up to have the place clean before I get home but if it ain’t, Jinx shitting in your shoes will be the least of your concerns. I’m really getting sick and tired of living with Harry of the goddamn Hendersons--would it kill you to rinse out the sink after shaving? Christ, it's worse than living with a chick.”
He jabbed the end call button and tossed the cell on the passenger seat and miracle of all miracles, a rusted old pickup truck crawled its way out of a parking spot to his right and Dean wasted no time swooping in and claiming it. Suck on that, Murphy's Law.
The euphoria of finding a parking spot quickly disappeared and the guilt began to pool heavy and low in Dean's gut the second he hung up the phone. He knew he was lashing out like a fussy toddler who needed a nap; Benny was a great guy--hell, he’d stuck around Dean for the last ten years and acted as his punching bag more often than Dean was proud to admit. Whether it was issues with school, booze, Sam, or Lisa; Benny somehow always knew what Dean needed from him whether it was a firm kick in the ass, or a soft shoulder to cry on (which Dean would deny ‘til his dying breath). Blowing up on Benny was the lesser of two evils; if he directed his rage and frustration at the person who truly deserved it, well, he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to stop screaming, and causing a scene at a local brunch spot was the last thing Dean wanted to do today (though “Local Nurse Goes Apeshit on Hero Doctor at Popular Cock-Themed Eatery” would definitely be a headline he’d want to scrapbook.)
So yeah, Dean Winchester was a shitty friend who took his anger out on his long-suffering best friend because he knew his younger, no-nonsense, I've-Been-An-Adult-Since-The-Age-Of-Thirteen brother stopped humoring Dean and his little temper tantrums years ago, and the only other person who tolerated these outbursts was currently waiting for a table with one very pissed off surgeon and his browbeaten wife.
Dean very briefly entertained the idea of shooting off an apology text to Benny but quickly brushed it off as a pussy move; he made his bed and now he'd have to lie in it (that or race to Andrea’s after breakfast and delete the voicemail before Benny woke up from his hungover deep-sleep, which was a totally normal and healthy way to avoid apologizing for acting like a raging dickhead).
After flattening his hair with quick glance in his rearview mirror, Dean jammed his phone into his pocket and hopped out of his baby, looked both ways, and jaywalked across the street, starting his three-block power walk to The Roost. Without being fully occupied by murderous road rage, Dean began to process just how deep in shit he was going to be with Lisa because of this. Lately their relationship was tumultuous at best and downright terrifying at worst. Dean lost count of how many times he's had to duck out of the path of flying ashtrays, designer wedges, and during one particularly voracious disagreement, a hand carved wooden statuette of a bulldog surfing that they picked up at a flea market in Oahu during their first vacation together as a couple. They both had fiery tempers that often resulted in explosive arguments, and even more explosive make-up sex, only lately it was all of the former and none of the latter and Dean feared that they were heading down the path of another break up (this would be number four and counting). He doesn't know when he stopped worrying about it--which should be worrying in and of itself--but his relationship with Lisa was like that one fussy lane in his favorite bowling alley; every four frames you had to hit the reset button and clear away the fucked up pins to lay down the new ones, and so it went, ad nauseum. Lisa was Dean’s first serious girlfriend; before her was a revolving door of short skirts, low cut tops, and glossy lips that tasted like plastic cherries, which was perfectly acceptable until it wasn't (leave it to Sam to “joke” about him dying wrinkled and alone to kickstart his quest for a serious relationship).
So here he was, sweaty, red-faced, an hour-and-a-half late inquiring about a Braeden, party of four, with a harried-looking hostess who gave him a pitying once over and directed him to the outdoor patio seating. Cutting through the throng of hungry waitlisters, Dean finally caught a glimpse of himself courtesy of the floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall by the bar--the pitying look from the hostess was well deserved; in short, he looked like a Jersey Shore reject who was finally being released from the drunk tank after he was caught pissing in the streets the night before. His hair looked like it could start a grease fire, his naturally fair complexion reduced to the color of curdled milk made worse by the tenacious, violet eye bags cuddling up to his sunken in, unfocused eyes. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he quickly realized that the shirt he was wearing was not only two sizes too big (thanks, Benny), but also turned inside out. Up until this moment he didn’t realize what a toll the last week of school and partying took on him; he wasn’t eighteen anymore--despite acting like it most of the time--and he felt a small part of him shrivel up and die upon realizing that he could no longer spend the night tapping kegs and jumping out of bed at eight AM feeling no worse for the wear. Dean sighed, dropping his head as he pushed through the heavy glass door leading out to the patio.
“Dean Winchester, you are a fucking prize,” he breathed to himself. Having to share a table with Lisa’s dad when he was at the top of his game was already an exercise in cruel and unusual punishment, so having to deal with his condescension and spiteful comments while he felt like a bag of reheated, stomped on dog shit was probably the worst thing that Dean would ever have to live through (Dean tried to silence the little voice in his head that was telling him that at least this time he would deserve it).
Although the patio was packed to the brim with happy, laughing, mature adults (none of which looked two seconds away from puking in the bushes apart from Dean), Dr. Braeden’s familiar salt-and-pepper crew cut and Mrs. Braeden’s crunchy, blonde bob, hairsprayed within an inch of its life, were nowhere to be seen. Dean’s immediate reaction was relief, which he silently scolded himself for: He was the asshole in this situation, and if the tables were turned, there’s no way he would’ve waited around for nearly two hours for some sweaty bum to show up to brunch looking like he had reached the final stop of a week-long pub crawl.
Chewing his thumbnail, Dean weaved through the maze of crowded tables, scanning the area to make sure that he didn’t overlook them in his haste to get the hell out of there and sure enough, tucked away into the corner underneath ivied latticework, sat one Lisa Braeden; alone and furious (if the shredded napkins and three empty champagne flutes were any indication). Although she was wearing sunglasses, Dean could feel her eyes burning into him, taking in his disheveled appearance and complete disregard for punctuality and being a decent human being in general. Accepting his fate, Dean cleared his throat and headed for the cramped, littered table.
“Lis’, I am so sorry I’m late.” Dean leaned against the back of the creaking wicker chair, bracing himself for some sort of reaction--a laugh, a scoff, hell, even a faceful of tepid orange juice and champagne. Anything would’ve been better than the calm, unflinching nothing that he was being met with. He didn’t dare sit down, knowing that he would likely be told to get out of Lisa’s face (and life) the second he did. His stomach was roiling and his shirt stuck uncomfortably to his tacky lower back, his head felt like it had detached from his body and decided to fuck off to a hardcore German techno rave for the last week; hangovers were meant to be spent curled around the toilet in a pair of ratty boxers, not trying to act like a functioning, healthy adult in bustling patios of classy local brunch establishments.
“My alarm didn’t go off and I hit every goddamn red light on the way over here and I couldn’t find parking anywhere and I know I look like shit but I’ll explain everything to your dad. I know I really fucked this up and I’m just--I’m so sorry.” Dean knew Dr. and Mrs. Braeden were long gone by now--probably fuming in their luxury SUV, falling over themselves to set up a reunion dinner date with one of Lisa’s ex-boyfriends again--otherwise he never would’ve offered to try and make amends (he’s mature like that).
Apart from a near unnoticeable muscle tic by the corner of her lip, Lisa remained stonefaced. Dean was very familiar with several incarnations of Angry Lisa and knew how to diffuse each one accordingly. Their fights usually went like this: Dean did something stupid (subjective), Lisa reacted, and Dean reacted upon that reaction accordingly, so to have nothing to work with left Dean at a dead end. Unsure, slightly terrified, and knowing he was in the wrong, he went with his natural defense mechanism: childish and petulant lashing out.
“Jesus Lisa, can you cut me some slack here?” He curled his fingers into the chair back, satisfied with the crunch of the cheap wicker. “I’m trying to apologize. I didn’t even want to come to this stupid thing! Do you think I wanted to spend my first day off with your parents while they ripped apart and shot down every single thing I plan to do in the foreseeable future?” Lisa made no motion to indicate that she heard Dean, or even that she saw him standing there, his fingers a vise around the empty chair in front of her.
On a normal day, Dean would’ve tried. He would’ve begged, pleaded, called himself every horrible name under the sun to get back into Lisa’s good graces, but today was no normal day. His off-kilter morning, the terrible drive into town, his fight with Benny (or his voicemail, anyway), and the booze still sitting heavy in his gut and trying to escape through his pores resulted in what amounted to Dean reverting back to his five-year-old self in need of some warm milk and a nap. He was tired, annoyed, and pitching a fit, and there was nothing in the world that could stop him nor the words that came tumbling from his lips.
“You know what? Fine. You don’t want to talk? Fine by me. I’m trying to apologize to you, princess, but obviously it ain’t worth it.” Dean could feel several pairs of uncomfortable eyes on him now. A bedraggled white dude yelling at a small, unresponsive woman in sunglasses was not what people wanted to experience while trying to eat a western omelette with their mom or significant other. He knew he was raising his voice and causing a scene but he was too involved in this now; he would have to go full-blown raging jackass as there was no way he was a big enough person to take it all back and quietly leave the premises with his tail hanging between his legs. He slowly loosed his bloodless, white fingers from the chair in front of him, childishly happy upon hearing the material trying to crack back into place. Lisa, for her part, remained entirely unaffected. Her sunglasses afforded her a cover of calm, but Dean knew better. Lisa’s inability to not have the final word in any argument was probably eating her alive and he was spitefully happy about it.
“Okay, how about this--I know you probably don’t get any reception up in that ivory tower of yours, but once you deign to get on the level of the rest of us mere mortals why don’t you give me a call, okay?” Dean turned around, head held high and back as straight as someone who had a glaring, red target painted on it could be, and made his way for the glass doors that would take him back inside the cafe and onto the street.
Avoiding the now less-than-sympathetic gaze of the hostess, Dean maneuvered through the thinner copse of diners waiting to be seated and all but burst onto the sidewalk, feeling simultaneously relieved and guilt-ridden. He’d managed to avoid an undoubtedly painful social encounter but had probably further damaged his relationship with Lisa, quite possibly forcing it into the category of “irreparableitsovergiveitupbuddyitsreallyovernowyoufuckedupforthelasttime.” So what if he acted like a complete jackass and twisted and turned and screwed up his fuck-up and made himself the victim and Lisa the villain--this was hardly the first time, only now it was getting harder and harder to ignore that sick feeling he got in his stomach every time he tried to explain away his behavior. Whatever. He would go home, fall into bed, and when he woke up he would call her back and grovel, call himself a brainless fuckwit and swear he would never upset her again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Halfway to his car (and once he could fully breathe, knowing he wasn’t going to have scratched-up, dull flatware jammed into his spine) Dean pulled out and powered up his phone to find he had one missed call and one new voicemail.
Ah, Benny. One more thing Dean would have to apologize for today.
Dean punched in his password and held the phone to his ear, quickly scampering across the street to avoid having to wait at the stoplight a few feet ahead of him.
“Well aren’ you Little Miss Sunshine on this fine, sunny mornin’.” Dean couldn't help the small smile that teased the corner of his lips. Benny had already forgiven him for acting like a raging asshole earlier, and Dean didn’t even have to offer to pick up his dry-cleaning or take on his half of the shared chores. “ So listen, I’mma choose to ignore all those hurtful things you said to me earlier and instead, I’mma kiss Drea on the cheek, leave her in her soft, clean bed, and head home and start helpin’ your sorry, smelly ass with cleanin’ the house.” Dean’s soft smile had turned into a full-fledged grin now. A combination of seeing his Baby in the distance being admired by two smiling women and Benny’s cajun drawl acted like a soothing balm on this raging shitstorm of a morning. “On top a’ tha’, I’mma make some shrimp creole and a big ol’ bucket a’ dirty rice ‘cause boy, we gotta celebrate.” Five feet away from the Impala, Dean stopped in his tracks. Fuck--what celebration? He racked his brain for any and all important dates: Birthday? Holiday? Shit...Friendship anniversary? (Don’t ask--Benny is a sentimental kinda guy). Dean didn’t have the time to try to guess as Benny barreled on: “ I was gonna wait to tell you in person but I don’ think I can--Drea asked me to move in with her, Dean. We’re finally doin’ it! I don’ even know what brought it on, she kinda jus’ rolled over an….”’
Benny’s voice faded to nothing as that small, heavy ball of guilt and unease that unfurled in Dean’s stomach after yelling at Lisa suddenly grew five sizes and oh, cool, was now apparently molten fucking lava. Oh god, Dean was going to be alone. His best friend was leaving (taking with him half of the rent and utilities), he just ostensibly ended his relationship with Lisa, and after the drunken teasing and harassment Dean put him through last night, Sammy was likely so done with his shit he probably wouldn’t be answering his phone calls for at least a month.
“ ... so I’ll be by by ‘round noon and we could start cleanin’ and we can talk a lil’ more about this while we pack up some a’ my stuff--It’s the leas’ you can do after all those terrible thins’ you said to me this mornin’. See you soon, ‘cher.” Benny’s smooth, warm chuckle felt like a serrated knife twisting in the globule of magma that was now collapsing in on itself in his gut (this metaphor was getting out of hand). Dumbly shoving his phone back into his pocket, Dean numbly walked the final few steps towards the car and was unsuccessfully trying to unlock the door when he was summarily stopped by one of the women he saw appreciating her not two minutes ago, her friend shyly hanging back on the sidewalk, her blazing red hair hair pulled into a messy bun.
“‘Scuse me, is this your car?”
Dean looked up and was met with an endearingly lopsided smile framed by loose, platinum blonde curls. The woman (he should say “girl,” if he was being honest with himself, as she didn’t look a day over nineteen) was wearing a sleeveless red and white polka dot dress with a denim jacket tied around her waist. Dean immediately thought of a very sexy Minnie Mouse and immediately scolded himself.
“Yup, she sure is.” Okay, so his best friend-slash- roommate was leaving him and his girlfriend was probably on her way home to pack up (and throw out) every article of Dean’s clothing he’d managed to leave at her place over the years but hey, this pretty young thing was clearly interested and asking about his baby so yeah, silver lining and all that. God, Dean fervently wished he wasn't wearing fucking khakis with topsiders right now. His rebel-without-a-cause spiel worked a lot better with a leather jacket and steel-toed boots. Never one to turn away a pretty girl, he slapped on his signature Winchester smirk and leaned against the driver’s side door. “So uh, you and your friend there like classic cars?” Dean felt his stomach churn as he winked at her waiting friend on the sidewalk. God, he was laying it on thicker than usual (he blamed the shock of being technically double-dumped for his over-the-top, greasy manwhoring).
“Uh, not really. But I think this is yours--” Minnie Mouse stepped forward and held a slip of paper and an envelope between her outstretched pointer and middle fingers, poorly holding back a stifled laugh. “Hope your day gets better, mister.” Dean gaped after her as she returned to her friend, lacing their fingers together after planting a gentle kiss upon Red’s smiling lips, not offering a single glance back at the sweaty, mouthbreathing douche in an inside-out shirt.
“Stee-rike three, Winchester,” Dean muttered to himself. Plopping into the driver’s seat he stared down at the seventy-five dollar parking ticket (“Failure to display proper permit”) Good Samaritan Minnie Mouse must’ve picked up off of the sidewalk after it fluttered from beneath his windshield wiper. With a manic laugh, Dean jammed the key into the ignition, started Baby up, and headed back home.
Murphy’s Law could eat his entire ass.