Chapter Text
Here’s the thing: Dean knows he’s a headcase. He takes three daily medications, plus one as-needed sleep aid and a fast-acting anti-anxiety med for emergencies. He’s even got one of those old-person pill organizers he keeps on the back of his counter and four separate alarms on his phone to make sure he remembers to take his pills. He’s got two honest-to-God personal head shrinkers: one for trimonthly med reviews and one for weekly head reviews.
He’s been to two court-issued rehab programs, one for narcotic pain meds and one for booze. He has two restraining orders against him. He doesn’t want to touch his juvenile record with a ten-foot pole. And, three years ago, he spent four months in a state penitentiary for aggravated assault and a month in the prison’s ding wing before being transferred to a psychiatric hospital for six months and then ten months of probation in the care of his kid brother.
So, yeah, Dean knows he’s a fucking headcase. Absolutely, certifiably, off-the-rocker insane. The evidence is astronomical. So much so, he really doesn’t need Sammy to constantly remind him of it.
“I know, Sam. Jesus,” Dean says for probably the fifth time that day, all at steadily increasing levels of pissed-off.
Sam’s unmitigated train of reassurances breaks off abruptly at, “and I’m only 20 minutes away, 15 in an emergency, so –” and ends on his patented Bitch Face Numero Ocho.
“I just wanna make sure you’re okay,” Sam grumbles. His cheek jumps as he clenches his jaw.
Dean lets his eyes slide away from Sam’s because he’s never done well with eye-contact. It used to bring out all the best listen to me when I’m talking to you, young man spiels from his teachers. And he tries to dial it back a little, because Sam’s just trying to help, damn him.
“Dude, I asked you to help move my stuff, not give me a lecture,” Dean says. He rolls his eyes, but then he tags on a smirk to make Sam stop scowling.
It sort of works. Sam sends back his own eye-roll, levels the tower of cardboard boxes he’d lugged up the stairs in his orangutan arms, and mumbles, “Am helping.”
Dean shoves his own cardboard box onto the counter, scuffing up a trail of filmy dust behind it. Sam straightens up to his full gigantor-height and sends his eyes around the room. His scowl turns into the kind of look Dean imagines rich people put on when they admire their gardener’s Christmas card, and Sam says, “It’s, ah, bigger than I thought it’d be.”
That’s about the nicest thing you could say about the place, and it isn’t even true. The listing said it was a “compact studio,” which is just another way of saying “perfect upsize for hermit crab.” The kitchen exists for about three feet before it turns into the living room, which hits the far wall after another 12 feet. There are two doors to the right; one probably leads into the bathroom. The other, if Dean’s lucky, opens into a closet. If he’s unlucky, it adjoins the apartment next door, like a hotel. Plus, the building must have been built in a time when people were a lot shorter, because the ceilings are only five or six inches taller than the top of Sam’s bushy head. It gives the place an even more cramped, claustrophobic feel. But it’s big enough for a pullout couch and the small pile of crap Dean’s managed to accumulate while bunking with his brother.
“It’s a shithole,” Dean says.
“Yeah,” Sam allows finally, wrinkling his nose. “It’s a shithole.”
But Dean can’t exactly complain about a shithole apartment. It turns out not many people are willing to rent to a felon with no viable references and next-to-no regular income. It’s not like Dean was going to ask his previous landlord to put in a good word. One, it was four years ago, and, two, his lease promptly ended when Dean set his couch on fire, panicked, and threw it out the six-story window. Good times.
“Alright then, tiger,” Dean says with false pep and slaps his brother on the shoulder. “Quicker we get done, quicker we get celebratory pizza.”
Sam follows Dean back into the hallway. The building is tall and narrow: five floors and four shoebox apartments to a floor, all connected by a steep staircase that’s barely wide enough for Dean’s shoulders.
“You gonna be alright?” Sam says over his shoulder on the way down, “I mean, it’s kinda tight in here. With your, you know, thing.”
Dean rolls his eyes again. What thing? Dean wants to snap, but he might as well ask which thing? Because it’s not as though Dean’s lacking in things. But, in this case, he knows what Sam’s talking about – and, come on, because that was an issue two, maybe three times – four times, tops – which is hardly enough to qualify as a thing.
“I’ll be fine, Sammy,” Dean says. And shoves Sam between his shoulder blades, so he’s forced to take the last three steps at a hop beforr he slams into the street door, palms first. He shoots Dean an ugly look, and Dean answers him with raised eyebrows.
“Watch your step.”
“Screw you,” Sam says. He pulls open the door. The street smells like sewage and the overfilling dumpsters in the alley.
“Really nice neighborhood, man,” Sam says as they walk back to his Prius parked on the curb to grab another armload of boxes from the backseat. “I can really see the appeal.”
The apartment faces are all tagged with vibrant squiggles of graffiti; Dean spots at least three dicks just from his view on the sidewalk. There are a couple potted shrubs on front stoops; the ones that haven’t been deliberately toppled over are wilting in the oppressive July heat. And most of the apartments have bars on their ground-level windows.
“Fucking ace,” Dean returns. “Great schools. Real community mindset, you know?”
Sam gives him a look like he wants Dean to know how unfunny he is, and he kicks the car door shut behind him with his heel.
“I just don’t get why you won’t stay with Bobby,” Sam says when they’re back to the building. Dean knows he waited until Dean was busy juggling his boxes plus the doorknob, because Dean’s too occupied to bother shooting his brother an annoyed look.
“Cause the whole point of this exercise is to get me independent again, dipshit,” Dean says, finally opening the door and stuffing himself back inside. He briefly contemplates letting the door swing shut on Sam’s face.
“Yeah, but Dr. Henriksen said you should take things easy,” Sam keeps up, sounding like the whiny six-year-old he secretly always will be. “Baby steps.”
“Sammy, I’ve been living in your ass for the past two years,” Dean says. He doesn’t risk craning his neck to fix Sam with a stern gaze, because he doesn’t want to lose his footing on the precarious stairwell. “I worked my way up to full time at the garage. I know fucking baby steps, okay? This is baby steps.”
They’ve had this conversation before, but, Goddammit, Dean will do everything in his power to make sure his brother leaves satisfied of Dean’s capability today. Or at least leaves, period. Dean’s been living with Sam for the past two years – ten months of which were legally required, 14 months of which were medically recommended – and he’s finally gotten to a place in his life that living alone again is actually a possibility. In fact, Victor, actually called him “stable” for the first time in, like, ever a few weeks ago. So, it’s time to take the plunge. Dean’s ready; it’s not his fault Sammy’s not.
Dean’s still well-aware that just one wrong move on his end could bring this whole wobbly house of cards that is his psyche, his brother’s concern, and Victor’s say-so, toppling down, and he really, really needs all three pieces to stay standing.
Dean’s too preoccupied with reassuring his brother, keeping ahold of his armful of cardboard boxes, and not missing the next step, that he doesn’t notice the flicker of shadowy limbs that is another person swinging out of the third floor door and onto the landing until it’s too late to get out of the way.
Dean collides boxes first into a solid pillar of human being and then there are two twin oomphs of shock and pain, one from Dean and one from his victim, followed by a “Dean, shit –” as Dean rebounds off the stranger’s chest into Sam, who’s still precariously perched on the stairs behind him.
The rhythm of thumps, bangs, and a solid, final crash as something heavy tumbles down the stairs and shatters on the second floor landing makes Dean’s blood turn to ice because holy fucking shit Dean just killed Sammy –
Dean turns wildly, top box in his arms sliding off and crashing to the floor – onto the stranger’s toes if the resulting curse is any indication – and freezes face to face with Sam.
“I think that was your coffeemaker,” Sam says sheepishly. He’s hooked one arm around the banister to keep himself standing, but he’s still holding two boxes, and he’s very much not lying in a mangled heap of blood and broken bones at the bottom of the stairs.
“Fucking shit,” Dean says, and he swallows hard, trying to force his heart out of his throat and back into his chest where it belongs.
“Um, hello,” the stranger says. “I apologize. I didn’t see you.”
“That’s totally cool,” Dean says, a little breathlessly because his brain is still too busy catching up with the idea that Sammy’s not dead to focus entirely on breathing. “Totally fine.”
“I believe you dropped this,” the guy says. His voice is deep and sandpaper rough. He bends at the waist to heft the box that fell on his toes into his arms. When he straightens up, Dean gets his first real look at him, and the first thing that manages to blare through the alarm ringing through his head is holly fuck. Hot.
There’s a mop of sinfully mussed hair on the man’s head, a couple day’s stubble on his jaw, and his clothes are baggy and covered in colorful splotches of paint. His eyes are very blue. Gorgeous, piercing blue. Everything inside Dean’s body is suddenly taught and thudding with hot blood, and he forces himself back into his head, where Pam is telling him that you use sex as a defense mechanism, Dean. Your first thought when you’re uncomfortable is “how can I literally screw my way out of this?”
“Um, yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” Dean says. “Can you just, like, slide it back on top?” He stoops a little to give the guy room to stuff the box back on top of the other box in Dean’s arms.
“Of course,” the guy says. “I don’t recognize you,” he says with a small pause. He steps back and runs his eyes up from Dean’s shoes to his face, and Dean tries really hard to think about all the things he doesn’t want to mess up by sleeping with this guy; he’s Dean’s new neighbor. Casual sex with the new neighbor is not a great way to establish his place in this building. Besides, Dean doesn’t even know if this guy is into dick.
“Yeah, I’m, ah, moving in,” Dean says. And it’s getting more difficult to concentrate because his heart bypassed his chest and landed in his stomach, and now it’s just churning liquid with each beat, like it’s a blender. And Sam’s right: this stairwell is way too fucking tight, and Dean nearly sent Sam to his death just a couple seconds ago, and there’s a ridiculously attractive stranger trying to make casual conversation, right now, as if anything about this is remotely casual.
“I’m helping him,” Sam pipes up.
“Hence the boxes, yes,” the stranger says, nodding sagely.
“I’m Dean,” Dean adds, because he’s supposed to be normal, and being normal means introducing yourself. And this is not an emergency, he reminds himself sternly. This is not an emergency, so his body can just chill the fuck out. Bastardized fight or flight reflex be damned.
“Hello Dean,” the man answers. “I’m Castiel Novak. And you…?” he turns his piercing gaze to Sam, and Sam shares one of his goofy, golden retriever grins.
“Sam. Dean’s brother.”
“Welcome to the building, Dean,” Castiel continues. “May I assist you? It seems I’ve inadvertently caused an inconvenience.”
“Nah, man,” Dean says. He hopes he comes across as relaxed. He fights the impulse to ask the guy to get the hell out of the way, please. Dean needs to move now because it’s getting a little too hard to breathe.
Fuck. Fuck no. Dean is not starting out his first hour of moving into his own place by having a panic attack.
“We’re good,” Sam adds cheerfully. “Just kick that box to the side. I’ll come back for it in a second.” He jerks his head down the stairs to indicate the box at the bottom of the flight, which holds the remains of Dean’s obliterated coffeemaker.
“I understand,” Castiel replies, and, thank God, backs through the third-floor door to let Dean and Sam past.
Dean takes the last flight to his floor at a jog; it’s more than enough to get his heart pumping. He hopes to high-hell that Sam attributes Dean’s sweat and breathlessness to climbing four flights of un-airconditioned stairs, because he cannot afford to let Sam see Dean as anything less than fine, right now.
He didn’t bother locking his apartment door, so he shoulders it open as soon as he gets there, dumps his two boxes unceremoniously, on the floor and keeps going.
“Where’s the fire?” Sam demands, still on his tail.
“Gotta piss,” Dean lies, not looking over his shoulder. He tosses open the first of the two doors in the wall and, no – closet. But good to know he has a closet – and then opens the second. Bingo. Bathroom. He shuts the door behind him, and then lets himself deflate.
Okay, he tells himself. He’s okay. Sam’s okay. Everyone in the world is A-Okay. He does the thing that Pam taught him, the grounding technique, or whatever, where he takes stock of his surroundings or roots himself in his body or some other hippie shit.
Five things he can see: there’s rust on the pipe under the sink, mold in the corner of the shower, a crack in the linoleum that runs the length of the entire floor, the lid of the toilet seat is up, a spiderweb hangs loose off the bottom of the mirror-faced cabinet above the sink.
Four things he can feel: the door behind his back, the cuffs of his flannel brushing his wrists, sweat slithering down the side of his face, his feet tight and hot in his sneakers.
Three things he can hear: the faucet drops a bead of water into the basin with a soft plink, Sam’s shuffling boxes across the floor to make room for his own, and that Castiel guy’s deep voice rumbles, “I didn’t feel right making you come get it when it was technically my fault you dropped it in the first place.”
It snaps Dean out of the exercise, which is all well and good because he usually skips the last two, anyway – smell and taste – because, what the fuck? he can smell mildew? He can taste his saliva?
He opens the door and comes back into the room to find Castiel followed them up. He’s standing in Dean’s door and holding a slightly dented cardboard box in his arms.
“I’m afraid it’s probably broken,” he says.
“Oh, thanks,” Sam says. He takes the box out of Castiel’s arms and sets it on the counter. It rattles as it moves, and Dean winces in sympathy for the poor schmuck that is himself tomorrow morning when he’s going to have to wake up without coffee.
“I apologize again,” Castiel says. “Gabriel always tells me I don’t pay enough attention to my surroundings.”
“Not your fault, dude,” Dean shrugs. He wonders who Gabriel is. A partner? And then tells himself to shut the fuck up, because it’s none of his business whether or not Gabriel was Castiel’s partner because, even if he was – and that meant Castiel was interested in men – then that was still bad news, because it wasn’t like Dean messed around with cheating. At least not anymore. Not since he was trying to model healthy sexual habits now.
Castiel nods, then he glances around the barren apartment like he’s never seen one before.
“You’ll want to get yourself an air-conditioner unit,” he tells Dean, pinning him with an intense gaze, more appropriate for relaying life-or-death information than discussing household appliances.
“Oh, yeah,” Dean replies. “I’ll put it on the list.” Along with a new coffeemaker, he adds.
“Well,” Castiel says. “I'm intruding.”
“You’re not intruding,” Dean blurts out before he can stop himself. Stupid stupid stupid. Even Sam shoots him raised eyebrows to let him know how utterly stupid Dean is.
“Thank you,” Castiel says with a small smile. “But I need to be going.”
“See you around, Cas,” Dean says. Cas? Fucking stupid. Fucking manwhore. Can’t he fucking keep it in his pants for even one fucking interaction?
Sam says goodbye to Castiel, as well, and then the other man leaves. The door slips shut behind him, and then Sam fixes Dean with a look.
Dean’s expecting another lecture, but Sam says, “Think he’ll be your strangest neighbor?” and Dean smiles in relief. Maybe he actually managed to sneak that whole episode right under his little brother’s nose. But then Sam continues, “You good? You seemed a little spooked on the stairs.”
“Nah, man, I’m good.” Dean doesn’t exactly lie, because he’s good now. He almost wasn’t. But then he was. And that’s all that counts. He really needs Sam to believe he’s good. “Think we can tackle the rest of it in one more trip?”
They do manage to haul the rest of Dean’s stuff up with one more trip, and they don’t encounter anymore neighbors or near disasters on the stairs.
Dean would have been perfectly content to leave unpacking to a later, unspecified date, but Sam insists that he’s there to help and, in a fit of morbid blasphemy, says 4:30 is too early for pizza, so they might as well finish the job before getting dinner. Grumbling, Dean starts unpacking boxes.
There ain’t a lot to do. Dean’s clothes and three pairs of shoes – steel-toe boots for work, running shoes, dress shoes – go into the closet. He lets Sam tackle the kitchen junk: pots, plates, glasses, utensils, and one ruined coffeemaker. He puts his shampoo and bodywash in the shower, hangs up a new shower curtain, and places his toothbrush and razor in the cabinet. Then Dean shoves the last two boxes with his personal shit – books, records, a couple framed pictures, and faded posters he’s had since he was a teenager – into the corner for later, because he can’t do anything with them until he buys a bookshelf. And that’s it. Dean’s entire life packed and then unpacked in 14 cardboard boxes Sam picked up from Costco.
Sam and him just sort of stare at the one-room apartment for a few seconds after they’re done. It isn’t exactly homey. Dean didn’t bring any furniture from Sam’s place with him, even though Sam told him he could, but that shit was Sam’s, and Dean’d already taken more than enough from his brother. So, the apartment is still totally empty; now there are just a bunch of empty cardboard boxes everywhere.
“You know you really can stay another night with me,” Sam offers half-heartedly because he’s already asked, and Dean’s already told him no.
“Pull-out’s coming in tomorrow, Sammy,” Dean replies. “I can handle one night on the floor.”
“Yeah, well don’t come crying to me about your stiff back,” Sam replies.
“Get out of here and get us pizza.” Dean dismisses his brother with a snap of his wrist. Sam rolls his eyes, but he snatches his keys from the counter and heads out the door.
After Sam leaves, Dean takes a minute to breathe. He loves his brother. He really does. But Sammy is just – a lot. With all his reassurances and careful eyes and constant questions. He remembers what Pam said about moving, about how any transition was a stressor, that it was important to check in with his body and mind whenever he’s feeling overwhelmed.
He thinks about what happened on the stairs. And Sam is a trigger. Sam has always been a trigger. Dean knows this. And when he knows something, it makes it easier to control.
Not control, the reminder sounds like Pam: manage.
And Dean can manage. He’s going to fucking manage.
Dean mops his forehead with his sleeve, being careful not to tangle up the amulet around his neck, and the fabric comes away damp. Castiel was right; Dean needs to buy an AC. Moving around in the small, suffocating room has left him drenched in sweat. He could technically strip down to his shirtsleeves, like Sam had done before they even started carrying the boxes, but Dean hadn’t wanted to risk running into anyone, like Castiel, on the stairs when he wasn’t wearing his overshirt. He’s technically free to change now, but he’s never been super comfortable bearing a lot of skin under his brother’s gaze, either.
Instead, he crosses the room to the window in the far wall. He hoists open the sash, letting the heavy scent of city summer air spill into the room: burnt rubber, wet dog, and weed. His window opens onto the fire escape. The scaffolding extends under his neighbor’s window, as well. Whoever lives there has a miniature jungle of dying plants. Dean spots a pathetic-looking tomato plant and some sort of cactus. The buildings are set so close together, Dean can practically see into the windows across the alley, so he adds curtains to his mental shopping list.
There’s nowhere to sit in the apartment except for the counter or the floor. Dean chooses the floor. He lays down and stares at the ceiling for a little while before he gets bored and pulls out his phone, but then he remembers Pam made him get rid of all his fun apps because she wants him to work on being intentional about sexuality or some shit, instead of turning to porn whenever he gets bored. Dean huffs in annoyance but successfully ignores the urge to re-download Pornhub or Tinder.
Instead, he shuffles through his music library until he lands on Zeppelin. He puts his phone on his stomach and counts the water stains on his new ceiling.
Sam arrives back with the pizza and a couple bags of groceries. Dean gets off the floor as soon as Sam comes through the door; Sam has found him lying on the ground and staring at nothing a few more times than necessary.
The plastic bags rustle as Dean inspects his spoils, and he draws out a sack of green stuff and demands, “the fuck is this shit?”
“You like broccoli, Dean,” Sam says.
“Vicious lies,” Dean says. He pulls out a bunch of bananas next and feigns vomiting. Among the assortment of fruit and vegetables, Sam did manage to buy a few edible items, including a packet of ground beef, milk, eggs, and even – thank God –some of that thick cut Canadian bacon that’s almost better than the strip stuff.
“These are going home with you. I don’t eat apples,” Dean says, swinging a sack of golden delicious at Sam’s head. Sam ducks.
“You do know what apple pies are made of, right?” Sam says.
“Yeah, fucking deliciousness,” Dean shoots back. “Not this shit.”
“Those are the sweet ones,” Sam protests. “You eat them with peanut butter – I’ve seen you!”
“If you didn’t get proper pizza, I’m throwing you out the window,” Dean warns as he dives for one of the pizza boxes and pulls open the lid. He’s relieved to find one regular peperoni and one meat-lovers, as it should be.
He immediately pulls out a piece and inhales it in two bites, suddenly ravenous. Moving house is hard work. Sam gives him an annoyed but fond look as he finishes tucking Dean’s groceries into the various nooks and crannies of his kitchen, then he grabs his own slice of peperoni.
They eat standing at the counter, trading jibes and snatching fallen toppings. Sam bought a liter of Coke to share, and Dean can’t wait until his brother’s finally out of here and Dean can buy beer again without being judged.
Sam insists on washing their dishes afterward, and Dean would have argued harder against it, I’m not a fucking invalid, Sam, except that Dean actually hates doing the dishes - all that grime that gets under his fingernails - and there’s no harm in putting his little brother to work.
“Alright, Sammy, get out of here,” Dean says finally, after Sam has to dry his hands on his jeans because dishtowels are apparently another aspect of domestic life Dean lacks. “House is yours now. Go bone your new girlfriend, what’s her face.”
“Her name’s Eileen,” Sam grunts, ducking his face so Dean won’t see him blush.
“Can’t keep track of them all,” Dean replies.
“You’re one to talk,” Sam retorts. Which is fair. But Dean’s all about hookup culture; Sammy’s a serial dater, and that’s almost worse, because at least with Dean there’s no strings attached. Sam starts picking out kids’ names if someone agrees to go on a second date with him.
“Yeah, well, at least I’m not cramping your style anymore, right?” Dean says. “You can finally invite her over.”
“That’s not why you wanted to move, right?” Sam says, with that ridiculous wrinkle between his eyebrows that means he’s serious. “Cause you know that –”
“Yes, Sam,” Dean cuts him off. “I wanted to move for me, ‘kay? Not for you,” which is only partly true. Sammy’s closer to the real reason than Dean will ever let him realize.
“And you know I’m really proud of you, right?” Sam says, still with that stupid constipated look on his face, twisting up his mouth and making him look even more like a dufus.
“God, Sam,” Dean says. He takes ahold of Sam’s shoulder and forces him toward the door. “Get the hell out before you poison the air.”
“And call me, Dean,” Sammy keeps talking. Rattling on a mile a minute because he knows his time grows short. “I can be here in 15 minutes if you need anything. Anything. And Bobby’s around, too –”
“Sammy, Jesus. This is my place, right? So that means I reserve the right to kick you the hell out of it.”
“Fine, fine!” Sam says, and he bats Dean’s hands off his shoulders. But then he only turns to tug Dean into a fierce hug. “Love you, jerk,” he says over Dean’s shoulder.
“Yeah. Yeah. You too, bitch,” Dean says. He claps Sam twice on the back, and they both release. “Now fuck off my front porch.”
Sam meets Dean’s smile with a bright grin of his own, and then he’s throwing one last wave over his shoulder and turning down the hall. Dean shuts the door after him, and then that’s it. Alone at last. Really alone. A sigh of relief slides out of his lips, and he shuts his eyes. There’s nothing left to do but put the leftover pizza in the fridge, so Dean does that. And then he looks at the barren floor of his apartment, sighs again, and this time it’s not quite relief that’s tugging at the base of his ribs, and he figures he might as well recount the water stains on the ceiling.