Goodbye. The word haunts Dean Winchester like the sound of gunshots to veterans. He's never been good at send offs. He tends to just sneak away, avoiding the situation at all costs. He had the reputation of running from goodbyes as I they were the cops and he was selling drugs. There is surely some psychological reason that could be detected, but he never bothered to look into it. As far as Dean was concerned, this was the way everyone should leave; without another word. It was how his father had trained him and his younger brother to, sneaking out of towns in the middle of the night, no reasoning, just unanswered questions from two little boys in the back, huddling because they weren't sure how sober dad was, and the twinkling lights of cities growing dim as they ripped down the back roads onto a new place. A new home. A new damn world. It's honestly surprising they hadn't run out of small towns. Dean spent his middle school years wondering if they'd wind up in a new country next time.
The twenty three year old was breaking records left and right, having spent a whole two years in the same dinky apartment. It was originally to help his brother with the cost of college, a large majority of the cost coming from room and board. However, midway between his sophomore semesters of college, Sam decided he wanted to live with his girlfriend and Dean was coming up on four months alone in his apartment without moving. It was dangerous for him. The last time he had spent this much time in a place, the goodbye killed him.
The clock goes off at nine in the morning, and the coffee pot dings half an hour later to actually move the legarthic mess out of bed. Dean ran on coffee and two minuet meals. The last time he had eaten something that didn't come out of a wrapper for dinner was when Sam forced him to go on a date about a month ago. His little brother, who now towered over Dean, unknowingly gave him a pretty good lay, his new newest coworker at the bar, and a friend, even though Dean would never admit it. Meg was the second female of a small handful of friends Dean had. Charlie, the expressive redhead that Dean claims is too smart to be hanging around him, was the mans best friend. She often served as his third alarm, coming in at 10 to drag Deans ass out of bed when alarms one and two failed to rouse him.
Today, Dean is not only awake but in the middle of pouring himself a third cup of coffee, walking around his apartment in sweats, when Charlie swings the door open with a chipper "good morning!" that resonates throughout the loft apartment. The acoustics were a factor which pushed Dean into this apartment, and also pushed Sam out of it.
"Coffee?" Dean offers, leaning against his counter as his friend drops her laptop bag on Deans couch and starts setting up. Along with her assistance in waking Dean in the midmorning and keeping him company, Charlie helps the Winchester boy in setting up street fights.
"No thank you. You really shouldn't drink so much of that. It can't be healthy for you." Charlie points out, gaining an eye roll as Dean joins her on the couch.
"You sound like Sam."
"He's smart. You should listen to him."
"What's the worst that can happen?"
"Oh, Winchester, you of all people should know better than to say those words." Charlie flashes a grin at him and shakes her head. "All I mean is maybe you would fight better if you ate better."
"Check your bank account, kid, I fight just fine." Dean grinned, streaching out on the couch. Street fighting started with his drunk bar fights, both when throwing people out and being thrown out. When people started to crowd around and made bets, Dean put the system to work for him. Sometimes there was an admission fee of sorts, othertimes they just got enough off of bets alone. It pays rent and helps with Sams college, and that's all Dean wants. He has little reason to have spending cash.
"We've got two for after your shift tonight. Can you handle two, smart ass?" Charlie asks, flipping through her laptop and clacking rapidly on the keys as she multitasks. "They're both big money. Ones willing to charge admission."
"Sounds good to me." Dean agrees, finishing his coffee and standing. "I'm gonna work out. Wanna come?"
"I suppose." Charlie agrees with a sigh, starting to collect her equipment. "But I've got work to do, so I can't promise talking." She warns, following one of two rooms the loft contains, the other being a bathroom. This once at one point Sams room but is now a containment area for Deans punching bag and weights. He doesn't have much but it keeps him fit without having to leave his apartment.
The next few hours are passed by Dean pounding on a bag suspending from his ceiling, dripping sweat into puddles on his loft floor while Charlie sits in the corner, silently working on whatever project she had going on now; Dean knew better than to ask. Her explanations of her work typically came out in what Dean could recognize as English but couldn't understand. She was brilliant, and a great friend. What she did in her time, if it be confusing or even illegal, meant little to him.
"We should get lunch." The first words spoken in the loft in close two hours were from Charlie who finally glanced down at the clock in the corner of her screen.
"Sam wanted to get lunch. I'll see if he's still up for it." Dean responds after a moment, grabbing water from the side of the room and wiping the sweat from his face. "If I can find my phone." He admits with a weak smile, ignoring the horrified look from his friend. Dean lost phones like pennies sometimes.
When he finally retrieved it from the crack between the wall and his bed, Dean diled his brothers number, which was on speed dial and waited through the ringing while he tried to change one handed. Eventually Charlie took the phone from him.
Dean flashed her a grin and went to shower after she waved him off. When he stepped out ten minuets later, he had a lunch date with his brother. Charlie sat on his bed, handing him clothing and talking about what she was working on her laptop. Dean understood maybe a quarter of it but it seems to help her work out the kinks, so he listens.
Charlie tosses Dean a shirt about the same time his buzzer goes off. Dean groans loudly when going to answer it, and simply throws his shoulder against the button unstead of pressing it. "Yeah?"
"Is Mr.Winchester home?"
"Speaking."
"Sir, this is Captain Knox of the united states air force."
"Why are you here?" Dean demands, his heart jumping into his throat. Military never meant anything good to him. Government never meant anything good to him. He knew better than to be anything but careful.
"It is about Airman Novak. A Castiel Novak?" The man stated, his voice grim. The name sent Dean into silence. He froze in his spot, hands starting to shake, stomach doing summersaults. "Please, Mr.Winchester, I would much rather do this face to face.."
Dean, saying nothing in response, rings the man up with a blank stare. Charlie, noting the look on her friends face, and the fact he has yet to pull his shirt on, stands and rushes across the room to Dean.
"Who's Novak? What is he talking about? Dean?" Charlies panicked hands hardly registered on Deans clammy skin. Everything was a blur to him. He was back pressed with Castiel in bed, hearing his laughter ring as it clashed with the sobs that tore holes into Deans heart. Cradling the skinny boy he fell in love with on the cold floor, wishing he could take his pain. He was leaving the house in the middle of the night, fingers shaking from leaving a folded note in his lovers trench coat and his heart on the floor. Street fighter Dean was gone, and the lanky, leather clad high school senior was back. The teenager, supposedly hardened through years of abuse, who melted at the indescribable, heart stopping shade of blue that belonged to Castiel alone.
"Dammit.." Are the only words he can manage in the mere months that to Charlie seemed like only moments before Knox arrives at his door. "Damn him."
Knocks words came across as nothing but blurs but Dean caught the important ones. "Novak." "Joined air force years ago" "Missing in action" "Your name was the only contact we could find, so this flag.. belongs to you. I'm so sorry for your loss.."
"It's... okay. I thought I lost him years ago." Were the words Dean meant to speak, but he could only get one out before he closed the door in the captains face and was left with nothing but a flag that showed the colors he felt; red for pain, blue for depression, white for numb.
"Goodbye."
