Beneath the Spotlight. A Destiel Story

O Brother, Where Art Thou?

“O Brother, Where Art Thou?”

The soft morning light hits Dean’s face when he turns onto his back. He rubs his eyes and squints, glancing at the empty space in his bed. He decides not to feel the loneliness. He checks his phone for the time and groans. Not even fucking 8:00. He sighs and tries to fall back asleep, but it’s no use; he’s awake. He sits up and scratches the back of his head and rubs a hand along the stubble on his jaw.

The house is quiet when he opens his bedroom door. He glances down the hall and sees the basement still a mess from last night’s party. There are some people sleeping on the couches and the floor; someone is sleeping on the pool table which doesn’t make Dean impressed, but he crosses the hall and slips into the bathroom.

He grimaces when he turns on the light, an instant headache at the front of his skull. He looks around the bathroom and frowns. It’s a mess. There are ashes on the counter as well as in the sink, an unfinished line of coke that makes Dean’s stomach turn, and a used condom lying over the trashcan. He’s pretty sure there’s puke along the edge of the toilet seat.

Nice.

He turns to start the shower, pulling back the curtain to see someone passed out in the tub. He jumps back, startled, his elbow hitting the towel rack. The person wakes up abruptly when the metal rod crashes to the floor.

“Jesus Christ! What the fuck are you doing?” Dean exclaims. “Get the fuck out of my bathroom!”

The guy crawls out of the tub hastily and shuffles his way around Dean and out of the bathroom, leaving the door open. Dean slams it shut, not caring about anyone else in the basement. He clenches his fists and rubs a hand over his face. He sighs as he grabs a bottle of cleaning solution and cloths from the cupboard under the sink. He cleans the entire bathroom before he starts a shower.

This is not what he had in mind for his Sunday morning.

He steps into the tub and leans into the water, letting it warm his body. It hits his back, hot like fire, and he thinks of the tattoo on his back—the phoenix, reborn from the ashes; ablaze. He suddenly feels a pang of guilt for treating Castiel so coldly last night.

Fuck, he still doesn’t have his number.

He takes his time washing up and gets out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist, and brushes his teeth before making his way back to his room. He sifts through the ‘clean’ pile of clothes on the floor in search of a shirt, when his phone starts buzzing on his bed.

JOHN WINCHESTER CALLING.

Dean frowns and almost thinks about not answering it. He swipes open the call.

“Hello?” he grunts.

“Hey Dean,” his father says gruffly in reply. He coughs on the other end and Dean knows he’s smoking a cigarette.

“What,” Dean answers bluntly, picking up a white t-shirt and throwing in on quickly, passing over his phone between hands as he slides through the sleeves.

“What, your old man can’t call you?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Not when he doesn’t need something. What is it?”

“Nothing, just calling to say hi.”

“It’s 9:00 AM on a fucking Sunday, you never just ‘call’, John.”

Dean knows how much his father hates it when he calls him by his first name, but he does it anyways.

“Son, I’m your father. Just—just let me call my boy, alright?”