---AN: Okay, so, the chapters on this one will be relatively short, but hopefully they're good. I'll work on getting a cover for this one soon, and this should be a rather long one, and you'll see why by about the third or fourth chapter. :-) Now, to the story! Enjoy, and thank you for reading!---
Dean Winchester was having a rather bad day at first.
Once he woke up for work- 5pm, on the dot- he heard yelling from his landowners. Another screaming match over their daughter, who was presumably out with her boyfriend.
"Typical," Dean muttered, scrubbing at his eyes. "They should just get a divorce already. Already know the damn guy's cheating on his wife and it's damn obvious she's cheating on him." He rolled out of bed and slipped into the shower, washing off yesterday's bar stench off of his skin with cold water and cheap soap and out of his hair with stolen shampoo. Afterward, standing in the miniscule bathroom, Dean fixed his hair up in the tiny mirror with petroleum jelly, towel hanging low on his waist.
He then fixed himself a quick mug of coffee and downed it black before getting dressed. His black v-neck shirt rested on his torso in a good fit and made him feel better than average, and God knew he needed that today of all days. Cold showers and weak black coffee were not Dean's thing. Neither was waking up to screaming. He slid his arms into his navy jean jacket's sleeves as he left the garage apartment, keys and wallet in his pocket, annoyed frown on his face. He rushed down the stairs and to his Baby, a slightly rusted black 1967 Chevrolet Impala. He slid his hand over the hood as he walked around to the driver's side with a sigh. "Oh, Baby, please start today," he whispered as he settled into the seat. The key slid into the ignition all right. That was good... Dean turned the key and listened to the sputter of the engine as it tried to flip over to no avail. Cursing, Dean tried again.
Finally, on the eighth try, the engine burst to life. Dean whooped and hit the wheel joyfully, shifting into reverse and pushing the gas as he looked back.
At this rate, he was going to be shaving a second off of his shift. Dean pulled into the parking lot of the bar and rushed inside, punching in his card just when the clock hit 6. A smile brushed across his lips. At least one thing went right. He took a deep breath and grabbed an apron, tying the white fabric around his waist.
Next thing Dean knew, he was pushing a beer across the counter and flirting shamelessly with four women at once. He was even playfully flirting with a few guys to balance it out. After all, how could a guy be bisexual and pay more attention to one gender when there were perfectly willing victims at the disposal? He winked at the particularly attractive tan-skinned, long-haired, sultry-eyed brunette casting glances his way and smirked, letting his eyes brush over her and her skimpy outfit.
Attention turned to the guy who had just taken a seat at the bar, Dean leaned forward slightly and tapped the counter twice with three fingers in front of the guy, who was looking down. "You got an order, Constantine?"
***
Castiel looked up at the bartender with a confused look. "Constantine?" His eyes met the expectant moss colored ones of the bartender and he shook his head. Most references went over his head anyway. "Just whiskey."
"On the rocks?"
"No."
"Double?"
"Triple," Castiel sighed.
"Rough day, hot stuff?" The bartender slid the glass in front of Castiel with a smile. Castiel just glared in response. "I'll take that as a yes. Holler if you need a bit more."
Only after Castiel nodded did the guy move on to the next customer. Slender fingers slid around the glass in front of Castiel and he drained the glass in a few gulps. The cheap alcohol burned down his throat like fire, but the effect it left was definitely going to be worth it.
The burn of being rejected- yet again- was worse than the whiskey and left only a solemn effect on Castiel. His novel was never going to sell. Why hadn't he stopped trying after that tenth rejection?
His fingers pushed into the bridge of his nose. Damn publishing companies. The glass he had previously drained was plucked out of his hands and Castiel opened his eyes again to find the drink being held out to him again.
"Give me a second and we can talk. You look like you need someone." The bartender grinned at him and slid the heavy glass into Castiel's hand again before slipping down the bar again replenish a few more beers.
The actual bar, not the establishment, was starting to clear up as people got their drinks and started to migrate toward the makeshift dance floor and tables. Sweat and beer flooded Castiel's nose and made him shake his head. Why had he chosen to come here? Yeah, he wanted to get drunk, but he could easily do that at home. He definitely had enough alcohol at home to get drunk four times over.
"Okie dokie, Constantine, talk to me. What's eating out your stomach?"
"This cheap ass whiskey," Castiel raised the glass, feeling his lip twitch when the bartender threw his head back and laughed. This one seemed like a guy who put his all in everything he did, no matter how minor it was. He liked that. It made for a good character. "Publishing company. I got turned down for the thirtieth time today."
"Was it the backwards tie?" The man gestured down at Castiel's tie.
The writer snorted, lifting the tie with his forefinger and thumb. It was backwards. "Doubt it, but it could have been a contributor. Apparently my novel isn't exciting enough and requires too much editing."
"You're joshing me." Bartender Man leaned his crossed arms on the counter in front of Castiel. "Editing? Why would they be worried about that?"
"It slows down the process of publishing," Castiel guessed out loud. "It's stupid, but they'll always find something wrong with it. Companies never want to spend money on things that are worth it."
"This novel of yours. It's worth reading?"
"If you like boring shit."
"Then it's perfect for my brother. You got a copy?"
"No," Castiel frowned. "Does your brother have an email?" He raised his glass to his lips as Dean pulled out a napkin and a sharpie from under the counter. Castiel watched as he scrawled an email across the middle of the napkin, then a number under that.
"My brother's email is there, just send him the file and tell him I thought he'd like it. And that," the guy said with a flourish of the marker as he wrote the last number, "is my number. You call me if you run into trouble with anything. Always good to have an ear to listen than a mouth to criticize."
Castiel accepted the napkin and smiled, glancing down at it. Bartender Man had included his name with his number and his brother's name with the email.
"Thank you, Dean. I'll keep that in mind."
