Also on a Lovecraftian note: apparently one of his friends (who, like Lovecraft, did not drink) expressed the desire to someday try alchohol. Lovecraft responded by writing a short story about a drunken homeless man who dies in the gutter, where the dramatic reveal is that he used to be said friend! He sent that story to him with a postscript reading “Now will you be good?”
The green eyed man bought Cas very many drinks over the span of the past few hours. Like, a lot of very many drinks. It was almost like the green eyed man wanted Cas to get drunk.
Or maybe Cas is really a lightweight like Gabriel tells him he is.
Either way, two a.m. inches closer and the green eyed man asks, “You got a ride home?”
Cas squints his eyes, crinkling his nose in the process, because he’s having trouble seeing. There are two green eyed men staring at him now, lips twitched up in some kind of victorious and hopefully flirtatious smirk. And that thought really does it for Cas…two Hottie McHotFaces plowing into him until he can’t even see straight.
He giggles at the thought. See straight. It’s funny for multiple reasons.
Cas waves a hand at one of them. “I can drive.”
“No can do, buddy,” the man says, and reaches into Cas’ coat pocket for his phone. He flips it open and adds, “Where the hell did you get this fossil?”
“Wal-Mart,” Cas replies, and slides off the barstool.
The green eyed man steadies him, “Whoa there. Alright, I got my tab closed up so let’s just wait outside where it’s nice and cool, then we can figure out who’s gonna take you home.”
“I can driiive,” Cas says as he runs into a wall he swore was a door just a minute ago.
“Sure you can, buddy.”
Outside, Dean flips through Trenchcoat’s contact list. The guy only has about a dozen names in there, one of which is ‘She-Devil’. Dean doesn’t know what that’s about, but he figures that whoever it is, she and Trenchcoat are probably close, so Dean plays roulette and dials.
They’re outside, sitting on the sidewalk in front of the bar. Trenchcoat is leaning against Dean’s shoulder and Dean has his arm wrapped around the guy’s waist. At first Dean was planning on hooking up with him, but they passed the consent line about two hours ago and Dean’s not that much of a douchebag.
A woman picks up on the second ring. She sounds groggy but not surprised. “Castiel?”
“Uhh, no. My name is Dean. I’m assuming the guy in the trenchcoat is Castiel?”
“That would be him. Why do you have his phone?”
“Well, he’s kinda blackout drunk and I’m not too far from it either so I was hoping you could swing by and make sure he gets home safe. You his old lady? Or…ex-old lady?”
“I’m his sister.”
“Ah,” Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose and willing the ground to stop swaying underneath him.
“The Roadhouse?” she asks.
Dean huffs a laugh. “The only bar in town.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
While he waits, Dean puts his number in Castiel’s phone under the name ‘guy at bar-text me in the am’. Castiel is completely passed out against Dean, snoring lightly. Dean tugs him a bit closer to shield them both from the autumn wind, and slides his cell phone into the breast pocket of the trenchcoat.
Minutes later, a rusted old sedan pulls into the empty parking lot. A woman with brown hair climbs out of the car and runs to Castiel’s side.
“Why did you let him get this drunk?” she accuses Dean, pulling a groggy Castiel to standing. He wakes up by the time he’s on his feet.
“Hannah?” Castiel mumbles. “Why’re you interrupting my date?”
Dean smiles at that and stands from the curb, pulling his keys out of his pocket. He’s not going to drive home, probably just crash in the backseat of the Impala until he sobers up at dawn.
“This is not a date,” Hannah replies. “This man got you shitfaced.”
Dean holds his hands up. “I may have bought the drinks but I didn’t force 'em down.”
“Yes, well, next time, keep the drinks to yourself,” Hannah says as she steers Castiel into the passenger seat.
Castiel swats at her hands and makes her chase him around the car. Dean stifles a laugh and the Benny Hill music threatening to escape him.
“You can’t make me, MOM!”
“Castiel that is not funny!”
“You’re just like her! She never let me have any fun either.”
“Get in the car!”
Dean finally steps in and lays a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “C'mon, man. You gotta get home.”
Castiel stops immediately and narrows his eyes. He does the nose-crinkle thing he was doing earlier and Dean bites his lip to keep from grinning.
With a steadying breath, Castiel says, “Thank you…”
“Dean,” Dean supplies, hand still on Cas’ shoulder.
“Thank you, Dean, for a love–lov-e-ly eve-en-ing.”
“Any time, Cas.”
Cas gets in the car and points at Dean. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”
Hannah glares at Dean in a way that makes the name She-Devil seem mild.
“Nice meeting you, Hannah,” Dean says with a wide smile.
She doesn’t take her eyes off him as she slides into the driver’s seat and puts on her seatbelt.
As they drive away, Dean calls behind them, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you both again soon!”
It’s Thanksgiving. Cas is drunk on his…fourth? fifth? glass of wine. Hannah is arguing with Sam about politics, which is exactly why Cas has needed six glasses of wine. Seven, maybe.
It doesn’t really matter, because once the plates are cleared, Dean is dragging Cas into the bedroom to fuck him until he can’t see straight.
Cas giggles to himself on the way up the stairs and mutters, “See straight.”
Dean only hears the punchline of Cas’s joke, but he snortlaughs anyway as he pulls Cas into the bedroom.
You spot visitors because they’re so overflowing with a garish cheerfulness. “It’s so sunny.” The bright, palely yellow light is beating down. It is so sunny. So very sunny.
It hasn’t rained. You can’t even remember in how long.
You recognize people who live here because they know the mantra. “That doesn’t happen here.” Here we are safe. Here history did not happen. Do not ask who dammed every single river. Do not ask who allotted up the valley’s land into farming plots and orchards. Do not ask who was here before 1849. Do not ask where they are now.
Do not ask for directions to the camp at Tule Lake. Do not ask too many questions about Angel Island. Do not ask who built that camp and so much more and if they were even paid. Do not ask who picked the food in the grocery and if they were even paid. Do not ask how offices and streets remain clean and if they were even paid.
People mention Stonewall before Prop 8, Prop 8 before Prop 22, Prop 22 before Assembly Bill 607. Anything else - “That doesn’t happen here.” Gavin Newsom smiles and everyone around you says they feel safe. You try to put into words why you don’t agree. They cannot hear you.
The soft gray of overcast winter clouds has finally come this year. It still won’t rain. It will never rain. Cracks break across the dried clay. The ground is shattering.
The Bay was once a deep port, just like the Central Valley, if you look back far enough in time. The land rose. The land is still rising. What’s rising with it?
“Being homeless here is so easy.” Do not ask why so many people are homeless. You ask your mother how she affords her rent. She shrugs. She pours another glass of two buck chuck. She has her second job in an hour. The bus will probably be down, and she’ll have to drive.