Chapter Text
Dean Winchester liked his life.
If you asked him, it was the best life anyone could have.
He liked waking up at seven fifteen every morning, he liked to read his paper while drinking one of his smoothies.
He enjoyed his thirty minutes ride to work, no radio on of course - over 2 thousand people died every year for distracted driving.
He liked his office, on the fourteenth floor of the Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc. main building, that he got last year, when he got promoted Director of Sales and Marketing. He was happy to work there every day, Monday through Friday, from nine am to six pm. And if sometimes he thought back at when he was twenty, working at Bobby garage and – like his father rightfully kept reminding him – wasting away his potential, then that was just a good push to going on Saturdays, even if just for a few hours, so that Zachariah knew he was grateful for the opportunity they gave him
He liked his apartment, on the eight floor of a new building complex that costs him a lot but hey, it's worth it.
He liked knowing what was going to happen everyday, be it exercise with is at home equipment or date night with Cassie, his girlfriend of two years now. What's more romantic than weekly scheduled appointments at the same restaurant, where everything was always the same. Predictable.
He liked meal-prepping on Sunday night, so that during the week he wouldn't have to think about what to eat.
He had complete control over his schedule, planning every hour of every day to make sure everything was smooth sailing.
The definition of a good life.
That's why he's smiling now, on a very predictable Thursday morning, walking into the elevator at eight twenty. He presses the button for the underground parking lot, dusting away from his blue blazer a small black feather that had come to rest on his left shoulder. He looked at it fly to the ground, his smile slowly dying on his lips and a confused expression growing in between his eyebrows but before he could think about a possible explanation a raspy, high pitched voice calls his attention
"Hold the doors!"
Dean quickly places a hand in front of the elevator sensor, the doors silently retreat and letting Mrs Worton and her teacup chihuahua in.
"Thank you dear!" the woman chirps, patting once his arm with a wrinkled hand while the dog sitting in her purse snaps his miniaturized jaws at him.
Dean smiles back politely but takes a step to the side to get his personal space back. Mrs Worton, 78, lived on the same floor as him, in 6F. Dean apartment was 6G, and in 6H, the apartment in front of his, lived Mr. Minder, who was closer to 90. Thankfully for Dean they were that kind of old people who didn't talk very much, just the usual "good morning" "good evening" or "lovely weather, isn't it?". The ride down was pleasant; however, Dean couldn't help but relax a little after Mrs. Worton got out of the elevator at 0, leaving him alone for the rest of the ride to the underground parking lot.
He walks the short distance to his car, a silver Prius, his steps echoing in the humid air, taking off his jacket before sitting in and wearing his seat belt. A screeching sound forces him to look up in his review mirror, just in time to see a black Honda nsx skid out of the parking lot. He shakes his head. The Rouwen's son of 8L. That boy was going to cause an accident sooner or later.
His eyes go back to his reflection, and he notices his hair had gotten a little longer. He should remember to cut them before Saturday's lunch with his family, the last time he hadn't for the whole day his Dad had made comments about it - apparently his brother shoulder length hair didn't bother him as much, but on him... John was right of course. He worked in a respectable office, he couldn't go around looking like a hippie.
His whole day turned out to be more stressful than he'd had anticipated. The company's profit had started to sink a couple a months before and his work had become... well he liked to use the term erratic when Cassie asked about it during their Tuesday date nights. A nightmare sounded a bit too much like complaining, something he didn't allow himself to do. What did he have to complain? If he got better, than is work would not be as difficult as it was starting to be.
He's rubbing his temples, staring at the phone that he had just hung up, trying to decide if 3 pm was too late for lunch. His side hurt, again. Had been for the past three weeks. He knew aspirin on an empty stomach was not ideal, but the salad with spinach and walnuts really didn't look as appetizing as that morning, and he was excepting a call in twenty minutes. Pressing a hand on his side he bent slowly to pick an orange rattling bottle out of the lower drawer of his desk, downing a white pill without water.
The rest of the day passed as slowly as it could, and at half past six he was finally driving home - working late had become a regular thing in the past couple of weeks. He didn’t mind. Or at least he didn’t complain. “Men don’t complain, they get the job done” John always said. He was right.
It was Thursday, and that meant going for his usual run. He didn't really feel like it, his stomach still burned unpleasantly, but Dean had noticed that in the past months he was looking rather bloated, so he needed the work out. Walking into his apartment he let the key fall into the bowl at the entrance, strolling into his bedroom, that was just next to the front door, to change. Unfortunately, he hadn't had the time for laundry that week and all he had were a light gray shirt and slightly darker gray shorts. It was the end of September, the weather was still perfect. It wasn't the anticipation of getting cold that made him scrunch his nose while pulling the pants up. He just didn't like to wear them because one time, when he'd just moved in and all his clothes were still in boxes around the house, his father had picked them up and laughed, asking him if he'd stolen some girl's pants.
He looks down at his bare, pale, bowed legs with a defeated sigh. Those pants were truly too short, they barely arrived at mid-thigh. Murmuring a weak "let's get this over with" he grabs his phone and keys, walking out and turning to lock his door. He ready to walk to the elevator when sniffing the air makes him stop in his track. A weird, pungent smell was permeating the corridor, seemingly coming from 6H. He decides to walk closer. Yes, it was definitely coming from there. A gas leak maybe.
"Mr. Minder?" Dean calls, knocking once on the door. He waits for a minute, then raises his hand again, ready to knock a little harder, when the lock clicks and the white door slowly opens. But it 's not Mr. Minder that appears.
Dean can't help but swallow hard on nothing, his throat suddenly bone dry, while the dark haired man leans on the door frame.
"May I help you?"
Dean was not sure what unsettled him the most. The fact that he was only wearing black slacks and two huge synthetic black wings strapped around his bare chest with a harness, his deep - way too deep to be human - blue eyes, or his voice, low, gravelly. His body was fit, not very muscly, his tanned abdomen flat and smooth, his hips jut out, and his chest looked firm against the black laces.
It's when Dean realizes he's making eye contact with his nipples that he imperceptibly shakes his head asking again:
"Mr. Minder?" he asks again after a moment, somehow finding hard to control the pitch of his voice. The dark-haired man smiles, his eyes trailing down Dean's figure, and Dean doesn't miss the twitch of his eyebrow when they slowly raise back again
"If that is what you want me to call you, fine by me" the man purrs at last, and Dean shivers, sticking his hands into his pants to try and make them look baggier. He'd never felt so exposed in his life, and suddenly the corridor is way too warm even for just wearing a t-shirt and short shorts.
"I’m... looking for Mr. Minder. Are you his son, perhaps?"
The man shrugs, making the feathers behind him shimmer, crossing his arms in front of his chest, and Dean can’t help but notice the lean muscles in his forearms.
"Sorry, I don't know him"
"He lives in 6H" Dean insist, not knowing why. Every fiber of his body was telling him to just walk away.
"Well, he's not in here now"
Dean stands silently, his brain seemingly having logged off for the day, his blood pumping in all directions but the one he really needed, his head. He finally rebooted when the man in front of him flexed one harm, bringing a joint to his lips. Apparently, his eyes came back to life too.
"I apologize for my rude behavior, do you want a hit?"
The man offers him the blunt and Dean jumps back almost as in between his long fingers there was a tarantula and not a joint, but before he can speak the elevator's door slide open, letting a tall, blonde woman stroll out.
Panic settles in Dean's chest before he realizes he has nothing to panic about. He was not the one holding the drug. But the woman didn't seem to care about the pungent smell or the huge wings. She clicks her stilettos to a halt right in front of him, eyeing him with a raised eyebrow.
"Are you Jimmy?" she asks, pulling a leather whip out of her black purse like it's something you do.
Dean takes a quick step back, the blood that had traveled south completely draining up.
"Sorry, that's me" the low voice interjects, before he can say something, or worst squeal.
The woman smiles.
"Too bad" she states, unceremoniously pushing blue eyes back inside, closing the door behind her.
Dean doesn't know how long he stands there, looking at the bright copper H6 sign on the white painted wood. But he does take an extra lap on his run, the image of those blue eyes imprinted on his corneas, the joint smell still tickling his nose. Once back he steps out of the elevator cautiously. The hallway is empty, the smell had disappeared. He trots to his door, quickly glancing back at 6H and shaking his head. Nothing good was going to come from that apartment. It was better if he just pretended that encounter never happened. He slides in his home, making a mental note to never talk to his neighbors again.