Chapter Text
Of all the places Dean’s visited, LA has got to be the shittiest.
On the surface, it’s nice enough. Palm trees and hella beaches make up for the plastic that lives under half the population’s skin. Even Dean’s gotta admit that Lawrence’s warmest winter doesn’t even compare to LA’s coldest. And it doesn’t hurt that his time in LA is spent getting chauffeured from hotel to high rise to stadium and then back again.
That doesn’t count though. Sipping champagne in some executive’s office isn’t real. It doesn’t belong to him. It belongs to his dad, who’s currently slouched over on an expensive leather couch and sipping a smoothie that some assistant raced across town to find.
Dean’s reality is grounded in grit and that’s exactly what he prefers. He charms his way through life with a wink and a boyish grin, and when that doesn’t work, he uses his screat weapon. The power of his last name. Plus, he’s attractive and knows it. That certainly doesn’t hurt either. Definitely more of a help than a hindrance when bouncers get strict about ID.
Last night, though, Dean slipped into the club with no problem. He knows it was in large part to trailing behind among his dad’s crew; a mix of assistants and roadies and a few other randoms Dean couldn’t name even if he tried.
He got separated from his dad pretty quickly after that. The two of them came to a mutual agreement to do their own thing in situations like this. Dean’s cool with it. He definitely prefers not having his old man hanging around while he tries to score. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when his dad only gives him a nod of acknowledgement when they end up at the bar at the same time.
He doesn’t see his dad for the rest of the night, but it’s fine. In fact, he barely remembers the night at all, but that’s no different than usual. When he wakes up, his head is pounding and Dean blinks until the cloudiness in his vision gives way to clarity. It’s difficult to find his bearings when the immediate feeling he’s hit with is overall shit. He can’t decide if his stomach or his head hurts more, and favors turning off his brain instead of thinking.
He’s in a hotel room, but not one he recognizes. He’s sandwiched between two sleeping bodies on one of the beds and does a quick check between the three of them. They’re all in various states of undress, but no one’s missing underwear so Dean counts that as a win.
He slides out of bed as smoothly as possible and stumbles to the bathroom, ignoring the person sleeping in the tub as he relieves himself. Even if the dude woke up, Dean’s confident he’d never see him again. Besides, he’s only got another week left in LA before they’re off to Phoenix.
He finds his jeans quickly enough, haphazardly under a pile of hotel blankets and towels. He checks the pockets and is pleasantly surprised to find his last fifty-dollar bill, but no key card for his hotel room. Shit. Well, at least he’s not out fifty bucks.
He finds some girl’s purse abandoned on the dresser and rifles through it, nearly whooping in celebration when he finds a bottle of Advil. He immediately swallows four of them dry. He stops cold when he sees a Xanax prescription at the bottom of the purse. Dean doesn’t even hesitate before pulling it out and getting the cover off.
But then he thinks of Jimmy and decides that’s probably not a good idea.
It’s not like Dean’s an addict or anything, pills and weed are fun, but having an ex-addict for a friend really changes a person’s stance in a flash. Even though Dean’s never met Jimmy in real life, a part of him feels like he’d be betraying his friend’s recovery if he started popping his own pills.
And even though Dean’s sure he’d be able to keep himself under control, he is a little scared of accidentally overdosing. It probably wouldn’t help his dad’s already shaky reputation if his son turned into tabloid fodder despite Dean already being halfway there.
He knows he could call the driver to come pick him up, but Dean decides to take his walk of shame in stride. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that morning and he knows he doesn’t look pretty, but Dean thinks he needs it. He needs to walk through downtown LA and weave his way through the people going to work and be ignored when he tries asking for directions. It’s probably good for his ego or whatever.
It takes him nearly forty minutes to get back to the hotel. He’s a little surprised that no one recognized him. Or maybe someone did and they just didn’t stop him or think he was worth talking to. Besides, it’s not like he’s a celebrity. He’s modeled before and made a couple TV appearances here and there, but this life isn’t about him.
His dad is the rock star here. His dad is the one who blew up after getting back from Vietnam. His dad is the one who released album after album, went on world tour after world tour, and never settled down for more than a few months at a time.
Dean remembers a house in Lawrence and stability for the first four years of his life. It’s been tour buses and hotel rooms and moving around ever since. His dad chose the rock star life, and dived in completely after his mom died. Family doesn’t turn people into rock stars so Dean tries to stay out of his dad’s way.
He has a room at Bobby’s along with an open invitation, but he can’t just leave his dad. It’s his dad. Maybe that’s unimportant to Sam, but it means something to Dean.
So, Dean stays. He sees the world, and if he’s lucky, his dad, and tries to find something to hold onto. Sam’s weekly phone calls do a pretty good job, but nothing is more grounding than an email from Jimmy.
Dean knows he looks out of place as he saunters into his hotel, but he also knows that the employees know who he is. So even though his hair and clothes and general appearance are one giant mess, they won’t say anything in fear of being blacklisted.
Thank you, Hollywood.
“Hey,” Dean greets the front desk worker. He eyes the name tag and flashes his most charming smile. “Greg. I need another copy of my room key. Luxury Grand Suite. Thanks.”
“Of course, Mr. Winchester.”
Dean waits, drumming his fingers against the expensive marble. He fiddles with the leaves of a plant sitting on the counter until a key card is slid toward him.
“Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
“Yeah, um, do you guys have a business center here? Or a place to check email?”
The man narrows his eyes. “We do. However, it is typically reserved for guests conducting business.”
“Hey, I got business.” No reaction. “Just checking my email, dude. Not looking for porn. I’ll be ten minutes, tops.”
The guy doesn’t even crack a smile, but Dean holds his ground until the guy finally decides that Dean must not be worth it and points him in the right direction.
Dean tries to not appear too eager, but he doesn’t know who he’s kidding. He’s been looking forward to checking his email since he woke up. He and Jimmy write to each other every few days, usually whenever one of them gets a chance. Dean sent his last email a couple nights ago and he can usually count on a response pretty soon after. He can’t believe it’s only been a couple months of talking. A part of him feels like he’s known Jimmy for a lot longer. Even though he doesn’t know much about the guy besides the fact that he lives in Chicago and that he’s got a history of pumping his body full of poison. They don’t really talk about that stuff. Dean knows the point of this pen pal program is probably to get them to open up, but he much prefers shooting the shit with some faceless guy.
It’s pretty easy to stay away from the heavy stuff since they don’t even know each other’s real names. The fake names were done at Dean’s insistence and it wasn’t difficult to get his probation officer to agree. The guy was just thrilled Dean was willing to go along with this. The anonymity is nice for a change. Dean doesn’t like the disadvantage of someone knowing his name and then thinking they know who he is just because they’re a fan of his dad’s music. There’s something about keeping his name hidden that makes this whole thing feel more real.
Sure enough, a new email is waiting for him, and it probably says something that he opens that one before the one he spies from Sam sitting in his inbox.
Michael,
I’ve never been to California before. You know, I’ve never even seen the ocean. My apartment overlooks Lake Michigan, but I don’t think it’s the same. I guess I’ll just have to continue living vicariously through you. I know you haven’t mentioned the reason for your constant traveling besides your dad’s job, but I’ve created an elaborate backstory in my head.
You come from a long line of clowns. In fact, your great-great-great grandfather was the inventor of the original red nose. When he tried trademarking the red nose, the inventor of Rudolph got angry and challenged him to a duel. Your great-great-great grandfather was victorious, however he was charged for murder and was forced to flee. Your family has been on the run ever since.
I don’t care if that’s true or not. I believe it to be true and therefore it is.
Use sunscreen and don’t die of heatstroke, okay? You’re the only person I can bitch to about Anna. So you can’t die for my own selfish reasons. Got it?
Do me a favor and go piss on the Walk of Fame. I think it’d be funny. Just know that I’m pissing with you in solidarity.
Jimmy
Dean couldn’t wipe the grin off his face if he tried. He genuinely never knows what to expect out of Jimmy’s emails. The guy is weird as hell and eccentric and way too cool for him. Dean hopes Jimmy’s also getting something out of their correspondence, even if Dean’s emails are mostly just whining about his life.
The email was sent last night, just over fifteen hours ago, and Dean drums his fingers against the desk and wonders if it’s too soon to write back.
Screw it. It’s not like Dean could out-weird this guy. Besides, a part of him feels like there’s nothing he could say or do that would make Jimmy think less of him. That’s a scary feeling to acknowledge, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let those instincts take the wheel for a change.
Jimmy,
A clown on the run for murder? Really, dude? If this is you off drugs then I don’t even wanna imagine what you’re like coked out of your mind. If you weren’t sober, I’d love to get high with you sometime.
Dean pauses. He stares at the words typed out in front of him and considers deleting them, but he doesn’t. Hopefully they come off as funny rather than insulting. Jimmy’s got a weird sense of humor and Dean thinks he’ll appreciate the joke.
Hate to disappoint, but as far as I’m aware, there are no murderous clowns in my family’s past. Should I make up an elaborate backstory for you as well? I can try, but I’m not as creative as you. My guess is that you’re secretly part of the Mafia. Yes, I’m stereotyping just because you live in Chicago.
Not pissing on the Walk of Fame unless I want to piss off my dad. He’d tear me a new one and I don’t wanna end up on the news.
Give Anna the bird from me and stay off the hard stuff.
Michael
By the time he gets back to his hotel room, all Dean can think about is taking a shower. So much for that dream since he’s immediately confronted with a woman in his dad’s bed.
“Um-”
“Oh, you must be Dean.” The woman smiles at him.
She’s holding a blanket over her bare chest, and Dean wishes he could be angry, but it’s far from the first time this kind of thing has happened. But maybe it’d hurt less if the women weren’t blonde and Dad didn’t refuse to take his wedding ring off.
“Yeah,” Dean mumbles, going to his suitcase and pulling out a change of clothes.
“Dean.”
Dean looks up and there he is. John Winchester in all his glory, towel around his waist and purple bags under his eyes. He looks like shit and a small part of Dean wants to take his guitar and beat him over the head with it.
“You heading out, son?” As if he didn’t just get back.
“Yeah, don’t let me get in your way,” Dean mutters on his way to the bathroom.
“Why don’t you stay for breakfast?”
“Hard pass.”
He shuts the bathroom door and focuses on changing, ignoring the voices from the other side of the door. He doesn’t need to bear witness to this bullshit. If his dad wants to screw random women after singing about his dead wife, then that’s his fucking business. Not Dean’s.
He winds up at a café along the water. Dean lets himself sit in the sand and drink his coffee. It’s peaceful. He watches a couple of young kids run across the beach, their mom leisurely following them. He wonders if his mom would have been that kind of mom. There’s no way she’d be like his dad. The universe wouldn’t be that cruel.
A blank postcard sits in his lap. It’s already stamped and addressed to Jimmy, and now it waits for Dean to write a message.
The pen pal program they were forced to sign up for typically requires its participants to write physical letters rather than emails. Something about the activity of writing a letter being more grounding. They also typically don’t let their participants use fake names. But when the pen pals in question are a world-famous singer’s son on probation and an ex-junkie, the men in charge grow a little more lenient.
Still, though, Dean has Jimmy’s address, a luxury apartment near the University of Chicago campus, and Jimmy has Dean’s, which is actually just Bobby’s address in Sioux Falls.
So even though he and Jimmy stick with emailing each other, Dean finds himself occasionally sending Jimmy a postcard or two. It’s easier for him to say the more difficult things when he knows Jimmy can’t send a letter back and won’t mention it in his next email.
Dean supposes Jimmy could write back. Who knows, maybe Dean has a pile of letters waiting for him in Bobby’s mailbox.
But Dean figures he’d know at this point if Jimmy was sending him letters.
Jimmy,
You ever feel like your life isn’t your own? Like you’re just going through the motions and doing the same old shit because that’s what everyone around you expects?
Say what you want, but west coast beaches don’t compare to east coast beaches. And I don’t mean the shit downwind of the Carolinas. I’m talking snobby New England beaches. Makes me feel like I come from old money instead of alcoholism.
I hope you get out there one day, man. You deserve to see that shit.
Michael
He avoids the hotel for most of the day, finding a small, local museum instead and allowing himself the luxury of not being himself.
And then an hour later he gets recognized as John Winchester’s son the second he steps foot inside a convenience store.
“Oh my god,” the girl gushes. She never gave Dean her name, but he doubts he’d remember it anyway. “When he said in his Rolling Stone interview that he dedicated his last album to Mary, I almost cried.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck. She’s following him around the store like a lost puppy. He just wants to buy his beef jerky in peace. “To be fair, I think all his albums are dedicated to her.”
“Aw,” the girl sighs. “That’s so romantic. They really did have the perfect marriage, didn’t they?”
“Sure did,” Dean says because he’s supposed to just say whatever fits the narrative. His dad wrote it and Dean sings it.
“I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for you to lose your mom so young.”
“Guess you’re one of the lucky ones.”
“I’m going to the show tomorrow night,” she says, completely brushing past Dean’s comment. It’s not like the idea of having a dead mom actually keeps her up at night. Not in the way Dean has trouble sleeping because sometimes his brain just won’t shut the fuck up.
“Hope you enjoy,” Dean says as he steps up to the counter.
“I know I will,” she says. “I went to his last two tours and they were amazing. When do you think he’ll come back to LA?”
“Dunno,” Dean says. He hands a five over to the cashier and immediately darts out of the store before he can get his change.
The girl follows, chatting incessantly, until Dean offers her an autograph and she lights up. He signs an old fast food receipt sitting in the bottom of her purse before she finally leaves him alone. The fact that he has to give parts of himself to strangers in exchange for solitude never fails to piss him off, but at least he’s back to peace and quiet.
“Hey, Sammy, how’s it going?” He stands at a payphone, tapping the corded pen attached to the booth and doodling on the graffitied wood. He traces old phone numbers and profanity and lets his eyes linger on faded words that read God won’t rest until we all burn.
Dean’s inclined to agree.
“You have to stop calling me that. I’m not a kid anymore. You know I got chest hair now?”
“Can you count them all on one hand?”
“Jerk.”
Music to Dean’s ears. He smiles as wide as he can. “Bitch.”
“How’s the tour going?”
“Good.” Dean nods. He taps the pen in hesitation. “Can’t complain. Endless supply of chicks and beer at my disposal. What more could a guy ask for?”
Sam makes a disgusted noise through the phone. “That’s gross, Dean.”
“That’s the rock star life, kid.”
“I don’t think acoustic sets at underground bars make you a rock star.”
“Okay, smartass,” Dean chuckles. “How’s school?”
Sam perks up immediately. “Really good,” he says. “Sophomore year is already way better than freshman year. There’s a criminal justice class that’s usually only open to seniors, but the teacher is letting me take it and my guidance counselor said that’ll look really good on college applications. Especially since I’m going for pre-law.”
“Jesus, Sam, slow down. You’re not even sixteen yet.”
“I can’t slow down, Dean. Ivies can smell slack from a mile away.”
“Ivies?” Dean asks.
“Stanford or Harvard. Hopefully. They both have really good law schools.”
Dean hums, doodling shapes into the wood. “You ever think of Chicago?”
“For school?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. Northwestern is good, but I’m kinda sick of the Midwest.”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“Why do you ask?”
He drops the pen. “No reason.” And then because he can’t lie to Sam, “I have a friend up there.”
“A friend? Dean, all your friends are fame-hungry leeches who’re just using you.”
“Jeez, Sam, don’t sugarcoat it.” It’s nothing he doesn’t already know. “I’m not talking about them. A different friend.”
“Who?”
“None of your business.”
“If you don’t want me to know, then why did you mention it?”
“You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?” A pause. “You know, not all my friends suck. Gordon’s okay.”
“Gordon’s a dick.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“He called me Sammy.”
“That’s your name.”
“Only you, Dad, and Bobby get to call me that.”
Dean grins. “How is Bobby?”
“Cranky,” Sam laughs. “He wanted me to go buy beer for him and he actually gave me a signed note saying he sent me. I told him no one’s gonna sell me alcohol with a note. He started grumbling about how that’s how things worked when he was a kid.”
“Classic Bobby,” Dean chuckles. “He feeding you okay? Do you guys need us to send more money?”
Dean can practically hear the eye roll through the phone. “Yes, Dean, everything’s fine. We’ve been coming here since we were kids. And Bobby’s gonna yell at you if you keep offering to send money.”
“I just wanna make sure we’re not bleeding the old man dry.”
“Everything’s fine, Dean.” A beat. “How’s Dad?”
“Dad’s good,” Dean says too quickly. And then slower, “He’s Dad, you know?”
“I do know, which is why I’m asking.”
“Sometimes I don’t know if he wants me here,” Dean admits. Their dad is a lone wolf, but he also complains about the fact that Sam chose to stay behind. So Dean’s left guessing what their dad wants from him. Playing some kind of game where he changes the rules daily and expects Dean to catch up.
It’s a shit guessing game and Dean loses every time.
“You know you can come to Bobby’s,” Sam says.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to do what you think Dad wants.”
“Jesus, Sam, I know.” He takes a deep breath. “Sorry. Stay out of trouble, alright? Call if you need anything.”
“You too, Dean,” Sam says. “Call me if you need me.”
“Nope, no, that’s not how this works. I’m the one who’s supposed to be looking out for you. You don’t gotta worry about me. I’m fine.”
“I know,” Sam says and his voice is so small. Dean’s suddenly hit with the memory of his baby brother looking up at him with wide eyes and asking why they don’t have a mom. “I just worry a lot.”
“I know, Sammy,” Dean sighs. “Worry about school, okay? Set the curve and kick some ass.”
“I will.”
“I know you will.”
When Dean hangs up, he stares at the new pen markings he drew into the wood. He picks up the pen one last time to scratch out a small Dean was here in the corner of the booth before heading out.
He drops off Jimmy’s postcard at the post office across the street, and then heads to the arena.
Time to watch his dad put on a show.