Chapter Text
The red and blue glow from the sign of this particular motel had been shining in his face all damn night. Not to mention that stupid ass buzzing that wouldn't ever end. All night. No wonder this particular room had run extra cheap. As far as Dean knew, his middle name was "No Sleep."
Dean 'No Sleep' Winchester.
Sounds about right.
He let out a groan and rolled over in his bed. The shitty mattress creaked, and somehow Dean had gotten his legs all tangled in the scratchy yellow blanket that might have been soft twenty years ago, but basically felt like the abrasive side of a sponge now.
He breathed in and smelled the god-awful scent he was much too familiar with, the scent of a cheap motel room; the ghost of a cigarette smoked in here a week ago, no doubt as some sleazy man smoked it next to a hooker, and the cloying scent of cheap soap that was used to cover it up. And to top it all off, the overlaying scent of dirty dog. How pleasant.
"Sammy," Dean groaned, his voice rough with sleep. "Hey, you up?" The eldest Winchester ran his hands through his hair and scrubbed his face in his palms, feeling his stubble scratching. Dammit, he needed a shave.
"Shut up." Sam shot back irritably, taking a pillow and smashing it over his ears.
"Fine. I'm pickin' up breakfast for you." Dean swung his legs to the side of the bed with a creak and scooted off, stood up and stretched, locking his fingers together and reaching skyward, moving his arms from side to side and cracking his back, letting out a satisfied moan as he heard the pop in his spine. He dropped his arms and itched his ass through his plaid boxers as he started walking to his duffle with his clothes.
He pulled on nicely worn jeans and shrugged on his brown leather jacket over his black and red ACDC shirt he'd worn as pajamas. Maybe he'd head down to the Stop 'N Shop, pick up two coffees for himself and Sam, a few donuts and a egg sandwich (whole wheat bread like Sam liked, the fuckin' pansy) and come back. Hopefully his grumpy little brother wouldn't be so irritated by then.
The keys jingled as he snatched them up from on top of the peeling mini-fridge. He pulled open the door and stepped outside into the crisp morning air, the chill immediately waking him up as he felt himself getting more alert already. Maybe he wouldn't even need that cup 'a joe today.
He whistled and held the key between his fingers, getting ready to jam it into the driver's side keyhole and wrench open the door. (Automatic button click keys were just another reason Dean would punch someone in the face. Like the world needs us to be any more lazy.)
He stopped short. He'd been just going through the motions, muscle memory and all that jazz. And now that he looked- his car was gone. Just.. fucking gone. The sharp silver line of the key was jabbed into absolutely nothing.
Where the hell is my car? Dean began to feel panicked as blood pounded in his ears.
Then, he heard a moan.
What in the hell? Dean looked down at the parking spot at the source of the noise.
There was a guy there.
Lying there on his side, the man let out another little moan an rolled onto his stomach, an ear pressed to the cracked, sun-bleached asphalt. Dean saw his profile; he had pale skin and a sharp, strong-looking nose, dark and thick eyebrows to match his heavy black stubble. His jawbone was so sharp you could cut cheese with it.
Dean whipped out his handgun and cocked it, feeling his panic quickly manifest itself into anger.
"Who are you, and what the hell have you done with my car?" Dean demanded, his voice so low and rumbly one might consider it a growl.
The man, who was wearing a shiny black leather jacket and black denim pants and black combat boots like he just came from the friggin' army, lifted his head just a little from the asphalt and his pale blue eyes slid to the barrel of the gun. He finally twisted around clumsily, squinting and shielding his face from the harsh glow of that damn motel sign in the barely-sunrise of dawn. One side of his face had asphalt grits pressed to his pale cheek.
The leather-jacket-donning human squinted at Dean. He rubbed the little black grits from his cheek slowly with the back of his hand, Dean's gun tracing the movement of his arm as Dean held his whole body tensed, the guy rubbed his eyes, and squinted again. Finally, he licked his parched lips and spoke up unsurely.
"Dean?"
His voice was low and rumbly, and kind of gritty, underlaying pops of voice from the back of his throat. "Holy shit. Dean."
Dean tensed and backed away. "How the fuck do you know my name?!" Dean demanded, shaking the gun once to show the guy he meant business.
The mysterious man sat upright, his long legs stretched out in front of him as he planted one open palm on the dirty road and the other hand ran through his pitch shock of dark tousled hair.
"Dude. Hair." He seemed astounded, running his hand through the unruly black locks once again, almost as if he were in disbelief. "Well. I'll be damned."
Dean realized that guy had probably flown the cuckoo's nest, and then crash landed in this parking spot. But he still didn't know how this guy knew his name or know the stranger's name. He still didn't even know where his car was, dammit.
"Tell me who you are. Then, you're gonna tell me where my car is." Dean full-on growled this time, coming much too close and pointing the gun just inches away from the guy's head of dark hair.
"Whoa, whoa." Leather-jacket man threw up his hands, pale palms exposed in innocence, wearily looking down the dark barrel of that gun once again. "No need to get all gunsy with me, Sundance. Put that thing away before you shoot someone's eye out. And we all know who's eye that would be."
Dean set his mouth in a line and stubbornly refused to take the gun away. "Why are you sleeping in a parking space?" He hoped maybe he'd get an answer this time.
The guy shrugged facetiously, touching his head gingerly with two fingers. "No friggin' idea. Your guess is as good as mine, brother. I have a killer headache, though, if that helps."
Dean frowned, crouching down and finally letting the gun dangle in his palm as he squatted in front of the guy. "What's your name? And no fucking around this time and avoiding the question."
"I don't know." The man answered, screwing up his face and squeezing his temples. "Ah. Fuck."
Dean growled again and nudged the cold metal of the gun onto the guy's arm. "Spill. Or I spill you all over this goddamn pavement."
"Oh, god, I'm shaking in my boots." The guy shot back snarkily, his voice dripping with sarcasm, rubbing his temples and screwing up his face. "And I told you. I don't know."
"Then what do other people call you?" Dean said through gritted teeth. His patience was seriously wearing thin.
"Are we talking model number or...?" The guy began, confused, and trailed off, and Dean looked pissed. The guy reached up and ran his fingers through his hair again. "Uh...maybe K-A-Z two-Y-five? Or.." He kept talking as Dean shot him a death glare. "C-N-K eighty Q-three? No? Dude, c'mon. I don't know what you're looking for here."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't get smart with me, buddy."
The man sighed. "Look. I know you enough to know this is going to grind your gears. You don't have to trust me. I don't expect you to trust me. And I don't really expect you to believe me either."
Dean huffed out a frusterated, cranky puff of air. "Try me."
The man furrowed his heavy brows, his grey-blue eyes still squinting from that light of the damn bright neon sign that screamed 'MOTEL', and had this expression on his face like he really, really wished he had an easier way to say this.
"Well, Dean," He huffed out, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes and rubbing, finally letting his hands fall with a faint smack onto his thighs. "You and your brother call me 'Baby'."