Straight No Chaser | Dean & Damon
@drinkingmurderbuddy
Dean was young, wild, and free. He had no cares whatsoever about anyone or anything. Why should he?
He had nothing. No one.
He had just moved out of the deadbeat town of Lawrence, Kansas. Tired of the constant reminders of everything he lost. His mother died in a fire when he was kid. Leaving his father to raise them for only a short time, before the police convicted an innocent man of the murder of the woman he loved. It was even better that his perfect little brother (engaged and in law school) was convinced the charges were accurate, no matter how much proof Dean provided otherwise. This world was fucked. And Dean needed an escape.
So, to the Big Apple he went. He found himself an apartment, grabbed the small bag of belongings he owned, said goodbye to his Uncle Bobby, and skipped town. His father had left him his dusty black '67 Chevy Impala to have when he came of age. She's been by Dean's side since he was 16, always ready to take him away from the pain he lived in. He figured it was time for his meds. It usually was when he started thinking like that. But, tonight he was feeling more like exploring his new home and getting shit-faced drunk. That was certainly a much more solid plan.
He had downed a few at a dingy rock 'n' roll bar he had found in the heart of Manhattan. Growing bored and extra lonely (he probably shouldn't have skipped his meds) he stumbled along the sidewalk till he came across bright neon lights he could barley read. He squinted to do his best but he was already seeing double. It looked like some sort of strip club and that was good enough for him.
When he entered it looked like the average, run of the mill, whorehouse he was used too. He dragged himself over to the bar and ordered a shot of their strongest whatever. He didn't even notice that there were hardly any girls around. In fact, it didn't even register that there weren't any girls around at all. Just as he started to think that was odd-- he had the most annoying urge to piss. He grumbled curses under his breath and began his search for the bathroom.
Dean was just on his way out to escape this place-- what sort of strip joint didn't have females-- when it dawned on him that he was (probably) definitely in some sort of gay bar. Son of a bitch. He was stumbling between the young (and old) men that were indiscreetly eyeing him. Desperately trying to find his way back out--he pulled out his phone to shoot a text to his ungrateful little shit brother--when he bumped into someone and dropped his phone. By that--he meant tripped over-- "Fuck me! I'm sorry man--" He fumbled to pick it back up off the ground when he met the stranger's piercing sapphire eyes. The overwhelmingly handsome young man already had Dean's phone in his hand, offering it back to the disheveled ass that Dean just made of himself. "Well, aren't you a handsome son of a gun. Thanks." What the fuck? Did that just come out of his mouth. Definitely should've taken his meds.
