Chapter Text
“I told you, Charlie, nothing’s wrong. I just need some time off,” Dean says, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder while he tries to maneuver the car into what’s obviously too small a parking spot for the Impala.
Charlie doesn’t buy his half-hearted excuse. Not that he’s surprised — his manager usually sees right through all of his shit, has done for the last few years she’s been working for him. And if he’s being honest with himself, this time he’s not even really trying to sound genuine.
“And what does ‘some time off’ mean?” Charlie asks. “A few days? A week?”
Dean grunts without conviction, still more focused on his car than on the conversation.
“A month?” Charlie sounds scandalised now and Dean would laugh if he wasn’t so annoyed at the two cars he’s trying to fit between.
“I’d give it a few months,” he mutters petulantly.
“What the heck, Dean, you can’t just—”
Charlie’s shriek makes Dean flinch and, before he can try to calm her down, his phone slides off his shoulder. He jerks his hand in an attempt to catch it and the car swerves violently just as his foot pushes down on the gas pedal.
The Impala scratches the side of the car in front of her with a loud, horrifying skrrreeek that makes Dean’s entire body prickle.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
He spends a few long seconds sitting frozen in place, too shocked to even think about moving. He has never hit anything while parking, not in his earliest days of driving, not even in those few shameful times he’s driven while drunk off his ass. It must be nerves, or exhaustion. Or, you know, being yelled at by your manager while also scared shitless of coming back to your hometown after almost ten years of absence.
Finally, he manages to unstick himself from the seat and tumble out of the car to inspect the damage. He’ll get over it if it’s just paint, he’s been meaning to freshen her up a bit in the upcoming days anyway, but if it’s anything more—
“Oh, shit,” he groans.
He has no idea how he managed not to notice it was the sheriff’s car right in front of him but it’s here, plain in sight, with the fresh marks of the Impala’s bumper on its back door. Baby hasn’t suffered too much, at least, nothing a light paint job won’t fix, but the sheriff’s car—
He has a few seconds to consider driving away and never looking back before he hears someone clear their throat just behind him.
He turns around, slowly, with a loud sigh. “Look, man, I swear it was an accident—”
“Really.” The sheriff, who turns out to be pretty young, dark-haired, and with a jawline that could kill, raises one eyebrow at Dean. Dean, whose throat goes slightly dry at the low timbre of the sheriff’s voice — not that he’s ever going to admit it, though. “Am I to add ‘fabrication of truth’ to the list of your offenses?”
“My offenses?” Dean repeats stupidly.
The sheriff tilts his head at him, hiding both of his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Well, yes. Reckless driving and destruction of police property, of course.”
Dean shakes his head, refusing to fall prey to the sheriff’s confident stance and undeniably attractive face. “I told you, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to scratch your car.”
“It’s not my car, per se,” the sheriff says, “and you’re not telling the truth. The destruction of police property resulted from your reckless driving, and I am quite certain that wasn’t an accident, seeing as you must have chosen to use your phone while sitting behind the wheel.”
Dean gapes at him for a second. “What? Dude, I wasn’t even driving,” he says. “I was just trying to park.”
“While talking on the phone.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Which is prohibited, as you surely know,” the sheriff says, clearly unimpressed. Speechless, Dean watches as he unbuttons his jacket and puts his hand inside, only to pull out a small note pad and a pen and look up back at Dean with a polite smile. “Now, please, if you could show me your ID.”
Dean lets out a quiet groan. “Come on. I barely touched it, just look at it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” the sheriff hums, already writing something on a piece of paper, the cap of his pen stuck between his lips. “ID, please?”
“Oh, gimme a break,” Dean mutters. He should have known coming here was a bad idea. “I know it’s a whole procedure, but I’m sure you don’t need my ID.”
“Yes, I do,” the sheriff says. He looks up yet again and, for some reason, Dean notices the clear blue of his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Uhh, because it’s me?” Dean scoffs. He hates playing his celebrity card, but right now he’s tired and annoyed and if the sheriff wants to do it the hard way, Dean can probably beat him.
The sheriff stares, but doesn’t say anything. Dean’s eyes drop to the cap still caught between his lips, then up to his eyes again.
“Dean Winchester?” he finally says. “And yes, the Dean Winchester. Hi. But if you’re gonna give me that ticket, you can forget about a selfie and an autograph, so really, I’d think it through if I were you.”
The sheriff keeps looking at him, his eyebrows coming up to his hairline. He slowly lifts his hand and takes the pen cap out of his mouth.
“Excuse me?” he says, doing that head tilt thing again, eyes wide and face blank.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Just… write it. I don’t care.”
The sheriff frowns. “I still need your ID.”
Dean sighs, but goes over to his car to dig his wallet from the glove compartment. Handing the card to the sheriff, he asks, “So no autograph, then?”
Somehow, they’re standing closer now, so when the sheriff looks up from the card he’s holding and meets Dean’s gaze again, it feels much more personal. Dean lets himself admire the blue of the man’s eyes just for a moment before quickly looking away, his pulse fast in his ears.
“I have no idea whatsoever what you’re talking about, Mr. Winchester,” the sheriff says, “but you’ve got ten days to settle the fine before more drastic measures will be taken. Have a good day, sir.”
He pushes a tiny piece of paper and the card into Dean’s hands, gives him one final look that makes Dean’s breath catch in his throat, and then turns towards his car and away from Dean.
Huh. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say that guy, being the first person in years, had not recognised him.
♡♡♡
“Oh my god, you’re Dean Winchester.”
It takes a lot of effort not to roll his eyes too hard when Dean hears the over-excited gasp right behind his back. He sends an awkward smile towards the guy behind the register and slowly turns on his heel, hands shaking, ready to face a fan.
He can do it. He’s been doing it for almost a decade now. So what if he’s been feeling mildly out of his element the last few weeks? The fan turns out to be a young blonde girl — the usual, really. She probably doesn’t even know about the rumours.
“Hi,” Dean says and smiles.
The girl lets out an uncontrolled squeal.
“Oh my god!” she cries. “It’s really you!”
“So I’ve been told,” he says with another grin. He knows they go wild for his smile, and this one is no different. He can see her knees go weak and she swoons, cheeks flushed and eyes open wide.
“Is it true, then?” she asks, eager, and Dean’s heart freezes in his chest for a second. Before he can react, though, she continues, “You’re really taking a break and staying here, of all places?”
Dean clears his throat. “Well, it’s my hometown. Where else would I stay?”
“Wow,” the girl gasps. “That’s awesome. Oh my god, I can’t wait to tell the others!”
Dean smiles lopsidedly at her. “Anything else I can do for you today? I wouldn’t wanna block the queue,” he says, gesturing towards the guy at the register.
“Oh.” The girl gapes at him for a moment, then rushes to pull a notebook out of her bag. “Could you just… one autograph…”
“No problem, sweetheart,” he says with a wink. The girl giggles nervously. “What’s your name?”
“Tammy. Could you maybe write another one for my mom? Her name’s Alice.”
“Sure thing,” Dean hums as he scrawls his name on a random page in the notebook. “So, your mom. She a fan too?”
“Oh yeaaah, we both love you,” the girl gushes, her face bright red. “My dad likes your music too, but why wouldn’t he, your music is just— it’s—”
“Thank you, Tammy,” Dean says, handing the girl her notebook with another smile. “It means a lot to me.”
“Oh no! Thank you!” the girl murmurs with enthusiasm.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” Dean says and gives her one more wink.
The girl’s breath stutters. “O-okay! Thank you! Bye!” And then, as she’s turning and running out of the store, she screams, “I love you!”
Dean chuckles, glad to see his hands aren’t trembling anymore. He may feel a bit rusty, but there’s nothing like the boost of confidence from an accidental meeting with an ardent fan.
A wide smile still on his lips, he turns back to the guy manning the register, only to find him sneaking curious glances at him. Dean smirks, but doesn’t say anything, waiting for the man to ask first.
“Uh,” the man stutters, realising Dean is looking at him. “Sorry. That’ll be twenty-three fifty.”
Dean throws his money on the counter and glances around, ignoring the way the cashier is still gaping at him.
“So… you’re famous, yeah?”
And there it is.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Kind of, yeah,” he says, trying not to sound too pleased with himself.
The guy drops his gaze to the counter, the points of his ears red. “Any chance I know you?” he asks awkwardly.
“Probably,” Dean hums and gathers his bags full of groceries.
The guy glares at him. “Are you known for being a dick?”
Dean huffs out a surprised laugh. “Sorry, man, I’m just teasing you. You may know my songs,” Dean says. “One was on the radio like ten minutes ago, you know, the one about road trips and fast cars—”
“Oh!” the man exclaims. “You sing it?”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah, I do.”
“Dude, that’s a great song,” the cashier says. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you, I’m not too big on bands. But that song comes on the radio like fifty times a day!”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Dean laughs.
“Sorry again. I had no idea—”
“That’s okay,” Dean says. He grins. “You’re not the only one, actually. Apparently your sheriff doesn’t know who I am, either.”
“Sheriff Novak?” The guy smirks. “That’s no surprise, he always seems pretty out of it.”
Dean hoists his bags in his arms and leans with one hip against the counter. “Does he? He seemed pretty competent when he gave me a ticket.”
The man lets out a chuckle. “He gave you a ticket? Did you tell him who you are?”
“Didn’t seem to care,” Dean huffs. “Also I did scratch his car so I admit he was kinda entitled.”
“Damn,” the man says. “How long have you been here?”
Dean looks down at his watch. “Two hours, give or take.”
“Damn,” the cashier repeats.
“Okay! Thanks for the talk, man,” Dean states, straightening. “Gotta go put these things in the freezer.”
The man nods. “Sure, sure. Uh, so you’re staying in town, right? Do you… have a place to live? My brother runs a motel, it’s nothing fancy but maybe—”
“Thanks,” Dean says, “but yeah, I’ve got a place. I used to live here.”
And with that he salutes and walks out of the store, leaving the cashier gaping after him, his jaw slack and eyes wide.
♡♡♡
It takes approximately ten minutes to get from the town centre to the cabin on the edge of the woods that used to belong to his father and is now Dean’s property. Even if he didn't want to live in the middle of nowhere and this far from the nearest coffee place (and he does — he actually has some good memories of the place), he couldn’t just sell the house to a stranger. He might have had problems with his dad when he was still alive, but John Winchester would probably come back from the grave to haunt his ass if he abandoned the cabin he put so much love into.
Dean had it cleaned right before he decided to come back, so fortunately now the place is ready to live in, with no surprises in the shape of dead animals in the basement or rats in the walls. The house looks almost exactly like Dean remembers it, though — he only lived here for a few years before moving out to start his career, but the place isn’t easy to forget, not with its wooden floors, low ceilings and massive beams with herbs and random utensils hanging from them in the kitchen. Dean used to dream about this kitchen — small and cosy, all in browns and beiges, with handmade cabinets and a huge island in the middle of the room.
He stands there now, looking around and smiling. It’s a bit dusty still, despite the recent cleaning, and most of the cabinets are eerily empty, just a few plates and bowls visible behind the plain glass doors. The fridge is much smaller than what he’s used to — and the freezer is almost nonexistent — but it’s there and it’s working, so Dean unpacks the groceries and puts everything in its place before continuing his journey around the house.
He stopped here a few days ago, dropping most of his possessions off and checking up on the cleaners, but had no time to actually look around. The house isn’t big — apart from the kitchen, there is only one bathroom, a living area, and two bedrooms, one upstairs, one just beside the kitchen. His dad used to sleep in the smaller room downstairs while he and Sam lived in the other one. Dean doesn’t go into his dad’s old bedroom just yet — feels weird, somehow, and he definitely doesn’t intend to sleep in there. He checks the upstairs one, though, and is happy to notice his new bed — king size, sleek and modern, its frame low above the hardwood floor which leaves more space for the slanted ceiling. There’s no sign of their old singles anywhere, just as there are no posters on the walls, no school books on the shelves, no toys cluttering the desk and every corner of the room. The cleaners did a good job.
Dean toes off his shoes on the way to the bathroom, the stairs creaking as he steps down. Most of his toiletries should already be in there, so he only grabs the toothbrush he’s just bought and closes the door behind him.
At the sight of the bathtub, he lets out a heavy sigh.
“Fuck, you’re tiny,” he mutters, stripping off all of his clothes and bending to pour water into the tub. It takes just a few minutes to fill the entire thing and soon the small room is getting hot and steamy despite the wide crack under the door.
He has no idea how his father could fit in this tub, especially considering that John Winchester was much bulkier than his sons. Dean curses under his breath as he tries to find a comfortable position, but soon realizes it’s impossible — there’s just no way he can make both halves of his body fit if he doesn’t want to spill water everywhere.
The tub in his old apartment could fit two people, no problem. It did fit two people, from time to time.
Dean manages to spend five minutes lying motionless, but soon his legs are cramping and his upper body is getting cold, so he quickly gets out, sighing. This definitely won’t do, he thinks as he dries himself off and puts on boxers and a shirt. Maybe it’s high time he finally realises his dreams and installs a hot tub.
Humming to himself, Dean goes out into the backyard, looks around, and smirks.
He spends the rest of the evening browsing the Home Depot website, contacting electricians, and spending big sums of money on his new hot tub.