"Here Comes the Fall"
Chapter Track: Pioneer to the Falls - Berlinist (Interpol Cover)
Castiel Milton isn’t terribly fond of people; through the years, he has always found himself preferring the company of his garden to that of his peers. In fact, he spends most of his time in his garden, whiling away the hours under the canopy of trees and flowers. It doesn’t matter what he does in his garden, whether it’s watering the plants or reading in the shade as the day rolls by, so long as he has his flowers, he’s content.
His brother, Gabriel, is worried, though, saying that spending so much time by himself is unhealthy and sooner or later he’ll have to venture in the real world and socialize with people rather than plants. But Castiel just ignores his concerned lectures and continues watering his peonies.
Gabriel doesn’t understand the full extent of Castiel’s obsession with his garden, or at least that’s what Castiel’s psychiatrist, Dr. Fitzgerald, says, anyway. On one session, he said that Castiel’s fondness for plants most likely sprouted from his social anxiety. Castiel can connect to plants in the way he’s too afraid to connect with people, and he makes up for his lack of socialization by spending time in his garden and taking care of his flowers.
And for the most part, he agrees with Dr. Fitzgerald’s analysis. Castiel wants to have friends; to have someone that can listen to him and not judge him for his strange habits or for getting panic attacks more often than a grown man should. But finding someone like that seems nearly an impossible task and Castiel had given up even before he had the chance to try. Trying means the possibility of failure and failure means the possibility of embarrassment and regret, and those are not emotions Castiel wants to feel.
He is content in the small, simple bubble that is his life. He’s content being the awkward twenty-six year old recluse that people make fun of at the grocery store and he is content having no friends to call when something funny happens or when he accidentally makes too many cookies. Even when the days seem to grey like a fading bruise and he wakes up to a cold bed with only the covers to warm him, Castiel assures himself he’s content.
And he tells as much to the peonies.
* * *
Unlike Castiel Milton, Dean Winchester is not content with his life, and he isn’t going to lie to himself into thinking it. At twenty years old, he has learned to tolerate most things― tolerate the way his dad comes home from ‘work’ reeking of alcohol, tolerate the pitying smiles on people’s faces when he tells them he isn’t going to college, and tolerate the way he has to work two jobs to make sure their family can pay rent and buy groceries. Yes, Dean Winchester is most definitely not content with his life, but complaining doesn’t pay the bills or make sure his little brother, Sammy, is happy, so he’s learned to tolerate shit. No matter what that shit may be.
However, despite his attempts to remain tolerant and uncomplaining, Dean has quickly realized that there is one thing he can’t remain tolerant of when his father, John, comes home yelling and barking slurs at Dean.
But then again, maybe it isn’t the names he’s being called or the stench of alcohol that accompanies them, maybe it’s just the final straw atop a slew of others that finally makes him snap.
While he usually sits in silence, waiting for his father to finish screaming, this time, he stands, matching his father’s height, and screams back. And for the first time since he was four, he tells his father exactly what he thinks.
In a single breath, everything spills out into the air around them― how Dean is sick of working two jobs while John sulks in a bar for god-knows-how-long, how Dean does everything for Sam in their father’s place, how, yeah, maybe he actually wanted to go to college to study engineering, but stuck around for him and Sam, and that John is the last person on the goddamn earth who is allowed to curse at him like that.
And before John can react to his son’s outburst, Dean is out the door, hopping on his motorcycle and revving the engine angrily before taking off down the paved road with the bike roaring, announcing his departure.
The bike is a cheap, old thing he found at a yard sale a couple towns over, and even when he bought it some months ago, it was obvious the machine was in desperate need of a fix up, but Dean can’t be worried about that now; he just has to get out, to leave for a while.
Dean isn’t sure where he’s going, or even how far he will go. He just wants to drive until his head stops pounding and his hands stop shaking from adrenaline from the fight.
He has never snapped at his dad before, only ever took what his father pelted with silence and obedience like a good soldier. And for the most part, he’s tolerant of the insults. They’re usually the obvious choice, anyway― how Dean is always home late (from late hours working, not that John would realize) or how he’s lazy because there’s never enough food in the pantry or the Impala is in desperate need of a tune up― but tonight, tonight is different. Instead of shooting half-assed curses at Dean, John decided to hit him where it hurt the most; the one fault he can’t change about himself, the one thing he has tried so hard to hide from his family, but obviously can’t.
And that embarrassment Dean feels about being caught red handed indulging in his guilty pleasure is what makes him snap for the first time in, well, forever.
The wind blows in his face leaving his eyes dry and irritated as he races down the deserted stretch of road. With shaky hands, he lets go of his handle bars for a moment to rub at them, but just as he lets go, the steering wheel shifts from the uneven control and the bike turns abruptly, sending himself and the machine flying into someone’s yard.
He tumbles over a couple flower beds, landing in the section of roses, and the motorcycle speeds across the yard, twisting and turning, seeming to run over every untouched flower bed as the wheels dig deep into the dirt, ripping the plants to shreds. Dean watches the bike turn, running straight into the white picket fence in a loud crash and the engine finally dies out in a fit of sputters and clicks. With a shaky sigh, he leans back onto the cold dirt of the flowerbed and closes his eyes in a futile attempt to stop his pounding head and the tears stinging his eyes.
I am so screwed.