When life loses its meaning, there are a few options left: end your sorry life quietly, drown your sorrows in alcohol, or just don't give a fuck and move on.
For Dean Winchester the first option is unacceptable. As to the drinking and not giving a fuck, he can do it. He and alcohol are good friends. And when he's drunk off his ass, that's when 'don't give a fuck' joins them.
The mobile rings and it sounds just like the Jericho horn. Loud groaning comes from the couch and the hand reaches out to grab the device. It takes quite a long time to find the phone amongst empty Whiskey bottles and plastic cups.
"Hello," the sleepy and drunken voice rasps.
"Dean, it's Adam. I found a customer who wants a painting. I've showed him some of your paintings and he's very interested. He has invited us to the restaurant to discuss a business deal. Dean? Are you there?"
Dean sits up and rubs his face. He has not had orders for paintings for a long time. And he needs to pay his bills, Sam's college expenses, and much more.
"Alright, Adam. Where should I come to and when?" Dean sobers up as he speaks to his best friend.
"8 PM. La Dolce Vita," his friend says as he gives him the restaurant address.
"Thanks buddy. I'll definitely be there." Dean throws the mobile back into the pile of bottles and shuffles towards the bathroom to take a shower.
He still has four hours before the meeting and takes his time. The water feels pleasant against his hot body. The pounding in his temples subsides, his hands stop shaking, and Dean Winchester feels alive again.
He imagines that the bad luck and adverse streak are washed away just like the soap and shampoo residue that disappear into the drain.
As he walks out of the bathroom with a big, white towel around his waist, he can't help but smile at the old memories. He would never have imagined himself becoming a painter considering that he hated the private lessons with Mr. Roche. His teacher firmly believed that Dean had a great talent and the boy's parents trusted him.
Mr. Roche was right about Dean's talent. His first work painted at the age of twenty, showing a mythological scene of Diana's hunting, indeed was splendid. The painting produced a furor at the local exhibition. The critics and specialists foretold great perspectives for the beginner painter.
And the exciting life began. Traveling from one city to another to attend various exhibitions, fancy restaurants, the prettiest women, popularity, money, and glory. Customers were flooding him with new orders. It was a dream which one does not want to wake up from.
And then everything stopped as fast as it began. At first, the orders started to vanish one by one. Then the customers started to avoid him. Women did not seem interested in him anymore. Being a generous man, Dean never had much savings in his account. And that was when he decided to make some boundaries. He had to live frugally, otherwise he would run out of all money he still had.
Dean shakes his head at the unpleasant memories. To be honest, he still does not understand what happened. What could there be for him to have such bad luck?
He sits at the table and pours black coffee into his mug. The rich aroma teases his nostrils and Dean's mouth starts to water. The man takes a bite of a delicious looking sandwich and hums contentedly. These are the moments when he forgets all the dark sides of his life and believes everything will be well.
The meeting at the restaurant is surprisingly nice. The customer's name is Fergus Crowley. He is a pleasant man with a charming British accent.
"Adam has shown me your paintings and I am very impressed," he says with a smile. His black eyes sparkle mysteriously.
"Which ones have you seen?" Dean puts the fork down, though the meals here are extremely delicious thanks to the cooks. That must be why this restaurant stayed number one on the list for the past few years.
"I've seen 'The Trojan Horse', 'Apple of Discord', 'Antony and Cleopatra'. I must say, we share the same tastes, my friend. Mythology and history have always been my weak spots." Crowley laughs softly and sips Craig.
"I've always been fascinated by them." Dean nods at the man in front of him. "So, I've heard you want to make an order for a painting?" he continues.
Crowley puts his glass down and stares at Dean. He looks at Dean but does not seem to see him. His black eyes see beyond him. Dean literally can see the scenes rushing through his mind like wild horses galloping away in the wind.
Adam clears his throat awkwardly. That brings Crowley back from his thoughts. "Oh, sorry about that. Yes, I need one painting to complete my collection of Ancient Rome."
"Good choice," Dean smiles and turns the wine glass in his hand. "Anything special? Any major event from Ancient Roman history?"
Crowley nods slowly and raises his finger. "I want you to paint the famous twin brothers."
Adam glances at the British man curiously. "You mean the whole wolf thing?"
"Yes. Exactly. I trust your imagination." Crowley says with a wink for Dean.
Dean thinks for a minute. This should not be hard at all. He has painted a lot from the Roman themes. "Sure thing. I can do it," he says with confidence.
"Great. Now, let's talk about the cost and the time frames." Crowley taps his fingers on the table. "Go on, don't be shy. Say the price."
Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat. This part has always been the worst. But it's unavoidable, so he says the price quietly.
Crowley leans against his chair and takes another sip from his drink. "How long does it take to finish a painting?" he asks calmly.
"Depends on a painting size, complexity, and other factors. For me, one month maximum," Dean answers. He is not sure if Crowley is interested anymore.
The answer that comes from Crowley is shocking.
"I will pay you three times more and you finish in two weeks. I have a party for special guests and I need the painting by that time. Also, I will provide you with all the necessary supplies."
Dean finds it hard to breathe and unbuttons his black shirt at the neck. He could do so much with this money! He could cover Sammy's college cost, whatever there was to cover that he had been neglecting as of late. And still, there would be a sufficient amount left.
"Alright. I agree," he rasps and quickly clears his throat.
"Is it not wonderful, my friends?" Crowley laughs heartily and taps Dean's shoulder amicably.
But the evening does not end with just one surprise. Dean Winchester's jaw almost drops when Crowley fills the check and hands it to him.
"For a good job, I do not regret paying in advance. And I am more than sure that you will do it perfectly."
They agree that tomorrow morning, Crowley will send his people to Dean's house in order to provide him with all the necessary materials.
Dean feels very happy when he gets back home. He goes to his bedroom and lies on the bed, humming a Metallica song. In the morning he could call Sam and share the good news with him. His eyes feel heavy and close slowly. Dean is ready to drift away in the dream-world, when a crashing sound of glass shattering sounds from the living room.
Instantly, Dean jumps from the bed, reaching under his pillow for a knife. He has never used it before, because there was no need usually, but he liked to keep it there anyway.
Dean slowly opens the bedroom door and sneaks out. When he reaches the leaving room he can see that the magazine table is flipped, news papers are scattered around, the broken glass is spread like ice shards. Dean gets closer and the he notices….
Feet…legs…thighs….naked ass….What the hell?
There is a naked man lying on the floor. The glass is covering his back. Some bits are stuck in his dark hair.
Dean tightens his grip around the knife and is ready to yell at the naked stranger when he sits up and shakes his head. The shatters fly around.
The stranger stands up and turns around to stare at the astonished painter. Unearthly blue eyes look at him, the man's intense gaze burns holes into his green eyes, and an unwilling shiver runs down Dean's spine all the way to his feet.
"Dean Winchester," the stranger's deep, gravelly voice sounds. "The time has come!" The naked man takes two steps towards Dean.
"Who the hell are you and how did you get into my house?" Dean yells at him.
"I am Castiel, your angel of death." It is the weirdest reply that Dean has ever heard in his life. He has heard lot of stupid and shocking things, but this is the strangest and creepiest.
What do you do when a naked man appears into your house stating he is your death angel?
Of course, you call the police! His trembling fingers dial 911 while he slowly retreats. The knife is pointed at the stranger warningly.
"Hello, this is Dean Winchester calling. I need your help. There is a naked guy in my house…"
The operator writes down his address, and after a few minutes sirens make deafening sounds as they get nearer to his house.
"You cannot escape me." Castiel's gaze is intent on his face. And the bastard does not even flinch when the cops rush into the room, grab him, push his face down on the floor, and handcuff him.
The only word that escapes Castiel's mouth before cops take him out sounds like a warning. "Soon..." he says with his deep voice, and then the four hands drag him out.
One cop stays with Dean to ask him some questions about the break-in and he answers the questions absentmindedly. Soon the cop leaves, and Dean is left alone sitting on the couch thinking about what the hell has just happened.