Chapter Text
Dean's got waking up in the morning down to a science — open eyes, roll out of bed, turn off whatever the rock station's playing as his alarm clock that morning, throw clothes off in bathroom, brush teeth while waiting for water to get hot, shower, re-clothe himself, eat, run.
Except somewhere between shower and eat, all thanks to those deep and profound thoughts that somehow just happen in the shower, he decides that this particular Tuesday will be an extra ordinary Tuesday, so it takes the whole anticipation factor out of the day. Extra ordinary is different than extraordinary, if only because extra ordinary is just ordinary with a whole heaping bunch of extra on top. Nothing extra out-of-the-ordinary. Just ordinary plus even more ordinary lopped on top.
It makes sense.
Sam's still asleep on the couch when Dean shuffles from the hall into the kitchen, fingers poised on straightening the collar of his shirt. Dean surveys the sloppy state of the living room while eating the stray pieces of cereal that fall on the counter — Sam was busy with a late night cram session, looks like. That or he just dozed off on the phone with whatever girl he's been talking to lately under the guise of studies. Dean pours milk in his bowl and pops the spoon in his mouth as he heads over to the couch.
He tries not to let it bother him that he doesn't even know whatever girl's name is.
"Up and at 'em," Dean says from around the spoon, so it comes out more garbled than words really have any right to be, and he pushes Sam's legs off of the couch unceremoniously only to plop himself down in the seat freed up from the gargantuan couch potato. Sam jolts awake with a stuttered snore.
"Time?" Sam mumbles, rubbing his eyes.
"Four-thirty," says Dean with unhealthy amounts of fake glee, taking a spoonful of cereal before flipping the television on.
Sam falls back against the couch with a groan and Dean turns the volume up.
It's five-fifteen when Dean has relayed all of his worries and cares to Charlie, who deadpans for an impressive amount of time in the face of Dean's crises. Dean considers said crises awful no matter how long Charlie looks at him like she doesn't get it.
"So he's got a girlfriend," Charlie says, and Dean nods solemnly.
"All evidence points to yeah," Dean affirms. "All-nighters, which isn't like him, he's diligent. Shouldn't have to cram. Not like me, I read everything once when I had to and once the day before any quiz or whatever." He waves his hand in the air vaguely.
"And you're worried... why?" she asks, both eyebrows raised in sincere curiosity. Dean makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat and leans against the front counter of the coffee shop, lips twisting slightly in a way that suggests he's grasping at straws for an explanation. "Look, not that I blame you for being all 'concerned older brother' or anything, but if Sam thinks it's really important, he'd tell you. Right?"
Dean shifts where he stands. Charlie persists, "You do talk to each other, right?"
He doesn't answer and Charlie groans, her hand coming up to shield her face as if she can't bear to even look at Dean for fear of his idiocy being contagious through eye contact. Dean's halfway to changing the subject when the chime of the door cuts him off and Charlie takes the early-bird customer, leaving Dean to sigh to himself and avoid any kind of eye contact.
"We talk," he mumbles defensively under his breath, walking to the back of the store to don the apron required for work hours. Benny's lenient on him and doesn't really enforce the whole uniform rule, but Dean's not stupid or lucky enough to get by without some snappy remarks from Jo.
Apron tied and ready to rumble with the morning rush of people who can't be assed to make their own coffee in the morning, Dean makes his way to the front of the shop again, huffy.
"Anything else?" Charlie's asking her customer, and there's a low voice that answers her. Dean just raises his eyebrows in sympathy, his back to the counter. The coffee he'd made earlier for himself isn't nearly as hot as it should be now and he frowns at it like it's the coffee's fault it got cold. The sound of change hitting the bottom of the tip jar is what finally catches his attention, and when Dean turns just enough to glance over, he stops in his tracks.
Charlie's customer is a man with a bed-mussed shock of dark hair, striking in its complement to the bright, if tired, eyes that meet Charlie's with a quiet word of thanks. Judging by the sharp lines of his expression (or maybe that's just how he usually looks in the morning, Dean would like to do a case study) he's already more than done with the day, and Dean stares, watching as the guy takes his drink, looks up to meet Dean's eyes —
And then Dean spills coffee up his arm.
"Fuck!" he hisses, wringing his hand out and gritting his teeth so tight that his vision starts going funky, as if the fucking hot liquid burning through his damn skin didn't already fuck him up enough. Maybe it wasn't hot enough to drink before but it sure as hell wasn't cool enough to dump over his bare skin.
Charlie does a double-take before she makes a sound that's either concern or exasperation, Dean's not sure, the pain makes all the blood in his body feel loud. Next thing he knows, she's thrown a wet towel into his hands and Dean's pressing the cool cloth against his skin, grimacing.
"At least it wasn't too hot?" she says.
"Fuck," Dean says again. A whistle interrupts further cursing and Benny walks in, holding the door while mystery man leaves.
Extra ordinary Tuesday. Yeah, okay, more like extra shitty Tuesday.
"Batten down the hatches," Benny says, looking over the top of the counter. "Dean's gone and done something."
"He spilled coffee on himself," Charlie answers.
"Don't think workers' comp covers that. I'll get the first aid kit."
"Fuck my life," Dean growls and Charlie finally corrects, "Frak."
Dean straightens from his hunched position, lamenting the fact that he hadn't gotten a longer look at New Guy. Most people are in and out again this time in the morning, just because he's managed to burn himself with his own damn drink doesn't mean Tall-Dark-and-Handsome was gonna stick around to watch Dean flail in pain. Anyone could get better entertainment by walking down the street for five minutes.
Benny returns with a first aid kit in one hand and a cup of ice in the other.
"What's got you sulking?" he says to Dean. Dean rolls his eyes.
"Not sulking," he shoots back. "'m thinking."
"About?"
There's only friendly curiosity in Benny's voice but Dean shifts like he's being hit with twenty questions anyway.
"I was aiming for an extra ordinary non-shitty day," Dean starts, and Benny's expression shifts as if to say okay, go on. Dean sighs in the most exaggerated way possible and snatches the cup out of his friend's hand, setting it on the counter before grabbing a piece of ice and rubbing it over the burn.
"And?" Benny coaxes.
"And, what? I dropped my damn coffee." Water drips off of Dean's arm; he just pushes his sleeve up more and takes another piece of ice out to use.
Benny places the first aid kit by the cup and leans back on his stool, hands folded in front of him like he's some qualified guru on the reasons Dean's spilled his coffee, which is most definitely not the case because if it was then Dean wouldn't have to be explaining this.
They proceed to stare each other down. Dean folds first, making a displeased noise under his breath and snatching the first aid kit from the counter, mumbling something like I don't know how I even manage to handle all the shit I gotta put up with. Benny's response is to help him open the little container of burn medication (though Dean tries for all of five seconds to twist the cap off, later he'll swear that it's just because he was injured he couldn't open it.)
"You know the guy that walked out as you were coming in?" Dean eventually continues, much to Benny's satisfaction if the little sparkle he's got in his eyes means anything.
"I was a bit busy watching the perfect storm form over here," Benny says.
"Anyway," says Dean, ignoring him and throwing the medicine back into the box, shutting it with a click, "yeah. He's why."
"You make it sound like he assaulted you," Charlie says from her place at the front of the counter, leaning against it like she's been listening the whole time. "Wait, he did, right? With his eyes."
"Don't think worker's comp covers that, either," Benny muses. Dean stands up, waving his hands at the both of them.
"You both suck," he grumbles. "How much'd he even tip, probably nothing but his change. He had an angry-at-the-world vibe going on."
Charlie grabs the tip jar before Dean can and she sticks her hand in to retrieve whatever was put in earlier, lips pursed thoughtfully as she collects it all. She forfeits after a moment and just dumps the jar over onto the top of the counter. The clang of loose change hitting the marble is the only sound for a good few seconds while they all scope the one bill that sticks out.
Benny reaches out from beside Dean to pick up the twenty and gives a low whistle.
"Yeah, your mystery man's quite the cheapskate," Charlie says. Dean groans.
"Fuck."