Chapter 1 – Nowhere Man

Dean didn't notice the man at first. The roadhouse was bursting, as it usually was on a Saturday night, and Ellen kept directing him towards every woman who came up, knowing that with his eyes and smile, the tip money would pour out of them like the vodka into the cosmopolitans they all ordered.

It was on his third pass from the back room to the till that he noticed the brooding stranger in a rumpled trench coat and backwards tie nursing a glass of something amber, Dean would guess scotch judging by the bottle that sat on the inner bar waiting for the expected refill.

His eyes stopped Dean in his tracks.

They were bluer than Dean thought possible and intense, despite the fact that he had clearly already had a few, as he stared off at nothing in particular.

Another rush of ladies stole away Dean's attention but he still kept an eye on the guy and as the night wore on and the crowd thinned, Dean finally found an opportunity to approach him when it looked like his glass could use a refill.

"You want another?"

The blue gaze lifted from the back of the bar to meet Dean's and Dean found himself pinned by eyes that were even more powerful than he'd been expecting. It was as though the man was looking right into Dean's very soul.

"Yes thank you." The stranger said in a gruff voice, pushing the glass forward a bit with a lazy brush of his fingers.

Dean filled it up and the man took a pull, setting it down and focusing back on the same spot he'd been staring at all night.

"Rough day?" Dean asked conversationally.

The gaze was back and powerful as ever.

"Rough year." He replied cryptically, eyes lingering on Dean for a moment before falling back to their thousand-light-year stare.

Dean took that as his cue to leave.

He probably should have cut the man off at some point. He wasn't causing trouble and he didn't seem to be very affected by the booze – plus he had pulled out a wad of cash when Dean had casually mentioned that if he wanted to continue drinking he'd have to provide a credit card – but no one could sit and drink straight scotch for as long as he had and not be feeling it quite acutely.

Still, a part of Dean didn't want the man to go walk out of his life. There was just something about him. Something that intrigued Dean, infused his ordinary mundane life with some much-needed colour and light.

And so Dean found himself calling last orders and pouring the last few drinks and starting the closing duties with the same rumpled tan coat sitting unmoving in his periphery.

Once the bar had been cleaned and the till cashed out, Dean found himself shaking the guy awake where he'd passed out on his folded arms.

"Hey, hey were closing. You gotta go man."

The stranger moaned but didn't move. Dean walked around the bar, coming up beside the man and shaking him harder.

"Dude!"

The man lifted his head slowly, his eyes barely open and his hair sticking up where it had been resting on his arms. He moaned, swaying in his seat. Dean had seen enough drunks in his time to know that there was no way this guy was getting home on his own.

"Can you tell me where you live?"

It was a long shot but Dean felt he should ask first.

The guy blinked slowly. He mumbled something but the words were so slurred together there was no way Dean would be able to decipher them.

"I'm just going to reach into your coat and look for ID so I know where to drop you okay?"

There was no answer so Dean slid his hand into the breast pocket of the rumpled overcoat, searching for the guy's wallet.

There wasn't one.

Dean idly wondered if the guy had been mugged or pickpocketed. He dove back in again and rifled through the pockets searching for keys but came up empty.

What the hell?

The guy couldn't be homeless, his clothes were too nice despite the overall rumpled state and he smelled clean.

Dean deliberated. It would be stupid to bring a wasted stranger into his home but there was just something about the guy.

"Alright buddy, you're coming with me but I swear if you puke in my car I will throw you out and leave you on the sidewalk."

He slung the guy's arm around his shoulder and hoisted him off the barstool, grabbing him around the torso as he failed to find footing.

"Come on work with me here." Dean said, trying to keep the guy upright as they made their way slowly towards the front of the tavern.

The man shuffled his feet, tripping every few steps and occasionally muttering slurred phrases that Dean had no hope of understanding. His head lolled on Dean's shoulder, his face pressed in to the crook of his neck. Dean felt a shiver of hot desire lance though him as he felt the stranger's hot breath on his collarbone. He swallowed and redoubled his efforts to get the guy to his car.

Only once they were outside did Dean remember that he had snagged the prime parking spot right outside the front door of the Roadhouse and sent up a prayer of thanks for small miracles. He managed to manhandle the guy to the passenger door of his baby and prop him up against the backseat door while he fished for his keys. As soon as Dean's grip left him the guy began to slide sideways, legs giving out beneath him.

"Woah, woah."

Dean made a grab for the boneless drunk, hoisting him back up against the car and holding him with one hand as the other unlocked the door.

Soon the guy was buckled in the front seat and they were on the road back to Dean's place, the stranger passed out against the passenger side window.

…

Once they were in Dean's apartment, and more specifically the spare room that was also Sam's whenever he came to visit, Dean let the guy drop onto the bed and, after a moment's deliberation, divested him of his trench coat and shoes. Then he retrieved the wastepaper basket and set it beside the bed, a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin went on the nightstand. And then he stood and stared and wondered what the hell he'd just done.

He'd brought a guy who had passed out drunk in his bar back to his apartment and given him his spare bed. Dean had friends he wouldn't do that much for and yet here he was staring down at the snoring stranger with the too-blue eyes and dark messy hair and the unexpectedly gruff voice that was probably a result of the whiskey he'd been throwing back all night.

It was late. Dean had had a long shift. He'd deal with…whatever this was in the morning.

And if his dreams prominently featured brooding blue eyes staring up at him from beneath long dark lashes then so be it.

...

Hello all! This is a (mostly) completed, un-beta'd fic I've been working on and which I'll be updating every Tuesday. I haven't abandoned The Things We Hide, that one will continue to be updated every Friday (psst! if you haven't read it, you should check it out!)

Review and let me know what you thought!