Fic: Running on Empty (3/4)

[summergen-mod.livejournal.com]

Chapter 3a

“I don’t know, Joe. Some jerk back in Council Bluffs…Neal, I think the name was. Mike swears all he did was fuck the guy’s sister,” Dean says.

They’re leaning against the stage fifteen minutes past show time, watching the crowd stir restlessly. Night Shayde is late going on tonight, some malfunction of equipment or personnel, Dean hears; he doesn’t know or care about the details.

Joe raises an eyebrow.

“Really? Mikey had sex? With a girl?”

Dean shrugs.

“I know; that’s what I said. I think maybe he’s telling the truth about that part, but there’s something else…it doesn’t add up, man.”

Joe rubs his fingers across his chin, nodding.

“Guy waits two weeks and drives an hour just to shake down some kid for screwing his sister…did he knock her up or something?”

“I asked him that, too,” Dean says. “And no, not that he knows of.”

“I can’t believe I’m standing here discussing my little brother’s sex life. Hell, I didn’t know he had one to discuss until ten minutes ago. Although, he’s twenty-two fucking years old, I guess it’s about time,” Joe says craning his neck to look off to the right of the stage. “Christ, what the hell is the hold up?”

Dean’s still trying to process Joe’s previous sentence, the one where he mentioned Michael’s age. Twenty-two? Dean had figured eighteen or nineteen, tops, and he and Michael are actually the same age.

Tony comes huffing up to the mic.

“Hey, everybody…guys, ladies, sorry for the wait, but here they are, what you’ve been waiting for…Night Shayde!”

The crowd cheers as the band takes the stage and starts to play, and Dean and Joe go to work. It’s harder work than usual, actually, and Dean’s not sure why, unless it’s that the waiting has built the tension up higher than normal. There’s a lot of jostling and hostility and he has to break up two shoving matches in the first set alone.

Of course the crowd might be picking up on the shitty onstage attitude. The lead singer, who goes by the name River Rhodes, has his considerable charm cranked up to full volume, talking and flirting with the audience like he’s trying to make it up to them for starting late, but Dean’s still picking up some discomfort from the crowd that seems like it’s mostly directed at Rick the Dick. Dean starts watching the guitarist out of the corner of his eye and the guy does seem even surlier than usual, which is saying a fuck ton.

He’s stomping back and forth across the stage, finding fault with his instruments, flinging picks, and glaring at the monitors—basically acting like an all-around pissy little jerk. Dean’s guessing there was some kind of major band bitch-fight right before they came onstage; he’s too busy dealing with the results to think much about it.

A blonde in a halter top suddenly peels off from the crowd and makes a run for it, makes it halfway onto the stage by the time Dean hauls her down. He’s got her around the waist when she wraps both arms around his neck and grins, then slides her body slowly down his.

“You’re cute,” she says, giggling.

“Right back at ya, sweetheart, but you gotta be cute behind the rope,” Dean says, smiling back.

She doesn’t make a move to take her arms away and then without warning she lays one on him, kissing him hard on the mouth. Dean realizes he’s let it go on longer than he should when the crowd noise suddenly swells and it dawns on him that they’re probably close enough to the stage lights that the whole arena can see what’s going on. He pulls back and gently disentangles the girl’s arms from his neck, lifts her and sets her down on the other side of the rope. The crowd absolutely loses it then, and Dean can’t help smiling a little.

“Hey, asshole, the show’s up here!”

The words are clearly audible over the PA, although the last half of the sentence is only heard near the stage, because Bear catches the drama and damps the mic. Dean looks over his shoulder and Rick’s still leaning over River’s microphone, which he used to broadcast the remark.

The crowd’s volume is starting to drop off now, faltering into an awkward, waiting hush. Rick is looking straight at Dean and now thousands of other people are, too. It’s kind of the definition of awkward and Dean looks for Joe for help.

Something comes flying at his face, glancing off his temple before he can dodge. It’s a bottle and Dean goes from acute discomfort to full on rage in approximately one point three seconds.

“You wanna fucking throw shit, motherfucker…” Dean growls.

He vaults onto the stage, scrabbling for footing and then targeting Rick like a heat-seeking missile. Rick looks terrified and backs up, tries to hide behind the drum setup. Dean hurdles what equipment he can and knocks aside what he can’t dodge. He blows past the bank of amps, ignoring the squeals of feedback. The crowd roars as Dean gets within a foot of Rick before Joe finally catches him and hauls him back to the arena floor. Joe hands Dean off to Slam and points at the exit.

“Get out of here, now! Go cool off!”

**
Dean sits on the steps of the bus, drinking and thinking, always a dangerous combination in his experience. It’s not his first fuck-up and it won’t be his last, but it is the first one he’s managed to execute under a spotlight in full view of several thousand people. He is kind of hoping that’s a one-time deal, for sure.

Dean sighs and takes a long swallow of his beer. Maybe it’s just a sign that it’s time for him to go. He knew this was a temporary gig, only meant to last long enough to get him and his baby back on the road. Of course, it’s not like he’s got (anybody) anywhere to go back to either, but hell, he’s twenty-two years old, a grown man. There’s no reason he can’t hunt solo. If he could figure out a way to get the rest of his pay…

Roadies start to trickle out of the arena then; apparently the show is over. Joe ambles to the bus and folds himself in half, perches on a parking curb facing Dean. He heaves a huge sigh. Dean reaches behind him, inside the bus, and hands Joe a beer without a word. Dean figures Joe is waiting for him to break the silence, offer an excuse, but Dean learned better than that by the time he was ten, at the knee of John Winchester. Or over it. Joe is way out of his league and he folds first.

“Rick was right, you know. The show is about what happens on the stage, not off of it.”

Dean eyes him, takes another swallow.

“So did I buy myself an FOH pass for tomorrow night?” Dean asks finally.

It comes out sounding calm, but there’s a flutter in his belly that takes him by surprise. He might care about the answer to that question a lot more than he should.

But Joe gives a bitter little chuckle.

“Oh, Rick wanted you fired, but Tony managed to convince him that you actually had better grounds to press assault charges than Rick. After all, he made contact and you never did.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, I owe him one.”

Joe rubs his eyes with both hands and then drops them, looks Dean in the eye.

“That dog won’t hunt, Dean. Look, I’ve been in this business a long time, and I can appreciate the full on fuck-you as much as the next guy—nobody deserves it more than that asshole Rick, believe me—but there are better ways. Use your head.”

Dean returns his gaze for a moment, then nods.

“We’ve got two more shows and then a six-day hiatus and I can’t afford to lose you. Shit, I’ll be lucky to have any hair left by the time we’re done with that.” Joe sighs again and stands up.

Dean lets the subtle compliment slide by and focuses on the second half of the remark. He frowns. Six days is almost more down time than they’ve had altogether, up to now.

“Six days off in a row? That’s a good thing, right?”

Joe sighs tiredly.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

**

Old roadies never die—they just pack it up and roll out of the way. – Li’l Roadie

The Salt Lake City show is pretty unremarkable except for the way Dean has a really hard time turning his back on the stage. He squares his shoulders against the waves of hate radiating from behind him and he’s mostly able to ignore it after the first half hour or so.

After the show Dean grabs a bottle of water and watches the load-out for a few minutes. They’re staying in a hotel tonight, but they’re leaving for Colorado Springs tomorrow and Dean likes to make sure the bus is cherry before they go that far. He wanders out to the parking lot.

Dean opens the bus’ hood and checks the brake oil and transmission fluid. He hasn’t worked on that many diesels, but he knows the basics. He thinks it might be about time to knock the dirt out of the air filter, too, with all the desert driving they’ve been doing. He’s elbow deep in the engine compartment when Joe walks up.

“Need you to watch the band tonight,” Joe says without preamble.

Dean straightens up and gives Joe a pained frown, wiping his hands on a paper towel.

“Seriously? Can I just stab myself in the face instead and we’ll call it even?”

Joe snorts and Dean notices that his t-shirt says, “Shut up—that’s why.”

“It won’t be that bad. Tony unclenched his grimy little fists and shelled out for a top floor suite for the after party. Some kind of reward for the band, ‘good behavior’ or something,” Joe says, rolling his eyes.

“Good for them,” Dean says, voice heavy with sarcasm. “What am I supposed to do, hand out gold stars? Cookies?”

“Close, but not quite.”

Joe holds out a small roll of stickers. Dean looks at them sourly, drawing back like they might bite him when he sees what’s on the front. Honest-to-God smiley faces.

**

It turns out Dean’s “job” is to stand outside the door of the suite and screen the “local talent.” He’s also not supposed to let the band leave the suite, because according to Joe, allowing the little fuckers to roam free is a recipe for disaster.

“These guys aren’t exactly Motley. They won’t care about leaving if we keep them entertained until they pass out. The hotel info was ‘leaked’ so there’ll be more than enough girls showing up for the party. Just pick out the best-looking ones, give them one of those stickers, and let them in the door,” Joe says, handing Dean a key card. “When the smiley faces are gone, that’s it. Don’t let anybody else in. Simple.”

“Terrific.”

Joe laughs and smacks him on the shoulder.

“I’ll come check on you in a few hours and we’ll reassess. Maybe the kiddies will wear themselves out early and the grownups can get some sleep.”

Dean takes up a position in front of the door to the suite where he can still see the only points of access to the hallway, the bank of elevators and the stairwell door. And the fans do show up—he’s a little surprised by the numbers, actually—but he’s still nut-numbingly bored in about fifteen minutes. Some of the girls are cute, sure, but it’s not like it’s doing Dean any good. Pressing smiley face stickers directly onto girls’ boobs is only entertaining for so long, even to him.

And why they all even want to get into the room is completely beyond Dean. Must be the magic of rock and roll or something, because seriously, have any of them actually seen these guys? They’re nothing special onstage and Dean can’t imagine they’re any more attractive when they’re puking drunk.

It takes Dean less than an hour to hand out all his stickers and he’s glad, because he felt like a fool standing there with the stupid things in his hand. He tosses the backing paper to the floor and leans against the wall. He checks his watch and it’s about 12:30. Maybe Joe will take pity on him soon and relieve him.

He hears the elevator open and looks over hopefully, but three more girls get off and clump up into a huddle, like they’re plotting strategy or something, and Dean raises an eyebrow at them.

One of the girls breaks off from the herd after a minute and trollops toward him. She’s not overly attractive, kind of horse-faced, actually, but her shirt is cut down to there and she’s got the rack to do it justice. Dean might be working, but nothing says he can’t look, so he does.

She smiles as she approaches and Dean smiles back. She puts her hand on his chest and leans in, all but shoving her tits in his face.

“Hey, sexy. You the bouncer?” she purrs.

“That’s me. Party’s full, though,” Dean says, eyes wandering between her face and her cleavage.

“Too bad. Sure I can’t talk you into letting me and my friends in? There’s just three of us,” she says, glancing over at the two girls giggling by the bank of elevators.

Dean shakes his head.

“Wish I could help you out, but…” he shrugs.

“Maybe I can help you out,” she says and sinks to her knees.

And fuck, she must have done this before, because she’s got his pants open and her mouth on him before it’s even soaked into his brain what’s happening. Dean should stop her, but Jesus, it’s been a long time with nothing but his right hand and he kind of can’t believe this is actually happening. It’s a back alley act performed in bright hotel lighting and maybe that’s what makes it feel like a dream—okay, a pretty damned good wet dream—with her friends watching from the end of the hall, anyone liable to walk by anytime. It doesn’t take him long.

When it’s over the girl just gets up and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She looks at Dean expectantly where he’s slouched against the wall. His brain is still offline and he’s got no idea what he could possibly say, so he just pulls the key card out of his pocket, reaches over and shoves it into the slot.

“Thanks.”

“Any time,” Dean answers stupidly, but she grins at him and turns the door handle with one hand, motions to her friends with the other. They’re still giggling as they slip inside.

The door isn’t even closed behind them when the one to the stairwell opens and Michael steps out. Dean tucks himself back in and zips up with a quick flick of his wrist, but Michael is grinning like he either saw or figured out what happened. Great.

Dean’s legs are a still little shaky and he slides down the wall, winds up sitting against it with his wrists on his bent knees. He might as well get comfortable. Michael is here, so obviously there’ll be lots of talking, from one end of the equation, anyway.

But Dean pretty much forgives Michael his knowing grin when the guy hands him a beer, especially after Dean takes a long pull from the bottle and it’s the second best thing that’s happened to him today. Michael sits down on the floor across from him with a beer of his own.

“Joe didn’t tell you about the perks when he sent you up here, huh?” Michael asks.

“He might have left out a couple of things, yeah,” Dean says, smirking. “In fact, I think you guys have all been holding out on me. Shit.”

Dean takes another drink. He considers, knows balls to bone that the kid’s not telling him everything about what happened in Council Bluffs. This might be a good time to do a little more digging.

“What about you, Mikey? You been keeping all the hot ones for yourself?” he asks.

Michael laughs.

“It’s Michael, jerkface. And the answer is no, not so much. In fact, until a few weeks ago…” he trails off, dropping his eyes self-consciously.

“Oh, yeah. Shelley? Wasn’t that her name?” Dean asks, mouth twitching at the corner. Oh, Mikey…you’re gonna walk right into this, aren’t you?

“Sherri,” Michael says. “You should see her, man—dark hair, big pretty eyes. Exotic-looking, you know, kind of like that chick on Dark Angel?”

Actually Dean really doesn’t know, but he doesn’t say so. It doesn’t matter anyway, because Michael keeps talking, going on about how hot Sherri is and finally finishing with,

“…she’s so gorgeous, I couldn’t even believe she wanted to be with me.”

Michael sits there a minute like he’s remembering, and whatever he’s seeing causes his expression to slowly change from wistful to worried, then to a little scared.

Dean watches the emotions flicker across his face. Jesus, he’s so easy to read, Dean thinks as he drinks his beer and waits him out.

“So this Neal character,” Dean says, when he thinks Michael has stewed long enough.

Michael sighs and nods.

“He’s a dick.”

“I noticed,” Dean says. “What I can’t figure out is why he’s so fixated on you.”

Michael shrugs and Dean shakes his head.

“Nuh-uh, that’s not gonna cut it. I might not be there to jerk your scrawny ass out of the fire the next time this guy decides to come after you. And for some reason he is one persistent son of a bitch. I’m wondering why that is.”

Michael looks at him for a second, then back down at the floor. Dean’s actually surprised it’s taken as long as it has when he breaks.

“Okay,” Michael says, taking a deep breath and running his hand through his hair. He starts talking, voice rising in pitch and agitation as he speaks.

“Okay. Neal thinks I took something of his. He…I think he’s a dealer, meth maybe, I don’t know. I swear, Dean, I didn’t know, I just went back to the house with Sherri, but Neal keeps saying he’s out five thousand bucks worth of dope and he thinks I took it, but I didn’t, I swear…God, I just wanted to get laid, you know?”

Dean groans. This is so much worse than he’d thought.

“Christ, why didn’t you tell me all that in the first place? No wonder he’s got his shorts in such a twist. He’s not going to just walk away from that much money…he can’t.”

“But I didn’t have anything to do with that and I didn’t know if you’d believe me and…I didn’t know what to do.” Michael finishes, making a helpless hand gesture.

Dean shakes his head, trying to think, but of course Mikey can never shut up.

“It’s just…I guess I was hoping he’d go away, you know. I didn’t do anything.”

“Except his sister,” Dean says absently, rubbing his hand across his jaw.

“Well, yeah…except for that. I’m not sure he even knows about that, actually, or if he’d care. The problem is, I don’t have his dope and I don’t have five thousand dollars and I don’t have a clue what to do.”

Dean really doesn’t either, but he’s not going to tell Michael that. Somebody has to keep it together here.

“Just…just stay close, okay? This guy is serious. Don’t go off alone until we figure this out.”

“Okay. I can do that,” Michael says, taking a shaky breath. He starts looking better, like he’s relieved.

It takes Dean a second to realize that he feels better, too. Even if he hasn’t got any idea how he’s going to do it, somebody trusts him to take care of things. He’s missed that.

Chapter Three (b)