the first thing dean thinks about when he thinks about beau maxwell is not his death itself.

not the grief afterwards. not the memories.

it’s the quieter things that stayed lodged under his skin afterward — beau sitting across from him in a garden, talking about you and all your potential.

a picture folded in his wallet of the two of you as kids.

the same few stories repeated enough that dean could probably recognize your laugh before ever hearing it himself.

“if something ever happened to me,” beau had said one night, drunk and high in freshman year, “you’d look after her, right?”

it wasn’t a question. it certainty.

and dean, younger then and not knowing what the future held, nodded once and said yes.

—

the call comes at 2:18 a.m.

your name flashes across his screen while he’s asleep, next to allie. immediately, something settles heavily in his chest. he reaches over allie for his phone, who understands immediately.

she knows is strictly platonic between the two of us. he’s just helping you get through the grief — even if it has been a year already.

“hey,” he answers, sitting up in bed.

music blasts through the phone loud enough to distort your voice. bass. shouting. glass clinking somewhere nearby.

“dean,” you slur, and then laugh softly. “okay, hypothetical question…”

his eyes close briefly. “those are usually bad.”

“if somebodyyyy drank…” you drag the word out. “like. a lot. could they die? hypothetically?”

“where are you?” he asks.

“i’m fiiine.”

“that’s not an address.”

by the time dean finally pulls a location out of you (something allie convinced you to have) and reaches the club, music is spilling out onto the sidewalk in violent pulses. neon lights flash against rain-slick pavement. groups of people crowd outside smoking, laughing too loudly, swaying into each other.

you’re sitting on the curb near the side entrance, head tilted back against the brick wall behind you. your makeup is slightly smeared beneath your eyes, heels abandoned somewhere beside you.

you look absolutely wasted.

—

the second the door of dean and allie’s apartment shuts behind you, you stumble sideways into the wall with a groan.

“easy,” dean mutters automatically, steadying you before you can slide straight to the floor.

“i hate everything.” you slur

“you’ll hate it more in the morning.”

“you’re so comforting, asshole.”

“i try.” his voice stays dry and even, but exhaustion drags at the edges of it now. he has his sweats on, and allie is standing at the stairs in hers, too. she looks concerned.

you realize suddenly he left his bed and his girlfriend for you. guilt twists somewhere sluggishly in your stomach.

dean guides you toward the couch first, making sure you sit before disappearing into the kitchen. you sit there in silence, head spinning slowly, staring at the dim outline of the city outside your windows while your heartbeat pulses hard behind your eyes.

when he comes back, he presses a glass of water into your hands.

“drink.”

you squint at it suspiciously. “what if it kills me?”

“it’s water.”

“i could drown.”

“you’re exhausting.” dean sighs, but there’s the faintest flicker of amusement in his voice now.

you take a sip anyway, grimacing dramatically like you’ve been personally betrayed by hydration.

dean crouches slightly in front of you after a moment, doctor mode settling back over him effortlessly.

“you hit your head at all tonight?”

you groan, dropping your head back against the couch cushion. “stoppppp.”

you study him through half-lidded eyes.

he notices you staring eventually. “what?”

your voice comes out quieter than before. “…why do you always drop everything when i call? you have allie. and your apartment.”

dean stills slightly and for a second, the apartment feels very small. “it’s generally how emergency contacts work.”