Oops... My Bad - A Wrong Number Story

7

Y/N POV

After chatting with the group chat for a bit, I glanced at the clock on my phone. 4:30 p.m. already. Great. Time to transform from exhausted high schooler to mildly functional barista. My favorite double life.

I dragged myself off the bed, tossed my phone aside, and rummaged through my half-folded pile of clothes until I found my café uniform — that plain beige shirt with the little coffee cup logo on the front. I slipped it over my head and tugged on my flared leggings since my usual ones were still in the laundry basket where dreams went to die. I stared at my jacket hanging on the chair, the one that had definitely seen better days. It used to fit perfectly, but now it was too small to zip up all the way. Luckily, it wasn't that cold today, so I could get away without it. Small mercies.

The thing is... me and Dean were struggling. Like, really struggling. We were scraping by with duct-tape finances and a lot of crossed fingers. Food was a luxury most days, and new clothes were completely off the table. I'd learned how to lie with a smile whenever someone at school noticed I wasn't eating. "Oh, I'll eat when I get home," I'd say, all casual, like I had a fridge full of options waiting for me. In reality, I just didn't eat much. I couldn't. Dean needed it more than I did, and I didn't mind pretending I wasn't hungry. Hunger was easier to ignore than guilt. Besides, I'd gone days without eating before. It wasn't new — just familiar in that awful, comforting way.

It never used to be like this. When Dean had his old job, we managed okay. Not great, but okay. But when the company fired everyone, everything went downhill fast. He found another job, but the pay was crap, and the bills didn't care about our bad luck. So, for the past few months, I'd been juggling three jobs on top of school — the café, the library, and the pub on weekends. Technically, I wasn't old enough for one of them, but that's what fake IDs are for, right? Desperate times and all that.

It was exhausting. I was constantly tired — physically, emotionally, soul-deep tired. My eyes stung most mornings, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a proper night's sleep. But it was doable. Barely. I kept telling myself that if I could just push through, things would get better. They had to. Because Dean needed me. He'd been spiraling since he got fired — stress, guilt, late nights, more coffee than food. His mental health was... bad. Like, scary bad. But CeCe, his girlfriend, was a godsend. She made him laugh, reminded him to eat, kept him from falling too far into that dark place. I was grateful for her. She kept us both afloat, even if she didn't know it.

I grabbed my motorcycle keys from the table, their familiar jingle sparking a small smile despite everything. The garage smelled faintly of oil and metal, but it was one of my favorite places. My eyes landed on him — my beautiful, perfect boy. Castiel.

He wasn't much to anyone else — just an old bike I'd bought for fifty bucks at a garage sale from a guy who clearly didn't understand what he had. But to me, he was a masterpiece. My pride and joy. The paint gleamed faintly under the overhead light, the deep red color Dean helped me choose when we'd fixed him up together. We'd spent hours in that garage, elbows deep in grease, arguing over which parts to replace and laughing at our own terrible jokes. When we finally got Cas running, I'd teased Dean that now all we needed was a "Sammy" and we'd have the full Winchester family. He rolled his eyes, like always, but I caught the corner of his mouth twitching. He loved me — and Cas — more than he'd ever admit.

I swung a leg over the bike, feeling the weight of the world lift just a little as I turned the key and the engine rumbled to life. The vibration in the handlebars grounded me, steady and familiar. "Alright, Cas," I murmured. "Let's make it through another shift."

The ride to the café was short but freeing. The cool air whipped through my hair, the city buzzing around me — cars honking, people crossing streets, the scent of roasted coffee drifting from nearby shops. By the time I pulled into the narrow alley behind the café (a.k.a. the very glamorous "staff parking lot"), my mood had evened out a little.