destiel fanfic help???

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if this isn't allowed, pm me and i will take it down.

hi!! i'm starting, like, my 700th fanfic, and i actually want to finish/write a lot unlike all my others! the only problem is: i have two beginning options (or i could combine them together), and idk which one sounds better/more creative, so if anyone could help by giving me tips, critique, etc., that'd be awesome!

*ps. also, i tend to lose interest in my writing, so i wanna know what keeps you guys motivated! do you have, like, a planned out agenda/to-do list about what you're gonna write, or do you just wing it? thanks!

OPTION 1 (castiel's pov)
It was 11:30 pm on a Friday.
A lanky figure sat on top of a single mattress, the checkered, blue and black covers piled up on the floor beside the bed. The temperature gradually decreased as the night drew on, but the man was burning up, due to the fact that his significant other was usually home by 9, sometimes even earlier on weekends.
He sat there on the bed, cross-legged, his hand running through his scraggly, dark brown hair anxiously. The phone lines in the house were down as a result of not paying the bill, and he even made an effort to walk to the nearest phone booth three blocks away just to get a hold of his lover, but no luck.
The old apartment was worn down, some of the paint was peeling off the wall, and there was barely any furniture. It was the only thing they could afford, but they liked it there; nobody could bother them, and the rent was fairly cheap, even for them.
It was now 12:14, and the tall man had gotten up from the bed, and made coffee. He sat on a kitchen chair that was positioned at the only window in the apartment, which faced the front street. Taking small, quiet sips, he sat there, glaring out the borderless glass as thoughts raced through his barren mind, the only sound being the soft, barely audible taps of the rain outside. He wasn’t mad, lonely, or sad; he didn’t really know what he felt, he just wanted his boyfriend to get back home safely.
At exactly 12:37, the man woke up to the slam of a car door. Snapping his eyes open, he jolted his head upward towards the window; he had fallen asleep with his head in his hands, and his coffee cup placed on the ground, half full. The sound of a second car door made his heart sink to the bottom of his empty chest. At first, he had thought it was just the neighbor getting home fairly late, but had his mind changed as soon as he heard the voices.
“Babe, where’s the…” It was a female’s voice, unfamiliar. The man couldn’t tell what else she said for it sounded like she threw up on the concrete.
“Just upstairs,” That was definitely Balthazar; he could only tell for sure because of the heavy British accent.
The man got up from the chair slowly, and stood at the window, his hand sliding down the glass. After about 10:00, he figured this would happen; it happened 4 times earlier this week. He waited painfully at the apartment, for Balthazar to come home safely, only to find his lover with a woman… a woman! Of course, he didn’t say anything in fear that Balthazar might get furious and hurt him, or leave. But now, it was his turn.
Figuring he had a few minutes before the drunk partnership stumbled up the stairs and into the [censored] apartment, the man moved over to the kitchen quietly, accidentally kicking the coffee cup over onto the hardwood flooring. Grabbing a pad of paper and a pen, he quickly wrote a note that read: “Good luck. -Castiel”.
Standing there with the scribbled paper in his hand, Castiel watched the light, cream colored coffee as it spread across the wood in delicate, pretty streams. He only had one wish so far: that it would leave an unremovable stain, like the permanent scar that Balthazar had left on his broken heart.
Four full minutes had passed before Balthazar and his temporary lover made it up the stairs, and Castiel was already outside getting ready to leave. He had no clue where he was going, but he had the idea that it was some place where he could let himself go, and forget about his past relationships. Cas debated on taking Balthazar’s car, but decided not to; it might have caused trouble if he ever found out. Shrugging his shoulders, he grabbed his trench coat that hung motionlessly on the back deck railing; it was a gorgeous chestnut brown color, and unbelievably clean for the use that Castiel made out of it.
Fortunately, the rain had stopped, creating a somewhat clear path to the bar down the street. With the trench coat hanging just an inch above the sodden ground on his hunched, sore back, and his shoulders slouching slightly, Castiel made his way towards the seemingly everlasting open lounge.
While walking, Castiel let his thoughts come back and haunt him. He soon remembered the street light that always flickered next to their, his, apartment and turned his head to look back: it was finally dead; it looked odd, being the only unlit street light, but it made Castiel happy; he felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips, but, almost immediately, pushed it away unintentionally as he continued his journey.

OPTION 2 (dean's pov):
disclaimer: this one is rather short; i just started it last night.
It was nearly 1:00 AM, yet the bar was still open. The only customers that were there were a few edgy teens thinking they looked cool by playing pool in a bar. Well, they didn’t.
Fortunately for the bartender, they weren’t expecting any other customers, so he could finally start cleaning up and go home for the night; for some reason, the manager always thought that he was the best one for the night shifts, but he didn’t think so. Either way, he didn’t mind due to the fact that the only people that came in were kids looking for money, and people too drunk to order anything; they just kinda sat there and cried.
But tonight was different.
The man sauntered in at approximately 12:58, his dusty, brown trench coat folded in half and hanging off of his shoulder sloppily. He stumbled in a drunken manner, but the bartender knew he wasn’t; there was an obvious and well known difference between intoxicated, and just the feeling of loneliness.
Upon taking in his surroundings and finding a seat at the farthest spot from the bartender, the man sat at the bar and dropped his head on his now crossed arms, a few quiet sobs escaping his parted lips.
The man looked out of place; he looked like he belonged in an office, or some sort of nice house with a big family.
After a few minutes of watching, the bartender moved towards the mysterious man, his hands fixated on drying the wine glass that he had just washed only a few minutes earlier as he took his order.
“What can I get you?”
“Huh?” His head was lifted, only to rest his chin on his arm, his gaze staring up at the questioning man in front of him. “Oh, uh, just give me a shot of something strong.”
The man had eyes of an icey blue that the bartender had never seen before. His skin looked tanned and worn, hidden behind untamed stubble. His hair was a shallow brown, scraggly and short, but neatly ruffled.