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You’re running your hands over the fabric of the dress, making sure there’s no creases, when you hear raised voices from the next room. Frowning, you open the bathroom door to the bedroom and walk in.
Dean has his hands crossed in front of his chest, is shaking his head while Castiel looks on and Sam is staring down at the sleeves of the tux he rented for tonight. They don’t even reach down to his wrists.
“It fit when I put it on at the store,” he says, tugging at the fabric, a desperate look on his face.
“Please don’t tell me you’re still growing,” Dean says, chuckling a little.
“That’s highly unlikely,” Castiel adds. “Human males don’t typically keep growing once they’ve reached their early twenties. Sam is much too old for that.” Sam huffs, then takes off the jacket.
“I’m not much too old for that,” he complains under his breath. You take a step closer to them.
“The suit doesn’t fit?” you ask, three pairs of eyes going to you. Dean’s eyebrows go up, making you immediately feel self-conscious.
“Woah,” he says, “you look hot.” You cross your arms over your chest, hoping you’re not blushing.
“Thanks,” you say, your brain scrambling to get back on topic. “Do we have time to get a different one? In a size that fits the growing boy?” Sam scoffs, then looks at his watch.
“I don’t think so,” he says, making a face. “We’re running late as it is.” He looks up, first at his brother, then at the angel.
“Alright, change of plan. Dean or Cas are gonna have to go with you,” Sam concludes.
Slight panic spreads through your chest. You don’t mind pretending to be Sam’s girlfriend for an evening. You’ll joke around and he’ll be too interested in the artifact on display to pay much attention to you. Castiel would also be fine, albeit a bit awkward, but Dean? Walking around together, holding hands, being victim to his charm the entire evening, plus him in a tux? You’re not sure you could take it. To your horror, Dean doesn’t seem to have the same reservations.
“In that case we’re gonna have to make Cas look a lot richer,” he says and when Sam throws him a questioning look, he turns to the angel. “No offense, man, but she’s way out of your league.” You raise your eyebrows at him, smiling a little at his cockiness.
“But I’m not out of yours?” you ask, tone teasing. Dean gives his most charming grin.
“Darlin’,” he says, “maybe I’m out of yours.” You roll your eyes, but it seems the decision’s been made. Dean’s gonna be your date for tonight, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
The Impala chugs along as Dean pulls up in front of the museum, both of you looking towards the entrance.
“You got the invitations?” you ask and Dean nods, turns off the engine before patting the front of his jacket.
“Can’t believe Crowley pulled this off,” he says and you huff.
“He’s getting something out of it, so I’m not too surprised,” you say. Dean nods, then turns to you, hands adjusting his collar.
“How do I look?” he asks and you raise your eyebrows at him.
“You know you look good, so don’t go fishing for compliments,” you say and Dean grins. “Although I think the spiky boy band hair doesn’t really go with the occasion.” To underline your words you raise your hand, pretend you’ll run it through the front of Dean’s hair, but he moves away with a chuckle.
“Hasn’t hurt me yet,” he says, to which you can only mmh. Then he looks you up and down, as far as that’s possible with both of you still sitting. “You look really good too, you know?” You shift in your seat, hoping he doesn’t see how his words affect you.
“Obviously I do, green’s my color” you reply, referring to the velvety fabric of your dress, but when you look into Dean’s eyes, you’re reminded of the startling green there as well. You swallow. “Shall we?”
Dean gets out without another word, and while you’re still arranging your dress and your heels and your purse, he suddenly opens the door on your side, extending a hand down to you. You take it after a second of hesitation, let him help you out of the car.
“I didn’t know you could be such a gentleman,” you say, and Dean clicks his tongue.
“You’ve just never been treated to the Dean Winchester special,” he says, making you laugh.
“What does that include?” you ask, as you wrap your arm around his when he extends it to you, trying not to notice how close it brings your bodies to each other, how nice his biceps feels under your palm. “Daddy issues and a rash?”
Dean laughs, and you adore him for it. The last guy you were seeing broke things off because you didn’t seem available. He constantly asked about Dean, and who could blame him – there were probably few men with enough confidence to enjoy their women constantly being around someone with those looks, that charisma. But in the last and final argument you had, he implied that you needed to stop hoping Dean would come around. You’ve tried to ignore the words, but it’s made you wonder if you should keep Dean at a distance. Not for the first time, you promise to yourself you will, really this time, but the problem is that he gets so damn genuine and it just moves something in you that makes you nervous.
The man at the front door asks for your tickets, and Dean gives them to him. He verifies them, then gives Dean a knowing smile.
“Just gotta say, sir,” he says, “she’s a beaut.” Dean smiles, then looks at you.
“Ain’t she just?” he says and you feel heat rush to your cheeks. But then Dean turns back to the security guy, who has an awkward look on his face.
“I meant your car, sir,” he says, then quickly adds: “I would never—But the lady as well, of course.” You don’t miss the awkward side glance Dean throws you. All part of the cover, you tell yourself.
When you walk in, your eyes trail up, looking at the beautiful glass ceiling of the building. There’s money here, serious money, and you shake your head at it, then turn back to Dean.
“Okay,” you say, all business now, “we’re looking for Sir William Ogden’s walking cane. Well, not the cane itself, but the handle— Dean, are you listening to me?”
Dean’s looking around, but he looks at you with slightly pursed lips.
“Do you wanna get a drink?” he asks. You raise the hand that isn’t slung around his arm, then drop it at your side.
“I mean, we can get a drink,” you point out, “or we could get the weird, mysterious artifact we came for and just go home?” Dean narrows his eyes, thinks for a second.
“Drink sounds good,” he concludes, and drags you towards the ornate bar.
You both stand in front of it, and a young man in a white tux takes your order.
“Whiskey on the rocks for me,” Dean says, and you’re glad he’s blending in enough to not order a beer, but then he points his finger at you. “Martini for the lady.” The guy behind the bar looks at you.
“Dirty, please,” you say and he nods, moves down the bar to prepare your drinks.
“So the cane,” you continue, “it has the silver figure of a toad as its handle, and it—”
“I never got the olive thing,” Dean says, grabbing a handful of the fancy bar snack standing in a small bow in front of him, before leaning on the bar and turning to you. “Doesn’t seem like something that should go in a drink.” You drop the hands you just raised to gesticulate.
“Okay,” you say, scratching at your forehead, “is there a reason you are more focused on the cocktail menu than the actual reason we came here?” Dean studies you for a split second, then turns away, then looks back at you with a disarming smile.
“Same reason I picked up a tux that’s two sizes too small for Sammy,” he answers, sounding a little too proud of himself. You frown at him.
“You…did what?” you ask, not understanding. Dean shrugs.
“I’m sure it would have been a great time,” he says, not sounding like he believes that at all. “I saw some scrolls back there that I’m sure Sam would go wild over.” You can’t help but chuckle at Dean’s description of his brother.
“But you’ve kind of had a rain cloud over your head for a while,” Dean continues, looking just a little more serious, “so I thought you deserved a night out. A fun night out.”
You open your mouth to say something, but just in that moment, your drinks arrive. Dean raises his glass, and clinks it against yours, but you don’t move to drink.
“You did that for me?” you ask, keeping his gaze. “To cheer me up?” Dean grins broadly at you.
“I’m awesome,” he says, clinking his glass against yours again, maybe hoping you'll finally drink. “I hope this isn’t the first time you’re noticing.” You smile, then take a sip of your drink. It tastes expensive.
Dean and you both turn your back to the bar, look into the room. Lots of fancy people around, looking very comfortable in their suits and dresses, holding drinks they’re not paying for, probably not even thinking about the checks they’ll sign later. It’s a fundraiser after all, and you doubt they’re invited if a charitable donation hurts their wallets.
Dean’s standing close to you, and you’re sure it’s part of the cover. You’re both younger than the average couple here, but then you could just pass as the heirs to some fortune or other. It’s a likely story.
You move your shoulders, not sure how to feel at Dean’s confession. It’s true, you haven’t been feeling amazing since you and James broke up, but that’s normal, right? It’s made you feel a little lonely. It’s not like you were planning to spend your life with the guy, but it drove home the point that it’s difficult enough to find a connection to anyone, never mind in this business.
The fact that Dean wants to comfort you makes your heart melt and your defenses go up in equal measures. You’re hip to his tricks, and while you’re sure he knows you’re not up to just being a potential fling, you don’t know if you would have it in you to stop any advanced if they ever happened. And if something did happen and it meant more to you than to Dean – well, you’re not sure your pride could take that. So you’ve been unsure how to approach things. A roll in the hay with Dean Winchester would be sure to take your mind off things. But for a rebound, maybe it would be better to pick someone you’re not certain you’ll fall head over heels in love with.
You sigh, raise your glass, take a sip. “I’m gonna go freshen up,” you say. Dean turns to you, a questioning look on his face, but you put down your drink and grab your purse before he can point out you’ve been here all of ten minutes. You walk as quickly as your high heels will carry you.
Another sigh leaves you as you sit down on the closed toilet lid. This was stupid. You know Dean means well, but he should have let Sam be your date. It would have been easy, uncomplicated, and right now, uncomplicated is about the only thing you can handle. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that Dean is that sweet to you. You know it’s a stupid thing to be upset about, but it’s not helping with your incapacitating crush on him.
You let your head drop back. There it is. The words you have been refusing to admit even to yourself. Turns out all it takes is Dean in a nice outfit and two sips of a Martini to tickle it out of you.
Damn it. Damn it.
You get up, walk outside to the sinks. You’re gonna get your act together, you think while you wash your hands, just for the show of it and also to delay the moment you have to walk out there again. You’re gonna get it together, and you’re not gonna let James’ words mess with you – the guy couldn’t even find your g-spot, what does he know about what your feelings for Dean might be?
You walk out of the bathroom with renewed vigor, only to be immediately deflated when you approach the bar. Dean is talking to a woman – an attractive woman – in a hot pink dress. His back is turned to you but even from this angle you're sure he’s flirting.
A mean pinch goes through your body. It shouldn’t hurt like that. You have no right to Dean’s undivided attention, you know that, but it still hurts. Because it might blow your cover, you quickly add to your own thoughts. You can’t even convince yourself.
So you walk over there, a woman on a mission. You sway your hips a little, shoes loud on the expensive wooden floor. When you get close, you let your hand run up Dean’s back, like he’s yours. Well, tonight, he technically is.
He turns, a surprised look on his face. The other woman looks at you – she’s older than you, one of those women who just become more stunning the more years pass by, so you know she’s Dean’s type exactly. But you can’t care about that right now.
“There you are, honey,” you say in your sweetest voice. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” You reach past him, grab your drink and quickly take a big sip, hoping some liquid courage is exactly what you need. You turn to the woman, who studies you like a fly that just landed in her soup. You can’t blame her.
“Well, I should get going,” she says, ignoring your presence, but throwing another brilliant smile at Dean. “It was lovely to talk to you. You’ll have to finish that story some other time.” She nods at you, and then turns around and walks away. You drop your hand off Dean’s back immediately, down your drink.
“You want another one?” Dean asks. “They’re free, you know.” You lick your lips, put the glass on the bar.
“I know it must be hard for you,” you say, and by the change in Dean’s expression you know he can tell immediately that you’re not joking, that you’re serious, and you don’t want him to know that, but you’re not sure how to get that tone out of your voice. “But can you keep it in your pants, just for one night? We don’t need anyone to know that we’re not actually a couple.” You nod at the bartender, point at your glass, then turn to Dean. He looks confused, but not ashamed.
“We were just chatting,” he says, sounding a little confused, and you can’t quite believe he’s actually gonna pretend this was nothing, that he wasn’t flirting, like you are a real, actual couple and he’s lying to you, making you feel like you’re imagining things. James did that. Why in the world did you ever date that ringworm?
“I’m sure you were,” you say, scratching at your elbow just to give your hands something to do. “But it’s…look, I know it’s not real, but it’s embarrassing, okay? To have your pretend boyfriend flirt with someone else for everyone to see.”
Well, you didn’t mean to make a scene, but you sure managed to do it anyway. Humiliation follows the sharp taste of jealousy, making your skin prickle. Dean probably gets as lonely as you do. He has the right to make that feeling go away any way he chooses to. You date idiots and he has sex with women he’ll never see again. Whatever makes the nights seem less cold.
To your surprise, Dean doesn’t double down, snipe at you with some practiced remark. He blinks, seems to think about your words, and you wish he didn’t, wish he could just be a little bit of a smartass, but of course this is the moment he picks to let that sweet side of him show.
“I’m sorry, okay?” he says and you press your lips together, look down.
“It’s okay,” you say quickly, quietly. “Just don’t wanna blow our cover.”
“You’re right,” Dean responds. “That was stupid. She came over to talk to me, but it was still stupid. I was stupid.”
“You’re not…” you start, then wait for the bartender to put down your new drink before you continue. “It wasn’t stupid. It’s fine.” And because you feel like maybe this can be helped if you can be Dean’s buddy, you add: “She was really hot.” Dean huffs, pushes one hand into the pocket of his dress pants.
“My head’s in the game,” he says, looking at you. “I’m gonna be the best fake boyfriend in the world, okay?” You can’t help but smile at that, and Dean smiles back, almost proud.
This is going to be a difficult night.
The two of you grab your drinks and begin exploring the room. Your arm is hooked around Dean’s again, and you both collect observations about your surroundings – how much security there is, potential exits, the laugh of a particularly rich looking older man. Only the thing is, when Dean leans in to tell you something, he does it in a way that looks to the outside world like he’s whispering something naughty in your ear. Once or twice the tip of his nose brushes the shell of your ear, and you can feel his breath on the side of your face. The brainless giggle you give afterwards every time is just for the cover, of course. You wanted this, after all, for him to focus.
Someone walks by with a plate of hors d'oeuvre and Dean reaches for it, almost as if on instinct, shoves the little bite-size appetizer into his mouth. For a second he looks appreciative of the taste, but then his expression turns.
“Date?” you ask, guessing that something unexpected was hidden under the layer of bacon. Dean shakes his head, grimacing.
“It’s something else,” he says around the food in his mouth. “Apricot?”
You make a sympathetic face, then reach for another tray held by a waitress nearby, grab a napkin and pass it to Dean. He discreetly deposits what’s left of his mouth in the napkin, then throws you a look.
“How could anyone do that to bacon?” he mumbles, his tone embarrassed. In response, you squeeze his arm.
“It’s a crime,” you say and Dean looks almost relieved. He is unbearably cute like this.
You’re walking into a second room, a couple of stairs separating it from the one you were just in – Dean extending his hand to help you walk down them in your heels, then not dropping said hand, so neither do you – when you hear someone speak up behind you.
“Mister Ogden?” someone says, and you and Dean both ignore it, because neither of you is feeling very Ogden-ish tonight. But then there’s quick footsteps, and suddenly the man with the rich laugh from earlier is in front of you. He gives an apologetic little smile before he addresses Dean.
“Apologies,” he says, “but you wouldn’t happen to be Mr. Ogden? William Ogden the Fifth?” You can see Dean hesitate for just a second.
That’s not the name you got on your fake tickets for this night, which probably means the real Mr. Odgen is somewhere in this building right now or will be soon. But it’s also the same last name of the original owner of the artifact you’re looking for, so who knows what kind of privileges this will afford you.
“One and only,” Dean says with a charming smile, then extends his hand to shake the other man’s. A relieved expression comes over rich guy’s face.
“We were worried you might not make it, sir,” he says, giving away he must be the curator of the museum as he shakes Dean’s hand intensely. “We understood that you were on your way back from a safari and your private plane was grounded?” He makes a face like he just found out you had to call a plumber for your kitchen sink. Small inconveniences.
“Yes, yes,” Dean says, nodding. “Luckily we just…took my other plane.” The way the other man reacts shows you this isn’t a crazy thing to say. To your horror, he turns to you next.
“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure,” he says, extending his freed-up hand after he drops Dean’s to you. You take it, smile politely.
“Patricia,” you say, not sure why you come up with that particular name. And then, because he looks at you expectantly, and your brain isn’t done playing tricks on you, you add: “Highsmith.” Here’s hoping this guy doesn’t read.
“Charmed, charmed,” he says, nodding and finally letting go of you. “Are you enjoying the evening?” Dean nods, then inclines his head, before he lays his arm around you, hand landing on your lower back. It fits there perfectly, you catch yourself thinking, trying to shove the thought away.
“We are,” he says, “but we haven’t seen my great grandfather’s walking cane yet.” You bite down on the urge to point out that Dean is missing a couple of “greats” in that description, instead look at the other man.
“Of course,” he replies, “it reserves a special place further down the room.” Dean nods, then inclines his head towards you.
“This one’s been so excited to see it,” he says and you do your best to look enthused. “She just loves… canes.” You press your lips together.
“May I guide you to the exhibit then?” the other man asks, and Dean nods, then turns to you.
“Doesn’t that sound good, honey?” he asks and you turn to him too just as he leans in.
You can only explain what happens next by assuming that Dean means to peck you on the cheek, or whisper something in your ear. You’re not sure why he’d want to do that, maybe just to underline your cane enthusiasm, but you turn to him at the same time, thinking he’s going to say something, so what ends up happening is that his face is suddenly extremely close to yours. So close that you would only have to move an inch for your lips to touch.
You’re still smiling, but it drops off your visage when you realize how close Dean is to you. The tips of your noses are almost touching and when your eyes shoot up, you are looking straight into the mesmerizing green of his. You blink, finding it impossible to tear yourself away. Too stunning are the long lashes, the freckles speckled over the bridge of his nose. He always looks a little cross-eyed when you’re this close to him – not that you often get the opportunity.
The thing is, Dean also doesn’t move away. He looks into your eyes, first one, then the other, so close that he needs to pick one at a time. His hand on your back twitches. It’s not until rich guy starts talking again that you both look away.
“Very well,” he says, looking between you two, his professional exterior cracking for the first time as he probably wonders, exactly like you, what the hell just happened. “Follow me then.”
You dare another look at Dean, see him swallow. You both begin walking after your guide when. There’s a thick cloud of awkwardness surrounding you, but you notice that Dean doesn’t remove his hand from where it is.
The cane itself is pretty unimpressive. Oh, it’s nice for a walking cane, but it is just that. The toad that makes up the handle is pretty cool, far as toads go. You realize you are concentrating like this because the alternative is concentrating back on Dean. And that just won’t do right now. Someone walks past you with a tray, and you and Dean both put your empty drinks on it while you resist the urge to grab one of the glasses of champagne on it, just to have something to quiet your brain.
Rich guy has elected to tell the two of you all about the history of the cane, who made it, who sold it and then what important historical events Grandpa Ogden took it to. You’re nodding along, but only half listening. A small crowd has formed around the exhibit, others intently listening to the history lesson, but neither you nor Dean say anything else until you speak up.
“So,” you say quietly, trying to re-break the ice that has apparently just frozen over the lake that is you and Dean. “How are we gonna get this thing out of there?” Dean takes a slow breath.
“Can’t do a hit and run, too out in the open,” he says.
“Then we wait until after closing,” you say, “or we need a distraction.” Dean purses his lips, then turns to look at you, the first time since the incident.
“You could get naked,” he suggests, a charming grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. You blink, then can’t help yourself but chuckle.
“You think that would scare people off enough for you to grab grampa's toad cane?” you ask, voice challenging and cheeky. Dean huffs.
“They’d probably be so distracted by you I could break the glass and then do a tap dance number with the thing,” he says. You’re just opening your mouth when the realization that what he’s saying is more a compliment than anything else hits you. You close it again, try to act unaffected, so you turn back to the exhibit.
“Getting arrested for public nudity would almost be worth it to see you tap dance,” you say and Dean chuckles.
“And that is how we end up here today,” the museum guy is finishing up, “with this wonderful artifact of rich history, generously donated by the Ogden family.” He extends his hand in the direction of you and Dean, and most of the people standing around turn too. For whatever reason, Dean responds to the looks by pulling you closer to him. You need to take a small step so you don’t stumble, and irrevocably end up leaning against Dean. You hope the heat you feel rushing to your face isn’t visible from the outside.
“What the hell?” you hear a loud voice behind you, and everyone turns around, “I’m William Ogden’s descendant! Who is this clown?”
To be fair, you understand why someone would mix you up with the couple standing behind you. They’re young and attractive, dressed expensively and standing so close to each other it’s almost a little exhibitionistic. They do look a little douchier than you and Dean do, but then money doesn’t automatically come with good taste.
You and Dean look at each other, before he turns back to the curator.
“Oh, Ogden?” he says, trying to feign surprise. “I thought you said, uhm, Walden. Sorry, this is all a big misunderstanding.” You throw a fake smile at the crowd around you as Dean gently but determinedly begins leading you away. He drops his hand, only to wrap it around yours as you both turn towards the exit. Your skin prickles where he touches it.
It’s no use, of course. Security’s on you immediately.
You pace up and down as much as the small antechamber allows. Every time you make a turn, you have to step over Dean’s extended legs from where he’s sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall, staring at the ceiling. He’s opened his bowtie and it’s hanging around his neck, making him look a little too good.
“Look, it happens,” he says as you step over his legs again. “We tried something, didn’t pan out. It’s not the end of the world. When the cops get here, we tell them we’re FBI, make something up. We’ve gotten out of worse situations before.” You make another round.
“It’s not that,” you say, shaking your head a little. You can hear shuffling and when you look back, Dean is standing up.
“What is it?” he asks, frowning, giving you a questioning look. You stop where you are, because if you keep walking you’re gonna need to squeeze past him.
“I just…” you say, crossing your arms in front of you. “I just really could have used a win.” Dean leans against the wall behind him, grinning.
“We got to dress up and there were free drinks,” he says. “That’s a win in my book.” You look down at the floor.
“I’m serious, Dean,” you say. “Everything lately has just been…” You let the sentence taper out, noting how sad it makes you feel.
“Is this about that idiot?” Dean asks, and he doesn’t have to clarify what idiot he’s talking about. You sigh.
“No,” you say, then chew the inside of your lip for a second. “Yes. Maybe.”
“He was a douche,” Dean says, tone unbelieving. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I picked him,” you say, not quite believing that you are having this kind of conversation with Dean, but also unwilling to stop. “What does that say about me?” Dean inclines his head, gives you the seriously? look he does.
“It doesn’t say anything about you,” he says. You tighten your arms around yourself.
“Do you think I seem… unavailable?” you ask. Dean blinks, but then leans back, studies you.
“You’re not looking very inviting right now,” he says and you can’t help but chuckle at that. “But I know getting through those crossed arms is worth it.” You press your lips together, then force yourself to drop your arms.
“I knew he was an ass,” you say, voice quieter, “but at least I knew what kind of ass he was. There were no surprises. No risks. Does that make sense?” Dean purses his beautiful lips, seriously thinks about what to say and it makes your heart beat faster.
“Familiar can be good,” he says finally. “I get the appeal.” You raise your eyebrows.
“But?” you ask, because it sounds like he’s not done. Dean smiles, then pushes himself off the wall, slowly walks towards you, the hard-won distance shrinking like it’s nothing.
“But maybe sometimes it’s worth stepping out of your comfort zone,” Dean continues. You give an unsure laugh as he comes closer, feel the need to bring your arms in front of you again. But at the same time, you don’t want to, so you keep them down.
Dean stops right in front of you, closer than normal conversational distance would allow. He’s studying your face.
“What?” you ask, unsure. Dean thinks for another second before he answers.
“Can I try something?” he asks and you frown a little at him.
“I, uhm, what do you wanna try?” you ask. Dean chuckles.
“Would it kill you just to trust me for a second?” he asks. You shift in place.
“Okay,” you say.
Dean takes another step closer. There’s the instinct to step back, to allow him room, but it’s overridden by the magnetism of his closeness. His eyes drop to your lips as he comes closer and you almost flinch when his hand lands on your waist, moves over it to wrap around your back. Dean lowers his head at the last second.
His lips meet yours, softly, gently. It’s not the electrifying kind of kiss. Instead, it feels like a warm blanket wrapped around you on a cold day. It’s intimate and sweet. It’s a kiss just for the sake of a kiss.
Of course your brain, always one to ruin the fun, suddenly chimes in. Makes you worried. With the strength of an Amazon you bring your hands up before you and gently push them against Dean's chest, making him separate from you.
“What are you doing?” you ask. Dean opens his eyes, because they were closed, because he was kissing you, your brain screams. He blinks at you.
“Ohh boy,” he says with a light twitch of the corners of his mouth. “See, we call this kissing. It's something humans do when they like each other, when they find each other attractive. What do they do on your planet?”
For a second, you just stare at him. You wanna laugh, because it's Dean, because laughing feels like a good thing to do right now. Because laughing could get you out of the immense confusion you're feeling. Instead tears shoot to your eyes and you push Dean further away.
“Don't do that,” you say. “Don't do that, okay? Don't... joke about this.” Dean blinks again, impossibly long lashes meeting his cheeks. He looks at you, now also confused.
“Don't make out with me just because this evening is a bust and you don't think you'll get to take anyone else home tonight,” you explain, steadying your voice.
“That is--” Dean says, pulling his head back a little. “That is not what this is. That is so not what—I’m... Are you serious?”
You raise your hand, pinch the bridge of your nose in the hope you can collect yourself.
“Dean,” you say. “I can't... Please don't do this right now, okay?” You look back up at him. He looks down, then back at your face and he looks... Does he look hurt?
“I'm sorry,” he says “I thought...” He takes a step back, his hands dropping off you, and you hate it.
“I'm sorry,” he says again, not looking at you.
“Look,” you say, “I'm flattered. You're like the most attractive guy I've ever met, and it's not that I'm not interested. I just don't think I have the mental capacity right now to hook up with someone I really like and still keep those two things separate.” You rub your hands over your arms.
“What are you talking about?” Dean asks.
“It means,” you say, “I'm feeling vulnerable and I would probably fall in love with you if you so much as smiled at me one more time. Making out with you is gonna destroy me, Dean.” You try to laugh a little at the end, show that actually this is a huge compliment to him. But Dean still looks confused.
“So you're saying I'm not boyfriend material?” he says and it sounds a little like he's trying not to sound offended. You study his face.
“I think you are,” you say, “that's kind of the problem. I think you are perfect, dreamy boyfriend material. Which is exactly why this is a bad idea.” Dean nods slowly.
“Then let me get this straight,” he says, “you think you might like me if you kiss me, so you shouldn't kiss me in case you do like me.” He nods before he adds: “Which is bad why exactly?”
“Because,” you say, your voice sounding a little lighter, “you're not interested in that. And I will be, ‘cause I'm an emotional mess right now and because you're you.” And because I’ve been thinking about you that way for a long time, a voice inside you says.
Dean thinks for a moment, before a soft smile starts spreading on his lips again. It surprises you, even though you’re happy he doesn’t seem hurt by your words.
“I’m not looking for a hook-up,” he says.
“Right, okay,” you reply with a small laugh, “I get that. You’re saying whatever you would call a night with that woman in the pink dress would be more of an experience than a hook-up.” To your surprise Dean doesn't look like he has any idea what you talking about.
“What woman?” he asks and for a second you think he’s joking, but then you see he’s not.
“In the pink…” you start, then tilt your head. “I’m confused.”
“You’re confused?” Dean asks, giving you an unbelieving look. “Well, join the club.” Your mouth drops open, closes, before you find the words you want to say.
“Are you…” you start, then stop. Dean couldn’t possibly mean…
“I kissed you,” Dean interrupts your train of thought, and you look at him, into those green eyes, “because I’ve been thinking about kissing you for a while now.” Your eyes widen.
“You have?” you ask. Okay. You assumed if Dean was trying to hook up with you tonight it would be out of boredom, maybe annoyance that he might otherwise go home on his own. But he’s saying the exact opposite.
“Yeah,” Dean says, now seeming to become a little nervous. Still, he pushes forward. “But you were dating that asshole, and then you broke up, and you were sad, and that didn’t feel like the right time.” He takes a deep breath, looks at you inquiringly, sees you listening, so he continues.
“And then you asked that stuff about whether you seem unavailable,” he continues, “and I thought… I thought you were trying to give me a hint. Like, make me get a move on.”
“Huh,” you say and Dean makes a grimace that seems to say he agrees.
“Yeah,” he replies, and then you’re both quiet for a moment.
“Well, I wasn’t trying to hint at you,” you say, shrugging. “But I still think you should kiss me again.”
Dean looks disappointed for a second, and then his face lights up. It’s the best thing you’ve ever seen. You don’t need to ask him twice.
He closes the distance between you two and you sling your arms around his shoulders, one hand going to cup his cheek while he pulls you in. And there’s that electricity, that feeling like you stuck your fingers into an outlet, tickling all over your body, only it’s a million times stronger, because it’s Dean you’re kissing.
You want to feel more of him, all of his good, nice, warm presence and Dean seems to think the same, because he pushes you backwards, until your back meets the wall next to the door that leads outside. You grin against him at his eagerness and in response he presses himself against you.
Soon his hands go to your hair, fingertips running into it, then back to your hips, your waist, your lower back, like he’s trying to take in all of you. You don’t mind. You’re busy doing the exact same thing.
When the door suddenly is pulled open, it startles both of you. Your faces break apart, but your bodies stay closely pressed against each other, and you both look to the door.
It’s Sam and Cas. They’re both wearing suits and when they realize what they just walked in on, Sam raises his eyebrows while Castiel actually looks away, like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t see anything.
“There you are,” Dean says, and you realize he sounds a little breathless. “We were waiting for you, where were you?” You look at Dean, but at this absolute lie you look to Sam,try to gauge his reaction.
“Yeah, I can tell,” he says, shaking his head unbelieving.
“What are you doing here?” you quickly ask before the two of them can fall into their usual bickering.
“We didn’t hear back from you,” Sam says, “and there was a call to the police we caught over the scanner. Something about two people faking their identities.” Sam gives both you and Dean a meaningful look.
“We thought we should make sure you two were alright,” Castiel says now, shooting a careful look at you and Dean. “We told them we were FBI and confiscated the cane.” Now it’s your turn to be dumbfounded.
“Wait,” you say, “you can… was that a possibility this whole time?” Sam pulls up his shoulders.
“I suggested that at the beginning,” he says, then raises his head to gesticulate at Dean. “He said there was no way it would work. That we would have to go in undercover.”
You turn your head to Dean just in time to see him shake his head at Sam, like he’s trying to shut his younger brother up. The scheming bastard. Dean looks back at you just as a delighted smile spreads over your face. Dean sees it, and after a second of surprise, one builds on his face too. He turns back to his brother and the angel.
“So you’re saying you got the artifact,” he clarifies, “and everything’s taken care of?” Castiel nods.
“Yes, it’s in the car already,” he confirms. “Both the cane and the metal amphibian.”
“So there’s nothing we really need to be doing now?” Dean asks, and you wonder where the hell he is going with this.
“Well, we need to get it to Crowley,” Sam says, “but that’s—”
“Sounds like something you two can take care of,” Dean says, and then he gives a placating smile before he leans over, reaches for the door knob. Sam and Castiel have to step back a little bit when Dean starts pulling closed the door, but they are apparently so surprised that they don't question it.
“Sounds like you don’t need us,” Dean says and he turns back to you before the door falls shut with a click. “Where were we?”
You can’t help but laugh, but that doesn’t stop Dean from diving in, pressing his lips against yours and bringing you as close to him as possible.