#bartender!dean

“Oh, for the love of,” you say, twirling your straw through the remains of your Blue Lagoon once again. 

The ice is shaken enough already, yet you still hold the web of your hand protectively over the large base because you need your hands to do something. Anything is better than being up in that room. 

The rose petals. The bottle of champagne that’s now lying empty on the bathroom floor, swimming in a sea of strawberry stems and minuscule pieces of cork. 

They really should make the bottles easier to open for women like you. No one’s drinking champers alone, except women like you. Everyone else is enjoying it with their significant other or down here dancing to this terrible Journey cover while their drinks spill all over the place. 

Why can’t this night go on forever? It’s a nice sentiment, but once you love somebody, well, you eventually go your separate ways, don’t you? The night has to end, and then who’s crying now? 

“You okay there?” the bartender says to you, and no, no you’re not. You’re quoting the greatest hits of Journey, for fuck’s sake. 

But what else can you do but nod your head enthusiastically when the man stares at you with a look that says he’s already read you? Because he has. He’s been standing there staring all night, watching, judging you no doubt, along with every other singleton sitting at the bar. 

Newsflash. You’re the only one. 

The tiki bar is full of people for sure, but they’re all partnered up. Shared whispers across two-tops, laughing, flirting. The women’s faces melt under the bright lights of the torches that surround you. The men pretend the sand in their shoes don’t bother them. 

They’re celebrating their unions, their anniversaries or new love, and you’re stuck with the barkeep, somewhat flattered because at least he’s kind of pretty. 

Freckles dust his skin. There’s enough stubble on his cheek to tickle you in all the right places, and maybe that’s what you need? To be tickled into forgetting. To be humoured by a man’s company even if it is for five minutes and he’s on the clock. 

And you know what? 

That’s even better because you have all the power. If you pretend, even for a minute, that you’re not alone on your honeymoon, then maybe you can get sloshed enough to cover the pain, if only for the night. It won’t go on forever. No matter how many times the crooner belts it out.

So, you push your glass in his direction and point down into your fish bowl. “Can I get another one of these?”

Your hiccup is as cultivated as you’d expect it to be on the end there. Not meant to happen, and certainly not cute, but his green eyes widen just the same. 

“How ‘bout a water instead?”

He throws the rag he holds over his shoulder and reaches for a rack of glasses sitting by the complimentary beer nuts and iced lemon water. 

“No.” You’re firm. His brow raises at you, and you’re reaching out to take his bare wrist in your slender fingers to stop him.

“I really need another drink,” you say, and it’s pathetic. You’re begging a stranger not to cut off your booze supply when he’s the one who really has the power to do it and more.

Defeated, you let him go. Poise straightening to show you’re not drunk, because you’re not. The first one barely licked your empty insides, and there’s still more fire in there to douse with a third. 

“Please. Just…one more.” You bat your eyes at him. Smooth your dress over your thighs, playing with your skirt while you try to play him, but it takes a long damn time for him to consider.

That hand you had the pleasure of stopping comes up to his chin and scratches at his five o’clock shadow. “One more—” He holds his finger up stern. “—But if you’re gonna get wasted, at least do it on something worthwhile. That crap will go right through you tomorrow.”

You huff. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Yeah, well, you might be trying to forget some guy, but feeling sorry for yourself with your head stuck in a bowl ain’t going to help your pride.”

“How’d you know it was a guy?” you say, but he doesn’t reply. Just smirks and grabs a shaker. Rinses it.

And it’s mesmerising. The way he pours the alcohol and shakes the ice? The chicka-chicka as each cube rolls through the metal cylinder, sloshing through whiskey and whatever else he’s put in there. 

His arms move as fluid as the lines on the tiki bar’s uniform. He’s dancing with the bottles and the bar is dancing with him. Then he slides a tumbler in front of you that’s tall and thin. Holds nothing in it compared to your last two drinks, but it’s elegant. The amber sparkles through the torchlight. He even throws in an umbrella and a spiked cherry on the rim.

“There you go. A Dean Winchester special,” he says. Pulls out a shorter glass and pours a fifth of whiskey for himself. Takes a sip. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” 

You’d tell him, but you’re mesmerised by the tick of his jaw, too. The way he holds his glass with those nimble fingers. The way his tongue slips over his bottom lip and rubs the top.

It’s not until he bumps the glass with the counter between you and folds his arms between it that you notice he’s waiting for you. Eyes expectant, amused. Grinning again when you tell him yours and he repeats it. Savours the last syllable with a strong southern drawl. 

“Texas?” you say, because pulling pleasantries out of your ass is far better than ogling at the man.

“Kansas,” is all you get.

And what were you expecting? He’s there to serve the patrons booze. Not talk to single women who just so happen to be at his bar. There are glasses to dry and counters to wipe, his lowball to drink, which he finishes in one gulp. Goes back for another. 

“Figured,” you say, but who’re you fooling. You got it wrong from the get go, but of course you try to act cool.

You take a sip of your Dean Winchester. It’s sweet, delectable. There’s a hint of vanilla and a tug of spice that clings to your throat as it slips down to join the Blue Lagoon and the one before it. Has you choking on the burn.

“So what brings you here to a place like this? Hawaii is a long way from Kansas.”  

His eyes give you another once over, but he’s still grinning. At least he’s not insulted. “You hitting on me?” 

Oh god. Are you? “No.” No, no, you’re not. You shake your head. Blurt out the start of an apology until his laugh cuts you off and you’re watching him with a wary eye. 

“Relax. I’m just messing with you,” he says, but then he looks you over, and he forces a wry smile. “Guess it’s the last thing you need.” 

“So it is obvious.” 

It’s not a question, and you’re not wrong. It’s not obvious what happened. He’d have to pry to know those details, but he’s seen that look in plenty of eyes. 

Dean spotted you the second you stepped foot in the bar solo. Noticed the pretty dress. How you weren’t waiting on anyone, and how no one came. 

If he wasn’t working, he’d be chatting you up. Or would he? As much as he has a reputation to uphold, you’re easy game, and undeserving of anything other than a free drink and a couple of compliments. 

So, “It’s on me,” he says. Taps the bar and downs the second fifth. The asshole in the red blazer is clicking his fingers at him, and he needs to serve in hope of a bigger tip to pay for that top shelf concoction he’s just treated you.

He serves blazer-boy the martinis he’s ordered, along with a strawberry daiquiri for the Mrs whose cleavage is falling out of her dress. It’s a nice rack, but he can’t help but check on the modestly covered one he’s been keeping tabs on all night.

Once you’ve downed most of his Winchester special, he’ll try to get the raw deal out of you. There’s a story to tell with the manicured nails and tan line from where a giant rock once was. 

Did the asshole cheat on you? Are you widowed and reliving the honeymoon? No. You wouldn’t be so inclined to look at him the way you do when he’s pretending not to. Wouldn’t be curious about his background or seeking company at the resort bar in the first place. 

Why does he even care?

Because he’s a sap, and you’re polite enough to not openly flirt? 

He’s seen it all.

Women who throw themselves at him even when they’re with their partner or girlfriends. Ones alone, like you, who pull their top down and their skirt up the second they see him behind the bar. It’s what Hawaii does to people, but it’s not doing it for you.

Blazer-boy takes his watered down martini and sits down with the wife at a table across the bar, but four tequila shots and a hen’s party show up next and Dean’s left to watch and hope that you don’t leave. 

He throws a smile your way. Points at the glass and offers you another. He was never going to cut you off, just wanted to assess the situation. If making you a new one means you’ll stay longer at his counter, he’ll forgo his tip to find out more. 

Sam’d say he’s a sap, gone soft, and maybe he has, but his good conscience can’t help but make a pretty girl’s night better. Even if she does just breeze by his bar.

He mixes yours next. Adds two cherries on top, and brings with him a fresh bowl of nuts, placing it all in front of you. 

“Guess you haven’t eaten anything?” he starts, similar to the earlier line. Goes straight in for the kill, straight after with the usual preliminary questioning. Gives you a second of scrambling over what to say before he cuts in again and tells you to relax, again. 

“You don’t have to tell me, jack—” he swipes his head “—but I’m the cheapest therapist I know.” The kind that listens anyway. He won’t put any more stress on being cheap or place any expectations, for that matter. 

Not when his cheeks burn from your infectious laugh and the little snort that leaves you embarrassed and covering your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“I thought you had me figured out,” you say, and his eyes meet yours.

“I do.” He crosses his arms. Sees the way you fold in on yourself, holding whatever newfound confidence you had in. “Just wanna make sure you’ve figured it out, too.

“Think of that drink as a truth serum. You’ve had two now. You’re bound to start spilling all your secrets soon.”

The humour works. He could further it, and give his best menacing laugh or stroke his fingers, but you nodding your head is enough.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I’m the guy that listens, remember?” But in his next breath, he’s frowning. Blazer-boy is back and clicking his fingers like it’s going out of fashion. Couple of feet closer and Dean could punch him in the nose.

“Hold that thought,” Dean says, and you do. 

You do a number on him. 

Well, not quite, but you’re an idiot for it. 

Who leaves their suite number on a napkin? 

You do, that’s who. Desperate and lonely. You almost told Dean your pathetic little story, and worse? You’re what? Planning to tell him in your suite? The one with the rose petals on the bed and the pieces of cork strewn around the bathroom floor because you were that desperate for booze. 

God.

He won’t come.

But what if he does?

Then should you be worried about him? Who takes an invitation from a cocktail napkin and visits a random stranger’s room?

Who buys a woman two free cocktails when she’s clearly in need of therapy?

You’re a match made in heaven. A hot mess in her wedding night lingerie, waiting ‘round for some guy she’s not sure she’s hoping will show up. The potentially creepy bartender. 

Do you want a hook up? Is that it?

Does Dean?

At least you know his name, first and last. 

This is ridiculous. You stop your pacing and put your hands on your hips. Why can’t this night go on forever? No thank you, Journey.

“He’s not coming,” you mutter. Your chuckle is just as crazed as you are. Your new steps and raised arms fit the mood, too.

As you step into the bathroom, you don’t bother with the strawberry stems. You smush them into your feet and the cold terracotta tiles below them. Cork chips and seeds stick to you, but you’re too busy pulling off the negligee to deal. 

You really do look hot. The red satin and lacy combo matches your cherry lips and bad moves.

Your shake is more of a tremor when you move your head. It rids you of all your doubts and all your pain for all of five minutes. At least you won’t be bent over the toilet bowl come morning, thanks to Dean. 

You should thank him tomorrow. And apologise. Pay him back for the drinks and then some. 

But Dean just wants to know you’re okay. That’s all this is. 

Nice girl, potentially unstable, but you did kiss the bottom of the napkin he holds in his hands, and if that ain’t a sign you’re interested, then you’re well outta his league.

Still. He can’t deny there’s an edge of worry. He really does have your best interests at heart. Who knows which other dickbag at the bar might’ve seen your little stunt and taken advantage of you? 

Yeah. “Let’s go with that,” he says under his breath before he raps on the door and waits and then some. You could be sleeping it off already, but it doesn’t stop him trying once more. 

He’ll wait five seconds, then he’ll walk. That’s what he tells himself again when he knocks a third time. Fourth times the creep, so he’s good. Better when he hears the shuffling. Deer in headlights when he sees the sliver of bare legs below the white fluffy robe you’ve got on.

“Dean,” you say. Arms fold across your chest when you see him. 

“I got your note.” He shifts his weight to his other leg. Holds it up, in case you’re unsure which one. “Wanted to check you were okay. Guess you are.”

“Yeah.”

Yeah. And for once in his life, Dean Winchester is at a loss on what to do. It’s not awkward, not for him, but you sure are.

Your lips part like they wanna say more, but whatever that is, it’s caught in your throat, and him standing there is not helping.

“Well, ah, I’m working down at the bar again, same time tomorrow if you wanna finish our conversation.” He thumbs in the direction he’s come from. At least that way you’ll know there’s no hard feeling. Maybe you’ll even take the hint. 

And you do. It just takes him turning on his heels and saying, “I’ll leave you to it,” for you to make your move.

“Wait,” you say, and it’s breathless, which makes no sense at all. It’s not like you’re chasing him down the stairs or out onto the beach. He’s standing on the ninth floor balcony, and your hand is around his wrist again. 

Are you doing this? Is this what you want to do? Invite this stranger into your room, and what? Make good use of that stubble between your legs?

You can’t deny that’s all you’ve been thinking about besides what the hell you were thinking, leaving the note behind you at the bar. 

But he’s here. He’s not walking any further, and he’s not shaking you off or flinching under your touch, either.

So you’re bolder. You tug at his arm and encourage him to turn back and look at you. “Stay,” you whisper. “Don’t want that truth serum to go to waste,” you add next, and what the hell is that? 

You’re cringing. Reeling at your pathetic words. Crap like that only works in shitty romance novels and rom-coms, and Dean doesn’t belong in one of those—you think—why are you thinking? 

Everything else you’ve done until this point tonight has involved very little thinking, and when Dean’s eyes narrow and he does the little lick over his bottom lip like you caught at the bar, you’re keening. If you weren’t gripping him, you’d be on the ground. A mess far bigger than the one forming in your panties right now at the sight of Dean Winchester leaning closer and closer.

He’s moving in for the kill. His face is inches from yours. 

He steps into your bubble and your nose breathes him in. The tip of his brushes yours and soon his lips are too, and all you can do is grip him tighter. Bring your free fist and pull on his jacket. Hold him there. 

It’s gentle. He’s gentle, but you’re certain, no, hoping he’s holding back, because sparks are flying. Your chest is thrumming. Your toes curl against the cement below you, and all you want is for this to last forever. Not this night, just this moment. You and Dean Winchester.

You’re disappointed when he pulls back. Your first thought, that’s it? But his hand rests just below your cheek. His warm breath breathes over your plump lips and you’re pulling the bottom one between your teeth. Making it shine more than it already did. Lipstick, what’s left of it, no doubt on the tip of them.

His eyes flick over you. They’re olive in the light and up close. Iridescent right before they close. A flicker of mischief behind them. A smirk that presses into you before his tongue is swiping through the gap you’ve made from biting too hard.

You take a step backwards; he moves with you, and the next thing you know, the door’s closed behind you and you’re standing on the plush carpets. 

That’s when he surveys his surroundings. 

One second, he’s taking his arm out of his jacket, the next he’s seeing the speckled red from rose petals scattered across the sea of white, ash and wicker. It doesn’t take an idiot to realise he’s standing in the middle of a honeymoon suite, but he is one for not recognising the room number two hours ago. 

Funny enough, it’s not the first time, but it is a first not knowing the situation. 

“You’re on your honeymoon?” he says, and before you can pull away and curl in on yourself, he grabs your hands and holds them tight. 

He’s not mad. He’s not worried either. You’re a grown woman who can make your choices. If he helps you commit adultery, it’s nothing on his conscience. Just needs to know he’s not going to be jumped if things lead below the belt.

“I ah, don’t wanna pour salt on the wound here, but is he on the island?” he asks, and thank god you shake your head.

“I couldn’t face my friends and family,” you say. “Pulled a Rachel Green and came alone.”

He’d ask if she’s the hot one, but he doesn’t care. Your fella let you come here alone, and now he gets to reap the rewards. He’s gone past compliments to showing you a good time. He just has to get you there, and fast.

“So he ran off with your friend or discovered he was gay?” He chuckles, but his attempt to lighten the mood is lost on you. 

“His boss,” you say, and it’s a pity because Dean still doesn’t know which team your ex bats for. 

He removes his jacket and peels off his ghastly work shirt, too. Takes one last good look at you before sauntering into the small kitchenette. “You racked up the mini bar under his name yet?”

You shake your head no. A sniffle sounds behind your hand when you swipe at your eyes. “But I made a scene in front of his parents.”

“Did you kick him in the nuts?”

You huff. “No.” 

“Not really a scene then, is it?” He opens the fridge and takes all the miniatures to you. Downs the bourbon, offers you the rest, but you’re shaking your head again. 

“It’ll take the edge off,” he insists. 

Only then do you accept. You swallow the tequila and the vodka, one after the other. The rest, discarded on a random counter when his hands find your waist. 

He pulls you back into him, flush against his hips. Lips drinking the nip of alcohol, tongue, removing the burn when he hums and breathes you in. 

You’re pliable under his touch, soft but firm; smooth like the Winchester special, warming his skin just right, fueling his fire. He hit the mark talking to you. Made his day, week, and month more exciting, and he’s going to savour it just as much as you savour him.

The same fingers tugging him to the king size bed are pushing him back into the comforter, and he lets it happen. Encourages you to straddle him. Holds your bare thighs and pushes the robe to the side.

“You expecting some company?” He quirks his brow at the lacy number. Red like your lips and the kiss stain tucked in his pocket. “Dude doesn’t know what he—”

“Shut up,” you say, but there’s amusement in your eyes when you pull back to look at him. 

It’s not that you want him to, it’s just you don’t want to hear about your ex right now. This night is for bad decisions and rebound sex, after all. Might not have been before you stepped into the bar, but it is now. You’re banking on it. You know Dean is, too.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. Fumbles with the tie, hiding the rest of you as you move to his buckle. “Wanna try the real Dean Winchester?”

God, yes you do. You’ll laugh over the cheesiness when your flesh is tickled pink and your insides are sideways, but he doesn’t give you the chance now even if you wanted to. Nor does he disappoint. 

Just like you found yourself on the plush carpet, you’re soon caged beneath him. His lips on your skin bringing a fire to your belly you’ve never felt before, and all you can think is you want more. 

You tell him, too. Your hands run through his hair, sticky from whatever product he’s used to slick it back. It’s thick, with plenty to grip and prompt him lower.

A trail of wet kisses is left on your skin in his wake. Cools and soothes. Dries quick. Only to be replaced by more nips and sucks that follow him and your guidance. 

His breath is warm where you’re warmest. Your core clenches as he pulls the satin to the side. He swipes a long stripe up your seam that has your hips squirming and your thighs clenching in on him. 

Heaven. You’re in heaven. 

The sacrilegious sounds coming from his lips as the hairs on his chin tickle and tease yours are exactly what you’ve been craving, and you beg him not to stop.

“What do you need, darlin’?” he drawls. Plants a kiss, then sucks on your clit. Replaces his mouth with the pads of his fingers and draws circles over you. 

There’s a grin on your face that quickly turns as he surprises you by pushing one inside. Your broken “Oh” is all you can answer through your raspy breath that’s half chuckle, half giggle. 

“Use your words,” he says, and it’s as stern as he was when he wouldn’t pour you one more drink. 

But it’s obvious what you want. Your chest is heaving for it. From elbow to fingertip, the apex of your thighs to your entrance, you buzz with the beginning flutters of pins and needles. Your skin, stretched as far as it can go. 

“Just fuck me already,” you say, and he does. He liberates you.

Takes you heights you never thought possible. Has you clinging and begging for more all over again. 

He makes better use of you than you have of yourself and the honeymoon suite. If it weren’t for those eyes and that grin that continues to make you weak in the knees and wet above them, you’d swear you were on your honeymoon because it’s how you imagined it to be. 

And in the morning, the ache in your muscles is delicious. Your skin still buzzes and your legs stick together. You’d stand up and take a shower, except you’re held in place by his muscular arms and a warm breath that’s attached to them. 

So you wait. Get comfortable. Drift back off, only to wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of water running an hour later. 

He didn’t leave, but did you expect him to? 

Doesn’t matter because he welcomes you when you join him. Coaxes you out of your robe, slaps your ass then smooths it. Grips and pulls you into a searing kiss under the stream, then gives you a grin when he leans back to ask, “How’d you sleep?”

If he’s honest, he wants to know. 

“Great.” You look it, too. Your cheeks flare red all over again at his stare, and you’re biting your lip like he’s grown accustomed. “I don’t normally do that,” you say, and he believes you. Already had that part of you figured out.

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” You’re incredulous. Insistent in your response, like what he thinks of you matters when it doesn’t. He’s flattered just the same.

And, “Good,” he says. Wags his brows as his hands rub circles over your back. “Was kinda hoping you’d ask me for another drink?”

So, are you asking for another?

I can now say I know this song like the back of my hand from the amount of times I listened to it lol. As well as listening to Journey on repeat for this, I was also listening to “Beautiful Things” by Benson Boone in the lead up to that kiss. Hope you enjoyed 😘

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She licked her lips, mirroring his smirk, “You know… I feel like I should leave you with something to keep you above water. Don’t want you to forget about me while I’m gone.” Strolling to her dresser, she let her hips sway, giggling as his head tilted to the side to get a better view of her ass. She picked one of the video recorders up, neatly organized among a row of cameras and photography equipment, and walked back to him, placing the device in his hand. “Time to show me what you got. You’ve watched me long enough to know what to do,” she winked mischievously at him.

He gulped, his eyes widening, “You mean… you-… you wanna make a home movie?”

She shrugged with a grin, “Figured it’s better than you watching porn for three months or ruining your phone when we FaceTime.”

She had never seen a wider beam on her boyfriend as in that exact moment. “God, I love you.” He cupped her cheeks urgently, pulling her close to his lips, entangling her in a scorching kiss. His tongue darted over his lips as he opened the camcorder, his eyes focusing on the screen. He rushed eagerly around their bedroom, closing the curtains, putting some scarves on a few lamps, and lighting a few candles to get the ambiance just right.

“Very impressive,” she teased him, letting out a small laugh.

He focused the lens on her, watching her intently on the little screen as he pressed ‘Record.’ “Strip for me, baby girl,” he ordered her with the broadest smirk.

“As you wish, director Winchester,” she grinned, her smile brighter than the sun as she slowly pulled down the thin straps of her dress, the material flowing down to her waist, only leaving her in a red lace bra. Hooking her thumbs into the elastic, she pulled down the rest and stepped out of the fabric that pooled around her ankles.

His teeth dragged over his bottom lip as his emerald orbs roamed her body, the scarlet lace hugging and accentuating her curves just right. She watched in amusement as his large hand wandered to the growing bulge that pressed against his jeans and palmed it with a hunger in his eyes.

Her hands moved to her back, seductively removing her bra and flinging it to the side. Taking a few careful steps closer like a hunter stalking his prey, one of his hands started to trail up her body, fingertips ghosting along her smooth skin until it reached one of her breasts. He rolled the hardened bud between his thumb and forefinger, holding the camera in his other hand at just the right angle. His mouth then sucked in her tit, tongue rolling over the nipple, eliciting several whimpers from her. His free hand then moved inside her panties, two thick fingers swiping through the slick that had already gathered. “So, wet for me already, huh, sweetheart?” he hummed, glancing up at her to see her reaction.

“Fuck, babe,” she moaned softly, changing into a slight whimper when she felt the loss of his fingers.

With a sly smirk, Dean took a step back again, his chin motioning to the bed, “Get on the bed for me and pull those panties down. Wanna get a good shot of that pussy, baby girl.”

“Yes, sir,” she hopped onto the bed with a compliant nod, lying down flat on the mattress before propping her knees up and spreading her legs to get the best angle for him. She lifted her hips slightly as she slowly removed her ruined underwear, throwing it teasingly at her boyfriend’s head.

Chuckling at her antics, he shook his head a little, getting on his knees on the carpeted floor in front of the bed for the perfect shot. “Touch yourself for me, sweetheart,” he demanded, his eyes focusing on the screen as two of her fingers reached her little bundle of nerves, circling it. “That’s it. Keep going. Such a good girl for me,” he praised, his hands opening his own zipper to free his aching length from its uncomfortable confines. “Need some help?”

“Please,” she cooed, biting down on her bottom lip.

He joined her on the bed, kneeling between her legs, placing the camera in her hands. “Keep this steady for me, will ya?”

“Hey, I’ll try,” she giggled with a shrug. Knowing the man, the myth, the legend as well as she did, there was no way she wouldn’t be shaking in a few minutes. Removing his shirt too, her eyes glanced at the screen, drooling over his toned chest and the little freckles he had there. Watching him position himself between her legs, he wrapped his strong arms around her thighs to tug her closer to his mouth. A shiver ran down her spine as his tongue licked a stripe from her cunt to her clit, trying her hardest to keep the camera steady.

Her back arched as his tongue dipped into her tight channel, the tip gliding along her walls before his lips sucked in her sensitive nub. His soft chuckles at her moans sent vibrations throughout her whole body, electricity coursing through her veins at his bidding. “Man, this is gonna be your worst movie ever, sweetheart,” he teased her, laughing slightly as she quivered above him.

“God, shut up,” she panted with a small giggle, her chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. “I have a good excuse,” she managed to choke out.

Carefully, he took the camera out of her hand again, sitting up on his knees, letting her ankles rest on his broad shoulders. He swung the camera to her face, framing her just above her breasts. “Time to cum for me, baby girl. Wanna see that pretty face you make over and over again when you’re gone,” he told her, a devilish gleam twinkling in his eyes. With his free hand, he moved two fingers into her dripping pussy, feeling her clench around his thick digits in an instant. His palm rubbed deliciously over her clit while his fingers curled just right at her sweet spot as he began to finger-fuck her.

His hard, long dick brushed between her things, adding more to her pleasure, thinking about how good it would feel as soon as his cock would stretch her open and split her in half. “Fuck, baby, so good. Please don’t stop, Dean,” she whimpered. Chewing on her lips, she moaned louder and louder, her hands fisting the bedsheets harder and harder, the more he sped up his movements inside of her. Her vision went white with ecstasy, wetting his fingers with her juices as her walls squeezed around them.

Removing his fingers, he licked them clean with a grin, turning the lens onto himself before lying down next to her for a close-up on her face. He admired her blushed, hot cheeks, caressing them gently, the sweat slightly gathering on her forehead as she smiled at him. “Your turn,” she smirked and jumped off the bed, kneeling down in front of it.

“Fuck,” he breathed when he realized her little plan.

“Gotta give you a good show. Can’t leave out the blowjob scene, can we? It’s a classic,” she wiggled her eyebrows.

“No, we cannot,” he agreed, coming to stand in front of her.

Licking her lips with a devious little grin, she fisted his cock, pumping him slowly. Her mouth sucked in his balls, her tongue playing gently with them, making the man hum above her, relishing in the pleasure she was providing him. She licked her way up on the underside of his shaft, her tongue deliciously following the vein before her lips wrapped around the tip.

She dipped her tongue in his slit, teasing him a little. Dean took in a sharp breath, trying to hold the camera steady on her as she hollowed her cheeks and took him in fully until her nose hit his pelvic area. She gagged around his thick cock, the head touching the back of her throat, saliva escaping the corners of her mouth and drooling down her sides. Her tongue swirled around his tip as she came back up and then suddenly stilled, flattening her tongue, letting the weight of his cock rest on it.

Understanding the cue, Dean’s hand combed through her hair, grabbing a fistful of it for a provisional ponytail, and gave it a slight tug that stung divinely on her scalp. Bucking his hips back and forth at a leisurely pace, his eyes mesmerizingly observed his spit-glistening cock move in and out of her mouth on the tiny screen. “That’s it, baby girl. Taking my cock so well. Love that pretty mouth of yours,” he cooed, teeth holding back his lower lip as he sped up a little. Every thrust, every choke, every tug made her moan around his length, feeling her own arousal drizzle down her thighs.

Exhaling sharply, he pulled her off with a pop before he’d shoot his entire load into her mouth. He needed to get every possible angle for their little home movie first before that could happen. How else would he be able to survive months without her?

His pillowy lips captured hers in a sensual kiss as he helped her to her feet, her arms wrapping around his neck. He guided them towards the bed without breaking the kiss and swung her around so her back could hit the mattress. Dean, however, kept standing firmly, moving her ankles up to his shoulders again. He focused the camera on his dick, fisting it a few times before lining himself up with her entrance. He pushed into her tight channel slowly, groaning at the feeling of having her wrapped around him so perfectly.

“Fuck, Dean,” she whimpered as he was buried deep inside her. “Please move.”

“Patience, sweetheart. I’m making art here,” he smirked devilishly. He leaned down to kiss her lips, bending her in half in the process. He chuckled softly at the salacious moans that escaped her throat as he went even deeper with his little move, hitting her cervix before pushing himself back up. Deciding not to torture her for too much longer, he started to move his hips, accelerating his pace gradually until he relentlessly pounded into her. The room filled with pornographic noises and slapping skin, both of them playing it up a little for the sake of art as he held the camera firmly between her legs.

“Fuck, I’m gonna… Dean,” she cried out loudly. She didn’t wait for his answer, her climax taking off, her back arching off the mattress.

“Shit,” he cursed, feeling his own high approach as her walls squeezed his throbbing member. With a few swift moves, he pulled out of her and flipped her onto her belly. “Scoot a little up for me.”

She followed suit, his knees hitting the mattress behind her as he swung the camera over her ass, his hands roaming her globes. He gave one of them a quick smack with his palm, making her yelp in delight before his lips pecked the reddening cheek quickly. She lifted her ass higher, spreading her legs apart further for him to perfectly slide in behind her.

“Dean!” she squealed, erupting into giggles as she felt his tip trying to slot into her butthole, “Wrong hole, babe.”

“Whoops,” he chuckled, his cheeks blushing slightly as he pulled back, lining himself up at her pussy this time. “Reads a little different on camera.”

“Uh-huh, I’m sure,” she teased him before she felt him bury himself deep within her cunt again, filling her to the brim. One hand rested firmly on her hip, holding her in place as they moved in sync to the same rhythm. Wetting one digit a little, he circled her butthole to tease her a bit. Hearing the dirty little giggles that escaped her lips, however, he pushed the tip of his finger in, feeling her clench around him harder. “Ffff-fuck, Dean,” she moaned.

“You like that, huh, baby girl? Wanna cum for me again?” The grin on his face couldn’t have been broader. She had always been so damn responsive to his every touch. Removing his finger, his hips started to snap against hers at a relentless pace. It only took a few seconds before she could feel the dam break once again, crying out loudly into the pillow.

Feeling his own climax coming as her walls pulsated around him, he slowed his thrust down a smidge. “Where do you want it, baby girl?” he groaned, voice deep, strained, and raspy.

“All over,” she smirked under ragged breaths.

Pulling out of her quickly, he flipped her onto her back again. His hand pumped his throbbing cock twice, shooting hot ropes of cum on her stomach and up to her tits with a grunt, catching everything on film. Pantingly, he let himself fall next to her on the mattress, still filming their post-orgasm glow. With one finger, she swiped a bit of cum off her breasts, licking it off with her tongue before grinning broadly into the camera. “I love you,” he told her, a loving smile gracing his pillowy lips.

“I love you too,” she replied, matching his smile. He pulled her in for one last heated kiss before shutting the camera off for good.

“Damn girl, Hollywood ain’t never seen a movie like that,” he let out a laugh, green eyes gazing deeply into hers.

“This better not land on any porn sites, Winchester,” she warned him with a playful giggle, raising her brow.

“As if I’d be sharing my little cock slut with anyone,” he shook his head with a smirk, pecking her lips once more.

Cas exhales, thanking every god in the universe and the next that Dean didn’t ask him which kind.

Dean comes back with a Budweiser. It’s not what Cas would have ordered but he keeps his mouth firmly shut when Dean plops it onto the bar in front of him, lest he humiliate himself further.

“Happy hour special,” Dean says, and Cas nods. Dean waits a moment, but Cas can’t tell what for. He wants Dean to stay forever, so he can keep looking into those green eyes. But just as much, he wants Dean to leave so some of his senses might return.

Dean sighs. “Dude, the blush is very cute, but you have to pay. If I buy you a beer, it’s going to be something better than that.”

Cas’s mind catches on cute so long he almost misses pay. Cas reaches for his wallet in a hurry. “I’m so sorry,” he manages as pulls out a twenty. “I’m not... I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Long day?” Dean takes the money, and makes change under the counter.

Actually, yeah. It was a long day. His boss’s management style consisted mostly of yelling, and though Cas worked hard to stay out of the crosshairs, today he made the mistake of not completing a report he’d never been assigned. His boss yelled so long, he had to take a five minute water break in between where Cas stood outside his office door like a kid at the principal’s office.

Funny how he’d forgotten all that, when he came into this bar and saw Dean.

“It’s better now,” Cas says. When Dean hands him his change, Dean’s fingers brush against his palm. He could have avoided touching him altogether. He didn’t.

Dean’s eyes drop to Cas’s mouth. “Mine, too, angel.”

Cas licks his lips. His mind screams, ask him out, but as he opens his mouth, “Hey, do you think--” someone at the end of the bar calls for Dean.

Dean walks away.

Cas takes his beer. He leaves a few dollars tip, and walks to the corner where his co-workers loom. They spend the night complaining about work, about their boss, and one even buys Cas a second beer in sympathy.

As they start to leave, Cas takes their empty bottles to the bar. It’s not as busy as before - only a few regulars sit around the edges, buried deep in their whiskey and electronic poker machines.

“Night still going alright?” Dean asks.

Cas nods. “Ending.” He waves to his co-workers filing out the front door.

Dean hums, drawing Cas’s attention back. He takes his time dragging his eyes down Cas’s body and back up again. When he reaches Cas’s eyes, he holds them. “Pity.”

Cas swallows.

“You know,” Dean says, “I don’t usually render men speechless.”

“You should,” Cas says, finding his voice, if only in outrage at everyone else for not noticing this man’s beauty. “You are... breathtaking.”

Dean straightens. His eyes go wide a little.

Cas fumbles, clattering the bottles together. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. He has never been very good at flirting. His previous dates always said he was too direct. He isn’t skilled at the games they like to play. Most times, he feels like he doesn’t know the rules.

Dean places his hand on top of Cas’s, stilling it before he can knock the bottles onto the floor. Dean’s skin is warm and rough and Cas has to close his eyes to gather himself.

“You got a name?” Dean asks.

“Cas.”

Dean hums again, and Cas, curious, peeks open his eyes.

“Cas,” Dean says, breathy, and Cas knows for a fact he will do anything this man wants to do, ever and always.

“Yes, Dean?”

You sat up right in your bed, eyes wide, face hot.

Third night in a row. Third fucking night. Literally.

What in the good heavens? The landlady might have mentioned this while renting out the flat!

Shoving the pillow over your ears, you fell back onto the mattress, closing your eyes shut very tightly. Eventually sleep overtook you and you lapsed into lousy dreams of trying to catch the taxi which kept evading you. Not a metaphor for your sex life at all. Nope.

The disturbed sleep didn’t help your mood the following day. Everyone at the office thought of you as a happy-go lucky person. Lately, they were seeing this whole new dark side of you. Sleep was essential to your functioning. 

In the evening, on your way back, you stopped by the coffee shop downstairs to pick up a brownie. It was a little place; busy yet quaint. The barista, Charlie, made two hearts in your coffee instead of one. That put the biggest smile on your face. 

At least, the day was ending on a high note.

Your newly rented flat was on the third floor of a very complicated building. One staircase did not directly lead into another. An entire hallway had to be crossed to get to it. The design probably broke a hundred different by laws and someone was definitely paid off in the city civil office to get a construction permit. You did not want to imagine how the people would fare in case of a fire emergency. Learning the escape plan was like memorising the map of a treasure hunt. You escape, you win. You lose… whoops! Better luck in next life. But the rent was cheap and you were already living all the clichés of a struggling writer- one incomplete book, a job at a publishing house and addiction to coffee. So, yes, you would brave fire when it came to being able to afford a living.

Struggling with the brownie package and the coffee in your hand you jammed the key into the door. It didn’t go in. 

What the hell?

You tried again, and once more the key got jammed. On a closer look, you realised that the lock didn’t resemble yours at all. Stepping back, you peered at the door. 307. Not 306- which was yours.

The floor design was insane and instead of the flats being lined up next to each other, they were all fronting one another in a haphazard fashion. Shaking your head, you took a step back and jammed the key into the lock of your own flat.

Jesus! You’re losing it, Y/N.

Shirking off the mild irritation, you cooked yourself a hot cup of instant noodles, put on your favourite TV show and slinked into your couch. Tonight’s episode was going to reveal who the murderer was and you had been dying for the suspense to finally end. 

Just when the protagonist was about to point a gun at the killer in the shadows…

Oh my God... you’re incredible… aahhhh… ahhhh… ahhh…

You completely abandoned the TV and jumped up from the sofa. The fire hazard might still be worth it, but the thin walls so weren’t.

On tiptoes, you made your way to the east side wall, putting your ear against it. The noise wasn’t coming from upstairs. That was the only sure thing. But it was impossible to pinpoint the direction. The moans were reverberating through the walls. So loudly that there was no escaping it. Not in the bedroom, the kitchen or the living room sofa. 

Of all of them, the east wall seemed like the culprit. 

Right there… yeah…

307. Whoever it was in that room needed to calm the FUCK down. You grabbed your blanket and dragged it to the end of the living room, fuming. What ticked you off was how much this was ticking you off.

It’s sleep you told yourself. The lack of sleep was the only thing making you mad. The sex noises couldn’t be it. Because there were other noises- a dog barked somewhere occasionally, one of the rooms had a very loud stereo and someone was too much into baking- the beater was ceaseless. No, it had to be the timing and your wrecked sleep schedule.

Just like the nights before, you covered your ears and started reciting the story of the manuscript you had been reading at work. Eventually, sleep overtook you again.

The next morning you woke up in a crappier mood. If that was even possible.

Breathing down on anything and everything, you locked the door on your way out for work. Turning into the corridor, you ran into a wall of solid flesh. 

In your groggy, sleep deprived state, the first thing you noticed was the way he smelled- leather and whiskey and something headier than that. It was divine. Next, you looked up into those eyes- stunning green, like sparkling water running over jade.

“Easy there, sweetheart!” The guy smirked. 

You straightened yourself and took a step back. In front of you stood the most handsome guy you had ever seen. He was tall, with dirty blond hair, almost brown, and those stunning eyes. 

“I’m so sorry,” you muttered, trying to collect your scattered thoughts. You had one of those dumb faces that gave away every damn thought crossing through your brain, so obviously you tried your best not to meet his gaze. Which was a shame really. That face demanded to be ogled at. Let alone the body that followed.

“No, no… I didn’t mind at all.” 

You saw him reach out to the door of 307.

“You’re the one who lives there?” You asked through gritted teeth. 

He raised an eyebrow. “Sure. You want a tour?”

Uhgg the best looking guy and he has to be such a douche!

Slipping past him, you stomped off towards the stairs. This too-good-looking-for-the-world asshat had been ruining your nights and in turn your life. 

You knew it was wrong to be mad at him without, at least, talking about the issue first. A polite conversation explaining your situation wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world now, would it? But how does one start a conversation pertaining to that? After all, he wasn’t exactly the one making the noise. What would you say?

So, hey would you mind pleasuring your girlfriend a little less? 

Or better. Ever heard of a ball gag?

Mere thought of it made you shudder.

The work day was spent trying to shove your neighbour's stupidly handsome face out of your mind. It didn’t help that your mother kept calling, repeatedly. You knew what she had to say. How you should have taken that bigger job at Royal’s publishing. How the writing career might never take off. How you really should get a boyfriend now, or you’ll be the only unmarried cousin in the family.

Usually you could entertain your mother with well-timed hmms and ahhs. Today wasn’t that day.

Bone-tired and absentminded, you jammed the key in the keyhole in the evening, only for it to get stuck again. You looked up at the door. 307.

Well, shit!

Putting both your hands into it, you yanked the key with all your might, just as the door opened. There he stood, with his crooked smirk, dimples digging in, wearing nothing but a thin cotton t-shirt and sweatpants that hung all too low on those hips.

“You don’t need to break into my house. I already offered a tour.” Of course, god gave him an irresistible voice. Cause at this point, why not?

“Sorry,” you muttered, looking anywhere but at him. “I keep getting the wrong door. This one’s mine.”

“Oh, so you’re the one in 306!” You could feel his smirk more than see it. “Looks like you’re having a good ol’ time in there.”

“Excuse me?”

The guy raised scratched the back of his neck, face apologetic. “You might… ya know… just keep the voice down in there?”

The audacity of this guy!

“Rich of you to ask anyone to keep it down!” You hissed. “Why don’t you tell your girlfriend to keep it low?” 

With that, you shut your door in his surprised face. The worst part was, after bumping into him in the morning, your mind was producing distinct images of him in the bed, doing things to a woman. You had tried your best not to let them make a home in your head. But like a stickly tenant, they refused to evacuate. No wonder it was hard to look him in those brilliant, brilliant green eyes. The guy was hot! There was no denying that. You weren’t even willing to accept to yourself just how much time you had put into imagining him naked.

If anything, the denial mixed with your pre-existing irritation and sleep deprivation had you ready tonight. 

So the moment the enamoured voice started begging, you hopped out of your chair. You had every intention of yelling yourself hoarse at the delectable resident next door, but the moment you stepped into the corridor, you came face to face with the very man. 

He was- thankfully, completely clothed- looking a bit harassed, himself.

aahhhh… ahhhh… ahhh… right there...

Your head whipped up to the suspected direction of the voice, and back at him. “Wait, you aren’t… it’s not...?”

His face mirrored your expression of surprise and then he burst out laughing. “Looks like we’ve both been played.”

“Not intentionally,” you said, peering at the adjacent doors, mostly to not look at him. “Where do you think it’s coming from?”

He shot a glance at the door opposite to his. “If it’s not you, my best guess is that guy over there. I mean, if you ask me, Nick over there doesn’t look the type to make a woman that happy… but what do I know?”

“You shouldn’t make assumptions about people,” you said, taking a tentative step towards the said door.

Mr. hot guy smartpants laughed. “Oh, trust me. He’s the douchiest douche you’ll ever meet. Guy like that? Definitely selfish in bed.”

You frowned at him.

“He asks women in the street to smile more,” hot guy explained.

“Uhhgg… yeah you’re right. It’s definitely not him.”

Hot guy pointed his fingers at the rest of the doors. “That one’s rented by three guys. I don’t think it’s them. Mrs. Hendrickson over there works night shifts. I have no clue who lives in there,” he pointed to the last door, directly in front of you.

Goodness you’re amazing...

“Yes, lady, we already know!” He called out.

You couldn’t help the giggle that burst through your lips.

His eyes softened. “Dean Winchester,” he said, offering his hand.

“Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N,” you said, taking his. He had a firm grip. A very funny sensation gripped your stomach. Like a flutter. Nervousness? 

“It’s great to meet you, Y/N.” He smirked. “I sure wish the circumstances were better.”

You bit your lip. “Listen, I’m sorry for the comment about your girlfriend. I was just mad about, you know... “

“Don’t worry about it. My non-existent girlfriend is very cool. She took no offense.”

You snorted.

“I was dead serious about the house tour,” He winked. “I can promise great coffee.”

“Sure, sometime soon.”

He shot a look at the door with the unknown occupants again. “I hate to leave this here, but I think we should get whatever kind of shuteye we can while they’re quiet over there, huh?”

“Oh, yeah!” You hurried back to your flat. “Night, Dean.”

He gave you his crooked grin again, just a hint of mischief. “Night, Y/N.”

You knew it wasn’t him now, and he was right about making the most of the quiet and fucking off to sleep, and yet, each time you closed your eyes, your mind decided to replay your imaginations for you. With a start, you sat up in your bed, a thought occurring to you like a hit on the head- If you had been thinking about him that way? Had he been imagining you as well?

Blood rushed to your face at the very idea. Though a tiny part of you begged for the answer- would it be such a bad thing if he had?

*********************

A/N 2: So? So? SO??? What do you think?

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Castiel stood frozen in the doorway as well, eyes widening as he spotted Dean. Then he was stalking forward.

“You!” Castiel shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Dean. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

Jo said something but Dean ignored her. “You’re the one who’s not supposed to be here!”

“No. No, see, I’ve gone through this day thirty-eight times now. Everything stays the same. You weren’t here the last thirty-seven times, why are you here now?”

Dean stared at him. Then he started laughing. He tried to hold it back at first but it came bubbling forward, hysterical peels of laughter leaving him breathless. His eyes began to water and before he knew, someone was roughly tugging at his elbow, pulling him outside. 

They leaned him against the wall and slowly, the laughter died down. Dean leaned forward, palms on his knees as he regained his breath. Castiel was standing next to him and Jo was in the doorway, staring at him worriedly.

“Go back inside,” he told her with a wave of his hand. “I’ll be right back.”

Jo gave him a dubious look and Dean couldn’t blame her; both he and Castiel had to look crazy from her point of view.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just gimme five, okay?”

She pursed her lips together but nodded, stepping back inside and closing the door behind her, leaving Dean and Castiel alone.

“Thirty-eight times, huh?” Dean asked, straightening. “That’s it?”

“That’s-” Castiel cut off his own indignant response, seeming to realize just what Dean wasn’t saying. He had to give it to him, he was quick on the uptake. “How many days has it been for you?”

Dean shrugged. “I’m not sure. Thousands.”

Castiel paled. “And you haven’t found a way out?”

“I tried everything I could think of,” Dean said. “Asked you for a bunch of advice. Did the whole Groundhog Day personal improvement thing, didn’t work.”

“Groundhog Day?” Castiel repeated quizzically. 

“Oh, come on, you know Noether's theorem off the top of your head but you haven’t heard of Groundhog Day?”

“How do you know that?”

Dean shot him a flat look.

Castiel looked disconcerted. “Right. That’s - what else do you know about me?”

“You’re the youngest of five siblings. You and your father were close when you were younger but the relationship has gotten strained since you came out of the closet in college. Your first boyfriend was named Bartholomew and he was a total dick but you weren’t confident enough to break up with him until the second time you found out he cheated on you.

“Your favorite drink is whiskey, neat, and your favorite author is Jane Austen, but you prefer reading poetry over novels. You can quote William Carlos Williams’ ‘Spring Storm’ by heart. You have a mole on your chest here,” Dean pointed at the spot right next to Castiel’s left nipple, “and your gag reflex is practically nonexistent.”

Castiel stared. 

Dean coughed, feeling awkward for the first time in forever. “Sorry. I’ve kinda forgotten how to talk to people without following a script.”

“Right,” Castiel repeated. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why don’t you tell me in detail what you’ve tried to break the loop so far?”

It was Dean’s turn to stare.

“I need all the available data,” Castiel said. “I have a couple of theories on how this loop happened and how to end it but it’s going to take time to test them. Weeks, most likely.”

“I ain’t going nowhere,” Dean said faintly. “You - you really think you can get us out of this?”

Something ached in his chest. Hope, he realized after a moment. He was feeling hopeful.

“I will get us out,” Castiel corrected. “Both of us.”

Both of them.

You’re not allergic to shellfish are you?

It was Dean, and immediately her heart was racing. She shouldn’t respond, she should leave him hanging and wanting more, she should focus on work, but yet… she found herself quickly typing before she could talk herself out of it.

No. Why?

Buzz. Good. ;)

What kind of adult man used a winking face? She stared at the text for a long time, digesting it, plucking it apart. Was she seriously doing this? Was she dating this bartender ? She should be focusing on the case and proving herself. Especially since she had everything to prove.

Buzz. I feel like I can hear your thoughts from across space. Don’t overthink it. It’s just dinner.

She felt her stomach flip, because holy fuck somehow Dean Winchester knew her after such a short time, and she genuinely didn’t know what to do with that information.

“Y/N are you ready?” Sam asked, poking his puppy dog head into her office with a big smile.

“Huh?” She looked up from her phone to catch him staring at her with a soft expression. “Right. Yes.” She closed her folders that she hadn’t looked at once, gathered everything into her arms, and stood. “Let’s get started.”

Dean

“Chef?” Cas called to Dean from the grill.

To say that Dean was distracted was an absolute understatement. He felt like a teenager, sneaking texts to Y/N. He was thinking about the menu for their date that night. The date was consuming the majority of his thoughts. Y/N was consuming the majority of his thoughts. He hadn’t expected that.

“Chef?”

Dean’s eyes flickered up from his phone to his sous chef. “Hm?”

“Your head is in the clouds,” Cas said with an amused expression. His hands were on his hips, and his eyebrow quirked up.

“Is not.” As Dean said it, he recognized how half-hearted his own voice sounded. “What did you need?”

“Tell me what's on your mind. Is it Lisa?”

Dean’s face faltered a bit. He hadn’t thought about Lis or the wedding since the moment his eyes had landed on Y/N. He shook his head adamantly. “No. Not even close.”

“Then what?”

“Start on dinner,” Dean instructed, slipping his phone into his pocket. He should really take his own advice.

“I will if you talk.”

He rolled his eyes at Cas, but smiled a bit. He didn’t want to keep it to himself. “I met someone.” He reached up and plucked a pot from the hanger and placed it on the counter.

“Like a new fish guy?”

“No,” he laughed. Was he becoming a spinster? Was it that outrageous that he could’ve met a woman?

Cas looked up from the parsley he was cutting. “Wait, you mean… you met a woman ?”

Dean grinned back at him so hard that his cheeks hurt. “Yeah and I don’t know, man. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

“You seem smitten.”

He snorted in response. “Well, I feel a little smitten if I’m bein’ honest.”

“When are you seeing her?”

“Tonight.” Dean turned to the fridge and pulled out tomatoes to start on his sauce. “I’m a little distracted.”

“I’ve noticed. It’s good, though. You deserve to be distracted.”

“It’s still early. I’m not sure if it’ll turn into anything, but…” He tossed a tomato and caught it. “I want to try.”

“You deserve it, Chef.”

“So formal, Cas.”

Cas grinned widely, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “I respect you.”

“You’ve seen me drunk off my ass and throwing up in bed.”

“It wasn’t your brightest moment, but you did make some killer hangover brunch the next day.”

“One of my specialties.” He diced the tomato before placing the pieces into the bowl.

“And what are you making tonight?” Cas asked, gathering the parsley clippings and sprinkling them into the saucepan.”

“Still deciding.” He grinned at his friend. “But it’s the most important part of the night.”

Cas stopped and raised an eyebrow, turning to Dean. “Not the most important.”

“The way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach, Cas,” he said matter of factly.

His friend leaned against the counter and shook his head. “Ah, maybe that’s why I haven’t settled down either.”

“You’d have to leave the kitchen to meet anyone,” Dean commented.

“Right back ‘atcha. Where did you meet this mystery woman anyway?”

Dean turned to his friend and grinned widely. “At the bar.”

Her

“I need to apologize again,” Sam said softly after he shut the door to the conference room.

“Let’s just move past it. We have a job to do, and I don’t want to dwell.” Y/N said, placing her papers on the table and sitting.

Sam sat next to her, his arm brushing hers. Y/N noted his position, since it made more sense for him to sit across from her. That wasn’t abnormal for her, as annoyed as it made her. She scooted away from him.

“Let’s get started.” She opened her folder.

“I just feel bad…”

“Sam,” she snapped. “I’m here to work this case, and if you can’t handle working with me then I’m not sure why you offered…”

“You deserved this.”

“I do.”

“Right, that’s why I asked… I just… you mean something to me, Y/N.” He reached for her hand and she pulled it back.

“You’re not listening to me.”

He sighed and pulled his hands back into his own space. “I am. I hear you.” He opened up his own files and slid papers to her. Within the next several hours he explained the case, their position, and they developed a plan. Y/N relaxed within the next three hours, kicking off her heels under the table. She could say a lot about Sam, but she had to admit that she was comfortable with him.

The longer they sat together the more they fell into the familiarity of their relationship. They would make a good team, she was convinced. There was bureaucracy within her firm, and if she was being honest with herself, Sam may be giving her the only chance at the big leagues. He’s opened a door for her, no matter his intentions, it was helpful for her career.

Sam stretched, his neck cracking. “We should break for lunch, I’m starving.”

“I could eat.”

“Carry out? Or do you want to go somewhere?”

“Maybe we should get delivery so we don’t lose our progress.”

“Not a bad idea,” Sam agreed with a swift nod.

Y/N stood up. “I’ll buy. Give me a second to grab my card.” She turned towards the door, and Sam grabbed her hand.

“Y/N,” Sam whispered, his thumb rubbing the inside of her wrist.

She turned her head, her eyes flickering up to his. “Hm?”

“Do you hate me?”

“No,” she said honestly, her expression softening. It was hard to hate him when he looked at her that way.

He stepped closer, closing the space between them. With his free hand he brushed a hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. His hand lingered at the side of her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. “I’m glad.”

“I freaked out.”

“It was warranted.”

“Still not my best moment.” She let out a breath that she didn’t realize she was holding. “I wanted to blame you, but it’s not your fault that they picked you over me.”

“You work harder than anyone here.” Sam’s breath tickled her lips, and her stomach flipped.  He was familiar. He doted on her. As she looked into his eyes, she questioned if he was in love with her. He pressed his body to hers, and she let him. He lived in her world, and he understood her in a way that most people couldn’t. So when he leaned down to capture her lips in his.

They melted together, her arms reaching around his neck to pull him closer. He was there to absorb the pain and anxiety she had been feeling about work and everything else in her life. His hands ran along her waist and down to grip her ass in his palms. He squeezed, eliciting a groan from her lips.

The blinds in the conference room were closed tightly, and no one would interrupt them. So even though it was inappropriate and that she had decided to end things, she allowed his lips to travel down the base of her neck. She whined as he nipped at her skin. She reached up, running her fingers through his hair. It was too long for a respectable lawyer, but he was holding onto his college years and the youth that came along with them. She tugged at his hair gently, and he picked her up swiftly in response before placing her on the table. His hand found the center of her chest, pressing firmly to cause her to lay back.

The room seemed to spin as he worked her skirt up her thighs, leaving fluttering kisses along the inside of her thigh. Her vision speckled from staring at the lights, and she closed her eyes. Sam moved her panties to the side and expertly slid a finger within her. She let out a ragged, wrecked breath as he flicked his tongue along her clit.

Y/N tried to focus her thoughts on relaxing, on her back against the conference table, and Sam’s hair tickling her bare skin, but her mind wandered for just a moment to him . Moss green eyes flashed in the darkness, a bright smile, the feeling of his lips against hers. Her back arched at the pressure and friction between her legs, and she trembled.

She shouldn’t go on the date. She should end things with Sam. She should focus on her career.

Her fingers gripped for something to hold onto before landing back in Sam’s hair, tugging, and causing a groan to escape his lips right into her heat, threatening to send her over the edge.

Later

The afternoon got away from Y/N, like most did, and then into the evening. After two orgasms they ordered lunch, despite Sam’s murmurs of having already eaten. She felt good about the case, and by the end of the week they’d meet with the client to go over strategies. She couldn’t afford to fuck it up. It was all too important. Sam offered to take her to a late dinner once they finally wrapped up, and she declined. She already had plans.

She went back to her apartment and showered, washing any remaining evidence of Sam’s mouth from her skin. With her towel wrapped around her, she wiped the steam from her mirror and stared at herself. “You’re single,” she reminded herself as guilt of her relationship with Sam crept up her spine. “You’re not crossing any kind of boundaries by having dinner with Dean. Plus, you’re going to end things with him. You don’t need the distraction.”

She didn’t sound particularly convincing, if she was being honest, but in that moment she had convinced herself.

The air was chilly. She picked out her favorite pair of jeans and a green cashmere sweater with brown boots. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in loose curls, and she wrapped a scarf around her shoulders before slipping into her coat.

Dean hadn’t texted the rest of the day, and she found herself missing the little annoyances. She hadn’t been that way since she was a teenager, and she promised herself in adulthood that she would never wait on a man or want after one. So she applied a mauve lipstick, grabbed her purse, and headed into the night toward the restaurant that she met Dean the first time.

The restaurant was low lit, and as she approached she took out her phone to text Dean, but was instead met at the door by a blue eyed man in a white chef's shirt. “You must be Y/N.”

“I am and you are?”

“Castiel. The Chef is expecting you,” he said kindly, opening the door for her. Her eyebrows shot up immediately. “Follow me.”

They walked through the entrance, and he held out a hand to her. “Can I take your coat?”

“Oh, uh, sure.” She shrugged off her coat and handed it to him. He was classically handsome, despite his messy hair.

“Your table is in the kitchen,” he explained as they walked through the empty restaurant.

“Wow, a chef’s table?”

“Best seat in the house,” Castiel said as he opened the door, the lights from the kitchen bleeding into the dining room. “I trust you can find the way from here.”

Her eyes flickered to him. “You’re not joining me?”

“You’ll be in good hands.” He offered her a warm smile and a nod.

She turned toward the kitchen and was suddenly overwhelmed with nerves. She took a deep breath, remembering the wish she made on her lantern, and exhaled as she stepped through the threshold into the kitchen.

Her eyes adjusted quickly to the bright lights, and she followed the sounds of cooking around the corner. She wondered why Dean hadn’t been the one to meet her at the door, but the thoughts of curiosity melted away as her eyes settled on a set of broad shoulders at the stove. “Dean?”

His head whipped around to her and the moment his eyes landed on her he grinned widely. “You made it.”

“I did.”

He wore a white button up with the first few buttons undone, and his sleeves rolled up. He was stirring something on the stove, but he paused to address her, turning a knob at the base of the stove. “Let me get you a glass of wine. Please, sit.” He ushered her to a small table tucked near the stove, and lit the candle that rested upon it. The flame caused a light to dance against the single red rose in the center of the table.

“I got us a white, because it pairs nicely with the entre, but I do have red if you prefer.”

“White is fine,” she said with a quirked eyebrow.

Dean poured her a glass and handed it to her, their fingers brushing as she took it from him. He turned away from her to tend to their dinner, and her head spun before she even took a sip from her glass.

“How was your day?”

“Dean?”

“Hm?” He turned to look back at her.

“You’re not a bartender are you?”

He grinned at her and shook his head. “Don’t tell, since apparently it’s a big secret. The Shop is mine.” He ran his fingers along the edge of the stove. “Worked my ass off for it and for some reason people keep showin’ up.”

“Dean, your food… your food is incredible. I bring clients here to woo them. I had no idea.” She stared at him in awe, before her eyes flickering down to her class. She unfairly pegged him. He wasn’t some lazy bartender, he owned one of the best restaurants in New York City. She was an absolute assohle.

“That’s nice of you to say,” he said almost bashfully.

God and he was modest, too!

If she could’ve disappeared into her wine glass she would’ve. She went there that evening planning to break things off, because he couldn’t be her equal. She was humiliated, but yet he was looking at her like she was the sunset.

“Dean I…”

He walked to her and kneeled in front of her so they could be face to face. He smiled at her warmly. “Whatever is bothering you, I want to hear it, but have some wine first. The food is almost done. I want you to have my full attention, and I can't focus on the food if I’m listening to you.”

She nodded quickly and didn’t back away when he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers softly.

He went back to the stove and started his work again. Watching Dean cook was easily the sexiest thing that Y/N had ever seen. His shirt hugged the muscles on his chest and his biceps flexed as he stirred a sauce that was simmering on the stove. She wasn’t sure if it was the smells or the sight of him that made her mouth water.

She sipped the wine and goddamnit that was delicious, too. The warmth that traveled down her throat told her that the wine was a high alcohol volume, and her muscles began to relax. He was humming something low as he stirred that was almost rocking her to sleep, so she stood and walked to him.

“Can I get you something?”

“I just…” She looked at him, this beautiful man in his element. “Can I help?”

He raised an eyebrow in amusement. “You cook?”

She grinned back at him and shook her head. “Not even a little bit. I’ve been known to burn water.”

He laughed in response, shaking his head, his eyes crinkling at the edge. “Get over here.” He opened space for her. “You can stir.”

She took the spoon in her hand and began a spinning motion within the pot.

“It’s all in the wrist,” he said teasingly, before grabbing some spices from the rack and sprinkling them in.

“Am I doing it right?”

“Mhm and you look pretty damn good doing it.”

She felt a heat creep up her neck and her eyes flickered to him. He was looking at her like she was the only person in the world. She opened her mouth slightly, but couldn’t find the words. He slipped the spoon from her fingers and pulled it out of the pot, blowing on it to cool it. “Taste,” he instructed, holding the spoon to her lips.

She complied, letting the sauce touch her tongue. Holy Fuck. “Dean that’s…”

“Too salty?” he asked, his eyes wide.

She laughed and shook her head. “No, it's perfect.”

And you very well may be perfect, too.

---

Chapter Seven

Read on A03 Here

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