#qb!dean

Being a tutor and a TA was a great first step for someone in college. 

But good grief was it an exhausting one. 

You’d had five tutoring sessions on Saturday, way more than your average, but several of the usual tutors had decided to travel with the football team and asked you to cover for them. Even though it was short notice, you’d accepted eagerly, hoping to really do well on your next paycheck. 

By the third one, however, you were missing Dean’s quick wit and attitude. The students in front of you weren’t stupid, exactly, but it was a miracle a couple of them could even read, much less produce high level work. They’d worked without wasting your time and they’d signed the timesheet, so you tried not to think too poorly of them even in your own head.

The worst part was, they’d all been back-to-backs, so you hadn’t even gotten to watch the livestream of Dean’s scrimmage and you weren’t sure why that disappointed you. 

There was a hesitation to text him Saturday morning, like Bela and Jo were urging you to. Apparently “good luck” texts to athletes were a common courtesy, but you didn’t want to blur the line between tutor and friend, so you’d resisted. But your finger had hovered over the Send button for far too long in between your study sessions. 

Bela and Jo had decided to go with some other cheerleaders and you might have lingered on a few pictures they’d sent you of Dean in action.

Although if interrogated, you’d deny it to your dying breath.

Once the tutoring sessions were over, you’d checked your phone to an update from Jo saying that the team had won by a landslide and most of the starters had been taken out early in the 3rd quarter. You were glad, Dean had been stressing about the game and this was a good start to the season.

But tutoring wasn’t your only job this semester. So you munched on a granola bar you’d packed in your backpack and cracked your neck as you approached the mounting work of being a TA. Dr. Crowley might have been a Grade-A Asshole with every other TA, but he was more than fair to you. You taught a couple of his upper-level classes, but they were small, so there was never a crazy grading work lode. 

His freshman level classes however… every freshman at State had to have those classes, so they were always massive. The stack of quizzes he’d handed you the day before was extremely thick and none of the questions were multiple choice.

Awesome. 

It took almost all of the evening Saturday and into the afternoon on Sunday to grade the stack with a level of feedback you knew Crowley would approve of. You made a mental note to discuss it with him on Monday because expecting you to finish that amount of quizzes in two days was unethical and near impossible. You would not be doing that again.

By the time you crept out of your bedroom on Sunday evening, you were ready to fall out. By the time your laundry had finished at 1 am Monday morning, you’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table.

Dr. Crowley’s first class was at 9 am, so when Jo woke you at the kitchen table on her way out the door to her 8 am class, you still had plenty of time to make yourself semi-presentable (meaning, the most comfortable clothes you owned and a wee bit of dry shampoo so your hair looked like it had been washed in the last 3 days) and stop by the Starbucks on campus before you handed them off. Then you’d have time to hit the library and get your life together before your first class at 10. 

Excellent plan. 

State University had a large campus, so there were plenty of coffee shops spread throughout, but this one was closest to your apartment and that made it the best. 8:15 am was still plenty early for college students on a Monday, so you weren’t surprised to see that there were less than five patrons within.

“Looks like you need it directly into your veins, sweetheart.” A familiar voice called. 

You looked over your shoulder to see Dean Winchester with a ball cap pulled down low over his eyes. “Gee, thanks, you look like shit too. Party too hard after the easy win?”

He grimaced, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “You see the game?”

You shook your head and faced forward again. “Nope. Had to work all weekend.”

“That sucks,” he said. 

“Jo and Bela went though, they sent me updates.”

“Oh yeah?” He raised his eyebrows. “We’ll have to get you to a game here soon.”

The silence fell easily as you waited in line. You were glad, you had a headache and you were sore from sleeping at the table the night before. Honestly, if you tried, you could probably take a 5 minute nap standing up while you waited for — 

“What’s your poison?” 

When you looked at him, eyes a little dazed, he had pointed up to the menu. “You one’a those ‘secret menu’ girls?”

“Nope. Just a plain ole white chocolate mocha.”

“Pretty basic,” he commented. “Least it’s not Pumpkin Spice.” He struck his tongue out.

“Give me a couple weeks,” you quipped, hoping your voice didn’t sound as dead as you felt. “First time I see a leaf fall off a tree, it’ll be all PSLs for months.”

He frowned then. Apparently your bravado had not covered your exhaustion. “Somethin’ wrong?”

You shrugged. “Told you I worked all weekend. It’s caught up to me. I fell asleep at the kitchen table last night after midnight. And Mondays are always my busiest day.”

“Ooh, that’s not good. Definitely need the extra espresso shot then.”

By then, you’d made it to the front. Your order was pretty basic and it ranked your nerves that Dean had said so. You added a cake pop just for some pizazz. 

Once you’d gotten the total, you pulled out your student flex card to pay, but Dean’s hand whipped out to cover yours. “She’s with me.”

“You sure?”

He smirked and nodded. For all that he’d teased you, Dean was pretty basic too, ordering a s’mores frappe and a cake pop before paying with a debit card instead of the student flex card. He came to stand next to you while you waited together. 

“Guess today’s not a good day to ask for a study session,” he ventured, hands in his sweats. 

“Not today, Sweetness.”

He grinned at that. “What?”

He shrugged. “Nothin’. Prospect of caffeine’s makin’ you feel a little better, huh?”

You rolled your eyes. “But no, I doubt I’ll have time to eat between now and 9 pm, much less an hour to study.”

“Oh yeah? That busy?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have practice or something?”

He nodded and reached with one hand for the ball cap, turning it around backwards. “Just came from the weight room, actually. Got study hall this afternoon at 4, then film at 5.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“No,” he chuckled. “Normally, we analyze the film and it’s not so bad. You get to see where you messed up, what you could do better, stuff like that. But after a game like Saturday, there’s not much for the starters to analyze.”

“So it’ll focus on the 2nd and 3rd string guys, huh?”

He nodded. “Great for them, boring for me.”

Your names were called at the same time and you both stepped forward. The coffees were next to each other, the cake pops in one bag.

Reaching for them at the same time, you jumped whenever your fingers touched. You let out a chuckle and flicked your eyes up to Dean, who wore the same smirking expression he had when you’d called him Sweetness. You reached again and grabbed your coffee while Dean took his and the cake pop bag.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you said as he held the door open for you. 

“No problem, least I could do since you’ve been helpin’ me.”

You took a sip and let the iced caffeine goodness sink into your veins. “Oh, god this stuff is good. But you know I get paid for that, right? You don’t owe me anything.”

He took a sip of his, other hand deep in the pocket of his sweatpants. “Yeah, I know. You’ve just been nicer than you had to be, so I wanted to do somethin’ nice.”

You just nodded and walked along, feeling better with every sip.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I know a way you can pay me back.”

He looked out of the corner of his eye down to you. “Oh, yeah? What is it, sweetheart?”

You eyed his frappe. “Let me try your drink — I haven’t had that one.”

He scoffed and grinned at you. “How do I know you don’t got cooties or somethin’?”

“Ew,” you scrunched your nose. “What are we, seven?”

He reached over and let you take a drink from the straw. 

“Very nice,” you complimented. “Definitely tastes like s’mores.”

“Tastes like fall,” he clarified. “Glad we’re even now.” He leaned over, nudging your shoulder.

“Till the next session, anyway.”

The English building was one of the larger on campus and you were surprised when Dean opened the door and followed you inside. 

“Don’t work too hard today,” he said, frowning a little with … concern?

You smiled. “Got my caffeine now, I’ll be fine till tonight, at least.”

He nodded. “Well, let me know what tomorrow looks like for you. Have a good day.”

“You too, and thanks for the coffee.”

You parted ways then, waving as you headed toward Dr. Crowley’s office and Dean went in the direction of the lecture halls. Dr. Crowley’s office was one of the more … eccentric of the staff. He had amassed a rather large collection of antiquities, as he called them. To you, it looked like something off a Hoarders and American Pickers crossover.

The worst part was, Crowley would answer questions about none of them. You’d tried. Not where he’d got them, when, how much they were, or even what they were. You’d taken pictures of some of the more interesting ones, hoping to reverse Google Search them, but they’d mysteriously come up with no results.

More than once, you’d wondered if Crowley had broken into the Vatican archives or something. He had to know people in order to get this much useless and anonymous stuff.

Since the door was open, you let yourself in and walked around the space, observing if anything had been added since you’d been there on Friday. 

Of course, Dr. Crowley wasn’t there when you called, and he hated when you just left things on his desk for him to find later. You took another sip of your coffee and groaned at the prospect of finding him before his next class.

As his TA, one of your jobs was to lead his classes and generally take some of the work load off him. He preferred to teach the freshman lectures himself, citing that it was “fun” to mess with the younger crowd, as well as the 400 level classes so he could dive a little deeper into the works with them.

The only class that you’d ever asked him to give to you was the 205 - the Shakespeare class, and it was the only one he’d steadfastly refused, telling you it was his favorite. Oh well, you were glad you weren’t teaching it - Dean needed help and he was honorable about making sure you got paid. 

Which was the whole point.

You checked your watch and looked up at the schedule on Dr. Crowley’s office door. He was about to start the 205 Shakespeare class …

It would be a good opportunity to see Dean. The thought popped unbidden into your mind and you felt yourself start to flush. 

To see Dean, in action, in class, so I can see if he’s actually participating, you amended to yourself, setting your shoulders straight and marching in the direction of the classroom. This was for purely professional reasons - you needed to give Dr. Crowley the quizzes and you wanted to see how the student you were tutoring actually did in class.

That was it.

So why were you so nervous as you reached for the door? Why did it feel like you were walking into a test you hadn’t studied for? 

You’d already seen him this morning. He’d paid for your coffee and walked you to the building. You hadn’t been this nervous when you’d heard his voice behind you in the coffee shop.

Maybe there was no time to panic, that same voice said in your head. 

You figuratively rolled your eyes at that little voice and filed in the lecture hall in behind another student. 

Crowley was at the bottom of the lecture hall, which was built staggered into a pit so that every student could see easily. He was leaned against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, when he noticed you.

And frowned.

Which, compared to the hiss and scowl he gave most people, meant he was decently happy to see you.

“Ah, my lovely assistant,” he greeted, the British accent flowing smoothly. “What brings you to the depths of a 200 level class?”

You set your backpack down on the closest desk and fished out the quizzes. “Finished these for you over the weekend and you weren’t in your office.”

“So you hand-delievered them?”

You shrugged. “Had some time.”

“Thank you, love,” he said, flipping through the stack of papers. 

“Also wanted to make sure you didn’t ruin my weekend like that again,” you put a hand on your hip and stared pointedly at the stack.

“Hm?”

“Handing me that on a Friday afternoon and asking for it this morning was a crap move, and you know it.” You kept your voice light enough to sound like teasing, but Crowley knew you well enough to know you were serious.

He nodded, just a brief tilt of the head. “Noted.”

“Thank you.”

The lecture hall was filling up, so he looked down at his watch. “Almost time. Would you want to stay for the lecture and discussion?” 

He hadn’t been looking at you, but you knew what the question meant. Crowley didn’t often ask questions where he didn’t already know the answer.

And he knew you loved Shakespeare. 

You nodded, trying to hide your excited smile. “Is that okay? I haven’t had a chance to sit in on any of your classes yet this semester.”

He gestured to the open desks on the front row. “Get comfortable.”

Dr. Crowley always started promptly at 9:00. The door opened at 9:01 to emit a student and he scowled at them, pausing his words until the poor kid found his seat. 

Dean had learned long ago that if he left on time for class, someone would inevitably stop him to talk about football or parties and he’d be late. So he made a habit of leaving the apartment earlier than needed and if campus wasn’t busy, he’d stop for a coffee. 

He was glad he had this morning. Even though you looked like hell and he knew you’d had a rough weekend, Dean had been glad to see you. He was already planning what his message would say later whenever he checked in.

The seat he’d grabbed on the first day of class was on the edge of the lecture hall, about 3/4 of the way up. All he wanted was to be out of the way and unrecognized. Since most of this class was people who were destined to be English majors, he hadn’t had much problem with people swarming him and the only rude question he’d gotten was why he was even taking this class.

Because I fuckin’ had to was what he always wanted to say. Instead he’d just shrugged and smiled. “Needed it.”

He’d needed one more English credit for his teaching major and by the time he’d signed up, this was the only one open.

Then he’d failed it.

So he took it again, thinking it would be easier the second time.

It wasn’t, but he had you in his corner now, so he was more optimistic.

“Alright,” Crowley said, nodding as the latecomer found his seat. “Last week, we extensively discussed Act 1 of Macbeth and you were supposed to have read Act 2 prior to today’s class for discussion.”

He turned to the side opposite Dean and gestured to someone sitting in the front row. “We do have a special guest with us today, by complete happenstance. Would you care to review Act 2 for us?”

Dean heard a laugh - a laugh he knew.

You stood from the desk and came to stand beside Crowley, coffee in hand. Apparently the caffeine had done more for you than anything, because you looked like yourself again. Dean made a mental note of that.

“Well, in case you didn’t read Act 2 or in case you did and forgot, let’s review it,” you began.

Dean was entranced. He listened as you covered Act 2 the same way you had started to last week, before you’d discussed his paper. Your eyes lit up the exact same way as whenever you talked to him about it, and damn if you didn’t look beautiful. 

“So Scene 1 ends with Macbeth already starting to struggle and deteriorate,” you explained. “In Scene 2, we get a view of Lady Macbeth. Remember, she’s been the one driving this train so far, really pushing her husband into the prophecies because she is ambitious — and to Shakespeare’s crowd, ambition was a sin.”

“Scene 2 sees the hallucination of the dagger and Duncan’s death off-screen. Now,” you looked out at the crowd. “What do you guys think was the most important part of Act 2?”

A kid near the front raised his hand and said, “Duncan’s death, obviously.”

“How so?”

It was fascinating to watch you teach. You knew the content, Dean knew that, but it was the way you could lead the students to the question without giving it away, making them think they’d done it on their own. He wanted to be embarrassed at knowing that you’d done that for him, more than once, but he just wasn’t. It wasn’t a testament to how bad he was at English, it was a testament to how good of a teacher you were. 

You finished with that student, leading him to a thought that maybe Duncan’s death wasn’t the most important point, and Dean thought he knew where you wanted the conversation to go, so he raised his hand.

Your eyes met his, the excitement never lagging. “Yes, Dean?”

All eyes in the lecture hall turned to him and he felt his palms growing sweaty again.

Funny, they never do that at football, he thought.

“I think the most important thing in this act is Lady Macbeth’s monologue,” he claimed, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

Just a slight tick in your smile, a barely there motion, and Dean knew he was on the right track.

“Go on,” you pressed, your voice neutral. 

“Well, doesn’t she say something about how she would’ve done it herself, but Duncan looked like her dad?”

“Yes, and why is that important?”

He smirked. “She just spent 20 minutes berating her husband because he forgot something simple, but then in the next breath, she admits that he had to do it because she couldn’t do it herself. That’s the whole ambition point, right? Women couldn’t do anything without a man attached to them, because of society and stuff, so it’s a metaphor for how women would … I don’t know, trap men into doing these ambitious things that they couldn’t otherwise do.”

“Yes,” you praised. “Her treatment of him, insulting him, cleaning up after him, and being dependent on him, is a direct metaphor for society in that time period.”

You gave a slight turn to go on to the next person, but you stopped, looking back at Dean, “Good work, Winchester.”

He scooted down in his seat, avoiding the jealous glares of the students who hadn’t made that connection, and he couldn’t stop the wave of pride in his chest. 

When his phone buzzed in his pocket, he fished it out. Crowley was one of the few professors who didn’t have an opinion on cell phones in class. To him, it was your tuition money, and if you wanted to waste it by not paying attention… wasn’t his problem.

Dean couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. You were funny. Funny in a way that wasn’t performative, too.

He’d met plenty of girls at high school and college parties that tried to appeal to his sense of humor, but it all just fell flat. Like Dean could tell within seconds that they were just attempting to get closer to him, like it was all a scam.

Not you though. 

He craved your humor. 

He could feel Crowley’s eyes on him, so he put his phone in his pocket and tried to focus as you led the rest of the class. It was hard.

You left a couple minutes before the class ended and Dean couldn’t help how bummed he felt. He’d wanted to chat with you, maybe walk you to your next class. He’d liked walking together this morning. But the idea of text you to see where you went just made him look like a creep. 

So he meandered through the rest of the day, going to his classes, taking notes, attempting to look like this morning hadn’t set a pace for the rest of his day. 

4 pm rolled around and Dean sat in the same lecture hall he’d been in this morning. His eyes kept flickering to where you’d sat, as if hoping you’d magically materialize in the middle of football study hall.

His laptop was open to the paper you’d helped him start, but it had the exact same amount of words that it did whenever he’d left the session Friday. His headphones were blasting his normal study playlist, but Dean felt he couldn’t focus. Shakespeare just reminded him of you. 

When Benny elbowed him, Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. He took out a headphone and raised an eyebrow at his friend. 

“How’s it goin’ with the Shakespeare class?”

Dean shrugged and hoped it was more nonchalant than he felt. “Feel like I’m getting better, but haven’t got any papers or quizzes back yet, so I don’t know.”

Castiel sat on Dean’s other side. “So the tutor’s helping?”

“Yeah, she’s awesome,” Dean answered. “Really knows her stuff. Good at teachin’ it too.”

“You seein’ her this week?” Benny’s Louisiana accent drawled out.

Dean shrugged. “Prob’ly once. She said she was working nearly all day today, so I think we’re gonna try for tomorrow.”

Coach Singer stood from the desk at the bottom of the hall and raised a hand for everyone’s attention. “Alright, folks. We’re doin’ film a little differently this week. Starters, you don’t have to join. Completely optional. If you are second-string for any position then you need to make sure you attend. We’ll be breaking down the third and fourth quarters only.”

Dean, Benny, and Castiel all looked at each other and grinned while the sophomores and freshman groaned. Like Dean had told you that morning, it was boring to break down film of other people playing the game. He’d endured his share of it when he’d been the second-string quarterback and it had been hell.

His friends started discussing what they would do with their evening off, and Benny started calculating the possibility of a small party. The cheerleaders always had Mondays off, so they would likely be down. Benny and Cas were buried in their phones, texting people from other athletics teams to see who’d want to come. 

Dean’s thoughts wandered to you. He scrunched his face as he took out his own phone. When had he ever invited a girl to a party? When had he ever even thought the words invite, girl, and party in the same sentence - unless the word don’t was included? 

Girls didn’t come to parties with Dean. They simply showed up to the same parties he was at and he didn’t have to do much beyond make sure the DD was sober. He didn’t take advantage of anyone by any means - girls threw themselves at him and he didn’t always bite.

But tonight he didn’t want to go home with someone he didn’t know or care about. In fact, after-party sex was a distant thought, something that hadn’t really entered his mind.

Dean wanted conversation. He thought about earlier during class - he wanted your conversation, your humor, your approval. 

You didn’t seem like much of a party girl, but you had looked so tired this morning that Dean doubted you’d be down for anything except a meal and a nap. 

The party seemed much less fun when he thought of himself there playing beer pong and you falling asleep on your kitchen table again.

And something you’d said this morning drifted back to him. I doubt I’ll have time to eat, much less …

He pulled out his phone too. He told himself it was a friend checking in on another friend, like friends do. He was a friend, he told himself. 

He frowned down at his phone. He didn’t like that. 

He knew what it was: Dean took care of people.

Like Sammy, for one. As the oldest brother, it was his job to take care of Sam - hell, it was why he was taking his grades so damn seriously this semester, why he made sure he wasn’t running around with cleat chasers or getting involved with any kind of ESPN-worthy scandal. He needed to be a good example for his brother. He couldn’t even count how many fights he’d been in during middle and high school because someone had said the wrong thing about his little brother. When Mom had been in the hospital and Dad was there with her, it was Dean who had made sure Sammy was fed, bathed, clothed, and at school on time. It was Dean who had reassured him that it was a routine thing and Mom would be home in no-time.

The guys on the team, for second. He had been made captain last year and he took that role seriously too. His guys wouldn’t follow anyone who didn’t practice what they preached, so Dean made sure he attended class, got decent grades (except for one class last semester), didn’t party the night before a game, took practice seriously, and took care of each other. He was a guy who checked on every player, regardless of whether or not they started, whether they were offense or defense or what the hell ever.

He took care of his people.

And now, he guessed, you were one of those people.

He had to make sure you ate, he reasoned. He was just making sure you were taking care of yourself. He didn’t like the bruises under your eyes this morning, but he remembered how much more energetic you’d seemed after the coffee.

Yeah. He was going to take care of you by making sure you took care of yourself tonight.

It was what friends did.

If you had to read one more bullshit answer about how Gatsby was “the ultimate player,” you were going to scream. They were all hand-written, in-class assignments, so you knew none of this shit was AI, but you weren’t sure if that made it better or worse.

When your phone buzzed, you were only too eager to use the distraction.

You grinned, changing the name of the group chat to “Resist the 🍆” instead. You chuckled to yourself and looked around the library, hoping you hadn’t disturbed anyone else. 

You groaned and looked at the stack before you. Your class was tomorrow. 

No matter how much you’d like a break, you needed to finish these. You needed to hand them back out to your own students so that they had good feedback before you started the next assignment. You put your head against your hand - this was miserable. 

You wanted to go. You hadn’t been to a party yet this semester, being weighed down by tutoring sessions and TA duties, not to mention anything else Dr. Mills wanted you to excel at. And you had your own full course load this semester. 

But you missed being care-free. You’d known this semester was going to be hard, but it was only a week and a half in and you were so tired of being responsible. You didn’t even feel like you were in college - not the way the movies described it. This was supposed to be the last hoo-rah, your last chance to be a dumb kid before the weight of real life came crashing down.

And you were missing it to grade papers in the library. When did you stop being a college student and start being a real adult?

Alright, you took a deep breath and thought of a compromise. Because someone did need to make sure Jo didn’t fall back into bed with Benny. Their relationship was tumultuous at best and she just kept falling for the cycle over and over. If you were sober and hung out with them, then 1. You wouldn’t be too hungover to grade papers, and 2. You would be clear thinking enough to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid.

Decision made, you picked up your phone again. 

You groaned and looked at the clock. It was only 6. Your back ached, your head ached, and you were ready to just go home to your apartment and take a nice shower. 

But you knew that your friends were counting on you to come get them.

And judging by the snaps you’d already been sent of Jo sitting on Benny’s lap… they needed a sober voice in their ear. 

You were about to pick everything up and just go home when your phone buzzed again. 

Your heart sank a little in your chest. That made sense. Bela was… Bela. She was beautiful and smart, why wouldn’t anyone talk to her at a party? Especially someone like Dean.

You shook your head. Dean was not a thought you wanted to entertain. He was simply someone you were tutoring.

Even if you had thought about him during the rest of your sessions and classes today. And even if he was a breath of fresh air to you.

And even if he was fucking handsome. 

Not that you were saying he was. 

You stared down at the messages. He’d asked about you? 

Where your stomach had felt empty and hollow a few minutes ago, you felt the butterflies again. The same butterflies you had promptly banished earlier in the week. 

Rationally, it made sense that Dean would ask where you were. After all, your three roommates were there, and one of said roommates was fucking (or hopefully not fucking) one of Dean’s roommates. It would make sense that he would ask where the missing person was. 

You coughed, trying to keep from giving yourself hope. Dean was Dean. You were you. Your two lives only intersected because he was failing English and you were good at it. This wasn’t anything other than what it was.

You narrowed your eyes at the phone. Why would Bela lie? Wouldn’t it make more sense to just tell Dean that you were coming?

Bela was such a genius. But your heart began to pound heavily at the idea of Dean being mopey that you weren’t coming. Like he actually wanted to see you over any of the other girls at the party that would likely be throwing themselves at him.

You checked the time - it was only 6. You could easily go back to the apartment and freshen up, maybe even throw on a cute outfit and still have plenty of time to get there by midnight with the girls.

You nodded, packing up the quizzes and clipping together papers before putting them away neatly in your bag. You turned, satisfied with the events of the day (even if you were going to be grading for almost all of tomorrow morning), and started mentally going through all four of your closets to find the perfect going out top. 

A hard chest met you in the aisle and you nearly lost your balance. You looked up and heard “Easy there, sweetheart” in a familiar drawl, right next to your ear.

Holding on to the arms of the obstacle, you looked into the pure green eyes of Dean Winchester. 

He grinned, taking a step back out of your embrace. 

“Sweetness,” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he shot back, grin still plastered on his face. 

“I thought you were at the party?”

He looked away then, flush creeping up out of his collar. One hand grazed the back of his head and you noticed a Starbucks cup in the other. 

“What’s this?” You smiled.

He extended the cup to you. “Little pick me up.”

“What?” 

You took the coffee from him, your lips still parted in surprise. 

He shrugged. “You said you had a rough night and that the coffee helped earlier. Thought you might need another if you were gonna be working all night.”

“Wow,” you could feel your cheeks heating again. “Two in one day?”

He shrugged and reached up to adjust his snapback. “Hope you don’t mind,” Dean said, smirking, “but I did take a sip. Never had one before.”

“Did you like it?”

He nodded, raising his eyebrows. “Don’t tell anyone. Real men drink it black.”

“Ew,” you teased, taking a sip of it yourself. “Wait a second, didn’t you just have a frappe this morning?”

“Not answerin’ that.” He smirked.

“Hmm,” you took a drink and smiled. 

He noted the backpack and clean table behind you. “Looks like you weren’t really planning on staying here the rest of the night.”

“Girls convinced me. Not often we get a first-string-only party invite.”

The flush was creeping up to his ears and Dean thrust his hands into his jeans pockets. 

You looked at the rest of him. Gone was the sweatsuit combo and sneakers. Dean wore some jeans with a couple holes in the knees, a black State t-shirt, a pair of boots, and a State snapback turned backwards.

Your mouth went dry. He was so fucking handsome. You took another drink. 

“Doesn’t look like you came for a study session, either.”

He exhaled in a light chuckle. “Caught me. But the girls did say you were their ride home. Wanna head back to the party with me?”

When you examined him, he held up a hand. “Haven’t had anything to drink yet, swear.”

You bit your lip and looked down at his outfit, then to yours. You had managed to do some wonderful things with dry shampoo this morning, and a little mascara had helped, but it wasn’t the fabulous party outfit you’d had planned when you packed up. 

“You look fine,” he offered, reading your gaze.

“Oh?”

He nodded and reached up to put a piece of your hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Besides, this is supposed to be kinda chill, anyway.”

“Alright, then.” 

You fell into step beside Dean, a little shocked when he reached for your backpack and slung it over his own shoulder. “This is a little heavy,” he groaned, grinning.

“Hard life of a TA,” you rolled your eyes. “My muscles are probably bigger than yours.”

He looked down at you out of the corner of his eye again. “Probably. Remind me not to mess with you, sweetheart.”

You grinned at him, glad he’d come to the library for the coffee. “What were you going to do if I was staying at the library?” You heard yourself ask.

He shrugged. “Dunno. Probably hang out with you until you kicked me out.”

“Oh?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah, I was surprised when Bela said you were their ride home. I figured you’d want to crash early after the weekend and day you had.”

You stared at him for a few moments, bringing the coffee to your lips for a lack of something to do with your hands. He’d remembered. He’d remembered what you’d told him about your day. 

It was sweet. 

And not at all the playboy attitude you’d heard rumors about. 

“I have a late start tomorrow,” you heard yourself saying. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep Jo the hell away from Benny.”

He clicked the keys and the headlights of a black Chevy pickup shined in the dim parking lot. 

“That so?” He raised an eyebrow. He was walking a pace ahead of you, looking almost over his shoulder at you. 

You shrugged. “Isn’t he your best friend?”

“Yeah, him ’n Cas.”

“And you don’t mind him and Jo hooking up again?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I try not to get involved in my friends’ relationships.”

“Dean,” you reached out and grabbed his elbow. He stopped suddenly, turning almost too fast so that he faced you. You looked up and he looked down at you and —

There was no room. You were almost chest to chest.

You exhaled, wondering why there wasn’t enough air suddenly, even though you were outside in an almost-empty parking lot. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” He murmured, lips just barely moving. 

You swallowed and looked away from his lips. 

“You don’t seriously think the two of them are good together, do you?”

His eyes never left yours. You could see the building heat and inferno behind them. Was he burning just the way you were? You weren’t even touching.

“No, I don’t,” he answered honestly. “But Benny’s never asked me, so I keep my mouth shut.”

His eyes flicked down to your lips and your tongue reached out to wet them. His eyes darkened as he saw the movement. 

“H-has Jo asked you?”

You nodded. “We’re the ones who have to pick her up and take care of her whenever he breaks her heart.”

A car door slammed somewhere in the parking lot and you both startled. Your first instinct had been to back away from Dean, like you didn’t want anyone to see you together, but Dean’s hands had shot out for your arms, pulling you close to him. 

You exhaled, the tightness in your chest and the pool of heat under your ribs rising. 

“We should - uh, we should probably head out,” his voice was husky and rough.

“Is this you?” You asked, pointing to the Chevy.

“Sure is,” he answered, opening the passenger door for you. He held your hand as you stepped up on the running board, only handing you the backpack once you were sitting.

“It’s a nice truck,” you commented when he climbed in the driver’s side.

“Yeah, it’s alright.”

“Alright?” You repeated. You gestured to the cab. “Dean, this is nice.”

He grinned, putting keys in the ignition and firing it to life. “It’s a decent truck, I’ll give you that, but it’s not my favorite.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What is your favorite?”

The radio started, playing some classic rock station. Dean turned down the radio before fishing his phone out of his pocket. He unlocked it and you saw him swiping through pictures for a second. 

“There she is,” he beamed, showing you the picture. “That’s my girl.”

It was a black four door - maybe something from the late 60’s. It was sharp. Well maintained, you could tell. 

And there was Dean, leaned back against the driver’s door with a huge smile at whoever was taking the picture.

“She’s beautiful, Dean.”

“’67 Chevy Impala,” he told you. “Built’er from the ground up.”

That raised your eyebrows. “Really? Dean that’s - that’s … wow. I didn’t know you worked on cars like that.”

He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but the grin he hid told you it was. He put the phone in the holder on the dash and clicked it off. “Dad gave it to me, but it was in poor shape. He runs his own body shop, so he taught me what to do, but I did it all myself.”

He put the truck in reverse and began to back out of the space, ignoring the back-up camera and putting his hand on the shoulder of your seat so he could turn and see behind him.

You pressed your legs together. Until tonight, you’d had no idea how fucking hot that was.

Once he put it in drive and started for Michael’s house, you found your voice again. “Guess I’ll call you if I ever need anything done to my car.”

He glanced over at you and raised an eyebrow. “Somethin’ wrong with your car, sweetheart?”

“Oh, no,” you assured him. “Just saying, if I ever do need something.”

His left hand was on the steering wheel, easily maneuvering through the side streets. His right was extended over the console and you looked down, noticing it was next to yours. Dean looked down too, away from the road, and you saw his fingers twitch toward yours. 

“Absolutely. What do you drive?”

“Just a Camry,” you told him. “Something good on gas.”

He grinned. “Easy car to work on. But if I ever need a roadtrip, then I guess I’ll be comin’ to you.”

He adjusted in his seat and casually brushed his fingers with yours. Casual enough that you figured he’d call it an accident if you didn’t reciprocate.

You flushed, moving so your pinky finger brushed against his. Just enough of a confirmation. 

“I - I’d like to see it someday,” you blurted, anything to break the tension. “The - uh - the Impala.”

Dean’s hand snapped back and formed a fist. He sat it down on the console, but he was tense, as if it took effort to be slow and careful. He chuckled. “I usually bring it up from home, just a couple times a year though.”

“Why only a couple?”

“Have you seen the way people drive here? I’d come back to a missing mirror or some shit. Absolutely not.”

You laughed then, reaching tentative fingers to his forearm. “You’re pretty protective, Sweetness.”

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye again and you saw the green in his eyes all lit up. He looked down at his arm and back up to you, eyes softer, smile brighter. 

“Hey now, don’t knock my baby. I gotta take care of my girl.”

Michael and Gabe lived at the end of a cul-de-sac in a two-story house with a good size yard and basement. It was usually the party house because all of their neighbors also attended State University, so there was never anyone to really call the cops if they got too loud. 

You’d only been a couple of times, mostly at the end of the last football season. Michael and Gabe’s parties were the stuff of legends, and both that you’d been to had been overcrowded and way too hot. Not really your vibe. 

There were only a few cars in the driveway and spread throughout the cul-de-sac, so you guess it really was a chill party like Dean had said. 

He parked the truck and turned back the ignition, releasing the keys.

“When I left earlier, everyone was out back by the fire pit.”

“Oh?”

“Yep,” he answered. “It’s finally cooled off enough for a bonfire… that okay with you?”

You crossed your legs, jiggling your toes to try to keep from being completely anxious. 

“Because, if not,” Dean started speaking quickly, he ran a hand over the back of his neck, “I can take you home and I’ll bring the girls home, it’s no big deal —”

“Dean,” you interrupted, squeezing his forearm. “A bonfire sounds fantastic.”

His shoulders drooped with relief, he put his warm hand on top of yours. “Yeah?”

You nodded and bit your lip. “I didn’t bring a chair or anything, though.”

He smirked. “No worries about that. C’mon.”

The lights of the cab were almost too bright as you opened the doors wide. Dean was at your side before you could climb down onto the sidewalk, a hand at your elbow. He clicked the lock of the truck and pocketed the keys efficiently, leading you toward the carport. 

He said nothing as his hand grasped yours, but you felt the explosion of electricity echoing through you at the simple touch. You looked up and saw the corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed his bravado.

The carport housed a truck that was every bit of brand spankin’ new, but Dean went around it, passing the side door to the kitchen. You saw the glow of the bonfire in the backyard and stiffened.

Dean, ever observant, paused, hand still in yours. “You ready?”

You bit your lip. “Won’t people… talk if we show up together?”

He shrugged, the gesture meant to be nonchalant, but you saw the tick in his jaw. “They’re gonna talk regardless.”

You smirked, elbowing him in the side. “Just hate to ruin your rep, Winchester. I’d hate for all those pretty girls to know you’re off the market.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up into that smirk you were beginning to love. “C’mon, sweetheart.” Then he winked.

The heat between your legs was instant. You’d seen old men leering and winking before, but when Dean Winchester winked at you…

Well, that was different altogether. 

You cleared your throat, recovering quickly. You were almost sure that Dean had noticed what the wink had done to you, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t want to embarrass you further. 

Either way, he pulled on your hand and took a step toward the bonfire. 

“Actually,” Dean murmured, pulling you back into the shadows of the carport. 

“What?”

Dean leaned down to your ear. You felt his smile against the shell of your ear and shivers erupted down your spine.  “Wanna give’em somethin’ to really talk about?”

You looked up through your lashes. “Like what?”

His hand let go of yours and you hated the way your chest caved at the loss of warmth, but it was quickly replaced when he wound his arm around your shoulders, bending it and drawing you in close. Your hand found his on your shoulder and threaded your fingers through his again.

Oh yeah, this was much better. 

“Stick with me, Shakespeare. We’ll wow’em all tonight.”

“Easy there, Sweetness,” you teased, falling into step with him.

Coming into sight of the bonfire, you were greeted with screams and yells from your already-too-drunk friends. The bonfire was large, but not dangerously large, with several coolers spread out around the circle with folding chairs and hay bales in between. 

It was nearly the entire varsity roster, but there were a few of the second-stringers trickling in, and you knew there would be more before the night was truly over. 

You clocked Jo sitting on a hay bale next to Benny and frowned. She was very drunk with a red solo cup in hand, but Benny was just as (if not more) drunk thank she was, so you let it go for the moment. As long as they didn’t slip away together, it would be easy to pry her from him when it was time to go home.

Bela would be harder. 

There was an a-frame that had been pulled up close to the fire with a wooden bench swing, and as one of the hosts, Michael had claimed a seat. He had a cushion behind his back as he sat up against the arm of it, legs sprawled down the length of the bench.

And Bela had claimed his lap. She was curled up between his legs, leaned against his back, sipping on her own beer bottle. Her face was calm and casual, but her eyes danced and gleamed. She was exactly where she wanted to be, and if the opportunity presented itself, you knew there was no way in hell you’d get her to come home with you and the girls tonight.

Charlie sat over to the side with one of the other cheerleaders, Dorothy or something stupid. They looked cozy, but nothing inappropriate.

Dean’s arm stayed around you as he greeted the group. There were high-fives and hands shaken, beers offered (and refused, since Dean insisted on driving you girls home), and everyone was nice to you as well. Most of them already knew your name, since you were roommates with Bela and Jo, but they only knew you in passing or by name. You took a Smirnoff from one of the cheerleaders and handed it to Dean to open.

There was an empty fold out chair, and Dean wasted no time in claiming it. “More comfortable than the damn hay bales,” he explained, plopping himself down into it. 

You raised your eyebrows at him. The nearest seat was a few feet away, and you couldn’t help the desire that curled through you at wanting to still be close to him.

He winked again and that desire increased tenfold. Surely he’d be able to tell.

His hands grasped at yours, taking the Smirnoff and putting it in the cloth cupholder before pulling you sharply into his lap. You wobbled, off-balance, before crashing into his space, coming down almost too hard on his thigh.

“There you go,” he whispered into your ear. “Get comfortable.”

He spread his legs wider, giving you room to put your legs between them. His arm came behind your back, resting along the arm rest but still supporting you. His fingertips grazed under your sweatshirt, just dusting the little bit of exposed skin. 

Just light enough to send goosebumps racing across your back.

“Cold, sweetheart?”

You reached for your drink and smirked. “Maybe I should move closer to the fire.” You planted your feet, feinting like you were going to get up.

“Not a chance.” His voice was husky as both hands encircled your waist, crushing you back down to him and drawing you in to his chest. “I’ll keep you warm, I promise,” he murmured in your ear.

You felt his body tense as he leaned up, just enough to ghost his lips over your cheek. Your chest felt light and fuzzy and you hoped the dim light of the bonfire covered the darkening blush across your cheeks.

“Plenty to talk about, huh?” You pressed the cold bottle to your lips.