When in Dallas: see the @Bruce_Weber exhibit @dallascontemporary ✔️, eat a burrito as big as your head ✔️, drink all the margaritas ✔️, sleep in in your ridiculously comfortable @whotels bed ✔️. More from our #WCFDA guide, now on #Coveteur.com
#covcollab 📷: @reneerodenkirchen http://ift.tt/2h60keC
The goal: me (a successful intellectual who looks great in glasses and has great stubble permanently) in the apartment of one of my closest friends, a glamorous actress, we’re sat on the sofa wearing over the top dressing gowns, its margaritas all round as I’m painting the toenails of my boyfriend a gorgeous Latino film star who’s just sacrificed his career to be with me
“Did Dean come home already?” you asked quietly over the trails of steam dancing out of your coffee, hoping Sam would find your voice neutral. You had set him up with someone else, after all. “After two margaritas, three sangrias, and God knows what else I had, I’m not up for calling anyone right now.”
“Two margaritas? Sweetheart, the prohibition made me forget how much a lightweight you are,” Dean chuckled, a bright smile on his face as he walked into the kitchen.
Sam groaned, holding his head in his hands as Dean began to pour himself a cup of coffee, not caring about the painful ruckus he made as he slammed down his cup and the sugar container. You placed your middle finger on your lips, blowing air through your teeth to create a “sh” noise as Dean laughed.
“Also forgot how annoyed you get.”
“Whatever, loser. How are you not hungover? You were walking like Bambi on ice yesterday night,” you glared at Dean. “You should be hungover and useless like the rest of us.”
“Well, I, unlike you, children, can actually take my alcohol,” Dean said smugly, sitting in front of you and grabbing Sam’s discarded newspaper.
“What time did you get here, anyways?” you sighed, sipping your drink. “I’m hoping you were a gentleman and at least offered Soo-jin some breakfast. She seemed like a nice girl, and trust me, women don’t really feel the best after a one-night stand.”
“I didn’t go home with her,” Dean said, looking away from you. His voice was tense, and his words were short and to the point. Ending your conversation, Dean opened the newspaper, barricading himself behind it.
Shrugging, you tried to ignore the small, happy dance bubbling in your chest as you turned to Sam and began to speak with him again. You could figure out Dean’s odd behavior later, perhaps after figuring out your own mystery from last night; the number scribbled with pen on your hand, and a blurry, handsome face you couldn’t remember well.
“I didn’t go home with her,” Dean repeated under his breath, knowing you couldn’t hear him, “because she wasn’t you.”