I really hope you feel better, and I hope whatever is causing the cloud of negativity to clear up soon. I'd hope you'll do the prompt "fuck off...I mean it" with a readerxDean please! Thanks so much!
Thank you, babe, it comes and goes to be honest. You just gotta grin and bear it until things clear up. But I’m feeling much better.
This got a bit away from me.
Dean watches from across the bar, he watches as she throws her hair over her shoulder, watches as she bites into the full plump line of her bottom lip. Dean watches some asshole sidle up to her only to place his hand low on the curve of her back, and he can feel the fury burning along his skin, can feel the air leave his lungs.
“You gotta breathe, dude,” Sam tries to calm, taking a long pull from his beer, but Dean finds it hard to hear his brother over the ringing in his ears, finds it hard to concentrate when some dick is whispering something that has y/n’s cheeks reddening in response.
Dean watches her throw her head back, soft delicate hand going to her cleavage, a trill superficial laugh falling from her lips. The sound reminds him that this is all fake, helps him pull it all together, because that is definitely not an authentic y/n laugh. The man talking to her right now, he goes to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, hand stopping to thumb just below her lip and Dean catches her eye when she turns to look at him over her shoulder.
She winks at Dean, smiles this tight-lipped smile and Dean tips his beer in her direction, mouths ‘You’re doing great.’ And she visibly relaxes into the man before her.
It pleases Dean beyond belief to know that he can ease her worries with just a look in her direction, but it doesn’t change the fact that he thinks this was a bad idea. In fact, Dean is 100% sure this is the worst of ideas. They don’t do baiting, they don’t like risking the life of someone they care about just to catch some monster. But she had been ready to volunteer, had been gung-ho to play damsel, and Dean didn’t have it in him to argue with her against it.
And while Dean is nervous about whatever sick monster is out there hunting women in bars, he’s even more terrified about the possibility of her being swayed into the arms of some lecherous asshole.
“Dude,” Sam chances and Dean’s head swings in his direction. “There’s no way we’re gonna catch the guy if you spend the whole night eyeing the low hanging fruit.”
Dean doesn’t like that analogy, doesn’t like the ease in Sam’s voice when he says it. “She’s not low hanging fruit,” Dean snaps, words sharp and forceful as they push past his lips. “She’s our friend, and she can be in danger.”
Sam chuckles from beside his brother, lets the sound fall from his lips, disbelief so evident that Dean can taste it on the tip of his tongue. Dean shoots him a look, daggers pinging from within the forest green of his eyes.
“I’m getting another one,” he throws at Sam swirling his empty bottle around, ignoring the look Sam sends him as he pushes up from the barstool.
Dean doesn’t need Sam’s judgement, doesn’t need his knowing glances and snide remarks. Dean needs liquor and the scent of her smooth skin to calm him down.
The chair next to her opens up just as Dean gets to the bar. If asked later on, Dean will deny with all his might the fact that he sprinted to catch it before someone else did. But nonetheless, Dean gets his hand on the cracked leather of the stool before someone else does, slides into it casually as he signals for the bartender.
The low rumble of voices makes it hard for Dean to catch the whole conversation, but he hears y/n giggle, hears her laugh before telling the man, “Oh stop, I am not pretty enough to be a model.” Dean can’t hold back the cackle that flies out of his throat, can’t keep it in, and y/n whirls around to catch his eye.
He pales at the fire in her eye, freezes under her glare.
“Something funny there, mister?” She asks him, and Dean most definitely does not shiver at her tone. The man over her shoulder eyes the back of y/n’s head for a moment, watches intently as Dean looks her up and down.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” Dean throws back, “Just, this asshole has been chatting you up for so long that I assumed he’d be past the point of pickup lines.”
Y/n’s jaw ticks as she narrows her eyes at Dean. She’s mad at him, probably because Dean interrupted whatever type of game she had going, but this guy isn’t who they’re looking for. He didn’t react to the liquid silver in her nail polish when she ran her fingers over the back of his hand, didn’t recoil at the holy water slipped into his gin and tonic; not a demon, not a shifter. He’s useless, but that doesn’t lessen the burning fire in y/n’s gaze.
“Who says it’s a pickup line? You don’t think I could be a model?” Dean wants to reach across the small distance the bar has put between them, wants to wrap the waves of her hair around his fingers, but he thinks better of it, settles for hiding his wide grin behind the lip of his beer. She huffs at his silence, the guy behind her reaching out to gently wrap his hand around her exposed elbow. Dean watches her pull out of his grip, watches her lean onto the sticky wood of the bar, crowding into Dean’s personal space, “Hang on–” she’s telling this to the man behind her–“Seriously, am I not pretty enough to be a model.”
Dean places his beer back on the paper coaster laying before him, smiles this warm charming smile before meeting her in the middle. “Sweetheart, you’re the most beautiful thing in this room right now, the most beautiful thing in most rooms, I’m sure.” Y/n’s eyes widen at his words, a soft gasp rolling off her lips and right into Dean’s mouth.
The man behind her calls her name, says it in this nasally whiny manner that has he rolling her eyes. “Fuck off, yeah?” she throws over her shoulder and Dean smiles out of victory and complete self-satisfaction.
“Seriously?” he questions, like he can’t believe for one minute that she’d walk away from whatever he was offering her. But Dean doesn’t doubt for one moment that he can give her everything that dude has to offer and a million things more.
“Seriously. Fuck off…I mean it.” The man scoffs at her words, sends her a nasty glare mixed an even nastier comment, but neither Dean nor y/n seem to care, seem to pay attention. All Dean can see is the glint of something fierce in her eyes, something primal and inviting.
He watches as she climbs off the stool next to him, watches as she slides between the gap he’s left between his body and the bar. “So…you think I’m beautiful?” She asks and Dean settles for nodding his confirmation, settles for threading her hair through his fingers until he can tilt her head up and back.
“God, yes,” he breathes against her mouth, nose nuzzling against hers, the smile on his lips so wide that he can feel the soft skin of her cheek against them.
“Fuck off,” she laughs against his mouth, and Dean pulls on her bottom lip, “You mean it?” she questions and Dean can’t find words strong enough to confirm, can’t find it in him to say it, so he presses forward instead kisses the breath right out of her. He figures fair is fair, she takes his breath away so he’ll take hers.