Request: Could you write a story where the reader is a maid at the motel and Sam and Dean are sleeping in (without a case, so they sleep in late) but hear a pretty voice singing classic rock next door (as reader sings while cleaning) and Sam convinces dean to at least go see who is singing and he’s smitten. Thanks!!
Word Count: 1,213
Dean is very much used to harsh awakenings. Blaring alarms, the cut of a knife, a bucket of cold water… there’s not much that’s foreign to him anymore. Late mornings, on the other hand, when the sun is far above the horizon and yet he’s still in bed, remain his favourites, because he’s able to wake on his own time, at his own pace, and maybe finally get out of bed not feeling completely exhausted.
So when he’s woken far before his usual post-case-lie-in time, for a few moments he’s mildly annoyed. That is, until he hears exactly what woke him up:
“There is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun
And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy
And God, I know I’m one,”
He’s heard angels speaking. He’s heard them screaming, and smashing windows with it – so to say an angel’s voice was coming through the paper-thin motel wall couldn’t be further from the truth. This is the opposite – sweet and soothing, and even better, singing a song he’s loved since childhood.
Throughout the sing, the voice hits each and every note, somehow capturing the haunting rhythm of the song within a bright, airy, melodic tone. He’s completely entranced. All he can do is lie there, his hands locked behind his head, and let himself be relaxed by the soothing voice as it moves through a veritable playlist of absolute classics – the gap between songs leaves him waiting in suspense, hoping for another one to start up – and the voice always obliges, and the opening notes to whichever song it chooses sound even sweeter than ever.
“You’re not going to go and flirt with her?” Sam’s voice startles Dean out of his reverie, though the voice doesn’t leave his mind.
“She’s… I don’t know what she’s doing. I don’t want to disturb her.” He says quickly – there’s a part of him that enjoys the mystery, the not knowing, the building up the image of a woman in his mind: in his head, she’s beautiful, but not overtly so – and she’s funny, with a bright, mischievous smile. It’s all an illusion, of course, but he doesn’t mind. It’s a nice mirage to bask in the glow of, either way.
“Disturb her? What’s gotten into you?” Sam’s incredulity is clearly audible in his tone, and the elder brother peels open one eye to give his brother a look.
“Nothing. But she’s obviously busy.” As if on cue, the singing pauses for a moment and is replaced with the sound of furniture scraping across the floor before starting back up again.
“You’re nervous.” Sam grins as the realisation reaches him, “You’re actually nervous to speak to a girl. Why? You’ve talked to girls who like rock before.”
“I know, I just-“
“I’m sure she’s nice enough. I’m assuming she’s staff, judging by the cleaning cart just outside the door, so she’s basically contractually obligated to be nice to you,” When Dean doesn’t reply and still looks dubious, Sam sighs in resignation, “At least go and see who it is. What she’s like. And if you like her, we don’t have a case or anywhere to be, so staying another few days shouldn’t be a problem.”
Dean drags himself out of the bed after that, hurrying into his jeans with such haste that he manages to shove both legs into one trouser-leg and nearly end up flat on his face, to his younger brother’s infinite amusement.
However, for once Dean doesn’t bite back, and instead heads out of the room somehow feeling a thousand times more refreshed than usual despite not having even touched the coffee pot. He nearly hesitates outside the door, but after a short pep talk and a mental kick up his own ass, he shifts the cleaning trolley out of the way and knocks, two sharp raps on the open door.
The sound cuts your voice off instantly, and you turn from what you were doing – changing over the (frankly, disgusting) bedsheets. They drop into a crumpled heap of faded, stained linen at your feet as you flash him a bright, friendly smile and brush your hands off on the black tabard that’s draped over your jeans and black t-shirt, the design of which he can’t make out for the over-garment.
“Can I help you?” You ask him sweetly, and he’s taken aback by how kind your expression is, and how beautiful you are – even more so than the vision he’d cooked up in his head, despite his thinking that it couldn’t be possible.
“Hi, I- uh- no, I-“ Dean Winchester, flustered. If you knew him, you’d be a lot more impressed than you are amused, considering the laugh that escapes your lips. Part of him wants to muffle the sound with his own lips, the other wants to listen to it forever.
“Is it your room? I was coming there next, I promise, but the people in here last… I don’t know what they were doing. I don’t think I want to know.” You shudder, only partially in hyperbole. He huffs with laughter, suddenly remembering the various states of filth and chaos he’d left motel rooms in over the years and feeling a flash of guilt.
“No, it’s fine. We were lying in anyway. I woke up to your excellent serenade.” He smiles, hoping it comes across as flirtatious, despite it feeling more hysterical.
“Oh, I woke you?” The flush that spreads across your cheeks is nothing short of adorable, “I’m so sorry, I knew the walls were thin, but-“
“Not like that!” He quickly corrects you, “I was just curious. I had to see who was singing my kind of music so well.”
“Your kind of…” He watches as you put the pieces together in your mind, “Is that why you’re wearing an AC/DC shirt backwards?”
He looks down and, sure enough, there are tour dates emblazoned down his chest – it’s his turn to flush then, but you only laugh, going back to piling bedsheets into the laundry hamper you’ve set at the foot of the bed.
“I guess it is.” He smiles, leaning against the doorframe, “I’m Dean.”
“Y/N. Pleasure to meet you.” You look up at him and, again, smile with a face full of sunshine. It warms even the deepest darkest reaches of his soul, where no light dares venture anymore. But you do, and you don’t even know it.
“I absolutely assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” He grins, straightening up and taking a step towards you, “I know you’re working and everything, but when do you get off?”
“Noon.” You reply, “As long as I get everything done.”
“In that case, you wanna grab some lunch? My treat. My brother and I are in town for a while, and I need someone who knows where all the good pie is.”
“Your brother? He coming too?” You ask offhandedly, doing a great job of looking casual about it. Dean scoffs.
“Not a chance. He’s all… salad and sadness.” Dean rolls his eyes, which makes you laugh.
“I happen to know a pretty good place. I’ll meet you at your room at noon-thirty?”
“Noon-thirty it is.” He agrees, and you bless him with another grin.
“It’s a date, then.”