#and if this is it

[lesbiemm]

.

[imtryingmyfuckingbe]

And If This Is It

Third chapter in a short series.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Mentions: Jess, Sam, Charlie, Cas, Gabriel, Jo, Jules (OC)

Trigger warnings: Excessive alcohol consumption; puking

I am the sole author and reserve the rights to my work. However, I am not the owner of Supernatural as a franchise, or the characters including, but not limited to: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Gabriel, Jo, Jess, or Charlie.

CHAPTER THREE:

“Shots?!” Jules shouts over the deafening music.

He passes a tiny glass of clear alcohol to Y/N and Charlie. At this point, neither know if it’s tequila, gin, or vodka. At this point, neither truly care.

Carter’s, the hole-in-the-wall dive tucked between a pawn shop and convenience store, housed the trio every Wednesday night. When unable to convene outside of work any other time of the week, they at least have their sticky booth and cheap booze to fall back upon. If Y/N had half the mind to care, she could bet the shady owner had an unsavory side business that allowed for such decently priced alcohol. But she doesn’t have half the mind. The sharp air intoxicates her even before the first drink, drawing her attention elsewhere. Plus, Jules always arrives first to claim their usual seats, a round of drinks at the ready. Tonight, he focuses on shots.

They clink their glasses together, slam them on the grimy counter, and tip them back. Charlie cheers, her flushed cheeks pushed back in a sloppy, wide grin. Her laughter bellows into Y/N’s chest, forcing her to join in. The tribulations of the past seven days wash away with each new shot. Her mind only wanders as far as Jules across the table and Charlie next to her. Nothing mattered right now, not unrequited love or shitty jobs.

“So! So! Then I said, I said! I don’t care what those bitches think. I’m— I’m a good server, ya know? And I told James— “

“—Jason,” Jules supplies.

“—Yeah, that one. I told Jason to stick it!” Charlie slurs, recounting her meeting with their boss.

Y/N cocks her head at Charlie, who white knuckles the table to stay steady. “Did you really?” She speaks slowly, the words catching on her heavy tongue.

“No. But I thought it. So it counts.”

Jules and Y/N share a look. “Sure it does.”

Out of the three of them, Jules holds his liquor the best. He drinks anyone under the table, and still gets up for work without a grueling hangover. Y/N took Thursdays out of her availability because she doesn’t have his stamina. It took only two shifts filled with headaches and poor service for her to realize she cannot power through the dehydration and pain. Wednesday nights take it out of her, and the following morning includes a date with her toilet and a bottle of Pedialyte. Trying to keep up with Jules, which she foolishly does, is a signed, sealed, delivered death sentence.

She happily accepts it, for it means quality time with her friends.

“Listen, missy. You listen here! You don’t get to talk about— about thinking things and not saying them!” Charlie accuses. Y/N holds up a hand in protest. “No! I don’ wanna h-hear it.”

In just a few words, the thoughtless cocoon Y/N made shelter in crashes to the ground, bringing up debris and Dean’s face. His freckles. His lips. The things she wishes she could say— I love you, I want you, I need you— taunt her, dancing across her mind and scuffing up the floors. “Yeah? Well I don’t wanna talk about it!” She all but shouts.

Charlie huffs. “Fine.”

Jules says nothing, simply peering at his two best friends with mild concern in his glossed over eyes. Y/N avoids his gaze, instead choosing to watch the desolate street through the frosty glass. Charlie waves her hand to the waiter to call for another round.

With new shots in front of the respective drinkers, the tense silence dissipates quickly, easy conversation about what each other missed taking its place. Jules relays the details of his third date with Alice, a girl he served once. She left her number and on a whim he decided to text her. The thirty percent tip she left helped her case, too. The two get along great, from what he says. They share similar interests, including early morning trips to the gym and pretty much any physical activity. At the thought, Y/N shudders. She reserves her mornings for her bed and coffee.

As Jules carries on about the lovely Alice, Y/N finds herself thinking down a stark path. It travels away from Carter’s worn booths and blaring music, finding solace in scratching concrete and big hands. Some days, she truly wishes she could call Him her boyfriend. Some days, she only wishes to be near Him. Right now, it’s the latter. The too-loud conversations around her, the thick air, the heavy warmth in her belly; it makes breathing a chore.

Charlie grabs her wrist, pulling her over-worked thumb from her teeth. The crevice between her nail and skin bleeds. Out of her head now, she realizes her friends stare at her, conversation ceased. Jules’ eyes bore into hers, and she can feel Charlie staring at the side of her head.

She doesn’t have to ask what crosses their minds. Their faces paint light worry and their questions clearly. Y/N sighs, head dipping to focus on the empty glass before her. Neither of her friends say anything, allowing her to trudge through her hazy thoughts.

“I…” she starts, but shakes her head. Needing a something to center her, she throws back her head and swallows another shot. It burns, but it reminds her she is alive and well. Well enough, at least.

Charlie only knows what an inebriated Y/N shared once, and she assumes Charlie happily passed on the message. Even still, the words halt in her throat. Charlie interlocks their fingers, giving a squeeze. It’s okay, Y/N knows she wants to say. “I need some air.”

Not awaiting a response, she drops Charlie’s hand and alights from the booth. Concentrating on walking, Y/N works her way through the crowd to the door. The cooling air of the night caresses her cheeks, relieving some of the heat from her skin. The car-lined road before her, adorned by dim streetlights and neon store signs, appears in double. Cigarette smoke wafts to her nose.

She turns towards the scent. Sober Y/N would never smoke. The taste lingers on her tongue days after, plaguing anything she drinks or eats. However, Drunk Y/N, riddled with anxiety and one too many shots, craves it.

A woman clad in little clothing leans against the worn brick, cigarette balanced between her fore- and middle finger. Y/N stumbles the few feet to her, her body moving before her thoughts. The lady looks up. Her tired eyes trail over Y/N’s body, taking in the sight, ending at her face. Y/N tries to imagine how she looks.

“Can I bum a smoke?”

Wordless, the woman passes Y/N her pack of menthol and a lighter. Nodding in thanks, she lights the cigarette and draws a deep breath in. Sweet relief. She sighs contentedly, handing the pack and lighter back. In silence, Y/N joins the stranger in leaning against the wall. Drunken camaraderie over a bad habit makes the world feel smaller; friendlier.

Here she stands, a mess. And here some straggler stands, someone she’s never met, probably going through her own shit. People are small, in the grand scheme of things. The big picture. Everything feels silly, like a cosmic prank, wherein God will jump from the sky and yell, “Hahahah! Happiness is not a by product of existence, you simple minded fucks. I made you to suffer.”

She wouldn’t be surprised, not anymore. Some days, her heavy bones and even heavier head weigh her down so much, all she can do is suffer. Suffer through schooling; a dead end job; a wistful love; a bleak future. Perhaps God created her as suffering; not a person who could, but a person who is.

A long drag from the cigarette clears her mind. She reminds herself that her sidewalk existential philosophy is only wise by proxy of this night’s poison.

Flicking the cigarette, she nods her head in thanks. With a clearer head, the double vision subsides. Still, she sways as she walks back to the door of the bar. Bracing herself, she pushes it open. Music, this time a familiar song she can’t place, wraps its comforting fingers around her heart. This is where she is meant to be: sandwiched between the tacky wall and Charlie, sat across from Jules.

Charlie stands as Y/N comes into view, allowing her to take her seat once more. The conversation continues seamlessly, as if  Y/N never left. Jules and Charlie keep the side glances to minimum, instead focusing on another round— this time paired with glasses of water— and what Jules’ should do next with Alice. Deciding to solely focus on her friends before her, Y/N utilizes her remaining energy on keeping up with the conversation.

“I mean… she seems to like you a lot, dude. Who the hell… else would get up at five to go on hikes?” Y/N slurs, raising her voice.

“A crazy, person! She’s crazy.” Charlie whispers with a shake of her head.

Y/N laughs, downing another shot. “Yeah, well, either way, she likes it, ya’know? She likes it!”

They dissolve into a fit of body-rocking, soul-shaking laughter. As it peters out, the energy follows suit. Y/N hits a wall, her shoulders sagging with a sigh. “I’m— I’m gotta go, guys. My eyes are gonna fall out.”

“Wait! Just one more shot. C’mon, Y/N/N! One for the road,” implores Jules.

Ever the bad influence, Y/N agrees. In the back of her head, she hears her sober-self admonish her. She pushes it away while Jules waves his pointer finger for another round. Grace, the waitress, already has three ready. Used to their antics as their usual server, she also drops the bill.

Clink, slam, gulp.

Y/N slaps a twenty on the bill, knowing it covers her portion of drinks. Charlie scoots out of the booth again, staying standing to wrap Y/N in a bone-crushing hug. The scent of vodka and Daisy fills Y/N’s nose, covering every piece of her in Charlie. Jules envelopes her next. Her cheek rests against his chest, and he sets his chin on her head. They hold each other for a moment before pulling back.

Y/N leaves her friends to settle the rest of the bill. Escaping into the night, she embraces the cool air. However much she finds solace in Carter’s, the stuffy heat paired with the little room to move constricts her. Even on the now empty street, her chest refuses to loosen. The returned double vision surely doesn’t help.

“Walk,” she mumbles, commanding herself to just fucking go.

Normally, she would call a ride service right about now; or she’d stick around with Jules and Charlie to ride with them. But right now she needs the freedom of the seedy side streets and open sky above her. Four doors and a short roof would only further agitate her.

So, for the sake of her sanity, she makes her way down the street. Having walked these streets many times, Y/N’s feet carry her, rather than she commanding them. As she works her way towards the main road, the lights become brighter and cleaner; trash slowly dwindles in the gutters until they’re as clean as they can get in this part of the city.

At the intersection of Boulder and Hamilton, she stops. Going left would lead her home, a destination twenty minutes away. Going right would take her to Dean. Her body decides before her mind. Five minutes and a few turns, she stands on Dean’s stoop.

Her heavy fist raps against the wood while she leans her forehead against the cool service. Eyes closed, Y/N focuses on slowing her breathing. The edges of a panic attack creep into her mind. Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I—

The door opens, taking from Y/N her support. Without it, she falls forward, preparing to meet the unfriendly catching of the floor. Instead, warm, bare arms wrap around her waist. “Y/N?” Dean asks in his deep, gruff tone.

God, I love your voice. The thought crosses her mind before she can stop it.

“Oh, do you, now?” Dean teases, righting her on her feet but keeping his hands on her shoulders.

Fuck.

“Shuddap,” she scolds.

“What are you doing here, Y/N/N?” He moves a hand from her shoulder to grasp her chin, pointing her face to look at him.

She leans into it. “Drunk.”

Dean chuckles, a warm sound that pushes any anxiety out of her mind. He has that way about him. “I can see that. Here, come inside so I can close the door.” She does as he asks, still leaning into his touch. He leads her to his couch, guiding her gently down onto the cushion. Resting on his knees in between her legs, he examines her face again.

She tries to look him in the eyes, she truly tries, but their overwhelming jade and the smell of his shampoo and his hands and that little grin and— and— and. The list goes on forever. In the dim room, lit by the outside lights and the paused TV, she wants to fall into him. Her fingers itch to grab his stupid stubbled cheeks and bring his stupid plump lips to her own. Her heart threatens to jump straight from her chest and into his hands. Her skin prickles where his forefinger and thumb hold her chin.

“Traitors,” she mumbles.

“Hm?”

Y/N shakes her head, causing Dean to release her chin. Dammit. “Nothing. I’m just— I’m so drunk, dude.”

He laughs again, sending a wave of peace over her body. “Yes, I know. Let’s get some water in you.”

Water sounds like a great idea, just the mention causes Y/N’s mouth to dry, readying for the coolness to coat her throat and fill her stomach. While Dean pours her a glass, she better settles against the sofa, shifting until her back rests against the arm and her legs splay out before her. The cold of the leather raises goosebumps, but it grounds her.

Dean returns with a stainless steel tumbler, placing it on the cushion by her hip. He lifts her legs and rests them upon his thighs as he too settles into the couch. Arm rested on the top of the couch and eyes caressing her flushed cheeks, he awaits for her to speak.

Every thought racing through her mind pleads to blurt out “I love you!” in some form or another. Taking a long, refreshing sip, she swallows the water and her heart. The hand gently kneading her calf provides almost enough courage to cast aside her inhibitions, but instead she listens to the voice in the back of her head. Why ruin something great? Why risk it?

Pussy, her warring side jabs.

Shaking her head, she removes her gaze from his and unto the television. “Die Hard?”

He waits a beat before he speaks, “Yes. How are you feeling?”

“Like there’s two John… John McClanes on the TV, which means two Hans Gru—bers, and I… I dunno if I can watch that.”

Glorious, golden, all-compassing laughter. “Well, I’m sure the McClanes will be fine; twice the firepower.”

Y/N can’t stop herself from returning to gazing at Dean. The lights from the kitchen silhouette his face, but she sees it, nonetheless. Knows it like its her own, for she sure has stared at him long enough. His seemingly perpetual little grin pushes his cheeks up the slightest bit. He looks so young.

With little thought or permission, she reaches a hand out to brush against his cheek. The barely present beard tickles her palm. Dean’s eyes flutter shut, and he nuzzles further into her hand. If only she could stay like this, legs across Dean’s, hand on his cheek, eyes closed.

“Dean…” she whispers, mostly for herself. Her heart will never get used to sitting so close to him, a beacon on her worst of days and a partner on her best.

“Hm?” he asks, still leaning into her touch.

It takes everything from her, her willpower, her bones, her chest, her lungs. She can’t stop herself for much longer, she knows. And, the thing is, her traitorous body doesn’t protest. Nothing in her says to stop; everything in her begs— no, screams at— her to grab him and hold him tight. To never let go.

As she leans forward, her left hand reaching for his other cheek, the tumbler clatters to the floor with an unforgiving clang. They both startle back, Y/N drawing her legs from his lap and Dean finally opening his eyes. The withering stare she casts at the stupid bottle should shatter it. Instead, it stays whole and mocking. She reaches down to right it, her knuckles white as she harshly slams it onto the floor.

The lights seem to bright, now. The throbbing in her head makes its presence better known, pulsing the picture of John McClane leaning over a sniper rifle. Bile rises in her throat.

“Fuck,” she barely gets out before bolting from her seat and running for the bathroom. Way to ruin the moment, you monkey.

Y/N grabs the edge of the toilet with one hand, gathering her hair into a mock ponytail with the other. At the sight of the bowl, her stomach instantly lurches. With the little she had to eat, mostly burning alcohol makes a return, accompanied by some nachos and fries.

A set of hands replace her’s in her hair, allowing her to better grasp the toilet. Dean settles behind her, bracing her sides with his thighs and whispering unintelligible comforting words in her ear. With his free hand he rubs her back, up and down her shoulder blades to her lower back.

No longer retching, she wipes her mouth toilet paper. Her body still shakes, skin clammy and hot. She crosses her arms over the seat, resting her forehead against her forearms. Dean continues to massage circles into her skin. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, to the bowl and to Dean.

He releases her hair, instead choosing to pull her from the toilet and into his chest. Together, limbs wrapped endlessly, Dean leans against the wall and she leans against Dean. “Nothing to be sorry for, Y/N/N. C’mon, you’ve seen me completely plastered.”

She tips her head to the side, resting it against his shoulder. “It’s gross. Not cute. At all.”

His chuckle rumbles against her back. “Nah, you’re always cute.” It’s barely a whisper, if she weren’t next to his mouth she’s sure she wouldn’t have heard it.

They sit in silence, breathing against each other. Y/N revels in the coolness of the ground and his arms around her waist.

“Why’d you drink so much, Y/N/N?”

Her sighs heaves her shoulders. “I dunno. Why do you drink, Dean?”

“Sometimes to forget things.” He keeps his voice level, but Y/N knows him well enough to see he worries for her. The implications of his statement do not go unnoticed.  

She shakes her head. “I just have a lot going on. Plus, it’s Wednesday. You know that’s my night with Jules and Charlie. We drink. It’s what we do.”

“Okay. Just checking. Let’s get you to bed, kid.”

[thedivinewhitetail]

griffin if this is a life flashing before his eyes imma cry

[mudmaid]

[VIOLENTLY HOPES THAT THE EVANGELINE LILLY/ANTMAN RUMORS ARE TRUE]

[alysons-wonderland-blog]

Cut in school today. That's a first. It's getting out of hand.

[imtryingmyfuckingbe]

And If This Is It

Second chapter in a short series.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Mentions: Jess, Sam, Charlie, Cas, Gabriel, Jo, Jules (OC)

Trigger warnings: Slight mention of smut

I am the sole author and reserve the rights to my work. However, I am not the owner of Supernatural as a franchise, or the characters including, but not limited to: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Gabriel, Jo, Jess, or Charlie.

CHAPTER TWO:

She cradles her phone between her cheek and shoulder, picking through ripe peppers. Charlie drones endlessly about some new video game or console or— Y/N honestly doesn’t know. Of all the shared personality traits between the pair, Y/N fails to see the wonder of Red Dead Redemption or Overwatch. Even still, she listens and hums agreement in Charlie’s pauses.

Placing a trio of red, yellow, and orange peppers in her cart, Y/N continues towards the avocados. Grocery shopping calms her. The comforting monotony allows her to move thoughtlessly on the familiar path from produce to deli and down aisles she could navigate in her sleep. It gives her a sense of control, and offers time to herself.

Y/N switches the phone to her other ear, rubbing the kink in her neck. Charlie finishes raving, in turn changing the topic to work. Some shitty guests left a lengthy poor review on both Yelp and Google, and now she has a meeting with Jason, their boss. “I’m going to quit that place, I swear it!” she emptily declares. She threatens leaving at least twice a week, but never seems to commit. Yes, the customers suck, and the managers have a canyon sized room for improvement, but the worthwhile money keeps her hooked like a dirty mistress. How else could afford tuition?

“I’m sure you will. Once you get your big girl job looking at computers all day.”

“That is an insulting minimization of what I’m actually going to do, and you know it!” Charlie scolds.

“I jest, I jest,” Y/N laughs. Getting a rise out of Charlie is her favorite past time. “But, for real, I have to check out. I have errands to run today. Dean is going to service my car.”

Y/N imagines Charlie’s eye roll and upturned smile. Not many people know of her affections towards Dean, but one drunken night led to confessions she can’t stuff back inside. Charlie has yet to let her live it down.

“Ah, yes. Our dear friend,” she stresses. “That leads us to another conversation, but I’m thinking I should get some tequila in you first.”

“Not going to happen. I’m fine, okay?” Even she doesn’t believe herself.

“Yeah, I’m calling bullshit. But, go, be merry. Tell the man I said hi.”

Y/N ends the call quickly, glad to finish the uncomfortable conversation. Her tense shoulders and the knots on both sides of her neck make her regret accepting Charlie’s call in the first place. She knows Charlie means no ill will but she can’t help the frustration building on her brow.

The checkout line moves quickly, not many people shopping at noon on a Wednesday. With her groceries tucked in her trunk, she makes her way to Dean’s house. He lives in a corner townhouse on the intersection of Sutler and Harrison, affording him a small side yard to work on his car— and sometimes Y/N’s. Despite his mechanic job, Dean enjoys spending his free time working on cars. He said it feels like a break from the world, blackened hands in his engine.

Y/N understands needing to take a step back. Life, in all of its intricacies, is only the withdrawing waters of the ocean, before rearing its ugly, tsunami head. She found her saving grace in writing: lyrics, poems, stories. Transporting herself into a new world saved her from this one when her bones grew heavy and her eyes tired.

She pulls into his driveway, parking next to his Impala. Its propped up hood hides a bent over Dean busying himself with tightening one thing or another. Grabbing the six pack in her passenger seat, Y/N emerges from her car.

“Howdy, partner,” she jokes.

Dean pokes his head around the side of his car, teeth bared in a wide smile. Black smudges decorate his nose and cheeks. His short hair received the brunt of frustration, pushed backwards with flyaways dancing in the wind. Y/N snickers, raking her eyes across his denim clad legs and up to the black t-shirt stretched across his chest, ending on his stained skin.

“What? Got something on my face?”

She shakes her head, amused. “Yeah, only here, here, and here,” she points to his nose and chin and cheeks.

He grabs her extended hand and pulls her inward, dipping his head down to her white shirt. Rubbing his face on her shoulder, he leaves behind the blackness in his wake. Y/N struggles against him and the bubbling laughter in her chest.

“This is white, asshole!”

Dean steps back, hands still holding her upper arms, and admires his work. She gently pushes against his chest, feigning anger and trying to ignore the muscles beneath her palm. She got this shirt for ninety-five cents at a yard sale; three similar garments hang in her closet. This isn’t a real loss.

“I think it looks good! Makes it seem like you know your way around a car.”

“Yes, because when fixing cars I use my shoulder. It’s super effective, you should try it.”

Dean rolls his eyes, finally releasing Y/N. She steps back, filling her lungs with much needed air. Any time spent closely to him required extra oxygen. Her heart runs rampage around her chest, and she knows if she looks down it may just shine through her shirt. Steeling herself, she returns to the task at hand.

Speaking of, the weight of the beer in her hand gives her something to do. Setting the pack on the hood of her car, she retrieves two bottles and cracks them open. The crisp coolness holds her to the ground, even as Dean’s fingers brush against hers when he accepts the offer. In silence, they sip the citrus IPA.

“All righty then, what’s going on with your gal?”

“Just need an oil change, I think. It doesn’t hurt to have it looked at, though.”

He nods, brows drawn together and lips pursed. Everything in Y/N, her lungs and head and skin, wants to take the rag from Dean’s back pocket and wipe his face, removing both the crease in his forehead and the gunk. Instead, she kisses her beer, watching as he pops her hood and checks the oil.

The betrayal of her body lingers in her movements when she walks to the front of her car, leaning next to a working Dean. His skin radiates warmth. Tendrils of his cologne overwhelm her. She breathes in, basking in him while trying to clear her foggy head. Fresh air is good, she fruitlessly tells herself. Fresh air is good; when it’s not mixed with the man she adores.

Dean moves his car to the grass, allowing more space for him to work on the Mustang. Y/N sits on the ground in front of the garage as he jacks her car up to empty the oil pan. From this vantage point, she can see Dean in all of his glory. His shirt rides up, reveling a thin line of hair and toned muscles. She clenches her jaw, then takes another drink.

Her head knocks against the garage door, focusing on the baby blue sky, not a cloud in sight. Dean grunts quietly as he works, and Y/N’s mind supplies a different activity for his sounds. His hands would wander across the expanse of her body; across her hips, up to her breasts, down to her pussy. His lips would cover wherever his hands could not, sucking on her neck, leaving a hickey.

Now, Y/N once failed to see the appeal of someone marking up her body. But, fuck, if Dean Winchester said he wanted to cover her skin in bruising kisses, she wouldn’t be able to deny him. She wouldn’t want to.

Fingers snap in front of face. Shaking her head, she realizes Dean finished with her Mustang and hovered over her. “Hey, back to the living?”

Heat rushes to her cheeks. She ducks her head to look at her very interesting, noteworthy knees. “Yeah. Just thinking.” Not a full lie, but not the full truth, either. What could she say? I was daydreaming about making love? Not just fucking; making love.

He retrieves a beer from the pack before settling next to Y/N on the ground, back against the door and thighs touching. “Yeah? What about?” his playful tone forces her further into reality.

She doesn’t answer for a moment, instead focusing on the sharp, stinging pebbles digging into her thighs and ass. “Work.”

“Ah, it’s always work. Something wrong?”

Another sip.

“Not exactly. I talked to Charlie today, and she said she wanted to quit.”

“Doesn’t she always?”

“That’s what I said! But it got me thinking. Am I too comfortable there? I mean, I’ve worked there for, what? Three years?” Y/N surprises herself with her own excuse. She hadn’t actually put much stock in leaving, her own or Charlie’s. But now that it’s out in the open, the weight on her shoulders flutters away. He nods, encouraging her to continue. “I dunno,” she tosses her hands in indignation, spilling a little beer on the concrete, “I don’t want to stay in some dead end job that I don’t really love. Feels like a waste of time,” her voice starts strong but trails off into a whisper.

Dean sets his hand on her thigh, caressing it in an attempt to comfort her.

Another sip, another sigh.

This is the last thing she needs, but the first thing she wants. She once more lets her head fall backwards while Dean studies her in silence, head tilted. “What do you think you’d do?”

“That’s the thing: I don’t know. I don’t have a degree and the only jobs I’ve ever had were serving, or something in that world. Who the hell is going to hire me?”

“I don’t have a degree, either, ya’know.”

“Yes, but you have a career, and you’re good at it. I mean, look at you! You’re ahead of the rest, already. Basically running your own shop; got a whole-ass home. And I’m proud of you, I am. I just feel like I’m headed nowhere. Like, what have I got going for me?”

She closes her eyes to avoid his gaze, but he stays silent. His fingers continue to trace shapes into her thigh. Dean knows Y/N well enough to stop talking; it won’t ease the tension in her breast or pinging pain on her temple. Now that she said the words aloud, however, her mind races wild with the possibilities and risks of leaving the security of Zest.

She could pursue something in writing, a pipe dream of hers. She could get a few gigs in bars and play for a few hours for some cash. She could also quit and not find another job, falling into destitution and then forced to return to waiting tables. Flashes of grabby hands and entitled guests flit through her mind.

Goddamn, she hates customer service.

Mindlessly, she tilts her beer back, only droplets gracing her tongue. Without a word, Dean passes her the bottle he grabbed for himself. She nods in thanks, taking a sip.

He pats her thigh. “Well, it’s no use dwelling on what you can’t do. What can you do?”

Y/N shrugs.

“C’mon, I know you can do more than balance glasses and pretend to care about lobster. You write. What about that?”

“It’s recreational. I don’t have anything published. I don’t—”

“— All right, piss baby. If you’re going to keep complaining, I’m going to smack you.” He rolls his eyes, not really annoyed.

“Fine, fine. I could do freelance, I guess.”

“Yeah, you could. You could work as a receptionist and work your way up somewhere, too. Like, the newspaper. Start there, prove you can write, and they’ll have no choice but to hire you. Maybe pitch a few ideas. Don’t need a degree to be smart; I’m living proof of that,” he gestures to himself.

Y/N laughs, shoving her shoulder against his. “Yeah, yeah. You’re the next Einstein of car mechanics.”

“I could be.”

Another silence, no longer pregnant with her frustration. The sun beats down with a vengeance, however, making the beer in her hand lukewarm. Beads of sweat pool on her brows. Still, she doesn’t want to move. The hand on her leg, pressed thigh to Dean’s, shoulder to shoulder; she wants to savor this moment.

Even still, she can’t sit for much longer. The comfort of the man beside her refuses to extend to the unforgiving concrete beneath her or the heat in the air. With a sigh, she pushes herself up, stretching her sore legs and wiping off spare gravel clinging to her skin. Dean stands too, utilizing Y/N’s extended hand. Truthfully, it doesn’t help much but she would do almost anything to hold his hand, even for a second.

When the pair straighten, Dean’s fingers remain clasped in hers, his thumb rubbing circles on her knuckles. She revels in the gentle caress, wishing she didn’t have to leave. The groceries in her trunk call to her; she needs to put them away before they spoil.

“I have to go,” she whispers. The tightness in her chest returns at breaking the silence and ruining to moment. She refuses to look Dean in the eyes, not wanting to see whatever is there. Instead, she trains her gaze onto his stomach.

“Yeah, I figured. Use and abuse me for your car then skip out,” he jokes.

Finally looking upwards, she takes in his smile and kind eyes. If she had any guts, she would grab his cheeks and pull him down to kiss him. But she doesn’t have the courage to leave her dead-end job, let alone kiss the breathtaking man before her. Instead, she settles for wrapping her arms around his waist and holding him close.

She can do this for the rest of her life, she tries to convince herself. If she can’t have Dean in her bed or on her arm or loving her the way she desires, she can handle these moments. This is okay, this is okay, this is okay.

A kiss to her head and a final squeeze, Dean pulls back. “I’ll see ya soon, kid. Enjoy your ride.”

The two part, Y/N longing to return to his embrace. Her skin prickles from her desire, her feet refuse to move. And then a car honks from somewhere up the road and her wondering mind snaps back to reality. A final goodbye, she clambers into her car. Dean waves as she reverses from his driveway and starts back to her apartment across town. The wind whips her cheeks through the rolled-down windows.

She only looks back once.