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zepskies · 8 months

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Smoke Eater - Part 2

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real.

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.

AN: I was overwhelmed by the response on Part 1 (in the BEST way). 🥹 Thank you so much for everyone who read and sent me your lovely amazing comments! Here's Part 2 a bit early for ya. 😘

🔥 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 6,400 Tags/Warnings: Idiots flirting, with a side of sexual harassment. 😪

Part 2: "Lieutenant Winchester"

Firehouse 25 was just as much a house as it was a home.

Especially for Dean Winchester.

In the common room, he sat down at his preferred corner of the sofa with a cup of coffee. By now, the guys knew this was his spot, perfectly angled toward the new flatscreen TV someone donated last month.

Up until then, they’d had to hotwire the same tank from 1995, which had only got basic cable. Now at least the newer smart TV came with a subscription to Netflix, courtesy of the donor.

Dean raised his favorite Batman mug to his face, expecting to imbibe some rich dark roast. What he got was a travesty.

Spitting out the brown soil water back into the mug, he coughed and grimaced.

“Jack!” he called out.

Jack Kline, the newest addition to the house, raised his head from where he was trying to scramble eggs in the open kitchen directly behind the couch.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” he replied.

“Why does this coffee taste like ass?” Dean asked. His voice was still gruff with sleep, as he depended on his morning coffee to wake him up, not assault his tongue.

Behind him, Jack blinked in confusion. “Uh…”

Dean finally turned around and gave the younger man a raised brow.

“What brand did you buy, Candidate?” he asked.

A candidate was a freshly graduated firefighter on probation. They were the rookie, the bottom rung of the totem pole, and Jack was that proverbial whipping post.

“Um…” Jack went to find the coffee canister he’d put away in the cupboards. He showed Dean the red plastic jug. “Folgers. It was on sale.”

“Fuck me,” Dean muttered. “Never Folgers, Candidate. Anything but fucking Folgers. The one thing we don’t skimp out on is quality joe.”

“That ain’t nothin’ but dirt water, son,” Benny remarked, as he and Gordon entered the common room. Benny held a to-go mug he’d brought from home. After he’d seen what Jack brought for groceries yesterday, he’d taken no chances.

“What you wanna get is Gevalia,” Benny added.

“That European crap?” said Gordon. He took his usual spot at the dining table, leaning back in his chair. It left Benny to sit at the other end of the couch with Dean.

“Better than that piss water you drink,” Benny said with a smirk. Gordon raised a brow at him.

“Tea is medicinal, jackass.” The Black man raised a finger to punctuate his point. “It’s good for you. Unlike that carburetor fluid y’all drink.”

“Whatever, man,” Dean said, even though a grin edged at his lips. “All I know is, we need premium coffee, stat. Or it’s gonna be a cranky shift.”

“I can go to the store real quick,” Jack offered.

Say what you want about the kid’s poor taste in grocery buying, he was always willing to jump in when you needed him.

“Nah, stay on breakfast,” said Dean. “I’ll go afterwards. But remember, today you’re practicing rappelling drills.”

Jack nodded. “And lunch duty. And helping clean the truck, and all the bathrooms…did I miss anything?”

Dean shared a look with Gordon. Not only did he drive the truck, but he was one of the men Dean relied on most, as he had the next highest seniority on the job out of the whole firehouse.

Well, except for Benny Lafitte, Captain of the Rescue Squad. Squad members were considered specialists in complex rescue situations. They were highly trained on more sophisticated technical rescue equipment and rappelling, even scuba diving.

It took long years for a firefighter to make it onto Squad; something that Dean used to have ambitions for. But ever since he got promoted to Lieutenant on Truck 79, he realized that his role in this house was best served on the Truck, not on Squad.

“If he gets through all that, Meg might have something for him too,” Gordon said.

“Oh, don’t bring me into this,” remarked a droll voice. “I’ve already got one pound puppy to look after.”

Their Paramedic in Charge strode in with Chuck on her heels. They’d just pulled into the firehouse driveway on Ambulance 7.

“Nice. That’s how you talk about your partner of three years?” Chuck said with a frown. Meg turned to him with a wry grin.

“Only the ones who can hack it on my Ambo,” she replied. “What can I say. You’re special, Shurley. Either that, or a glutton for punishment.”

Gordon shook his head and looked over at Jack.

“Careful with that one. She chewed and hacked out her last partner in under a month.”

“Poor guy didn’t even transfer,” Dean added, making a “flatlining” motion with his hand. “He just quit. Dropped out of the Fire Academy that same day.”

Not all firefighters were made through Meg’s department, but it was a common route, working as a paramedic while getting put through your paces in the Fire Academy. Dean himself had gone straight to the Academy after getting his EMT certification.

But at Dean’s words, Jack’s eyes widened a fraction. Meg turned to him with an almost feline smile.

“How was the call?” Benny asked her, speaking of the job they’d just returned from. Meg’s expression dimmed a little, as did Chuck’s as they both sat down at the table.

“Ah, just Henry again,” she said. “Overdosed on his insulin.”

Benny frowned, while Dean shook his head. Jack’s brows furrowed.

“Who’s Henry?” he asked.

Meg sat back in her chair with a subtle sigh. Knowing his work partner’s mood, Chuck answered the young man’s question.

“He’s homeless, lives by the river,” he said. “He’s one of our ‘regulars,’ you could say. When we get the call, usually he’s passed out. Dehydration. But sometimes it’s more serious.”

“You can’t take him to the hospital?” Jack asked in concern.

“Today we did,” Meg said. Her brown eyes met Jack’s, her mouth in a thin line. “But without health insurance, there’s only so much they can do after they get him stable.”

That fell a bit heavily into the room. It wasn’t a pleasant fact, but it was the reality. Jack was learning more and more about that aspect of this job, and learning if he could handle the darker shades of what it could bring.

“Well, breakfast is ready,” he said, bringing a large plate of eggs and toast onto the counter. Dean tossed him an appreciative half-smile and got up from the couch.

“Thanks, kid,” he said, walking over along with everyone else. He took a moment to pat Jack on the shoulder.

“What do you want to do first: run drills, or help me and Gordon wash the truck?” Dean asked.

Jack looked up with a smile. “Can we run drills first?”

Dean nodded, grinning back at him. “Good answer.”

The rest of the Truck and Squad crews ambled in at both the announcement and the smell of food. And before long, the common room was filled with conversation, good-natured teasing, and shitty coffee all around.

From his vantage point facing the open door to the driveway, Benny caught sight of a young woman heading towards the double doors with a large tupperware bin in hand. Bonnie the receptionist happened to be coming in at the same time. You asked her a question Benny couldn’t quite hear.

“Dean… Oh, you’re looking for Lieutenant Winchester?” Bonnie asked. Her voice tended to carry. “Right in there, hun.”

“Well, that sure is interesting,” Benny murmured with a smile. He glanced over slyly at his friend. “Heads up, brother.”

Dean looked up from his plate of eggs expectantly. Benny gestured over with his eyes, just as you walked into the firehouse, both cautious and unsure of where you were going.

Dean’s brows raised. He found himself setting down his plate and getting up from the couch before he really knew what he was doing.

You looked exactly how he remembered. Though this time, you weren’t coffee stained in your professional blouse and black pencil skirt. His attention drew briefly downwards to your heels, this time solid black (and even taller than the last pair, damn).

He noticed all the same things he had last time: the shade of your hair, pinned up again with a clip as stray pieces framed your face. The way you carried yourself when you finally saw him, straightening with a subtle confidence in your shoulders, even though you looked a bit nervous. And the pretty curve of your lips when your eyes found his.

“Hey, there,” Dean said. He gave you one of his trademark smiles. “Good to see you again.”

“Uh, hi,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I guess I don’t have to ask if you remember me.”

Dean nodded. “‘Course I do. What can I do for you?”

Your face seemed to freeze up a bit as you looked up at him.

“Oh, um, nothing really. I just wanted to say thank you, again,” you said. And you glanced past him, where the rest of the firehouse members were discreetly watching. “All of you, actually. And my friend told me that firefighters really like food…but, I mean, doesn’t everyone?”

You laughed a little, in a nervous way that made Dean struggle not to smile too much.

“Anyway, I like to bake,” you twittered on, “and I had some time this week after…well, you know what happened. So…I brought this!”

You raised up your tupperware with a smile.

And you were damn adorable, Dean thought. His own smile deepened as he glanced down at the offering, then at you. He took the container and opened the lid, and was honestly surprised at what he saw.

He could’ve sworn these were Bonafede, just-poured-out-of-the-box Girl Scout cookies. Dozens of them. He saw shortbreads (complete with the little wavy lines), Samoa cookies with the coconut flakes, and even what looked like chocolate covered Thin Mints. They also smelled delicious.

“Wow. Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, with genuine warmth. “I’m pretty sure the guys are gonna tear these apart the second I put ‘em down.”

Your face brightened, and Dean noticed how it reached your eyes with a bit of a blush.

“Well, I hope you guys enjoy,” you said. Your hands fiddled with your purse next.

“Heading off to work now?” he asked.

“Yep,” you nodded, with a certain glint in your eye. “I plan on taking the stairs this time.”

Dean raised a brow. “All 22 floors?”

“Gotta get my steps in somehow,” you joked. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to become a repeat offender, make you guys come all the way back across town again.”

“Aw, I wouldn’t mind,” he said, meeting your eyes. And he found that he meant it. In fact, he didn’t think he’d mind if your building’s elevator broke down every damn week.

Your expression shifted towards amusement. “Well, you must be very dedicated to your job.”

“Protect and serve,” Dean teased back. “That’s our motto, you know.”

“Isn’t that for police officers?” you quipped.

He chuckled. “Hey, if the shoe fits.”

“Well…” you considered that with a tilt of your head, more seriously than he expected you to. You met him with a more earnest gaze. “I think it does.”

Right then, Dean had a feeling, deep in his gut, that he needed to know you. He had half a mind to heed his instincts, to take advantage of the signals he thought you were sending him, and ask if he could take you out sometime.

But it was unprofessional here at the firehouse (not that that had stopped him before). He’d been making efforts to curb that kind of behavior for the past few months.

He also remembered the 30 floors of your massive, fancy office building. He considered the price tags that probably came with the admittedly sexy, high-powered corporate look you had going on. Those were probably a lot more zeros than he was used to seeing on his paycheck.

So for once, he didn’t pull the trigger.

“Well, thanks. I really do appreciate that,” Dean replied. His smile then was more sincere, if also more professional. He gestured at the container in his hand. “And on behalf of all the guys, thanks for this too.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied. “I have to go, but…thanks again, Lieutenant Winchester.”

“Ah,” he shook his head, “just call me Dean.”

You agreed by smiling, just a little bit more.

“Dean.”

He nodded back, sending you off with a smile of his own. He forced himself to taper it down after you left, and he had to turn around to meet his friends. Their grins reminded him of piranhas.

“All right. Out with it, you freakin’ jackals.” He waved his free hand in a “bring it on” gesture.

Meg was the first one to burst out laughing. It spearheaded the rest of them, whooping and catcalling and generally being menaces. Even Jack was grinning at his lieutenant’s expense.

Meg got up from her seat and bumped Dean’s shoulder on her way to the kitchen, where she dumped her dishes.

“Thanks again, Lieutenant Winchester,” she mocked in a saccharine sweet voice. Then she lowered it into an exaggerated mimic of his deeper one, “Call me Dean, baby girl. Fucking priceless. You should get your own Hallmark movie.”

Dean rolled his eyes. He’d been prepared for this, but his face was still getting warm.

“Shut up, Meg,” he tossed back. They all had an ongoing Family Guy joke that never failed to make their PIC narrow her eyes. And she did so now, giving him a fake grimace as she left the kitchen.

“All right, kiddos. If you need me, don’t,” she said. “Chuck! Let’s sort the ambo’s inventory.”

“Got it,” her partner nodded. He too got up and placed his dishes in the sink before he took off after Meg.

This left Dean with the rest of the guys, who still gave him knowing smiles as he set your bin of cookies down on the table. He blew out a breath before he returned to the couch and sat down heavily across from Benny and Gordon.

“I never thought I’d see the day that Dean Winchester bitched out,” Gordon remarked.

Once again, Dean rolled his eyes.

“Truly incredible,” Benny added. He shook his head when Dean just crossed his arms. “She was eying you like a pork cutlet, and you just let her walk outta here.”

“We’re in the house, guys. What was I supposed to do?” Dean groused.

Benny and Gordon looked at him like he’d just denounced Led Zeppelin (his favorite band of all time).

“Get her goddamn number, Winchester,” said Gordon. The man’s lips curved. “Or at least, introduce her to a brother.”

Dean shot him a glance. Gordon Walker was damn good at driving the truck, but he was also known for being a hunter of the ladies himself.

“She seemed nice,” Jack put his two cents in with a smile. He was standing behind the couch, leaning his elbows on it. Gordon scoffed, nodding his agreement.

“Yeah, with a fat ass too,” he said, sipping his tea.

Benny reached over and hit his shoulder to shut him up.

“That’s a lady, Gordon,” he said. Though a suspect smile graced his lips as he glanced at Dean. “A lady with a nice ass.”

Dean shook his head, but he couldn’t disagree. The first time he met you, he’d been impressed by the way you stood your ground with your asshole boss. Dean thought you were going to chuck that lethal looking heel at the guy. But behind that steely exterior was a kind little softie.

Today, he got your sweet side. It was equal parts sexy and adorable.

And damn if you didn’t have a nice ass, nice curves, and a nice mouth.

But your eyes, he thought. Those were nothing short of beautiful.

About twenty minutes across town, an apartment building was swarmed by police cars. One unit in particular was sealed off with yellow caution tape as a team of officers drifted in and out.

What a fucked way to die.

Detective John Winchester observed the unnatural angle that the victim—Jerry Stillwell, a certified public accountant—had his throat cut with a jagged weapon.

It hadn’t been clean in the least. And he’d bled out across his work desk and a stack of papers, as well as his desktop computer. He was 45, unmarried, and murdered in his own home in the middle of a Friday afternoon.

The computer wouldn’t turn on, and not because of the blood. It had been wiped with magnetized technology, most likely by the intruder. Though there was no sign of forced entry, according to John’s partner. The murder weapon was missing as well, though it looked like a knife wound.

John leaned over the on-site medical examiner’s shoulder to peer closer at the man’s wounds. Stillwell had most likely been grabbed from behind. So far, the signs pointed to the culprit being someone the victim knew.

They probably took Stillwell by surprise, but he was a large man. If John had to guess, over 250 pounds, unathletic, but still, not easy to overpower. Likely the suspect was a man over 6 feet; strong, and efficient. Though the messiness of the kill made John think this guy took "pride" his work, so to speak.

“Signs of struggle,” said the M.E. “Skin under the fingernails. He fought back, and…huh.”

John’s interest piqued at the man’s shift in tone. “What?”

“Take a look at this.” The M.E. was holding Stillwell’s right hand, palm-up, revealing a small burn on the inside of the wrist. John’s gaze sharpened on the mark.

“Cas, come here,” he said. Across the room, Detective Cas Novak paused in his task of examining the entry points of the apartment to join John at his side. His blue eyes widened a fraction at seeing the burn. It was a symbol of a snake eating its own tail.

“That makes four,” Cas said.

“Yep. We’ve got ourselves a murder cluster,” John said. Cas nodded. He beckoned John to the side, making sure the M.E. was out of earshot before he spoke. “Isn’t it time we brought Sam up to speed on this, at least?”

John’s brows furrowed.

“No,” he said. “Sam’s an ADA. We don’t go to him until we have someone to indict.”

He walked away from Cas, who frowned. John knew damn well that wasn’t what he meant. This was the fourth murder within six months of this nature. The fourth to be branded with the mark of Azazel…a criminal who supposedly disappeared decades ago.

Shortly after November 2, 1983, the day of Mary Winchester’s death.

Seeing Dean again had gone better than you thought it would. It left you feeling light and downright cheerful when you left the firehouse this morning. Unfortunately, the great start to your morning only crumbled when you reached your office.

Now, even at the end of your day, finally back at home and in the familiarity of your kitchen, the tension headache was back.

“Dre, I’m tired. Can’t we do this another night?” you asked.

Your cell phone was balanced between your ear and your shoulder as you counted out your grandfather’s pills, and placed them in each “Monday through Sunday” box in the blue container.

“No, we absolutely cannot. Because today was horrific,” Andréa said. “For me, because my coworker decided to play hookie on the day our top account needed the mockups of their new website. Never mind that she hadn’t even started.”

Pause for an aggravated breath, through which you frowned in sympathy. She’d told you the entire story over lunch today.

“And for you, because Nick once again displayed why he’s a subhuman neanderthal, in spectacular fashion,” she added.

Your grimace deepened at the reminder.

Earlier today, just before a sales meeting you were set to lead, you’d turned away from the conference table to set up the projector. Nick was early for once, making it just him and you in the room.

He’d sat back in his chair and uttered a remark that set the hairs on the back of your neck on end.

“I’ll tell you what, babe. You sure know how to wear a skirt.”

Your back straightened, and slowly you turned. Your face was set in stone, save for a solitary raise of your brow.

“Excuse me?”

Nick’s smirk was lazy as he kicked his feet up on the table. His hand held a tumbler of whiskey. You noted the half empty carafe, which just yesterday had been full and untouched.

“Fucking fantastic legs,” he said, vaguely outlining your shape with his hand. “I applaud you. It’s all very…sexy secretary. Oooh! Sexcretary. Fucking brilliant.”

You gaped, trying to put a clamp on the furious spike in your blood.

“Are you drunk?” you asked incredulously.

He raised his fingers an inch or so apart, scrunching up his face and trying not to laugh.

“Actually nah, not at all,” he bluffed.

He let his hand fall back into his lap. You shook your head and set down your papers in order to cross your arms.

“Good. Then you’ll hear me clearly when I say, I’m filing a formal complaint with Billie in HR,” you said.

“Whaaat? Why?” he complained. You huffed incredulously.

“For your little comments, which are getting more and more heinous. Not to mention your excessive drinking during company hours.”

Nick pursed his lips. “Christ on a stick. Can’t you take a fucking compliment?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “What I refuse to take is any further sexual harassment. This isn’t the first incident I could disclose, but I’m damn sure you’ll want it to be the last.”

He kicked his feet off the table and slowly stood. You didn’t want to be afraid of this sloppy, frat boy drunken attitude, but a tendril of trepidation still laced down your spine as you took a step back.

“You could do that,” he nodded, tilting his head. “Or, I’ll give your Zimmerman account to Josh, along with your commission.”

You frowned, and shock made your entire body tense.

“You…you can’t do that!” you exclaimed. Your insides fairly shook with frustration tinged with anger. “I’ll sue you.”

“With what money?” Nick scoffed.

Your brows knitted together then. How the hell would he know anything about your finances?

The man noted your reaction with a nod.

“Yeah, I know all about grammy and gramps. Surgeries, funerals, treatments…” he said. He leaned against the table with one hand, and still he fairly loomed over you.

He wasn't as broad as someone like Dean, but he was tall and lean. His dirty blonde hair was swept to the side, his blue eyes bearing down on you.

“I am this company. If you don’t like it, you can get the fuck out, sweetheart,” he said.

His gaze lowered, roaming your glowering face.

“And good luck getting anywhere else without a reference from one of the biggest corporations in Lawrence, Kansas.”

You sighed. Yeah, you might’ve shed some frankly embarrassing tears in the women’s bathroom after that. You hadn’t even told Andréa the full story, which included the details of his comments, along with his threats.

You didn’t want her to worry. And maybe, more selfishly, you were embarrassed at having to deal with it at all.

Truth be told, you still didn’t know what the hell you were going to do. About Nick, or your job…but somehow, getting drunk at a bar seemed about the last thing you should be doing.

“I need a drink,” Andréa insisted. “Which means you definitely need a drink. And I know exactly where we’re going.”

After a long moment, you leaned your elbows on the kitchen counter and rubbed through the persistent ache in your forehead. Maybe, just this once, you deserved to forget about reality. Just for a little while.

“Fine. Where?” you asked.

“It’s this great bar Meg told me about. The Roadhouse.”

“Ah, the usual suspects,” Ellen drawled at the men who managed to find seats at her bar, next to the rest of their party. The Roadhouse was packed on a Friday night, but she always had room for these two.

Benny and Dean wore similar tired, but pleasant smiles as they greeted their esteemed barkeep.

“What’s it been, Ellen, a whole shift since I’ve seen your delightful face?” Dean said.

Ellen gave him a mocking smile as she poured him his favorite beer on tap. Dean grinned and clapped his younger brother on the shoulder as he sat down. He and Cas had been waiting for a little while.

…Well, maybe longer than a little.

“Hey, dude,” Dean said. Sam perked up from his second beer with pursed lips.

“You know we’ve been waiting on you for like an hour, right?” he said.

“Aw, don’t get your panties in a twist, Sammy,” Dean teased. He nodded his thanks at Ellen when she set his beer in front of him, and a glass of whiskey for Benny. “We had a last-minute call. Some guy just couldn’t wait to start his Happy Hour. Drove his car into the company fountain.”

Sam’s brows raised incredulously. He looked over at Benny for confirmation, and the other man gave a resigned nod.

“Apparently it set the ducks into a tizzy,” he said. “The guy’s fine. Probably gonna get slapped with a DUI.”

Dean smirked and raised a finger at both Sam and Cas. “Duck Guy’s your problem now.”

Cas shook his head and raised his beer to his lips.

“Not my department.”

“Mine either,” Sam scoffed. Both of them worked in homicide cases, just from the differing sides of law and order. In fact, they worked together more often than Dean and Cas did.

Dean looked over at his friend Cas for a moment. He looked like more of a hot mess than usual, with his tie half undone, and a scruffy half-beard covering his face.

“Geez, man. You look like shit,” Dean remarked. “You and Meg fighting again?”

“No,” Cas replied, his brows furrowing. “…Well, yes. But nothing more than her usual insanity. Something about the cat preferring to sleep next to me than to her.”

“Well, that’s not so bad,” Benny said. “My dog don’t like her either.”

“Maybe they can smell that she’s feral,” Dean quipped. Cas sent him a dry look at that.

“She threatened to move out,” he revealed. “Even packed a bag at 3:00 in the morning. I spent two hours unpacking what she was re-packing, all while we argued in our underwear, not sleeping.”

Sam and Dean shared bemused looks, while Benny shook his head into his whiskey.

“So how’d it end up?” Sam asked. Cas sighed and took another long sip of his beer.

“Like it always ends, Sam,” he said, his lips quirking. “With our neighbors calling the precinct to complain, and me, somehow ending up sleeping on the couch for a crime I didn’t commit. If she wants to blame someone, blame the goddamn cat.”

Dean chortled. He brought his beer to his lips, but couldn’t resist a light jab at his best friend first.

“Dude, I love her like a sister, but your girlfriend’s unhinged,” he said.

Cas could only nod. “Most are, I’ve come to find.”

Sam scoffed and shook his head. “Not mine.”

“Yeah, that’s because Eileen doesn’t have to see you more than two minutes at a time,” Dean teased. He and his brother still shared an apartment, and Sam’s job as an Assistant District Attorney wrought demanding hours.

Sam shot his brother a flat look.

“Oh, I’m not taking that from the serial playboy,” he said.

Dean’s brows knitted together.

“All right, calm down,” he said. “I’m not Hugh Hefner.”

“Mr. Hit and Run,” Cas added, a smirk gracing his features.

“Chief ‘No Daddy Issues,’” Benny tipped in, giving his annoyed, green-eyed friend a sly glance. “With a side helping of the Clap.”

Dean’s lips pressed into a line. He leveled a finger at Benny.

“That girl was clean, okay? False alarm,” Dean said. His gaze raised heavenward as he sipped his beer. Thank Christ for that one. “The rash was just carpet burn.”

Sam shook his head and turned to his brother more seriously.

“Bottom line: until you date a woman for more than two weeks—hell, two days at a time—you don’t get to comment on the happily committed,” he said.

Dean rolled his eyes. He knew his track record with relationships. As in, he didn’t really have a record…but it wasn’t for lack of trying. At least, not for the past few months.

Sam managed to break Dean out of his thoughts by clearing his throat, pushing his empty bottle across the counter.

“All right, speaking of. I gotta go,” he said.

“Aw, why? We just got here. Let me buy you another,” Dean offered.

Sam shot his brother another knowing look. Dean knew it well; it said, if he’d been here on time, they would’ve shared the first two drinks.

“I’m picking up Eileen,” Sam said, grabbing his blazer and fixing the collar when he put it on. “There’s this Latin club she wants to go to.”

Dean raised incredulous brows.

“My brother’s going salsa dancing?”

Sam sighed in exasperation, despite his smile. “Bye, Dean.”

He shot his other two friends a nod.

“See you guys.”

Cas and Benny both saw him off with a subtle raise of their drinks, while Dean just shook his head.

“All right, Samantha,” he called out. Sam didn’t bother to turn around as he raised up a choice finger behind him.

Dean snorted into his drink. “Very mature.”

Benny and Cas shared a wry look. They were relieved when Ellen’s daughter Jo came by, picking up the slack for her mom, who was serving a rowdy group of college kids at a nearby table.

“Hey, guys. Need another round?” Jo asked. She gave them all a familiar smile, but her eyes lingered on Dean. He gave her a more reserved smile back.

“Hey, Jo,” he nodded. “I uh…actually think I’m good right now.”

“Me too,” Cas said. He even stood up and grabbed his trenchcoat in similar fashion as Sam had. The two had paid for their beers before Benny and Dean even got there.

“Aw, not you too,” Dean groused.

“If I don’t make dinner, we run the risk of the apartment going up in flames,” Cas informed him. Dean could only assume he was talking about Meg. “Despite working with the Fire Department for ten years, the woman can’t manage to boil an egg without supervision.”

Jo raised a brow, but her smile was bemused as she turned to Benny. “Anything for you?”

“Nah, darlin’. I’m good,” he said. But sensing the unspoken request in her eyes when she glanced at Dean, Benny straightened and raised from his seat. “But I’ll be back. Need’a hit the head.”

Dean internally sighed as Benny left him alone at the bar. Or, well, relatively alone. Jo lingered in front of him to wash and dry out a few glasses. The air between them was stiff, and a little awkward.

Dean’s thoughts shifted back to his brother then; while he still couldn’t believe Eileen had wrangled his gangly Sasquatch of a brother into going dancing, Dean was happy for him. Truly and sincerely. Sam deserved having someone who softened him, made him break away from his endless cases and have some fun.

Dean could also admit, if only to himself, that he was maybe a little jealous. Sam had something good with his girl. Something real.

Dean had carpet burn.

“So, how’s studying going?” he asked Jo. He couldn’t stand awkward silences. “Still planning on giving your mom a heart attack when you get into the Police Academy?”

Jo’s blue eyes flicked up to his. She brushed a coil of blond hair behind her ear after she finished drying a glass, and a smile raised the corner of her lips.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I gave her something to yell about,” she quipped. “But since you asked…my exam is in three months.”

“Good,” Dean nodded. “You’ve got time. Study your ass off. Keep up the conditioning routine I gave you, and you’ll be set. Just don’t forget the strength training. Very important.”

“I got it,” she said, this time with a brighter smile. “Some old firefighter gave me some pointers.”

Dean tilted his beer at her accusingly.

“Hey, don’t pin that old shit on me yet. Benny’s got more mileage than I do…”

He considered her then, after briefly looking down at the counter.

“What?” she said.

He kept his lips tight. “Nothin’.”

“No, Dean. What?” Jo pressed. “You want to say something. Say it.”

He blew out a breath and shook his head.

“Ellen’s not the only one who’s gonna worry about you on the job, that’s all,” he said. Jo flickered at a rueful frown.

“That’s ironic,” she said. “I can handle myself, Dean. Something you so often seem to forget.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it,” he shot back. His hand tightened around his beer.

Jo’s face fell into irritation, mostly to cover up the hurt he saw buried deep behind her eyes. She gave him some relief by glancing away from him.

“And this is why we didn’t work out,” she muttered. Sighing through her nose, her eyes met his again. “You know what I hate, more than anything? People worrying.”

Dean carded his fingers through his hair, his brows knitting together in aggravation.

“Yeah, well, maybe they have good reason to,” he said. He could’ve predicted the way she tightened up. “And if I remember right, you did your fair share of hand-wringing the next time I responded to a fire on the job.”

He knew it was a low blow. But his point was made, and he fully expected the anger in Jo’s tight frown. They’d dated for a few weeks, mostly in secret.

That had been enough for Ellen to blow her top. Not because she had anything against Dean…just his job: at the very same firehouse her late husband had once served.

So Dean had backed off. He’d ultimately felt he had to end it. And clearly, Jo still resented him for it.

Slowly, however, the fire in her eyes dimmed. Her finger tapped on her side of the bar counter.

“You think I don’t worry anymore just because we’re not together?” she asked him.

Dean didn’t have a good answer for her. So his gaze fell to his nearly empty beer.

But he was even more relieved when Benny finally got back from the bathroom, or wherever he’d fucked off to for the past few minutes.

He did seem to know that he was interrupting a rather tense moment. Seeing as neither Dean nor Jo wanted to break the silence, Benny supposed it fell on him.

He reclaimed his seat and raised a smile up at Jo.

“I think I’m ready for the next round,” he said, glancing at Dean’s soured mood. “Two whiskeys, please, Joanna.”

Jo treated Benny with a half-smile. He was the only one besides her mother who called her Joanna (and got away with it). After one last look at Dean, she reached over for the Jim Beam.

You met Andréa at the bar in your own car, just in case you needed to dip out early to check on Grandpa George. He was happy to see you going out.

“You’re pretty as a doll, sweetheart,” he’d said, patting your cheek after you kissed his goodbye.

The thought made you smile, even though you thought you were dressed casually in your dark wash jeans and blouse. When Andréa met you outside the bar, she nodded in approval.

“Good. I like the hint of sexy,” she said, plucking at the sweetheart neckline of your top. You rolled your eyes and tried to cover up the cleavage a little, but she batted at your hand.

“No, no. Leave your professionalism at work,” she said. “Tonight, you’re going to relax and have some fun.”

It was hard to think about loosening up when you were literally getting belittled and threatened at work…but you supposed she had a point. You always had to be put together. You had to be sharp, because this world wouldn’t hand you anything on a silver platter.

And not to mention, you couldn’t just think about yourself. You also had to provide and take care of your grandfather too. He was the only family you had left, and you were it for him too…

But you took in a slow, deep breath. Tonight, you could have a couple of drinks with your friend. You could just be yourself, with no responsibilities other than not getting too drunk to drive yourself home later.

So with a sigh, you smiled and linked your arm with Andréa as you headed inside the Roadhouse.

It looked kind of divey from the outside, a worn-looking brown building with a faded red sign. But inside it was all dark wood and leather barstools and rows of soft lighting overhead.

There were records displayed on the wall; Prince’s Purple Rain, the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper, and David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust, among others. Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” played on the wall speakers.

There were several tables, both high top and regular four-seaters, as well as a long bar that spanned the far wall, where rows and rows of liquor were showcased. You followed Andréa’s lead to the bar, where you took a seat at the far end and tried to feel like you belonged here. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d gone out to a place like this.

“This is nice,” she leaned over into your ear to say. “Next time my cousin should meet us here. She’s a handful, but I think you’d like her.”

You agreed with a smile. “If she’s anything like you, I think I’m well trained to handle your brand of insanity.”

Andréa leveled you with a playfully mocking look.

“Ah, you’ve got jokes tonight. Okay.” She waved over the blonde bartender.

“Hi, ladies,” she greeted. “I’m Jo. What’re we starting off with tonight?”

Before you could order for yourself, Andréa grabbed your arm and spoke over you.

“Do you have absinthe?” she asked.

Your eyes widened. “What?! I’m not drinking that—”

“Sure do,” Jo replied in amusement.

“Great,” said Andréa. You didn’t like her sly grin. “She’ll have an Aunt Roberta. I’ll have a vodka cranberry.”

“What the hell is an Aunt Roberta?” you asked.

Jo listed the ingredients on her fingers. “A nice molotov of brandy, vodka, gin, blackberry liqueur, and of course, absinthe.”

Jesus Christ. You shot Andréa a glare, even though you were trying to dim your smile.

“Are you trying to chill me out or fucking end me?” you asked.

Andréa smirked. “Whatever it takes.”

You rolled your eyes, but you nodded your agreement. Jo’s smile remained as she went to prepare your drinks. Meanwhile, your eyes wandered as you once again took in your surroundings.

Really is a cool place, you thought. And it was busy without being overbearingly crowded. There were even a few seats between you and the rest of the patrons at the bar. Your gaze drew a path onwards, eventually reaching the other end of the bar.

There you caught sight of red flannel over a black undershirt, familiar broad shoulders, and an even more familiar face. Your eyes widened a fraction as his met yours, gleaming with recognition…and interest.

That slow smile of his was familiar too. It made a lance of heat run down your spine. You gripped the counter, mostly to steady yourself as you let out a breath.

Lieutenant Winchester.

AN: *rubs hands together* It begins. 😏

Lol how'd you like Dean's little moment with the reader at the firehouse? Plus the introduction of the rest of our cast!

(And a possible serial killer on the loose?) Though sorry about Nick. He's a douchecanoe.

Next Time:

Anticipation and nerves coiled together in your lower belly. You turned to your friend, who was already sipping at her vodka cranberry.

“Dre, help me,” you pleaded.

Andréa discreetly followed the path of your gaze, and her brows raised. A smirk curved her lips.

“Oh, babe. You need to help yourself,” she replied.

“I haven’t done that in a while,” you admitted. Your dating life had been sorely lacking, between the demands of your job and taking care of things at home. “I’m gonna say something demented.”

Andréa huffed in amusement.

“So? That’s half the fun,” she said.

Keep Reading: PART 3

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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pickledpascal · 2 months

Text

Meat & Candy

Chapter Four

Warnings: swearing, teasing, slight kitchen tension, simping, mentions of abuse, mentions of smoking.

Word Count: 3.2k

Meat & Candy Masterlist

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Ever since being in Crossroads kitchen, Castiel had nearly worked himself to death trying to write the article about Chef Dean Winchester. It was all he ever thought about when he went to work, came home, slept, and woke up. Not even the article itself but what he said. His openness about everything. Castiel wanted to ask more about his daughter and what it was like to be a single parent. But that was selfish on his part.

He was in his room, sitting at his desk, working on his computer. He tried to type one sentence nearly a hundred times. It never sounded right to him.

His phone started to ring. It scared him, enough to knee the bottom of his desk. “Shit!” He cursed before he flipped his phone to see who decided to interrupt him.

Meg.

Castiel let out a breath and answered the call. “Hello?” He tried his best not to sound irritated. It didn't work.

“Wow, Clarence, what's got your panties in a bunch?” Meg’s smug voice came from the other line. Castiel loved her, he really did, but he had told her many times how much he hated how she managed to only call him while he was working. “And here I was gonna invite you and Claire out for lunch.”

Castiel didn't want to think about going out unless Dean was the one cooking the food. “Where?” His eyebrows furrowed.

“This new place, Crossroads.” Meg responded. “Heard of it?” She knew he had heard of it.

Castiel forgot it had opened a few days ago, he was a little too focused on trying to make the article perfect. He didn't want to disappoint Dean with something half-baked and didn't quite capture his beauty—well, the beauty of his cooking, yeah, that was what he meant.

“Shut up. When are we going?” He shut his laptop and played with the edge of his coat.

He wondered if Dean would be there today. Then he realized that was a dumb thing to wonder about, Dean had to be there every day they were open, he was the owner and head chef after all.

“Well, if you would look outside your conveniently placed window…” Meg’s voice trailed off.

Castiel blinked before he leaned back in his chair and rolled over to his window to move the curtain away. Sure enough, Meg was leaning against her car with her phone to her ear. Claire was already outside, next to her while she scrolled on her phone.

He cursed to himself, under his breath. He quickly hung up and maneuvered through the house to meet Meg and Claire outside.

The drive there was mostly silent besides the occasional conversation between Meg and Castiel—by conversation, it was mostly just Meg teasing Castiel about how he didn't talk to her as much as anymore. Claire added in her own comments when she felt like she wanted to.

Arriving at Crossroads was interesting for Castiel. The only times he's been there, it's been empty but now… God, it was bustling with activity. His eyes shined with pride for Dean.

“Alright, stop drooling.” Meg nudged Castiel out of his trance and walked through the door. Claire let out a small laugh as she followed.

Cas faltered before he followed them. Inside the restaurant while it was busy was a sight to see, the atmosphere completely shifted from when he was simply observing from the windows. The aromas in the air— all of them were enticing. And the dishes, he could catch a glimpse of them from a table nearby, they looked delectable.

“Castiel?” Sam's voice drew him back to reality.

“Yes, hello.” He quickly responded, forgetting that Sam was the stage… meaning he was usually the host.

Meg raised an eyebrow at Castiel. “Didn't know you were cozy with all the staff.”

Sam chuckled softly and shook his head a little. “No, no, I'm Dean's brother.” He explained softly. “I just happen to work here as well.”

“At least he's finding friends besides you.” Claire looked at Meg who feigned her hurt. The teenager just shrugged with a smug smile.

Before long, Meg turned back to Sam and gave him a light, forced smile that she usually wore when she had to talk to someone she didn't know well. Common courtesy and all that. “I have a reservation under Masters.”

Sam must've clicked a few buttons because it took a few seconds for him to say, “Right this way.” And guide them to their table. “A waiter will be with you shortly.” He added once everyone sat down.

They were seated near the right wall and Castiel had an almost perfect view inside the kitchen from his position. He could see Dean. Only when he passed in front of the window. His eyes were focused, speaking to another chef every few moments, or casting his gaze downward to—as far as Castiel could tell because the window into the kitchen only showed so much—properly garnish a plate to send it out into the dining area.

Compared to the last few times Castiel had seen him, Dean wore a simple clean and crisp white chef's jacket. Without the bandana, he could get a clearer look at the snake tattoo curled up on the side of his neck.

“Clarence? Clarence!” Meg snapped in front of his face before he took hold of her wrist from irritation. She pulled it away with a small laugh. “God, someone’s smitten.”

Claire let out a soft laugh as well, shaking her head. “Yeah, he doesn't normally hole himself in his room for weeks for just any article.” She teased.

Castiel frowned and glanced down at the napkin he began to fiddle with. The two closest women in his life were ganging up on him. Although, he supposed it was warranted. He was smitten. And he was a perfectionist when it came to this article in particular. He wanted to do right by Dean. It was an unexplainable feeling, he had only seen and talked to the man twice prior.

After a bit of small talk between Meg and Claire, mostly just about how she was doing in school, the waitress came by.

“Hello! My name's Jo, I'll be your server for tonight.” Jo was a bubbly blonde woman who seemed to be a little younger than Dean, however, still mature. Castiel could start to understand what Dean meant about only hiring friends. “Can I get you started with any drinks? We do have specialty cocktails, the head chef here is also quite the mixologist.” She winked to no one in particular.

Castiel blinked, how did Dean not tell him this? He shook his head. It didn't come up and he didn't think to ask. He flipped the pages of the menu to the back where the drinks were listed.

“I'll just take a water for now, thanks.” Meg gave Jo a light smile.

Claire pursed her lips. “Can I get a Dr. Pepper if you have it, please?” Some things never changed. Castiel smiled at her request.

Jo jotted those two drinks down on her notepad. “I could not imagine not having Dr. Pepper knowing Dean.” She said under her breath.

“Can I have a Corpse Reviver?” Castiel asked, feeling a little unsettled by the words coming out of his mouth.

Jo chuckled softly at the timid request. “Of course. I hope you like Aviation Gin.” She smiled. “I'll get back to you with those drinks.” She left the table.

Castiel glanced between Claire and Meg. “What's… Aviation Gin?”

Claire looked at her father weirdly. “God, you know nothing.” His eyebrows furrowed. “Ryan Reynolds! He makes Gin. Well, he doesn't make the Gin, but he owns the company and is the spokesperson for it.”

Castiel knew of Ryan Reynolds. But only because of Claire, he didn't watch movies much, but she had forced him to watch Deadpool one and two. He wasn't the biggest fan but he could tell why Claire liked him so much. He was funny—it was more than half his charm.

Meg let out a snort, shaking her head. “Getting Cas to understand references is like trying to calm a bull, it just never works.”

“I get book references.” Castiel argued weakly.

“What's a book that's been recently published that you've read?” Meg cocked an eyebrow. Castiel stayed silent, glancing down at the table. “Yeah, that's what I thought.”

Castiel wasn't much of a combative person anyway, although he did sass some people in passing. Occasionally.

He glanced down at the menu and decided to change the subject. “Have you thought of what you want to get?”

“Interested in what a ‘white chili' entails.” Claire hummed, tapping against the laminated paper.

That piqued Castiel's interest as well. After a few seconds, he decided to take a picture of the menu. He had already tried the spaghetti, he now knew it was named Spaghetti Rosa because of its pinkish appearance, so he decided he would try something else.

A burger sounded nice. Castiel was a simple man, he really only liked cheese, ketchup, and pickles on his burgers, nothing else. So maybe one with peanut sauce and an egg would be nice to try.

“I never tried Tuscan Chicken before.” Meg hummed as she glanced down at the menu. “Seems like it'd be good.”

Sometimes Castiel wondered how he was friends with people who weren't as adventurous with food as he was. And, to be fair, Tuscan Chicken wasn't the wildest thing in the world. But Claire could say the same thing about Cas but with movies or books—he was set in stone with certain things, not even wanting to explore new things when he liked a certain thing so much.

“Here are your drinks.” Jo came back with a tray and set each drink down.

Castiel tasted his cocktail and was immediately surprised at just how good it tasted. Maybe he needed to test this cocktail everywhere else, however, he had a feeling no other place would compare to how Crossroads crafted it.

Jo folded the tray underneath her arm. “Are you ready to order or do you need a few more minutes to look at the menu?’

“I think we're ready to order.” Meg glanced at Castiel.

Everyone told Jo their order so she could go put it in. A part of Castiel wanted to march into the kitchen just so he could watch Dean in a busy kitchen up close but he was content with simply watching through the window.

“It's like we're not even here.” Meg commented.

Claire shrugged and let out a small laugh. “Try living with him.”

“Has he printed out pictures of Dean yet?” Meg asked, “Posted them on his wall?”

Claire laughed again. “I dunno, he doesn't let me in his room.”

Castiel was completely enraptured by the way Dean moved, even if he could only see his face and shoulders. Every so often, he could hear his voice each time a waiter came out of the kitchen with a plate or two. It was strong and commanding, even if he couldn't exactly hear what he was saying, he could hear that .

———

Dean had been shouting out orders since eleven in the morning. Ever since they opened, it's felt like a fever dream. They were booked months in advance and that… felt good. His thing was going to be successful, he just hoped this success would last.

“Alright! One Tuscan chicken, one white chili, one PE burger!” He called out.

The kitchen responded, “Yes, chef!”

Dean set the ticket down in its proper place, scribbling a few things down as well as highlighting some others. Then he started to help plate and garnish a few dishes, making sure a basil leaf was placed at just the right angle that it balanced perfectly on the noodles.

Jo came in a few moments later with a smile on her face. She nudged Dean a little. “Castiel Novak is at table 30, by the way.”

Dean sighed, rolling his eyes a little. “Sam already told me. Their meal will be compensated.” He said, glancing at Jo out of the corner of his eyes. “Hands, please.”

Jo pursed her lips, trying to keep herself from smiling, and took the dishes Dean just finished up with and left the kitchen to bring them out.

Dean wasn't so sure what made Castiel so enticing in his eyes, but he liked the man. He was attractive and had a wonderfully deep voice he may or may not have gotten off to just thinking about it. There was an unexplainable pull, like a fishing line that was reeling Dean in whether he liked it or not.

“Charlie!” He called, motioning her to come to him and stop what she was doing. “Do you have any extra apricot mousse?”

Charlie nodded, “Always do, chef.”

“Do me a favor and save three portions for table 30.” Dean told her.

Charlie smirked, “Will do, chef.” She went back to her proper station and immediately set aside three portions of the mousse.

“One more PE burger! One fettuccine, no mushrooms!” Dean called out as he grabbed the ticket.

“Yes, chef!”

His eyes scanned the other tickets on their way before he glanced back up at the pass. “Hey, I need some goddamn hands!”

As if on cue, Kevin made his way into the kitchen and grabbed the plates that were sitting out.

Dean rubbed his forehead for a moment and took a breath. This was stressful as hell but… he liked it. He also kind of liked the added pressure of Castiel being there. Sure, the guy had already raved a lot about his food so Dean wasn't too worried about disappointing him but there was an element he wasn't sure he could explain properly.

The early evening went by smoothly. Every time Dean so much as glanced Cas’ way, his face flushed at just how much it looked like he was enjoying the food. And it made his heart warm because Castiel decided to share his food with his family. Now that filled his heart faster than a dam breaking.

But he still had a job to do.

“Jack, that sauce is breaking! Try again.” Dean caught it out of the corner of his eye as he scrapped a few tickets.

As a chef, he was very observant. Not to mention, Dean was plenty observant to begin with seeing as he had to look out for any signs that his father would have an outburst. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a deep breath.

He needed to remind himself sometimes that he wasn’t ten anymore. He had lived with Bobby as his father longer. He had lived as a man longer. Of course, that didn’t make the scars go away, but simply reminding himself of those things made living with them a little easier and helped them fade.

Sam gently touched Dean’s shoulder, looking over at his station and all the tickets on the board. “Castiel sends his compliments to the chef. And also thanks you for the free meal.” Dean could hear the smugness in his voice.

Guess Sam was following the handbook of younger siblings, being an annoying little shit.

“Don't you have people to take to tables?” Dean cocked an eyebrow, not once taking an eye off the tickets as he rearranged a few.

Sam put his hands up in a surrendering gesture, “Don't shoot the messenger.” He then retreated back out into the dining hall.

At least some of the stress was relieved now that Castiel was gone, he could go back to thinking he'd never see any of these patrons again unless they became regulars. While Crossroads delivered high-end food, their prices were relatively cheap. Which was what Dean wanted—to make high-quality meals at a lower price. So anyone could enjoy a nice meal every so often, not just the wealthy.

Time started flying far more than he had anticipated. Soon, the restaurant was closing and his staff was cleaning the entire place for the next day.

Dean let out a soft sigh and made his way to the back. His beloved Impala was parked out there. He was glad the building came with a staff parking lot, he didn't trust Chicago enough to leave his Baby in a parking garage for ten to twelve hours a day. No, he wanted his Baby where he could reach it.

Sometimes he wished he still smoked. Just to feel the cigarette burn against his fingers and let out the stress of the day. But he quit a while ago and didn't feel like making Emma or Sam worry about him like that ever again. Dean barely even drank anymore. He was sober, save for a few occasions like Hanukkah or birthdays.

He took a sip from his water bottle and looked up at the night sky. Sure, there was light pollution in the city but damn that moon was bright and the lights from skyscrapers acted like faux stars.

Occasionally, Dean thought about moving away to some rural area and buying a farm or something, but he realized he wouldn't know what to do with it. He was a busybody anyway. He always needed something to do.

Even at home, he'd clean the house, help Emma with homework, strum guitar a little, bake a cake, or cook dinner, breakfast, and lunch. He also worked out sometimes, he liked the way it made him feel. His workouts were not nearly as rigorous as Sam's, considering half his diet was also made of leaves, but it got the job done.

There was the increasing amount of tattoos across Dean's body. That was the only time he could stay still, only because the pain calmed him down in a weird way. The only addiction Sam didn't mind. Dean even had an appointment a few months out for a new one. It'd go on the back of his right hand.

He blinked a little when he felt his phone vibrate and chime in his pocket. He immediately took it out. Couldn't be Sam, he was still inside, as were most of the people he knew.

Cas: You really didn't have to pay for our meal today. I wanted to say thank you again. It was very thoughtful. I hope that if I come again, you'll let me pay for it next time. Have a good night!

Dean didn't even register the smile that was forming on his lips as he read the text. The type of smile that reached his eyes and made his skin crinkle a little at the edges.

He quickly typed out a response.

Dean: Don't worry about it, man. It's my restaurant after all. You have a good night too.

Dean scratched a little at his chin, wondering if maybe he could've written a little more. But it was too late, he already sent the text. He pursed his lips before he typed something else out.

Dean: When does the article come out?

Almost immediately, there was a text back.

Cas: In a few days! I'm excited to hear your thoughts.

A few more days. And Dean would be able to read what Cas thought of him and his restaurant. He was excited and nervous. Maybe that's why he was holding out on Cas, just to see his thoughts in a more substantial way.

———

taglist: @nexus-my-beloved

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