Chapter Text
The dude was intriguing.
Dean wasn’t a creep, but he couldn’t stop staring at the guy at the bar, who was sipping some kind of craft beer and focusing on a Macbook. Who the hell sits at a bar with a computer? Doesn’t the guy know he’s asking for trouble? He’s one spilled beer from frying his system. The condensation from the bottle kept wetting the guy’s fingers when he’d pick it up, and he had to keep drying his hand before he could type again. Drink, dry, type, repeat.
Tanned, calloused fingers snapped in his face. “What’re you looking at?”
“Nothin’,” he replied as he turned to Benny, his best friend and vice president of the company. Well, not yet, but he would be, someday, when the company was big enough. For now, he was one of the guys, albeit one of the guys who everyone acknowledged was in charge when Dean or his brother weren’t around.
“Spacey today, Winchester?” Adam joked as he dove into the nachos on the table.
“Yeah, just beat, I guess… hey, did you wash your hands before gettin’ into the nachos, man?” He noticed Adam’s hands were gray with dirt and stone dust.
“It’s ground in, man. I scrub but it stays like stink on shit.”
“Oh, that’s pretty, Adam, wanna write me a poem?” Adam shot him a sneer and dipped his chip into the salsa.
“No double dipping, either,” Dean warned as he stood up. “I’ll be right back. Gonna get another beer.”
“We have a waitress, you know,” Sam, his brother and future president of the company, reminded him.
“She’s not around. I’m thirsty now,” Dean griped. Actually, he didn’t really care at all about another beer. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and what he really wanted was to check out the dude at the bar. He’d only seen him from behind – dark suit, dark shoes, dark hair. Or maybe it was the dim light that made everything about the man look dark and mysterious. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the small windows near the ceiling, but it did little to light the room, and nothing to illuminate the man.
The guy was a study in contrasts – working in a place known for leisure, alone when everyone else had someone with them, dressed up when the dress code was casual. This bar was really more of a dive, more appropriate to working class guys like Dean, who weren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Well, Dean probably couldn’t call himself a working class guy anymore, could he? He owned his business, made decent money, had a decent apartment. He could’ve purchased a house, maybe, but he lived by himself and didn’t want the upkeep, and didn’t want to worry about a mortgage if the business tanked, which was always in the back of his mind. But the real question was: why was the guy doing here? Dude was probably a creeper. Probably looked like a troll or a gargoyle or something. Maybe he was rejected at the nicer bars. Heh. Dean had to keep himself from smiling like an idiot at the picture in his head of a drooling, snaggle-toothed, leg-dragging mess.
Dean approached the bar and called out, “Balthazar, you smarmy bastard! Beer me!”
Balthazar, a thin blond with an English accent and an eye for mischief, glanced over from the other end of the bar, where he’d been drying glasses. “Nah, I’m good over here, thanks.”
“Do your job, would ya?”
“Nah, I’m bugging off today. Too nice outside.”
“You’re not even outside.”
“Yes, but it’s the principle of the thing.”
Dean shook his head as the smirking Brit made his way toward him. He pretended to watch him pour a fresh beer from the tap, but turned his eyes sideways toward Suit Dude. He couldn’t see much, but he didn’t want to look conspicuous, so he waited. He grabbed the frosty glass from the bartender, and as he turned to return to his table he snuck a glance. Suit Dude chose that moment to turn just to his left, and Dean missed seeing most of the man’s features – but he did have really nice hands and a five o’clock shadow. Well, probably not a gargoyle. Still could be a troll with nice hands. Knowing he couldn’t just hang out without looking ridiculous, he started toward the table.
“Hey, grab me one while you’re up there!” he heard Sam call over the music piping from overhead.
“Jeez, Samantha, you couldn’t have mentioned that five minutes ago?” he complained but turned back toward Balthazar to order another. As he did so, he came face-to-face with Suit Dude, who had closed his computer and tucked it under his arm. He was on his way out. Dean was startled to have the man right there and he stopped suddenly, sloshing his beer onto his hand. The guy didn’t move. In the five seconds they stood there, Dean got a good look. Tall, dark and handsome seemed to fit Suit Dude. His hair looked finger-combed, his eyes were dark and a little tired, and the dark stubble accentuated his pink lips. Nope, definitely not a troll.
“Pardon me,” said Suit Dude as he nodded with a tiny smile and passed to Dean’s left. Whoa. That voice. He imagined sap sliding down the bark of a maple tree – rough and smooth and earthy and sweet all at once. Damn. He shook off the brief meeting. He really didn’t have much time or hope for relationships or even quickies at this point, though others disagreed with him and constantly tried to set him up. No, he would let Suit Dude go on his merry way, and Dean would go on his. The guy would be like today’s spring breeze – he’d ruffle him a little, but would otherwise leave him unmoved and unchanged.
“Balth! Beer me!”