Work Text:
*
The first time you met him, he was a junior field agent for the FBI, going by the name of Freely, and he was investigating a series of disappearances.
The second time you met him was in an entirely different part of the state. He was now going by Inspector Tombes, closing off the bar you were working in for a possible "roach infestation." No infestation had ever been found, and you put the coincidence from mind until nearly two years later.
When you bumped into him in a gas station outside London, Ohio, him flirting under the pseudonym of Campbell, you finally called his bluff, recognizing the black beauty idling out in the parking lot.
Four weeks, five in-depth conversations about the supernatural, and exactly two existential crises later, he was simply 'Dean,' and the two of you were vehemently arguing about the proper preparation of a homemade cheeseburger, trying to snatch ingredients from each other as you worked over your suite's tiny stovetop.
He won easily, height and strength offering him a significant advantage as he danced around you, not-so-politely pointing you towards the small settee, mischief written in jade eyes.
Casually flipping him off, you crossed the room, grabbing the closest book, and flopping onto one of the beds with a melodramatic huff.
Some local college station was playing through the ancient FM on your nightstand, a Saturday evening special of "Spooktacular Hits," everything from Ministry to Artie Shaw.
Poor reception left each song tinged in static, somehow harmonizing perfectly with the lingering scent of cigarettes and leather, the flickering red of the Vacancy sign, and the lingering aftertaste of your coffee.
You allowed yourself a moment to soak it all in: Dean's voice as he hummed along with each song, the light pressure from the uneven springs of the motel bed, the water stains on the ceiling, and the small dents in the old television set.
Your friends had been concerned, worried, suspicious. You hadn't really been the adventurous type, nor were you the sort of person to simply decide to just "hit the road," especially when you had only known the guy for about two weeks.
But something had kept drawing you and Dean into each other's paths, over and over again. It couldn't be simple coincidence, but you weren't quite ready to believe in Fate just yet.
Whatever had drawn the two of you together, you counted it as a blessing.
After the initial call on his bluff, the two of you had fallen into a friendship that was as easy as breathing, bouncing off of each other's quirks as if you had known each other your whole lives.
You hadn't realized how desperately you needed something like that.
Your eyes continued to skim the pages, but you couldn't really focus on the words, half-distracted by the determined cook and the many memories already tied to him.
You had only been travelling together for two weeks, but the road so far had taken you to the coastline, through a desert, and now you were exploring a small town in the mountains.
The leaves were already starting to change here, the autumn atmosphere claiming the town as they prepared for festivals, bonfires, and more. You planned to drag Dean to at least one event, hoping to find some souvenir to keep on your dresser.
You doubted that you'd have the chance to even stop for a breath once your vacation ended and you finally went home.
Your creeping despondence summoned a sigh, one that caught Dean's attention immediately.
"You okay?"
You took a moment to study him: the relaxed shoulders, the ear slightly turned back to you, the perfect bow tied in his apron, the slightest shag to his hair that had steadily been growing out for the past month.
Here he was, taking a hiatus from his own job just for you, and now he was making you burgers from scratch and humouring you with a wine tasting later.
How on Earth were you lucky enough to have earned this?
"Yeah; I'm good!"
You made up some quick lie about your book, implying that the protagonists were both idiots who clearly needed each other, but were both too stubborn to actually talk about it.
He either bought it or successfully pretended to believe you, turning back to his work with an assenting comment, adding on a grunt vaguely resembling the words: "sounds familiar."
You allowed your mind to wander again, eyes drawn to the open curtains and the peaks beyond.
In a few weeks, you'd be home again, picking up another job and getting back to the day-to-day repetition and ennui.
Dean would be back on the road, saving people and hunting things, keeping the world safe from behind the scenes.
Like most friendships, you doubted you'd stay in touch forever, doubted that you would ever intentionally run into each other.
But who knew?
You had grown so close in such a short time, so maybe-
You joined him moments later at the table, teasing him over his drink selection, savouring the spark to his eyes as he teased you right back for yours.
He seemed years younger than the man who had bought you Swedish Fish at Shell in September, as if decades of torment had lifted from his shoulders. Even the small wrinkles near his eyes seemed to disappear with his smile, tugging at your heartstrings, your own smile soon appearing.
Maybe you would drift away from each other.
But you and Dean had run into each other many times before.
Something was telling you that this was far from the end.
*