((Author's Note: I started this story as a fluffy humor piece with no set plot that began to grow into it's own beast as it went along. Some things you may encounter on this ride include but are not limited to: adult themes, DESTIEL, irresponsible consumption of alcohol, sudden smut, reluctant bisexuality, slow-burn-to-smut, awkwardness, and more angst than originally intended. Thank you for joining me on this journey, feel free to comment/review, and most of all, have fun.))
"Anything else you'd like?"
The clean glass rolled over in her hands, the towel squeaking around the edge as it polished. Dean took a breath, pursed his lips out slightly, inclining his head to take her in from underneath a raised eyebrow. This move was well rehearsed, and she regarded him with a slight twitch of her lip—the only give-away beneath her own perfected unimpressed-bartender persona.
"I can think of something."
"It better be something on the shelf."
He smirked, "Another, sure."
She turned with a slight flick of her dark hair over her shoulder, moving for the third or fourth time to the bottle poised inconspicuously between the liquor meant to be enjoyed, and the rotgut sitting in the rails. Dean's gaze wandered downward thoughtfully as she walked away.
"Oh, there is something you could answer for me." His eyes flicked back to her face as she turned, whiskey from the bottle pouring in a steady stream into the glass she held with her other hand. She flashed him a knowing look, letting the bottle remain upturned just a little too long. He returned a sly smile as he received the glass filled over its normal pour, nodding slightly in approval.
"And what is that?" She leaned against the bar, arms spread in a V from her shoulders in an open gesture.
"Did it hurt?"
She cocked her head and squinted. No way, this line. "When I fell from heaven, right?"
With an exaggerated grimace, he sucked in his breath, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. She sneered, standing up straight. "No, but I did break a nail when I clawed my way out of Hell."
He was taken aback. The bartender poignantly snapped a towel from the counter, turning her back on the man with the leather jacket to tend to a countertop that suddenly needed urgent attention on the other end of the long bar. He raised his glass in her direction, but she was gone.
"Trust me, honey. No way I actually mistook you for an angel," he said into his glass before downing it. He cast a glance over his right shoulder to see if anyone caught his stung pride. When he turned back, he jumped at the unexpected figure perched on the stool next to him, the slight flail of his arm sending the empty shooter rolling across the wood top.
"Hello, Dean."
"Sonofabitch." He righted his glass, composing himself at the bar top. The man in the trench coat turned his head inquisitively.
"The meaning of that phrase still eludes me."
Dean ran his eyes quickly around the room, scanning for anyone who caught the angel's sudden appearance. They landed on a man standing two heads higher than himself, shoulders and arms bulging at the seams of his shirt, making his way towards them. His expression and intent suggested he only saw Dean's display with the glass.
"Alright, boys. That's enough," his voice was gruff, resolute as he gestured with a thumb towards the door.
"C'mon, man I didn't even—" Dean swiveled on his seat, his face coming square with the man's chest. The bouncer crossed his arms, bringing more attention to his giant stature, to which Dean alternated between a quip about his cleavage and not ending the night in a bar brawl.
"C'mon, Cas," he muttered, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets while heading for the door. Castiel looked after him, unsure of what had just transpired.
"Hey, go keep an eye on your girlfriend, would'ya?"
Castiel squinted into the hulking man's face, standing slowly.
"He's not my…" he trailed off uncertainly, before Dean's rough hand gripped his shoulder and turned him towards the door.
The bar door slammed resolutely with years of neglected hinges announcing their exit. The few patrons turned their attention back to their glasses, and the raven-haired bartender pursed her lips in a faint expression of disappointment before returning to her unwashed dish-ware.