Disclaimer: Not mine.
Pairing: Dean/Cassie. Pre-series.
Author's Note: There's other things I should be writing. But this sort of just happened while sitting at work over the course of two weeks. Sort of a writing exercise in stream of conscious. I'm not sure whether I passed or failed at it. But maybe someone will enjoy it.
Dean Winchester liked to think he was good at arguing.
Damn good in fact.
When it came to his dad, he knew when to push and how to push it.
He also knew when to shut up and follow orders.
When it came to arguing with Sammy, well, hell, that was much easier.
Dean was older, and therefore always right; no matter what the argument was about.
Saying so was more than enough to piss Sam off to the point he completely forgot what they were even fighting about. (Which was the same thing as winning.)
One of the things Dean Winchester was not good at however, (and that was a short list, to be sure) was arguing with himself. Because he was a cocky son of a bitch and he couldn't even keep his mouth shut when it was an internal monologue. And neither the internal nor the external Dean Winchester particularly wanted to talk—let alone argue about 'feelings'.
Ugh.
Now there was a subject that could drive a man to drink.
Or violence.
Or both.
He did like to mix it up a bit to keep from getting bored.
But that was besides the point.
The whole point of this was: Dean Winchester did not have 'feelings' for Cassie Robinson.
He didn't, goddammit.
As far as he was concerned, Winchesters didn't even have 'feelings'. That was reserved for normal people. Creepy, 2.5 children, SUV-driving, white picket fence, Tupperware party,
"what will the neighbors think?", Harper Valley PTA normal (read: pod) people.
Dean Winchester wanted no part of that, no sir.
Sure, he cared about his dad and his brother. That wasn't the question, that wasn't the point at all. That was different. They never needed to know about all that unless one or all of them were dying. Like, "bleeding out on the side of a country back road from a sucking chest wound" dying. Not "it's just a flesh wound, man up" dying.
Now, it was just fine if other people had 'feelings' for Dean. Who could blame them? He was Dean fucking Winchester. He had the Eye of the Tiger. He was the Master of Puppets. He did not Fear the Repear and he was quite the Strutter if he said so himself.
Unfortunately, incurable swagger aside, his lifestyle was not conducive to returning those 'feelings'. He was like the Burt Reynolds of huntin—No. Wait. That was more so his dad. He was like the Sylvester Stallone of hunting.
Fuck that, he was James Bond.
Yeah.
He was the James Bond of hunting.
But Daniel Craig James Bond. Not Sean Connery James Bond.
There.
Of course, that's not to say that Dean Winchester was incapable of those 'feelings'.
He had them.
Just not for other people.
Like, for instance, he loved pie. He loved loud music. His impala. Loud music in his Impala. Fighting. Sex. Beers. Pool. Cards. Guns. Hustling in general. Short skirts. Low cut tops. Backless dresses. That hot little black number Cassie has that's all of the above and she damn well knows it. Knew when she told him to keep his hands to himself how impossible that was. They both knew she'd be lucky to get out of the car without him mauling her.
Goddamn that dress.
Dean didn't know if it was from heaven or from hell.
Cassie looked amazing in it, on the one hand.
But she had him walking into stop signs and tripping over shit that wasn't even there on the other.
Ugh.
See?
This was why Dean Winchester couldn't have 'feelings' for Cassie Robinson.
It made him stupid.
Threw him all off balance.
He'd seen it happen to other people.
" Poor bastard," he'd say to some love struck hunter, trying to either get himself out of the game or get the girl in.
It was bad news all around.
Getting a girl in your head like that could mess you all up.
Makes a man start thinking things he doesn't need to think when he doesn't need to be thinking them.
And Winchester men did not do that.
He had no business knowing what her favorite color was – Purple. Purple notebooks. Purple backpack. Purple curtains in her dorm room. Purple markers for her dry erase board. Purple eye shadow that looked the best on her when she woke up next to him in the morning – all smudged and smokey and perfect – asking him why he let her sleep so late on a Saturday that she could be spending getting ahead on her homework. (He'd tell her she just answered her own question.)
There's nothing important about the way she chews on the end of her pens when trying to decide what to write next.
He's not the one with the peanut allergy. It's not integral to his survival to carry an epi-pen like he carries holy water and a gun.
It just so happens to cost less to eat at places that don't use peanut oil than those that do.
There's no real reason to have memorized the way she likes her eggs – Two. Scrambled. Splash of milk to make them fluffy. Salt and enough black pepper that you can see it on every piece. Smothered in ketchup, but not just any ketchup, Dean, it has to be Heinz, or it tastes funny and then I can't study right and get a good grade – when pulling an all-nighter.
Blue Bell has this hard to find ice cream flavor called Birthday Cake that he's scoured grocery stores for more than once. There's nothing supernatural about it. It doesn't ward off possession or send vengeful spirits on their way. But it does wonders for a bad day with an asshole professor.
Honestly, all that information was ultimately useless to a Winchester man.
It would matter if he had some kind of 'feelings' for this Cassie Robinson.
But he didn't.
Really.
He had important shit to do.
...not right this second, because he finished the salt-and-burn the night before.
He was only hanging out in the School of Journalism part of campus because Cassie would be getting out of class soon. And he'd brought her, it was only proper that he bring her back home.
But she would be hungry, since this was her last class – and it was Thursday. Thursday was longer classes and less time spent lounging in bed – less smudged make-up – because she had labs and editing and study group and all this other work to "discover new ways to serve democracy through journalism" Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Which meant they would probably go get something to eat, instead of her cooking something–No. She had a paper due next week. She wouldn't go out. She would lock herself up in her apartment and he would go get take out–Shrimp fried rice, pink sauce, orange chicken—because she forgets to eat real food when she's working and frankly, she's small enough.
If anything, he was being more efficient while he was busy not-having-feelings for Cassie Robinson. He'd driven to and from Springfield to evict a nuisance ghost from a nervous little couple and their fine China shop to be all free for the rest of the day. Ordinarily, he would have lounged around and let the couple's daughter flirt with him a little more.
But you couldn't let women get in your way when you were a Winchester.
You had to focus on what's important.
And what was important was getting back to Columbia before six in the evening—because he swore to God if that same dude that always waits for Cassie like a puppy outside class body blocks him to offer her a ride again, he's gonna run him over–when her class lets out.
It's not because he has 'feelings', God.
That guy's just a tool.
His stomach only does that strange little flip flop when she smiles at him because he's hungry. Or something.
When he cranks the Impala, the radio catches Al Green in the middle of singing about love and happiness. It's just because he neglected to push his Led Zeppelin cassette back in. Not because that's the station her radio stays on in her car.
When she slides over—pressing the tape in on her way–to kiss him long and deep, he thinks, if he ever could have 'feelings' for this Cassie Robinson girl–and that's a big 'if'. Like the kind of 'if' people would make pilgrimages across the country to see, and buy t-shirts for it's so big–it probably wouldn't be the worst thing in the world that ever happened to him.