Supernatural owned by The CW, Doctor Who owned by BBC. I own nothing, I'm just borrowing. This story is my own, the characters are not.
She was there in the beginning, this pink and yellow girl that lived down the street from him. She was younger than him, smaller and infinitely more delicate, like a butterfly. They played together, he'd pull her around in his little red wagon, being extra careful around bumpy ground, and he'd even dress-up for her tea parties. He'd do anything she said, anything for those bouncing golden curls, and sweet angelic smile.
Then he woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of yelling, his father had yelled 'Dean take Sammy outside, NOW.', the house blew up, and his father was telling him his mom was dead and they had to leave. As they drove down the street, the last he ever saw of his golden girl was her standing on her lawn, waving goodbye, with tears shining on her face instead of a smile. He was sure he would never see her again.
Her name was Rose.
Dean rolls over, not able to fall asleep. His hand is under his pillow, feeling the comforting handle of his hunting knife, listening to the calming sound of Sammy breathing. He feels like his mind is going 100mph, going over almost every memory he has stored. Finally he decides he can't take it anymore, and rolls out of bed. He fumbles around, slipping on his jeans, his shoes, and his jacket. He puts his knife in his boot, and his pistol in the waistband of his pants. He slowly eases open the door to their motel room, and slips out into the night. He stalks across the lot, to the bar, perfectly and directly across from their motel. Only reason I chose this dump, he thinks.
He walks inside, the place is mostly empty, it being around 2 o'clock in the morning, and he takes a seat on one of the bar stools, waiting for bartender to notice him. His head is down, watching his fingers as they trace the worn wood of the bar, so he doesn't notice the bartender waiting in front of him, until
"So besides silence and distraction what'll it be handsome?" Says a female voice and Dean jerks his head up, finding himself staring into a pair of beautiful, cream colored- "Oi, if you want any type of alcohol, eyes are up here Charming."
"Sorry about that." Dean says, dragging his eyes up to her whiskey brown ones. He looks her over, and for a moment can't think up any cheesy pick-up lines or smooth words. She's breathtaking.
Long blonde locks, creamy skin, beautiful whiskey eyes, soft-petal pink mouth, which is curled in a very attractive smirk.
"So sweetie, I gotta tell you, the price of staring, is more than the price of a drink." She says, leaning against the counter behind the bar.
Dean grins. "Get me a whiskey, uh, Jack Daniels on the rocks, thanks sweetheart."
"Anytime, sweetheart." She turns and starts making his drink, missing the smile that blooms over his face at her sarcasm.
He watches her prepare his drink, the graceful way she pours, the quick flick of her wrist to send the drink sliding down to his open hand.
"So what's a gorgeous gal-" Dean starts.
She cuts him off. "Whatever you think you wanna say sweetie- don't. You seem like a nice guy, handsome as hell, a little too cocky but it comes with the territory, so overall a decent fellow. Hell, right now I'm willing to hold a conversation with you, eye contact and all, but one cheesy used-a-hundred-times-before pick up line, and I'll show you the true meaning of scorn."
She's standing in front of him, arms braced on the table, eyebrow raised and Dean finds himself very attracted to the woman in front of him.
He holds up a hand, going for the picture of innocence. "No pick-up lines, or flirting, just conversation."
She nods, eyes narrowed. "No copping a feel either, or groping me with your eyes. You seem like a decent sort, and I don't see too many of those around here. I just wanna have a conversation with someone, that isn't obviously staring at my tits the entire time, or drunk out their head."
Dean nods, takes a drink. "I'm not sure if I'm any good as a conversation partner, but I'll give it a shot." He resists the urge to wink.
"Okay, so what's a cute boy like you, doing in a tired old town like this?" She leans against the counter behind her, crossing her arms, which honestly, does not help Dean and his temptation. It's a tight shirt she's wearing.
"I will gladly answer that, as soon as I learn your name." Dean takes another drink.
She sighs, runs a hand through her hair. Dean is struck with the urge to do that for himself, push his hand into her hair, use it to tip her head back to expose her elegant neck, run over his lips, then his teeth, just barely biting down on the soft skin over her pulse….
"My names Rose." She reluctantly grumbles. "Don't you dare laugh."
"I would never." Says Dean, resisting saying Pretty name for a pretty girl. Rule No. 1. No cheesy pick up lines.
"So what's yours? And no fake names, I'll know."
"I'm Dean. And a good lie detector are you?" He smirks a little, takes a sip.
She flips her hair back, defiantly, mirroring his smirk. "Yeah, I am. And I hate liars. So what brings you to this dead-end town?"
"The people, obviously. Renowned for their friendly dispositions." He grins and tips his glass towards her. She gives a huff of laughter. "I'm here with my brother, we're on a road trip, of sorts."
"And one of your destinations is to visit lovely, enchanting old Powell?" She laughs. "Sweetie you need to find some new vacation destinations."
"I'm not gonna argue with that, but if you think so highly of this town, why are you here?" He raises his eyebrows at her, and she sticks out her tongue in return. Charming, he thinks.
"I kinda grew up here. Moved here when I was five." she gives a half shrug.
"From where?" Dean asks, interested in this girl, with a tongue as sharp as a knife, and an air of mystery clinging to her.
"Kansas. Hate the state, love the band." She says flippantly.
Something in Dean's mind awakens, the glint of gold in her hair, a half-forgotten memory rising up in his mind. Of a girl bathed in pink and yellow.
"Where in Kansas?" Dean asks, his voice urgent.
"Lawrence." She says slowly, questioningly.
It's like a dam broke open in Dean's mind, a flood of memories are released, of Dean pulling this girl behind him in his red Radio Flyer wagon, of wearing a crown and sipping imaginary tea from tiny china tea cups. Hearing her tell him her name, her front teeth missing, making 'Rose' sound like 'Rosth'.
"Rose?" He half whispers.
She raises her eyebrows. "Dean?" she says back.
"Rose Tyler?" He asks, leaning forward, staring into her eyes.
"How do you know my last name?" She uncrosses her arms, hands gripping the counter behind her.
"Do you remember living in Lawrence? Living next door to a little boy, having tea parties with him, being pulled around in a little red wagon? Then the boy's house blew up and his mom died and he moved away? Do you remember that?" He stands, desperate.
"How do you know about him? Are you some kinda stalker?" Her eyes are wide, just a little afraid, more angry.
"Do you remember that little boy's name?" Dean isn't thinking right now, all he can think is that he's finally found his little pink and yellow girl.
"What are you on..?" Rose asks.
"Do you remember his name?" Dean repeats, watching her eyes widen in realization.
"Dean?" She asks. "My Dean?" and he nods, eagerly because he's actually found her. She leans against the counter in front of him, hands clenched on the bar surface, looking into Dean's eyes.
"Hey Rosie." He whispers, watching her cringe at the age-old nickname.
"God I hated it when you called me that." She smiles, her tongue tucked in the corner, and Dean's heart stutters in his chest, because it's a small smile but it's still as angelic as when she was five years old.
"I was six years old at the time, teasing you was my way of flirting, okay?" He grins, and she ,unsuccessfully, tries to glare back.
"So were flirting with me then?" She laughs as Dean blushes.
"Well, I mean how else could I be so smooth now? Practice." He winks, trying to cover up the pink spreading across his cheeks. She doesn't miss it.
"So what happened to you? I was five years old, and you were my best friend, and one day you were there the next you were gone and your house was a smoldering ruin." Her eyebrows are drawn, little wrinkles on her forehead that Dean would love to smooth out with his thumb.
Dean's mind is turning, trying to come up with a plausible explanation besides 'My mother was killed by a demon, so my father raised me and my brother to hunt supernatural creatures that most people only imagine in their nightmares.' He decides to go with something as close to the truth as possible.
"My mom was killed," He starts, eyes darting down at her soft intake of breath, not wanting to see the pity in her eyes. "In my baby brother's nursery, then the killer lit the house on fire, and my dad barely got my baby brother and me out of the house. So you can kinda see why my dad didn't want to stick around town."
Dean waits. Waits for the soft, pity-filled I'm so sorry, the light tears, the small compassionate smile. Instead, it's,
"Did they catch the bastard that did this?" Dean looks up, and there's no pity, there's compassion, but it's tempered with a blaze of anger in her eyes. Anger for him, over his mother's death. Over what happened to his family. Oh if she's angry over this, wait until she hears the rest of what's happened to us. He thinks bitterly.
"No they, uh, they never did. But my dad is still trying to find it." Dean downs the rest of his drink.
"Well when he does, let me know. I owe the monster that did this a couple of punches for killing my best friend's mom, and taking him away from me." She huffs, then gives him a small smile, one he returns, because Goddamn, this girl is pure fire. And Dean's very willing to be burned.
"Will do Rosie. So what about you? How's your life been?" He knows that it must've been amazing, because anything with her would be amazing.
"Pretty close to living hell." She says matter-of-factly. "You left when I was five, and about a year after that, my dad was killed by a hit and run. We were going to a wedding, dad crossed the road and BAM, he's gone. Mom moved us here to live with my aunt, because as she put it 'I was a difficult child at the best of times' And then teenage years happened. And you can guess what happened then." She trails off bitterly, and Dean gets a sense that a lot more happened than say, a bad prom and an embarrassing yearbook photo. He also gets the sense he shouldn't ask, at least not yet.
"There are worse places to be then Powell." Dean says, watching as she grabs his glass, turning to pour him another.
She turns to look at him, rolling her eyes. "You sound exactly like my mother. 'You should be grateful, you have a life, you're young, you could start a career.' She doesn't think bar tending is a real job. Says I'm wasting my youth." She sighs, and turns back to the drink.
"Do you like it?" Dean asks, as she turns around and gives him the glass.
"I dunno," She leans on the counter in front of him, hands clenched together. Dean finds it very hard not to follow her arms up to her shoulders and down to her chest. It's very tight, low cut shirt. It's long sleeved and black, clinging to her, riding up to expose a strip of of her waist, and above, showing more than a strip of chest. "I don't like men hitting on me all the time, staring at me, trying to feel me up. But I've learned how to handle myself, and how to handle them." Seeing the fire in her eyes, Dean doesn't doubt it.
"Why'd you take a bartender job anyway? You seem like the type of girl to be saving the world, fighting evil, righting wrongs."
"It was the most exciting thing I could get without leaving Powell and my mom. People come in here with these amazing stories, and I dunno, it's the closest I can get to actually living. I just wanna live. Feel anger, excitement, fear. But I'm stuck in Powell, where the most interesting thing that's happened was farmer McColl's cow being stolen." She grumbles and Dean chuckles.
"Trust me, the world's not all it's cracked up to be. There's things out there, things of nightmare. I'd kill to have a normal life, in a safe town, with my family." He takes a long drink. "All I've got now is Sammy. My dad kind've abandoned us a couple months back. I'm not saying we need him to hold our hands but hell, I don't even know if the man is in the country."
She reaches forward and holds one of his hands. Her's is soft and warm and small, dwarfed by Dean's large, rough one. "You don't need him, I can hold your hand." She says, and Dean bursts into laughter.
"You're telling me off for thinking about saying a cheesy pick-up line, when you use that on me? Talk about hypocrite." He says, still chuckling, and she's smiling her wide tongue-touched smile, and his stupid heart trips at the sight. Her hand is still on his. "What time is it?" He asks, smile wearing off.
She reaches down her shirt with the other hand, pulling out a phone, then flipping it open. "3:13. We've been talking about an hour. My shift ended 13 minutes ago." She sighs. "I have to get home, Mom always stays up when I have the graveyard shift."
"Where do you live?" Dean asks, because Sam and him are here on a case, a case of missing girls from Powell and surrounding towns, girls who were alone, at night. Dean doesn't want Rose to end up as one of those girls.
"Why thinking of following me home? I won't say no, but mom will." She smiles, standing back, cleaning up. "I live about fifteen minutes walk from here."
"Oh then let me walk you. I need some fresh air, the activity will do me some good." He stands, waiting as she walks around the bar, slipping on a blue leather jacket, putting her bag over her head.
She's standing in front of him, and he realizes how short she is, and at the same instance he realizes he finds it endearing.
"I'll be fine Dean. Really. But if you're so worried, give me your number, I'll call you when I get home." She smiles up at him.
"Do me one better, call me for the entire walk home, and hang up when you get inside safely." Dean says, pleadingly. "There's been too many missing girls lately, please Rose."
"If it'll get me your number, fine." She agrees, pulling out her phone, and inputting his number.
Then they're standing outside the bar, and Dean really wants to kiss her and follow her home, partly for safety, partly to trace the curve of her collarbone with his tongue. She hugs him, and places a lingering kiss on his cheek.
"If you actually stay in contact, you might get more." She teases, with her tongue-touched smile.
"I promise Rosie." He teases back, stroking his thumb along her jaw. "Call me."
She does, and he answers, and he watches her walk away, with her taunting him on the phone the entire time about watching her ass. He walks over and leans on the Impala while making idle chitchat, because he's too nervous to go inside and go to bed, he will when he knows she's safe. Finally, after one false alarm that turns out to be a cat, she's saying.
"I'm home Dean, I'm safe, I'm inside. Thank you. I'll call you tomorrow. Get some sleep."
"Good night." He says, and hangs up.
Something he'll come to regret.