The hunt had gone well. Really well. Better than had been expected. Which was why you were currently in this shitty bar with the Winchesters, drinking whiskey and trying to one-up each other with stories of monster hunting. So far you were losing, big time, because, lets face it, you hadn't taken on Lucifer, been to hell, lost your soul, or have Crowley on speed dial. But you were having fun, which was something.
You'd met the Winchesters a few months ago, when a Rusalka case had led them out west to Los Angeles. You had been working some cases out there by night and moonlighting as a plus-size model by day, taking the work you could get. You were surprised how much you enjoyed it- but getting dolled up for photos was a hell of a lot easier and safer than hustling pool or committing credit card fraud, those two hunter staples. You'd caught wind of the Rusalka case as well, you'd all run into each other, and you'd sorta saved their asses because it turns out, Rusalkas don't really have much interest in drowning women, just men. It had been very handy that you knew CPR or both brothers would be dead. Since then, you'd worked some cases together, and the last month you'd found yourself tooling around the country with them in their big black car.
The case you had worked today had been a cursed object that you'd thought was going to be hard to procure- it had basically wiped out everyone who had touched it recently but had been in the family for years, locked in a china hutch. You'd spent days hatching plans as to how to swindle it away from the owner so that you could destroy it, but when you'd all gotten to the door of the old woman's house, she'd practically thrown the old vase at you, she was so ready to get rid of it. You'd all scattered, not wanting to touch it, and it had crashed to the ground, shattering into a million pieces. After carefully sweeping up all of the shards, you'd burned them, then doffed your FBI monkey suits and come here. It was a super shitty dive bar with a distinct eighties vibe going on- naturally Dean had gravitated towards it. He'd practically floated in on a cloud when he'd heard Bon Jovi playing through the front door.
You'd been there a few hours when Dean seemed to recognize a man walking through the door. "Tom!" He stood up, calling out his name. The man turned around. He was about the same age as the rest of you, with a lean build and a rugged appearance. He had "hunter" written all over him. He smiled and strode over. "What's up, man? How long's it been?" Dean clapped Tom on the back. Sam smiled at him and nodded. You stuck out your hand to shake. Tom shook it oddly. "You know Sam. This is Y/N." Dean introduced you.
"A while, man." He turned his attention back to Dean, pretty much ignoring you. "Not since that Rugaru in 09'."
"Sit down. Have a drink. We're just talking shop." Dean sat back down on his bar stool, his hand brushing the small of your back.
"You're talking... shop? In front of her?" Tom looked at Dean strangely.
"Yeah man. She's got some seriously great stories." Dean looked at you. "The hormonal teenage vampire. Jesus, Y/N, you gotta tell him that one." He started laughing.
"Oh God, Dean, that was the worst. I didn't know whether to gank her or give her a hug and some Midol." You turned to Tom. "I seriously get the weirdest hunts. Like super weird." You rolled your eyes.
"Or the shifter who kept turning into Patrick Swayze from Dirty Dancing?" Sam smiled.
You turned back to Tom. "See? That one proves my point. No matter who he turned into, he would always turn back into Patrick Swayze. I seriously was chasing Johnny Castle down back alleys for hours. It was ridiculous. This shit can't possibly happen to other hunters."
Tom was still being a little odd, and wouldn't loosen up. You figured he wasn't used to talking about his exploits in front of strangers, which you could understand. Not a lot of people understood the life you lived.
"That's my Y/N." Dean's hand had crawled up your back and was now rubbing your shoulders. You didn't mind. You didn't have anything going on with Dean, per se, but you could tell he'd like for something to be going on between you. The way he acted was pretty obvious, especially after a few drinks. "If you have a twilight vamp or a dancing eighties heart throb to gank, give her a call."
You elbowed him in the ribs. "Watch it, handsome. Next case I get where I'm tracking down Don Johnson in a pastel sport coat, I'll call you and insist you come help." You stood up. "I'll be right back, boys." You winked at Dean, and headed off to the ladies room.
On your way back, you observed the trio of hunters. Something was off. You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but they all seemed uncomfortable with one another now. As you approached, you could hear what was being said.
"I just don't get it Dean. I mean, I know you play fast and loose, and you chase all kinds of tail." Tom looked around the bar at various women and men for emphasis. "But chubby has never been part of the equation."
"Excuse me?" You came up behind him, hands on hips. Both Dean and Sam had stood up menacingly at Tom's rude words as well. "What the fuck did I just hear come out of your mouth?"
Tom whirled around, eyes wide. "I, uh..."
"Yeah, you, uh." You poked a finger at his chest. "Who are you to call me chubby? What gives you the right to comment on my body?"
"No offense, Sweetheart, but you ain't exactly small." Tom stopped trying to backtrack, and raised his hands, palms up, as if pointing this fact out were somehow his duty and not something he should be blamed for.
"Dude, I can't believe you'd even say that!" Sam stepped in. "That is one of the most sexist, sizeist, chauvinistic-"
Dean cut him off. "I think you're gonna need to use smaller words with this one, Sam."
"Like how small?"
Dean looked from Sam, to you, then to Tom. Then he drew back his fist, swung, and knocked Tom's lights out. "That small. He'll understand that. When he wakes up." He looked around. The altercation had not escaped the bouncer's notice. "We'd better go." He grabbed your hand and the three of you hurriedly left the bar, Tom still unconscious on the ground.
The ride back to the hotel was silent. You were deep in thought. To be honest, you were perfectly happy with your size. You were a big girl, and you were hella fine. You were strong. You filled out dresses that thinner women could only hope to ever wear. You were a firm believer that every woman was beautiful, of every shape. Your body was strong enough to hunt monsters, to fight demons, to be thrown through windows and against walls; to borrow from Timex "take a lickin' and keep on tickin." You had an ass to die for. But being called chubby, and not worthy of being coveted, by some slovenly douche in a bar- it shouldn't hurt, but it did. You were like any other person. You weren't immune to insult, no matter how much you loved yourself. And like every other person, you had an inkling of self doubt that would rear it's ugly head when someone was rude enough to mention it.
Dean kept looking back at you through the mirror, concern in his eyes. Same with Sam.
"You know that guy's an idiot, right?" Sam said, turning to look at you. "That rugaru hunt we were on with him? He would be toast if Garth hadn't saved him. I'm frankly surprised he's still on this side of the ground."
"He won't be for much longer if he keeps talking shit to women." You replied, examining your long fingernails. You really needed a new coat of polish.
Dean pulled the car up in front of the hotel, and Sam went into the room he and Dean were sharing, but Dean for some reason followed you into yours. You turned to him at the door.
"Is it all right if I come in for a few?" He asked, running a hand through his short, sand colored hair.
You shrugged. You kind of felt like being alone, but Dean's company usually cheered you up. "Yeah, come on in." You led him in. You had a bottle of your own cheap whiskey sitting on the old Formica counter of the kitchenette. "Want a glass?"
He nodded, went to sit at the table, noticed the chairs were full of your belongings, and sat at the foot of your bed instead. You poured the drinks, added some ice, and brought them over. You sat beside him.
"Sorry about Tom. I didn't realize he was such an asshole." Dean looked down into the amber liquid of his glass.
"Not your fault. Not all hunters are respectable people." You shrugged. "It's not the first time I've been called fat, either."
"But you're not."
"It doesn't matter if I am or not. People feel like they have a right to let you know that you aren't a waif. Like it's some big secret you don't already know." You sighed. "It's not like I wake up in the morning and don't realize my pants don't say size 0 on them. But people think they have to remind me. Constantly."
"I didn't realize it was that bad. I honestly... people say that shit to you? You're gorgeous. You look the way you do and that's what they choose to notice?" Dean looked stunned. You smiled at that. Everyone knew Dean Winchester was a lover of beautiful women. Him not noticing the extra pounds didn't surprise you.
"Oh, it can get bad." You swirled your drink, then downed it.
"Don't let it get you down. That idiot's opinion doesn't matter." Dean put an arm around your shoulders.
You laughed. "I know his opinion doesn't matter. MY opinion matters. Three months ago people were paying me money to take my picture. That guy's unconscious on a disgusting bar floor. I'd say I'm the winner here."
"You sure you're all right?" Dean seemed concerned.
You nodded. "I mean, I'm like anyone. What he said hurts. It'll hurt for a while. And sometimes I feel big and want to be smaller. But, honestly, my body has never failed me. I'm good with it." You smiled. "I'm fine, Dean."
He leaned over and kissed your forehead. "Good." He stood up. "Well, I guess I'll head back."
"You came here just to make sure I was feeling all right?" You raised your brow. Dean was a good guy, but in touch with feelings, he was not.
"Well, yeah." He turned to go. He stopped. "I mean... well... kind of." He sat back down on the bed. "I wanted to make sure you were all right, yeah. I mean that guy, that ass hat, man, what he said to you pissed me off!"
"I noticed that when you decided to pull a Rocky Balboa on him."
"And I just got to thinking... normally, yeah, I'd think that was a dick thing to say and I'd probably tell the guy to fuck off or something, but it wouldn't make me so mad." He kind of trailed off. You nodded, willing him to continue.
"And?"
"I think I may have caught some feelings for you in the last couple of weeks. Only I don't do feelings. I'm Dean Winchester. I do one night stands and bad ideas." He smiled at you nervously. "Like, I'm really good at bad ideas."
"Oh, I know you are." You took a deep breath. You knew for sure, hands down, no doubt about it, that Dean was really good at bad decisions. Epically bad decisions, involving women and life in general. But your heartbeat was quickening. You'd been flirting with Dean for weeks, and if you were honest with yourself, crushing hard on the man. He'd been filling up your dreams and your daydreams with some pretty smutty stuff.
He was quiet for a few minutes, refilling his glass and your glass, and sitting back beside you. You were on the edge of your seat, waiting to see what he was going to say. When you were about to break, he began talking again, as though he had never stopped. "But the way I see it, we're gonna be hunting together a while longer at least... so how about it?"
"How about what?"
"How about you make the best worst decision of your life, and we see where it takes us?" Dean gave you a devilish look, but hiding behind it was an earnestness you couldn't ignore.
You smiled. "You want to see where it takes us, huh?"
"Honey, you bet I do." He leaned over, bringing his lips to yours, and you were lost in the taste of whiskey and Dean Winchester. You were a goner. And you were gonna love every minute of it.
carry on my wayward son