Chapter 4
Dean automatically reached out his hand to the young man standing in front of him without thinking. Only when the dark haired – and rather handsome – guy frowned slightly, not extending his own hand in return, was he aware of the black grease covering his palms and fingers.
He let his hand fall down at his side, wiping it on his already dirty jeans (Cas wouldnt be thrilled about that...).
He nodded instead.
„Pleased to meet you..."
He forced a polite smile on his face. The guy was a douchebag right from the Big Manual Of Very Dispensible Assholes. Dean could tell...he had met his share of them during his stray years...
Mr. Douchebag had the decency to meet Dean´s expectations without losing any time.
„I thought we were getting a progress report here?" he asked, looking Dean´s dishevelled appearance up and down with deliberate slowness.
„The only progress I can see is stripping my car from every possible part. I could have managed that without the help of your BEST mechanic, you know Mr. Singer.."
He stared into Dean´s eyes, looking for a reaction to his deliberately offending tone.
Dean´s hands itched to wipe the smug expression off his face.
But he felt Bobby´s warning look – more then he actually saw it – and kept his anger deep down in his belly.
He settled for the „ If-you-knew-half –as-much-as us-professionals" approach instead...a nearly unbeatable method to annoy self announced experts .
„Well, Mr. ...er..., at first sight your Pontiac looked not too bad at all...seemed in rather good shape. But once we took off the hood and had a look at the engine it was clear the renovation would be a huge project..."
Dean went on and on, showing decrepit parts and bits and rust filled holes and some of the parts he had already removed from the engine. Whenever his „customer" opened his mouth to ask something – or rather complain about it , when you considered his sour face – Dean cut him off by simply talking more and even faster than before. He grinned inwardly. The one thing he could drone on about for hours if needed was cars.
He noticed tho that Mr. Douchebag seemed not as dumb as he had thought before. At least his interest in the car was genuine, and the more Dean showed and blathered, the more similar his face grew to that of a 7year-old in front of his Christmas presents.
Well, obviously he knew something about old cars at least – or he was a very good actor faking to understand each word of Dean´s professional talk.
When Dean finally concluded with:
„..and that´s why it will take me at least two more weeks to even think of painting this babe!", „babe´s" owner seemed rather impressed than annoyed. For a moment at least. He decided to ruin the moment by asking,
„Do you pay your people by hours or by words here Mr. Singer? Cause if the latter your employees must be well funded. I wish your Best mechanic" – his tone was piercing, and Dean had to fold his arms tightly not to strike out against the asshole –„ a working ethic as exuberant as his talking skills."
Dean glanced at Bobby, who raised his eyebrows in a „I-know-he´s-worse-than-The-Queen-Of-Hearts-but what-can-you-do-we-need-fluent-clients" kind of look.
Dean stifled a sigh and brought himself to nod and grin in fake self-mockery. He owed Bobby that much.
When Mr. Kiss-my-ass and his groupie boys – their obvious devotion for their Alpha male was kind of obscene – left, Dean snorted and turned to the rusty sliding door.
It was closed.
It hadnt been when he had rolled out from under the Pontiac, he was pretty sure of it.
Someone had watched him ...and their eyes had met for a moment. Light brown eyes in a pale face, long dark red hair waving down a pair of perfect cheekbones.
A girl...young woman rather. He´d seen her gasp, eyes widening.
Dean looked down his clothes. Had his appearence somehow frightened her? He was dirty for sure...
He shook his head. Only people suffering from obsessive washing disorder would react like that...but then maybe that was her problem after all.
He went over to the door and opened it to squint out the narrow gap.
There she was! Leaning against a beautifully restored Ford Mustang painted in racing colors – Dean wasnt above appreciating another artist´s work - and sucking on a cigarette as if her life depended on it.
Dean felt the searing need he´d become used to during the last month creep up his belly. His fingers twiched. He pressed his lips together. He had a package hidden in his locker – taped it to the ceiling actually, just to be on the safe side. No. He would not go there.
He would not disappoint Cas again.
He watched the girl at the car instead. She was beautiful, all long legs and gorgeous boobs, long wavy hair an exceptional shade of red...a real heartbreaker in the girl´s department. Her lovely face displayed a variety of emotions tho...and no happy ones among them. Dean was intrigued. She looked...desperate. And angry. And ...sad.
When voices came from the garage, she hastily threw the cigarette on the ground, grinding it with her elegant boot and kicking it under the car. Within seconds she had disappeared in the car, an arrogantly bored expression on her face.
Strange. Very strange indeed.
Dean shrugged and wanted to close the sliding door when he saw groupie boy and his entourage coming out the main entrance. They went straight to the Mustang, laughing and kidding around. Man, what a bunch of spoiled wannabes.
They opened the doors and slipped into the car, Mr. Douchebag at the wheel – where else would he sit – and Dean got a last glimpse of Redhead and her very appealing pout.
The motor roared, tyres squealed, and the whole gang disappeared around the corner.
Dean scratched his sore neck.
Interesting group dynamics. He wondered why anyone would watch soap operas on TV when one could witness scenes like this in real life.