summary: something new and blossoming; love.
content: gn!reader. college!au. newly established relationship, very giddy in love vibes, figuring each other out. close proximity, gentle touches, kisses, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart, pretty).
college!dean masterlist ♡
Flickering fire paints Dean a plethora of pretty colors. Deep orange on his skin and shining yellow in his eyes as he faces the pit and watches the smoke billow up. It smudges out into a dark night sky, blending and oozing.
Too much staring, but he's so pretty like this. Carefree and smiling in a bright way that shows off his canines, laughing amongst his fellow pretty-boy friends. But you think he's the prettiest of all, so sure when his gaze flits to yours where you sit across the bonfire. His giddiness catches, then.
He looks at you so happily, like you're brighter than the flames.
It's very hard to ignore the butterflies, as they flutter about your stomach.
"Come here," he mouths, half-hidden by a standing body. He leans forward in his lawn chair to see you better, brows raised in waiting. They furrow at the shake of your head.
You would really like to be close, to talk to him and hear his handsome voice. To smell his leather and too-much body spray, see his spattering freckles clear. But he's all surrounded with boys that are tall and obnoxious and little intimidating, you'd like it to be just him.
That would be so lovely, it's easy to get lost in. Dean and you and the fire, the wind and the trees. The heat of his side pressed to yours and your fingertips sweeping the scratched denim on his knee, you'd let him talk and talk. For hours and about everything, anything. Cars or his brother or the freezing winters of Kansas. Nothing is boring coming from him, you've noticed.
He's gone now, no longer in his seat. But there's a pair of boots on the grass where you'd gotten lost staring down at, and you find him when your head tips up. All for you and grinning in a pretty uptilt that spins your heart into a tizzy, even more so when a subtle dimple appears by the line of his cheek.
"Hey," he breathes out. "You with me?"
You nod, it's easy. Easier to smile and simple to feel very in love as he crouches by your chair, one ring-clad hand on your thigh. After a still moment, "You don't like my friends, huh?"
A small grimace. "They're just a lot," you answer. "Loud. You aren't that loud with me."
He squeezes at the plush of your leg, and you reach to brush over the honey brown hair that tufts behind his ears. Gentle, affectionate displays are still new and shy, less so for him, but becoming regular. Natural. You're excited for when they become normal and all the time.
"'Cause I care about you," he tells, voice quiet. Laughter swells loud in the background, before he leans in close to make everything calm again. Pink lips press chaste to your chin and he pulls back, now wearing a wash of rose. It bites at the apples of his cheeks and crowns the bridge of his nose.
It's nice to know that he gets just as flustered as he makes.
"That's nice," you whisper, feeling funny. He blinks at you.
"Too loud?" he asks, all attentive. Always, when it's you. His fingers scoop up to the softness of your waist and remain tender, light. "We can leave, if you want."
"Do you want to leave?"
He shrugs. "I want whatever you want, baby."
Baby is new, he's been introducing it with soft sentences. It sticks honey-sweet every time, and you're sure he can tell by the way you shift and melt down into something pliable and for the taking. He doesn't take. He gives so that you feel so lovely forever.
"Let's go, sweetheart," he coaxes, because he knows you want to.
Your gaze flits to the fire over his shoulder. "It's pretty, though."
You're pretty, he wants to say.
"We can come back later if you want," he offers. His fingertips trace nonsensical shapes against the fabric of your shirt. "Start it up again, a small one. When it's just us."
It's what you've wanted the entire night, and there's a blooming in your chest. It's delicate and golden and Dean stokes it with another kiss, this time to the corner of your lips. He pushes eagerly into the touch of your hand as your thumb smoothes over his cheek.
"I'd like that." Your answer comes as a breath that he leans in to hear.
Dean Winchester x Reader; College AU
Summary: Dean Winchester is the star quarterback at State University, but he failed English 205 last semester. His coach is disappointed in the example he's setting for his teammates and his little brother, Sam. Desperate for Coach Singer's approval, Dean is set up for a tutoring session with the best English TA that State University offers.
Word Count: 11,000
Note: I wrote this originally for the blog @inhellandheaven nearly 12 years ago (here is the original) and it was probably one of the most popular series I ever wrote lol. I re-read it a few weeks ago and my only thought was dear god, i can do so much better, so here we are. is it weird that i'm re-writing one of my own fics? probably. but we're doin' it anyway.
Masterlist. AO3.
as always, i crave feedback from readers! Please send me a message, reblog, or reply with your thoughts/reactions/questions!
"some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em." - twelfth night.
There were a few things that Dean Winchester had always prided himself on.
First, he had a badass car that he’d rebuilt himself from the ground up. The ’67 Impala that his dad had given him at 15 years old was his pride and joy and he loved talking about it any time he got the chance. Not only had he rebuilt it, but Dean himself had paid for all of the parts. In fact, it had taken him the better part of a year to save up; a whole summer sweating his ass off mowing every lawn in a 5 mile radius (with a fuckin’ push mower, no less), a whole fall racing home from football practice to rake leaves, a whole winter busting his ass to shovel snow, and a whole spring mulching and planting flowers. It was hard work, but the car was worth it.
Second, he could charm the hell out of a woman with little to no effort. Even before the scholarship and the airtime on ESPN, Dean had a way with women of all ages. He’d never had a serious girlfriend, but a hardly a weekend went by where he didn’t have some girl blushing over a drink or hanging on his arm.
And third, he could throw a 55 yard pass on a bull’s eye with one arm tied behind his back.
No exaggeration either - he’d proven it at many a party in high school. Some people could solve a Rubik’s Cube in under a minute, some girls could put a shooter of Jack between their tits and drink it without spilling a drop, but Dean’s usual party trick involved someone bringing out a football and putting an apple on their head.
He would like to remember high school as a wonderful time in which he learned many valuable life lessons that would prepare him for adulthood… it hadn’t been, but Dean would’ve liked to remember it that way.
In all honesty, high school hadn’t prepared him at all for college. His school in Lawrence was small; everyone knew everyone and had known everyone since they were in pre-school. His ability to throw a football was something that everyone in school was used to. By the time he led the team to a state championship his junior year, his classmates were used to his talent and collectively ignored it (unless it was football season).
Freshman year of college wasn’t even that bad, truly. He’d been recruited by State University, one of the best in the state, but the starting quarterback was a senior, so Dean got to ride the pine. He sat back, learned the plays, got enough game time that ESPN knew his name, got invited to all of the best parties, and made sure his grades were decent. It was better than being a frat boy and alot easier than anything he’d ever done before.
The attention had been nice, he had to admit. He hung out with his teammates, and that State jersey came with some recognition. Dean couldn’t go to any of the many cafeterias on campus, or to any on-campus events, or, hell, even to another team’s games without being approached. On the one hand, Dean really enjoyed the attention – it was nice to be recognized for all of his hard work – but sometimes he wished he could just sit out on the front lawn of campus without some girl trying to sit beside him to ask about one of his teammates.
Now his sophomore year… that was when it all broke open.
He started that year and he became a household name overnight. By midseason, Dean led the conference in passing yards, passing touchdowns, fewest interceptions, and had the least amount of sacks in the conference (a fact that he often used to get his offensive line laid at parties).
That was the season that Dean outlawed ESPN in the apartment.
Once the anchors started arguing about whether or not Dean would be a first round pick when he graduated and which NFL teams needed to pull the trigger and make a move for him, he threatened to destroy the TV if he came in to see that channel on again. His roommates bitched and moaned, but Dean was serious. The last thing he wanted was anyone (himself included) to get a big ego and fuck it all up.
Freshman year, people approached him because they wanted to talk to his teammates. But sophomore year, Dean Winchester was the center of attention.
He fucking hated it.
Everyone wanted a piece of him, and all for the wrong reasons, but Dean just stayed close to his teammates and wore a hoodie with sunglasses, hoping no one would notice who he was. It never worked, but he tried anyway.
That season was magical, though. They made it farther in the conference playoffs than a State team had ever made it before, and before the clock ran out in the 4th quarter of the last game, Dean’s phone was ringing off the hook. Players from all over the country - dudes who Dean saw on the cover of Madden - were calling him, trying to get him to enter the transfer portal to play with them.
Dean declined, opting to stay at his State University and finish out his degree. He loved State; he loved being close to home so his family could see him play in person, and he loved his teammates. He had no reason to want to leave.
He spent most of that spring semester doing anything he could to go home for a few days, and when spring finals were over, Dean was ecstatic to go home and stay for a while. He spent that blissful summer teaching his 16 year old brother how to drive (and to be honest, he didn’t even yell that much when Sam nearly hit a mailbox), how to work on a car, and what lines to use when talking to a girl.
Back in Lawrence, Dean was the same kid that he’d been in high school – except now he was on TV on Saturdays. He could go to Wal-Mart, hang out with his brother Sam, or go to the movie theater and no one would try to touch him or get his autograph – they’d say ‘hi’ and go on with their business. After the mob mentality of the students at State, it was a welcome respite.
At the end of the summer, however, Dean knew he had to go back to State, and for some reason he dreaded it. It was only his junior year and he knew he still had two seasons left, but Dean didn’t want to leave his mother, father, or brother. Sammy loved whenever Dean came home or whenever he got to see Dean play. And Dean would never admit it to anyone, but seeing his family wearing replicas of his jersey at games made Dean happier than anything.
But he loved football. He loved the rush of running on the field under the lights, the roar of the fans and the crowd, shooting the shit with his teammates in the locker room.
So when July hit, Dean went to pre-season camp with his team. The football team wasn’t the only team on campus, but the main student body hadn’t come back yet, so Dean enjoyed more freedom than he would when everyone came back in August.
In all actuality, there was a camaraderie with the fall sports teams that was different than the other seasons. Sure, State University had a fantastic athletics program and the athletes were all closer than Dean would have imagined. The teams all took care of each other, and Dean loved that. He would always notice the way the volleyball and golf teams came to games and sat together, and Dean made sure that his teammates repaid the favor, attending nearly every home game on campus for any sport.
You fill their stands and they’ll fill yours.
In fact, the only brawl that the football team was ever involved in was at a party and it was over a softball player. She’d been at a non-athletes party (Dean never did figure out who the fuck threw the party) and had text one of his wide receivers, Benny, that she was being cornered and she needed to get out of there fast.
Dean, the sober one at the party, had loaded up the offensive and defensive lines in the back of his truck and broke every speed limit till they got to the address she’d given.
And the next week at practice, Coach Singer (Dean’s coach) and Coach Harvelle (the softball coach) both approached him and told him they appreciated what he’d done for the softball team. He’d just shrugged and said they all needed to take care of each other, and he’d be sure to call the softball team if a girl ever gave him any trouble.
The day before classes started, Dean was surprised to see a text from Coach Singer, asking him to stop by his office before lunch. Figuring it had something to do with play-calling for the year, Dean put on some sneakers and took the long way around campus to the building his coach’s office was in.
“Coach Singer?” Dean asked, knocking on his coach’s door. “You wanted to see me?”
“Sure did, Winchester. Have a seat.”
Dean nodded, walking into the office and having a seat in one of the leather chairs in front of the desk.
His freshman year, Singer had intimidated the hell out of him. In fact, during the entire recruitment process, Dean had been convinced that Singer just fuckin’ hated him. All he really did was stare down his nose at Dean and rub his beard.
He later found out that if Singer did a lot of beard rubs in your presence, it meant he liked you.
“‘Sup coach?”
Coach Singer was blunt and that was something Dean respected. Without preamble, he put a piece of paper on the desk in front of Dean and nodded toward it.
Dean narrowed his eyes as he picked it up, realizing it was a copy of his transcript. Fuck.
“Can you tell me what your GPA was last semester, son?”
Dean grimaced and looked down at the paper, even though he knew exactly what it had been. “Right at a 2.0.”
“Sure is,” Coach Singer replied, crossing his arms. No beard rubs.
Dean flinched. He let the silence hang for a moment before clearing his throat. “Uh – sir, isn’t a 2.0 eligible?”
It was a lame question meant only to fill the silence. Dean knew damn well it was. In fact, he’d kind of planned it that way - he’d known he could fail a class and when the English professor started talking about all the required reading…
Well, he’d had better things to do.
Coach Singer took a breath before nodding. “Yes, Winchester, you’re eligible for the season,” he huffed, face beginning to turn red the way it did when he was pissed.
Dean swallowed. “Then what’s the problem, sir?”
Singer stared at him for a few minutes before reaching out for the paper again. He took out his reading glasses and sat them low on his nose as his eyes scanned the paper. Dean didn’t know why he was reading it again, he was pretty sure that Singer had his grades memorized.
“Gotta admit,” Singer began, “I should’ve had a better handle on this in the spring. I know it was the off-season, but I left academics to fuckin’ Rufus this season, and I knew better.” He huffed again, grumbling something that sounded suspiciously like stupid son of a bitch under his breath.
“You’re my quarterback,” Coach went on, eyes landing on Dean, “and you’re the leader of this team – the example. I can’t have my younger guys coming in here and seeing their junior starting quarterback is skating by with the bare minimum.”
He threw the paper down on the desk. “Fact is, you’re smarter than this, Winchester, and we both know it. Not sure why you blew off English last semester.”
Dean bit his lip and looked in his lap. It was true – he’d slacked off last semester, going home at every opportunity instead of doing any kind of reading homework. He’d known his GPA would be low, but not this low.
He’d just Skype’d with Sammy last night telling him that he needed to keep his grades up or he’d never make it to Stanford. Now here Dean was… a hypocrite.
But Dean wasn’t a quitter; he never had been. He took a deep breath and raised his chin as he looked Coach in the eyes.
“So what should I do?” Dean asked, sincere. “Do I need to join a tutoring group? Study hall?”
“Think that would be a good start, son.”
Dean nodded. “We still doin’ team study hall on Mondays?”
Singer nodded. Each team had a designated day and time that was dedicated to Study Hall. For football, it usually consisted of watching film, but Dean would make a concentrated effort to show the guys he was putting in the work on his grades.
But he remembered some of the conversations that had taken place in that English 205 class - it was Shakespeare focused. He’d started the semester by actually trying to read the material, and he still didn’t have a damn clue what was going on.
“Sir?”
Singer looked up over his glasses, giving Dean his attention.
“If I need to take English 205 again —”
“You do,” Singer interrupted.
“Then I need a tutor. I’ll be honest, I didn’t have a clue what was going on and I’m not sure I will the second go-round either.”
The corners of Singer’s mouth dipped, like he was saying well alright then. He clicked a button to start up his computer. “I’ll send an email over to the head of the English Department. She usually has a few tutors who will work with our practice schedule - I’ll see what we can work out.”
“Appreciate it, sir.”
Singer began typing out the email and pinned Dean with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t let me down, son.”
Dr. Jody Mills, the head professor of the English Department sent Dean an email the next day, assuring him that the tutors always started their meetings one week after classes began. Coach Singer had met with her and told Dean that Dr. Mills had assured him that most of her tutors didn’t give a shit about football, so none of them would take his status as a football player into any consideration for his tutoring.
Dean was glad for that, at least. If he was doing the tutoring to be an example to his team, then his team had to know he was putting in the work and not skating by because some English major had heart eyes.
It was a rough week for Dean. With everyone back on campus, he had been swarmed again. He stopped going anywhere without his roommates or teammates, even the dining hall. After a drunk freshman sat on his lap in the middle of the quad and grabbed his hand to put down her tube top, he stopped going anywhere without a hood, hat, and sunglasses.
“Girls are rough this year, boss,” Benny LaFitte, his center, observed the day after the Tube Top Incident (as his teammates had called it).
“You’re not fuckin’ lyin’,” Dean grumbled. He discarded his backpack next to the couch of the apartment and collapsed into it, burying his face into a throw pillow.
Garth Fitzgerald IV (he was always picky about reminding people he was the fourth) was the senior kicker for the team, and he groaned from his position on the other couch. “Man, I had the second-most field goals in the conference last year, and do you know how many girls have approached me to discuss my stats?”
“Zero?” Benny laughed.
“Exactly,” Garth answered. “Guess how many have approached me to talk about Winchester’s stats.”
“I don’t wanna know,” Dean groaned.
His phone pinged and Dean groaned even louder. He wanted to ignore it, but he’d had the email app set with a specific ringtone in case the tutor emailed, and that was exactly what he’d heard.
From: [email protected]
Dean Winchester,
We are one week into the semester and your name has been requested for a tutoring session. Here are the dates and times I am available from now until Thursday. Your coach mentioned that Friday would be next to impossible - would you mind to bring a copy of your practice schedule for this month so we can figure out a plan moving forward?
Respond with what date/time you would like to meet and I will reserve room 603 in the library. Coach Singer also mentioned you would like a private session, so the sooner I get your email, the sooner I can promise an empty room.
Please also bring a copy of your English 205 syllabus and the required textbook for the class.
Thank you.
He gazed over the email and rolled his eyes. “Fuckin’ English majors,” he grumbled.
“What’s up?” Benny asked, mouth full of ramen.
“Finally got my email for the tutor,” he told him and Garth.
“Sweet,” Garth answered. “When’s the first session?”
“That’s the catch,” Dean was bitter. “Only session they’ve got that’ll work is tonight after weights. Fuck.”
Dean loved the weight room, but he was normally sore as hell afterward. All he’d want to do is eat, shower, and collapse into bed. In that exact order.
Definitely not study Shakespeare.
His other roommate, Castiel Novak, entered the living room, having heard the tail end of the conversation. Cas was Dean’s best wide receiver. One one of the few occasions that he’d actually listened to the guys on ESPN, they’d commented that Cas seemed to live in Dean’s head (or maybe it was the other way around), the two of them were that in sync on the gridiron.
Not only was he the best wide-out Dean had ever played with, he was Dean’s best friend.
“After weights, you say?” He asked, patting Dean’s legs so he’d move and leave space on the couch.
“Yep,” Dean groaned.
Cas grinned. “Bet you’re wishing you’d paid attention in English last semester, huh?”
“Shut the fuck up, Cas.”
He typed a hasty email back, letting the tutor know that tonight would be perfect, thank you very much, but he’d be coming straight from the weight room, so he might be minute or two late.
And of course, he had been. He raced across the quad from the weight room, praying to any god that would listen that there wasn’t anyone else out there at this time of evening. He was sore from pushing himself with weights and pissy because he hadn’t eaten dinner yet, and wouldn’t for another hour or so.
He’d only had to dodge a couple of people in the quad, feeling super rude but mentioning he had somewhere to be.
The student aid who worked in the library at this time of evening, a quiet redhead with a name tag that said CHARLIE<3 gave him directions to room 603 - which was, of fucking course, three flights of stairs up.
He burst into the room and looked down at his watch. 8:10.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he swore, running his hand through his still-damp hair. He sighed. “Great first impression.”
“Tell me about it,” a voice huffed.
Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked at the table where the owner of the voice was sitting. He could feel the blood rush to his face as he saw the prettiest girl he had ever seen. He exhaled and any thought of his “Winchester Charm” was immediately gone.
You were dressed extremely comfortably, a pair of black leggings, flip flops, and an oversized gray State sweatshirt. He thought he saw a hint of make up, but nothing like most of the girls who encountered him on campus. It was refreshing - more refreshing than Dean had thought it would be.
If you’d asked in that moment, Dean wasn’t totally sure he could’ve told you his name. He stared into your eyes for a few moments before feeling the awkwardness of the silence and reaching too quickly for his backpack, knocking it off the table in the process.
“Shit,” he mumbled, bending over to get it. Luckily, nothing had been unzipped yet, so nothing spilled, but Dean was furious with himself. He’d probably just busted his laptop screen over a damn English Tutor for Christ’s sake.
“Great way to start,” you mumbled, reaching into your own backpack. Dean sat back down and watched as you got out your own laptop, notes, and a teacher’s copy of the book Dean had. As he watched, Dean felt the silence only become more awkward.
“I’m so sorry I was late,” he began, but you held up a hand.
“It’s fine.”
He was breathing heavy from running up the stairs, already spent from the evening with weights (it had been leg day, of course). “No it’s not.”
Feeling your eyes on him, Dean sat at the table next to you and started pulling stuff out of his backpack. English textbook, binder, laptop, pen, and a crumpled practice schedule.
He cleared his throat, “I’m – uh, I’m Dean Winchest–“
“I know who you are,” you snapped, keeping your eyes on your syllabus.
“You, uh, you do?” Dean raised his eyebrows and felt a small smile start to form.
You rolled your eyes, putting your arms on the table to face him.
“Yeah, I do. You’re Dean Winchester,” you mocked, putting your clasped hands up to your cheek like any other freshman fangirl, “the quarterback of State’s football team and every cheerleader’s wet dream. You’re only here because you have to have a 2.0 to play or because your coach is forcing you. You’re going to blow this off like every single football player I’ve ever tutored and you’re going to try to get me to write your papers for you and if I don’t, you’re going to complain to your coach about having a shitty tutor. And then I’m not going to get as many tutoring jobs. Which I need.”
Dean felt his mouth hang open. No one ever talked to him like that, especially not here at State. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time someone had spoken to him with such malice. He opened his mouth and tried to ignore the flush that creeped up his neck as he started to defend himself but you interrupted him.
“Just save it,” you sighed. “We’ll try this for a week or two and I’ll get you another tutor who’s more… your speed.”
Dean sank back into his chair as you pulled out the assignment list for his English 205 class. He’d never been so goddamn speechless. And he’d been interviewed by Tim Tebow.
What the fuck.
But you never missed a beat, you pushed your hair behind your ear and scanned the list. You sighed, looking him up and down. You looked down your nose at him and Dean had to fight to keep his hackles from rising.
“It looks like you have to read the first few acts of Macbeth before next week. Crowley has a few things he likes students to be able to discuss with each act, so I can go ahead and give you an overview of Act 1 and the topics that he likes to –“
“I’m not like the rest of my team,” Dean blurted, leaning over the table and looking you directly in the eyes.
You looked up and narrowed your eyes at him. He saw the tight line of your mouth as you digested what he’d said. “That’s not my business -” you began, but now that Dean had gathered his wits, he interrupted you.
“Look, I’m not here just because Coach is making me.”
“Sure,” you sneered, leaning back and crossing your arms. “I’ve heard that before.”
He opened his mouth and then closed it, squinting at you. “You have?”
You rolled your eyes. “Think you’re the first one who’s tried the lines on me?” You lowered your voice in a really good impression of Gabriel, the tight end. “‘I was only failin’ English because I knew you are the tutor. I begged coach to get me a session with you, babe. I was jus’ too nervous to talk to you in front of people.’”
Dean had to bite back a laugh. “You know Gabe?”
You rolled your eyes. “Knew.”
He swallowed and the venom in your tone. You leaned back over the assignments list and reached out for your textbook. “My job is to help you pass. I don’t have to like you.”
Dean’s hand shot out to touch your wrist. He repeated your name. “Look, I know my teammates make a joke out of their grades, I’m not blind, alright? I’m not interested in turnin’ this into some kind of Off-Campus situation.”
He thought he saw a bit of a blush creep across your cheeks.
“Thank God,” you hissed, jerking your wrist away from him.
“But maybe if they see me taking it seriously with no ulterior motive, then they will take it seriously. I don’t expect you to write my papers or anything like that, I don’t want to take advantage of you, and that’s not the example I want to set for them.”
He took another breath and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. He felt like he was blowing this. And Dean Winchester did not fold under pressure.
“I need them to see that their grades are important.”
You narrowed your eyes and he’d never felt so exposed. The lines weren’t gonna work here, he knew. You were someone who only responded to honesty.
“It’s not just for them or for the school, alright?” He bit out.
“Then what?”
He looked down at his lap. “I got a brother, he’s 16.”
When you didn’t ask a question or prod him on, Dean set his lips tight and looked up at you. “He’s smart, so fuckin’ smart. He’s got a chance to really do somethin’, you know? And I don’t just mean like, football. Sure, sports are great, but Sam’s… he could do something with his brain. He wants to go to Stanford or somethin’ Ivy League.”
“And you’re afraid if he sees you blowing off your education…” your eyes had softened, the set of your jaw a little less severe.
He rolled his shoulders. “Yeah. Besides, there’s no shot at the NFL if they see me as some kind of party boy who can’t handle his business.”
He stiffened as he felt the wisdom of John Winchester seep into his words. He subtly shook his head before he looked back at you.
Dean felt the intensity of your eyes bear into his own, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth or not. After a few heavy seconds, your mouth set again, a more determined look coming to your eyes.
“Well, I guess you can prove that,” you quietly said.
Dean exhaled, taking it for the olive branch it was. He hadn’t planned on telling you about Sam, but he’d needed to give you something real, and his true desire in going to the NFL was about as real as it got.
Sam had the brains and the drive to go somewhere and make something of himself. Dean had the talent and drive to sign a hundred-thousand-dollar-a-year-contract, and he’d need it if he was going to pay Sam’s tuition when the time came.
“Did you bring your practice schedule?”
He nodded, handing you the crumpled paper. He flinched, “I can send you a digital copy instead.”
You shook your head and looked it over. “No, I like paper copies better.”
He watched your eyes as you looked over the dates and times.
“Is this accurate?” You asked, narrowing your eyes as you looked it over. “You practice this much?”
“Uhh,” Dean leaned over so he could see it better. “Yeah, pretty much. The times might be off on one here and there, but for the most part, that’s what we stick to. I double checked when Singer gave me the copy.”
“Does it change much? Like, for weather or anything?”
He shook his head. “Nah, unless there’s a hurricane.”
You chuckled at that, but only for a second before your indifferent face was back. “Don’t get many of those in Kansas.”
Dean had asked for the most thorough practice schedule Singer could give him. It was a spreadsheet that listed the date, the activity (or activities), time, location, and a back up plan in case of weather. He wanted to make sure he wasn’t having to cancel or make anything harder for his tutor.
He smiled at your comeback, the first thing you’d said that wasn’t laced with rage or pity. “Do you have certain hours you’re supposed to tutor?”
You nodded and pulled out an agenda book. Flipping it open to August, you showed Dean your own work hours and class schedule. Everything was color-coded and highlighted. Dean’s eyes flicked to the very crumpled paper he’d handed you and he felt very lackluster. He made a mental note to get a new, fresh copy for the next session.
“I have hours I’m available, but Dr. Mills told me to tutor you and make myself readily available to you,” you scoffed.
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? That sounds like a Casa Erotica plot.”
The joke did not land.
You looked at him out of the corner of your eye and shrugged. “State University takes the football program very seriously, Dean. Can’t say the same for the English program.”
His grin died on his face. That was absolutely not the vibe he wanted for this. Was that why you’d acted like you hated him so much?
“Well, I don’t want to put you out or anything,” he began. “Like, if you live off-campus or something. I’d hate for you to have to be here real late or something ‘cause of me.”
Your eyes softened for just a moment before you looked back down at the agenda and his schedule. “Well, I live in the apartments on Grandmore Ave.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean perked up a little. “That’s only like a block or two from us.”
You just nodded then. “So it doesn’t matter how late we meet, I’m flexible.”
“Why’d Dr. Mills ask you to do it?” He blurted. Dean mentally smacked his forehead. What the hell was it with this English tutor that he had absolutely zero tact?
You shrugged. “Probably because I’m Crowley’s TA.”
The corners of his mouth pulled down. “A TA? As a junior?”
You just nodded. Humble.
“That’s pretty impressive, sweetheart.”
You shrugged and looked back at the agenda in front of you. “I like reading.”
“Yeah, well, you must be a glutton for punishment if you like being the TA for Professor Snape over there.”
“Snape, huh?”
The corners of Dean’s mouth turned up in a smirk. “Got a better reference?”
Without looking at him, you simply said, “He’s more of a Dolores Umbridge, I’d think. Even Snape got a redemption arc.”
Dean guffawed, glad that the door was closed and no one could hear him. “Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty accurate. Dude would probably torture people if they allowed it here. How you stand workin’ for a guy like that?”
You took a hand off your book and leaned over with your chin in your palm. “I don’t know. Last year I was grading papers for him and I asked him about one of them. We argued over the implications of Shakespeare in modern pop culture and I guess I impressed him. He doesn’t bother me much.”
“What was your take on it?” Dean found himself asking. He wanted you to get talking about yourself - he knew from experience that women loved expressing their opinions, even more when he told them he agreed with them (even if he didn’t). But for some reason, Dean was actually interested in what you had to say. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to know how your mind worked.
Just so she’ll help me get my grade up, he told himself.
You looked down at the book. “Well, in Shakespeare’s time, he was pop culture. Elizabethan Era England really only had the theater as their entertainment. In fact, the Globe was one of the more popular ones and it drew people from all economic classes.”
“Like a movie theater these days.”
“Kind of,” you went on. “Think of it more like a concert, but you only pay a quarter to get in and stand near the stage. The fancy people paid more to sit for the whole performance, of course, but the actors on stage actually interacted with the people standing. So whenever Shakespeare and the other playwrights wrote scripts, they knew it had to be interesting for the well-educated nobility and the illiterate peasants, because they would both be there.”
Dean stayed silent and leaned in, hoping you would go on. As you’d talked, your eyes had lit up and he saw the sparkle within the striking color of them. You seemed to expand as you talked, but your focus was only inward as you brought the information to life.
“It made fun of politicians, there were romances and tragedies, comedies, he pulled from popular tales from even the Greeks and Romans, he had history plays that told the story of England’s most famous rulers… and through it all, people paid to be there. And everyone left the theater knowing something they didn’t before they got there.”
You sighed, the sound hopeful and almost romantic. “I argued with Crowley that theater in late 1500’s England was more accessible than even the Church or the Bible.”
Dean couldn’t help the raise in his eyebrows and the way his mouth hung open a little. The silence lingered for a beat too long and you turned your head. He could see the fear in your expression, that Oh God, I fangirled too hard and now he’ll think I’m weird face, but Dean was in awe.
He cleared his throat, making a fist in front of his mouth. “And, uh, did Crowley agree?”
“No,” you laughed then. “He never agrees, but I think he respected my point that Shakespeare was and should be for everyone, so he isn’t cruel to me anymore.”
He knew he was staring then, but he couldn’t help it. Dr. Crowley was one of the more intimidating, asshole Professors on campus. He was the type of guy that older students would warn a person not to take, because if you had an opinion that he deemed wrong and you made the mistake of putting it in front of the class… well, it was your funeral for the rest of the semester.
But you’d been his TA (which was a position that was much sought after and highly coveted) and stood up to him with an opinion you knew he didn’t agree with… well, that was ballsy.
The way you’d talked about it with Dean, someone who didn’t know jackshit about Shakespeare, other than the thees and thous, had been just this side of passionate. He could only imagine how you’d looked defending yourself with someone who actually had enough knowledge to argue back. And to stun that person into just accepting you?
“I can definitely see you as a teacher,” Dean admitted.
You narrowed your eyes, a disbelieving smile starting to creep to your face. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged, putting his chin in his hands, elbows supporting him on the table. “You’ve got the passion. I mean, you just convinced me that Shakespeare is for everyone. We need teachers like that.”
You looked away, clearly uncomfortable with his praise and respect. But Dean didn’t care - you had it anyway.
“Alright then,” you stated, back to all business. “Let’s start by meeting once a week and see what we think. Next session you can tell me how you feel about the class and we can decide if we want to meet more than once a week.”
He just nodded and opened his textbook. “You said Macbeth, right?”
You nodded, reaching for your assignment list. “It’s his favorite, so you better know your shit, Sweetness.”
Dean cocked an eyebrow. His stomach felt hollow as the corner of your mouth tilted and you looked at him out of the corner of your eye, waiting to see if he’d caught the nickname. You continued, slyly telling him the page number, but he held up a hand.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a minute. Sweetness? You know Walter Payton, sweetheart?”
You turned your face to look, amusement dancing in the line of your lips. Dean felt his own mouth go dry.
“Well,” you drawled. “I ain’t gonna call you the Colt, if that’s what you mean.”
All of the pleasure he’d found in your banter died. Dean groaned and put his head in his hands. “Do not even start,” he ground out.
You giggled. You honest-to-God giggled and Dean’s head whipped up at the sound. You bit your lip and Dean realized he’d made a big mistake.
“Not a fan of your nickname, huh?”
He huffed. “I hate that stupid nickname,” he chided. “I have no idea which son of a bitch gave it to me, but I could punch him.”
“I think that would be Tim Tebow,” you continued, bowing your head and hiding your smile.
“It doesn’t even make sense,” Dean lamented. “The Colt isn’t even a Winchester gun. The least they could’ve done is give me something after a Winchester gun. That would make too much sense though.”
“Could be worse. You could be called the Henry.”
Dean rolled his eyes, smirking at his textbook. “So you know football, huh?”
“More of a baseball girl, myself. But yeah, I watch ESPN occasionally.”
He smirked, imagining you watching his highlights on ESPN. You had to if you knew about the nickname.
“But seriously,” he added, pointing a finger at you. “Don’t call me Colt. I get enough of that shit, trust me.”
You shrugged, “No promises, Winchester.”
You stood outside the door to your apartment, listening closely. Your study session with Dean had lasted about twice as long as it was supposed to. You’d finally shut it down at 10 minutes before 11, telling him the truth: you had to work in the morning. He’d groaned, citing that he had a 6 am weights session before his first class of the day and would be going strong until tomorrow evening.
But it had been hard to end it. You’d discussed the first act of Macbeth, outlining the basic premise for Dean on a piece of paper in a spare notebook. They were still discussing Act 1 in class, so you’d done a more in-depth analysis on the first two scenes, setting up the plot.
Dean had been engaged. You’d conducted enough TA classes and tutoring study sessions that you knew the difference between someone who was actually engaged and someone who had zoned out.
You’d watched his green eyes and noted how he seemed to light up whenever you mentioned a topic that he’d heard during the first three classes. He was eager to learn, asking questions about performed verses and the meanings of lines and prophecies. You were surprised to find that Dean was very intelligent, his only problem was the lack of academic effort that the football team had allowed him to get by with.
But when your watch had buzzed and you’d seen a text from your roommate asking where you were, you’d reluctantly ended the session.
He’d smiled that winning smile, the same one you’d seen on your search page when you’d looked him up before heading to the library. You looked away, hoping you didn’t give yourself away and berated yourself.
You’d come into the session with Dean Winchester the same way you’d approached tutoring sessions with any of the athletes at State University: with distain.
These athletes had bit you in the ass last year more times than you could count. For tutoring, you only got paid by the university if the student actually showed up and signed off. Once, you’d spent an hour helping a student from the men’s basketball team and it had gone extremely well. But when the time came for him to sign off on the timesheet, he’d asked for your phone number and to take you to dinner. When you’d said no thank you, he’d refused to sign off.
You’d had to take it to Dr. Mills, who found the footage of you in the library and took it to the Dean.
It had been messy and none of the men’s basketball players would schedule you for tutoring after that. Not that you particularly minded.
The quick wit and charm of the Winchester boy was something that could be detrimental though. He was the golden boy of State University Athletics, destined for the NFL, and just generally a down-to-earth guy. Something you knew could lure you in quickly if you let it.
You had zero intention of that.
The football program had the most student athletes on campus and historically, the ones who failed the most classes. It was a big part of your client pool and you refused to lose it because of Dean.
But then, as you were putting the signed timesheet in your folder and putting it away, Dean had hesitated. You’d put on your backpack and tilted your head, waiting for him to say whatever it was on his mind.
He’d said your name again - and you frankly refused to let any of the butterflies in your stomach land - before asking you for your number.
“Excuse me?” You’d tensed, the words coming out with more irritability than you’d wanted.
He’d blushed from the collar of his shirt to his hair line and run a hand over the back of his head.
“Not for anything like - like that,” he’d assured you. “Just, sometimes it’s easier to text than do the email thing. With academics and athletics and the ten million things we have goin’ on all the time on-campus, I tend to miss a lot of’em, and I don’t want to miss a session with you because of it.”
He’d taken a shallow breath before meeting your eyes. “I’m tryin’ to make this convenient for you, if I can.”
You’d grimaced, but he did say it would only be for tutoring, and he had already signed his portion of the timesheet rather than holding it over your head or something. So, to your embarrassment, you’d caved.
He’d taken your number and put it in his phone before telling you goodbye and holding the door open for you to leave the library.
Well, before you’d fled out of the library.
Your roommates had a huge wreath on the outer door of your apartment, decorated in the blue and yellow of State’s colors. It gave color and homeliness to an otherwise sterile white hallway. You put your ear to the door beside the wreath and waited, listening.
The apartment was quiet and you hoped (no, prayed) everyone was asleep or in their rooms. The last thing you wanted was an ambush.
And you knew, without a doubt, they would ambush you.
They always did whenever you had a study session with someone any of them knew.
The three gasps as you opened the door proved that luck just wasn’t on your side today. Three eager faces lit up as they saw you, and three hands raised their wine glasses in a mock salute.
Before you could be bombarded, you held up a finger. They giggled as you walked to your room. You dropped the backpack and reached under your sweatshirt for your bra, taking it off behind your back and pulling the loops down your arms. Only then did you walk back into the living room and sink into a couch cushion.
Your wine glass was placed into your hand, full to the brim.
“Guys,” you whined, “it’s only Thursday.”
“So?” Charlie Bradbury asked, eyes wide.
You rolled your eyes. “Right, no one else cares that it’s Thursday.”
“That is not what I meant,” Charlie rolled her eyes.
“How did it go with Dean?” Bela Talbot asked, leaning toward you on the couch you shared.
Jo Harvelle, who sat with Charlie on the opposite loveseat, took a sip from her glass and nodded, eyes alight.
You narrowed your eyes at Charlie. “You told them?”
She pointedly looked away, sly smile curving her lips. “The moment he walked into the library.”
You playfully rolled your eyes in return as you took a drink of your wine. While Charlie was a more stereotypical English major, Jo and Bela were the stereotypical cheerleaders, only much, much nicer.
You’d known Charlie your entire life and had been ecstatic to go to State University together your freshman year, living in the dorms together. But there had been a mixup in the residential office and they had ignored your request to live together, instead pairing Charlie with Jo and you with Bela, both of whom had also requested to live together.
And while you’d all sent emails to the Residential Life director, they were so behind that it took over a week to get back to you, and by that time you’d all found that the living arrangements weren’t that bad.
In fact, you’d liked it so much that you’d all agreed to keep the living accommodations and requested an apartment together for both sophomore and junior year.
Besides Jo and Bela being gone with some ballgame or other during most of the school year, they were incredibly sweet and went to great lengths to make sure that you and Charlie always felt included in their circle. In fact, most of the State cheerleaders were that way - it was a nice change of pace from the typical cheerleader movie.
“So, tell us!” Jo squealed.
“Tell you what? It was just another tutoring session,” you answered.
Bela smiled and lightly grabbed your arm. “Yeah, but this time it was with Dean Winchester!”
You narrowed your eyes and sipped the tart wine. “It’s supposed to be confidential.”
“Oh hush,” Bela teased. “We figured it out long before Charlie sent us the picture.”
“How?” You were exasperated.
“His roommate, Benny, texted Jo saying Dean had to go to a tutor… an English tutor, and since you happened to have a session tonight…” Bela shrugged. “By the time Charlie went to work and sent us the snap of him… it only confirmed what we already knew.”
You allowed a laugh and looked pointedly at the almost empty wine bottle and their red, flushed faces. “Okay, fair enough. Good detective work. But seriously, you can’t tell anyone that I admitted to it. And please don’t tell anyone he’s in tutoring.”
All three of them screamed at once and started asking questions.
“Was he nice?”
“Is he really that gorgeous up close?”
“Did he say anything about any of us or any other cheerleaders?!”
You giggled and sipped your wine, finally holding up a hand to silence the pandemonium.
“Let me answer the most obvious questions first. Yes, he is just as handsome as he seems on TV. Yes, he’s just as nice as he is in interviews. Yes, his biceps are as big as the look on the Jumbotron. And no, we didn’t talk about anybody except Shakespeare and Dr. Crowley.”
You leaned forward, putting on a semi-intimidating look. “And no, he did not make a move on me.”
“How did you know that was going to be one of our questions?” Charlie asked, narrowing her eyes in mock examination.
You rolled your eyes. “You guys are so transparent.”
The laughter resumed, but you turned to look at Jo. “And excuse me, ma’am, why exactly was Benny Lafitte texting you?”
Jo flushed and hid her face as she took a very large drink from her wine glass. Her on-again-off-again fling with Benny was common knowledge, but not usually a topic of conversation in the apartment until they were officially in “off-again” status. Then came the tears, the ice cream, and the tequila until they were ready to get back together.
She shrugged. “He text me during summer camp.”
“Ugh,” Charlie groaned. “Did you seriously come back early for him?”
Jo just smiled her dreamy smile and sighed. “It was magical.”
“Ew. I don’t even know why you like him,” Bela teased.
You rolled your eyes. “Come off it, Bela. We know who’s got your eye this season too.”
Bela smirked. “Don’t even go there. Michael is just…” she sighed and pretended to fan herself.
“We’ve been sharing the practice field with them this week,” Jo revealed, “and she’s had to run a lot of laps because she keeps watching him instead of the routines.
“I can’t listen to this all season,” you playfully groaned.
When your phone dinged in your hand, you were genuinely confused. The only people who text you at 11 pm were in the room, and it was a text, not an email from Dr. Mills.
As you frowned at the message, another one came in.
You couldn’t help the grin. Against your better judgement, Dean was funny.
Ah, what the hell, you thought, taking a drink of wine before typing back. His response was instant.
You smiled and drained your cup, holding it out for Bela to fill while you typed back a response and changed his contact name. Probably not your finest idea to joke around with Dean like this, but what the hell?
You smirked at the use of the nickname. Dean was going to be trouble.
You were in trouble.
The library was pretty empty, Dean thought, but then again, it was Friday evening. And there was a volleyball game going on across campus. His roommates had been shocked he wasn’t going to make it, but when he said he had another study session, they’d nodded and said they’d let everybody know whenever they asked where he was.
That was good, Dean thought. Let his teammates see that he was missing out on something fun because he needed to take care of his grades.
He’d got to the library fifteen minutes early, following the same familiar route to room 603. He put all of his stuff out on the table, just like last time, but he included the notebook he’d used earlier in the day to take notes. He wanted to compare the notes he’d taken over the discussion to what you, as the TA, knew would be coming up on the test.
The excuse of wanting to do well banged around in his head. He knew that wasn’t why he’d text you last night. That wasn’t even why he’d asked for your number.
He knew the real reason he’d asked for your number, but he prayed you didn’t.
He had felt like a king after class let out today, proud as hell that he’d been able to not only keep up with the conversation, but contribute for the first time in his English academic career. He felt prepared, confident.
And it was all because of you.
He’d had his finger on the Send button for fifteen minutes as he’d waited in the cafe after class, dying to tell you about his new success, but he’d ended up deleting the message. It would be better to see the look on your face anyway.
So did he really need a study session at 8pm on a Friday night? No. He didn’t.
Had he spent extra time prepping for said study session like he was going out on a date?
Maybe.
Normally he’d just don a State t-shirt or hoodie, a pair of comfy shorts or sweats, and his sneakers. Easy and potentially anonymous for whenever he needed to step out on campus.
Not this evening. He’d fled from the locker room after a quick shower, rinsing off the sweat and dirt and grime with speed. He’d gotten to the apartment before his teammates and applied some gel to his unruly hair before spending five solid minutes trying on hats in front of his mirror.
But he was dying to see you.
He wanted you to be proud of him for learning it , but mostly proud of yourself for teaching it to him.
And if you thought he was handsome… well, that was just a bonus then, wasn’t it?
Dean fiddled with his keys before ultimately sticking them in his pocket, nerves making him fidget in his chair. He wasn’t really sure why he wanted your approval, but he did.
You walked in to room 603 on time and jumped when you saw him already there and ready to work.
“Well, hey there, Sweetness.”
He noticed you’d dressed for comfort again with a t-shirt this time, but he couldn’t fault you. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d voluntarily worn actual pants with a button and a belt. Your hair was a little messier today and you’d donned some comfy sneakers instead of flip-flops.
He grinned, gesturing to your chair.
You sat and deposited your bag. You leaned in on your elbows, face excited. “Sooo, how did it go today?”
Dean tried to hide the smirk as he handed you his notes. He’d taken the notebook you’d given him with the outline of the play and just kept going on the next page. All class, he’d looked over your neat, looping handwriting as he flipped back and forth.
You read over them eagerly, finger following different points in his chicken scratch handwriting.
“These are notes you took over the discussion?” You asked, looking up at him.
He nodded, holding your eye contact. “Took notes like I normally do, but I actually knew what they were talkin’ about,” he gushed. He felt the blood rise to the skin of his neck and travel up his ears. He wiped his sweaty palms on his sweats, again.
“Oh, that’s amazing, Dean!”
He keened under your praise, looking down in his lap.
“Did you join the discussion at all?”
“Mostly about James.”
“King James?”
“Yeah, remember you told me that James was always really digging witchcraft and shit? And since Shakespeare wanted to keep the king happy, he wrote a play about witchcraft and demons.”
“Exactly,” you beamed, handing him back his notebook. “Good job, Dean.”
He shrugged it off, like participating in a discussion about a 400 year old play was something he did on the regular. You gave him a shy grin in return and Dean immediately felt stupid.
This was literally your major. You’d told him that you wanted to focus specifically on Shakespeare-era works, so why did he think that him learning the things you’d learned years ago would impress you?
Oh, God. The embarrassment was an icy knife going down his spine. You were just humoring him, weren’t you?
He was so fucked.
You pulled out the copy of the assignment list and glanced at it, comparing it to the agenda you already had pulled out.
“Next assignment is due in two weeks. Have you started on the first paper yet?”
Dean cringed. He started to fidget with his pencil. “Not in the slightest.”
You raised your eyebrows. “Do you have a topic in mind?”
He shrugged.
“Dean,” you scolded and Dean sat up a little straighter at the whine in your voice as you exaggerated his name. “It’s a fifteen page paper and you can only use two online sources.”
He shrugged again and smirked. “Sounds like last-minute material to me, sweetheart.”
You gave him a dead-pan stare.
He threw up his hands, smirk still firmly in place. “There’s a reason I’m not an English major, sweetheart. I do not like writing papers.”
Your expression changed from one of irritation to a coy smile, looking up through your lashes.
“Lucky for you,” you cooed, “I do.”
Dean’s mouth was dry again. His lips parted and his fingers flexed, aching to pull you in so you could stand chest to chest and look at him like that again. He wanted to pull you close and see your lashes close, your plush, pouty lips part. He wanted to know how soft they felt against his own.
He blinked and the fantasy was gone, along with that look on your face. You were back to business.
“Now tell me, what topics are you liking?”
He groaned and shifted in his chair. “That’s always the hardest part. I got no idea what to write about.”
“Well,” you sat back in your chair. “Crowley grades the papers with more weight than the tests.”
“I know that.”
“So that means you need to go ahead and get it done so I can look it over and you’ll have time to correct it if needed.”
“You would?”
You tilted your head. “Of course? I mean, I do kinda get paid to help students.”
Dean grumbled and crossed his arms. “Fine. Got any topic ideas then?”
You scrunched up your face, thinking. He’d seen that look on your face a few times, mostly when he didn’t understand and you were trying to think of a different way to explain. It was cute.
Then your eyes lit up and Dean found himself smiling wide. “What?”
“Why not write about King James? I mean, you already have a pretty basic concept with what you told me earlier.”
“What? About him likin’ demons and witchcraft?”
“Yes,” you smiled at him, a true smile.
And Dean wilted under it. His mouth was dry and his lips parted.
When he didn’t say anything, you went on, “You could tie that to Shakespeare’s motivations. By the time that paper is due, you’ll have finished the whole play and you’ll have even more material to tie to it.”
“Wha- what happens at the end?”
You chuckled. “No spoilers. But seriously, I think you could talk for a while about James’s influence on the play.”
Dean mulled it over. You’d spent a lot of time talking about it the night before, and Dean had actually remembered most of it. He finally nodded and turned his notebook to a new page to write down the topic.
He made a general outline that you talked through with him. His phone buzzed and Dean quickly checked it.
Dean groaned at the roomie group chat. You gave him a sympathetic smile. “Problems on the Gridiron?”
He rolled his eyes. “Sort of. Just remindin’ me that we have curfew tonight.”
And asking about whether or not my tutor is cute. He cringed, that wasn’t really something he wanted to think about.
“What time?” You checked your own watch, it was just half past eight.
“Not ‘till 10,” Dean assured you. “They’re just idiots.”
You nodded. “Sounds like my roommates, too.”
He nodded. “Jo and Bela, right? The cheerleaders?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, and Dean noticed it was a genuine, affectionate smile. Not everyone at State University spoke of the cheer squad that way, but Dean liked that you did.
“Don’t you have a third roommate?”
“Yeah, Charlie. The redhead that was working the desk downstairs?”
“Oh yeah? All your roomies ask a bunch’a embarrassing questions too?” Dean opened the zipper on his backpack to drop his phone into it.
You shrugged and looked down at your notes. “They wanna know how big your dick is, but that’s about it.”
Dean choked and dropped the phone straight out of his hands. “What?”
You snorted. “Just kidding.”
He pointed a finger at you. “Not funny.”
“I laughed. Anyway, what’s your curfew for?” You asked.
“We always have one the night before a game. It’s mostly so Coach knows we ain’t partyin’ when we should be sleepin’.”
“Makes sense. I didn’t realize you played tomorrow. Bela and Jo haven’t said anything.”
“Well, probably because it ain’t at home,” Dean explained. “And I don’t think we’re takin’ the cheerleaders, now that I think about it.”
“Why not?”
He grimaced. “Well, it’s pre-season -”
“So the games don’t really count?” You ventured.
He nodded, relieved you understood.
“I said I like baseball more than football, but I’m not much of an avid sports fan,” you confessed.
“We normally play some really small schools for the first couple scrimmages. Makes us look real good, gives us a chance to try some combinations we don’t normally play together.”
“Like a practice?”
“Right,” he grinned. “Not as high stakes as my English grade, but enough that I should probably be reviewing the playbook instead of Macbeth.”
You shrugged. “We didn’t have to meet tonight,” you offered. “Tutors only have to meet once a week. Anything else is just extra.”
“Wait, do you not get paid for this?” His jaw flexed as his mouth settled tight.
“Well, yeah, I do.”
“Even the extra sessions?”
You nodded. “I just have to have you sign the timesheet so I can turn it in.”
“Well, then I want to give you the full hour. Make sure you get paid.”
Get as many tutoring jobs. Which I need. Your voice floated back to him from the night before. He hadn’t even known he remembered you saying that, but he did.
Dean watched as your eyes softened a little at that. He didn’t understand why, it wasn’t coming out of his paycheck (not that he got one).
“But I’m not sure I can talk about Shakespeare any more tonight,” he admitted.
“We can talk about something else if you’re determined to stay till 9.”
“We can?”
You looked around and he noticed you eyeing the closed door and empty room. You smiled and mock-whispered, “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
Dean snorted. “I don’t wanna talk about football either.”
“You got a deal, Sweetness,” you held your hand out to shake on it.
“Deal.”
He reached for your hand and hoped his palms weren’t as sweaty as they had been earlier. Taking your hand in his, even with the firm handshake John Winchester had engrained in him, Dean’s first thought was how soft the skin of your palm was.
His second thought was wow.
His hand lingered on yours for a few seconds and when he opened his mouth to say something, anything, you jerked your hand away and put it in your lap.
Dean recovered, trying to keep the disappointment out of his eyes and off his face.
“So, uh, where are you from?”
You raised an eyebrow.
“What?” He shot back.
“New rule: no personal questions about me.”
Dean’s brows drew together. “That’s not fair.”
“Sure it is.”
“Well, I hate that rule. You can google pretty much anything about me. It’s not fair that I don’t know anything about you.”
“Who said I would google you?”
Dean opened his mouth for a smart remark and promptly closed it when he realized he didn’t have one.
You shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’m the tutor, so I’m in charge.”
Dean waited a beat before he leaned his elbows on the table. “You don’t have a boyfriend who’s gonna be pissed that I’ve kept you out late two nights in a row, do you?”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re asking me this now, at 8:30 on a Friday night?”
He flinched. “Yeah, good point.”
You sat back in your chair and crossed your arms. Dean looked anywhere but your face, hoping you didn’t notice how nervous he was under your gaze.
“We could probably fudge the timesheet,” you observed.
Now it was Dean’s turn to furrow his brows. “What do you mean?”
“Eh, Dr. Mills isn’t going to be checking the library records to be sure I’m tutoring you the full hour.” Your grin turned devilish and Dean felt his chest clutch tight. “Let’s just leave early.”
Dean shrugged and packed up his stuff into his backpack. “C’mon,” he gestured, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, “I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He waited for you to walk by him before his palm found the small of your back, guiding you past and on your way out of the library.
If you were bothered by the gesture, you didn’t show it so Dean just decided to keep it there for the stairwell.
He rolled his eyes at himself. When the hell had Dean ever questioned himself when it came to women?
The answer was never.
But here he was, actually thinking and wondering if he was going too far by putting his palm on the small of a woman’s back.
He let you get a couple steps ahead of him so his hand could naturally fall away before you opened the exterior door of the library.
“You said you’re a couple blocks from me?”
He nodded. “Violet Drive.”
“Oh, that’s real close then.”
He put his hands in his pockets for lack of something to do with them. You seemed in no great hurry and Dean had a while till curfew at 10.
“You thinking about being a teacher?” He heard himself asking. He couldn’t forget the way your eyes lit up the day before.
You looked down at your sneakers as you walked along the street. “I’d like to be, but I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
You shrugged. “My dad’s pretty against it, but I love reading and there’s not many other options for someone with an English degree.”
“Why’s he hate it?” Dean tried to talk slow, voice low and steady, to appear like he was only mildly interested.
You leveled a glance at him that told him he was failing miserably.
“He says it doesn’t pay enough - which it doesn’t, but I don’t know,” you sighed. “I don’t like the thought of any other field. What about you?”
He shrugged. “Coach talked me into an education degree too, but I don’t know.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, something about the Winchester Legacy, whatever the hell that means.”
You looked down at your feet again. “I guess your major doesn’t matter much if you’re planning on the NFL.”
Dean chuckled bitterly. “Yeah, unless I get hurt, or have a bad season, or don’t get along with my coaches, or I have some kind of scandal, or literally anything else that could ruin my career.”
You slowed your steps to his, holding back so that you were only an inch from Dean’s shoulder. “Seems like a lot of things can go wrong.”
“Yep,” he agreed. He looked down the street and was thankful it was empty.
“But you sound like someone who’s pretty committed.”
He looked down at you out of the corner of his eye. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do,” he admitted. “Being on the field is the only time that I really feel like me. Like what I’m doing matters. I’m in control.”
Your building was on the right, Dean veered that way. You moved with him, eyes still on your feet.
You were silent as Dean walked you up the steps to the door. You got your badge out of the side pocket of your backpack and finally looked up at him.
“Thanks for walking me home.”
“No problem,” Dean answered. “I’d prefer if you’d let me walk you home whenever we do a late study session like this.”
“Ever a gentleman,” you observed.
You put your badge to the reader and Dean heard the loud unlocking sound that was on every building on campus. You grabbed the door and smiled at him. He nodded, taking a couple steps down the stairs to make his way to his own apartment.
“Hey Dean?”
He turned. “Yeah?”
“Instead of worrying about everything you can’t control, just enjoy what you can. Enjoy it while you have it. It’s alot sweeter that way. Goodnight.”
You nodded and stole behind the door.
Dean slowly turned, barely seeing the pavement in front of him as he pondered your words.
A/N: So about a week ago I made a post asking about a oneshot/possible new series that I had been interested in making. While the feedback I received was all positive, it wasn't enough to sway me into making an entirely new series (especially since I always have a hard time ending a series) so for now I will give you a one-shot/teaser? So if you enjoy it and want more, please let me know!
MASTERLIST
It was a warm summer day, the sun was shining, the birds were singing and it all felt like a fresh start for Y/N, like maybe life here in California wouldn't be so bad after all.
She left her dorm room, making sure the door was shut securely behind her, leaving her things, along with her roommates, protected and safe while the both of them were away.
Her roommate Jess was currently out with her boyfriend, having only seen him a handful of times since summer break, so Y/N was on her way to a tour of the campus that she had signed up for about a week back, knowing that she had only ever visited Stanford once since being accepted in.
Y/N was an exceptionally bright mind, graduating highschool at the top of her class with honors and a 4.0 GPA, she applied for a college outside of the states but was quickly shot down, being told she had to attend at least one year of college in America before she could be accepted into an abroad scholarship program. So she went for second best: Yale, Harvard and Stanford.
She was accepted into all three, but only Stanford was willing to give her a full ride for not only her perfect testing scores but for the year she had spent in Iraq between her last year of highschool and her first of college, helping build schools and homes in the less war-ridden areas.
She was proud of her time there and the things she learned along with the people she helped, but she realized that there was no place like home and while she wanted to travel, she decided that America was forever going to be her home.
She walked through the courtyard towards the administrative building where she was told the tour would begin, but when she arrived she found the building practically barren, apart from a few underclassmen like herself, but as far as the eye could see, there was no tour guide in sight.
Y/n bit her lip in confusion as she looked around before checking her phone, seeing that she was in fact about 10 minutes late. She groaned as she realized she most likely missed it by then and she turned around to make her way back to the dormitories in hopes that Jess could show her around when she had some free time, but that's when a strong, loud voice interrupted her stride.
"Alright! Where are the freshies!" The man chuckled, clapping his hands together as the girl turned around to face who she believed to be the tour guide, "Sorry for being late," He smirked, dimples appearing at the edges of his lips, "Had some business to take care of."
Y/N moved closer to him, a few other new students gathering around until a small group was formed, "Lets start with names, I'm Dean Winchester. But you all can call me Dean," The man winked at a girl who swooned and blushed as she looked down to her feet, Dean's green eyes taking her in before he redirected his focus to the rest of the group, "Let's start with you kid," He pointed to a young man who stood to the side, his dirty blonde hair gently laying right above his eyes.
"Hey, I'm Parker," He waved a little awkwardly before shoving his hands back into his jeans pockets and looking back to the ground. The group went around, introducing themselves. Some of them were more shy while others were quite flamboyant.
When it was finally Y/N's turn she cleared her throat to speak up but a loud clap had interrupted her, once again, "Alright! Nice to meet you all, let's move this along ok?" Dean smiled before turning on his heel, walking in the opposite direction, the group following him as Y/N lingered behind for a moment, collecting herself.
Maybe California wouldn't be as fresh of a start as she had hoped, maybe it was going to be just like back home. She'd be the nobody.
Dean showed the students around the whole campus, ending the tour right back where they started, "Alright," he shoved his hands in his pockets, turning to face the freshmen with a striking smile on his face, surely he knew how gorgeous he was, "Any questions?" The group looked around at each other, waiting for somebody to raise their hand and when that hand finally went up, everyone turned towards the pretty, blue eyed, blondie that Dean had been eyeing up the whole time.
"Yeah sweetheart?" Dean purred, a mischievous smirk taking place on his perfectly plump lips while he once again, raked his eyes over her barely covered form.
She blushed as she twirled a strand of hair around her fingers, Y/n rolled her eyes at the action knowing it was an act, "Um yeah, I wanted to know if I could get your number?" The girl trailed off softly, flicking her wide eyes up to look at Dean a small smile forming on her face.
Deans smirk widened as he licked his lips and chuckled softly, "Talk to me after the 'nerd squad' disbands," He winked at her and her blush deepened as she bit into her lip.
Y/n scoffed loudly and this caught Deans attention, "Got a problem?" He asked her, his smirk dampening but not leaving, he found amusement in her reaction for sure. He liked the idea of watching a cat-fight, certainly wouldn't be the first time.
"No problem at all," She shrugged, pulling her bag higher up her shoulder as she turned and walked away, not caring to have an argument with a boy who was clearly more focused on women than school.
"Whatever," Dean snorted quietly, watching her walk away, her hair flowing gently down her back, ending right above her ass and what an ass it was. It was a true shame to see it hiding under all those layers. He bit into his lip until he couldn't keep staring at her without the threat of being caught, he liked a woman who knew how to handle herself with class.
"Anyways sweetheart," Dean turned back towards the little blonde thing waiting patiently for his attention, which he was happy give, "Lets get out of here huh?" He smiled, her lips turning into a devilish smirk as he wrapped his arm over her shoulders to lead her back to his place, his thoughts hardly leaving the image of the obviously studious girl that had turned her back on him, he had to have her.
- Majoring in Mythological studies, minoring in Anthropology
- As he was in Highschool, Dean's naturally popular and a social butterfly.
- Lives at home
- You'll more than likely find him in the library with earbuds in, a book in hand as he nods to classic rock.
- He got roped into joining a fraternity. He didn't really understand the benefits, besides parties and a bunch of random dudes he could use as references on his resume, but he still joined.
- He sometimes falls off when it comes to studying, seeing as his frat brothers have five ragers a week, even still he has a 3.3 GPA
- He's in the Judo club, book club, and works part time at the campus cafe.
- He's not really dating anyone, but according to the rumors around campus, he's in six relationships at the moment, one being with Mythology in Religion professor.
- He went abroad to Spain for half of a semester, but doesn't think he'll do it again seeing as he couldn't understand what anyone was saying (beyond his elementary level Spanish)
1. Thank you guys for all the love for the new Arrangement Epilogue chapter! I promise I’ve read each and every comment and reblog and you all are amazing and I love you! It’s pretty hysterical that everyone is screaming for babies... y’all are gonna get cavities from all this fluff...
2. I made A LOT of progress tonight on my new au college dean series! So that might be coming sooner than I thought.
Where It All Began (College AU): Apartment Hunting
Title: Where It All Began (College AU): Apartment Hunting
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Word Count: 1,294
Drabble Request :can you do a whole scene of them discussing moving in together and then apartment hunting???
Warnings: Reader’s Rude Roommate Krissy, Fluff
Masterlist
A/N: Drabble time. Enjoy this my lovelies! We’re getting closer and closer until those final (thousands) of words are released. ONE MORE PART! For now, enjoy a little throwback to the college days. You don’t have to read anything past the first part to understand this part! Feedback is always appreciated! I will literally check out and follow anyone who gives me feedback! :)
x
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“Hey Y/N,” Dean smiled as he walked into your dorm room. You were lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling when you stopped to look over at him. He had a wide grin spread across his cheeks. You couldn’t contain your own. He kicked off his shoes and joined you on the bed, laying next to you.
“What’s up?” you asked him, moving your head to lean against his strong muscular shoulder.
“Ugh, why are you here? It’s friday night, shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, partying?” your roommate, Krissy Chambers rudely stated, rolling her eyes. She hated Dean for absolutely no reason.
“Let’s get out of here. I’m pretty sure the coffee cart by the library is still open,” he muttered in your ear. You nodded your head. You and Dean quickly put your shoes on, wanting to put as much space between you and Krissy and possible.
Dean linked his arm with yours, which clearly indicated that he and Lisa were on yet another break. You didn’t care nonetheless. Dean was your best friend, that’s all he would ever be.
He lead the two of you over to the coffee cart by the library. The sun was just setting, and they were about to close up for the night. Dean paid for your coffee and muffin along with his own. He was acting a little weird, somehow nervous. You knew he didn’t have any tough games coming up, and he didn’t have any tests to study for. Maybe he wanted to talk about Lisa, or his mom? Either way, you were going to listen to every word that was going to come out of his mouth
The two of you stood on the sidewalk when he stopped. He turned to face you, his expression worried you, but you figured you’d let him open up instead of pushing him to talk.
“I have to ask you something but before I do, you have to promise me that you’ll be honest. Not that you’re never honest with me. This is just something serious and I don’t want you to feel obligated to-”
“Dean,” you interrupted. “Breathe. You were rambling. Just tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Okay, umm- I know you already have a place to live on campus. But then again, your roommate is a raging bitch who hates my guts more than you did freshman year,” he paused. “My rent is almost up in the apartment I’m living in, and I don’t want to renew it because I’m paying fifteen hundred a month so I thought, since you and I spend the majority of our time together that it wouldn’t be a bad idea if we looked at apartments together.”
“Is this your way of asking me to move in with you? I mean you haven’t even asked me on a date yet and you want to take that step,” you joked. He let out a laugh, all the tension leaving his body. “I would love to share an apartment with you Dean. It would save us a lot of trouble. Not to mention I would get to see how cute your bedhead is in the morning.”
“Seriously? You want to?”
“Of course, Dean.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? I mean this is a big decision and-” Dean started, but there was no way you were letting him finish his sentence.
“Dean, we spend three quarters of our day together everyday. I’m always in your apartment or you’re in my dorm room and my roommate yells at us for being too loud. You already said that you’re paying too much for yours. Besides, I think it would be fun to live together,” you beamed. Dean shook his head, a smile playing at his lips.
“You’re right,” he sighed, pretending to be annoyed. He knew all of your points were valid. He made the same ones when he asked you if you wanted to last week.
He walked ahead of you, heading into the third apartment building of the day. You had checked out two previously. They were nice, but too far away from campus and way too expensive, even with both of you splitting the costs. This one was just off campus. You could still see the college from the window in the stairway. You hoped that this one would be the place for the two of you. You were looking at a small, two bedroom, one bathroom. This one was a lot cheaper than the other two.
You jumped on Dean’s back, earning a groan from his lips. His hands instinctively held your legs in place as he walked with ease. You smiled as he carried you all the way down to the apartment door where the landlord was meeting you.
A shorter lady was waiting by the door with a clipboard in her hand. She was wearing a dress shirt and skirt to match. She definitely worked in some high end office. She had very light makeup on. Her lips a nice shade of pink. She was a lot politer than you expected her to be.
She opened the door, allowing the two of you to enter before her. “This is the only apartment we have available. It’s a two bedroom, one bathroom. All appliances are included, furniture is not. It’s great for college students like yourselves. The rent is nine hundred and seventy five each month, that includes utilities. Tv and internet are up to you. Since you are students, we charge you less. It’s part of the policy I run here. I know how expensive that school is. I’m a graduate myself. Feel free to take a look around. I’ll be in the kitchen. Take your time,” she smiled. You and Dean both thanked her before turning and heading down the small hall to the bedrooms.
“This isn’t so bad. Better than the other places we’ve looked,” you mentioned as you opened the door to the first bedroom. You were impressed with how big they were. For almost a thousand a month, it was a great size.
“I like how close it is to the school. I can walk to football practice without worrying about being late. It’s a good size, price is good,” he said, peeking into the bathroom. “I think this is the one.”
“I have to say I agree, Winchester,” you chuckled. “You sure you want to live with me?”
“I’m sure,” he laughed. “But know you just agreed to spending even more time with me than ever right?”
“I know. It’s a good thing I’m fond of you.”
“So, what do you think?” the landlord asked.
“We’ll take it,” Dean smiled.
“Alright. I have some paperwork to go over with you both. Then I’ll get you to sign it. We’ll take care of this month and last month's rent. Then the place will be available as soon as Friday. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect,” you smiled.
“This place is perfect for the two of you. You both make a lovely couple. You remind me of me and my husband when we were in college. You have that chemistry together,” she smiled.
“Oh no, we aren’t together,” you quickly cleared up.
“Wow! Pretend that I never said that then,” she giggled.
You couldn’t help but look up at Dean. He leaned over to read over the document. Was he thinking about what she said like you were? It was weird, you tried to convince yourself. I mean two best friends moving in together. The two of you acted like a couple most days, you were closer than ever. It was impossible. This woman was crazy, she had to be. You and Dean were clearly friends. It was plain as day. Right?
