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Girls, Girls, Girls

Summary:

Dean crashes Ladies' Night and finds himself crushing on Mr. Novak, the local high school's grade twelve English teacher.

Notes:

Suptober Day 13: Ladies' Night

Work Text:

XOXO

“Seriously, Dean? Can’t you have a guys night?” Anael grumbles, holding her cocktail glass between two fingers and a thumb, her bright purple nails reflecting the low light of the bar. He knows she’s joking, but he still rolls his eyes.

“Can’t talk to guys.” Dean shakes his head, taking a sip of his whiskey as Charlie slides in next to him.

“You’re pathetic,” Anael says, smiling just a smidge.

“Why are you pathetic this time?” Charlie asks, arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow at the both of them as she drops onto her own barstool. She looks kind of foxy, with the smoky eyes she’s got going on, and Dean can’t help but notice the looks she’s getting.

“Crashing girls night,” Dean says at the same time Anael says, “He can’t talk to guys.”

Dean shoots her a glare, but she just shrugs and sips her drink.

“Both true,” Charlie decides, glancing around the bar as she perches on the stool, one leg crossing the other, her high-slit skirt riding up. It’s a well-practiced tactic, of course, performed so many times, it looks natural to the untrained eye. “Where’s Jo?”

“Here, dick face,” Jo snarks, hitting him on the back of the head with her clutch. Yes, Dean knows what a clutch is; all his friends are chicks, hence: Ladies’ Night. “Figures you’d be here.”

“Why the hell would you think something like that?” he says, turning his glare on her and her skintight sequenced blue dress. 

“Uhh,” she says, plopping down on Charlie’s other side. “Because you can’t talk to dudes?”

“Shut up.” Yeah, they’re all aware, okay? Doesn’t mean he needs to hear about it every thirty seconds.

“Speaking of dudes,” Anael jerks her chin at the other side of the long bar, back towards the dimly lit booths and the bathrooms. “There’s that teacher from Anna’s school. Novak?”

“Oh, the one she’s crushing over?” Jo just about breaks her neck trying to see him. “Too bad she’s such a bitch or we could’ve invited her along.”

 “Yeah,” Anael sighs, resting her chin on her palm as Novak laughs with a group of guys Dean doesn’t know, all buttoned up in his dress shirt and slacks, hair perfectly tousled like he just rolled out of bed—but, like, on purpose. “Not to mention we’ve already got four ladies. Too much estrogen as far as I’m concerned.”

But Dean ignores the dig, and the sideways look, because Mr. Blue Eyes is looking this way, and he’s smiling that smile, and he’s looking right at Dean. Dean, who is blushing and staring and can’t look away no matter how hard he tries. Oh, God, oh no, he’s about to have a big fat crush on a fucking straight guy.

A guy’s guy, who goes out for drinks with the boys, and laughs with ease, and can stare at another man for a solid eight, nine, ten seconds without looking away or getting embarrassed or being anything but completely put together. 

Then, after a good eighteen seconds, Novak’s eyes slide away, and Dean is still fucking red as a beet.

God, he’s pathetic.

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A few hours and more than a few drinks later, Dean finds himself sinking into his barstool as his friends holler at a group of men, arms waving, boobs flashing, smiles as charming as they ever get.

And they’re coming over—fuck, Novak is coming over—and Dean can feel himself getting warm all over, his hands tingling and stomach twisting the closer they get. He picks up his drink and downs it in one go.

“Gentlemen,” Anael purrs, eyelashes fluttering as she leans forward, thrusting her chest out as the guys—all fucking four of them—come within earshot. 

“Having a, uh…” The tallest guy, blond, British, and beautiful, says, eyes catching on Dean, “Ladies’ night?”

“Sure are,” Jo laughs, and Dean could strangle her. “Even have our own bodyguard, ain’t that right, Dean?”

Dean rolls his eyes with a wry smile. “Thin ice, Harvelle. Thin ice.”

She puckers her lips in a kiss, blowing one Dean’s way with a wink and a grin. Then she turns to the guys—Novak is chatting with Charlie, giving Dean no more of a look than Dean gives one of Sammy’s heart-healthy bowls of rabbit food. “What do y’all say to a dance?”

The shortest of the four, a squirrel-y little man with greying hair and bright blue eyes—so obviously older than the rest that Dean has to wonder if he, too, is just tagging along because he doesn’t want to be alone on a Friday night—nods like a Jack in the Box, his teeth practically chattering behind his lips.

So, they go, and Dean sits on his stool, sipping his drink and picking at a thread in his distressed, tight as the Virgin Mary, jeans Charlie picked out for him. Dean watches, something clenching in his gut as Anael presses up nice and close to the Brit. Jo has her arms slung around the neck of the baby-faced one, with sandy hair and big blue eyes. He looks like he’s twelve, honestly, but he has a nice smile, and Jo looks starry eyed. Charlie dances with the old guy.

“Which one is your girl?”

Dean jumps, heart skipping and tripping at the sound of Novak’s deep, husky, made-for-sex voice. 

“What? Uh,” Dean gapes, his eyes roaming over Novak’s broad shoulders and totally lick-able jawline. “No. No, they—no.” He shakes his head, grimacing like the thought is repulsive. “Jo is like a sister to me, Anael doesn’t do relationships, and Charlie…” He laughs, ignoring the way Novak stares and stares and stares. God, he really needs to get his first name. “Charlie doesn’t bat for our team, if you catch my drift.”

“Hmm…” he hums, nodding like he does get it, and why is it so easy for Dean to talk to this guy? “I’m Castiel, by the way. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“D-Dean,” he stutters, flushing because apparently that’s what he does now. “You’re uh… you’re the, uh—” Dean clears his throat, tongue-tied and flustered. “Teacher?” he blurts—so much for being able to talk to him.

“Yes,” Castiel says, a beautiful smile gracing his lips. “English, grade twelve.”

“Ah. Hard?” he grunts, like a fucking Neanderthal.  

“I prefer challenging, yet rewarding.” 

Dean nods, and yeah, he feels that smile right down to his core. He’s crushing hard, and there’s not a thing he can do about it. He should do something about it—namely, get over him—because falling for a very clearly straight man in a sleazy bar will get him exactly one place—heartbroken at the bottom of a bottle of Jack.

“So,” Castiel continues, a lopsided smirk lifting his lips as he finds their dancing friends before looking at Dean, his eyes suddenly intense. “Would you like to dance?”

Oh, God, he does. He wants to dance so bad, but…

“With me? Really?”

Castiel laughs, shaking his head like Dean’s being ridiculous, but he doesn’t answer, sliding off his stool and holding out a hand for Dean to take. And Dean does, a little shaky and a lot drunk. He takes Castiel’s hand and follows him onto the dance floor, lets himself be pulled in.

It’s intoxicating, thrilling in every way. Castiel’s blue eyes burn into his, that smile shining as the pulsing beat of the music sinks into his chest. He’s hot all over, pressed right up tight to Castiel’s broad chest, and fuck… Dean is defiantly not straight, and neither is Castiel, judging by the way his hands curl around Dean’s waist. 

“Let me kiss you,” Dean blurts, and maybe he’d be a little more embarrassed if he wasn’t so drunk. As it stands, he can’t stop staring at Castiel’s lips.

“What are you waiting for?” Those lips smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Dean’s heart races, his hands sliding up Castiel’s arms until they reach his cheeks.

Dean kisses him and the world implodes. Their mouths move together, tongues tangling and hands feeling everywhere they can reach. “Definitely not straight,” Dean breathes when they pull apart, and Castiel laughs.

“I would have to agree.”

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