His olive eyes drooped, his fingers moving sluggishly across the keyboard. Someone was speaking to him. He couldn't be bothered to listen. Believe me when I say, he's not a bad person, he'd listen if he could. It's as if his brain is too tired to function.
He looked at his watch. Three more hours.
The person kept talking.
He looked at his watch. Two hours and fifty-nine minutes.
She snapped her fingers.
He looked at her. What was her name? Rebecca? Belle? Bela. Bela Talbot.
What was his name? Dean Winchester. Right. He ran a hand over his eyes, trying his hardest to wipe away the sleep. "What?" Blatant. Tired. He couldn't be bothered.
"Are you busy today?"
No. He was never busy. Every day was the same. Wake up. Shower. Catch a taxi. Work. Go home. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. "Why?" He asked. Not that he was curious. He couldn't care less.
"I was wondering if you would want to go on a date."
Bold. His only thought. He barely knew this lady. She'd spoken to him. This may have been the most words he'd ever given her. Why should she give him the time of day? He shrugged. Humour her. "Sure." A simple response.
She nodded. She didn't smile. Her face didn't light up. Just a simple nod, to a simple response. Books lie, he thought.
Two hours and fifty-six minutes.
He sat alone. His mug of coffee cold. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes late. She wasn't coming. He didn't expect her to. He assumed it was a prank. He might've hoped, for even a second, that something might come from this. How many years had it been? Seven? Seven years. Sixty-one thousand-three hundred-sixty-two hours. Numbers. Everything was numbers.
The blue-eyed man walked back to the table. Cornflower blue. Dark sex hair. Normally you wouldn't notice someone like that. Perhaps, being alone made you more aware. It made Dean aware. Not happy. Not sad. Just aware.
Blue eyes gave a small smile, "Are you ready to order?"
Dean gave a small nod. She wasn't coming. "The bacon cheeseburger."
Eat your feelings.
The waiter nodded and walked away. On a good day, he would check out an ass. Today, it was difficult to raise his eyes. So, he sat, eyes downcast. He wasn't depressed. He didn't think so. Most days he didn't feel the pain, or the sadness. What was different about that day?
Perhaps it was this. Blue eyes came back. Plate in each hand. Dean ordered one thing. A burger was sat in front of him. A slice of pie on the other side. The waiter patted Dean's left shoulder, smiled, and walked away. Strange.
He ate. Moved plates. A napkin fell from the bottom of the pie plate. Dark ink splotched on it. He picked it up and read.
You seem a little down in the dumps. Here's some pie (heart emoji)
Dean looked up, fork limp in his hand. The waiter smiled. His name tag flashed in the sun.
Castiel.
YOU ARE READING
5D808E - Destiel
FanfictionPoor old office Dean, perhaps he wishes he were Dean Smith, but no in this story, he works in a cubicle, he suits are grey and wrinkles, as is his hair. He's just tired of life, looking for a way out. I believe that he found a way out when Castiel c...
