I Don't Think - Supernatural - British!Reader

I Don't Think

It had been a long case and all we wanted was to go home, curl up and sleep.

Instead we had to stand here and listen to a bunch of boring 'authority' figures jabbering on like anything they said mattered in the slightest.

Not that any of us were really paying attention.

Dean had found something over the shoulder of the current British Man of Letters particularly interesting, his attention was so focused on what they were saying his eyes were a little glazed over.

Sam was fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt, rubbing his fingertips against the still drying blood of the latest monster we exterminated.

And I was too busy trying to distract myself from the painstakingly obvious theory that I had concocting in my head.

The more these people spoke, the more I was certain I was onto something.

Five more long and painful minutes drag on, slowly melting our brains before they call it quits and head off to their little hideout.

Once the cars pull away I step around the face the Winchesters, who were both shaking themselves free of the hypnotic comas they put themselves into to stave off their boredom.

"What a bunch of douches," Dean grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"No kidding," Sam replied, huffing out a laugh.

"Guys, this may just be me," I start, folding my arms across my chest. "And seriously, it may just be me, but I don't think half of them are really British."

Dean quirked an eyebrow whilst smirking in amusement, Sam only smiled and shook his head.

"Probably not," the taller hunter chuckled. "They don't sound nearly half as posh as you do."

"Hey now, don't get insulting," I warn with a playful glare.

"Sorry to say, but you do sound kind of posh sometimes," Dean shrugged.

My mouth drops open as I flicker my eyes between the two.

"Well there are varying regional dialects."

"No," Sam shook his head. "You just sound kind of posh sometimes."

I pout and fold my arms.

"He's right," Dean grinned, meaning only one thing was happening.

He was about to be cheeky and mischievous.

"But enough about all that," he began and ever so slowly, I could hear his accent changing. "Now that that's all over, I say we head out and get a nice glass of cold water."

Sam lets out a chortle and covers his mouth, turning away whilst I glare again at the older hunter.

"It's not 'wat-uh', it's water."

"Seriously, it sounds like 'wat-uh' when a Brit says it," Dean insists.

"It so doesn't."

"Sorry, but it does."

"Not you too, Sam! You traitor!"

"Facts are facts, I'm afraid."

I shake my head and turn away with a dramatic sigh, though I found myself wondering if that was truly how I sounded to the two Amercans, or the countless others I had met since coming overseas for a case years ago.

It was true that there were all kinds of varying dialects with a variety of pronunciations for the same word, but I never knew that the mere word 'water' came out sounding like that.

I begin to reel through various other words that I may have been pronouncing oddly to them, the idea came up to ask them later.

But for now I just wanted to get to our temporary home in the motel and have a hot shower and some food.

"I'm so ready for a cup of tea," I sigh in tiredness, rubbing my forehead. "Maybe with some Madeira cake."

"I do prefer a good, old crumpet," Dean smirked, keeping up with the accent.

"Don't forget the lashings of butter," Sam chimed in, using an equally bad accent.

Despite trying to keep a straight face, I crack and end up laughing.

"I hate you both."