Imagines Book 1

Supernatural #3?

"What is this crap they are playing on the jukebox?" Dean yelled over the eighties pop song blaring from the overhead speakers. "Get out of my dreams, get into my car," he sang along with the song, mocking it, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"Funny you know the words, Winchester, considering how much you're bitching," you laughed.

Dean winked at you. "It's a good line. Get out of my dreams, get into my car. Might have to put it in my repertoire."

"You're seriously going to use that line on some poor unsuspecting woman?" you laughed. "Get into my car? Really?"

"No better place to make love than in the backseat of my car. Nothing I like better than making a woman scream in the nice warm confines of that fine piece of machinery. Mmm." He swallowed the last of his drink.

You closed your eyes, picturing yourself in the backseat of that gorgeous car with Dean doing all sorts of naughty things to you. God, you could only imagine how amazing it would be.

"Hey, isn't it your turn to buy?" he said, pulling you from your musings, a cheesy smile on his face, pointing towards the bar with the glass in his hand.

"You still drinking the Glenfiddich?" you sighed, pushing yourself to your feet.

"Only if you're buying, sweetheart," he smirked.

"Drinking the expensive shit on my dime," you grumbled as you weaved through the crowd towards the bar. "Why do I do this to myself?"

You knew exactly why you did it. You had it bad for Dean, really bad. You'd been harboring a crush on him for years, ever since his father had hunted with your parents back when you were both teenagers. The crush had only grown over the years, though the feelings were not reciprocated and never would be. You weren't Dean's type - you didn't exactly fit the stereotypical barfly girl that all the men found attractive. You weren't sure you were anybody's type or that anyone found you attractive.

Your self-deprecating musings were interrupted when you were roughly jostled by a youngish looking guy in a backwards baseball cap carrying two bottles of beer. "Watch it, chubbo," he growled, shooting a dirty look at you over his shoulder.

You grimaced, though you weren't surprised. You'd been called worse by different assholes over the years, it wasn't anything new. It was par for the course when you were what the world considered plus-sized. You'd been dealing with it all your life. You straightened your skirt and held your chin up. You weren't going to let some insensitive jerk spoil your night out with Dean.

You placed your drink order with the bartender, tapping your fingers on the bar, watching Dean as he weaved through the crowd to the pool tables. He commandeered one of them, right beside the asshole in the backwards baseball cap. Great. You grabbed the drinks, asked to have them added to your tab and made your way to the back of the bar, joining Dean. He traded you a pool cue for the drink in your hand and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. You couldn't help but notice the asshole roll his eyes at the sight.

You did your best to ignore him, and his friends, who made no secret of the fact that they were jerks, too. You could hear them muttering, even caught what they were saying a few times, and the words stung, stung like they had when you were growing up and people hadn't picked you in PE class, or your so called friends had commented about the amount of food you ate, or the way your clothes fit, or a million other things that reminded you everyday that you were fat and therefore not as good as them.

Dean seemed oblivious to what was happening; he was completely absorbed in the game of pool he was winning. He'd walk past you, his hand lingering on your back or your waist, that easygoing smile on his face. He'd always had a habit of touching you, of being affectionate with you. You'd figured out over the years that it didn't mean anything. After he sank the last shot, he dropped the pool cue to the table with a smirk on his face.