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Well Respected Man >> Dean Smith!Dean Winchester X Reader

Title: Well Respected Man

Paring: Dean Smith!Dean Winchester X Reader

Warning: angels being meddling angels. you know which angel tho it's okay

Spoilers: none? just make sure you've seen 4.17 It's a Terrible Life

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Most corporate douche bags like Dean Smith would never blink twice at being offered an intern. They'd shake their head, toss the poor kid off to the next person who was willing to get their coffee order mixed up and mail lost. But when the CEO himself, Mr Adler brought him a manila file, slim with documents of an intern named Miss _______ _______, Dean Smith paused.

"Where'd you find this kid, sir?" Dean gestured to the small photograph clipped onto the front. It's of a girl, her face stoic. It's the kind of photo the DMV take for your licence, yet when he sees her eyes...it's like he knows her already.

His boss waves his hand. "Interns are interns, you know, Smith? I thought you'd like her. And off the record, she doesn't have as much spunk as the last one, that drug-addict, Gabriel." Mr Adler grins, and takes the folder back from Dean and into his hands. "So, what will it be, Dean?"

He frowns. "Could I have some time to think it over? Sir?" He implores.

His boss's face relaxes into a friendly smile once again. "Of course. I'll have you call Anna, my secretary with your answer by, say, three?" he proposes.

Dean nods.

But at twelve fifty, there's a tentative knock on Dean's office door. His door, that had his name on it, in his division. But nonetheless, there's a knock, and because he doesn't have a crappy too-perky secretary (he'd been eyeing Jo, Ash's employee for a while now...for other reasons) he has to put the sale on hold over his Bluetooth phone and let them in himself.

"Mr Smith?"

Dean blinks. Standing before him, is a familiar face, but he can't put a name to it. She is slightly shorter than him, wearing a grey sweater and a conservative skirt, hair pulled back by pins elegantly. Her (e/c) eyes sparkle in the LED light flickering in the hall, lips pulled into a kind smile.

"That - that's me." Dean Smith never stutters. He's a strong man, corporate-minded like his father; it was a family business. He was like a greyhound, born and bred for life bartering and bargaining. After a moment, Dean remembers he doesn't know her name, and prompts, "And you are..."

You smile. "I'm Miss ______ ______. Mr Adler buzzed me through. I'm your intern."

For a moment, Dean's mind is blank. Then,

"Just one moment, Miss ______,"He smiles a gracious smile, and turns his ear phone back on. "Hello, Anna, could you be a darl - thank you, Anna. Mr Ad-," Dean's interrupted by his boss. For a moment, he is still, listening to his employer's final word, and then, silence. He turns back to face the young girl, and gives a small smile. "Come on in, Miss ______."

She takes a tentative step forward, following Dean in. He can't help but think of her as a small animal, like a deer, tamed into trusting the other forest animals. He gestures to the small chair beside his desk, by his name tag, motioning her to sit.

"Do you have any experience with business?" he asks you.

You nod, "I managed a ghost busters type fan club a year ago." Dean raises an eyebrow. "Not that I believe in the p-paranormal. Sir."

Dean fights an urge to roll his eyes at your stutter, and the way you're blushing underneath the head slightly hung in a shame that suggests you're regretting the end of that sentence. But he doesn't roll his eyes, and instead, he gives a small smile. "I guess you can't choose where you start off, but you sure as hell know where you choose to go up from there." he advises you. For a moment, he has no idea where that cuss word has come from, and where the spur to comfort you has come from. But just as Dean's confronting his consciousness about his wording, a small smile appears upon your face. And its okay.

Next Tuesday Dean finds himself in the elevator with the oversharing yellow shirted man Sam Wesson, and, just his luck, ______ _______. It's quite awkward, and he just wants to cringe in a very physical way, but he refrains. He doesn't want to bring up the last few elevator encounters, but before he can help it, Dean glances to the longer-haired man over ______'s shoulder, and the dam wall breaks.

"I -,"

"I've been having the dreams again," Sam Wesson confesses. ______ glances to him with a strange look. "I'm not...I'm not calling myself a psychic or something, but I, I think they're, I don't know, real?"

"That sounds crazy -,"

Dean's intern interrupts him. "Mr Smith!" ______ huffs. "That's not very nice." she scolds.

Dean stands still for a moment. He isn't sure if anyone has ever stood up to him. Maybe ever in his life. But then again, all Dean can remember of his life is three days.

"Sorry," Dean sighs. "But something is going on!"

Sam Wesson agrees. "Yeah. Something not natural."

The night rushes by him. By the next day, he can't seem to get the images of the ghost, the idea that a ghost of all things was really real. But nontheless, Dean is at his desk, reading through the new policies he's making for his division, ______ at the other end of the room, reorganising his filing cabinet by the trophy case. 

"Have you got a minute?" Mr Adler knocks at the door. 

______ glances from the filing cabinet silently, then to Dean. He hasn't spoken to her, not properly since the night before. How do you, after...that?

"Sure, of course," Dean nods. 

And before he knows it, the world dims. The vibrant colour of his tie fades to a grey, _______'s sparkling eyes dims. His mind reels, stomach tightens. A feeling washes over Dean, and he has no idea where it has come from, but its a sense of disatisfaction. One that Dean Smith wasn't used to feeling. Because he wasn't Dean Smith. And Sam Wesson wasn't Sam Wesson. 

He is Dean Winchester. 

"Hunters, and their meddling thinking they're gods greatest gift to mankind," Not-Mr-Adler rolls his eyes, and gestures toward ______. Dean's secretary fellow hunting buddy freezes mid breath, mouth about to expel words. "Well, now you know what we can do."

"Not another feathery douche..." he groans. "Just let ______ go and be done with us. You made me eat lettuce!"

The angel grins. "Yeah, I did, Dean. And your attitude, it's got to stop. I'm Castiel's superior, Zachariah. And if that means anything to you, you should think about thinking before you speak. Or your pretty girlfriend ______ will be the first to feel it, along with Sam."

Dean's face darkens. 

"Angel or not, I will stab you in your fugly face." He threatens. "Let -,"

Zachariah raises his brow in mock surprise, and waves his hand once more. "See you around, Dean."

Dean is back on the road, Sam beside him, ______ curled up on the back seat under her pile of blankets. Dean doesn't look in the rear vision mirror to see the town they were all duped into living in fade away into the distance. He swears he'll never return there, ever. He also swears, glancing over his shoulder to see his girlfriend asleep, eyes fluttering behind her lids, that he'll never treat ______ as bad as Dean Smith did.