I'm an Angel with a shotgun..., He flirts with you like he was meant to, like...



He flirts with you like he was meant to, like you’re the only waitress in the diner and it’s his sole purpose in life to compliment on how beautiful you are. It isn’t skeevy, like it should be. He backs off when the place gets busy and you can’t get to his table for a while. But he’s always there, just in you peripheral, offering a handsome smile as a token of encouragement, telling you that the night’ll get better soon. 

It takes three whole weeks of the same routine before he asks you on a date. He’s smoother than water on glass when he looks you in the eye and says he’s got tickets to a show down the road and would love it if you accompanied him to it. It’s a museum thing that his kid brother signed him up for and you look like you’d understand the science talk more than he would. 

“I might need a translator,” he says to you, grinning like the Chesire Cat. “What do you say?” 

You heart jackhammers in your chest and you suddenly feel sick. You like him, you do, but you can’t go out with him. Men that gorgeous don’t associate with women like you. At least not for long. And what makes it worse is that you can feel his sincerity rolling off him in waves like heat on asphalt. 

“Please?” he asks before you can think of the right words to let him down easy. He bats his long lashes at you, making his beautiful green eyes pop more than they already do. 

“Sorry,” you nearly whisper. “I can’t. I have to work that night.” 

“Oh.” His shoulders drop and your breath almost jumps out of your throat to try and lift them up again. “Well maybe coffee some morning, then?” 

You’re ready to shake your head and tell him you can’t ever date him, but he stands up from his booth and looks you dead in the eyes. 

“Every woman’s beautiful,” he says, setting a ten down on the table. “Especially the ones who have to work harder to keep that title.” He gives you a closed-lip smile and walks to the door. “See you tomorrow, Cas,” he calls back to you. 

You pick up the tip and stare after him. “You too, Dean.”

Then he’s gone and all you can do is stand there, wondering how he knew? 


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