This is completely random of me but I love both Roswell and Supernatural and I have always absolutely adored the characters of Dean Winchester and Liz Parker. I have never written in 2nd POV before so I don't know if it works or not. Read after the cut if you are interested. An early birthday present for littleone87 because I know she is a fan of both shows.
He comes on a Wednesday in the middle of October dressed in all black and dust. Through the large front window, you see his sleek black car – much cleaner than him – parked on the curb outside and with just a glance, you know that he probably is one of those guys who love their cars more than anything especially since he seems to take better care of it than himself.
He sits down at the counter, which Maria is supposed to be handling but her and Michael are having another fight and she hates anyone with a penis at the moment so you go to him, pulling your pen and pad from the front pocket of your apron. He smells like cigarette smoke and gunfire – because ever since you got shot, you know that you will always be painfully aware of that particular scent – and he looks at your Crashdown uniform with an amused raise of his eyebrow.
You are polite, smiling and thanking him once he gives you his order, and you can feel his eyes on you as you go to get him the Coke he wants.
“What’s your name?” He asks once you return even though you are wearing a name tag.
“Liz,” you answer even though you are tempted to just point at said name tag.
“I’m Dean,” he offers though you haven’t asked.
“He cannot stop looking at you,” Maria hisses to you later in the kitchen but you just shrug your shoulders and you hope that she takes that to mean that you don’t care. Meanwhile, you try to ignore the sudden butterflies you get in the pit of your stomach.
You haven’t gotten those since Max. But he’s gone now – insisting on keeping his distance from you – and you can’t deny that Dean is a very good-looking man even if he does smell like gun smoke and you can’t stand that.
He comes every day for the next week and on the eighth day, as the smoke from his lit cigarette swirls over his head, he asks you what you’re doing after work. You smile and look away, blushing in that shy way that is still yours and he smiles.
There isn’t much to do in Roswell and he doesn’t want to do any of the usual tourist things, which is a relief to you because ever since Max came into your life, you are craving something normal for once and Dean doesn’t seem that interested in the alien aspect of the town either.
“Do you believe in it?” He asks you and you instantly shake your head because that is what you have trained yourself to do.
“Do you?” You ask him and he shrugs, reaching into the pocket of his jeans for his packet of cigarettes and lighter. “I can’t stand the smell of smoke,” you tell him as if your opinion on the matter should mean something to him.
He smirks. “Well, it’s either smoking or holding your hand.”
You don’t know why but you instantly slip your hand into his. His hand is warm, rough. Nothing like Max’s.
He mentions his brother – Sam – and you mention Max but neither of you talk more on the topics and you know that both of you are equally relieved for that. You walk down the streets, your hand still snuggly encased in his, and he listens as you babble mindlessly about school, Maria, your parents and the Crashdown because he isn’t talking. He is just like Max in that respect. You even tell him about the afternoon you were shot and that makes him come to an abrupt halt and he stares at you.
You aren’t sure what he’s thinking and you almost become nervous by how dark his eyes look as he continues staring at you intently. And then he murmurs something about bad being everywhere and he can’t get away but he isn’t speaking clearly and you seem to know better than to ask him to repeat himself.
It is almost midnight when you arrive back at the darkened café and you both stand in front of the staircase leading up to your family’s apartment on the second floor. For a moment, neither of you speak. He then reaches out and touches your cheek.
“I wasn’t supposed to stay here this long,” he confesses.
“Where do you have to be?” You ask him, bravely taking a step towards him.
“Nowhere,” he answers and then smirks, almost sadly. “Everywhere.”
He surprises you then by kissing you, his hands on your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, his body pressed to yours and cling weakly to him, your fingers curling in the worn fabric of his tee-shirt.
There is nothing about the way he kisses you that reminds you of Max. Dean’s lips are chapped and dry and he doesn’t kiss you as if you are a piece of glass in danger of constantly breaking. He kisses you like he’s starving for something – a desperate hunger you know all too well because lately, ever since Max left, you have been so lonely and until Dean kissed you, you haven’t realized just how lonely you have been.
So when he starts to pull away, you grab him again and fuse your lips to his, this time, you being the one to kiss him as if you are the one drowning and he is the only thing you can hold onto.
And when he whispers your name breathlessly, you get butterflies and a chill down your spine and you actually can’t remember if anyone has said your name with so much want in it before. It makes you feel alive which is exactly what you have been needing all along.