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Dean runs his hands down the tweed vest and rearranges the sleeve of the white shirt underneath, smoothing his fingers over the metal of the cuff link. He tips his head to the side and gives himself a cocky smile in the mirror and a flirty wink.
Sam wolf whistles loudly from the doorway and scares the shit out of him. “Looking good Dean, how’s your British accent?”
Blushing cause Sam caught him in what he thought was a private moment, Dean pretends he knew Sam was there the whole time and spins around on his heel to pick up the matching jacket off his bed. He throws it over his shoulder in a way that he knows looks totally cool. He then proceeds to garble his way through the worst British accent impression ever. “Vodka martini, shaken, not stirred.”
Sam winces. “Maybe you should avoid talking.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “I just need to get in, look cool for a bit, maybe make a couple drinks for some fancy douche bags, then find the Men of Letter’s artifact. Bada-bing bada boom.”
“Yeah Dean, but you’ll be in the past and you know traveling through time is serious business and that means you gotta be careful.”
“Yeah, I got this Sammy. Captain Careful.” He smiles and a salutes Sam. “I do look good though, right?”
–
Tommy pulls another cigarette out of the metal case in his pocket. The motion of lighting the fire and putting it to his lips calms his nerves in it’s familiarity. He finishes the whiskey in his glass and traces the ring of condensation left behind on his desk.
Dark thoughts shift behind his eyelids and he gets up to pace the room, bits of his dream from this morning filter back into his mind for further examination. An American with green eyes and secrets that looked like clouds of black feathers, swirling around him. Polly was the one who took more stock in dreams, though lately Thomas wasn’t getting enough sleep to remember much of anything. The feathers had made a flapping sound next to his ear and the noise kept rolling back when he’d close his eyes.
There’s a knock at the door that dispels it from his mind again. It’s just the house keeper though, come to collect the dishes.
__
Dean had the layout of the building memorized, so he knew exactly what door to slip away to when the time was right.
As it was the hall was filled with not quite- drunk-enough-yet British guys jabbering about politics and smoking like chimneys. There were a couple big players that Dean had briefly researched, not exactly fan-boying but slight historical celebrity status people he would be excited to tell Sammy he had seen. He was NOT going to prioritize that over his mission of course.
He poured another glass of high malt whiskey and slid it across the bar, being sure to keep his eyes level but impersonal, holding his energy in a quiet forgettable way, while subtly keeping track of all the exits and who was entering and who was leaving.
There was a boxer named Arthur-Something who had a reputation for being violent, unpredictable and generally on a lot of drugs. He was sitting at the end of the bar with two women that appeared to be twins and were probably prostitutes. There was a lot of giggling and it seemed that one of the girls might be trying to give him a hand-job but Dean was defiantly not drawing attention to himself by looking too closely.
There were a couple big-wig types for the times as well but the only point of interest had been the giant mustache on one of the men that made him look stunningly like the monopoly guy. Dean resisted drawing a cartoon on the napkin next to him, clicking the pen a couple times in his pocket instead.
One of the prostitutes gets up to go to the bathroom and another man joins the group. He seemed to be lecturing the boxer, probably some handler type of person. He clearly needed that. Dean watched their conversation with vague interest. The energy between them seeming more familiar, like family, possibly brothers.
Brothers. As the thought strikes through his mind the other man’s gaze lifts up and suddenly locks directly with his. The look is intense, blue and sharp. Busted. Dean feels a million things at once, the look cutting him down to the bone, excitement zings through his veins, fast on the heels of an adrenaline rush that leaves him slightly turned on, a bit confused and the inevitable ‘oh shit.’
He’s drawn attention to himself like a big idiot. The attention is of course from this stunningly hot guy whose predatory as fuck, but in a quiet powerfully attractive way. Totally Dean’s type. Rule number #1 in Sammy’s Book of ‘Don’t cock up the Time Travel Mission: Don’t make flirty eyes across the room & Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t sneak away down a long hallway to make out, don’t fuck anyone in the men’s bathroom. The usual. They were good rules, but rules were made to be broken.
