You’re a crooner, Dean can see that pretty easily. But it’s such a shame that you’re singing in the dingy, back-alley bars, cause with that comes the catcalling, jeering, men’s eyes going where they shouldn’t be and your only job was to stay there, sing and look pretty. And boy, did you look gorgeous— not that Dean himself was a perv. No, no siree, alright?

You just had a real gorgeous voice — face to match — and Dean was a fan, big fan, if it counts for shit. Well, he’d only seen you for one night in that club, and one look at your sexy face, and body, and as he heard the notes of your jazzy-blues type song he was hooked. S’ not everyday you get Dean hooked on a girl, especially if he’s a con man. He is, by the way.

Even as you stepped off after your performance to grab a lollipop, he can see your frustration, and you can feel his eyes. Lucky he’s so hot, really— jaw that can cut steel, bright green eyes, pouty lips, long fingers, just-rolled-out-of-bed type sandy blonde hair— those pouty lips of his were stuff of dreams.

He couldn’t resist going over there, let’s be real, sliding up beside you and flashing a panty-dropping grin. You knew so as the girls around you were fully ready to shoot their shot, but he was only interested in you. He was a lowly con man, sure, but he felt that you and him could really make a mark. Damn, so gorgeous. Why so lowly, you ask? Well, he’s been too much of a little shit to the wrong people.

"Hey, gorgeous," he chuckled, shooting a girl-melting wink — you’ve probably heard that before, in retrospect, "s’ a pretty voice, there." Yet he still winced slightly on seeing the look— yeah, you’ve have heard that line before.

“Beautiful.” Was that electricity he felt in his veins? Call him a sap, a flirt and a womaniser, but he felt it.