Honestly, Dean had no right to want to get to know you. At least that's what he told himself. What business did some football prodigy have with the campus's personified black cat? There was no way that you were at all interested in him or curious about him in the same ways that he was about you.

But he was so damn curious. How did this girl with piercings and jet black hair and dark makeup not only get along with his mutual friend to you, Cherry, but be her best friend? Maybe he just didn't understand girls. That wasn't a new thought that he'd had, since arriving on campus. Every time he thought he came close, he ended up actually being more wrong than initially thought.

Dean spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to figure out something to approach you about. Cherry was completely and utterly sick of hearing his pestering questions about you, now resorting to just leaving the room the moment your name comes up.

So, he had to do the old fashioned thing of just approaching you blindly, with nothing in his arsenal besides a, hi, how are you? Like a loser.

Fate was funny, though. He'd just gathered the courage to leave his spot at the library table and walk up to you when he saw your Walkman on the table, the faint scribble of Metallica spinning in slow loops on the CD inside of it. Dean's face lights up like a damn Christmas tree.

"Good taste," he says, voice soft in the quiet setting, as he drops down into the seat across from you. (He overthought this before he came over here: sitting next to you is weird, sitting diagonal is awkward, so he'd settle for the classic date seating arrangement and hope to God you didn't overthink that like he overthought all of this).

Dean fidgets with the pencil in his fingers, the one he'd carried all the way over here with the sole purpose of needing something to ground him and keep him from crashing and burning. "What song? If you don't mind me asking."