Apparently, heaven on earth did exist. "Two bottles," Dean said, when he got to the bar. Over the crackling speakers, Jack Bruce was singing about waiting so long. Dean hummed along under his breath, fingers tapping the beat on the bar. "That'll be a fiver," the bartender said, when he slapped the two bottles in front of Dean. The guy looked lean, rough, his hair an unkempt dark mop, with a gaze that was used to sweeping a room in two seconds flat, but his voice was a friendly burr of welcome. "A fiver?" Dean crooked out a grin and got out his wallet. He wondered if the guy was ex-military or another hunter. Did Ireland even have hunters? "Not from around here, I take it?" The retaliatory grin was instantly charming. "Now, why the fuck wouldya think that?" Dean liked him already. "Beats me, man. Must be your designer threads." The other man huffed out a laugh, then held out a hand. "Murphy." "Dean. Nice ink there on your wrist." He turned Murphy's hand to get a better look. "What's it mean?" "Means if you keep holding my hand like that, me mam'll be expecting a ring on my finger." The corners of Dean's lips twitched. "I'm not interested unless you put out on the first date." No one else even glanced up when Murphy slapped the bar in delight. "Buy me a shot, and we can negotiate the rest." Oh yeah, Dean definitely liked this place.
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