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Perdu En France [Lost In France]

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“Pardon moi, monsieur…mais, je suis un éléve dans les États Unis, et je parle un peu de fraçais,” He had approached suddenly, catching Dean off guard. They were in the extremely busy underground, and Dean could hardly hear a word of what the boy was tentatively saying to him in clearly very broken french. He did however notice the extremely wide, ocean-blue eyes; presumably they were quite unavoidable. For that reason, and that reason alone, did Dean linger to help the fourth lost tourist he’d encountered that day on his way to work before school. He worked at a coffee shop twelve blocks away from home, and had to take the metro at 6am in order to make an hour shift before school started at 8:30. It really was too early for this.

“Monsieur, repetez s’il vous plaît, c’est trop bruyant,” the boy’s apparent attractiveness didn’t stop Dean from being his usual, curt self. Especially before his morning espresso.

“Ah, uhm, je suis désole!” This time he was much louder, and he spoke so slowly and with such a thick american accent, that it was still a bit difficult to understand him; but Dean got the idea.

“Ouais, ouais. Quand est-ce que vous voulez, monsieur? Je suis un homme très occupé,” Dean was being meaner than he knew he should be, and talking a lot faster than he knew the boy could comprehend, while simultaneously referring to himself as a ‘man’, when he’d only just turned seventeen a month ago and was often mistaken for fifteen. Yet, he couldn't help but find it amusing the way the boy’s eyes darted between his, and he could almost see the wheels in his mind spinning faster and faster trying to keep up with the conversation.

“Je suis désole,” he said again, and Dean rolled his eyes; he really wasn’t as annoyed as he was portraying himself to be anymore though, it was more entertaining at this point. “Uhm, je suis...perdu? Et je veux aller....travailler?”

Dean almost couldn’t help but laugh, was this boy actually living in France? He’d never make it. How old was he anyways? It didn’t look old enough to be working...but then again neither did Dean.

“D’accord, et où est-ce que vous travaillez?” Dean had decided to let up and make it a little easier on the kid. If he were in his place, he’d be terrified, and really, he was doing his best.

“Je travaille à un café....Le Chat Blanc. Je suis très, très perdu,” he really was quite distraught, but at the name of the cafe, Dean reeled. Of course it was the same cafe he was headed to right at that moment. The one he worked at, and apparently so did this guy now. Dean sighed.

“Bien. I am going to there right now, follow me,” Dean said, deciding to reveal is albeit minuscule understanding of the English language. In other words, he took pity on him.

“You know English??” The boy looked dumbfounded, and the dumb look on his face only served to annoy Dean again. He immediately regretted his moment of weakness, really this kid was pretty damn attractive.

“Non, viens avec moi, vous étes très bête...”

“Hey! I know what that means,” Dean rolled his eyes and hoped the kid got lost again as the train he was supposed to get on rolled up to the platform and he got on.

Unfortunately, the kid did not, and before he knew it they were walking tandem into the coffee shop at exactly 6:15am. Never had Dean needed three shots of espresso more than he did then.
The boy looked thrilled to have found where he needed to be, and thanked Dean in English profusely, but Dean ignored him. He walked behind the counter, grabbed his apron off the hook, threw it around his waist, and immediately began to make the perfect espresso he needed. Hoping upon hope that the boy might never attempt to speak to him again. Naturally, this was not the case. As Dean turned around from the espresso machine, the stunningly blue eyes were mere inches from his own, causing him to jump in surprise.

“Merde, attention!”

“You didn’t tell me you worked here too,” the boy now insisted on speaking only in English it seemed, much to Dean’s disgust. It wasn’t as though he had a better understanding of the language than the boy appeared to have of French. Especially since he still hadn’t moved an inch away from his face.

“Nan, j’espérais te perdre encore,” Dean said, shoving past the boy. He was unmoving in his resolve to speak his native tongue, but from the look of it the boy hadn’t gotten a word he’d just said, not even that he’d used an informal referral. Dean figured there was no way out of this, so he had to accept that he’d be working with this annoying American at least for a while, and there was no way he was gonna use formal speach towards him the whole time. Besides, the kid probably didn't know the difference anyways.

“Well what’s your name anyways,” the boy spoke very fast, and Dean didn’t catch anything but “name”. This fact was probably apparent on his face, as the boy immediately looked apologetic. “I mean, um, je m’appelle Castiel. What is your name?”

Dean had half a mind to ignore him.

“Dean,”

“Dean? Your name is Dean?”

“Ouais,”

“That sounds American,”

“Ce n’est pas,”

“Je sais. But it sounds American,”

“Je suppose, mais nous devons traivailler maintenant, nous sommes payés à l'heure,”

“Did you say ‘we’re paid by the hour’?”

“Je ne sais pas! Tais-toi!” Dean could’ve hit him at that point. He wasn’t here to teach him French or make small talk. He was here to get to work then get to school, that’s it. He was beginning to think he should’ve left him in the metro.

Of course, that’s when the manager walked in.