Hollywood's latest pretty boy is on the rise; the one and only Dean Winchester. Better than Di' Caprio, are the tabloids coveted headline right now. It's an old story; small town boy from Texas, rocketeering to fame.

There's just something about him. Anything from a Forbes publication to the shitty tabloids could tell you that. Blind items, paparazzi blasts, on-set testimonies—no matter what, they all eventuate in the same, indisputable fact; Dean Winchester is everything the culture has lost and found again. Old Hollywood glamour emanating from his very being. When he angles his jaw on the red carpet and runs a hair through angelic blonde locks, it's a wonder he's not rendered blind by camera flashes.

So many, so desperate. Less like a crowd of photographers, journalists and pariahs alike and more like one, single spotlight—casting him in a halo. He also happens to be slung over you, lounging on a yacht off the dock and thoroughly wasted off champagne. And an Oscar.

"Can't fuckin' believe it." Dean mumbles after a beat, freckled cheek smushed against your skin. "Like, I've barely even started an' dude. I've got a fuckin' Oscar!" He hollers, hands cupping his mouth in a mimic of a megaphone. The boat ripples, birds taking flight, sun long set.

"S'all thanks to you." He grins, voice slurred and eyes just that but dopey. Journalists wax poetic about those eyes. "My magic fucking manager, you." Dean's finger stabs at your chest, sloppily. The afterparty certainly did a number on him.