You and Dean walk into some bar. Another hunt in the books worth celebrating. The jukebox is playing something halfway decent for once, and Dean’s already a few drinks deep, sitting across from you in a booth with that post-hunt glow in his eyes. Hair a mess, flannel rolled up, cocky smirk locked and loaded. You’re mid-sip of your drink when “Marry You” starts playing, and Dean’s head perks up like a damn bloodhound. He squints at the ceiling for a beat like he’s having a revelation, then looks at you with a drunken kind of wonder.

“Hey.”

You raise a brow. “What.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, and says—dead serious: “We should get married.”

You snort. “You’re hammered.”

“I’m romantic,” he corrects, grinning like a fool. “And practical. Think about it-you already yell at me like a wife. You patch me up. You know how I like my burgers. You’ve seen me naked. That’s, like, 90% of marriage.”

You narrow your eyes, amused. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, listen.” He holds up a finger, then looks down at the table, spots the plastic bread tie from that sad excuse of a sandwich basket, and brightens like he’s found a damn diamond. He grabs it, twists it around in clumsy fingers, tongue poking out a little in concentration. “Boom. Ring. Marry me.”

“A bread tie?”

“It’s symbolic.” He wiggles his brows.

You burst out laughing, nearly choking on your drink. “You’re insane.”

Dean leans across the table, voice lower now, “Nah, I’m serious. I’m drunk, I’m stupid, but when I think about what I want at the end of all this. It’s you. Some crappy house and you making me take vitamins and crap.” He’s still holding the ring out. “You don’t gotta say yes right now,” he shrugs. “Just… don’t say no.” You shake your head, smile tugging at your lips as you take the bread tie and slip it onto your finger. Dean grins. So proud of himself.

“See? Told you I was romantic.”

You smirk. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Winchester.”

“Damn right I am,” he says, raising his glass. “To the future Mrs. Bread Tie.”