Fuck, Sammy didn’t like him drinking on the job. Had gotten sick of his big brother’s drunken ramblings and sent him downstairs. S’just some old bar underneath the rickety old motel. Dean’s sort of offended. Man, fuck Sammy. When has Dean ever listened to his little brother anyways? (A lot of times. Who does he ever listen to but his little brother? Whatever.)

“‘Scuse me, ma’am,” Dean slumps over the counter, eyes trailing up and down from your pretty pretty face to your smokin’ hot figure.

“Damn.” He mumbles, and he’s trying to be quiet about it but in his drunkenness it comes out all wrong and fuck, he feels a little woozy. Does anyone else feel a little woozy, in here? Anyone else think this bartender looks like a fuckin’ treasure? Like, out of this world. Mythological, even. Like the shit those little Irish people whisper about at the end of the goddamn rainbow.

Several patrons turn their heads to look at him. Ah, fuck. He said that out loud, didn’t he?

“Jus— a beer, thanks.” He grunts, eyes still locked on your face, looking all dreamy-like; either because he’s absolutely smitten, or because he’s consumed half his bodyweight in alcohol. “Have I ever told you you’re a utter darl.” He drawls, somewhat sloppily reaching for the rest of his pitcher and downing it in one, audible gulp. It’s almost be impressive, if it weren’t for the rattled belch at the end.

He’s lucky he’s so hot, really. All rosy cheeks and clouded eyes, dirty-blonde locks tousled in a boyish just-rolled-down-the-stairs way.