He’d been here for hours, you noticed, just at the bar, ordering drinks and slamming them back like it’s water, for some odd reason— not to say you weren’t impressed by the time you’d served him his seventh whiskey. Dean had hit the bar after an argument with Sammy — again — and one drink led to two, then to three, four, five, it goes on.

God.

It wasn’t like he was a disruptor or anything, he’d kept to himself, and now he looked like a spiky-haired puppy as he stumbled over to your side of the bar. He had wide eyes, shining in the bar’s light, scruffy hair and all— he was rather handsome, but rather adorable with the lil’ drunk flush on him.

Oh, Lord, you were so gorgeous. Dean’s whiskey-weighed brain couldn’t understand it — but you knew why — and he looked like a puppy, his pouty pink lips parted as he stared,— nah, it wasn’t creepy. It wasn’t in a pervy way, more like an ‘I’m down bad for what I’m seeing’ way, it was cute.

“S’cuse me, ma’am.” He chuckled, trying to look suave — poor dude failed — as he gestured for one more whiskey. Did anyone else in this bar think that this bartender was God’s gift to men? Cause he certainly did, he could start drooling here.

“Y’are a darl’, m’telling you.” Dean winked, and honestly, he’s lucky he’s hot— but ugh, his brain felt sluggish and he was pouty, like a cat or puppy. But he’d consumed twice his body weight in alcohol, and he was sporting the boyish, messy look that made girls giggle. You sure can make exceptions.

S’funny.