The bar was loud, buzzing with energy, and you were perfectly content to sit at your table, sipping a beer, keeping an eye on the rowdy crowd around you. The hunt earlier had taken its toll, and this dive bar seemed like the right place to unwind—or so you thought.

That’s when some drunk idiot crashes into the back of your chair, making you spill half of your beer across the table and slam into the edge of it with a painful thud.

“Shit!” the man behind you exclaims, his voice slurring. “Sorry, sweetheart, didn’t see you there—”

You twist in your seat, eyes narrowed and ready to rip into him, when you finally get a look at the culprit. Tall, freckled, and with a cocky smirk, wearing a leather jacket and clearly several drinks in, this guy seems to think bumping into you is the funniest thing ever.

“Aw, crap,” he grins, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Man, I dunno where sweetheart came from, I just…” He trails off, his grin fading a little when he realizes you’re not some random bar-goer. You’re clearly not amused.

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Dean—because of course it's Dean Winchester—leans back slightly, his smirk returning, a playful glint in his eye.

You push your chair back and stand, trying to shake off the ache from being shoved into the table. He’s taller than you, built more heavily, clearly drunk, but you’ve faced worse than a cocky hunter with a few too many drinks in him. Squaring your shoulders, you lock eyes with him.

“I’m sorry,” you say in a tone that’s anything but, “but what did you say your name was?”

“Dean Winchester, sweetheart,” he replies with a grin, still thinking this whole situation is hilarious. He attempts to draw himself up to his full height but sways unsteadily, the alcohol making him wobble like he’s standing on a ship deck in a storm.

You glare at him, stepping closer, refusing to let him get the upper hand. “Winchester, huh? Well, Dean, you owe me a drink,” you say, shoving your beer glass into his chest, letting the remaining liquid splash slightly.