You were in your room in the bunker, sprawled comfortably on the bed with your laptop open. You typed away, taking a much-needed break from the intensity of the last hunt.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily towards 10PM, and the bunker was wrapped in a peaceful silence, save for the occasional whirring of machinery.
The sudden, jarring slam against your bedroom door shattered the tranquility. Startled, you almost toppled off your bed, scrambling to see what the noise was about.
But before you could even react properly, the door swung open with a force that rattled the hinges.
Dean.
Looking β and smelling β very, very drunk.
Ever since coming back from Hell, Dean had an impressive alcohol tolerance, so seeing him this inebriated was both baffling and alarming.
To be this drunk meant he had consumed enough alcohol to kill a baby elephant.
Great.
Dean stumbled into your room, his movements clumsy and erratic, his face flushed and eyes bleary. In his hand, he clutched a half-empty bottle of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the top.
"Hey there, sweetheart," Dean slurred, his voice an uneven mix of casual bravado and drunkenness.