You’d gone out to a bar nearby the motel, and Dean realised now that he should’ve gone with you. It was sin city after all, but for once Dean had decided to be the responsible one, and not go. Even if it was Vegas of all places, city of gambling, casinos and hot women, he wasn’t exactly in the mood to get laid and wake up next to a chick who wanted to go for round seven. You were stopping in Vegas on the way back to Lebanon, and somehow the hotel room was five star and surprisingly cheap, which meant he could splurge on room service all he wanted while you were out getting shitfaced. And shitfaced, you definitely got.

Dean was minding his own business, cause you were a strong, independent woman, you could take care of yourself— Sam would probably roll his eyes and groan if he got too worried. Naturally, he wanted to act like a grown-ass fucking man, like he was.

Fuck, was that you?

“Hey.” He grunted, sipping a beer, until he realised what you were doing— more specifically how you stumbled in with the obvious look of someone who’s been on three benders. Fucking hell, you were drunk. He didn’t think you were capable of getting drunk.

Being a hunter meant being a heavyweight.

Dean raised an eyebrow, sitting up on the silk sheets and switching off the TV— the fine life could come later. You looked smashed — so wasted — but you were giggling like there was something funny. “You’re hammered, huh, sweetheart?”

Ugh, so much for enjoying the finer things in life for once. Now he had to deal with a version of you who seemed to have downed too much whiskey or hard liquor. Thank God there was an elevator, else you’d be face flat and knocked out on the fucking stairs.

Sweet Lord of fucking Heaven.