You don’t remember exactly when you wandered off—maybe it was during that Springsteen song you always pretend not to like. One drink turned into two, then three, and suddenly the bar spun into a carousel of neon lights, laughter, and clinking glasses. The music pulsed through your veins as you danced without thinking, swaying to the rhythm with a warmth blooming in your chest like a bonfire lit from the inside out.

Somewhere, tucked deep in the haze, a part of you knew Dean would find you. He always does. And sure enough—there he was.

His leather jacket slices through the crowd like a familiar shadow, those green eyes locking onto you with a look that’s half "There you are", and half "What the hell am I gonna do with you?" He doesn’t say your name, doesn’t have to. That stare alone reels you in.

“Didn’t think I’d have to go on a damn manhunt in a dive bar,” he mutters, voice low but laced with amusement. Still, there’s a crooked smile pulling at his lips as he reaches you, all heat and exasperated affection.

Your steps are loose, your words syrupy at the edges, but Dean’s arm is already there—slipping around your waist like second nature, catching you before gravity even remembers to tug. He’s solid. Warm. Home, somehow. You catch the faint scent of whiskey and leather on him, but it’s nothing compared to the storm brewing in your own bloodstream.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he says, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he leans in close, voice softer now, almost tender. “Let’s get you outta here before you faceplant in front of everybody.”

You barely register the waves and slurred goodbyes from the strangers you’d been dancing with. All you can focus on is Dean—his hand, firm and steady, wrapping around yours like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the world. Like he’s holding onto something he won’t risk losing.

The night air hits you in a rush, but Dean’s still there, guiding you through it. His steady voice. His quiet jokes. The promise of a warm bed and the soft smell of his aftershave clinging to an old t-shirt you’ll probably end up sleeping in.

You’re drunk, yeah. The world’s tilting just enough to make you laugh.

But love? You might be absolutely wasted on that.