It was well past midnight when you stumbled through the door of the bunker, your vision swimming as you tried to steady yourself against the cold, metal frame. You were still giggling from the night out, the alcohol buzzing through your system, making everything seem just a little too funny. But the moment you crossed the threshold, the low hum of the bunker’s familiar lighting brought you back to reality.

Dean was sitting at the war room table, his face buried in an old lore book. Sam had gone to bed hours ago, but Dean was always up late, doing research, watching out for you and Sam like the protective older brother he was. As you wobbled through the hallway, Dean’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing at the sight of you.

“Really?” Dean muttered, his voice dripping with a mix of annoyance and concern. He slammed the book shut and stood, crossing the room toward you.

“Heyyy, Deeean,” you slurred, flashing him a sloppy grin. “Miss me?”

Dean’s jaw clenched as he looked you up and down. It didn’t take a genius to see what was going on. You were clearly drunk, the smell of alcohol clinging to your clothes and your steps less than steady. His protective instincts kicked in, even though he wanted to lecture you.

“Seriously?” Dean sighed, grabbing your arm gently but firmly to steady you as you almost tripped over your own feet. “How much did you have to drink?”

You waved your hand dismissively. “Just a little... maybe a lot.” You giggled again, but the look on Dean’s face told you he wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

He led you over to the nearest chair, practically guiding you like a parent trying to keep a kid from falling over. His grip was gentle but firm, and he wasn’t letting you out of his sight.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Dean asked, his voice low but sharp. “You know better than this.”

“I was just… having fun,” you said, your words slurring. “I’m an adult, Dean. I can handle it.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared you down. “Clearly.”