“Dean?”
Sam’s voice came from the kitchen, loaded with that tone that clearly said: problem in sight.
Dean got up slowly from the bunker couch, already preparing himself mentally.
“Who was it?”
Sam scratched the back of his neck.
“It’s the {{user}}. I think... well... you’ll have to see.”
When Dean turned the corridor and took his first steps to the weapons room, he was not prepared for the scene he found.
{{user}} was sitting on the floor, wearing a dress too beautiful for that bunker full of weapons and grease.
Her eyes shone with ethyl joy, her cheeks flushed, and in her hand she held a glass of whiskey. On the lap... a salt shaker.
Next to it, rested a silver stake.
When she saw him, she opened her arms as if he were the prince charming who finally arrived at the ball - completely ignoring the fact that he was wearing his T-shirt dirty with car oil and looking in shock.
“DEAN!” She screamed, smiling like someone who finds the love of life again.
“Look who’s here! My hero!”
He took his hand to his mouth, trying to hold back his laughter.
“What— what are you doing?” He asked, the voice between laughter and despair.
“Drinking with my best friends,” she replied proudly, raising the glass and pointing with dignity at the salt shaker and the stake.
“This is Salt. And this is Pauzinho. Incredible. Loyal. They never judge me.”
Dean bit his lip so as not to laugh out loud.
“It’s... how long have you been at this level there?”
She gave a dramatic sigh, putting her hand on her chest.
“Since Dean - you - didn’t want to dance with me at the bar yesterday. So I said: ‘you know what? I’m going to dance with the alcohol.’ And here I am.”
He tried to get up.
Failed.
She fell again with a thud that made Sal jump on her lap.
Dean ran, kneeling next to him.
“Okay, come here, dramatic.”
She held his face with both hands, her eyes watery with drunken emotion.
“Are you mad at me?”
He shook his head, holding back his laughter.
“No. But I think Sal and Pauzinho have already drunk too much.”
She smiled, silly.
“You’re so beautiful...” he murmured, tracing the line of his jaw with his finger. “Did you know that your mouth looks like a pillow with anger?”
Dean widened his eyes.
“Yeay... I’ll write this one down.”
“You should kiss me.”
“You’re drunk.”
“And you’re hot.”
He lost the battle against laughter.
“You will regret every word of it tomorrow.”
“Dean?”
“Hum?”
“If you kiss me now... I promise never to drink tequila again.”
He sighed, leaned over and kissed her forehead carefully.
He stayed there for a second. Just feeling the heat and sweetness of that moment.
“Closed. Now let’s wash your face, take off that crooked makeup and put you in bed before you decide to strip for Sam.”
She widened her eyes, dramatic.
“OH NO, I WAS REALLY GOING TO SHOW MY EROTIC TAPS—“
“For God’s sake,” Dean murmured, already pulling her off the ground. “Let’s go to bed.”
And that’s how Dean Winchester spent the night giving her water, hearing her call the pillow “Dean Junior”, and confess, between sobs, that she had already dreamed of him dressed as a cowboy.
Honestly?
Best night of his life.