Imagine Dean protecting you in a bar.
i’m sure we’ve all had fantasies about protective!dean. don’t even pretend. we know he has a mean right hook. warnings: alcohol, sexual assault, violence. requested by: anon written by: jay
The music pulsed around you, the bass vibrating through your chest as you necked yet another shot. You had come drinking with Dean but he had, as usual, very quickly been distracted by a rather attractive bartender and hadn’t been seen for a while.
“How about you let me buy you the next one?” A man slurred into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. You could smell the stale alcohol, cigarettes and the stench of his breath without even turning around.
“No thanks, I’m good,” you tried to be polite, giving him a small smile.
“Naw, sweetie- Just one drink, that’s all I’m asking.”
“No, thank you.” You made a move to stand up but the man put his hand on your shoulder.
“I said,” his hand on your shoulder forced you to sink back into the bar stool, “Let me buy you a drink.” He was obviously drunk but strong enough to over-power you if you put up a fight. He waved over the bartender and ordered some drinks, his other hand didn’t shift from your shoulder. His grip was tight and you were sure there would be a bruise there in the morning.
“I think you’ll find-” You turned your head, spotting your saviour of the hour. “-They’re not interested.”
You let out an audible sigh of relief when you saw Dean stood there, looking ready for murder.
The man took one look at Dean, rolled his eyes and moved his spare hand to your thigh, leaning in to whisper something in your ear. “I tried to be nice.”
Dean grabbed the man by the collar of his jacket and dragged him off the chair and away from the bar.
“I said-” He shoved the guy into the wall- “They’re not interested. Back the hell off.” He turned to make his way back over to you, to make sure you were okay but the drunkard clearly couldn’t take a hint and grabbed a fistful of Dean’s shirt.
“Look-”
Dean’s fist connected with the guy’s face with an almighty crack and he collapsed into a heap on the floor, blood streaming from his nose.
“Idiot.”
Dean shifted his attention to you once more and led you out of the bar, the crisp night air soon clearing your lungs of the suppressed panic.
“Are you alright?” His hands were on your alcohol-flushed cheeks, checking you over for any injuries, his green eyes frantically searching your face.
Not trusting your voice not to shake, you just wrapped your arms around him. You balled your hands into fists and buried your head in his chest, breathing in his scent and relishing in the feeling of safety he brought when he wrapped his arms around you tight.
“It’s okay,” he breathed, hand coming up to cradle your head. “You’re okay.”