cin. 52, aromantic aegosexual. she/her, wayward!af, proud member of spn family, jensen/dean misha/cas fangirl, destiel and saileen shipper, also adores the monkees, taylor swift, robbie williams, nkotb.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, pre-established relationship, fluff, light angst, humor.
Summary/Warnings: There are different levels of Dean being drunk, and you've seen all of them. Or at least, you thought you'd seen all of them.
Author's Note: Request from an anon! I am incapable of not making it emotional, and for that I am sorry. Enjoy!
Word Count: 3.1k
“I bet I can beat you at pool.”
Dean’s voice is low in your ear, and you sigh, giving him a gentle smile as you shake your head.
“I know you can beat me at pool.” You say with a pointed look. “So do you. Just tell me what you want.”
“I don’t want anything-“
“Dean.”
He rolls his eyes, dropping his chin onto the top of your head, and you don’t have to smell the beer to know he’s drunk. He doesn’t drape himself all over you and make incredibly obvious attempts to smell your hair unless he’s at least level one Drunk Dean. Overly and openly affectionate.
And it’s not as if he’s never affectionate. He’ll hold your hand and kiss your brow every day, but if he wants more it’s not for anyone else to see. Let alone the entirety of a fucking bar. You’ll get pulled into corners and alleys and empty rooms, kissed stupid then fucked until you need to hold onto Dean’s arm to walk, but it’s not for others to see.
Unless he’s drunk. Drunk Dean has all the possessiveness of Sober Dean, and none of the reservations. Sober Dean whispers promises in your ear, but won’t be soft where it can be seen.
Drunk Dean is going to fucking kill you, because he’s grabbing your chin and tilting your head back, and there’s a bright, cocky grin on his face that makes you feel a little gooey in your stomach.
“You’re pretty.” He mumbles, and your own smile grows. “C’mon, let’s go play-“
“Dean.” You reach a hand back to trace over his jaw, and his body stills. “Say what you want.”
“Doesn’t matter-“
“It matters to me.”
He blinks at you. “You’re my dream girl.”
He’s more drunk than you thought. Level two Drunk Dean, where he’s losing his filter. It’s celebratory drunk—hunt done in a day, no casualties, he got a burger and found a cool new gun—but he’s still hammered.
He’s lucky he’s the cutest person on the planet. Lucky you love him, and that wins are so rare you couldn’t deny him celebration if you tried.
“If I tell you what I want.” Dean’s fingers start to comb through your hair, and you try not to moan. He’s not even doing it on purpose. “Do I get it?”
“We‘ll see.” You hum, and his grin widens.
“Wanna see your boobs, when you lean down to do that shot you’re good at.” Dean grabs you by the hips, turning you on your stool until you’re pressed right to his chest, and he’s standing between your legs. “Then I wanna kick your fuckin’ ass at pool, and win a kiss.”
You raise your brows. “Kisses are free, you know.”
He shakes his head, dropping his brow down to yours. “Wanna earn ‘em. Earn you.”
“You’ve earned me, Dean.” You smile up at him, and his eyes widen like he can’t believe you. “You’ve got me. That’s how the dating thing works. I’m yours.”
“Huh.” He mutters, turning your hair between his fingers. “Can we have sex, too?”
You giggle, dropping your brow to his shoulder. “When you’re sober, cowboy.”
“You think I’m a cowboy?”
There’s something soft and hopeful, in his voice. And you love him too much to tease him right now. Not when he’s being so sweet, and touching you like you’re truly his.
And you are.
But it still doesn’t feel real.
It’s not anything Dean’s done. You understand the mostly private thing. It’s safer, and means that you can keep working together without giving Sam an aneurism or compromising the cases. And Dean’s perfect, when you’re behind those doors. He’ll pull you onto his lap in the Dean Cave, and make you breakfast in the morning, and sit with you all night if you can’t sleep. Your head on his thigh while you watch cartoons, him ignoring your suggestions that he go to sleep. Grumbling that while you’re up, so he’s up, and holding you until you pass out.
But you’ve known him for a long time. You’ve had long years that no one’s at fault for, where you watched him hit on women at bars and never look at you like you might be more.
Dean’s said that you were always more, he just didn’t think you wanted him. And you believe him. You do. Dean wouldn’t lie about something like that to preserve your feelings. He wouldn’t know that you love him, and then sleep with you just to do it. If he wants sex, he could get it anywhere.
He’s choosing it with you. That’s what you cling to, in the dead of night when he’s—for whatever reason—somewhere else. If Dean just wanted sex, he’d tell you. He’d wince when you tell him you love him, and he wouldn’t call you his dream girl, and he wouldn’t act like a puppy just under your attention. He wouldn’t be looking at you with big eyes and holding you like you’re something priceless.
But he’s never said it back.
“You can be a cowboy if you want to be a cowboy.” You give him another sweet smile, and he stands up a little straighter.
“Can I be your cowboy?”
God, he must have been made in a factory. But he’s so fucking real. Dean’s warm and real around you, and under the booze you can smell his cheap cologne, and his eyes are shining on yours.
He’s yours, too. Dean had given you the right to call him yours.
“Do you want to be my cowboy?”
The shift is immediate. Dean’s lips curve into a teasing grin, his features fall into something a little darker, and his weight shifts so he’s no longer clinging to you, but shielding you. Pulling you into him, until every bit of space between your bodies is still far too much.
This is what he wanted. And you’re not nearly strong enough to shove him off with a laugh. To not indulge it a little, when his fingers trace over your cheekbones and he tugs on your hair slightly. Just enough for your head to tip back, and your eyes to be forced onto his.
“I’ll be your anything, babygirl.” He mutters, his thumb moving down to pull at your lip. “Let’s get out of here and see if you wanna take me for a ride?”
“I think I’m supposed to save a horse, first.” You whisper, and he chuckles.
“I can be the horse, too.”
Jesus Christ.
And that’s how you know. How you think you know.
That Dean loves you.
You shake your head and shove lightly at his chest—not because you don’t want it, you can feel how much you want it between your legs—and he doesn’t move away. He just laughs like he expected it, pulls you into a heavy and sloppy kiss, and goes back to hanging around you as he moves on. Talking about work he wants to do on the Impala—he’s starting to forget car terms, which means you’re hitting a level three Drunk Dean—and muttering in your ear about how he still wants to bend you over the bar table one second, before asking you about something stupid and watching you with big eyes the next.
He’s here for you. He’s not at the bar for anything but you. And he hasn’t said that he loves you, but whenever you say it, he kisses you like he’s trying to eat you alive.
Then you hit level four Drunk Dean.
Level four Drunk Dean is your favorite.
He’ll gather you into his arms and kiss your neck, all while muttering praise you don’t think he understands. His words are all over the place and impossible to follow, but he’s grinning the whole time, and he seems to throw in a your pretty every few minutes. He stumbles over the jukebox, herding you into front of him—like the idea of you being gone from his sight is worse than the end of the world—and picks a song you know sober Dean would hate.
Sober Dean would call pop music not his thing. Say he’s freakin’ hates that bubblegum shit, sweetheart, so stop tryin’ to swap my mixtapes or I’m gonna tie your hands up.
You’ve pushed him right to the edge of that. It had been a fun afternoon.
But nothing is better than Drunk Dean very much knowing pop music. And feeling no type of shame about it, because level two Drunk Dean loses all the weight and pain that Sober Dean carries. And you love Sober Dean, and his brooding and stoic face and big arms around you like he’s worried you’re going to fly away.
But you love all of Dean. And it’s another way to know.
Dean lets you see all of him.
The fact that you get to see all of him. Not many people get to see all of Dean, but you’re allowed to be spun in his arms as his eyes get more and glazed and blown out. You love him like this just as much as you love him scowling in his room and burying his face between your breasts after a nightmare, because it makes him feel better.
It might not.
You don’t care.
It’s another way you to know Dean might love you, even half as much as you love him.
He just doesn’t say it. And that’s Dean. He barely even tells Sam he loves him. So you’ll take whatever he’ll give you, and hope it’s enough to destroy the little devil in your ear, telling you soon he’ll get bored. You’re just a convenient, consistent, safer lay, and one day you’ll have to face that.
Dean wouldn’t do that to you. You know Dean wouldn’t do that to you.
No matter how you wish it would, it doesn’t stop the fear.
You’re starting to hit a level five Drunk Dean. That’s when it’s time to call it a night. His inhibitions are too far gone, and he’s starting to try and do things he cannot do. Objectively. He’s strong, but he’s not going to be run through the wall like the Kool-Aid man. He’s agile for a guy of his size, but he’s not going to be able to climb onto the ceiling like Spider-Man. He eats a lot, but no one is going to be able to swallow a dart.
Sam’s been busy all night. He took one drink and shuffled off to a booth to call Eileen. They haven’t had a lot of time to call in the past few weeks, and you don’t need Sam to handle a level five Drunk Dean. It might be easier without Sam, because you can keep all of Dean’s attention on your tits while you sneak the keys out of his pocket, and Sam won’t have to deal with Dean asking you to fuck in the bathroom before you go home.
You’ll text him, when you get back to the motel. Tell him to walk back if he can’t wait, or hang out until you get Dean into bed.
“C’mon,” you mumble in Dean’s ear, looping an arm around his back. “Let’s get you to bed, big guy.”
He glares at you, not budging an inch. “Stop touchin’ me.”
Your hands fly off of him, your eyes widening slightly. “I- I’m sorry, baby-“
“Don’t call me baby either.” He grumbles, turning back to the jukebox. “‘M not your baby.”
You don’t know how to deal with that. You can’t start crying in the middle of the bar, but you also feel like your heart was just put through a shredder. He doesn’t want you to touch him. He’s not your baby. And that fear is rearing it’s head and howling, because maybe the drinks are freeing Dean of being a gentleman, and he’s saying what he’s always thought. You’re just a body. You shouldn’t be calling him sweet things or touching him like that, because that makes you something that—to Dean—you’re simply not.
“I-“ You take a long breath, and you’re going to need Sam. He can handle Dean, and you can go try to stitch your heart back up in the bathroom. Just enough to face him in the morning. To not completely shatter when you tell him that you know, and you’ll leave to save him the trouble. “I- I’m gonna go get Sam-“
“Don’t want Sam.” He glares at you again, and the world is starting to blur a little bit.
“Dean, I don’t-“
He cuts you off with your own name, and he says it the same as when he’s had a nightmare. Like he’s a little lost. “I want her. Not you.”
You stare at him, and the heart-breaking stutters to a stop. “What?”
“M’ girl.” He grumbles. “She’ll kick your ass, if you try’n grab me again. She’s hot. She’s gotta gun.” He frowns at the air. “But ‘m not ‘possed to tell people that. Don’t tell ‘er I told you.”
You can feel a soft smile pulling at your cheeks. “I won’t.”
He nods slowly, and he’s still watching you with a slight apprehension. Your heart is still caught in the slight stasis, but before you can let it bloom back, you just need to check.
“Can we go home, Dean?”
His nose wrinkles like he smelled something bad. “I don’t wanna go home with you. You’re not m’ girl.” He says your name again, a big, goofy smile spreading over his face. “I miss ‘er.”
He misses you.
And he really doesn’t seem to have a clue that you’re right in front of him.
You take a careful step forward. “Dean-“
“Look, lady.” He snaps, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest. “You seem fine, but I love my girl. So no touchin’.”
There’s no fighting your smile now. “You love her?”
He gives a firm nod, eyeing you wearily. “She’s perfect. She smells really good, and she’s got a big n’ pretty mouth, and one time she stabbed me, and it was freakin’ hot. I love her. Never loved nothin’ like her.” His scowl deepens. “And I’m her’s. Not yours. So no funny business.”
You’re still fighting tears. But now they’re made of Dean loves you.
He does. His filter is gone, and he’s affectionate, and he can’t remember enough to recognize you, but he knows he love you, and that he’s yours.
He’s doing things Sober Dean wouldn’t do. Like trying to eat olives and cherries with his nose, and saying he loves you.
He loves you.
“No funny business.” You raise your hands for him to see, and your smile is probably manic. You don’t really care. “Can you stay here for a second?”
“You’re not my freakin’ boss-“
You say your own name, and try not to melt when Dean’s whole face lights up. “I’m gonna go get her and Sam. You just have to stay here. Does that sound good?”
He nods cautiously, and you give him one last smile before moving over to Sam’s booth.
“Hey,” he frowns around you, obviously looking for Dean. “Eileen just went to bed, where’s-“
“Back there.” You nod over your shoulder. “He doesn’t know who I am, Sam.”
You don’t know what you expected, but Sam laughing definitely wasn’t it. “Holy shit. How many beers did he have?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t counting them-”
“Well, you know our Dean drunkenness scale?”
You frown. “Yeah?”
“This is a level six.” Sam says, starting to move out of the booth. “His brain is scrambled. One time he left me in a parking lot because he thought I was a random girl following him around.”
“Sam.” You mutter, narrowing your eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me about level six.”
“Cause it’s rare.” He shrugs. “It only happens when he’s really depressed, or really happy.” He gives you a small smile. “I’m guessing this is the happy one, which is nice. Only other time I saw the happy one was after we got Michael out of him, and that was also half depressed.”
You try not to flush too much at that. Or how, when Sam grabs Dean’s shoulder, nods to you, and explains he found you looking for Dean,
Dean’s whole face lights up and he barrels towards you with an openly adoring expression.
“I missed you, sweetheart.” He drops his face into your hair, the hug almost bone-crushing. “I wanna go home.”
“I think we can make that happen.” Your words are muffled in Dean’s chest as you snake your hand into his pocket, but he seems to understand them all the same. His grip tightens as he pulls back, and if he had a tail, he might have been wagging it.
“Can you shower with me?”
“Sure, baby.” You get a good grip on the keys, a toss them to Sam behind his back. “Ready?”
Dean nods, and never once pulls himself away as you guide him back to the car.
“I don’t wanna ride in that car.” He grumbles in your ear. “I want my car. I’d never park Baby this shitty.”
You snort, and Sam scowls. Dean was already one level of drunk when you showed up to the bar, and he’d been clinging to you like an octopus for the whole drive.
“It is a shitty parking job.” You hum, and Sam flips you off.
“You couldn’t have done better-“
“Hey!” Dean snaps, and you squeak as he folds over you like a human shield. “Don’t talk ‘bout my girl like that, buddy. I’ll fuckin’ shoot you, and then- Then my brother will make you freakin’ disappear-“
“I know, Dean.” Sam sighs, and you muffle your giggle in Dean’s side. “Let’s go.”
Dean passes out only two seconds into the ride. Snoring all around you, his grip tightening whenever you so much as wiggle.
“I’m gonna kick his ass in the morning.” Sam mutters. “That was not a bad parking job. There was a truck half in the space, and I made it work.”
“I know.” You hum, playing with the flannel of Dean’s cuff. “Don’t blame him, Sam. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Yeah, he does.” He glares at Dean in the mirror. “Jerk.”
You let out a soft laugh, but you really hope Dean knows what he’s saying.
He does know what he’s saying.
He just doesn’t know that he’s saying it.
And you can take that. You can take Dean loving you and not knowing how to say it. And you know that in the morning Sam will mock him for reaching a level six drunk, and Dean will look at you with a slight fear, and you’ll just kiss the scruff on his jaw. Tell him that you understand with hands in his hair and sweet smiles, and make sure he knows that he doesn’t have to say it.
You’ll love him all the same.
And Dean does love you. Drunk or sober, he knows he loves you.
And now you know it too.
End Note: Dean if I had you I'd never let you get sad drunk.
If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
This was my first photo op with Jensen. I walked in and he absolutely took my breath away. Everyone was 100% right—he is even more stunning in person. He put his arm around my shoulders and I put mine around his waist—Chris had to do some fiddling with his equipment and Jensen said to me “Looks like we’re having some technical issues.” Like he was apologizing for the delay. I looked up at him and replied, “Oh, that’s okay, I’m fine right where I am.” 😁 I thanked him once Chris took the pic, went out into the vendors room, and then flailed for about ten minutes. 😂
Hellers gather around, it’s Destiel Pride Month! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜
It's no secret that this is the Destiel website and I am a Destiel girlie. For years I've wanted to host an event that would let us come together to celebrate Dean & Cas and their queerness. This June seems the perfect time to finally commit to it!
I know the Destiel fandom hasn't had it easy over the years - we've been called many things from delusional to perverted but the truth is that Dean & Cas' love is beautiful and deserves to be celebrated, openly and fiercly! So let's celebrate! 💚💙
Here are 30 prompts for the 30 days in June.
All types of creations - art, fic, edits, gif sets etc. are welcome!
You can post on the day of the prompt or later during the entire month of June. No need to do all of the prompts, pick and choose at your own pace!
Please use the tag #destielpride to make sure I won’t miss any of your wonderful creations 😊
*N*S*F*W content is allowed as long as it's tagged with #destielpridensfw in addition to the main tag.
For creators under 18: please refrain from posting works that aren't SFW.
(Even though this is meant to be a Destiel centric event, everyone is welcome to join & use the prompts to create works for other SPN pairs or even for other fandoms.)
I'm looking forward to seeing everyone spread some Destiel love over the next month. Oh and happy pride! 🌈
Very quick Jensen while my curry cooks. About half an hour? Long enough for the rice to stick to the pan anyway... I'm trying to do quicker sketches partly because my energy is very limited and partly because obsessing over getting a drawing as perfect as possible over hours isn't really the best way to progress. So quicker drawings tend not to be as accurate but they can br more fun and lively.
“No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don’t.”
Hey all! Jensen’s Aunt Kelli asked me to share this—she’s started a Go Fund Me to help raise funds for LOUD Nola (a theater group for young LGBTQ people in New Orleans) as a Christmas gift for Jensen and Danneel. If you can donate—even if it’s just a couple of dollars—please do; if you can’t, then please share and help spread the word!
Jensen’s Aunt Kelli asked me to share this—she’s started a Go Fund Me to help raise funds for LOUD Nola (a theater group for young LGBTQ people in New Orleans) as a Christmas gift for Jensen and Danneel. If you can donate—even if it’s just a couple of dollars—please do; if you can’t, then please share and help spread the word!
If you wish to take part in any fandom, you need to accept and respect these three laws.
If you aren’t able to do that, then you need to realise that your actions are making fandom unsafe for creators. That you are stifling creativity.
Like vaccination, fandom only works if everyone respects these rules. Creators need to be free to make their fanart, fanfics and all other content without fear of being harassed or concern-trolled for their creative choices, no matter whether you happen to like that content or not.
The First Law of Fandom
Don’t Like; Don’t Read (DL;DR)
It is up to you what you see online. It is not anyone else’s place to tell you what you should or should not consume in terms of content; it is not up to anyone else to police the internet so that you do not see things you do not like. At the same time, it is not up to YOU to police fandom to protect yourself or anyone else, real or hypothetical.
There are tools out there to help protect you if you have triggers or squicks. Learn to use them, and to take care of your own mental health. If you are consuming fan-made content and you find that you are disliking it - STOP.
The Second Law of Fandom
Your Kink Is Not My Kink (YKINMK)
Simply put, this means that everyone likes different things. It’s not up to you to determine what creators are allowed to create. It’s not up to you to police fandom.
If you don’t like something, you can post meta about it or create contrarian content yourself, seek to convert other fans to your way of thinking.
But you have no right to say to any creator “I do not like this, therefore you should not create it. Nobody should like this. It should not exist.”
It’s not up to you to decide what other people are allowed to like or not like, to create or not to create. That’s censorship. Don’t do it.
The Third Law of Fandom
Ship And Let Ship (SALS)
Much (though not all) fandom is about shipping. There are as many possible ships as there are fans, maybe more. You may have an OTP (One True Pairing), you may have a NOTP, that pairing that makes you want to barf at the very thought of its existence.
It’s not up to you to police ships or to determine what other people are allowed to ship. Just because you find that one particular ship problematic or disgusting, does not mean that other people are not allowed to explore its possibilities in their fanworks.
You are free to create contrarian content, to write meta about why a particular ship is repulsive, to discuss it endlessly on your private blog with like-minded persons.
It is not appropriate to harass creators about their ships, it is not appropriate to demand they do not create any more fanworks about those ships, or that they create fanwork only in a manner that you deem appropriate.
These three laws add up to the following:
You are not paying for fanworks content, and you have no rights to it other than to choose to consume it, or not consume it. If you do choose to consume it, do not then attack the creator if it wasn’t to your taste. That’s the height of bad manners.
Be courteous in fandom. It makes the whole experience better for all of us.
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