Warning: language and crude remarks.
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YOU'VE SEEN DEAN UPSET BEFORE, but never like this. You had just finished a round of drinks at one of your favorite bars—the Winchesters in tow—after an exhausting werewolf hunt outside of Lexington, Virginia. You had decided to whine down the night with a few drinks—nothing too excessive that would leave you drunk—but just something to take the edge off. While exiting the bar, a drunken pedestrian had roughly bumped into you, and continued on to make rude comments.
The man bled into the night as he was dressed in a navy blue shirt, a dark leather jacket, and a pair of black skinny jeans, which made him almost invisible under the dim lights of the parking lot. The stranger was already struggling to walk, but he managed to avoid your line of sight as you looked downward. When his shoulder came crashing into yours, your body instinctively winced away with a small yelp. Luckily Dean—who was trailing behind you—caught you before you had the chance to fall to the ground. You silently thanked him, giving him a look that was a combination of "thanks," and "what the hell just happened?"
"Sorrrrrry Babyyyy," the man slurs. Immediately, you caught whiff of the putrid smell of alcohol that laced his breath, the intensity so strong that you were surprised that your eyebrows didn't burn off. For a moment, he stops his wobbled movements, his cat-like eyes scanning you over, pausing at places that he shouldn't have been. "I hope I didn't rough you up too bad..."
Wanting the conversation to end before it escalated, you let the comment go. "I'm okay, thank you," you state sternly, praying that he would just move on. However, the man continued to look at you, his eyes growing darker. From behind you, you could feel Dean's arm tighten around your waist, causing you to softly collide with his warm chest. Your hand delicately brushed past his wrist—your subtle way of telling him that you were very uncomfortable.
The man chuckles, "I wouldn't want to ruin a body like that."
His words were mumbled and it was rather difficult to understand him, but the message was received loud and clear. He crept closer, your stomach turning when you noticed his troublesome grin. Dean cleared his throat, his fists balling with annoyance—if this guy didn't move along soon, you weren't sure if either Sam or you could hold Dean back.
"You're a pretty little thing," he muttered, his shaky hand reaching for your shoulder. It was then that Dean decided that he had had enough, and intervened by stepping in front of you. He straightened his posture, showing the man his full height and strength, yet the drunk stood his ground—somehow thinking he could take him. Dean sighed—chest puffed and jaw set. "That's enough," Dean threatened, "I suggest you move along now."
Apparently Dean's warning didn't seem to get through to the guy, because instead of walking away, the bastard stepped forward matching Dean eye to eye. "And, if I don't?"
You knew what was about to happen, and you tried your best to stop it. "Come on Dean, let's go," you whispered, grabbing his hand. Reluctantly, he obeys, turning away from the man momentarily. His eyes soften once they see you, and he begins to follow you to the impala. The heated situation seemed to be extinguished, but right as you were about to hop into the car and drive away, the man intercedes once more. "The bitch got you whipped, uh? I don't blame you, that's a nice piece of ass to be chained to."
If Dean wasn't angry before, he certainly was now. In a few long strides, Dean was right in front of the man again, towering over him with a pissed-off demeanor. You try to catch up with him—your sole purpose being to diffuse the situation before Dean ended up killing the man—but Sam holds you back. Trapped behind Sam, you could only watch as Dean shoved the guy forcefully against the hood of a car. He pinned his forearm to the man's neck, his raging green eyes glaring down at him. "Listen here, you sick son of a bitch. If you don't apologize to her right now and get your perverted ass out of here, you'll be leaving this parking lot in a bodybag. Do I make myself clear?"
The man—practically crying now—slightly hesitated, which was met with a husky punch. Blood gushed from the drunks nose, the bone completely broken. "Did I make myself clear," Dean growled, the adrenaline still running its course through his body. The man nodded wildly, the pressure that Dean kept on his throat enabling him to speak. Seeing that the man finally received his message, Dean released him, yet tracked his every move as the man limped his way over to you. "I apologize for my behavior ma'am," he stutters, before running off to his car.
Finally, Sam liberates his hold, his own eyes still following the man as he begins to drive away. You sprint towards Dean, your arms wrapping around his neck, while he folds his around your waist. "Are you okay, sweetheart," he whispers, his voice much softer than before.
"I'm fine, Dean," you chuckle, "But, that guy is going to need some therapy after that."
Smirking a little, he looked down at you. "Hey, no one talks to my girl like that."
"Right," you smile brightly—it was the first time he had ever referred to you has his girl—and now you couldn't stop beaming. You peck his lips tenderly, showing your appreciation, before Sam quickly interrupts by honking Baby's horn.
"Let's go, lovebirds," he yelled, "I'm tired."
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