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This is such an odd request, but I swear it's really sweet. I just got home from the club, and I'm super drunk as I'm writing this (I'm typing like a sloth to make sure everything makes sense).

My feet are quite literally killing me, yet I can't help but think about drunk reader complaining about their feet hurting and being all pouty because of it while they ask Dean to carry them back to their room. Only to drunkenly yap his ear off with things that they absolutely adore and love about him, even if they don't say it much when they're sober. (Clingy drunk reader 🔛🔝)

Established relationship preferred! Tyy in advance~

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡ tipsy,

summary. you've had a night. fun. drinks. and now your feet are killing you. luckily for you, dean's strong

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 733

notes. please come back drunkie anon~ i absolutely loved this 🩷

You know your feet are going to fall off.

Like, actually detach from your legs and go on strike for the way you’ve abused them tonight. Stupid heels. Stupid dance floor. Stupid fun times that made you forget the very real consequences of being on your feet for hours.

But it’s fine. You have a solution.

“Deeaaaann,” you whine, tugging on his sleeve as you stumble down the Bunker hallway, your limbs feeling more like jelly than anything solid. “My feet are dead. Gone. Say goodbye.” You wave dramatically toward your legs, nearly toppling over in the process.

Dean steadies you instantly, his hand firm against your waist. “Yeah? And whose fault is that, sweetheart?”

You gasp, mouth falling open. “Mine,” you admit, frowning. “But that’s not the point.”

Dean huffs out a laugh, already guiding you toward your room like he’s done this a million times before. “Oh yeah? Then what is?”

You stop in your tracks, blinking up at him with big, glassy eyes. “Carry me.”

Dean exhales sharply through his nose, like he knew this was coming. “No way.”

Your pout could win an Oscar. “Please? Please, please, please? You love me, right? Doesn’t love mean carrying your poor, helpless, beautiful girlfriend when she’s on the brink of death?”

Dean lifts a brow. “Brink of death, huh?”

“Yes. My feet are GONE. You’re dating a footless woman, Dean.” You gesture to yourself. “Might as well call me Floaty McGee.”

That gets a chuckle out of him. “Alright, alright. C’mere, ya menace.”

The next thing you know, Dean is sweeping you into his arms like you weigh nothing, one arm under your legs, the other supporting your back. You practically melt against him, letting out a dramatic sigh as you nuzzle into his chest.

“God, you’re so big,” you mumble, tracing lazy circles over his shirt.

Dean snorts. “Uh. Thanks?”

“No, I mean it. All strong and warm and—you smell so good.” You sigh dreamily, letting your fingers trail up to the back of his neck, playing with the short hair there. “Like home. Like leather and whiskey and safety and you.”

Dean’s grip on you tightens just a little. “Damn, sweetheart, didn’t know alcohol made you this sentimental.”

You hum, tucking your face against his throat. “M’not sentimental.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I just love you,” you say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Like, so much. Soooo much.”

Dean chuckles, his voice softer now. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirm. “Like, you don’t even know how much. It’s ridiculous, honestly. You’re all…” You wave a clumsy hand in the air, smacking his shoulder in the process. “You. And you do all these little things, like—like making sure I eat and giving me your jacket when I forget mine and keeping my favorite snacks in the car even though you pretend you don’t.”

Dean doesn’t say anything to that. You don’t notice.

“And your hands,” you continue, oblivious to how tense he’s gotten. “God, your hands, Dean. Do you even realize how nice they are? Big and rough and so good at everything they do? Touching me, fixing Baby, shooting things—”

Dean clears his throat. “Okay, sweetheart, time for bed.”

You whine, clinging to him tighter. “Nooo. I have so much more to say! Like how pretty your eyes are. Like, stupidly pretty. All green and golden and—ugh, it’s annoying.”

He smirks. “Didn’t realize my eyes pissed you off.”

“They do. Because they make me weak.”

Dean lets out a real laugh at that, finally reaching your bedroom. He nudges the door open with his foot, stepping inside before carefully laying you down onto the mattress. The second he tries to pull away, you refuse to let go.

“Stay,” you murmur, looking up at him with those big, sleepy eyes. “Please?”

Dean exhales, shaking his head fondly before sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re gonna be a real pain in the ass tomorrow, y’know that?”

You smile. “Yeah. But you’ll still love me.”

His gaze softens, all that teasing amusement melting into something quieter. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I will.”

You beam, completely content as sleep starts to pull you under.

Before you drift off, you feel Dean press a kiss to your forehead, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Drunk or not, you’re gonna hear all this back in the morning.”

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