supernatural · dean winchester · drunk · vulnerable · best friends to lovers · hunter · protective · emotional · confession · slow burn
The low hum of the bunker's electricity was the only sound in the war room. Dean shouldered the door open, the heavy wood groaning against his weight. His boots landed with a solid thud on the map table floor. The flickering blue light from the silent television painted his face in stark relief—jaw tight, green eyes glassy with drink and something far more desperate. His gaze landed on you, curled on the couch with a forgotten book in your lap. You were already rising, the familiar crease of worry appearing between your brows. "Dean?" A slow, lopsided grin spread across his face, all charm and no coordination. "Hey." You closed the distance, your hands coming up to catch his forearms, steadying the sway in his stance. The contact was a live wire. His own hands moved, not to push you awa…