Preference- When you’re drunk
Sam is wonderfully patient when you’re drunk.
He watches you with amusement as you lose at darts and pout, then as you immediately perk up when your favorite song comes on. “Saaaaaammmmm! Dance with meeeeeee!” He laughs as you attempt to pull him out onto the floor, stopping you just before your behavior becomes truly embarrassing.
When you get home, he makes sure you drink a bottle of water and take a couple aspirin before you lay down, gently pushing your hair out of your face. He doesn’t mind a bit when you keep kissing him instead of getting ready for bed.
Once he finally gets you in pajamas and under the covers, you can’t stop giggling. He laughs along with you, even letting you braid his hair, because you insist that it will be hot. It isn’t. He sweetly tells you that you can spend the next day watching a Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon. He’s lying.
You suddenly, without a doubt, no question, absolutely CANNOT sleep until you know who made it through to the next round on The Voice, so Sam creeps to the main room where he left his laptop and Googles it for you. When he comes back to bed, you are stretched across his pillow, snoring loudly. He kisses your forehead before gently sliding in around you, tucking you into his arms.
Dean loves the drunk version of you. He is usually the one who got you drunk in the first place, matching you shot for shot in a game of quarters or playing Kings.
Dean is a fun drunk. You both laugh all night, louder and louder, until Sam comes out of his room and gives you a bitch face for keeping him awake. That only makes you laugh harder.
But you eventually do decide to call it a night, and retreat to Dean’s bedroom. He doesn’t mention that you’re in his room, and not your own, and neither do you. Instantly, you both are all hands and hot skin and perfect sloppy kisses that make you desperate for more. Without inhibitions, momentarily without common sense to change your mind, the two of you fall into bed together. It’s passionate and steamy and exactly what you thought it would be.
Dean asks if you’re sure, because not even the alcohol can take away his need to protect you, his need to make sure you are comfortable. You assure him that you want this, just as much as he does. “Not possible,” he grins.
The next morning, you wake up to an empty bed. You stumble to the kitchen, inwardly smiling at the sting of beard burn on your inner thighs, to find Dean making you his hangover cure breakfast. “Nice sex hair,” he teases, kissing you gently and handing you scrambled eggs.