“I think that’s enough for tonight,” you said, grabbing the shot glass. “How about we get you home?” Your voice was soft, quiet, something Dean hadn’t heard in a long time.
“I’m fine,” he insisted, but his green eyes never met yours, just stuck to the alcohol you held between your fingers.
You laid a hand on his shoulder, your voice almost a whisper. “Please, Dean.”
He stared at you a moment, blinking away his daze. He nodded and pushed out his chair to stand. “Shouldn’t let that go to waste,” he muttered. His fingers went for the shot but you downed it first, the alcohol burning your throat.