Birthday/Liquor Challenge for @winchester-writes
I had #20 Ciroc Vodka and “You couldn’t wait until we got to the door?”
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Summary: Reader missed her 21st birthday due to harrowing circumstances thus meeting the Winchesters. She turns 25 and Dean thinks he’ll show her a good time.
Your 21st birthday was supposed to consist of bar crawls, getting ID’d at every stop, having your sash signed by all the single guys, but no, that year, your parents were brutally murdered by a shifter guised as your best friend and you hadn’t touched a drink “legally” since.
Dean was going to remedy that situation once and for all. He knew tomorrow was your 25th birthday and just as it was a milestone in the hunter’s life as well as everyday life, he knew it’d be a blast to watch you drown yourself in alcohol, the light weight that you were.
“YN, wear something nice, we’re goin’ out to the local bar for your birthday,” Dean popped his head into your room in the bunker, but you didn’t hear him. You had your earbuds in, music as high as it would go, and you were glued to the research in front of you. Dean rolled his eyes, sighed, and sauntered your way, all bow legs and determination, and flicked an earbud out of one of your ears.
“Jesus Christ, Dean, give me a heart attack why don’t ya?” you slapped him in the chest; quite hard. You always had a mean streak.
“Damn it, YN, that hurt,” he grimaced, and you pouted,
“Big bad hunter Dean Winchester, hurt by a wee little girl like me?”
“Har har,” Dean smirked, “like I was sayin’ at the door, get dressed, wear something nice, we’re goin’ drinkin’ for your birthday.”
You jumped at the sound of that. Wear something nice? Right. Because you either wore ripped jeans, a concert tee, and flannels, or a leather jacket to top off your latest hunting outfit. Surely you had something stowed away in your closet or hope chest that you could use for this occasion.
“Give me a half hour,” you pushed him gently toward the door, “I’ve got work to do.”
Dean didn’t know why you even had to take that long; you were gorgeous in jeans torn at the knees and an old punk tee, hair loosely thrown into a bun. Your eyes a mysterious gray with specks of, oh Jesus, what was he thinking? Getting you drunk just to confess how he felt? He was now catergorized as one of “those pervs”. No, tonight would be about you, your celebration of birth, and there’d be no moves placed on you, by him.
You managed to find a pair of leather skinnies, a maroon blouse that cris-crossed in the front, exposing just the heft of your breasts, peep toe booties, and minimal makeup, with your eyeliner, catified.
You left your hair nested in a bun, but curled the strays that weirdos across your face, and straightening your bangs. You smacked your lips as you applied your lipstick and winked, “Damn, I look good for 25,” and that’s when you noticed the huge welt on your bicep from the hunt last night. “Fuck me,” you grabbed your leather jacket and threw it over your blouse, “some things never change.” You excited your bedroom and heard towards the war room to find Dean wearing a dark green button down and worn jeans, his leather jacket swung over his shoulder.
“Fuck me,” you exhaled not quite loud enough for him to hear, but loud enough for Sam to chuckle. “Hush, you behemoth,” you stared him down, and that’s when Dean turned to look at the commotion. He eyed you like a piece of fresh meat, ready to pounce and you got instantly wet.
“You look-Jesus YN you look-” Dean stumbled over his words.
“Hot,” Sam interjected, “stunning, beautiful, gorgeous, any of those will work Dean.”
“Yeah, YN, what Sammy said.”
“Thanks you nerds, now are we getting drunk or what?” You played it cool, you didn’t want the heat in between your legs rising to your cheeks.
The Work Station was busy, bouncing with men and women of all ages, ordering drinks, singing karaoke, making out in corners. You were loving it and as the three of you found a booth in the back, old habits die hard, Sam took orders. One whiskey,one beer, for himself, and for the birthday girl,
“Ciroc, on ice, with a splash of seltzer and a lemon wedge,“ you rattled off at the bemusement of both men.
"What?” You asked incredulously, “Did i stutter?”
“No, uh, not at all, just don’t you think you wanna start off with something less, I don’t know, potent?” Sam suggested.
“Ciroc, Sam,” you winked, “not everyday I get to celebrate my 21st and 25th in the same night!” You whooped with a fist in the air and connected with Dean’s fist for a bump.
You were having a blast, lost count to how many drinks you had consumed, and you and Dean were flirting non stop. You had your hand on his thigh, he had his on the small of your back, your lips were close to his ear as you shouted your latest karaoke song, and while Sam was enjoying drunk YN singing and dancing, he wasn’t about to watch his brother and best friend fuck on the leather booth. He cashed out and took the two of you, clearly inebriated, grabbed the Impala’s keys, to Dean’s chagrin, and drove the two of you back to the bunker.
The two of you had begun to make out in the backseat like horny teenagers, moans growing louder, hands roaming further under articles of clothing, and Sam slammed on the brakes, breaking the two of you up for seconds. You both exited the car and headed towards the Bunker’s door, when you felt your world spin, your stomach claw for reprieve, and you tossed your cookies on the front of Sam’s shirt.
“Seriously?” Sam threw his hands in the air in frustration, “You couldn’t wait until we got to the door, could you?”
Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand you whimpered an apology and Dean immediately sobered up, holding back your hair, as you retched into the bushes next.
“Ciroc sucks,” you grumbled as Dean hefted you up bridal style and side stepped the vomit and Sam drenched in puke, opened the door, and led you to your bathroom, where he helped you remove your top, peeled off your skin tight leather pants, and left you to pray to the porcelain goddess in your matching bralette and panties. Dean tended to you all night, grabbed a shitty pillow from storage and a blanket, and kept you on your side, in case you had to be sick again.
Kissing your temple as you fell asleep, mumbling more apologies, about how he probably regretted kissing you in the first place, Dean just chuckled, not imagining how the night ended up.
“Good night, Princess and Happy Birthday,” he placed a blanket over your clammy body, “and I don’t regret a damn thing.”
“But you will in the morning,” he leaned against the tub and shifted closer to your body and kept vigilance over your sleeping body the rest of the night, “no more Ciroc for you, that’s for sure.”
You mumbled an incoherent “uh hm” and shifted into his side.