A knock jarred me awake a few hours later, and not just any knock but you know how a cop knocks? Just like way too hard and enthusiastic and loud as all hell? Three guesses how Dean knocks and the first two don't count. Gives me a heart attack every fucking time, too.

Now, where were we? Ah yes, chapter three—

A knock jarred me awake a few hours later and I sat up, taking a couple of panicky seconds to remember where I was and why I was there and what the fuck even was my life anyway... A process that was hurried along by Dean's slurred and impatient baritone from the other side of the hotel room door. "Come on, Tinkerbell, open up. It's us."

Because who else would it be, the fucking Easter Bunny? Rolling my eyes, I crawled off the bed, the credits to 'Bewitched' scrolling on the TV as I made my way across the room. Opening the door, I wrinkled my nose at the strong smell of whiskey that rolled up and bitch-slapped me in the face. Jesus H. Christ, did they take a bath in Jack?

A half-conscious Sam propped up with one arm, Dean blinked down at me, glassy-eyed and inebriated, speaking with that exaggerated enunciation that drunk people get when they're trying real hard not to appear drunk. "Took you long enough."

"Hey look, you found him." Taking a step back, I held the door open for Dean as he half-dragged/half-carried Sam inside and dropped him onto the closest bed. "Good for you, I knew you could do it."

"Yeah, and thanks so much for your help with that." Sagging down onto the foot of the bed next to Sam's mumbling self, Dean peered across the room at me, looking like he was taking a second to put the words together into a coherent sentence. "The park my ass."

"Did I say park?" Closing the door, I double-checked the locks before turning around to face him, expecting him to be glaring daggers at me and instead finding him looking at me with what I'm pretty sure was drunken amusement. "Whoops, I'm sorry, my bad. I meant bar."

"Yeah, you look real sorry." Struggling to kick off his boots, Dean leaned back on the bed, getting an incomprehensible protest from the drunken giant next to him (that he ignored). "You're a brat, you know that?"

"So I've been upgraded from bitch, then? Good to know." Leaning back against the door with my arms crossed, I watched him wrestle with his own feet for a solid two minutes because it was just funny (and he's kind of adorable when he's half in the bag. Also when stone cold sober but come on, I was still trying hard to be in denial at that point. And failing miserably, might I add). With a long-suffering sigh, I walked over to smirk down at him, not bothering to try to hide my laughter at his expense. "...need a hand?"

"Yeah, but not with this." Blinking at himself as if he couldn't quite process what he'd just said—and to be totally fair he never would have said it sober, at least not at that point in our 'relationship'—he looked up at me and tried to backtrack. "I mean-That's not-"

"You're drunk so you get a pass, but just the one. Next time I'll start thinkin' you're hittin' on me." Leaning past Dean, I swatted at Sam's drunk ass. "Hey, Tall, Dark, and Intoxicated. Move over." (It's probably a testament to my persistence and ability to annoy that I can totally make a mostly unconscious man squirm to get away from me, an ability I retain to this very day!)

Eyeing me as I straightened up, Dean managed to get the alcohol clogged gears in his brain working long enough to formulate a legitimate question (and one that I'm guessing had been on his mind for at least a couple of days). "And what would you do if I did?"

"Try it and find out." And now is when I'd like to take the time to mention that I grew up in a bar (you'll find out more about that later) and have been around a lot of drunk people in my life—the vast majority of them men—and I'd been getting hit on since I was twelve. That being said, no way would I have popped off with that if I wasn't pretty sure he wouldn't actually remember it come morning because that was (no joke) the first time I ever consciously decided to flirt back. Cute, right? Yeah...bite me.

Sorry. Moving on.

"...are you serious because I can't fuckin' tell."

"What would you do if I were?" Yeah, I know, a battle of wits isn't really fair when the other person is unarmed. The look on his face as he puzzled through that was priceless, though, followed quickly by shock when I reached out and knocked him over backward onto the mattress next to his half-dead brother. "Just so we're clear, you're not about to get lucky, but I am gonna help you take off your boots so you can go to bed." After all, he'd recently done the same for me, it was only fair I return the favor.

"You know, you're not half bad when I've been drinking." Pretty sure he thought that was a compliment, but he's been known to be wrong. At least he was trying, though, so A for effort. Propping himself up on his elbows, Dean squinted down at me as I knelt to take his stupid boots off. "Are you bein' nice to me right now?"

Chucking the first boot into the corner behind the door, I didn't even bother to look up, treating him basically the same as I would a toddler that was asking stupid (yet entertaining) questions. "Yup."

"Why?"

The second boot quickly joined the first before I went ahead and took Sam's off too. "Cause I'm a nice person, Winchester." The 'dumbass' was implied but it's probably a good thing he missed it. I was trying to be nice, after all. Mostly.

Falling back onto the mattress next to a now fully unconscious Sam, Dean threw an arm over his face, his voice muffled and words running together, but understandable enough. "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of." So not about to say it aloud, but relatable. It's a lot easier to hate someone, or at least pretend to, if they're a total douchecanoe.

"You need a trash can?" Walking over and grabbing the questionably stained comforter from the bed I'd now been relegated to, I tossed it in Dean's general direction before going to grab the one from the twin bed in the adjoining room.

"No, but Sam's gonna." Shoving himself back up, Dean shrugged awkwardly out of his jacket and threw it on the floor before grabbing the comforter I'd thrown him and half-assedly tossing it over Sam. Sweet. Ineffective, but sweet.

"Yeah, I figured." Trying hard to wipe an admittedly stupid smile off my face (because come on, the whole 'Big Brother' thing is just adorable), I tossed Dean the twin comforter before walking back around the bed to fix the one dangling off Sam and onto the floor. "I'll take care of it."

"...thank you." Throwing an arm back over his eyes, Dean went quiet for long enough that I was starting to think he'd fallen asleep. Well, passed out. Same difference. It wasn't until I'd gone to the kitchenette and back again with a glass of water for each drunken dumbass that he spoke up again. "Can I ask you a question?" (More like 'Can I ashk ewe a queshon' but how annoying is that to read? Funny as fuck to hear, though.)

"Sure." Setting both glasses on the nightstand next to Dean, I picked up the jacket he'd dropped on the floor and tossed it onto the foot of my bed before sitting down next to it. "You can ask me anything you want. I just can't promise I'll answer."

"Fair." An inscrutable expression on his way-too-pretty-for-my-own-good face, Dean lifted his arm just enough to peek at me from underneath it. "Why aren't you scared of me?"

Perching on the edge of my bed with my elbows on my knees, I tried to figure out what prompted him to ask because what kind of a question is that? I still don't know what was going through his head to make him ask it and I don't think he does either. "Because you're not scary?"

"I have it on good authority that yes I am." Have you ever heard someone try to pronounce 'authority' when like a third of their blood supply is alcohol? You should, I highly recommend it. "I'm a 'big, intimidating dumbass with anger issues'. Also I'm a liar and a dick."

"Also shockingly self-aware." At least when inebriated. Weird how denial doesn't grip as tight when you're wasted. "I can agree with the big and the anger issues... And the liar, but you can't really help that, it's your job."

"So are you sayin' I'm not a dick?"

"The jury's still out on that one."