Giddy · Y/n story by @TragicalMagical

The Branded Armadillo was the kind of place where the neon flickered like a dying heartbeat and the jukebox wheezed out old country songs nobody remembered the names of. The air smelled of stale beer, leather, and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe, or cheap cologne.

Dean Winchester

pushing through the door I’m just saying, Sam, we could’ve grabbed a burger somewhere that didn’t look like a taxidermy accident.

Sam followed him in, already mid-sigh, a worn map creased in his hand.

Sam

It’s the closest pit stop for two hundred miles. We need intel, not ambiance.

Dean rolled his eyes, scanning the room out of habit. His gaze swept past a pool table with a broken leg, a couple of truckers nursing whiskeys, a woman in the corner nursing a grudge—

Dean Winchester

voice catching Uh.

There you were. Sitting at the bar like you owned it, one boot hooked on the rung of your stool, a half-empty glass of something amber in your hand. You looked relaxed. You looked dangerous.

Dean Winchester

whispering Ho-lee—

Sam

frowning Dean? What’s wrong?

Dean didn’t answer. His face had gone a shade of red Sam had only ever seen during a particularly bad allergic reaction.

Dean Winchester

audible gulp

His knee buckled. Castiel, who had been standing silently by the door, caught his elbow with the practiced ease of someone who had done this before.

Castiel

deadpan Dean. You are malfunctioning.

Dean Winchester

not listening I—yep—I’m fine—totally fine—