Again, this was for a writing challenge I entered. My prompt was "Ahh! I'm not dead!"

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You had met your newest mortal enemy, an enemy you and Dean tackled together, though he was a little further ahead of you in this new struggle.

Stairs.

A tipsy giggle slipped past your lips as you took a moment to cling heavily to the bannister, putting all your weight on the thin metal. Dean and you had just finished hunting a Shōjō, which of course meant that the two of you had been raging drunk since before taking on the rare monster. It was a miracle you'd been able to hold the sword steady enough to pierce the thing.

Then again, Dean had helped—apparently, it took two drunks to hold a sword steady and impale a ghost-like monster.

When gorging on unholy amounts of scotch, whiskey, and tequila—really anything to get the job done, especially since Dean was almost immune to getting drunk—neither of you had taken into consideration the fact that you were on the fourth floor of a motel that did not have an elevator.

You thought you weren't drunk enough to no longer make decisions on your own, but you were drunk enough that this little adventure was quite comical.

So, still feeling the effects of the alcohol and battered rather viciously by the Shōjō, the two of you braved the stairs with unsteady legs, random fits of obnoxious giggles, and banter that didn't even make sense half the time, though your alcohol glazed minds convinced you that you really did know what the other meant.

"We probably shoulda stopped after...that one glass," you told Dean, snorting in amusement at the end of the sentence. He was several steps above you, taking his sweet time, but he turned to look at you, throwing himself momentarily off balance by the simple motion and weaving slightly.

"You mean the one glass after the other glass," he clarified with a sloppy smile. You fell into a fit of giggles, managing to force your answer out when you paused for air.

"Yeah...that one..."

"Come on...we're almost at our floor. Then we can pass out and deal with hangovers tomorrow," Dean chuckled, turning back to continue up the steps. You pushed away from the railing, going to take another step, but you didn't quite make it.

Your foot hit the side of the step, not making it to the next one, at the same time you stepped down, which caused you to lose your balance and pitch forward, feet flying out from under you. No longer steady on the steps, you fell onto your stomach, sliding back down the steps at the same time one by one, chest and legs painfully hitting individual stairs along the way.

"Ahh!" you cried out, Dean turning around at the commotion to see you fall all the way to the last landing. You groaned once you'd finally stopped falling, slowly rolling onto your back and holding up a hand. "I'm not dead."

As soon as you'd confirmed you were okay, Dean started roaring with laughter, the sound echoing through the stairwell.

"Oh my God," he managed to get out around his laughter, carefully making his way back down the stairs to your side, still laughing. "Are you all right?"

"Well, I'm alive—that counts for something, right?" you grunted as he helped you up, hands surprisingly steady. Then again, should you have been surprised he was less drunk than you? This man could drink a liquor store and only get slightly tipsy.

Or was that Castiel?

Let's just play it safe and say both of them.

You leaned into Dean—the scent of whisky unsurprisingly the strongest right now in his usual musk, gunpowder, motor oil, and whisky scent—letting him keep you steady and guide you back up the stairs. "Yeah, you need to sleep this off for sure...no going out until you're sober. I don't want you tripping out a window or something," Dean chuckled as the two of you slowly made your way up the stairs. You were focused on putting one foot at a time successfully on each step, but you still caught the serious timber in his voice.

"Oh...come on...I'm not that bad," you pouted, most of your concentration channeled into walking up the steps.

"Considering what just happened, I beg to differ. You're a clumsy drunk."

"Gee, thanks."

The two of you finally made it up the stairs, Dean unlocking the motel door and guiding you inside, kicking the door shut behind him before helping you stumble to the bed. Unceremoniously, you flopped onto the bed face first, groaning. "I'm suddenly very tire."

"You mean tired?"

"That's what I said."

Dean snorted softly. "Right."

A few seconds later, you felt one of your shoes being tugged off, and you giggled—you didn't say anything, simply giggled, the sound starting to build into hysterical laughter.

"You are so out of it right now," Dean grumbled as he finished tugging the first shoe off, then moved onto the next.

"I don't think I'm going to sleep," You admitted between gasps for air, and suddenly you felt strong hands on your hips flipping you onto your back on the bed, finding yourself breathless and staring up into Dean's green eyes.

It was times like these, when Dean's mere presence got your blood pumping, that you were faced with the little fact you usually tried to keep hidden about how you felt.

You liked Dean. A lot. That was putting it mildly. But Dean wasn't one for steady, close relationships, so you kept it to yourself.

Times like these made that rather difficult.

"You're going to sleep if I have to knock you out myself," Dean rumbled, shifting to sit up beside you, propping a few pillows behind him before he leaned back against the headboard. You squeaked as he suddenly pulled you up into his lap, leaning you against his chest and securely wrapping his strong arms around your middle, your arms draping over his own. Once the shock wore off, you relaxed into him, feeling his cheek come to rest on the side of your head, his thumb reaching up to gently run along your arm repeatedly.

"Better?" he asked quietly, and the best you could manage was a slight nod, your breath seeming to have disappeared entirely at his close proximity and embrace. Dean shifted just slightly to get comfortable, and once he had settled down the two of you fell into a comfortable silence that stretched on before suddenly it was broken by a low rumble in his chest. The sound continued, reverberating through you as well, and you soon realized he was humming a song you had him listen to once upon a time.

The Humbling River, by Puscifer.

Finally closing your eyes, you simply lay there in his arms, listening to him hum the song as his hand continued to lazily stroke your arm, the vibrations in his chest drawing you closer to sleep. He reached a favorite part of the song, and you started softly, sleepily singing along without any care about whether you were on key or off.

"Angel, angel, what have I done. I've faced the quakes, the wind, the fire. I've conquered country, crown, and throne. Why can't I cross this river?" you murmured, the words starting to slur as you started to nod off. Dean kept humming, probably aware by your voice that you were rapidly spiraling towards sleep, and you could have sworn you felt his lips brush the top of your head, but you were on the brink of sleep and pretty sure you might have already been half-dreaming by now. "Pay no mind to the battles you've won...it'll take a lot more than rage and muscle...open your heart...and hands my son...or you'll never make it o'er...the river...the hands of the many...join as one..."

You yawned, words trailing off as darkness started to claim you. Just before you lost consciousness you felt one of his hands gently thread his fingers through yours, his breath tickling your ear as he whispered the next line. "And together we'll cross the river."

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You didn't know which one of you woke up first.

You did know that for however long, you simply stayed where you were, feeling Dean's strong arms still wrapped around you, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you with his breath gently ruffling your hair...

And feeling his fingers threaded through yours, confirming that what you'd heard and felt last night before falling asleep hadn't been a dream after all.

Eventually, you did open your eyes, gazing down the bed and staring at his feet and your own, regaining your bearings before you very carefully tried to angle your head up to look at him without waking him.

When your eyes met his wide awake, green eyes, your heart skipped a beat, your breath catching in your throat as the two of you simply gazed at each other for several long moments.

You didn't know which one of you woke up first, but you did know it was Dean who acted in that pivotal moment.

His free hand released your waist to move up and cup your cheek, tilting your face upwards a little more as he leaned down and very softly pressed his lips to yours.

They were soft, just as you'd always thought they'd be, moving slowly against your lips—which were frustratingly unresponsive for the first few seconds, lagging behind before your brain seemed to register what was happening and you kissed him back, eyes slipping close. You leaned in hungrily, tightening your grasp on his hand as he returned your increase in tempo with just as much fervor.

When he finally pulled away, you were reluctant to let him, gently capturing his lower lip for one last brief kiss before he was out of reach, both of your breathing a little shallow as he rested his forehead against yours.

You opened your eyes, and despite the fact he was looking at morning you—hair mused, appearance utterly disheveled, you'd been drunk the night before, probably a little gift from Mr. Sandman still gathered in the corner of your eyes, everything—his green eyes seemed to bore through your very soul, and his expression said what he was looking at was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

You could only manage one breathy word.

"Dean..."