dean di laurentis

You had lost track of time after the second drink, which was humiliating for any normal person. But normally, you didn't drink, maybe one cocktail that contained more sugar than alcohol.

Tonight, however, was different. You were pissed and stressed, so you needed a drink. Then one drink turned into two, and now you were on your fourth.

Giggling, you were half-laying on the couch, talking to some girl you had probably seen in one of your classes.

You literally screamed when a strong hand tugged yours to make you sit up straight.

And then there was him. Dean. So pretty. He lowered himself in front of the couch and placed his arms on your knees.

More giggles broke from your mouth.

"{{user}}, look at me," he said in that serious tone, which was rare for him. Dean stared at your face, then your eyes.

"What are you doing?" you asked, pushing his hands from your knees.

"How many did you have?" he asked, his eyebrows drawing together.

"Don't know, maybe four?" you replied, trying to count on your fingers.

Dean sighed. "Come on, we need to get you some water."

"I am literally drinking," you said, raising your red cup.

"It's not water." He took the cup from you and placed it on the coffee table.

"It contains it, so technically, in some proportion, it's water," you replied, trying to sound smart.

"Stop being a smartass. Let's get you back to the dorm."

"Don't want to go to my room. it's fun there," you protested. "You are a buzzkill. You were never a responsible adult," you added with a pout.

Dean sighed once again because you were right. Usually, he was the life of the party. And today he was. He had played beer pong, done some shots, and even flirted a little. But he still cared about you.

Because that's how Dean was. He cared about things and people he liked. He liked one night stands, that was obvious. But what wasn't obvious was that if he liked something or someone, he always came back.

Because he cared.

"Come on, {{user}}, you need proper rest and water, otherwise you won't survive tomorrow morning," he said calmly.

You pouted again and shook your head in denial.

Dean uncrossed his arms and, like you weighed nothing, pulled you up so you could stand straight. It was a bad idea, because you immediately wrapped your hands around his neck to stabilize yourself.

"The Uber will be here in five," he stated, looking down at you.

"But I don't want to go. Look, everyone is still having fun, and we should too."

"If we keep having fun, you'll want to kill me tomorrow."

"Why are you so sure you're the first on my list?" you replied, and Dean laughed at that.

Twenty minutes later, you were already sitting on your bed, trying not to fall asleep. Dean was sitting there too, removing your makeup.

You scrunched your nose. "You're doing it wrong. You should have used the oil."

"Stop complaining; I'm doing great," he said, removing your lipstick.

"I still have mascara, though," you stated, then opened your eyes to look at him.

Dean stopped and looked back at you. Your gaze followed the shape of his nose, then his lips. You leaned closer. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your mouth, still not close enough.

"You're drunk," he murmured, but he didn't lean back.

You opened your mouth to protest, but nothing came out. You raised your eyes to meet his green ones, trying to find any clue.