"This is what you give me to work with? Well, honey, I've seen worse. We're gonna turn this sow's ear into a silk purse..."
Dean's face contorted into a confused expression as he moved through the bunker's hallways, trying to find the source of the off-key singing that echoed through them. It was well past three a.m., and with Sam fast asleep and you (he thought) staying at your boyfriend's place tonight, he surely hadn't expected to hear anyone singing, let alone reciting Disney songs.
"We'll have you washed and dried, primped and polished 'til you glow with pride. Trust my recipe for instant bride – you'll bring honor to us all."
The sound led him to the library, where he was met with the sight of you dancing lazily to the sound of your own voice, a bottle of whiskey hanging loosely from your outstretched hand. Your back was turned to him, and you mustn't have noticed his presence, because you continued singing and swaying without an ounce of shame.
"Wait and see ; when we're through, boys will gladly go to war for you. With good fortune and a great hairdo, you'll bring honor to us all."
You turned then in your dancing, finally catching sight of the pajama-clad man in the entryway. You paused for a moment, and then laughed and took a swallow from the bottle you were holding. When you pulled it away, you resumed your song and dance, now more enthusiastically.
"A girl can bring her family great honor in one way–" you stuck a finger up when you said 'one' and put on a fake-serious face– "by striking a good match, and this could be the day."
You stumbled forward, giggling, and placed your hands on his shoulders, letting the bottle of whiskey rest against his back.
"Y'know," you said, voice tinted with amusement, "my mom used to sing this song to me a lot."
"Oh?" Dean asked.
You nodded drunkenly. "Mm-hmm. She thought it was funny, 'cause, y'know, I wasn't girly or well-refined and no man–" you patted one of his shoulders– "no man would ever want to be with a girl like me. I mean, not seriously. Not permanently." You then pushed yourself away from him and went back to your song, gesturing along with your words for emphasis.
"Men want girls with good taste; calm, obedient, who work fast-paced. With good breeding and a tiny waist, you'll bring honor to us all."
You hummed now, apparently done singing, and leaned against one of the tables and took another swig of whiskey. When you pulled it away, you nodded again and smiled facetiously at your feet.
"He said there was something he wanted to say to me tonight. He said it was really important he do it in person. I thought... I thought it was gonna be somethin' good. I thought he was finally gonna tell me he loves me or somethin'."
Dean sighed and closed his eyes, lowering his head sadly. He never liked your boyfriend, but he never wanted you to get hurt, either. Seeing you heartbroken like this, not for the first time, broke his heart, too.
"Y'know what did me in? What makes me so undesirable?" You stretched out your arms. "I'm not enough of a girl. He said he felt like he was dating a man. The flannel, and-and the injuries and the bad attitude. I'm a real good fuck, but god forbid I show an ounce of toughness."
Dean went over to you and smoothed his hands over the sides of your face. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."
"It's not that I'm sad he's gone," you said. "I'm just... she's right. I'm alone – I'm always gonna be alone – because she's right about me. Again. No one wants a woman like me. I'm not even Mulan anymore. I'm Li Shang with the strong and the... the grr, y'know? I'm a dude."
Dean knew that this was the alcohol talking; that you'd never complain about how guys saw you when you were sober. In the morning, you'd make fun of the guy's fragile masculinity and move on. But Dean also knew that right now, you were feeling this. And what scared him was the idea that you'd still feel this, even after you blew it off. The rambling would be over, but the insecurity might remain.
This scared him, because you shouldn't have believed it.
Because it wasn't true.
Because Dean Winchester wanted you, with the scars and the attitude and the muscle and the calloused forefinger from years of gun use, and the huge appetite, and the inability to walk in high heels, and the cursing, and the whiskey, and the hatred of talking about your feelings, and the flannel. And everything else. He liked that you were tough, and that you understood the life, and that you could protect yourself, and that you had the same sense of humor. He never saw you as being manly, or anything less than perfect. You were still a woman, still the kind he dreamed of holding against him and running his hands over, still the kind he wanted to wake up to. Not just the kind, but the one.
Dainty, no. Beautiful, yes.
God, how bad he wanted to make you feel beautiful.
