Dean had been having a pretty good day, his patrons were the silent type, polite, gave a generous tip as they paid their tab— overall a pretty good day. But then after, round about the evening, you’d walked in. Now, Dean thought you were pretty, so gorgeous, but then again, he can’t exactly hit on you unless you hit on him first, right?

Right?

When you were halfway through a whiskey when a tall dude, who was about twice your size, came up to you, started hitting on you a lot, even though you said no. Dean had been halfway through wiping a glass when he saw it, and he threw down his towel when he did. Fuck, not this shit again.

Dean hated dickheads who thought that a woman was their right, which is why he had to deal with this stat. Deal with this dude who — most likely — thought he was some sort of Brad Pitt equivalent, but really looked like the knockoff of a potato peel, which was putting it lightly. Very, very lightly.

“Everything alright here?” He asked, a small crease on his forehead as he reached the group, sizing up the guy in front of him with a raised eyebrow. Burly show muscles, and the way he made a fist told him he didn’t know a lick of fighting. Typical.

“Not talkin’ t’ you.” Dean cut in sharply when the dude opened his mouth to speak— yeah, he really shouldn’t run his mouth if he knew what’s good for him. He turned to you — damn, you really were gorgeous — and gave you a questioning look. “You ok?” Damn, he was one really sexy bartender.

Wow.