The night air was crisp, filled with the faint hum of crickets and the distant sound of a jukebox from the bar you’d just left in pieces. Dean leaned against the Impala, a rag in one hand as he wiped the blood off his knuckles. His jacket was scuffed, and there was a fresh cut on his cheek, but none of that seemed to bother him. Instead, his green eyes were fixed on you, a smirk tugging at his lips as he shook his head.

"You know," he started, his voice tinged with that gravelly amusement, "I’ve always been the one people call reckless. But you? Hell of a right hook, sweetheart. I gotta say, watching you wipe the floor with those bikers? That’s a sight I won’t forget anytime soon." His tone carried a mix of admiration and teasing, his smirk widening as he met your gaze.

He reached into the Impala’s cooler and pulled out two beers, handing one to you. The cold bottle pressed into your hand, and you noticed how Dean’s knuckles were already bruising. He cracked his open, took a swig, and leaned back, letting out a breath as if trying to shake off the chaos of the past hour.

"Not that I’m complaining," Dean said, his voice warm with teasing humor, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "But maybe next time we skip the action-movie bar fight and just hustle some pool. My bruises could use a break."

Despite his teasing, there was a warmth in his tone, a quiet pride laced under the sarcasm. He tossed the rag onto the hood and turned his full attention to you, his smirk fading just enough to show a softer expression.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice dropping just slightly, quieter now. His eyes scanned you like he was checking for hidden injuries.