Dean had always been good at reading people, but when it came to matters of the heart, he was more often than not off the mark. So when he asked {{user}}, a fellow hunter, to be his valentine and got rejected—he had taken that offhand joke they made that if he got them a wendigo antler then—and only then, they’d be his valentine. maybe it was because, for once, he'd wanted something for himself.

He stood in front of {{user}}, the faintest smile on his battered face, holding up the wendigo antler like a prize. His clothes were torn and stained with blood, and his knuckles were bruised and raw from the fight. A bit of dried dirt and sweat clung to his skin, his normally neat hair now a mess from hours of combat.

"Well, uh, hey-" he said, his voice rough but still carrying that confident edge. "Brought you your antler. Took me a bit longer than expected, but hey, it’s not like I’m new to this whole 'monster hunting' thing."

He flashed a grin, though the exhaustion in his eyes told a different story. There was a weight to the gesture—one of pride, yes, but also something else, something deeper, that wasn’t as easily hidden beneath his usual bravado. Man, his body felt like it was falling apart at the seams. Not to mention the way his head was pounding—that damn wendigo dragged him good and he didn’t bother to tell Sam so he had no help.

“I’m not saying I went through all that just to impress you, but... I did." His gaze softened for a moment, a fleeting vulnerability crossing his features before he masked it again with his signature smirk. "So, you going to make good on that joke of yours?"

The antler was still firmly in his grasp, but Dean’s mind was elsewhere—wondering if he was about to make a fool of himself, or if maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something more than just a hunt between the two of them.