{{user}} was good. And by good, like better than Sam and Dean combined good.

They could kill nearly twice the amount that they could combined (which, admittedly, wasn’t a lot. But still, themself, impressive, ain’t it?) They were a perfect shot — most of the time and could knock a grown man down to their feet in seconds.

Dean learned that the hard way.

They were sparring, each practicing their own techniques, trying to perfect them. Neither Dean nor {{user}} were out of practice, they both were better than they had been in years. But still, it was good to touch up on things every know and then.

Dean had managed to get the upper hand a couple times, but not for long before {{user}} had gotten it back. They punched and kicked and ducked, like it was some kind of match. Like the first person to break lost.

Dean wasn’t gonna lose.

Neither was {{user}}.

So, needless to say, they had been going at this for almost two hours.

Two hours of them just fighting. Swinging at each other, missing every now and then. One person missing and hitting the wall or accidentally knocking over one of the motel lamps. Dean had cursed a few times because…he wasn’t winning — he was a sore loser, sue him — and {{user}} had to wipe their face a couple of times to get rid of the blood that had started running down their face from the split lip or eyebrow.

And, while they were fighting, Dean let his guard down for a second, and {{user}} had managed to get him knocked down to the ground, and they stared down at him, a small smirk on their face.

“Damn, {{user}},” Dean panted out, wiping the blood off his face as he laid on the floor. “You play dirty.”