You didn’t mean to ignore him. Hell, you didn’t even realize you were doing it. The waiter was flirty, but nothing new. You were being polite. Friendly. He touched your arm once or twice, laughed a little too loudly at a dumb joke, and you smiled the way you always do when people are trying too hard. Dean had gone quiet halfway through the conversation, poking at his fries like they’d personally offended him. When you walked away with your empty beer glass and his number scribbled on a napkin, Dean’s jaw was tight. You leaned back in your chair, eyes scanning the bar. “Think that vamp nest’s still sticking around town?” He didn’t answer. You glanced over at him. “Dean?” Still nothing. “Hey.” You reached across the table and nudged his arm, casual, instinctive. “Everything alright?”

He looked at you finally, and there was something sharp under the surface. Something you couldn’t name yet, not until he leaned back, smirked, and said: “He your type or something?”

You blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. Too casual. Too smug. “Waiter. You were lookin’ at him like he hung the moon.”

You frowned. “He was just being friendly.”

Dean snorted. “Sure. Just friendly.”

You tilted your head. “Is this about the hunt?”

Dean leaned forward suddenly, elbows on the table, smile turning slick. “Nah. Just wondering what kinda guys you go for.” You blinked at the shift in tone. He was watching you too closely now, eyes a little narrowed, smile a little too tight. You’d seen him flirt with waitresses a thousand times, but this wasn’t that. This wasn’t for him. This was for you.

He leaned in closer. “You like ‘em soft? Talkative? Big eyes?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Dean-”

“Or maybe not. Maybe you like ’em rough around the edges. Smart mouth. Lotta miles on the odometer.” He was staring at you now. Not looking away.

You exhaled slowly. “Where’s this coming from?”

Dean smiled, wide and fake. “Just making conversation.” You studied him for a moment. He wasn’t fidgeting. Wasn’t nervous. But his jaw was clenched, and his fingers were tight around the neck of his beer.

“You’re mad.”

“Nah,” he said, finishing the bottle and setting it down harder than he needed to. “Just bored.” He stood, and you saw it clearly now, the way his posture changed when John wasn’t around. Taller. Looser. Still carrying every bruise that man had carved into his self-worth. And now, apparently, you too. You grabbed his wrist before he could leave.

“Dean.” He looked at your hand, then back at your face. You softened your voice. “I wasn’t trying to ignore you.” He hesitated. His eyes dropped, just for a second, like he hated how much that mattered.

“…Yeah,” he said, shrugging off the touch. “It’s fine. I’m not a kid.”

“You don’t act like one,” you said, and meant it. That made him stop. He looked at you again, longer, quieter. And then he did it. He leaned in, too close for a public space, and said under his breath:

“Then maybe quit treatin’ me like one.” The silence hit like a weight. He watched your face for a reaction, and when he didn’t get it, he pulled back, that cocky smirk crawling across his mouth again like a defense mechanism. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. So Dean walked away.