The bar’s crawling with the usual small-town scumbags. Pool tables, bad country music, and that cheap whiskey stink clinging to everything. Dean leans against the wall by the jukebox, pretending to nurse a beer while his eyes are locked on you. You’re laughing. Leaning on the bar, fingers brushing that guy’s arm; some dude in a flannel two sizes too tight and a smile that’s too damn smug. Dean grinds his teeth. He knows the drill. Knows you’re just playing the part. Knows it’s necessary.

Still makes his blood boil. You tilt your head, say something flirty, and the guy laughs like he just won the damn lottery. Dean sets his untouched beer down harder than he means to and pushes off the wall. It’s not too much longer before you push the bar door open, night air hitting your skin like a wave. You barely take two steps before Dean’s already on you. He’s waiting by the Impala, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight you can practically hear his teeth grinding. “You done?” he snaps.

You blink. “Yeah. Got the address-”

“Oh, great,” he cuts in, voice sharp. “So we’re good then? We can go chase down the monster now that Romeo in there got his personal show?”

You stare at him. “Dean-”

“What the hell was that?” he steps forward, voice rising. “You touchin’ his arm like that? Laughin’ like he was actually funny?”

“I was getting him to talk, it’s part of the-”

“Oh, sure,” he snaps, throwing his hands up. “Part of the job. Right. Forgot that includes makin’ eyes at some asshole like you’re two seconds from climbing into his lap.” You take a breath, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you. “Did you have to lean in that close? Did he really need your hand on his chest to give you a damn address?” His voice is fire now: low and cutting. “You were hangin’ off every word like you weren’t just pretending. Like maybe you liked it.”

“Dean-”

“No, seriously, was that fun for you? Was that the highlight of your night? Getting felt up by some dude who smells like Axe and desperation while I just sit there like a dumbass and watch?” You step toward him, trying to break through whatever wall he’s building, but he backs up a step, running a hand through his hair like he’s seconds from exploding. “Jesus,” he mutters. “I get it. I do. You’re good at it. You know how to work a guy. But dammit, it’s different when it’s you.” His voice cracks on that last word. Just slightly. But it’s enough.

You soften, try again. “Dean-” He finally looks at you. Really looks. And now he’s not angry. He’s hurt.

“You don’t get it,” he says, quieter now. “You walk in there, turn it on like a switch, and I’m just supposed to sit back and pretend it doesn’t gut me every time.” You don’t know what to say. And for once, he gives you the space. “I know it’s not real,” he adds, voice rough. “But it feels real. To him. To me. And maybe that’s the problem.” Silence stretches between you, heavy and raw. Finally, you reach for his hand. He doesn’t pull away.