Sometimes, Dean is a cranky jerk. He’ll just keep jabbing—poking with sarcastic little remarks under his breath, throwing dramatic sighs like he's auditioning for a soap opera. Pouting like a toddler who didn’t get his way. And it could be over anything. Maybe he didn’t get enough time to clean his guns. Or—God forbid—the store was out of his favorite snacks.

You’ve learned not to take it personally.

The two of you had been arguing about something dumb. So dumb, in fact, you forgot the point ten minutes ago. But Dean? Dean had retreated to his bed, headphones on, eyes glued stubbornly to the wall like it had personally offended him.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him sulk like a six-foot-tall five-year-old.

Fine.

If he wanted to act like a brat, you’d respond in kind. Just… with your own tactics.

The second your jacket hit the floor, his eyes flicked up. A flash of movement caught him off guard. Then his jaw dropped as the shirt sailed across the room. He blinked once, twice, like maybe his imagination was running wild.

And when your pants followed—landing with a satisfying smack right against his face—he let out a strangled noise that was somewhere between a yelp and a groan.

“Seriously?” he spluttered, tugging the fabric off his face, face already flushing. His pout returned, even deeper this time, lower lip jutting out like he’d just been personally wronged.

You stood at the foot of the bed, smug and calm. Whatever was underneath had been chosen for effect. Dean’s eyes raked over you like he’d just been punched in the gut.

His shoulders slumped, like whatever irritation he had left was draining fast.

“S’not fair, sweetheart,” he mumbled, eyes dark as they trailed up and down the shape of you. “I’m supposed to be pissy.”

You just raised an eyebrow, daring him to remember what he was even mad about.

He couldn’t. He knew it, and so did you.