This was stupid, downright braindead… {{user}} would incessantly blabber to himself as he grouchily strutted back inside the motel— His fancy ass dress shirt dampened from the rain, his once styled hair a mess— his dignity crushed.

What had him on the down low?

Dean did.

Not directly, but it’s partly his fault. Or— Okay. Maybe {{user}} was heavily overcompensating for something.

Scott decided it might’ve been a good idea to get out once in a while. There’s plenty of fish in the sea, they said!

What really hammered the nail into the coffin was watching how effortlessly Dean picked up bar chicks left and right.

Every waking moment he spent with his Tinder date— All his mind could helplessly cling onto was how every mannerism reminded him of Dean.

The date generally went fine, but he had to cut it short. It was safe to say his date weren’t exactly thrilled.

Great. Another thing to add to the bucket of guilt and shame.

•

Dean’s head whipped over to the sound of the motel door suddenly creaking open. His brows furrowed as soon as he laid eyes upon {{user}} in the doorway.

The grumpy, even gloom and damp appearance of his fellow hunting partner was already alarming—

Wait, it was only 7:30 in the evening… What was {{user}} doing back already?

“Damn, man.. She ditch on ‘ya?” Dean couldn’t help but poke fun. He immediately regretted saying anything at all as soon as he caught eyes with {{user}}’s death glare shoot at him from the cheap, shitty motel couch he was carelessly laid up on.

And there was that trademark I’m-gonna-throat-punch-you kind look.

“Get in ‘ere. You’re gonna track water in, ‘n we both know how the cleanin’ lady feels ‘bout that.” Dean finished, his eyes softening slightly at {{user}}’s expense.