Dean knocked back his… whatever number it was shot of the night, swallowing through the burn as he placed the shot glass back down onto the wooden bar top. Some hunts took more out of him than others, and whilst the smart thing to do would probably have been to follow Sam back to the hotel room to get some sleep, he instead found the closest bar to where they were staying to drink the hunt away, instead.

It wasn’t so bad. The drinks were nice, the music wasn’t bad, and the sights were… great. He’d had his eyes on the bartender who had been serving him for the past hour or so as they walked up and down the bar, serving and talking to the few people who were in there so late. His eyes were on their hips as they moved, the sliver of skin that was revealed every time they reached up for a bottle and their shirt lifted enough to see the space between that and their jeans. And their smile whenever they served him.

Fuck was he happy he hadn’t gone back with Sam.

The bartender came back over to him and he looked up at them, flashing her his signature smile — the smile that normally meant the night would end with a satisfied woman in his bed and her clothes on his floor — and tapped his shot glass with his finger, “‘nother one of these, thanks sweetheart.”