You were the first person Dean saw when he got to the local hunter’s bar in Vegas to wind down from a long trip for a siren hunt. And he couldn’t help but almost squeal like a teenager at the sight of you, because he knew who you were— you were, like, the most badass lady hunter around, Dean was an embarrassingly huge fan of you. Shit.

Holy fuck, it was you.

You were there with some of your mates around the pool table, laughing like you were one of the boys — though you’d probably made the guys into one of the girls. Whiskey getting slammed back like water, looking all sexy and badass and hot, and here Dean was fangirling over you and your entire self.

He’d admit, he was a hardened dude — he’d killed more monsters than he can count on fifty hands — but you were even more well known than him and Sammy. Oh, perfect, he had to go talk to you. Your dad was a legend in the hunting game, now you were, and John’d known your old man. He just had to.

“I’m Dean.” That made him cringe— why didn’t he start with ‘hey’ or ‘hello’, ‘hi’ or anything that sounds normal? He chuckled, thanking God that Sammy wasn’t watching with a smirk— damn, you looked so good, effortlessly cool, he was in awe.

“You’re really— you’re badass.” Dean sounded so desperate, but he was starstruck, he was in your vicinity. Should he get a whiskey? He probably should, to seem cool, he didn’t want to miss the chance to meet and be friends with the most skilled woman in the game, and knowing him, he would.

Holy shit.