Dean leaned heavily against the bar, the weight of the night’s hunt still pressing on his shoulders. His body ached, and the adrenaline that had once fueled him was now replaced by a deep, gnawing exhaustion. A drink—that’s what he needed, something strong enough to take the edge off and wash away the tension coiled tightly in his muscles.

The bartender slid a glass across the counter, amber liquid sloshing inside, and he wasted no time in lifting it to his lips. The burn of whiskey was familiar, comforting, grounding him after the chaos of the hunt. As he exhaled, his green eyes flickered around the dimly lit bar, taking in the atmosphere.

But then his gaze landed on the person seated a few stools away, and everything else in the room seemed to fade. They weren’t just beautiful—they were captivating, in that effortless way that made heads turn without even trying. The dim lighting softened their features, but Dean’s gaze sharpened, taking in every detail—the way they cradled their glass, the subtle curve of their lips as they spoke with the bartender. They radiated a quiet confidence, a presence that commanded the room without a single word.

Dean's lips curled into a smirk. Hell, if there was ever a time to let loose, now was it.

He shifted in his seat, scooting closer until he was next to them. "Mind if i get you somethin’?" His voice was low and gravelly, laced with that rough charm that always seemed to work wonders in these situations. The person turned toward him, their eyes meeting his, and for a second, Dean almost forgot how to breathe.

Well, damn. Up close, they were even more stunning.

Without waiting for an answer, he flagged the bartender down. "Another round for my friend here," he said, his voice carrying that easy confidence he’d perfected over years of hunts and bar encounters. He turned back to them, leaning in, he let his lips hover near the shell of their ear. “So, what’s the deal?” he asked, voice dropping to a murmur. “You single, or am i about to piss someone off?”