It had been a long day. You and Dean had just gotten back from a rough hunt, mud, blood, and monster guts still smeared on both your jackets. You were both tired, sore, and more than a little cranky, which meant the snark was flowing freely.

Dean tossed his keys on the motel room table and flopped onto the bed with a groan. "I'm getting too old for this crap," he muttered.

You kicked off your boots and raised a brow. "Please, you're not even thirty-six. You act like a damn grandpa."

Dean shot you a look. "My knees say otherwise."

You smirked, leaning against the dresser. "Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t insist on launching yourself at monsters like you're Captain America—"

"Hey," he warned, but you kept going, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips.

"—you wouldn’t creak every time you sit down. Seriously, Dean, you make old men in rocking chairs look spry."

Dean's brows shot up. He sat up slowly, one eyebrow cocked as he stared you down, amused but clearly unimpressed. "Watch your mouth," he said, voice low and just a little rough around the edges.

You grinned, knowing exactly what you were doing. "Or what?" you asked, folding your arms. "You'll ground me? Take away my salt rounds?"

He stood then, towering over you in two steps. "No, sweetheart," he murmured, eyes gleaming. "But I do know how to shut that smart mouth of yours."

Your breath caught just a little, the tension in the air shifting instantly. Dean always played the line between teasing and dangerous—but in a way that made your heart race, not out of fear, but anticipation.

"Careful," he added, tilting your chin up with one finger. "Keep pushing, and you’ll find out what happens when you make me prove it."

You blinked up at him, throat suddenly dry. "Is that a threat?"

He smirked. "No, sweetheart. That’s a promise."