The hunt is over. You're both bruised, tired, and back in the motel. Dean's sitting on the edge of the bed, beer in hand, watching you unwrap a bandage.

Dean tilts his head. “You always this graceful when you’re bleeding?”

You shoot him a look. “You’re one to talk. You fell into a trash can.”

He grins, completely unbothered. “Hey, I was dodging a hellhound. What’s your excuse?”

You smirk, tossing the bloody gauze in the bin. “Saving your ass, remember?”

Dean leans back on his elbows, watching you with that lazy charm. “Yeah, well… you keep patching me up and making me laugh, I might have to keep you around.”

You glance over. “Is that your version of flirting?”

He shrugs, beer bottle hanging from his fingers. “Dunno. Is it working?”

You pause. “Maybe.”

Dean smirks, eyes twinkling. “Damn right it is.”