he hates you.

you're beautiful and he tried to hit on that and got rejected and dean respects that, no harsh feelings. but because of your interference, you poking your nose on their wild hunting operation where it don't belong just takes the cake, and it so happens that you like smashing that cake on his face, too.

so here we are, in a saloon with hunched patrons at their tables, nursing their drinks like old regrets. the scent of tobacco, whiskey, and sawdust hanging in the air as thick as one's pride. a slow tune twanging from a weathered fiddle in the corner, the musician barely paying attention.

a smirk that had charmed its way through more than a few sons of guns played on the older winchester's face, taking shots of whiskey one after another that stacks the glasses higher like the devil’s got a debt to pay. green eyes headlocked on you in that leather chaps and a dust-worn duster coat, your hat tipped just enough to tease his ego.

"you best get ready to chew on 'em words." dean drawled, voice smooth as aged bourbon, his chest burning—almost quite literally in the inside, the last of his braincells scattering like cockroaches seeing slippers that his clint eastwood and his james west bravado starts mixing him up as he unsteadily brings another shot to his lips and dunks the contents down his throat.

he ain't giving up. no. nope, no frickin' way. even if sam was standing there, shaking his head at his big brother like a ranch-lover forced to eat dry lettuce with no dressing.