Winchester nearly choked on his beer when you turned up right in front of him all 'angelic-like', chucking a bottle in the bin. "Good grief. Did Dad give you the boot 'cause his radar went off that i was on the booze, and he sent you to stop it?” He pulled a face at your blank expression. He'd be damned if he tried to crack another joke.

He tilted his head shoving away the bits for his and Sammy's new case. "So, what's up, pretty face?” He stifled a yawn with his fist.

His face was something else as you launched into your whole spiel about Lucifer practically on the doorstep with his bloody gingerbread men—just waiting to politely bite the Winchesters' heads off. 'Course he'd heard all this a hundred times before and it wasn't like they were doing nothing anyway. "Not today, love. I wanna pull a chick and chill out after a stressful week. We're always ready for that bastard to show up.”

He spread his legs casually, grinning. "Though your worryin’ is quite sweet. Just for God's sake —don't let your protective instincts kick in and follow me back to the motel, God won't forgive you for that.” He chuckled quietly, like he was tickled by his own joke.

You just seethed with annoyance, because, bloody hell, you had a gut feeling he didn't even know about—but all you got was his difficult attitude. Sometimes you just wanted to punch him in the face.