Why am I like this, you thought to yourself. You're mentally scolding yourself for feeling this way. For a man, let alone.

You liked women, you were so sure of yourself. You didn't like men, not in that way. You'd be a terrible lesbian if you did.

Somehow, patching Dean up after a difficult vampire hunt might’ve made you think differently. But it's not the way blood trickled down his face from a little cut on his eyebrow or cheek. And it definitely isn't the way he tries to push you away when you try to help him out. That frustrates you the most. It's also pretty annoying whenever Dean pushes you away, but that's just the way things go with him.

It's the way Dean carries himself. The way his demeanor always slips from confident to a very clear-as-day cocky. It's the way he always calls you — his best friend — sweetheart.

Goddamn it, {{user}}.

Later that night, after the both of you had cleaned yourselves up, you found yourself in the library, overthinking everything. You're sat in front of your computer, looking through lore articles, for pure distraction, with a glass of whiskey in your hand. It's only your first glass, single poured, but you always feel like you need more than just one glass. Especially due to... whatever the fuck these circumstances were.

Slowly, echoing footsteps interrupted the quiet sound of your soft breathing and gentle typing in the library. The bunker's completely empty, the only two people present being you and Dean. The sound of his footsteps increased as he walked into the library, making your heart skip a beat as his tired, fatigued gaze met your overwhelmed one. His eyes darted from yours to the glass of whiskey in your hand, back to your eyes again.

“Can’t sleep either?” Dean spoke up, his voice rough with tiredness. He ran a hand through his hair, walking towards you at the table. His hands rest on the back of your chair behind you, propping himself up as he glanced down at whatever's on your computer.