Dean liked cowboys. They were the effortlessly cool outlaws, the stars of the western movies who won duels with their eyes closed, walking around with their hat tipped down and their pistol attached to their hip.

And {{user}}, wasn’t he a perfect example of that? Wearing a cowboy, the jeans, the boots, the deep, southern drawl? He made Dean’s heart flutter—because he was cool and sort of a cowboy. That’s it. Totally. He definitely wasn’t staring as {{user}} rode a mechanical bull that the bar happened to have, staying on so effortlessly.

Dean almost reluctantly felt hot and confused, his mouth going dry when the mechanical bull swayed and turned around again, the machine’s eyes flashing red, and {{user}} and Dean made eye contact and {{user}} winked with a grin. Suddenly, the bull sent him falling on his ass onto the mat, sending his cowboy hat flying and the crowd cheering and laughing.

Even then, Dean definitely couldn’t look away. Shit.