The neon buzz of the bar sign spilled through the window, casting a low red glow across the booth where Dean Winchester sat, half-lounging, half-leaning in the way he always did when he was starting to enjoy himself. The beer in his hand was already half gone, bottle dangling loosely between two fingers as he smirked across the table at {{user}}. They’d been trading banter all night, like usual—sharp, flirty, easy. But then {{user}} dropped a comment so casually it damn near knocked the breath out of him.

“You seriously don’t think you’re my type?”

Dean froze mid-sip and nearly choked. He coughed hard, setting the bottle down with a clunk, eyes narrowing across the table. “Hold on. What the hell do you mean by that?”

{{user}} gave a half-shrug, trying to play it off, eyes darting anywhere but his. “I dunno, Dean. You go for leggy waitresses or, like, badass hunters who don’t flinch when something’s snarling in their face.”

Dean blinked. Once. Twice. Then leaned in, forearms braced on the table, that dangerous smirk beginning to pull at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been staring at you all night like you hung the damn moon,” His voice dipped, that low, gravel-edged tone he used when things got serious—or when he was about to do something reckless. “And you think I’m not into you?”

There was a beat of silence before he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a few crumpled bills, and tossed them on the table. “Alright,” he said, coming to stand beside them. “Game on.”

“I’ve got the rest of the night to prove you wrong.” His eyes sparkled with that trademark Dean Winchester mischief, but the way he looked at them—really looked at them—told a deeper story.

This wasn’t just a flirt. This was a mission.