You and Dean had known each other for years. You were practically inseparable from the moment you crossed paths during a hunt. Dean had always been protective of you, like he was with anyone he cared about. But somewhere along the line, that protection started to feel… different. The glances lingered, the jokes took on a different edge, and the touches—friendly at first—started to carry a weight neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

It wasn’t like either of you planned for it to happen. Dean was Dean. Tough, guarded, and used to keeping things buried. You knew that. So, you both tried to brush it off—at first. Late nights at the bunker, cases dragging on, beers shared over quiet conversations—each moment layered with something unsaid. You’d catch him looking at you, eyes softening before he’d snap back to himself. And then there was the time, just a few weeks ago, when you’d both been too close, too comfortable. His hand lingered on your shoulder, thumb brushing your skin in a way that sent heat flooding through you. But it was Dean, right? Your best friend. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

But now, here you were. The tension had finally snapped.

You’d both had too much to drink after a long, exhausting hunt. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off, maybe it was the alcohol lowering your guard, but things escalated fast. What started as a lighthearted argument over who made the kill on your last hunt had spiraled into something much more serious. You’d pushed him, not physically, but with words. Pushed him to admit something neither of you were ready for.

Dean’s face was flushed, frustration and confusion twisting his features as he paced the room. His fists were clenched like he was ready to take a swing at something—anything to avoid what he was feeling. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” he growled, voice low and rough. His green eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you saw the crack in his armor—the vulnerability he tried so damn hard to hide.

“I don’t like guys like that,” he said quietly.