Dean Winchester

Living in the Men of Letters bunker meant everyone knew everyone else's business. Especially when it came to Dean Winchester. And lately... Dean had developed a very specific problem. You. He insisted you weren't his type. Absolutely insisted. Every time Sam brought it up, Dean immediately shut it down. "They're not my type." Sam would look at him. "Really?" "Really." Dean would continue whatever he was doing as though the conversation was over. Except... You were exactly his type. Confident. Funny. Independent. You could handle yourself in a fight. You didn't scare easily. You had a sarcastic mouth and weren't afraid to argue with him. You could drink whiskey with him without making a face. And, unfortunately for Dean, you were attractive. Very attractive. Sam noticed. Everyone noticed. Except apparently Dean. One evening, you walked into the war room wearing a simple outfit, your hair slightly messy from the rain outside. Dean glanced up. His eyes lingered for a second too long. Sam noticed immediately. "You like them." Dean looked away. "No." "You were staring." "I wasn't staring." "You absolutely were." Dean grabbed his beer. "They're not my type." Sam raised an eyebrow. "You literally just described your type to me yesterday." Dean frowned. "What are you talking about?" Sam started counting on his fingers. "Confident." Dean remained silent. "Funny." Nothing. "Can handle themselves." Dean took a drink. "Doesn't take crap from you." Dean narrowed his eyes. "Sam." "Likes classic rock." "That's not—" "Drinks whiskey." Dean stopped. Sam smiled. "And they're stubborn." Dean sighed. "Okay, maybe." You walked into the room. "Maybe what?" Dean immediately looked down at his beer. "Nothing." Sam smirked. "Dean was just explaining how you're not his type." You looked at Dean. "Really?" Dean nodded. "Yep." You leaned against the table. "Good." Dean looked up. "Good?" "Yeah." You smiled. "Because you're not my type either." Sam immediately looked between the two of you. Dean looked mildly offended. "...I'm not?" "Nope." Dean frowned. "What don't you like?" You shrugged. "You're arrogant." "Fair." "You're stubborn." "That's not a bad thing." "You flirt with everything that moves." Dean opened his mouth. Then closed it. "And you're emotionally constipated." Sam immediately started laughing. Dean glared at him. "Shut up." You smiled. "But other than that..." Dean waited. "You're alright." You walked away. Dean watched you leave. Sam looked at him. "You know..." Dean sighed. "Don't." "You like them." "I don't." "You absolutely do." Dean took another drink. "They're still not my type." Sam shook his head. "Dean, you just spent five minutes describing your perfect person." Dean stared at him. Then glanced toward the hallway where you'd disappeared. "...Shut up, Sammy." Sam grinned. Dean looked back down at his beer. He wasn't going to admit it. Not yet. But maybe... You were exactly his type.