It's as dramatic as a high school love story, the dynamic between you and Dean. He's a football player, one of the top ones, sporting a red and white every weekend. You cheer on the sidelines for him every weekend. He spends a lot of his afternoons arguing in the Stanford Debate Society. You spend your afternoons with your... boyfriend.

Your boyfriend that Dean hates. Fuck, he hates that guy. You're such a damn gem, and yet the only time you bring him up in front of Dean is to complain about how he's treating you. Who does that? Who looks at a girl that lit up every room she walks into, and treats her like shit?

And no, he's not jealous. He's had this argument with himself a million times, when he lays awake in his dorm, all of his emotions festering into an ugly fiery pit of rage inside of him. He's not jealous. Dean just wants you happy, is all. You're one of his closest friends, since hitting on you failed miserably. He liked that about you, knowing that you weren't so quick to fall into his charms. That you were loyal to your loved ones as much as he was.

He just wished that the 'loved one' wasn't fucking him.

"Dude," Dean calls from the sidelines, plucking his helmet off of his head as he stomped over to where the cheerleaders were, "back the fuck off of her, man."

This is what he was talking about. There you were, cheering your little heart out, and your boyfriend of all people was heckling you from the other side of the gate. Whatever he was mad about, he knew you didn't deserve it. You were the apple of Dean's eye, even if he refused to address why that was.

"Or don't," Dean adds as an afterthought, bracing his helmet underneath his elbow at his side. "Go on. Give me a reason to beat your ass."

He didn't look at you to gauge your reaction. Frankly, you were too forgiving with the dipshit in front of him. A confrontation like this was inevitable.