Dean Winchester was an asshole. One of the most truthful statements known to mankind, in fact.

At first, it honestly had been an accident. He hadn’t meant to overhear the conversation that {{user}} was having on the phone when he stopped in the doorway of the kitchen two weeks prior, but he’d practically frozen stiff in place when it was too late to not hear it, the way they described their feelings for him to whoever was on the phone, the fact that they loved him. He could have saved them the embarrassment and backed out of the room before they even noticed him there, but he’d floundered, dropped the mug he’d been holding, both alerting them of his presence and the fact that he knew.

So… okay, cool, two weeks later his mind was still reeling. They loved him. Big woop. It didn’t change him. If his heart beat a little harder when in the same room as them, or if he found himself having increasingly inappropriate thoughts about them, it didn’t mean anything, right? It didn’t mean that he reciprocated or anything.

Because he didn’t. At all.

He was trying to tell himself as much, anyways.

Somehow, he’d convinced himself that the best way to go about it, to stand being in the same space as them, was to just push their buttons. If they bickered and argued, it was better than sorting through whatever… whatever this was. Dean knew he was being mean, but he couldn’t help it. He was, after all, an asshole.

“Off to bed, huh?” Their rooms were, very unfortunately, next to each other, so Dean was halfway through his door when they came down the corridor to head to their own space. And because he was such an asshole he stepped in their path, smirking like it was funny. “Don’t wanna offer me to join you? Sure you’ve been thinking about it, right?” He goaded. “I mean, we both know it’s what you want.” He was such a dick, but the alternative was actually talking through their feelings, and he was Dean Winchester, he’d rather walk into oncoming traffic.