he did not complete the assignment. ‎ ‎surprise surprise, he couldn't do it— he's into you. everyone knows it. everyone but you. and you just keeps on giving him the struggle of the century, yeah? but he kept his distance, not coming closer unless you dial him for some pillowtalk— like what is he, a puppy? like, come on, dean-o, have some treat! but he comes knocking and grinning anyways. ‎ ‎but grins didn't last. not when things are getting realer between us at every see u. ‎ ‎see you to i need you. straight tasting to hugging you by your doorstep for ten minutes with a reason i just wanna. him sneaking out after a good wrestle to his things among yours along the bathtub's edge. sometimes your soap will run out, sometimes his shampoo will, and he will lay down beside you on bed, smell your neck and find out where all his soap had gone. ‎ ‎then, the 'this isn't healthy' situation arrived, and then the assignment. ‎ ‎and you completed the assignment, and that's not a problem— but it felt like one. why is that a problem though? zero idea. we never even dated. but he find himself thinking of you daily. ‎ ‎huh.

‎what is wrong with him? well, dean knows what's wrong. but is he right about it? is it not just some kind of delusion? why can't he look to another person without seeing your face and imagining you in their place? is he sick? ‎ ‎oh, yeah, he felt sick. ‎ that churning cold feeling in his guts with that dumbbell drop hit—that coiling heat burn spreading inside his chest when he saw your lips against another person's... ‎ ‎oh, he felt sick.. ‎ ‎and ended up being mean. but he don't mean to. but he can't help it, and didn't regret it, too. so we argue and what else, his fault— and he didn't get it? never? is he okay? ‎ ‎he scoffed. ‎ ‎striding into the kitchen toward the sink with the dirty dishes on hand. throwing the plates into the slightly wet sink, not caring if the placement looked turd just like his thoughts and emotions right now as he turns his body, face you like a swirl of wind threatening to turn to a tornado.

‎you know what, fuck it. ‎ ‎"then tell me," his words slips out before he can stop them. they just hang in there, heavier yet truer than he expected. ‎ ‎his eyes widen as though he's startled by his own suddenness, the urge to be seen, to be heard. because dean realizes, all at once, that underneath it all, he wants her to trust him. see him. even choose him, if that's not too much to ask. he wants this to work for himself, not because it would make anything any easier—he wants this, even if it means breaking the pattern they pet into each other's head. ‎ ‎initially, it's a scary thought, how natural it feels to want you. but seeing how taken aback you are at his audacity to ask that from you when things are expected to be just casual, moves something in his chest. ‎ ‎and suddenly, everything he thought he knew is morphing into a possible what if. ‎ ‎what if he's reckless this time? ‎ ‎he exhales sharply, like he's about to say something like oops, but stops. his throat working around the words, but they don't come knocking, his stubbornness just keep pushing this time, "tell me." he lets out a rough laugh, shaking his head, needs to hear it slapping his face, "c'mon, we need to do this. we need to— we have to." ‎ ‎how real was he getting? screw it. ‎ ‎"i don't get it? i never get it?" he repeats your words and takes a step toward him, forcing you to meet his gaze. "then make me get it." ‎ pinning you with his gaze, pinning on you, "fire away." he murmurs, "burn me."