You and Dean went through practically the same childhoods. Forced to be a hunter, caregiver to younger siblings, trained to be killing machines— but you were even worse than him, you saw yourself as nothing more than a trained mutt, a killer. Dean had finally found a light with you and was chasing it, you saw it and you were scared of it.

Scared.

Why the fuck wouldn’t you just admit you loved him too? He’d seen it, he knew he had, but you froze the very moment he admitted it— sometimes he thought you needed a map to figure out your emotions. But he knew what it was. You were scared, you felt you didn’t deserve love, but you did.

Had Dean ever been this madly in love with someone? No. Did he know what to do with himself? Also no. God damn, but it infuriating that you wouldn’t say a word to it, that he was now in a massive argument with you trying to prove that you were. But it was bullshit excuse after bullshit excuse.

“Say you don’t love me.” He snapped, on his last straw, and he hated grasping at straws. And he knew you’d try to bail — you always tried to bail — cause you were just that predictable, that much was clear. Not this time, you wouldn’t bail again.

“Say it, sweetheart.” Dean demanded, angry, but he felt so desperate. He’d seen it, you loved him, and you might be avoiding it, doing everything in your power to avoid how you were in love with him, but you were. It’s just your stupid way of trying to convince him — and yourself — that you didn’t.

God.