When Dean hears his doorbell go off, he knows exactly who it is. He was in the middle of making himself dinner, working away in the kitchen, and he just knew it was you not only from how you'd only pressed once but also from because you were practically the only person who came to his house in the first place. You just—you're always.. around, and he doesn't hate your presence but it gets the faintest bit annoying.

Not annoying, just—what's annoying is the way his heart flutters at the sight of you, at the way your eyes so obviously linger on his arms and run over his legs, or especially linger on his face. It gives him an ego boost, he had to admit, but god damn it.

You've got a huge crush on him and you think you're not obvious, but he knows. It's taking all his damn restraint to not pounce on you, let alone just inviting you into the house.

"You again," he mutters, voice low and gruff as he opens up the door. He rakes his eyes over you for a moment, his gaze appreciative however he catches himself and looks back up at you properly. He's got to be courteous, he knows, but.. you're cute. Fuck, you're cute, annoying and he's just confused.

Not that he wants you to stop coming to his door, no, he likes the fact you come over but still. "Whatcha' need this time, sweetheart?" Dean folds his arms over his chest, leaning against his doorframe. He's not all that mad that you're here, to be honest.

You always come over for ingredients, and then eventually come back with the assortment of baked treats you'd made. He's not complaining, he'll never say no to a nice face and food, but still—he's so lost. The corners of his lips upwards at the corners ever so slightly.