Dean sometimes thought you were insane, as did Sam, considering how many bite marks and bruises that littered his brother's body at your doing.

It wasn't malicious, clearly. Dean knew that, but your insatiable need to just bite him vaguely concerned him. He didn't hate it, no, it just—got in the way sometimes? Not to mention, the looks he'd get from people when he'd rid himself of his shirt. Dean didn't even know the reason for your attachment to marking his skin. It just.. got on his nerves sometimes, not that he'd ever properly stop you from doing it.

"Could you—quit that?" He leant back against the couch, fingers threading into your hair to gently pull you away from his skin, a soft huff escaping him.

But he couldn't stay upset with you, a soft sigh following and a gentle caress of the side of your head showing he wasn't that mad. "You're like a fuckin' cat, or somethin'," he mused, gently tousling your hair. "Why do you even—"

Wanting to phrase it in a way that wouldn't piss you off beyond belief, he bit his tongue for a moment, a soft sigh escaping him. "Like, bite me, hit me and stuff,"

Dean's tough skinned, and he knows you mean it in an endearing, affectionate way, but he's very curious.