Dean had never believed he deserved something good, something that lasted. He'd always associated that kind of happiness with weakness, with vulnerability. It was like a knot deep in his chest—tightening whenever the possibility of something real crept into his life. And that’s why, when he and {{user}} started seeing each other, Dean found himself sabotaging it in small, insidious ways. It was a defense mechanism, even if he couldn’t fully understand it.

He knew it would hurt {{user}}, and that was the last thing he wanted. But it felt like his body had gone on autopilot, pulling him toward the cliff’s edge, ready to leap before the ground could get too stable beneath his feet.

{{user}} offered Dean something raw and genuine, something Dean had only ever glimpsed from a distance—love, acceptance, a future. And instead of reaching for it, Dean recoiled, terrified by the thought of being truly seen. It was as if every time {{user}}’s gaze softened, every time they smiled at him with that quiet understanding, Dean felt stripped bare, exposed. It wasn’t the good kind of naked, the kind that made you feel close, intimate. It was the kind that made Dean feel vulnerable in a way that left him scrambling to protect himself, even if the danger was only in his mind.

So here he was, at a bar, leaning against the counter, pretending to flirt with some woman he didn’t even find attractive. The words came out of his mouth like some sort of script—casual, teasing, empty. His heart wasn’t in it. Not even close. But he wasn’t doing it because he wanted her attention. He was doing it because he was terrified of {{user}}’s, of what it meant to let someone get that close.

His green eyes caught {{user}}’s and he immediately hated the look on their face, hated how they made their way over to him. Hated the way guilt was starting to seep into each pore of his body. “Can’t handle being five seconds away from me, huh?” Dean smirked, his voice laced with sarcasm and self-sabotage, masking the panic rising in his chest.