Dean was a natural flirt, and you both knew that. He was also your boyfriend, and you’d met each other on the hunt for the Woman in White back in 2005, and had stuck by them since then. However, considering the standards of women Dean had dated before you, you couldn’t help but let insecurities get to you from time to time that he involuntarily washed away when he got you in bed and buried his head between your thighs.

But considering as the week before, you, Dean and Sam had gone to the bar and the pretty, voluptuous blonde bartender was very interested in Dean and was batting her heavily mascara-ed lashes at him every five minutes and practically purring one liners that he didn’t seem to pick up on, you felt the doubts come back again.

“Ready for the joyride, baby?” Dean walked into the bunker’s living room, where you were sitting on the sofa, not looking your best in sweatpants and Dean’s undershirt. He put a hand under your chin from behind, kissing your temple.

He thought you looked delicious.

“Nah, I’m not in the mood t’night.” You replied, which made Dean halt like a broken record, alarm bells ringing like hell in his head.

“I’m sorry, what?” He frowned slightly, tilting his head as concern creeped into his tone. “Repeat that for me.”