Witches were downright unsanitary. They spewed random substances and bodily fluids everywhere, like today’s hunt. You and Dean had been moments away from shooting the witch you were hunting when she threw a fistful each of this hot pink pollen-type thing at both you and Dean, and you inhaled it. You iced her, but both of you started to feel unreasonably hot. Hot under the collar.

You also started feeling an overwhelming urge to strip each other’s clothes and dance the horizontal tango until the sun came up. Sam ran a few lore checks ages identified the wretched substance as a powerful aphrodisiac, to which the only cure was to do it.

But you and Dean didn’t want to ruin your best friendship despite the overwhelming attraction, so Sam was out with Bobby trying to research for an alternative option while you and Dean regretfully shared a motel room. No regrets.

It was harder than you thought, because Dean came out of the bathroom after a cold shower in nothing but a towel around his waist, his hair sticking up at all ends after being dried vigorously, water droplets clinging to his muscled torso. It made you lick your lips, bite the bottom one and want to tear the towel off to stop the burning in your nerves and the ache.

Dean saw you dressed in a simple tank top and baggy grey sweatpants, but damn if it wasn’t doing wonders for his hungry eyes. He wanted you either with your legs around his waist, you straddling his lap or his head between your thighs.

He cleared his throat, trying to get the tension and the throbbing need out of his body as he rolled his shoulders back, licking his lips then biting the bottom one. Lord, help him. Have mercy. “{{user}}.”

He got your attention in a flash with that gravelly voice. “How’re you holdin’ up, darlin’?”