You walked into your room expecting to grab your laptop — not to find Dean Winchester sitting at your desk, legs spread, elbows on his knees, eyes glued to the screen like he was studying something very important.

Except it wasn’t research. It was porn. Loud, obvious, no-doubt-about-it porn.

Dean jumped slightly when he realized you were standing behind him. “Oh, uh—hey,” he said, snapping the laptop halfway shut but not quite committing. “Didn’t… didn’t hear you come in.”

You raised a brow. “That my laptop?”

He cleared his throat, shifting in the chair like he could somehow hide what he’d been doing. “Yeah, technically. I was just—uh—makin’ sure your internet connection was workin’ fine.” His smirk flickered in, that signature Dean defense mechanism kicking in full force. “Y’know, service check. Very technical.”

You didn’t say anything, just stared. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“What?” he finally asked, half-grinning, half-defensive. “Guy can’t appreciate a little… cinematic art now and then?”