This was it. Dean’s one chance at getting out of prison — and consequently perhaps get all the mafias in the States gunning for his head because they’d hired him previously for over 100 assassinations in the past two years — and there’s nothing worse than being holed up in the Florence Supermax. He couldn’t mess this up, he just couldn’t.

Shit. Shit.

Well, it was kind of a good idea to have his hands shackled to his feet — nobody wants the first female POTUS assassinated — at least this grey jumpsuit was flattering. Oh, yeah, he forgot to mention that this was a job interview to be your new bodyguard, after you had fired the old one. Opportunities.

Dean just didn’t expect you to be so hot. Nobody really got the picture of the new President in a high security prison, but you had gorgeous hair, eyes, lips, you rocked the suit — the shirt’s neckline was pretty appealing — shit, if you were gonna be his boss, he was not gonna complain.

“I’d bow, but— yeah.” He joked slightly, and he realised it wasn’t the best first impression, being in an escape list jumpsuit and shackles, but he offered his most charming smile. Alright, Dean, time to get out of prison and work for a sexy President.

“Dean Winchester.” Dean introduced, unable to wave or offer a hand— fucking hell, were you pretty, so gorgeous. Whoever got to work for you was a lucky bastard, this whole damn nation were full of lucky bastards. This woman was the new face of the rise of a reformed and feminist nation?

Damn.