It started with boredom, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, a deck of cards, and Dean’s infuriating smirk.

“I’m just saying,” he drawled, shuffling the cards with practiced ease, “if you’re scared to lose, we don’t have to play.”

You narrowed your eyes, leaning forward across the bunker’s library table. “Scared? Please. I'm just not a binge drinker like you. Besides, you always stack the deck.”

Dean grinned, the kind of grin that spelled trouble. “I don’t need to cheat to win, sweetheart. But if you don't wanna drink, we could always have different stakes."

That’s when the suggestion came. Strip poker.

You'd laughed, thinking it was a joke. Dean, of course, wasn’t joking.

“Unless you’re scared,” he teased, tapping the deck against the table, his green eyes twinkling with mischief.

And because you were stubborn—and maybe had a little liquid courage—you agreed.

At first, it was fun. A sock here, a jacket there. But Dean? Dean was ridiculously good at poker. By the time you were down to your last layer, he was still sitting there fully dressed, smug as hell.

“Looks like you’re in trouble,” he said, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, radiating confidence.

You scowled, clutching your shirt close like it was armor. “This is so rigged.”

He shrugged, a happy puppy-dog grin on his face. “Just pure skill, baby.”

With a dramatic sigh, you yanked your shirt off and tossed it at his face. “There. Happy now?”

Dean caught it mid-air, laughing as he draped it over his shoulder like a trophy. “Oh, I’m plenty happy. But I’m not quite done yet."

He flicked his fingers carelessly at your underwear. Of course.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, folding your arms over your chest.

“Maybe,” he grinned. “But you’re the one who agreed to play. Don’t hate the player, sweetheart. Hate the game.”