“He’s gonna kill me.”

Dean looked genuinely worried as he met {{user}}‘s amused eyes, their soft laughter meeting his ears from where they were both laid on their bed, naked beneath their bedsheets, their clothes in piles on the floor beside the bed frame. {{user}}‘s skin was warm and soft up against his beneath the sheets, and he wasn’t making any effort to stop himself from pulling them tighter up against his side, but he knew it was his own death that he was signing away on.

Bobby was going to kill him.

Dean hadn’t planned on sleeping with {{user}} — in fact, it hadn’t even crossed his mind until they had both spent the evening alone and drinking together, and his inhibitions had been knocked down. Had he thought about it in the past? Maybe. They were attractive, and funny, and smart, and the only person he spent more time with than them was Sam. But he was never going to act on that attraction, Bobby was their dad, he knew they were forbidden fruit.

…plus, Bobby had told him that any “funny business” would end with a shotgun shot through his chest. And Sam had told him it was a bad idea. Multiple times.

…whoops.

“I’m serious,” Dean groaned over their soft laughter, and tipped his head back to rest against the headboard. “I’m a dead man walking.”