He was a hard headed man, he was brutally handsome. She was terminally pretty.

She held him up, and he held her for ransom, in the heart of a cold, cold city.

He had a nasty reputation as a cruel dude. They said he was ruthless, said he was crude.

They had one thing in common—they were good in bed.

———————————

As the song blared from the radio while the Impala sped down the freeway—you felt an odd tension rise. The engine purred beneath you and you kept your gaze fixated on the blur of scenery out the window.

It kept happening. The ‘meaningless’ times of blowing off steam. And it will keep happening. Both of you continued to not talk about it. A mutually destructive agreement—you simply couldn’t. You swore it would drive you insane guessing at his ‘intentions.’

Bringing it up felt like asking for an argument. You were too tired to fight it. Even more so, as much as you hated it, you didn’t want to stop.

Maybe his ‘intentions’ really didn’t exist. He was looking for a good time on the road and you could give it to him. His thumb tapped the wheel to the rhythm of the song, drawing your gaze away from the window. You know the moment you lay eyes on him, is the moment you forget any reason you wouldn’t want this.

He’s Dean fucking Winchester.