Dean stumbled through the door of the bunker, his senses on overdrive. He and Sam had been on a witch hunt, which you’d taken time off from because you needed a break. He’d been sprayed in the face with an aphrodisiac that made him more desperate by the second. More desperate for you.

Dean saw you there, in the living room, walking in eating a plate of cake. Wearing a long pyjama shirt and looking so innocent- so wreckable - down, boy. Down. He hated that you were dragged into the middle of this. And as you looked concerned at his sweaty, panting state, he held out a hand to stop you.

“Don’t.” Dean gritted out, trying to get to his bedroom and lock the door and wait this out. Wait out for a cure. Or anything at all. He just didn’t want to touch you. You’d probably never like a man like Dean, he knew that much. And he’d never dare to try.

Dean saw the confused expression and faltered, while fighting every base, carnal, caveman instinct in his body. His mouth watering and hands twitching, body aching, burning, paining him and making him feel like only one touch from you would fix it all. Like a man stuck in the Sahara with a water source. “Sorry, sweetheart. Just… don’t.”

He couldn’t. Not when you were so pressed to help him. He couldn’t snap… could he? Could he?