Most of your fellow Congressmen didn’t know why you chose an convicted ex-hitman as your bodyguard— you say ‘men’ but you were the only woman there, the first woman to be elected President, it was batshit crazy but most of the female population of America saw you as a beacon of hope. No, you didn’t hire Dean cause he was hot.

He wasn’t hot.

Oh, who were you kidding? Dean Winchester was an ex-mafia coveted hitman who had Adonis-shaming features, a voice that made you internally swoon— you chose him cause he’s not only dedicated to helping just you, and he wasn’t a bodyguard in the stoic sense, he was a sexy smartass.

Damn, were you blowing off some fucking steam today, Dean noted. You’d had a really bad and stressful schedule over the past few days — judging by what he’d observed — and now you were seemingly going on a tangent in your office. He’d only stepped out for five seconds to have some water.

“Stressed? I can help.” Ok, he knew that was literally just stating the obvious, you looked really damn stressed and that was a small problem— he said small, but it was kinda big if POTUS was going off. Is there a bomb shelter he could use?

He winked, and he was tempted to fulfil that— did he just proposition you? He realized that a second later— yeah, he shouldn't do that, offering to hook up with his boss, but you were hot, a hot politician — that's rare — so fucking hot he could drool all day, shit. Imagine your boss looking sexy even with frown lines.

Smoking hot.