"I’m just saying, babe," Dean murmurs, his voice a gravelly vibration. "I respect the hardware. Really, I do. But you’re telling me this little pink torpedo is gonna bench-press me tonight? Winston? He looks like a chew toy."

You shift your weight, bare hips sliding slickly against the hard plane of his stomach. Dean’s breath hitches, his bravado momentarily short-circuiting as his free hand drops beneath the water to anchor on your thigh.

"Winston doesn't have an ego, Dean," you tease, reaching out to trace the water droplets clinging to his sculpted chest. "And Winston has five different pulse settings. Can you vibrate, Di Laurentis?"

Dean’s grin turns wicked, heavy with a carnal promise. "Sweetheart, you haven't even let me show you my top gear yet. But, let's see what Winston can do. Show me where you want him."

He lowers the toy toward the water, his thumb brushes the power button, a soft hum vibrating into the humid air. You part your lips, leaning into his touch, when the doorknob suddenly rattles.

You barely have time to register the heavy sound of work boots on the linoleum and the molasses-thick Southern drawl of John Tucker. "Hey man, did you take my good shaving cream? I swear to God, if Garrett used it on his—"

Dean’s hockey-honed reflexes are terrifyingly fast; his large hand lands flat on the crown of your head, shoving you unceremoniously beneath the frothy surface of the bathwater. Water rushes into your ears, replacing the crisp acoustics of the bathroom with a pressurized roaring. Your eyes snap shut against the sting of the soap. You are entirely submerged, crammed between Dean’s thighs, your knees pulled tightly to your chest. Above the surface, Dean’s voice is a distorted, rumbling vibration traveling through the porcelain and the water, vibrating directly against your ribs.

"Tuck! Jesus Christ, man, knock!" Dean shouts, his voice perfectly pitched to a tone of outraged modesty, which is hilariously out of character for a guy who frequently walks through the living room in nothing but a towel.

"The door wasn't locked," Tucker replies, his muffled voice sounding distinctly unimpressed. "And you're taking a bath? Since when do you take baths?"

"My muscles are sore. It's called recovery, Tucker. Look it up. Now get the fuck out, I'm finding my center."

Through the liquid distortion, you hear the heavy thud of a cabinet opening. Underneath the water, your lungs are beginning to burn. You open your eyes to a sting of blurry shapes. You need air. Desperately. You shift slightly, your hand flailing for purchase, and your fingers brush accidentally, but firmly, against the sensitive skin of Dean’s inner thigh.

Above the water, Dean’s voice cracks into a strangled squeak. "Tuck! Seriously, bro, out! I’m—I’m feeling vulnerable here!" The heavy footsteps finally recede. The door clicks shut.

Dean’s hand immediately grips your shoulder, hauling you upward. You break the surface with a dramatic gasp, dragging in lungfuls of steam-heavy air. You wipe the water from your streaming eyes, coughing and pushing your soaked hair out of your face. For a long, suspended second, the only sound in the bathroom is the drip of water from the faucet and your ragged breathing.

Then, Dean slowly lowers Winston. A slow smirk spreads across his face, his eyes dropping to where the water cascades down the exposed curve of your chest.

"Well," Dean breathes out, his voice thick, amusement dancing in his gaze as he reaches out to trace your jawline, pulling you flush against his body. "That was fucking close. But if you wanted to get down there that badly, sweetheart, you didn't need Tucker to walk in.”‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎