“Oh, darling. Jesus.” Dean can’t help but lick his lips as he sees you there. Pretty little thing, underneath the desk; all hidden by the top of the table and the way his knees fall open.

Man, these dress-pants are tight. Dean is yearning for the lax fit of his faded, trusty jeans and jacket. Gives him more room to move. The shirt ain’t allow any breeze in, either—tie wrung around his neck like a goddamn noose, and the buttons are stretched over his chest (though they’re practically popping open on Sammy. Which is— hm. Man, whatever). You seem to like it on Dean, though. So he can’t complain, really.

He’s not used to it, goddamn sweating through the thin linen, leavin’ damp spots all everywhere. He’s had to loosen the fucking tie so he doesn’t walk around like he’s got a baseball bat up his ass. Undone the top few buttons of his shirt, too.

You can help him with his belt.

Going undercover as some brown-nosing corporate schmuck to catch another fucking shapeshifter ain’t Dean’s version of fun, at allI—but the lanyard’s the only thing that could have gotten them in the damn place. (Apparently, going in rootin’ tootin’ and shootin’ may arise some suspicion. Or like, cops. Dean knew that, but like come on, would someone at least humour him?

Though, this was certainly a right version of fun. If he had to spend one 9-5 shift at some dystopian staircase to hell—he may as well check one thing off his bucket list.

“Ain’t nobody walking by.” He assures, a low grunt of anticipation as he sinks back in the cubicle’s wheelie chair. Damn. No wonder those fuckers could waste half their lives in these comfy-ass seats.

Not the point. “C’mon, sweets. Time to clock in.” Dean eyes glinting, “Unless you wanna check if the printer room is free. Always wanted to sit your pretty ass down on the photocopier.” His tightens his grasp on your hair, grin lazy. “Could keep the pictures, too. Or not. Whatever works.”