Lord help you.

If there was one thing you knew from knowing Dean since 2005, being his best friend for seven years and his girlfriend three more, it was that he looked amazing in everything. And he looked goddamn edible in a suit.

He was there with you, in Baby, long, thick, calloused fingers tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel as he nodded his head to imaginary music, his lips pouted in that effortlessly sexy manner. It made you feel so possessive, so goddamn proud that you were his {{user}} and him your Dean.

You were about to to insane seeing the suit jacket highlighting the expanse of his chest and the size of his biceps, while his shirt added to it with its tightness on his torso, showing you every dip and curve of the muscle and making you want to slam the car in park for him, climb into the drivers seat, whip that tie off and kiss him silly.

His tiny-ass waist was accentuated with his slacks and tightly wound belt, and his slacks looked like they were painted straight onto his muscular thighs. He only looked better in a suit as he got older and more ruggedly handsome. It was killing you.

Damn, you knew Sam was waiting, but neither of you could wait. So Dean pulled up in a secluded side road, texted Sam that Baby needed fuel, before turning to you, patting his thigh and beckoning you with a finger. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

He was equally as taken with your Fed threads that day, the tight blouse, suit jacket that hugged you perfectly, the pencil skirt, thigh highs and sexy heels. You were testing his patience, like he was testing yours.

His green eyes glinted expectantly, and his pink, full lips stretched into a smirk, practically inviting you. You knew that you had max half an hour. God, this was… a gift.

Sweet Jesus.