FBI Agent Dean Winchester had women in a chokehold, just like he was doing to you. You could feel it, how he’d lifted you onto the table, abandoning the case to kiss you until your eyes rolled, ripping your blouse open before gripping your ass with his sexy-ass fingers, muttering into your lips how pretty you were as he destroyed your composure.

But that was your imagination.

You were actually just sitting at said table, rather than on, your blouse intact, skirt not rucked up while Dean looked like the definition of a snack. Oh, his muscles, oh, his slacks that looked painted on as he lounged on the bed. And he was staring at you with a raised, very judging, eyebrow.

What was going on with you? You were usually Miss Professionalism, by your track record— the fuck’s gotten you off kilter? Honestly, double standards these days— someone needed to keep a damn check on them. He now claimed the right to check out beautiful women on the case, if this is your state.

“Hey. Sweetheart.” Dean scoffed, snapping his fingers and drawing your attention back to the real world, and said fingers, which made your mind go places. Delicious places. Honestly, how did he not know that his whole self is an aphrodisiac?

But yes, you still had to work on this syndicate case with him, but you couldn’t focus, not with how his plump lips looked, his gravelly voice. And he just scoffed again, cause you were extra distracted today while he was trying to brief you. “Y’still with me?” He hoped you were, you kept zoning out.

Fuck professionalism.