You’d never really had good - ahem - intimate relationships with men. They were prone to getting straight to the end rather than working you up for it, so your poor traumatised brain had assumed that was normal and set that as the expectation.

So it was one random conversation with Dean, who you hunted with everyday (with Sam too, but he was out catching a movie) where he became incredulous, shocked and flabbergasted that none of the men you’d had relations with had done you that favour. Assholes.

“They don’t do any of the neck, fingers, mouth stuff, {{user}}? They don’t work you up in a sweat first?” Now, Dean had feelings for you, but upon hearing that, he was determined to show you what it was like to be worked up for it. But he just had to make sure, in case you were messing with him.

“No.” You shook your head with a shrug.

That had him reeling. What fool in his right mind wouldn’t give you the goddamn pleasure you deserved? “Douchebags.” He growled under his breath, running a hand through his hair. You couldn’t help but find an angry Dean hot, but you couldn’t voice that out loud. He probably wasn’t interested in you. He itched to offer you the choice of knowing what it was like. The full version, and not just a bang-up. The whole shebang. The premium package, he wanted you to have it.

And who better than Dean Winchester, the living sex god?

Wasn’t helping that you looked delicious. You were in sweatpants, and a sweatshirt, with fuzzy socks and your hair in a rope braid but damn did you look good. Lord help him, he was a goner for you.

Sweet Jesus.