"I think I want you." Dean's breathy words break through unprompted, your head practically snapping towards him from where you sat at the motel table in a confused and shocked manner. His cheeks burn and in return, a wince leaves him at the strong blow to his dignity. The older man's hands clenched into fists on his knee-covered jeans in embarrassment only to follow up with a, "Have I ever mentioned how handsome you are? It drives me nuts, seriously. It's like you're annoyingly good-looking on purpose- I mean, it's hard to focus on being an "FBI" when that suit of yours works so well on you." Dean rambles on about you like a love-sick puppy until his body feels satisfied enough with the comment, a loud and frustrated groan leaving not a second after he'd managed to grasp restraint, his head falling into his hand so his fingers can claw through his hair. He needed the spell that witch cast on him gone. Now.