“Can you blame me? Y’all have some real fuckin’ beauties.” Dean grumbles, and he doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Or, well, his smart-fucking-mouth is pulled in the visual representation of the word Yeesh, but you can see the smarmy smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Real slick.

He hasn’t even paused it. It takes the fourth whimper and entirely excruciating “Oh, God, baby.” to resound from the tinny laptop speakers for him to slam the lid down. Not like you don’t have the image burned behind your retinas, or whatever.

Not like you can ignore the fact that the woman in the video not-so-subtly looked like you, or the dude not-so-subtly looked like Dean. With a little more stubble, maybe.

"Aw, c'mon. Don’t knock a guy for tendin’ to his niches.” Dean grumbles, stuffing himself back under the covers. Though, other than the way he cricks his neck, and the disappointed puff of breath, his face is utterly devoid of a flush. “Y'know I don't have a phone or that bullshit. I needa pay for that platinum membership somehow." He flashes a grin.

No wonder your laptop has so many fucking viruses.