You didn’t think bed chem existed until you met Dean Winchester. Bobby introduced him to you when he and Sam needed help on a case, and you’d sworn you could’ve dropped to your knees right there. He was a Greek god with those muscles, effortless charm, the way he called you pet names, his sandy hair, pearly whites, emerald greens— ugh, you were hooked. You were hooked, line and sinker, and you wanted him.

Wanted him badly. Dean initially thought he’d ruin you upon laying one finger on you— fuck that, he wanted you too.

Everything about him made you wonder what he’d be like if you ever got him in your bed — he radiated ‘good at sex’ and BDE and it was fucking killing you — and you wondered that in your bed every night. What those soft, full lips would feel like, all of it, and it killed you some more. So when he called you, you picked up immediately. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Even his voice — his rough, gravelly voice — had you swooning. Luckily, he felt the exact same way, because you were fucking killing him too.

Dean couldn’t get you out of his head, the way you smiled, laughed, and he swore he couldn’t get the image of him ravishing you out of his head. Like mentioned before, you and Dean were the perfect living example of bed chem. “Are you free this week, darlin’?”

God, he hoped you were. His eyes closed, waiting for your response because — oh, baby — he was down bad for you. He was hooked on you like you were a drug and he fisted his flannel in hope that you’d say yes. Please say yes.

Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. You just had to say yes— if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be able to live yourself down.