Oh, God, the images weren’t leaving your head. After a half-successful hunt, you and Dean were driving home in Baby while Sam was already at the Bunker. Half successful because while you got the Black Grimoire from the witch’s den, you’d been sprayed with a red powder that instantly put images in your head that weren’t PG-13 and had you both hot under the collar.

So now you driving home. In a confined space. Wanting to jump each other’s bones.

It was taking Dean everything in him not to pull over. Or at least put his hand on your thigh, because what you were wearing distracted him heavily. You were in your Fed threads since your hunting clothes got ruined by some black goo, the blouse stretched tight over your torso, and a goddamn pencil skirt. With sensible thigh highs that were nowhere near sensible in Dean’s mind.

He needed to resist the burning sensation in his gut to just reach out for you. He needed to keep his eyes on the road. But damn him if he didn’t want to run his hand up that strong thigh. For now, he kept it firmly on his own thigh in the sakes of controlling himself.

He knew you weren’t faring better.

“{{user}}, do you need the AC?” He asked in a deep voice that had you pressing your thighs together and taking in a sharp breath. “Don’t want you to be uncomfortable, sweetheart.”