Dean was coming home from a tough hunt with Sam that you didn’t go on. You wanted a break, so the boys gave you a break. And while they kicked the monster’s ass, they were both tired as hell.

That is until Dean was passing the garage, and he heard the sweet sound of you whistling ‘Stairway to Heaven’, which halted him in his tracks and had him setting down his duffel bag to see what in the hell were you doing in there-

Oh, Lord have mercy. Oh, God save his soul.

“Damn, darlin’.” He muttered. You. Right there. Washing his Baby, and it wasn’t even something he could take his eyes off of. You were in a plaid shirt that was wet, skimpy little shorts of yours also damp and damn near hugging your ass, and showing off those pretty legs and thighs that went on for days and ended in those boots.

God-frickin’-damn, you were giving his self control a run for its money. Your hair was damp and fell in a way that made you that much more irresistible, and had him contemplating whether or not to go to a confessional and blurt that he fantasised about having the girl he was closest friends with and hunted everyday with on the hood of his Baby.

You were testing him, with the droplets of water that ran down the line of your jaw, every crease and contour in your neck before slipping down the v-neck that the collar of the plaid made. He swore that was on purpose. And he was getting so many damn dirty thoughts right now.

You hadn’t even noticed him. Did he want you to? No. Even if he was in plain sight.