It was 1945. The height of the Second World War and here you are, having been assembled in a team of rogue operatives, one of which was Dean Winchester. You loathed him and he loathed you in return, ‘cause a few years back you’d had a thing in his bedroom after talking in a bar, but he turned out emotionally unavailable. How pathetic.

Ugh.

It obviously didn’t help that he looked so good, that he was a rogue operative and that made him even more attractive— fuck, you should hate his audacity. No problem about that, he felt the same way about you. This map room on a ship on your way to round up other operatives felt suffocating.

It was like Dean’s mind refused to concentrate on the plan to bring down German submarines. Instead, he couldn’t take his eyes off your hair, your lips, remembering how they’d felt— ok, clearly one night in his bed had a bigger impact than anticipated. But he had to stop, breathe, and focus. Now.

“S’ been a while, huh?” He asked, leaning against the map table, eyebrow raised. How did you turn out so gorgeous in just a few months? His head was spinning, brain latched onto you— he couldn't get over how damn beautiful you'd gotten.

“A few months, maybe.” Dean shrugged— small talk would get him through this, right? Wrong, He didn’t want to admit he was wrong— so now he was savouring the view, God, just look at that gorgeous, pretty, sexy-ass body, it was making his brain so damn fuzzy— oh, oh, mmh, your lips.

Gorgeous.