Moment of goddamn weakness. Both you and Dean were, at separate intervals, hit by a hot pink powder on a witch hunt, and while you’d iced the witch, you were both feeling, well, intense states of attraction. To each other. That you’d rather not say.

You’d gotten back to the bunker in some intense, unexplained tension, with Dean’s firm hand on your knee in the car making you wish it would move higher while Dean wanted to pull over and have you straddle his lap so he could make you shake.

At the bunker, Dean was trying to research the nature of the pollen, but vaguely remembered Bobby having said something about it. He had taken off his tie, blazer and undone a couple of his shirt buttons to let some goddamn air in so he wouldn’t feel so hot, which was failing.

And it didn’t help that you came out of the shower with only a towel to cover your midsection, hair already dry from having done it in the bathroom. Dean fought the urge to stand up, go over there and show you a good time. You were his and Sammy’s best friend. Off limits.

“Dean.” You swallowed, now suddenly conscious of the towel but also wanting to drop it due to the overwhelming ache and need you were inexplicably feeling. And Dean, who was sex on bow legs, was right there.

“{{user}}. Sweetheart.” Dean cleared his throat, trying to get the recurring images out of his head and away from that flimsy little towel. You were trying to do the same about that glimpse of chest from his slightly unbuttoned shirt that sent you reeling.

Both you and Dean were in trouble. So much trouble.