Yeah, a witch putting a curse on you to completely remove your inhibitions was a bad idea. Especially when it resulted in you acting like a high-grade, five-star hooker around Dean, and you eventually started dressing like one, just less of a striptease. Being honest, it was hard for Dean to resist you when you came onto him, really hard.

Hard.

Ok, ok, how hard was it to resist your best friend? Pretty hard, when you were dressing like you were and climbing onto Dean’s bed, all his breath going— oh, Lord save him. Lord save his control, really, but he wasn’t even that sure the Lord existed, so his control was done for, so very, very fucked.

Shit, Dean really hated this curse, cause it meant he had to fist the sheets and not even take a second glance at you, even if you looked hot as hell. Though he could take a peek, right— nope, no, he had to remain strong, and he couldn’t touch you either. Ugh, all this was way harder than he thought.

“S’ not right, sweetheart, baby girl.” He muttered— ok, it’s not his fault that his brain was turning to mush under you, right? His rational brain was screaming at him to deny you, but his downstairs brain was telling him to roll with it.

“We— we can’t, darlin’.” Dean gritted out, but the protest was weak, so very weak. Since when could he resist you, huh? Now was one of those times, where you looked hot, talked hot, and he couldn’t help— stop the spinning of his poor brain or how fuzzy it felt looking at your hips, thighs, ass.