After your bedroom had been broken into at night and you couldn’t defend yourself — you were fine, Dean had stopped that motherfucker before he could do anything — he decided you needed self defence lessons. Being a hitman, part of the job description is knowing how to fight, so he could teach you— but it was getting a little giggly.

It was funny.

While he did look good in his exercise gear, it was both amusing and frustrating when you’d start giggling when Dean was trying to teach you— and it was a weird feeling, teaching the President how to fight in the gym at the White House. Like, come on, you were the face of reform, be serious about it.

He was trying to get your attention — keyword trying — and he almost gave up because despite being an ex-hitman, he had his weaknesses, and did he want to burst out laughing on a serious topic? No, this was his job, he was helping his hot boss and not get distracted by laughs and yoga pants.

“S’ not funny, darlin’.” Sure, Dean had said that, but he couldn’t help but chuckle— nope, steel yourself, Winchester, this is a serious, must-have skill. Especially when your boss is the president, so he cleared his throat, shook his head— don’t laugh.

“C’mon— focus.” Gesturing to his eyes, he had to force back a laugh — keep calm and carry on — because he needed to teach you this before the next misogynistic douchebag broke into your room again— the security detail concerned had been fired, to be clear. Fuck, fuck, don’t laugh, don’t laugh.

Just don’t laugh.