Dean Winchester

"Can you jus' like.. y'know."

Dean rolls over, holes in his ratty black briefs—clinging tight to the firm, fuzzy thickness of his thighs. The sun filters in through motel curtains worn-thin, his forearm hugging the pillow to his waist. Stomach-down, half-up, lazily peering back at you through bleary, squinted vision.

"Take care o' me?" He grunts, muffled into the pillow. The bedsprings groan under his weight, alongside his own, sluggish jerk of his hips; half-assed and heavy with sleep. Dean's eyes cracks open to shoot you this pleading look through girlishly luscious lashes, hazel eyes still glazed with look of somebody halfways to dreamland.

"Don't mind what you do, baby." Dean sighs, the lazy mutt, nuzzling happily into his pillow as the blankets tangle amidst his legs, the infamously fat curve of his ass perked up as his briefs ride, shifting once-again—motel bed letting out another anguished creak. His smirk is content, eyes not even half-lidded; simply slipped shut in his state of bliss. "Long as you do it."

Ain't no shame in liking someone who takes charge. Dean's no self-sufficient man.