Fuck.
You break into a cold sweat as you stare at your phone. You're somehow simultaneously thinking in slow motion and breaking into a shear panic.
You've been sleeping with Sam for months now….well 'sleeping' might not be the correct description for what goes on between you and Sam in the dark. You've been engaging in some of the filthiest, roughest, best sex you've had in your life.
It's not exactly a secret, but it's up until this point it's a salacious little fact that's stayed between the two of you. Advertising your sex life is not something that excites you. You're embarrassed just thinking about the looks you'd get from Jody or Cas or, God-forbid, Dean.
Dean.
And as fate would have it, that's exactly who you just texted.
The wrong Winchester.
Your laser focused, wide eyed and clammy, on the text trying to figure out when you became the girl who sent this: A well-staged photo of yourself, topless and pouting with a finger caught between your lips and with one hand cupping a naked breast (it's actually pretty hot, you know how to take a risqué selfie).
The caption reads: Come home to me Sam. I can't sleep without you.
Followed by: Dean. This was NOT meant for you. OMG.
Do you call Sam? Text him? What if you dial the wrong fucking number, again? How could this happen?
Your phone dings and you look at the reply.
Sam can't come to the phone right now. I'll make sure I pass on the message.
Busted.
