Anna was hot. Dean had met her in a bar, been suave and charming - as he always was - and now they were in bed together, post-coital. She’d been fucking gorgeous, and he was pleased with himself. That night, there had been no missions, no stupid, cryptic messages from M (Crowley was a hard-ass if ever there was one), no nagging - just a night out with an amazing woman.
Anna was asleep now, her red hair spread out on the pillow next to her, bright crimson against the cream sheets, and he grinned to himself. He was satisfied, comfortable, happy. He relaxed on the bed, dropping his head back on the pillow and closing his eyes, turning onto his side. He drifted off to sleep within a few minutes, happy enough.
He was the best fucking agent in security.
---
When Dean woke, he was alone in the bed, but the shower was running in the bathroom. He grinned, making his way out of bed, mind already focusing on the idea of Anna in the shower, red hair soaked and hanging comfortably around her shoulders, skin wet. He was naked as he got out of bed and stepped towards the bathroom, pushing the door open and stepping in.
He was glad he wouldn’t have to take off his watch. It was nice, having a water-proof (fire-proof, tamper-proof, explosion-proof, et cetera-proof, thank God for the MI6’s design centre) watch. He could tell the time in the shower, though theoretically he could also be contacted by the ever-irritating Crowley.
Dean looked at his watch. A watch that he… Wasn’t wearing. Did he take it off before bed? No. No, of course he hadn’t: he never did that. He pulled open the shower curtain, revealing the spray of water, empty of hot lady.
Shit.
Dean ran back to the bedroom, looking around for his suit, his shoes, his gun, but all of it was gone. He heard a carhorn and ran to the window. He’d taken a secondfloor hotel room, and he could see the car upfront of the hotel.
Anna was in a red Ferrari, next to a dark-haired chick in a leather jacket. She kissed the other girl as he watched out of the window, before looking back up at Dean and giving him a little wave.
“Son of a bitch.” Dean yelled as they set about driving off. She’d left his phone on the side, and Dean looked at it reluctantly. Some of the tech probably had tracking devices in it, but for fuck’s sake, Crowley was going to scream at him for this. Fuckin’ hard-ass.
Dean sighed, making his way over to the side-table and picked it up, dialling the 666 speed-dial. Within minutes, Crowley’s all-too-familiar familiar voice was yelling down the line.
FILL, Team Crowley/Sam, Wrong-Placed Trust
Anna was hot. Dean had met her in a bar, been suave and charming - as he always was - and now they were in bed together, post-coital. She’d been fucking gorgeous, and he was pleased with himself. That night, there had been no missions, no stupid, cryptic messages from M (Crowley was a hard-ass if ever there was one), no nagging - just a night out with an amazing woman.
Anna was asleep now, her red hair spread out on the pillow next to her, bright crimson against the cream sheets, and he grinned to himself. He was satisfied, comfortable, happy. He relaxed on the bed, dropping his head back on the pillow and closing his eyes, turning onto his side. He drifted off to sleep within a few minutes, happy enough.
He was the best fucking agent in security.
---
When Dean woke, he was alone in the bed, but the shower was running in the bathroom. He grinned, making his way out of bed, mind already focusing on the idea of Anna in the shower, red hair soaked and hanging comfortably around her shoulders, skin wet. He was naked as he got out of bed and stepped towards the bathroom, pushing the door open and stepping in.
He was glad he wouldn’t have to take off his watch. It was nice, having a water-proof (fire-proof, tamper-proof, explosion-proof, et cetera-proof, thank God for the MI6’s design centre) watch. He could tell the time in the shower, though theoretically he could also be contacted by the ever-irritating Crowley.
Dean looked at his watch. A watch that he… Wasn’t wearing. Did he take it off before bed? No. No, of course he hadn’t: he never did that. He pulled open the shower curtain, revealing the spray of water, empty of hot lady.
Shit.
Dean ran back to the bedroom, looking around for his suit, his shoes, his gun, but all of it was gone. He heard a carhorn and ran to the window. He’d taken a secondfloor hotel room, and he could see the car upfront of the hotel.
Anna was in a red Ferrari, next to a dark-haired chick in a leather jacket. She kissed the other girl as he watched out of the window, before looking back up at Dean and giving him a little wave.
“Son of a bitch.” Dean yelled as they set about driving off. She’d left his phone on the side, and Dean looked at it reluctantly. Some of the tech probably had tracking devices in it, but for fuck’s sake, Crowley was going to scream at him for this. Fuckin’ hard-ass.
Dean sighed, making his way over to the side-table and picked it up, dialling the 666 speed-dial. Within minutes, Crowley’s all-too-familiar familiar voice was yelling down the line.