you’ve been wearing a lot of dean’s clothes lately.
warnings: suggestive content. i kept this pretty sfw though.
additional notes: ok i wrote another dean fic cuz i love him so much. female reader in this one, although tbh it’s pretty ambiguous. let me know if you want to read more dean/reader or sam/reader, cuz i would love to hear your guys’ ideas :)
Dean didn’t think much of it at first. In fact, when he woke up Saturday morning and found you cooking breakfast in one of his button-down shirts, he found himself smiling. The day before, he had seen you wearing a pair of his drawstring pants while you researched in the library, and earlier that week he’d seen you napping on the couch in one of Sam’s sweatshirts. He figured you were just a clothing thief, or that his and Sam’s clothes were just particularly comfortable for you.
Then he noticed that it was usually just his clothes you were stealing. You would wear Dean’s T-shirts, Dean’s flannel, Dean’s jacket. One day, when it was your turn to fold laundry, he’d stopped by the laundry room to bring you a sandwich, and he’d caught you holding one of his shirts to your face, sniffing it deeply. You hadn’t even acted flustered about it, just boasted about how the fabric softener you were using was magical.
Even though you were nonchalant, Dean was still suspicious. And a little smug. You’d been living at the bunker for a few years now, had known the Winchesters for even longer and stuck around since teaming up with them to stop the apocalypse seven years prior. Dean had appreciated you from the start; you were feisty, an excellent shot, and fun to be around, always full of snark and well-timed derision. Your sass put Sam’s to shame, and Dean found himself worrying about keeping up with you, rather the other way around. Most of all he liked how you genuinely cared for them both, providing the much-needed companionship and loyalty they’d been deprived of for far too long.
So with your fiery personality and looks to match, it didn’t take long for Dean to fall for you, and he mentally kicked himself in the head every day for it. It didn’t help that, judging by the way you always found a reason to touch or cuddle up close to him, his feelings might be reciprocated. There was no room for relationships in the hunting business—not from what he’d previously seen, anyway—but even Sam saw how much Dean cared for you and you for him. The younger Winchester had taken up the role of love guru and was currently encouraging him to take the next step, make it official. Dean liked the idea of having that with you, but he’d held off, too scared of getting too close and losing you, just like everyone else. Now, he was worried that you might have lost interest over time, or that Sam was going to come to his senses, realize your appeal, and make a move before Dean could. Maybe that was why Dean felt mildly stung whenever it was Sam’s shirt you decided to wear, and why Dean felt a swell of pride whenever you did choose to steal Dean’s clothes instead. It was like each time you wore his clothes on your back, you were unofficially proclaiming that he was yours, and you were his.
So Dean made the decision to ask you about it, to at least figure out why you had started pilfering only his clothes. He went down to the kitchen Monday night and found you crouching on the floor, rummaging through the lower shelves of the fridge. You were wearing his navy Henley over flannel pajama pants, and there was that smug swell of pride again. He grinned, crossing his arms and (selfishly) watching you for a few moments, definitely not checking out the way your ass looked in those pants or the strip of bare skin just above your waistband where his Henley had ridden up.
“Any luck down there?” he asked.
You cast a glance over your shoulder at him and smiled before returning to your task. “Just looking for the peanut butter, s’all. I feel like we should start organizing this better. I keep losing my spreads.”
“Maybe we can get you your own little spread section.” Dean watched you tug the shirt down your back, effectively covering you. Damn.
“Would be nice, but I don’t think I deserve a whole section to myself,” you replied. “A-ha!” you crowed with delight, reaching far into the fridge and procuring the peanut butter jar. “God bless.” You straightened to your full height and shut the door, cradling the jar to your chest. “Want some?” you called over your shoulder, moving to the counter where you had laid out some toasted bread and sliced bananas.
Dean couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose as he stepped over to you and leaned against the fridge to watch you prepare your meal. “When have I ever eaten fruit?” You opened your mouth to protest and he cut you off, “When it’s not filling a warm crust.”
You clamped your mouth shut. “You got me there. I think you’d like this, though.”
“I’ll have a bite of yours, then,” Dean relented. You smiled, and he stood up straight, moving closer to you. “You know, sweetheart, I’ve noticed you’ve been a bit of a thief lately.”
“Oh, yeah? And what have I stolen now?”
Dean was so close his hip was almost brushing yours. He braced one hand on the counter as he watched you. “My clothes. Sam’s, too, but mostly mine. You wanna tell me why that is?” He was playing it cool, but truth be told, when you paused in your meal preparation and turned to face him, he was starting to lose his confidence.
Your smile had vanished. You were worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, and Dean didn’t miss the way your eyes traversed his frame, lingering at his neckline, his jaw, and finally his face. “Does it bother you?” you asked with legitimate concern in your eyes. He watched that concern morph into something warm and oozy, like molten flame. He was starting to burn up just looking at you. “I’ll stop if it does, but your clothes are real comfy, Dean. And they smell good, too.”
Dean swallowed hard. You were challenging him, daring him to make the first move. Fuck it. He reached out to your side and grasped the Henley where it fell against your waist, pinching the material and rubbing it between his fingers. The corner of your mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smirk. “Oh, I’m not mad. Not mad at all,” he replied. He stepped closer to you, so close he could detect the crisp apple scent of your conditioner, could see his own face reflecting in your eyes. He slid his hand down to your hip and your own hand traveled up his arm to grasp his bicep. “I mean, if you look so good in my clothes”—he licked his lips, shamelessly appraising you from head to toe—“I could just imagine how you’d look out of them.”
Dean felt you tremble under his touch, and you pressed closer against him, his hand moving to lie flat along the small of your back. You craned your neck forward, and your lips skimmed his ear as you spoke, “Why don’t we go up to my room and find out?”