You walk into the kitchen of the bunker, still tugging down the sleeves of a worn flannel that clearly isn’t yours-red and black, soft as hell, a little too big in the shoulders. You barely make it three steps before Dean spots you. He squints over his coffee mug like you just walked in wearing his actual soul. “Seriously?” he says, pointing at the shirt. “That’s the third one this week.”

You smirk, leaning against the counter like you own the place. “They’re comfy.”

“Yeah, so’s my bed, but I don’t see you letting me hog that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You absolutely hog the bed.”

“That’s not the point,” he grumbles, setting his mug down. “You keep stealin’ my damn flannels, and then I go to pack for a hunt and bam, half my bag’s empty.”

“So you admit I look better in them.” He opens his mouth, finger half-raised like he’s about to make some epic comeback, but then he sees you smiling. Really smiling. Loose hair, sleep in your eyes, his shirt hanging off your shoulders like it belongs there. And Dean… short-circuits just a little.

He shakes his head, muttering, “Unbelievable,” and turns back to the coffee pot, but not before you catch the ghost of a grin pulling at his mouth.

You step closer, tug on the front of the flannel. “You gonna make me take it off?”

Dean glances at you over his shoulder, eyes warm now. “Don’t tempt me before breakfast.” Then, almost too soft to catch: “Looks better on you anyway.”

You pause, heart stuttering. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he says, louder. “Just sayin’ you better wash it before I get it back.”You smile into your mug. He’ll keep complaining. Every time. About the missing shirts, the stretched-out sleeves, the mystery of how his closet keeps shrinking. But he’ll never stop leaving them on top of the laundry pile. Just in case you need one.