The smell of bacon hit him before he even rounded the corner. Dean rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, muttering under his breath about early risers, and padded barefoot into the bunker kitchen.

And then—he stopped dead in his tracks.

You were standing at the stove, spatula in one hand, hips swaying slightly to the faint sound of classic rock coming from the radio. But that wasn’t what made his brain short-circuit. It was the shirt. His shirt. One of his old flannels—soft, worn, and about three sizes too big on you. The sleeves were rolled up sloppily, and the hem brushed your thighs like it had every right to be there.

Dean blinked. Once. Twice. His jaw worked soundlessly before words finally scraped out of his throat.

“That’s my shirt.”