Disclaimer: Don't own :(
ONE HUNDRED PERCENT RECORD
Rating: K+ for implied sauciness
Word count: 200
Dean's getting ready for a night out with only one thing on his mind, and we, lucky ladies that we are, get a two-drabble glimpse inside his wardrobe - sorry - duffel bag.
Dean's favourite t-shirt was one Sam had accidentally shrunk in the laundry.
It was grey and didn't have any fancy labels, but thanks to Sam, it clung nicely in all the right places now.
Stretching over his chest and shoulders, it bulged around his biceps and best of all, it showed off the faint six-pack he'd been secretly cultivating whenever he thought Sam wasn't looking.
When he leaned across a pool table it rode up, showing a tantalising glimpse of skin; he knew the chicks liked that, so he did it rather a lot.
Dean's favourite T-shirt had a 100% record.
Dean's favourite jeans were split across one knee and slightly faded.
He had bought them after a particularly profitable night at the poker table and was rightly proud of their expensive fashionable label.
They skimmed his hips nice and low, just as he liked them, so the belt buckle didn't stick into his belly and their soft denim fitted neat and snug like a second skin over his butt.
Another reason why he liked leaning across the pool table.
Dean's favourite jeans had a 120% record - well, twice in one night counts as extra, surely?
Roll on tonight.