Prompt: Where are My Pants?
Title: Plans for Your Pants
"Dean Winchester!"
I yelled from the laundry room of the bunker. After spending the better part of the last month on the road, hunting the freaks and geeks of the world, I was happy to finally be back in a place I could call home. The main source of my happiness? Take a damn hot shower and running three weeks' worth of disgusting, guts-and-gore-covered clothes through the laundry.
The moment I stepped into the bunker, Dean had insisted that I kick back and have some shots, eat a burrito, take it easy.
"As soon as I'm clean."
I'm not a germaphobe. Fuck. Yes. Yes, yes I am. I'm obsessive-compulsive and I hate germs. Hunting isn't the best line of work to be in with a condition like that, but what can I say? I make it work, no medication involved. Once I figured out that chewing gum can ease anxiety, I bought stock in Trident. Takes the edge off, it really does.
So here I was now, freshly showered, in clean undergarments and a clean shirt. I'd been waiting the last few minutes for a load of jeans and sweats to dry. When I went into the laundry room, however, the whole load of bottoms was gone. Disappeared. Bermuda triangulated.
The accused in The Case of My Missing Pants opened the door to the laundry room, took a step inside and sipped whiskey from a glass, his other hand hidden behind his back.
"What is it, dearest?"
The mischievous look on his face gave him away. I planted my hands on his chest – okay, more like his abdomen. I'm short. Leave me alone. – and shoved hard. "Where the hell are my pants?!"
Dean threw his head back and chuckled. "So, so, so, very worked up. You see, this is why Sam and I don't go case to case anymore. Better to come back here, refresh, re-charge your batteries."
He presented his other hand; another glass of whiskey, for me. I reached for it, but he took it away. "I swear to God, if you don't give me the whiskey and my pants …"
"You're not going to do anything," Dean scoffed as though I were a petulant child. "I'll make you a deal. Come into the kitchen with me, drink this whiskey, and I'll give you your pants."
Not having much energy left in me to argue, I accepted the whiskey and marched my pretty little ass to the kitchen. I hoisted myself up on the counter, downed the whiskey in three gulps, and demanded my pants.
"Fuck," Dean mumbled. "That didn't work out like I wanted it to."
"How did you want it to work out?"
He came closer, in between my legs, and softly ran his hands up my thighs. "Well, I'll admit, it wasn't an idea I had until you pranced out of your room in those lacy boyshorts. I've told you before, they make me crazy."
I smirked. I had the upper-hand now. "If you ever want to see these lacy boyshorts again, you'll give. Me. My. Fucking. Pants."
Dean kissed my lips. "Oh, I have other plans for you, your pants, and those boyshorts. Most of it involves my bedroom floor."
A/N: Thanks for reading the first of my little one-shots! I'm always looking for more prompts, with all SPN characters, so feel free to PM me if you have a request!