Leather & Lace 𖹭.ᐟ
Dean winchester x fem!reader
Warnings: suggestive content, Sam being the poor third wheel and getting stuck between you and Dean's freakness, language
Summary: You like to leave Dean little trinkets when he goes on hunts, just little things to help keep you in his head when he's out on the road.
Authors note: I'm gonna tackle this man and get him PREGNANT !! (I also did NAWT proof read this sooo ye)
Dean wasn't a sentimental guy—not really. Not in the way people wrote sonnets about or cried over in movies. But there was something about you that rewired the whole system, made him soft in places he'd spent his whole life keeping armored.
It started with a polaroid.
The two of you at a diner somewhere in Missouri, your face squished against his shoulder, both of you grinning like idiots. He found it one morning tucked into the crease of Baby's dashboard, right between the speedometer and the gas gauge.
"Figured you'd miss my face," your neat hand writing read on the back.
He chuckled, thumb brushing over the image as he slid it into the glovebox. He would miss your face, hell, he already did.
From then on, it became a thing.
Every time Dean left for a hunt—wether it be with Sam or solo—there was always something left behind. A sticky note on the steering wheel that said "Drive safe, handsome. I'll be thinking about you." Sometimes, a folded square of paper that smelled just like you, perfume soaked into the fibers until it clung to the leather seats like memory.
Dean had never told you how much it meant. He didn't have to.
But then—somewhere along the line—it stopped being just sweet.
One week, he found a photograph.
And not the diner kind, either.
It was tasteful, if not exactly safe-for-work—your body clad in soft, black lacy lingerie, all curves and skin and confidence. Dean found it when he was rummaging for a cassette tape. Sam was two feet away, completely unaware.
Dean coughed—choked, really—and shoved it into his jacket pocket like it was a contraband. His ears were pink the entire drive to Minnesota.
The next time, it was a lipstick kiss on the rearview mirror. A perfectly formed pout of crimson that made his gut twist in all the right ways. He sat there for a moment, hand resting against the glass like he could somehow hold it.
Sam noticed that one.
"Oh my god," he'd muttered "Can you two not?"
Dean just smirked and peeled out of the parking lot.
But nothing—not one thing—compared to what he found this time.
He was loading up the impala, tossing a duffle into the trunk, shotgun shells rattling in his pocket. Sam was still inside. Grabbing coffee, grumbling something to himself about early mornings and the lore of the case they were working on.
Dean slide into the driver's seat, ready to start the engine—and froze.
There they were.
Hanging from the rearview mirror like the worlds most scandalous charm.
Baby blue lace panties.
Your panties.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Nope. Still there.
Delicate, floral patterns, tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand. His name was stitched in tiny cursive into the inner waistband—Dean, in pale silver thread. His jaw clenched.
The fuck were you trying to do to him?
He practically snatched them off the mirror, glancing around like some cop was gonna pull up and arrest him for public indecency. His fingers brushed the lace. Soft. Still warm from wherever you'd hidden them. Maybe even your skin. His brain was officially out of commission.
You'd attached a note to them, of course.
"Thought you might like to keep a little peice of me with you."
Dean was gonna die.
Actually, no—Sam was gonna die. Because the second he saw these? it was over.
Dean shoved them into the glovebox like they were ticking explosives, slamming it shut just as Sam rounded the corner with two cups.
"Something wrong?" Sam asked, sliding into the passenger seat.
Dean cleared his throat. "Nope."
"Your face is red."
"It's hot."
"It's forty degrees."
Dean started the car. "Shut up."
Sam blinked. "Why does it smell like her perfume in here again?"
Dean said nothing.
Sam groaned, leaning back in his seat, already regretting this entire trip. "You two are disgusting."
Dean just smirked, hand resting on the wheel.
But later, that night, when they checked into a ratty motel, Dean opened the glovebox again—just to see them. To touch the lace. Hold them against his chest, breathe you in.
And that night, when he slipped between the sheets. He tucked the panties beneath his pillow and fell asleep to the ghost of your perfume and the sound of your voice in his head.
Yeah.
Maybe he was sentimental, after all.
