Dean had no idea where Sam found them. Black boxer-briefs with a white waistband with two words written on them in large black lettering. Front and back.
And Sam made a special point that morning of wearing the jeans that hung nice and low on his hips, choosing a shorter t-shirt that rode up when he stretched, wiping the sweat from his forehead, or bent over to grab another 2x4 from the pile.
Sam stretched to hand the board up to Jesse, the hunter whose barn they were helping to build. His t-shirt pulled up, baring that soft, brown skin of his stomach, exposing the top of his underwear with those words emblazoned on the white waistband.
Dean made a sound of pain.
"You doin’ ok?" Sam’s grin was positively Machiavellian. “‘Cause, we got at least more three hours here. Maybe four."
"You’re in so much trouble." Dean’s expression promised a long, long night.
"Good." Sam bit his lower lip, watching Dean’s eyes light up. Then sighed in an exaggeration fashion, and pulled off his t-shirt. “Too damn hot.”
A sound of tools clattering to the ground.
Sam just laughed, and bent over to pick up another board for Jesse.
"So much fucking trouble," Dean muttered.