"Clothes Make the Man" [Supernatural]
I... ah... had to. I had no choice. My housemates and I have been forging our way through all of Supernatural at a rapid pace, and that naturally results in random fanfiction.
If you haven't seen Supernatural, it wholeheartedly gets the Skinner Seal of ApprovalTM.
In other news, I'll be doing NaNoWriMo for all of November. Regular releases will pick back up in December. If you're also doing Nano, please feel free to friend me! And with no further ado, 1500 words of silliness.
STORY TITLE: "Clothes Make the Man" (oneshot)
SERIES: Supernatural
DISCLAIMER: The original television series Supernatural was created by Eric Kripke. Characters have been adapted without authorization or approval, and I am making no profit from their use.
PAIRING: Castiel x Dean Winchester (mild, pre-slash)
RATING: PG (some mild language)
WARNINGS: none
SUMMARY: Somewhere in the nebulous distant future, people have noticed that certain hunters have saved them from certain doom (repeatedly). Dean does not appreciate their appreciation, since it comes with a dress code. Castiel is helpful.
“I don’t like it.”
Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. “What’s not to like?”
“I don’t know, maybe the sissy-ass bowtie? Or the douchebag jacket?”
“It’s not every day we get an award for saving the world, Dean,” he said, and straightened the tie his brother had pulled out of order. “Suck it up.”
“You suck it up. This gig ain’t my scene. Here, I’ve got an idea...” Dean shrugged off the jacket. “You pick up the award for both of us, and I’ll go find some strip joint where I don’t have to wear a monkey suit and have people staring at me.”
Sam turned on his concerned face -- the one Dean said made him look like a puppy, even if Dean was full of shit. He knew his brother had more trouble with it than anybody, and as soon as he saw him grimace, Sam knew he was going to win. “It’s really important to me that you be there, Dean. Not just to me, either. And after all you’ve done, aren’t you glad to finally get some... some respect?”
“If they really respected me, they’d let me wear my own goddamn clothes. I hate tuxedos. I always have. You know that.” His brother rolled his shoulders and frowned into the mirror. “There has got to be something else I can wear to this friggin’ black-tie formal-dress whosiwhatsit.”
“Oh, yes,” a rough voice said -- which could only belong to one person, especially with the way he’d come out of nowhere. “Many things exist.”
His brother always looked like he was going to have a heart attack when Castiel appeared three inches behind him without warning.
“Bobby said you would be here,” the angel went on. “He said you were... determining the proper garb for your event. If this style doesn’t appeal to you, you might consider a Changshan. I’m told they’re quite comfortable.”
“Geez... Cas.” Dean turned around and stepped back toward the mirror. “Good of you to stop in and all, but... warning, please. A little warning would be good.”
“I spoke to you as soon as I arrived, Dean.”
Dean grabbed the angel by the shoulders and pushed him over toward a nearby bench. “Sit. Stay. Respect the personal space.”
There was still something mindboggling about seeing his brother boss around a ranking member of the heavenly host, while the angel peered back at him with that confused, distant look in his eyes. Sam should have been used to it by now, but it never failed to throw him. And meanwhile, Dean had gone back to pulling his tie out of order and muttering into the mirror.
It had taken ten minutes to get Dean to stand still enough to tie that bowtie properly, and Sam was absolutely not going to stand for him messing it up now.
“If you really want to wear something else, I bet the store could find you a kilt,” he said.
Attention successfully diverted. “Dude,” his brother sputtered. Sam had to try very hard not to laugh at the petulant, gaping face he was making. “A plaid skirt and knee socks is not going to help this get-up! You keep your freaky Catholic school girl fetishes far away from this conversation. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” he laughed.
Castiel was still sitting in his chair, eyes fixed on Dean with the same curious look he’d been wearing since he came in. “I understand why you choose to wear disguises,” he said, then paused for yet another ponderous stare. “You needed them when lying to public officials about your identities, as you’ve said. But why would you wear a costume for a festival held in honor of your own heroic deeds?”
“It’s not a costume,” Sam replied. He sat down in the next chair over and tried to remember that he didn’t have to explain in small words. Sometimes he had trouble remembering that this was an angel in a man’s body, not a five-year-old. “This is a tuxedo. Formal wear. Humans wear... nicer clothes for nicer occasions.”
Castiel examined the lapels on his customary trenchcoat. “I will not be able to attend your ceremony without ‘nicer clothes’, then?”
“Don’t sweat it, Cas.” Dean settled for messing up his hair since messing up his tie had slipped his mind. “You’re a freakin’ angel of the Lord. Who’s gonna tell you what not to wear, huh?”
“You’re Dean Winchester,” the angel replied. He stared his blinkless stare of total devotion at Sam’s brother, as if that meant more than being born an angel ever could.
Sam wasn’t exactly arguing with that one, of course.
“Damn right, I’m Dean Winchester. See, didn’t I tell you, Sammy? Castiel says I can wear whatever I want. That’s like, a commandment from Heaven or something, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s actually--”
His brother held out his hand to cut off the angel. “Shh. Work with me here. C’mon, Sammy. It’s my party. I can wear jeans if I want to. Huh? How about it?”
Sam threw an arm around his brother’s shoulder and reached out in front of them both to fake-frame tomorrow’s headline. “World’s savior, red carpet’s worst dressed.” He shook his head as his brother clicked and sputtered and made other objecting mutters. “Man up, Dean. Nobody coming to these things actually gives a rat’s ass who you are or what you did. So we stopped demons and angels from ending the human race -- again -- and they’re all still breathing today just because of us. So what? All the press will ever care about is how well fitted your tux is, whether you’ve got on a cummerbund or a vest, and if your tie is too skinny or you’ve got on some doodad that’s too weird. If you mess with the uniform, you risk becoming an object of ridicule for the rest of your natural life. Not the Oscars, dude. There is no next year.”
“I look like a penguin!” Dean yelled in his face. “How is this the way to avoid people thinkin’ I’m an asshat?”
With a shrug, Sam replied, “The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.”
This time, it was Dean who did the confused squinty thing. Castiel was starting to rub off on him. “The fuck is that supposed to be?”
The angel sighed, and Sam noticed that he’d managed to earn the... entity’s... rapt and earnest attention -- something usually reserved for his big brother. “Ecclesiastes 1:9. Truly, a thought provoking passage. But if you feel the tuxedo is inappropriate, Dean, I will be happy to stand with you and explain to... ‘the press’ that your normal attire is much more suitable. Certainly they will understand.”
“What, you want to be my date, Cas?” his brother laughed.
Their ever more serious than with-it feathered friend answered, “It would be my honor,” with the same kind of gruff passion he used to use when he was saying it was their calling to battle the oncoming tide of the friggin’ Apocalypse.
Watching Dean choke on his own inability to speak left Sam collapsed on a nearby bench in a pile of incoherent laughter. He’d been entirely wrong about what the headline was going to read. It didn’t matter what his brother wore. If their guardian angel were standing there, gazing the way he inevitably did, every paper on the planet was going to print, “OMFG, Dean Winchester is Gay!” even if his showed up in a Superman costume, complete with spandex tights and cape.
Perhaps especially if he showed up in the spandex tights, not that there was actually much risk of that.
Anyway, you could count on the old saying that ‘no one looks at the man when two people walk down the red carpet’ being more true than ever, because it wasn’t like Dean was going to be able to ditch Castiel now. Getting left out now would make the adorable manifestation of heavenly intent sad, and Dean wouldn’t want to make Castiel sad. His brother was totally angel-whipped. He could deny it all he wanted, but it was still true.
“Is there a reason why I should not be Dean’s... ‘date’?” asked their own personal voice of heaven.
Sam just sat by the sidelines giggling like a madman. That was Dean’s mess, and whether or not he could use some help with it, his only intention was to point and mock.
Ever the picture of dignity (though not actually), his brother coughed into his hand and got himself back under control. He even managed a smirk as he turned to the angel to say, “Well, damn, Cas. I just thought you’d never ask.”
Poor Castiel looked so confused. Then, the particular shine to Dean’s smile caused a look of panicked dread to spread slowly over the angel’s face. A kind of soul-deep panic that he hadn’t realized Castiel could make, really, since it usually involved knowing exactly how traumatic something could be, and he’d seen Castiel face down archangels without bothering to break a sweat. Finally, the angel managed to get his panic molded into words.
“This won’t involve prostitutes again, will it?” he asked.
Oh, Dean...
There was no doubt, his brother had earned every headline he was going to get.
The End
Thanks as always to my beta reader, sumeria, who deserves even more blame credit for this coming into existence than usual.
If you haven't seen Supernatural, it wholeheartedly gets the Skinner Seal of ApprovalTM.
In other news, I'll be doing NaNoWriMo for all of November. Regular releases will pick back up in December. If you're also doing Nano, please feel free to friend me! And with no further ado, 1500 words of silliness.
STORY TITLE: "Clothes Make the Man" (oneshot)
SERIES: Supernatural
DISCLAIMER: The original television series Supernatural was created by Eric Kripke. Characters have been adapted without authorization or approval, and I am making no profit from their use.
PAIRING: Castiel x Dean Winchester (mild, pre-slash)
RATING: PG (some mild language)
WARNINGS: none
SUMMARY: Somewhere in the nebulous distant future, people have noticed that certain hunters have saved them from certain doom (repeatedly). Dean does not appreciate their appreciation, since it comes with a dress code. Castiel is helpful.
“I don’t like it.”
Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. “What’s not to like?”
“I don’t know, maybe the sissy-ass bowtie? Or the douchebag jacket?”
“It’s not every day we get an award for saving the world, Dean,” he said, and straightened the tie his brother had pulled out of order. “Suck it up.”
“You suck it up. This gig ain’t my scene. Here, I’ve got an idea...” Dean shrugged off the jacket. “You pick up the award for both of us, and I’ll go find some strip joint where I don’t have to wear a monkey suit and have people staring at me.”
Sam turned on his concerned face -- the one Dean said made him look like a puppy, even if Dean was full of shit. He knew his brother had more trouble with it than anybody, and as soon as he saw him grimace, Sam knew he was going to win. “It’s really important to me that you be there, Dean. Not just to me, either. And after all you’ve done, aren’t you glad to finally get some... some respect?”
“If they really respected me, they’d let me wear my own goddamn clothes. I hate tuxedos. I always have. You know that.” His brother rolled his shoulders and frowned into the mirror. “There has got to be something else I can wear to this friggin’ black-tie formal-dress whosiwhatsit.”
“Oh, yes,” a rough voice said -- which could only belong to one person, especially with the way he’d come out of nowhere. “Many things exist.”
His brother always looked like he was going to have a heart attack when Castiel appeared three inches behind him without warning.
“Bobby said you would be here,” the angel went on. “He said you were... determining the proper garb for your event. If this style doesn’t appeal to you, you might consider a Changshan. I’m told they’re quite comfortable.”
“Geez... Cas.” Dean turned around and stepped back toward the mirror. “Good of you to stop in and all, but... warning, please. A little warning would be good.”
“I spoke to you as soon as I arrived, Dean.”
Dean grabbed the angel by the shoulders and pushed him over toward a nearby bench. “Sit. Stay. Respect the personal space.”
There was still something mindboggling about seeing his brother boss around a ranking member of the heavenly host, while the angel peered back at him with that confused, distant look in his eyes. Sam should have been used to it by now, but it never failed to throw him. And meanwhile, Dean had gone back to pulling his tie out of order and muttering into the mirror.
It had taken ten minutes to get Dean to stand still enough to tie that bowtie properly, and Sam was absolutely not going to stand for him messing it up now.
“If you really want to wear something else, I bet the store could find you a kilt,” he said.
Attention successfully diverted. “Dude,” his brother sputtered. Sam had to try very hard not to laugh at the petulant, gaping face he was making. “A plaid skirt and knee socks is not going to help this get-up! You keep your freaky Catholic school girl fetishes far away from this conversation. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” he laughed.
Castiel was still sitting in his chair, eyes fixed on Dean with the same curious look he’d been wearing since he came in. “I understand why you choose to wear disguises,” he said, then paused for yet another ponderous stare. “You needed them when lying to public officials about your identities, as you’ve said. But why would you wear a costume for a festival held in honor of your own heroic deeds?”
“It’s not a costume,” Sam replied. He sat down in the next chair over and tried to remember that he didn’t have to explain in small words. Sometimes he had trouble remembering that this was an angel in a man’s body, not a five-year-old. “This is a tuxedo. Formal wear. Humans wear... nicer clothes for nicer occasions.”
Castiel examined the lapels on his customary trenchcoat. “I will not be able to attend your ceremony without ‘nicer clothes’, then?”
“Don’t sweat it, Cas.” Dean settled for messing up his hair since messing up his tie had slipped his mind. “You’re a freakin’ angel of the Lord. Who’s gonna tell you what not to wear, huh?”
“You’re Dean Winchester,” the angel replied. He stared his blinkless stare of total devotion at Sam’s brother, as if that meant more than being born an angel ever could.
Sam wasn’t exactly arguing with that one, of course.
“Damn right, I’m Dean Winchester. See, didn’t I tell you, Sammy? Castiel says I can wear whatever I want. That’s like, a commandment from Heaven or something, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s actually--”
His brother held out his hand to cut off the angel. “Shh. Work with me here. C’mon, Sammy. It’s my party. I can wear jeans if I want to. Huh? How about it?”
Sam threw an arm around his brother’s shoulder and reached out in front of them both to fake-frame tomorrow’s headline. “World’s savior, red carpet’s worst dressed.” He shook his head as his brother clicked and sputtered and made other objecting mutters. “Man up, Dean. Nobody coming to these things actually gives a rat’s ass who you are or what you did. So we stopped demons and angels from ending the human race -- again -- and they’re all still breathing today just because of us. So what? All the press will ever care about is how well fitted your tux is, whether you’ve got on a cummerbund or a vest, and if your tie is too skinny or you’ve got on some doodad that’s too weird. If you mess with the uniform, you risk becoming an object of ridicule for the rest of your natural life. Not the Oscars, dude. There is no next year.”
“I look like a penguin!” Dean yelled in his face. “How is this the way to avoid people thinkin’ I’m an asshat?”
With a shrug, Sam replied, “The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.”
This time, it was Dean who did the confused squinty thing. Castiel was starting to rub off on him. “The fuck is that supposed to be?”
The angel sighed, and Sam noticed that he’d managed to earn the... entity’s... rapt and earnest attention -- something usually reserved for his big brother. “Ecclesiastes 1:9. Truly, a thought provoking passage. But if you feel the tuxedo is inappropriate, Dean, I will be happy to stand with you and explain to... ‘the press’ that your normal attire is much more suitable. Certainly they will understand.”
“What, you want to be my date, Cas?” his brother laughed.
Their ever more serious than with-it feathered friend answered, “It would be my honor,” with the same kind of gruff passion he used to use when he was saying it was their calling to battle the oncoming tide of the friggin’ Apocalypse.
Watching Dean choke on his own inability to speak left Sam collapsed on a nearby bench in a pile of incoherent laughter. He’d been entirely wrong about what the headline was going to read. It didn’t matter what his brother wore. If their guardian angel were standing there, gazing the way he inevitably did, every paper on the planet was going to print, “OMFG, Dean Winchester is Gay!” even if his showed up in a Superman costume, complete with spandex tights and cape.
Perhaps especially if he showed up in the spandex tights, not that there was actually much risk of that.
Anyway, you could count on the old saying that ‘no one looks at the man when two people walk down the red carpet’ being more true than ever, because it wasn’t like Dean was going to be able to ditch Castiel now. Getting left out now would make the adorable manifestation of heavenly intent sad, and Dean wouldn’t want to make Castiel sad. His brother was totally angel-whipped. He could deny it all he wanted, but it was still true.
“Is there a reason why I should not be Dean’s... ‘date’?” asked their own personal voice of heaven.
Sam just sat by the sidelines giggling like a madman. That was Dean’s mess, and whether or not he could use some help with it, his only intention was to point and mock.
Ever the picture of dignity (though not actually), his brother coughed into his hand and got himself back under control. He even managed a smirk as he turned to the angel to say, “Well, damn, Cas. I just thought you’d never ask.”
Poor Castiel looked so confused. Then, the particular shine to Dean’s smile caused a look of panicked dread to spread slowly over the angel’s face. A kind of soul-deep panic that he hadn’t realized Castiel could make, really, since it usually involved knowing exactly how traumatic something could be, and he’d seen Castiel face down archangels without bothering to break a sweat. Finally, the angel managed to get his panic molded into words.
“This won’t involve prostitutes again, will it?” he asked.
Oh, Dean...
There was no doubt, his brother had earned every headline he was going to get.
The End
Thanks as always to my beta reader, sumeria, who deserves even more blame credit for this coming into existence than usual.