It's time for Writing Prompt Wednesday! This week's theme is "Drag Queens/Drag Kings."

What is Writing Prompt Wednesday?

Writing Prompt Wednesday is a feature I run on my Tumblr. Followers, readers and friends suggest themes for AUs, and I come up with a list of prompts based on the suggested them. Then, based on those prompts, anyone who wants to join in writes up a short story (or a long story, I guess) and posts it to Tumblr (or AO3, or , or wherever) and tags it Writing Prompt Wednesday!

You can read more about Writing Prompt Wednesday, and read this week's entries, on my Tumblr – unforth-ninawaters dot tumblr dot com.

This week, I chose this prompt:

I am so damn tired of explaining to people that yes, I have a very manly/womanly job, that yes, I enjoy it, that yes, everyone there knows what I do, and that yes, it's all totally cool - like, why is this impossible for everyone to believe? AU

"So, Ms. Plant, we've got to ask – are you really a firefighter?" Ms. Rosen's eyes lit up as she asked the question that Dean had been dreading since the interview began. It never ceased to confuse him that the things that everyone took for granted when he was a nobody working Kansas City shows had become gossip fodder at best and a shocking scandal at worse now that his star was rising.

This is a performance as surely as if I were on a stage at a club. Smile, Dean.

"What, was there something about these curves that made you doubt?" he said in the light, high-pitched voice he used when he was in drag, running his hands suggestively over the curves highlighted by his business suits, his sculpted breasts, cinched waist and padded hips. A few members of the live studio audience catcalled appreciatively.

"The guys at the station must give you a real hard time, right? Or is your alter-ego a secret? Wait, which of you is Clark Kent and which of you is Super…man?" She beamed at her joke as if her suggestive delay was the height of wit.

"Actually, they think it's awesome," he said, masking his frustration with a genuine smile and a wink. "I couldn't ask for a more supportive group of friends and colleagues." The skeptical look she gave him grated. It was better than how she'd reacted when he'd said the same in private; she'd actually snorted as if it was inconceivable that Dean could be a masculine firefighter and a gorgeous queen without having conflict between the two. The Becky Rosen's of the world, convinced of their own moral superiority, couldn't believe that the quaint folks of Kansas City could accept Dean exactly as he was, just as Dean accepted himself, just as these supposedly progressive people completely failed to accept him while maintaining a sanctimonious air of being oh so understanding.

An bright screen mounted on the wall behind where Dean sat lit up and the audience cheered much louder and much more appreciatively. Dean didn't need to look to guess what was up there. No one who knew Dean now would have believed what a shy, repressed teenager he was, nor how sternly his father had loomed over his life. John Winchester had been determined to see Dean follow in his footsteps and become a firefighter. Whatever John had envisioned for his son, Dean was sure that whatever image was now projected behind him was what John had in mind. The thought brought a fierce smile to Dean's face and he winked knowingly to the cameras.

"Oh, well, wow, that is quite a…wooo!" Ms. Rosen waved a hand before her face. The flush on her cheeks seemed to support the over-dramatic gesture. "Do you always wear panties, Ms. Plant?"

"You know you can call me Roberta," he smiled. That narrowed down the list of possible photographs – it had to be America's Sexiest Firefighters 2013 Calendar. He'd won a national contest to be in included among the dozen images. The shoot had been a blast. Dean posed with a hose reel, naked save for sweat, soot, and a pair of lacy emerald panties that couldn't hide the bulge of his package. He was surprised the image was suitable for airing on national television; he repressed a laugh to think of a censorship blur over his crotch. "And no, Ms. Rosen, I don't – sometimes I wear thongs." The audience whooped and Ms. Rosen blushed even more brightly. Rosen was one hell of an actress; she must have seen the image a dozen times as they'd prepared for this segment, just as they'd previously reviewed the questions she would ask and his answers.

"Please, Roberta, call me Becky," beamed the hostess. "Well, I wish that was something we could show on television! But we already pushed the censors with your calendar image – and by the way, ladies, Ms. Plant, also known as Dean Winchester—" Dean winced. Must she? Fuck, why did he keep agreeing to do gigs like this? It's not like he tried to keep his two lives separate or any bull like that – it was one life, fully integrated, and he was damn happy about how things were going – but when he was in drag he wasn't Dean, that was the whole fucking point. "—will be featured in the 2016 edition of America's Sexiest Firefighters. That's right, ladies – and gents – you can have Mr. Winchester waiting at home just for you. Or, if you prefer..." She trailed off and Dean could tell by the change in the ambient light around him that the image on the screen had switched. There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the audience erupted enthusiastically. "…she is also featured in Drag the Year 2016."

Dean glanced back. The image on display had been staged as a deliberate parody of the first, his even lacier, even more negligible panties lying flat thanks to his perfect tuck, a matching bra cupping his sculpted bust, a styled wig dropping impossibly red curls around his face, four inch heels emphasizing his shapely legs and the curve of his lower back. He'd been posed turning in a way that accentuated his narrow waist, showing off the profile of his bust, his shapely ass, his fantastic thighs, while obfuscating his unfemininely wide shoulders and hiding the unsightly scars on his upper back. He smiled and turned back to the audience, assuming an air of innocence belied by a bawdy wink and a suggestive shrug of one shoulder.

"Alright – so, we've got the low down on Ms. Plant and Mr. Winchester…who wants to hear a song?"

Of course the audience went wild and Dean easily slipped into his usual stage persona. Strutting about the circular stage, his narrow pencil skirt constraining his movements, Dean clutched the mike and sang his heart out – not lip syncing, no, Dean preferred live performance, preferred using his own voice. This was who he was. This was his natural element. The nerves that had accompanied Ms. Rosen's interrogation fell away. Relief flooded in, that he'd gotten through it, that he'd not lost his temper, that, true to her word, she hadn't sprung any unexpected questions on him. The last thing he wanted to talk about was bigotry or his father or the fire or any of the shit he'd been through. He wanted to be known as a performer, he wanted to be treated professionally, to be famous for what he could do, rather than because of the crap in his past that had made national news in the worst possible way. Being a victim was a shit thing to be known for, and Dean's emotional and physical injuries didn't define. Only Dean could define who he was, and that's exactly what he'd spent the past 15 years doing. Now, finally, he was making national news as he deserved.

By the time Dean finished the first song he felt awesome, high on the enthusiasm of the crowd and the glare of the lights. Becky Rosen dramatically said a tearful good bye to him; he joined in enthusiastically with a cute hug that they managed despite him having a foot on her. The audience burst out a collective "awwww" as he and Rosen mimicked kissing each other on each cheek and he retreated off stage. An aide was waiting for him, and Dean instantly switched to making magic happen, pulling a wig over the one he was already wearing and securing with rapid, confident motions, no mirror needed. Confidently flicking the buttons of his plaid suit open, Dean peeled out of his outer layer to reveal a skimpier outfit beneath. On set, Dean could hear Rosen milking the crowd, teasing them with how disappointing it was that Roberta Plant could only stay long enough to do one song, until she had them eating out of her hand and collectively begging for an encore. She'd promised him 3 minutes to transform, but it was closer to two when the music cued his return. He repressed a curse as he quickly adjusted his tuck, kicked off his shoes, stepped into a pair of even higher heels and skipped back on to the stage, waving his arms and triggering an impressive roar from the small audience that resounded in the closed studio. Anyone filming next door would fricken hate them.

Dean knew his look was perfection. His new wig was straight out of Jem and the Holograms, big and teased and bubblegum pink; his stiletto heels were the same color and made a snapping, ringing sound with every step he took. For the interview, he'd worn a semblance of professional business suit incongruously made in red tartan but beneath it he'd hidden a spangled halter top in deep purple, bedecked with pink trim and studded with Swarovski crystals that twinkled like stars in the stage lights. A skirt in matching purple fit him like a glove and clung on his padded hips, riding low enough to show his bare chest from sternum to navel and revealing the narrow band of the promised lacy thong, also pink. He looked like a million dollars, he felt like a million dollars, and he beamed with unfeigned delight as he rallied the audience and belted out his second song.

'Cause I'm just a girl, a little 'ol me

Well don't let me out of your sight.

Oh, I'm just a girl – all pretty and petite –

So don't let me have any rights.

Ohhh, I've had it up to here!

The audience was singing along, standing up and clapping to the beat, and their energy fed his, driving Dean even higher, adrenaline surging through his veins like liquid courage. By the last line the crowd were dancing in the narrow aisles and on the edges of the stage, Rosen waving them forward encouragingly, dancing with a cameraman. He was broadcasting live Rosen's dedicated following who tuned in every day, men and women of all walks of life all over the country. This was his chance to define himself and represent for other drag queens and for his friends all along the LGBTQA spectrum. It was amazing that, in his 30s, he'd lived to see the nation reach the point when someone like him could be out and open on daytime talk. As he let the last note fade, the room thrummed and roared with the echo and renewed cheers, the lights went out, and he knew he'd fucking rocked it.

The high carried him through his exit from the stage, his retreat to his locker room, and his transformation from Roberta Plant to Dean Winchester. Off came the high heels, the skimpy outfit, the pads on his chest and waist and hips and thighs; off came the thick layers of makeup, the flamboyant wig. He treated all carefully, to be sure he didn't damage them as he packed them into boxes and suitcases. The show had paid to have everything shipped from Kansas City to the studio in New York and would ship it all back. He'd brought some things in his luggage as well; through diligent phone calls and milking every contact he had, he'd managed to book four shows at local clubs, one each of his four evenings. He had a week off from work, and while the temptation to sight see the City was strong – it was his first time there – the temptation to perform for the New York City crowds was even greater. What amazed him most was that all were sold out. He had another interview on Monday, too, with a webshow brazenly called Queer News. Tuesday morning he went home, but now it was Friday afternoon and, aside from his shows, his weekend was free and clear. Tugging on a pair of jeans, using a hand to muss his hair until his roots stopped aching from being plastered to his head, Dean caught a reflection of his back in the mirror and grimaced. As much as he loved the way he looked, as much as he'd come to terms with things that had happened to him in the past, he couldn't see the ragged scars across the his shoulders and upper back without it stirring memories. Determined to not let his past damage how excited he was about his present, Dean tugged a KCFD t-shirt on, rolling and shrugging his shoulders to settle into the new outfit.

My other skin.

"Hello, Ms. Plant," said a polite, deep voice, a hint of a question in the tone. Dean turned to see the speaker, a tall, slim, broad-shouldered man, his tousled brown hair a tempting mess, a sparkle in his blue eyes.

"Please – when I'm in civvies, it's just Dean," Dean replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. The man smiled, and Dean smiled back. Judging by his clothes, he worked on set, he had on dark slacks, a loosely tucked in button up shirt, and a badge pinned to his breast pocket.

"Alright, Dean," he said. "Do you need any help packing your belongings?"

"Nope, I'm all set."

"Also, I was wondering if you really wear panties all the time," deadpanned the man. Dean scowled, angry words coming to his lips, but the man continued before Dean could answer. "How do you deal with the chafing problems?"

"...excuse me?" The question refused to process as Dean stammered out his gruff reply.

"I've been surprised by how coarse the lace is," the man explained. "It irritates my skin, especially if I wear jeans over them. I was hoping you'd have some advice on how to solve the problem."

A vision of the attractive man wearing nothing but a dainty pair of underwear struck Dean. After so long in the business, he was pretty damn good at imagining how a sexy guy would looked wearing very little – too much time in tiny changing rooms surrounded by frantic queens trying to get into costume quickly. Baggy clothes must hide a flat chest, a slim ass, narrow hips with jutting bones, and hot damn would he look good in lace, the smooth skin peaking through every gap in the fabric, a thick cock barely contained, maybe hard and peaking out the top of the band...

"Sorry, that was an inappropriate question," the man turned towards Dean's wig boxes and began to stack them, and though his tone was yet neutral, Dean now caught the hint of embarrassment beneath.

"Well, you gotta shave, for starters," Dean said quickly, cheeks flushed. "Every day. It's a pain if you don't do it often but if you keep on top of it, it won't take too long. Moisturize like crazy – after every time you shave, and any other time you feel dry. Don't skimp on your products: use good shaving cream, good skin cream, replace your razor blades often, all that jazz. If you're not sure what to get, you can use Google, ask a queen, or see if there are any men or women in your social circle that'd know. I bet Rosen has some suggestions, for starters – I assume she's your boss?" The man nodded. "Or, ya know, you can text me. Here's my number." Whipping out a business card and passing it over, Dean thanked the instinct that had told him stash his card in every pocket of every damn garment he brought with him. The man set a box down in exactly the same place he'd just picked it up from and took the card as if mystified by its function. "I've got a bit of experience at this point, I've been doing this for more than 15 years."

"I know," said the man. Dean blinked. An instant later the man started, flushed pale pink and looked anywhere but at Dean. "I mean...wow, damn, you probably think I'm a creep, asking about your underwear and everything. I'm a fan. My brother is a queen, and I was in the scene for a bit when I was younger. I moved onto other areas of show business, now I just..."

"Like wearing panties?" Man, those tanned cheeks looked gorgeous blushed red, blue eyes nearly glowing with embarrassment.

"Um, well..."

"Hey, man, it's all cool," Dean grinned. A single step closed the space between them and, courage flowing from his euphoric post-performance rush, Dean took the man's hand and used their combined grip to tug his loose jeans down and lay the man's hand on the panties Dean had changed into after the segment earlier. Thongs were sexy as hell but not comfortable enough for every day wear. "Who am I to judge?"

The man stared at the triangle of Dean's golden flesh revealed by the adjustment, fingers tentatively brushing over the delicate black lace and sending a shiver down Dean's spine. Jerking his head up, the man met Dean's eyes, pupils wide and dark, desire writ large in every nostril-flaring breath.

"Cas," the man said. Dean blinked in confusion. "That's my name. Cas."

"Nice to—"

A hand came to Dean's shoulders and pulled him forward against Cas' body. Their lips met with a wet smack, Cas' working against him, his panting breaths whispering into Dean's mouth with a flavor of cinnamon and clove. Surprise paralyzed Dean only for an instant before he leaned into the kiss, lifting a hand to cup Cas' cheek even as Cas' raised hand clasped the back of Dean's neck, his other rubbing hard over the lacy panty band, imprinting Dean's skin with the flowered pattern. Cas ended the kiss as abruptly as he'd begun it, pulling away, leaving them both breathless. Nodding to himself, Cas smiled and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled than it had begun. "Well. I have to get back to work. We'll make sure your belongings get back to Kansas City safely, Ms...Dean. And I'll definitely text you tonight."

"Good," Dean grinned. His whole body was tingling pleasantly, heat settled into his belly. He adored the way the sensitive skin of his cock tickled and pricked as he grew hard against lace. It was a long time since he'd last had the experience, a long time since anyone had aroused Dean enough for him to harden from a single kiss. Cas turned to leave. "Oh, and Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"Buy better panties." Cas blinked at him, tilting his head uncertainly to one side. "That's why the lace is coarse. If you get nicer stuff the panties won't irritate your skin nearly as bad. And anyway..." Dean leaned forward and breathed hot directly into Cas' ear. "You're worth the expense."

Frantic fingers tangled in Dean's hair again, smearing Dean's lips across Cas' cheek before bringing their mouths together once more. Cas kissed him desperately, urgently, as if he was starving for it. It was easily the hottest fucking thing to happen to Dean in recent memory. Dean wrapped a hand around the small of Cas' back; Cas reached around, tugged Dean's hand down, made sure Dean's fingers found the promised coarse lace underwear.

Fuck "recent memory," this was the hottest thing to happen to Dean ever.

(917) 555-4221 (6:20 pm): Hello Dean, this is Cas.

Dean (6:27 pm): Hey Cas sorry didn't hear my phone. It's really fricken loud in here.

Cas (6:28 pm): Are you busy this evening?

Dean (6:30 pm): Show at 9 – getting ready, meeting my hosts and co-stars, you know the drill.

Cas (6:31 pm): I don't, no, but I believe you. I'd like to see you tonight, Dean.

Dean (6:35 pm): Sure yeah they gave me tickets to give to my friends but I don't know anyone local so you can have them. If you wanted to bring anyone else that'd be cool I think there are 4 tix. We're at Lucky Chengs on Delancy Street.

Cas (6:36 pm): That's very generous of you, thank you, and I would love to come and watch you perform again, but I meant I'd like to see you, Dean. Privately. If you'd like.

Dean (6:37 pm): Oh.

Dean (6:41 pm): That'd be awesome.

Dean (6:44 pm): I'll be done around midnight if that works.

Dean (6:49 pm): But I get that it's Friday night and you've been working all week if that's too late it's cool too. No pressure.

Dean (6:53 pm): Fuck Cas I didn't mean to make you think I wasn't interested. I am.

Dean (6:58 pm): Interested, I mean. I am interested in seeing you again. Privately.

Cas (6:59 pm): I'm sorry, Dean, I should have warned you I was getting on the subway. There's no signal underground. Midnight is fine. I don't have to work tomorrow. Perhaps we could get drinks after the show?

Dean (7:01 pm): Thank fucking God.

Dean (7:02 pm): I mean that sounds awesome.

Dean (7:03 pm): I mean it'd be cool to spend more time with you Cas.

Dean (7:05 pm): I really want to punch the fucking asshole who decided to make it so that text messages can't be deleted after sending them.

Cas (7:07 pm): I don't understand, what text messages would you like to delete, Dean?

Dean (7:08 pm): Never mind Cas. I'll see you tonight.

Cas (7:10 pm): I'm looking forward to it.

End note:

I hate having to divide this into chapters but I have a busy day, don't have time to edit the whole thing this morning, and I don't want to wait any longer to post. I'm going to try to get the whole story up by the end of the day (the first draft is completely written; it's just under 15,000 words) but it may not be done til tomorrow. Thanks for your patience, guys!

I expect this'll be three chapters, just based on how I expect my timing to break down for getting it posted.

Have ideas for Writing Prompt Wednesday? Want to get involved? Just want to get to be friends? You should consider following me on Tumblr - my username is unforth-ninawaters.

Teaser: Next week's theme is *wing kink*. Yeah, I'm hella excited. ;)