((This is just a drabbly little thing that I'd like to get off my hands. and by hands, I mean out of my gmail. Yes; sometimes I get drunk, write a fic, and send it to myself. Don't worry, I cleaned it up, so you won't have to read my atrocious drunk grammar and spelling. Naturally, I don't own Supernatural. So there's the disclaimer. Am I missing anything? I haven't posted here in months, and I just finished deleting all but two of my fics, so.))

((Enjoy.))

He's sticking out of Garth's pocket, a loose-fitting leather
jacket... head poking out, eyes seeing and eyes unfeeling for this

seeing.

He doesn't get out much, by no choice really of his own. But he
doesn't mind. Garth's pockets are warm, his car smells familiar and
pleasant. As long as he isn't placed with all those godforsaken socks
at the bottom of duffle bags and dressers populated by mothballs. He
cringes, and Garth manages to look down in time to catch it.

"Stop making that face," he admonishes gently.

Mr. Fizzles scrunches his face even more, because Garth is a softy and
won't do anything about it. His eyes, though daggers right now, can't
hide the overall fondness.

Mr. Fizzles doesn't ask many questions. Not superfluous ones at any
rate. Not of Garth. However, right now, if he had eyebrows, they would
be raised.

Garth has stopped moving, little reedy limbs no longer a-jive. Not
particularly peculiar, no. Garth is known to pause. What Fizzles
doesn't understand is the why. Garth is standing in front of a display
of socks. There are a lot of them. Most in packages-Mr. Fizzles pulls
another face, this one in sympathy. It must be terribly hard to
breath, wrapped tight in unforgiving plastic. Garth reaches out a
hand, finger poking at packages.

Black socks that cut off short at the ankle. White tube socks. A
package of socks in a variety of neon colors gets a hard jab. Mr.
Fizzles snickers at the Garth-finger-shaped indent in the suffocating
plastic.

Garth looks down once more at his companion. "C'mere," he mutters,
hardly audible. He pulls Fizzles from the soothing warmth of his pocket,
into the chill of an air-conditioned superstore. He shivers,
understandably.

He then tilts his head, his view more up close and personal with these
socks. "These are..." He thinks of the best way to put it, not wanting
to offend Garth. So the guy ended up in women's apparel while looking
for new socks. Simple mistake. Could happen to anyone right?

"Nice?" Garth supplies, his grin a toothy one.

Fizzles huffs a sigh. Really, Garth could be a little slow sometimes.

He frowns, hand dropping... giving Mr. Fizzles a boring view of the
shiny-yet-scuffed floor. Head shaking, he figures maybe Garth has
realized his mistake, feet now shuffling in a new direction.

"How about this?"

Fizzles was suddenly upright once more, head spinning from it. "Uh,
uh..." He sputtered before his vision was assaulted with a single pair
of socks. Bright yellow, like Garth's least used crayon as a child-he
never drew a sun in the sky. They were otherwise nondescript, a little
higher cut than ankle socks.

"You don't even like yellow." He grumbles.

"Yeah, well, you're my friend. If you want yellow... I'm cool with that."

Mr. Fizzles wishes he had eyebrows. Or a lone eyebrow, at the very
least, to raise in disbelief. Garth is smiling at him, it seems
suspicious. If only because... who on Earth is this enthusiastic about
socks?

Fizzles groans in exasperation. "Garth, you could wear socks that
haven't been washed in months, you could wear no socks at all. Mr.
Fizzles doesn't worry about such things."

Normally, he reserves the third-person speak for children, but Garth
is being... freaking weird. He needs sense cut into him.

Garth giggles, free hand flying up to clap over his mouth. "You...
you think I meant to...? Fizzles, these are lady socks."

The blank stare on Mr. Fizzles' part only fuels the giggles. People,
he notices, are staring. Probably have been staring for a majority of
the time.

Garth leans in, speaking in hushed tones, "Buddy?"

"Yes, Garth..." It's not a question, because he's honestly a little
afraid of what the hell might be going on in that noggin of Garth's.

"I was under the impression you might be interested in a Mrs. Fizzles."

There is a heavy silence, all of 17 seconds before a
high-pitched explosion of expletives erupts from the lady's section,
and Garth is running those twiggy legs far, far away from store
security.