I originally wrote this as a collab with my buddy Sadie, who was going to do artwork for it. I don't know if she finished that or not, but as soon as she does, I'll find a way to post it here!

In the meantime, enjoy Alterations.

It was rare that Dean Smith used Google.

All of the company's computers had Bing set as their home page, and a) Dean didn't know how to change it and b) didn't have much use for a search engine anyway, seeing as how he never really went online, save for and to check his stock. He didn't spend too much time utilizing his office's high-speed fiber-optic mega-bandwidth Ethernet connection—that was the nerds of IT's job, not his.

But on the off chance that Dean Smith did use Google, it changed his life.

The corporate gala was that friggin' night and, much to his chagrin, that morning had led Dean to discover two things: one, that he couldn't exactly go with a date if Lisa had broken up with him a week ago, and two, that he no longer fit in his only gala-appropriate suit (because he'd been working out a lot since he'd last worn it and had gained significant muscle growth, Dean assured himself. Not because his penchant for pie and burgers and beer and a desk job had all bound together. No.). It hung at weird angles and was too damn tight across his chest and loose around the wrists.

And of course the gala had to be before his payday—not like he was in dire straits, money-wise, of course, but he couldn't exactly afford another custom-fit Armani Exchange silk blend suit before eight PM that night.

So he turned to Google, knowing his Theatrical Design major neighbor girl would never be able to make the right adjustments to the suit and make it not look like something that had just been thrown off the runway at an Alexander McQueen show.

…not that Dean knew anything about high runway fashion, of course.

Google yielded a few different tailors and alteration services in his area, and Dean picked one of the higher-rated ones at random, jotting down the name and address—Novak Alterations, 3226 Ashbury St.—on a post-it note and sticking it on the side of his computer screen before sending a quick email to Jason that he was leaving the office for his lunch break.

The suit hung ominously on the coat-hanger on the back of Dean's office door and glowered.

Noon rolled around, and Dean snagged a sandwich from the kitchen and his suit from his office before taking an uncomfortable elevator ride down eight floors with a secretary he'd banged at a New Year's Eve party once and never talked to again. Once the five minutes of awkwardly not making eye contact had passed and the doors slid open with a soft metallic ding, Dean was out like a shot, attempting to fold the suit as he went and eventually giving up and dumping it unceremoniously in the back seat of his car. He slid into the front, unable to contain his grin as the '67 Chevy Impala 327 V-8 4-barrel roared to life under him. Yeah, okay, his pristinely kept muscle car with matching set of mullet-rock cassette tapes didn't exactly flow with his businessman image, but Dean didn't really care about fitting stereotypes.

He'd been planning to sing along noisily to the classic rock station as he drove, but the second he pulled out of the company parking structure, his Bluetooth earpiece began to beep, alerting him that he was getting a phone call. Dean sighed and accepted it, slouching in his seat and preparing himself for a long drive.

It took him round-about fifteen minutes to get to the shop and two more to find a parking space, eventually seeing one right in front of the place after having driven by it eight times. Yep, Novak Alterations, that was the one. Dean squinted up at it as he fumbled with his phone in one hand, suit in the other, trying to balance it all and lock his car simultaneously. He managed it eventually, hobbling up the steps to the shop and pushing the door open with a soft chime, barely looking at his surroundings at all.

"It's not my damn problem!" he was saying into his earpiece. "Those spreadsheets were supposed to be on his desk last week, and it's not my fault that the R&D guys procrastinated." He glanced up, briefly making eye contact with the kid at the counter and uttering a clipped, "Hi," before turning his attention back to the phone as Jason mumbled excuses down his ear.

He did a double take.

He lost focus on the call as he zeroed in on the counter boy, who was staring right back. Staring with these huge blue eyes under a mop of spiky, mussed, uncontrolled black hair and porcelain skin and a dusting of stubble surrounding chapped lips and all this over slim shoulders and a barely exposed collarbone and—

Dean cleared his throat, blinked, tried to submerge the flush rising in his cheeks, and tuned back in to Jason. "Listen, I don't care how it gets done," he interrupted. "Get HR to send out an email or something. Just quit bothering me about it when it has nothing to do with me." A pause, as Jason glumly agreed and Dean felt blue eyes burning into him. "Yeah, okay. I'll see you tonight, man. Bye." Dean hung up and made a faintly apologetic face as he finally met the kid's eyes again. "Sorry," he said lamely, taking a few steps forward.

"No problem," the kid said in a voice so rough it sounded like he was either a heavy smoker or a porn star. One thing was for sure—he was older than he first appeared; maybe somewhere in his mid-20s. "What can we help you with today, Mr.—?"

"Smith," Dean supplied, approaching the counter. "I need this suit altered." He extended it, and musical, spidery fingers reached out to oh-so-gently take the suit away from him like it was a precious thing.

The kid hummed contemplatively as he smoothed it out over the counter, looking at the seams on the shoulders and the label. "What is the matter with it?"

"It—it doesn't fit," Dean said awkwardly, shifting.

The kid's eyes snapped up, and his gaze dragged all the way down and all the way up Dean's body, making Dean's breath catch the tiniest bit. "I see," he said softly, a hint of a smile in his voice and in his eyes but not on his lips. "Well, luckily for you, Mr. Smith, it appears that the Armani Exchange's seam allowance was extended for this line of suits, and I will be able to let it out for you. When do you need it by?"

Dean reeled his mind in and hastily said, "7:30 tonight."

The kid worried at his lip with his teeth, raising a considering eyebrow. "I could probably do that. I'll have to take your measurements, though. It won't take long, if you needed to get back to the office soon," he said, voice soft and rough all at once and with a strange lilt to it, like he was either foreign or constantly singing something in his head and couldn't distinguish between the words he was speaking and the words his mind was singing.

"Lunch break," Dean said, shrugging. "I got time."

"Splendid," the tailor boy said, pulling a pen and paper almost out of nowhere and opening a small drawer in the desk to retrieve a tape measure. "There's a back room," he added hastily, pointing with the pen. "I'll be right there."

"Okay," Dean said, bemused and intrigued. He went into the room, which was not particularly large and had what appeared to be velvet wallpaper. The air was dusty, just as it was in the front room of the shop, but in such a way that it felt lived in, not old.

"If you can take off any bulky items of clothing, that'd make this much easier," came a soft voice from behind him, and Dean whirled around to see the kid smiling that not-smile at him; eyes practically shining with benevolence but mouth completely deadpan.

"Got it," he said eventually, unbuttoning the few outer layers he was wearing and gingerly setting them down on a small stool in the corner of the room. "Um—"

"And unbutton your shirt collar, if you would," the kid requested in a tone that was almost shy. One would think that working in an alteration shop, the guy would get used to having to feel people up and write down their numbers, but no—a dainty little flush was colouring his pale cheeks, making it look like he'd just been out in the cold for a few minutes. It was pretty distracting, actually, in an odd sort of way, and it took a little quirk up of one of the kid's eyebrows for Dean to remember the request and comply.

"What's your name, by the way?" he asked suddenly, surprising even himself. "I—I want to know what name to include when I give y'all five stars on Yelp or whatever the kids use these days." It was a lame excuse, but for some reason, he just couldn't stop his tongue from saying dumb things around this kid.

The kid's head tilted a little to the side, as though he was seriously considering the question, and after a few seconds of amused silence, he answered, "Yelp is for restaurants. My name is Castiel."

Castiel.

The 20-something tailor with runway model hair and a shirt that was cut so slim around his narrow waist it was almost indecent who now had a name: Castiel.

"I'm Dean," Dean said unnecessarily.

"Pleasure to meet you, Dean," Castiel said, one corner of his mouth just barely twitching in what could be considered a very poor attempt to disguise a smile. "And if you have anything in your pockets, now would be a good time to take it out. And—" he pointed a slim finger at the earpiece—"that, too, I'm afraid."

"Oh—yeah, of course," Dean said, scrambling to shake out his phone and pull the earpiece off. "Anything else?"

"No, that should do it," Castiel replied pensively, pulling the measuring tape from where it was draped around his neck. "I'll also have to ask you not to move unless I instruct you to. It'll speed things up."

Dean swallowed, only now realizing just how dry his mouth was. "Okay," he repeated, unable to do anything but watch as Castiel gave him another calculating look and then reached up, having to stand on his tiptoes a little bit so he and Dean were eye to eye, bringing the tape measure around Dean's head and joining the ends just in front of the base of his neck.

Castiel's fingers were cool, and it was odd, the way the chill they were creating on Dean's skin was making him heat up the way it did; Castiel's eyes flicked up from the numbers on the tape to Dean's eyes, and, cheesy though it may sound, Dean's heart skipped a beat.

Castiel looked away, murmuring something soft in a vaguely guttural language and scribbling a measurement on the paper he'd brought in a loose script.

"What language is that?" Dean asked, somehow unable to shut himself up.

Castiel's reaction was gratifying, oddly, as his eyes snapped up and a flush rose higher in his cheeks, one hand leaping to cover his mouth. "Did I?—" he began to ask, and at Dean's amused nod, he dropped his eyes and gave an embarrassed huff. "I'm sorry. I tend to speak Russian when I'm counting and when I'm nervous, and now it's a combination of both."

Russian. Okay. That explained the weird name and weird inflections. Dean's attention caught on one thing Castiel had said, and before he could stop himself, he was asking, "You're nervous?" with an intrigued glint in his eyes.

"I—I've never had less than a day to alter a suit," Castiel explained, not quite meeting Dean's eyes and turning slightly redder. "I'm anxious that I do a good job in time." He blinked apologetically, extending a hand out in front of him, palm down and fingers splayed and trembling. "See? Shaking hands."

He's so eager to please, Dean thought suddenly and instantly chastised himself for the mental images that called up. "Oh, don't sweat it, Cas," he said, waving his own hand in the air as though to brush the other's anxiety away. "No need to overexert yourself."

"I'm Russian," Castiel sighed, tone akin to that of a teacher explaining a basic concept to the dullest of four-year-olds. "It's in my blood to overexert myself." He paused, glancing up and head tilting to the side curiously. "You—you called me Cas."

"Shit, I'm sorry," Dean said awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Bad businessman habit."

"I don't mind," Castiel said quietly, mouth twitching again and eyes still glowing. "Um—this may tickle." He approached Dean, who was frozen on the spot, and pressed a gentle thumb to the dip in Dean's collarbone, holding one end of the tape measure there, unrolling it down with his other hand and dragging it, keeping it flat, down Dean's sternum and stopping just at his waist. It did tickle a little bit, but it mostly felt like a trail of burning heat wherever Castiel's fingers brushed—the sensation vanished a second later as Castiel pinched the measuring tape in between forefinger and thumb, breathing a few numbers in Russian and jotting the measurement down, taking his hands away from Dean's body.

Dean was just standing there, having a bit of a crisis.

Straight, he kept repeating in his head. Straight straightstraightstraightstra ight. Heterosexual. Straight. I like women. Women. Boobs and vaginas. I'm straight, God fucking dammit.

But damn, I like his hands on me.

Castiel finished writing down that set of measurements and returned to Dean, stretching the measuring tape across his chest. He noted the numbers before meeting Dean's eyes for a second, then glancing back to the tape and shyly requesting, "Could you breathe for me, please?"

Straight.

And that was an easy enough request, as Dean found to his surprise that he'd been holding his breath for a few seconds.

Castiel wrote down both numbers, letting out a frustrated little breath as he stared blankly at the paper, tapping the pen down the list, evidently trying to remember what step came next. It was a bit of a hypnotizing sight, actually, seeing his eyebrows crease in a tiny frown of concentration and Dean got a little bit caught up in it, tilting his head to match Castiel's.

But I like women, but I'm—I'm definitely attracted to him, but—aw, fuck, I'm not pin-straight, am I.

With a little "ah" of realisation, Castiel evidently remembered what the next step was and turned back to Dean with a triumphant glint in his too-blue eyes.

"Could you turn around, please?" he asked, and Dean obliged, feeling the measuring tape and Castiel's fingers flitting across his shoulderblades. A few more measurements that Castiel wrote down, and then he tapped gently on Dean's back saying, "Just roll your shoulders forward—slouch." Dean did, and a second later tape and hands were back, and he could feel Castiel's breath just barely brushing over the nape of his neck.

It was insane.

Castiel prompted him to straighten his back and turn around again, and Dean did, waiting with bated breath for Castiel's next move as he wrote down all the numbers.

"Okay," Castiel said quietly, flashing his eyes at Dean and raising the measuring tape. "I apologise in advance. Could you lift your arms a bit, please?"

Dean complied with the request, and suddenly, Jesus fucking Christ, Castiel was right there, right there, reaching around him and presumably joining the ends of the measuring tape behind Dean with his hair smelling like burnt sugar and old books and vanilla and coffee and Dean could have sworn he heard Castiel's heart beating—

And Castiel pulled away, gaze very firmly fixed on the measuring tape and jaw clenched minutely. He leaned over, still holding the measuring tape pinched around Dean's chest, barely managing to scrawl down the number, and his shirt was just so slim-fitted—duh, he was a tailor, obviously his clothes would be custom-made—that Dean could almost see his muscles working—

Straight. I—I'm—fuck, I don't know anymore.

And then Castiel's hands were sliding down, moving along Dean's ribs and settling to measure around his waist and Dean was getting these visions of just pulling them two together, pinning Castiel against that wall there and just taking him and then he had to think really, really hard about walruses and spiders and the Saw movies because Castiel was now measuring around his hips and fuck, no, Dean didn't need another couple inches added to that number by a hard-on.

He took a deep breath and calmed.

Castiel wrote the numbers down, pausing for a few moments to remember the next measurement. "Lift your arm," he directed, and Dean complied; Castiel, evidently, was dissatisfied with those results, and took Dean's wrist in one hand and his elbow in another, adjusting it as he saw fit.

And Dean didn't even mind being Castiel's puppet.

A few more measurements along Dean's arm—which Castiel flipped and adjusted, holding with fingers that were apparently stronger than they looked. More quiet Russian numbers. And, after what seemed like a blissful yet torturous eternity of Castiel measuring down Dean's shoulder, oh-so-close to his face and letting out whispery breaths against the skin of his neck, the measuring was done.

Praise the Lord.

Castiel took his paper and pen, politely standing aside so Dean could go out into the lobby first. Once they were out—Dean taking a shuddering breath which somehow didn't clear his head of those stupid thoughts at all—Castiel glanced from the suit on the counter to the clock on the wall to the paper in his hands and finally at Dean, saying, "I can start on the alteration now, if you'd like. Remove some of the seams and fit it to you and your measurements. How much longer is your lunch break?"

Dean looked at the clock. His lunch break had ended fifteen minutes ago. "Around half an hour," he said confidently.

"Wonderful," Castiel said, lips twitching. "You can wait here while I do that, if you'd like. It won't take long."

"Sure," Dean shrugged, feigning nonchalance and moving over to sit in a cushioned chair close, but not too close to the counter.

Castiel sat behind the desk, smoothing the suit out in front of him and opening a drawer in the counter to pull out a faintly evil-looking metal object. Dean became a bit mesmerised by the movement of his hands as he began to weave it back and forth, evidently opening one of the seams. "So what's the occasion?" he asked, glancing up at Dean. "For the suit."

Dean snapped out of his reverie. "Hm? Oh, that. A company gala," he explained. "Routine stuff. We have one every year."

"And why the rush?"

"I procrastinated," Dean admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck embarrassedly. "Kept putting off trying the suit on. And woke up this morning and realised how much shit I was in." He sighed, eyes becoming a little glazed as he watched Castiel's pale fingers dance across the dark surface of the suit, turning it inside out and sketching light lines there with a white pencil. "Thank you so much for doing this on such short notice, by the way," he added hastily.

Castiel hummed, a mildly amused expression darting across his face. "My pleasure," he said, a smile in his voice. "It is my job, after all."

"Your job," Dean echoed, face falling a little bit. "Right. So—this is a family business, right? Your family business?"

Castiel nodded, shaking a few pins into his hand. "Yes, it is. I was raised around and with sewing supplies and was always expected to help my older siblings work in the shop once I came of age. I've been going at it for a while now."

Fuck, the way he talks is really hot.

And before he could stop it, Dean's mouth blurted, "But what did you want to do?"

Castiel's head slowly raised, and Dean froze in terror.

But Castiel just blinked at him, eyes filling with this incredible warmth, and Dean's breath caught. "Do you know," Castiel began softly, "that you're the first person ever to ask me that?" Without waiting for a reply, he released a melancholy breath and continued, shrugging minutely and saying, "I wanted to go to college and I wanted to paint. Landscapes and space and street scenes and everything. But—I guess it wasn't honourable or profitable enough for my family. So I went along my preset path." He sighed, looking in a way that was almost coy at Dean through his eyelashes. "But the shop life isn't without its... perks."

"Yeah?"

"One meets good people, working in a shop like this." And before Dean could begin to react to Castiel's low tone and twitching lips, Castiel had blinked innocently and stood, lifting the suit jacket. "Told you it would be quick—and judging by your measurements, this should fit relatively well."

"You're done already?" Dean asked incredulously, getting to his feet. "Wow."

"Well, I still need to sew it, of course," Castiel sighed, frowning at the suit a little. "And I'll need you to try it on to confirm that my alterations are well-placed." As he spoke, he moved to the back room, waiting for Dean to enter before going in himself. "I'll try not to prick you with any pins," he added, a somewhat jovial tone in his voice.

Dean tried and failed to come up with a response, instead just nodding mutely with a bit of a smile on his face as he stretched out his arms and Castiel slid the suit on, as gently as he possibly could so as not to prick Dean with the ominous row of pins shining in the shoulders.

Once Castiel's perfect hands were done smoothing out the lapels, pulling at loose bits of fabric, and adjusting, he turned Dean around to show him his reflection in a dusty mirror he didn't even notice before.

"I think the right shoulder is a bit too long," Castiel said slowly, frowning at Dean's reflection.

"Really?"

"Yes."

Dean's half-hearted protests that it was perfect were cut off as Castiel turned him back around so they were facing each other. He pulled a few pins out of the suit's shoulder, clamping them in between his teeth as he took the pencil he'd tucked behind his ear to sketch a new line.

"Sorry," Castiel said, lips barely moving around the pins and eyes firmly focused on the suit. "After I fix this line, I can sew it all done."

"Sounds great," Dean said absently as Castiel began to re-pin the shoulder line. His hands were still shaking, and they slipped for just an instant, sending a sharp pain darting through Dean's skin, and Dean must have grimaced or made some sort of soft sound, because Castiel leaned back, blue eyes going wide.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No—Cas—it's fine—"

"I'm so sorry," Castiel interrupted, cheeks going pink. "Dean, I—"

"Relax," Dean laughed. "When I was in the sixth grade, I tried to make my kid brother a sandwich 'cause Dad was out, and my hand slipped and I nearly sliced my entire thumb off." He held up his left hand, displaying the thin white line of scar tissue spiraling around the thumb. "I think I can handle a pinprick," he finished gently.

"That's horrific," Castiel said, not without a slight hint of admiration, after a pause. "I've burned myself with irons and stabbed myself with seam rippers more times than I can count—I'm pretty clumsy for a tailor, actually—but I'm still hurt by pinpricks." With that, he shot Dean another of those warm looks through his eyelashes and moved forward again, resuming his pinning of the suit.

Just a few more minor adjustments to the shoulder, and Castiel was done pinning, standing square in front of Dean, adjusting the collar and smoothing down the tops of the lapels. "All done for now," he chirped, glancing up to meet Dean's eyes, one hand on each lapel, eyebrows raised and eyes bright and smiing, freezing there like that and breath suddenly catching, cheeks slowly flushing.

And Dean just looked at him.

Saw the extra-mussed dark hair that smelled so good. Saw the too-blue eyes with fluttery eyelashes. Saw the parted, breathless lips. Felt one hand right over his heart (which was, of course, beating into overdrive) and the other burning into his chest.

And that was all Dean could take.

He snapped, and with a growl of, "Fuck you," he reached forward, pulling Castiel's slim frame towards him and crashing their lips together, and Castiel just melted into him, hands sliding up his suit so perfectly to link behind his head and keep him close, and Castiel's lips, those fucking lips of his parted against Dean's mouth with this tiny little sigh and—

And somehow, Dean's back was against the wall because Castiel was pinning him there—fuck, yeah, definitely stronger than he looks—and Dean's hands slid up Castiel's back, one hand twining in his hair, that stupid perfect hair, and the other scrambling to pull him closer, and—

And oh, fuck, the sound Castiel made when Dean bit down on his lower lip, and the way he pressed himself even closer, adding so much damn warmth to everything, and Dean was having trouble breathing, but he was kissing Castiel back as hard as he could, giving as good as he was getting, and—

And the bell over the door in the front room chimed, making Castiel jump back, eyes huge with dilated pupils, lips swollen, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, shirt rumpled, chest heaving. He turned, flattening his own back against the wall next to Dean, and they just stood there, breathing, waiting, Castiel with his eyes closed and throat bobbing as he swallowed the air in uneven spurts as they both waited for their pulses to settle.

"Hello?" called a confused man's voice, accompanied by the inevitable rustling of the customer trying to find an employee himself.

Castiel groaned, turning his shoulders and dipping his head forward so his face was nuzzled into the crook of Dean's neck. His breath brushed against Dean's skin, and Dean shifted so his arm was slung around Castiel's shoulders as he sighed against him. "We're closed," Castiel called back, disgruntled.

"The door says you're open."

Castiel huffed and Dean guided him with his arm, turning him to Dean had both arms wrapped around him and Castiel shifted, too, his head still leaning forward to Dean's shoulder but his arms now snaking up around Dean's ribcage. "Please leave," Castiel replied feebly. "And just flip the sign on the door when you walk out."

There were a few seconds of angry mutterings from the customer, but the bell chimed again and there was silence in the shop once more, save for the beating of Dean and Castiel's hearts.

Dean let out an amused breath, kissing the side of Castiel's head, and Castiel responded in kind, pressing a soft kiss to the exposed flesh of Dean's neck. Dean tightened his arms around Castiel, eventually asking, "Teach me something in Russian."

Castiel hummed, content, just barely rubbing the tip of his nose against Dean's skin. "What would you like me to teach you?"

Dean thought. "How do you say 'hello'?"

"There's a couple of different ways," Castiel began seriously, voice slightly muffled by Dean's shoulder. "The most formal is zdravstvuyte. Slightly less formal is zdrastye. And for equals or friends, one would say privyet."

"Three ways to say hello? Seriously?"

"I can think of five distinct ones in English," Castiel said mildly. "No, six. No, seve—"

"I get it," Dean interrupted, pressing another fond kiss to Castiel's head. "How about... how do you say 'thank you'?"

"That would be spasibo."

"And how—" Dean paused, tightening his hold infenitesimally on Castiel before continuing— "do you say, 'would you like to have dinner with me tonight'?"

"Russian grammar is very fluid, so you could say, khochesh sa mnoy po—oh."

Dean smiled nervously, feeling how his heart sped up and Castiel stilled in his arms. "Is—is that a yes?"

A pause that seemed to last forever, and Dean felt the heat on his skin as Castiel pressed another kiss to his neck, mouthing, "Yes, Dean, of course."

"Cool," Dean said, closing his eyes momentarily, a little weak with relief. Yeah, okay, the whole not-straight thing was gonna take a while to get used to, but fuck, was it gonna be worth it.

"But—" Castiel struggled to pull away, resting a hand lightly on each of Dean's shoulders, carefully laying his fingers between the pins. There was no hint of a smile anywhere on his face, eyes wide and reproachful. "What about your suit? And the gala?"

Dean's grin was wolfish as he feigned nonchalance once more, shrugging and saying, "Well, I was hoping you could help me get out of both."

A beat.

And Castiel's face lit up; his mouth twitched and spread into this huge, beautiful, blinding smile, and he leaned up and in close to Dean so his breath was just brushing Dean's anticipating mouth and said, voice low and rapturous, "Happy to help," before they closed the distance between them in unison, lips linking and hands roaming and pulses racing.

And then they lived happily ever after.

God bless Google.