"These trousers are defective," Cas says, examining the pair of jeans Dean pushed into his hand.
Dean takes his eyes off the burgundy t-shirt with an over the top burning skull on the front. It's got the roses and a snake and all that jazz.
"They're what?"
He turns to Cas, who holds out the unfolded pants to present the problem.
"There are holes in them. On both legs," the angel explains, pointing to the ripped fabric. "I think we should notify the assistant."
His eyes dart towards the checkout where he hopes to localize any store employees, but before he can run to a poor, unexpecting woman and try to explain to her that he wasn't the one who damaged the cloth but found it this way, Dean chuckles.
"They're supposed to have holes in them," he assures him.
Cas squints at Dean, then squints even harder at the pants. "Why would anyone pay for clothes with holes?"
"Fashion." Dean shrugs and turns back to the t-shirt rack.
He flips through a handful of t-shirts of different colors and designs that really took the hardcore label to heart. They might fit right in on a Vince Vincente possessed by the Devil show, but Dean's not convinced they're the best match for Cas.
"Wait." Dean pauses and once again turns to the guy, who's now back at the jeans section a few feet away, investigating the rest of stock to make sure they, in fact, came this way from the factory. "I've a few pairs of ripped jeans and you saw me in them."
"I assumed you tore them on hunts and didn't bother replacing them," Cas answers matter-of-factly.
Dean shoots him a withering look. "Thanks," he mutters too quiet for Cas to hear him.
He's about to move to another rack, looking a little less like a closet of a thirteen-year-old rebel on a mission to give their catholic nana a heart attack, when his eyes fall on a plain, black t-shirt. Well, that's anticlimactic, he thinks, yet he still flips it over, just to make sure it's not hanging backward.
Turns out it is not hanging backward and it's definitely not plain. The print is simply placed on the back instead of the front. Dean can't hold back a smile as he takes the t-shirt off the rack.
"Got something," he announces and tips his head towards the changing rooms. "Get in there and I'll grab you some jacket."
"I still don't understand what's wrong with my coat," Cas complains, accepting the t-shirt, the blank side forward.
"What isn't wrong with your coat?" Dean corrects. "Just don't go puffing it on, take some time in case someone watches."
When Dean handed Cas the shirt turned very strategically, he quietly hoped Cas wouldn't pay to it enough attention to turn it over, but of course, the fashion police guy who missed his calling had to inspect the piece before wrapping his chest in it.
He'd sure notice it sooner or later, the wide, white graphic spread from side to side is rather hard to miss. When Cas's eyes fall on it, the brief look of recognition gives way to a pensive expression.
Wings, they're freaking angel wings. How the hell did Dean decide it was the flaming skull that was over the top?
"Too soon?" he asks, cautiously. This was a horrible idea and he's a fucking asshole.
"Well, it's been three years since my wings last held any resemblance to this, very symbolic, graphic," he says, slowly. "Of course, three years are nothing but a bleep to someone as old–"
"Nevermind," Dean cuts his rant off, reaching out his hand to take the cloth back. "It was a stupid idea, I'll find something else."
Instead of returning it, Cas throws it over his forearm where he already kept the pants.
"Why?" he questions. "I like it," he announces, to Dean's surprise, and disappears behind the curtain of the changing room.
Dean only remains baffled for a moment, then resumes his scouting. It's a little too cold for walking around in a t-shirt alone, even if it might get hot inside, on the rock show, let alone on the chase after Lucifer.
It seems to be a lucky day for Dean when it comes to clothes, as he finds the perfect jacket right away. He starts to regret he doesn't have more time to shop around. His wardrobe could use a little refreshing. Maybe when Lucifer is annihilated or captured or whatever's the most positive outcome their plan assumes, they could repeat this. Cas's wardrobe has needed refreshing for the last decade.
The black double rider is just the right piece of clothing to begin the upgrading. High-quality fake leather, comfy and fucking sexy. For a moment Dean considers keeping it for himself and getting Cas a different one, or maybe lending him his own. He even takes off his own jacket to try it on but on the second thought, a vivid vision of Cas in this very jacket really doesn't give him any choice. He must see Cas in it.
"Try this on." Dean hands the jacket to Cas through the curtain and steps back awaiting the outcome.
As soon as Cas emerges from the changing room, Dean regrets this is not one of those fancy boutiques with sofas where he could conveniently and inconspicuously shift around a little for more comfort and discretion in certain areas. Luckily, he holds his own jacket in his hand. He lets it loose in front of him.
"What do you think?" he asks, his fists wrapped around the lapels of the double rider.
Turns out Dean's got a perfect eye. The shirt hugs Cas's chest, the jacket, of course, would probably look good on anyone, but Cas seems to have been made for it. The ragged jeans bring out a little of a wild, loose vibe that's surely been missing in Cas's attire. And they accentuate his butt real nice, too.
"Fucking awesome," is all Dean can get out, exasperated. "One more thing," he adds, after a while, when he can finally take a step.
He comes over to Cas, thrusts his fingers into his soft hair to ruffle it up a little.
"Now, that's better. Looking like a rockstar, Cas."
Cas flashes him a wide smile.
"The jacket hides the graphic, though," he mutters, beginning to shake the cover off. "I should probably–"
"Don't you dare take that thing off!" Dean bursts out, a little too loud. Cas's brow furrows. "I mean, uh–" Dean mitigates himself. "You look ho– you look really good in it. And it's cold," he adds, awkwardly. He takes a breath. "Showing off wings is for special occasions, right?"
He really wishes he could stop talking. At this point he's sure his entire face is completely red. Whether Cas's gentle smile indicates he's seen through him or that he's totally oblivious, Dean doesn't know, but luckily the guy nods.
"Okay. But I'll have to take it off to change back," he warns with a little tease in his tone. The earlier it is, then.
Dean sighs, theatrically and passes by Cas to reach into the changing room.
"Fine," he mutters, taking Cas's trenchcoat off the hook. "But this thing – we're burning."
Cas pulls a mightily offended face, but then he shrugs his shoulders, tugs at the bottom of the jacket so it sits perfectly on his body. He smiles.
"Okay, buddy," Dean says, rushing him to change. "Come on, we've got the Devil to catch.