Chapter Ten
Dean had, on numerous occasions, had to wear outfits that he would not normally wear by choice day to day in the course of Hunting. He had worn a business suit. He had worn a wetsuit. He had worn a catsuit, a gorilla suit, and even his birthday suit. It was just part of the job.
He had worn garments that were not traditionally thought of as male attire: he had worn a sequined bodice and tutu (portraying Odile on a job to put down the angry spirit of a trans ballerina), he had worn a ball gown (in order to deal with the restless ghost of a champion ballroom dancer) and he had worn a strappy slinky little number to attend a function for pre-surgery transwomen along with their surgeons (no matter how many times they did rock-paper-scissors, Sam always got to be the surgeon).
He had worn a kilt (in Campbell tartan, of course) and had thoroughly discombobulated Sam by embracing his heritage and going regimental, which proved not only to be authentic but to be highly convenient when he encountered a frisky lady who was equally interested in beautiful natural acts between consenting adults – he would never admit it, but he'd kind of liked it.
However, when presented with the first element of his uniform…
"Is something wrong, Michaelsword?" asked the angel, named Sephariel, who proffered it earnestly.
"Uh, no, no," Dean replied, eyeing the garment, "I just, uh, I wasn't expecting to have to wear a dress."
"Oh, this is a tunic," smiled Sephariel, "Do you require assistance?"
"Oh, no, it's, uh, it's okay, I got this," Dean offered the angel a small smile, "I've seen Cas in his armour, I know how it's supposed to work. I've always thought he looked a bit like a Roman legionary, or something. Only a lot cleaner."
"It is how humans envisage us," sighed Sephariel with good-natured bemusement. "You know how it is, 'Verily I say unto you, Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven'. That was the Son's doing – I can't say I'm completely surprised, He has a very… human sense of humour."
"It could be worse," intoned Ameniel seriously, "The Ophanim used to have to manifest as multi-rimmed wheels covered in eyes – they took it with good grace, of course, but privately they used to complain about it making them terribly dizzy."
"Humanity is a bit less literal now, thank Father," agreed Sephariel, "I mean, really, six wings? Four faces? What were they thinking?"
"There would be a lot of work for the healers, when one of our brothers was required to manifest unto a traditional sect," noted Ameniel, "The Cherubs used to get a whiplash type injury in four necks at once, trying to watch where they were going. They are certainly more contented with their current idiom of manifestation."
"Can't say that I am," muttered Dean.
"Of course, it's all Gabriel's fault," sighed Sephariel, "When Father sent him on his first missions to appear unto His mortal children, he was suddenly seized by a fit of shyness."
"What?" Dean yapped. "Gabriel? Shy? Is this Gabriel the Archangel, aka Loki the Trickster, we're talking about? That Gabriel got stage fright?"
"The very same," nodded Ameniel. "He was younger at the time, though, so it wasn't completely unexpected. So he talked his three big brothers into going with him, just be with me, he wheedled, just be there, have my back, you don't have to manifest, I can do this if I know my brothers are behind me, he said…"
Understanding dawned. "And so, he looked like he had extra heads and wings," Dean finished.
"Exactly," said Ameniel. "Although he is one of the few of the Host who actually likes to manifest with six wings, especially before aeronautical engineers, he says it messes with their heads in a most amusing way…"
"So if you will dress, Michaelsword," smiled Sephariel, "I shall assist you with your armour."
The angel then handed over something that looked like a cross between an apron and a tablecloth for a table that had been made in wood shop by somebody with no clue about how to use a measuring tape, a right angle, or in fact reality.
"Oh, uh," Dean examined the piece of linen. "What is this? Hey, is this my Superangel cape?"
"No, Michaelsword," chuckled Sephariel, "Your cloak is a much larger piece. This is your subligaculum."
"My… what the hell is this thing?" Dean frowned as he considered the unfamiliar Latin word. Ligaculum, referring to a kilt, and sub meaning underneath…"
"Like this, Michaelsword," said Sephariel helpfully, lifting his own tunic to demonstrate.
Dean let out a squawk of horror "Oh, I didn't not need to see that!" he complained, clapping his hands to his eyes, "There was nothin' in the agreement about lookin' at an angel's shorts!"
"This is not actually in the form of what you would recognise as 'shorts'," Ameniel said.
"You're tellin' me!" Dean shot back. "The word 'diaper' springs to mind, but not shorts."
"The Romans did sometimes wear an undergarment that might look more recognisable to you," Sephariel looked thoughtful, "Closer to shorts."
"Anything," griped Dean, thrusting the garment back at the angel as if he feared it would bite him. "Anything has to be better than an adult diaper."
He genuinely believed that.
Until Sephariel showed him a pair of Roman shorts.
Made from leather.
"Will these serve, Michaelsword?" the angel asked solicitously, "Strangely enough, Gabriel often chooses to wear something like these…"
Dean made a small noise that sounded like 'Meeeeeeep'.
"We shall leave you to dress, Michaelsword," said Ameniel, turning to his brother to elaborate. "Castiel has explained that this is an activity which humans prefer to undertake alone."
"Really?" Sephariel sounded amazed. "Why is that?"
"It is to do with various cultural norms and body taboos, inculated in an individual from early childhood, with the intention of refraining from causing disconcert or offence amongst other members of the immediate community," Ameniel recited, with the air of a student who was pleased to have mastered a difficult abstract concept, "Undressing in the presence of others, those who are not part of a person's intimate circle, is strictly avoided except for some very specific circumstances, which do not apply here."
"Other humans would find the sight of his naked body… offensive?" Sephariel was clearly trying very hard to understand, and failing miserably, examining Dean with an expression that was discombobulatingly similar to Castiel's Eye Sex Stare Of Doom. "I may not be well versed in humanity's traditions, but to my untrained eye, I would say that his body would be deemed to be most aesthetically pleasing to his society…"
"Meeeeeeep!" went Dean.
"And given what I know, I believe that many women who identify as heterosexual and men who identify as homosexual or individuals who are bisexual would find his body to be erotically pleasing also…"
"Meeeeeeep!" went Dean.
"Although I am somewhat confused as to why his legs have been epilated, and as for the complete removal of all body hear from his…"
"Meeeeeeep!" went Dean.
"Nonetheless, we shall leave," Ameniel repeated, "We shall return when you are attired, Michaelsword." With a familiar flap-flap noise, the two angels disappeared.
Dean sighed, and looked at the tunic – it's not a dress, he told himself, not believing a word of it, it's not a dress – and the awful unmentionable. Maybe if he was lucky, somebody Up There would figure out a way for him to get around as a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent for a while, in which case he wouldn't need… that.
He might even be able to smite it.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Sam recognised Crowley's office the moment he set foot in it.
He already knew about the Bidet Of Power, of course, the delicate rosewood and porcelain antique that Crowley like to sit on to receive the most senior members of the Hierarchy, because it really messed with their heads, but the rest of the opulent space would've been right at home at the HQ of a stockbroking firm that was about to go under and declare bankruptcy once the members of the board had shifted the last of their assets to the Cayman Islands and bought the First Class plane tickets to Majorca. I am the office of a very important person, the space, the décor, the very fabric of the place screamed, A very important person, much more important than you, with much more money, much more power, and much more success than you, so just cower before me, in fact you should be grovelling, just don't leave grovelling marks on that incredibly expensive carpet woven from the pelts of critically endangered seals and washed in the tears of crippled war orphans, and mind the desk, that desk was made from hardwood timber stolen from a rainforest that by rights belongs to some of the poorest people on Earth, a lot of orang-utans had to die to get the timber for that desk, incidentally get a look at the mosaic floor in the restroom on the way out, it was done by impoverished illiterate children who work sixteen hour shifts and are paid in dung, no, on second thoughts, stay the hell out of my obscenely opulent restroom, just ask the janitor to sweep you away with all the other cockroaches…
It was a space intended and designed to strike dread into the heart of anybody crossing the threshold, to batter them with a sense of their own helpless worthlessness in the face of somebody who held absolute power over life and death, and other things that were much much worse…
With a disdainful expression, Sam strode across the carpet to the desk, and surveyed the surface, which was strewn with paperwork. "How the hell does he get anything done here?" he demanded of nobody in particular."
"Mr Crowley usually leaves the trifling formalities of administration to those whose station more befits the matter," answered Nabiz smoothly. "He refers to it as delegation."
"Well, 'dereliction' might be a better word," humphed Sam, opening drawers and peering in. "Damn it, there's no stationery here at all! Where do I get stationery?"
A shadow crossed Nabiz's handsome features. "Ah," he began, "That would require a requisition to the Library, to be authorised by the Senior Librarian."
"Well, I'll get right on that," Sam decided, shuffling fruitlessly at the threatening avalanche of documentation as he looked for a keyboard to go with the monitor. "Meanwhile, let's get this thing fired up…"
Brushing aside another pile of paper, he located the box under the desk, and switched it on. He was rewarded with a short gif of a Hellhound chasing a damned soul around the screen, then a message appeared:
WEIRDOS IS LOADING
"Okay, we got ignition," muttered Sam, "So, let's have a look at the network here…"
The screen changed again to display a new message:
PLEASE WAIT WHILE WEIRDOS UPDATES
"Great," groaned Sam, "He hasn't switched in on for a few days, and now it's gonna take ten full minutes to…"
LOADING UPDATE 1 OF 23,456,787,645,447,841,884,965,387,641,752,903.6
The newly arrived Lord of Hell stared at the screen, letting out a noise of outrage.
"Mr Crowley does not like the computer system very much, lord," Nabiz explained, "And since it is so rarely active, when updates update, I am afraid the update… with extreme prejudice."
Sam spluttered in annoyance. "Point six?" he managed eventually, "Point six? How the fuck do you have point six of an update? Oh, crap, only in Hell…"
"Perhaps while you wait, you would like to change, effendi," suggested the ifrit with the smoothness of Jeeves steering Bertie Wooster away from yet another disastrous run-in with Aunt Agatha.
Sam gawped at him, still reeling from the moral outrage of a computer that took too long to update. "Change?" he echoed.
"Indeed, lord," Nabiz putting a hand to a door in the expensive wall panelling. "It is not for this lowly one to tell you how to rule your kingdom, but I have, in my inadequate observations, noted that for a ruler, the cultivation of a certain… ambiance is conducive to the projection and maintenance of one's powerand dominance, and the proclamation of one's fitness to hold the office. Mr Crowley calls it 'power dressing'." He smiled widely. "Would you defer to a leader who did not present a suitably… intimidating impression?"
Trying to suppress a pained sigh (but not completely succeeding), Sam looked down at himself: he was wearing the comfortable if somewhat faded patterned button down that Dean disparagingly referred to as 'The Maternity Shirt' – his big brother had in fact tried to dispose of it several times until Sam held Dean's favourite Motorhead tee to ransom in order to make him stop – and a pair of jeans with a tear in one knee. His job was to maintain stability, uphold the status quo, he told himself sternly. "Yeah, you could be right, Nabiz," he agreed reluctantly. "What did you have in mind?"
Nabiz opened the door. "Well, there are many possibilities for a recognisable depiction of the Lord of Hell," he said, gesturing into what turned out to be an expansive walk-in robe, "So it is really up to yourself as to which one you choose to assume."
"Right," Sam mused glumly, "So, I guess 'Recognisably The Devil' is something the Hierarchy will like."
He rejected out of hand a red bodysuit, complete with tail and horns and accessorised with a very fetching pitchfork. There were in fact several variations on that theme.
"What the… you gotta be kidding!"
"You have to admit, lord, it is very convincing, and very intimidating."
"How the hell am I supposed to even hold my head up with horns like that?"
"The outfit shall conform to you, effendi, you are ruler here, and it is the nature of Hell."
"No. Just no. Leather pants? Red body paint? No."
"You have the height and build, and dare I say it, the chin, to carry this off magnificently, if I may say so, lord…"
"Nabiz, I am NOT setting foot outside this office dressed as Darkness from the film 'Legend'!"
"Very well, sire."
Right. Good. So, what's this?"
"Ah, very traditional, Great One, it will appeal enormously to the traditionalists of the Hierarchy, that is to say, all of them."
"What is this, some kind fur?"
"The hide of a goat, effendi."
"Goat? Goat? A pair of, of, of, footie pyjamas, made out of goat skin, and… huh?"
"Feet of a goat, sire, cloven hooves. Very practical for kicking posterior."
"I am not dressing as a goat!"
"Only half a goat, lord, bottom half. Top half is all you."
"No."
"These horns go with this ensemble."
"No."
"They are not very large horns, majesty."
"No!"
"They are hardly even horns at all, you would barely notice this unintrusive little set of hornlets…"
"NO!" Sam shot what was a recognisable Bitchface™ at the ifrit, who winced. "Nothing that isn't completely humanoid. Humanish. Looks like a human, okay? Nothing fancy, just, just, something I can wear."
Nabiz let out a long breath that respectfully refrained from being an exasperated huff. "The Lord of Hell has been represented many ways to many societies during human history," he reminded Sam, moving to the other end of the wardrobe, "Perhaps a depiction from your own era." He held out a hanger.
Sam let out a high-pitched shriek. "What the fuck?"
"Very recognisable," Nabiz waggled the hanger, "Twenty-first century interpretation, from a widely distributed movie…"
"I am not wearing a red bikini!" Sam howled in horror, "I am not Liz Hurley! Male, Nabiz, something suitably male!"
"As you wish," Nabiz shrugged, and held out an empty hanger with a small tag on it. "This, perhaps?"
"What is that?" Sam glared suspiciously, "There's nothing on it!"
"No garments, no," Nabiz agreed, reading the tag, "But a suggestion that you go out and possess a man by the name of De Niro…"
"No!" Sam snapped, "I am not possessing Robert de Niro!"
The ifrit consulted a tag on another empty hanger. "Jack Nicholson?"
"No!"
"Aha, this one, Harvey Keitel, comes with a pineapple to shove up Hitler's…"
"NO! I am NOT going out and possessing somebody just to keep the Hierarchy happy!" Sam sat down heavily on a thickly upholstered bench seat. "I don't even know if I could – I certainly don't want to. Crap, there has to be something…"
He lifted his eyes, and when he saw what they'd landed on, he groaned. "Oh, the entire universe hates me."
Sensing the possibility of possibility, Nabiz carefully took down the hanger. "This one, yes?"
"That one, yes," Sam sighed, taking it from the now-beaming ifrit, "As the least worst option, that will do."
"Excellent!" If Nabiz smiled any wider, his head was going to fall in half. "I shall remain outside until you are ready."
"Yeah, great. Look, thanks, Nabiz, none of this is your fault," Sam told him.
As the ifrit withdrew, he turned back to the outfit he'd decided he could tolerate. It had matching shoes. And socks. It was completely disturbing.
What was even more disturbing was that when he tried it on it fit him perfectly.
Muttering about the complete impractibility of an entirely white suit, Sam headed back into the office to see what progress the computer updates had made.
Ah yes, the white suit. Because we couldn't have Sam running about in a red sequinned bikini; Dean in a loincloth is bad enough (he's got his eyes shut as he puts it on). What is Florence the sartorially challenged plot bunny up to? Feed her reviews and make her dictate more chapters!