Castiel looks smaller without Jimmy's oversized trench coat hanging off his shoulders. Dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans and a t-shirt covered with one of Dean's denim jackets, he looks down right tiny. His feet are bare and Deans stares at the exposed toes, a bit thrown at the thought that it never occurred to him that, since he's in a vessel, Cas even has toes.
As much as he appreciates seeing Castiel expanding his wardrobe, he wishes the need for it hadn't been so awkward. Because seeing a newly resurrected Castiel killing Zachariah's flunkies and glaring down the archangel like a badass, all while naked as a jaybird, is the very definition of awkward. There are other words to describe it, but Dean's mind isn't ready to confront that shit storm of an identity crisis. Instead, Dean throws one of the emergency blankets at the angel and resolves to take him shopping as soon as he can get him decent.
People at the Laundromat are staring, but Dean valiantly continues in his attempt to teach Cas about washing his new clothes. The angel doesn't seem to notice anything going on around him, intently focused on the label on the new button-up shirt to replace Dean's hand-me downs he's currently wearing. He reads the washing and drying directions like they're holy scripture; each word to be given equal consideration.
"It says use only non-chlorine bleach and tumble-dry low. I do not understand."
Dean sighs for the thirty millionth time and takes the shirt out of Cas' hands. "Don't worry about it, Cas. Sammy's a good little housewife and only buys non-chlorine bleach, and it says tumble-dry low because it's 100% cotton and it'll probably shrink in high heat. You're such a skinny little nerd, though, so I doubt that the dryer will be able to make your clothes too small. Now, remember what I said about the whites load?"
Castiel stays silent for a moment, likely bringing up the exact words Dean used because the angel is weird like that. "Let the washing machine fill up completely before putting in the bleach and turn the machine off for a bit to let the clothes soak for a while before adding the detergent, then turn the machine back on and relax, because a watched pot never boils. Unless you're Sammy, then research the next hunt." A pause, then: "And for the love of the Father, make sure there isn't any red clothes hidden in the pile, because then everything will be pink, and Sammy doesn't need any more ammo for twink jokes."
Dean stares at the wall to their right, pretending not to know Castiel, because the angel wasn't exactly yelling, but he sure as hell wasn't using his 'inside voice', and now the other people aren't even trying to pretend they aren't eavesdropping. "Right, great memory you have there." There's a little old lady putting clothes into the machine at the other end of the row, and she looks like she's trying to get done in hurry so she doesn't have to spend anymore time near the crazy men dressed like serial murderers. "So! Why don't you go ahead and finish setting up this load while I go dig a hole and hide in it." Before Castiel can even think about asking what Dean means, Dean cuts him off. "Never mind. Let's just this over with so we can get out of here."
By the time all of their clothes are finished, the Laundromat is empty of people. There's a single oscillating fan spinning in the corner, but it wasn't able to cut through the softener-scented heat from the dryers running all day. Dean pulls at his collar, willing a bit of the breeze to sneak down his shirt to relieve the thin sheen of sweat he's collected. Castiel stands next to him at the folding table, focused on getting his new shirts just right.
Dean watches a bead of sweat travel down the side of the angel's borrowed face, gathering speed as it goes. It disappears under the collar of his shirt and Dean yanks his eyes away, hoping Castiel hasn't noticed.