See My Vest

It's snowing sideways outside. Dean is glad his baby is parked on the leeward side of the motel. He hears a key in the lock and then Cas sidles in, barely opening the door wide enough to slide into the room. He lets in as little biting, icy wind as possible, which is not exactly easy in a dark blue puffy jacket.

"What are you? The Michelin Man?" Dean asks. He gets up to take a closer look and brushes the snow off Cas' fleece-lined beanie. Cas stands there holding groceries in a bag and doesn't answer, probably because he has no idea who the Michelin Man is. Or maybe his mouth is frozen shut which, judging by his red nose and cheeks, is a possibility.

"Never mind. I am never letting you go clothes shopping with Sam again," Dean pronounces, folding his arms.

Cas places the plastic bag of food supplies on the table, pulls off the hat, placing it on the table and unzips the jacket.

"As I have explained before, Dean, Sam let me choose my clothing. I don't see why you are upset with him."

"That's exactly my point: He let you choose - What the hell is that?"

Cas looks up from hanging his jacket on a vinyl and chrome chair. Dean's attention is caught by the multicoloured, intricately knitted sweater vest Cas incongruously wears over a long sleeved t-shirt.

Cas looks down at himself and Dean gingerly edges closer, as though Cas' bad dress sense is dangerously contagious, yet irresistible.

"It's a fairisle sweater vest," Cas supplies.

"Fairisle…" Dean repeats distractedly, wondering where Cas even finds these things. He reaches out and rubs the hem between his fingers.

"It's knitted from Shetland wool. For warmth," Cas explains while he watches Dean's hands

"Really," Dean sounds slightly sceptical, which is at odds with the mild smirk and raised eyebrow.

One hand slides up between the sweater and the t-shirt. "Oh yeah. Definitely hot under here."

Dean looks at Cas who is still focussed on Dean's hands.

Cas sounds a little self-conscious when he agrees. "Yes… I do feel hot."

Dean can't help snorting when he's given verbal ammunition like that to work with. But he doesn't follow through with his retort, because it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Fish who don't care that you're shooting them. Stupid, appealingly earnest, dorky fish.



"Your hands are cold."