Summary: This is a response to every "Sam wears a hoodie for whatever reason fic" fic
A/N: This is one part drama, one part humor, one part hurt/comfort, and all parts steaming Supernatural.
Rating: T for what goes on with Supernatural, so language, and yeah…
Disclaimer: Sera Gamble invented the toys, I just like to make them go…
"The finest clothing made is a person's skin, but, of course, society demands something more than this."
"Know, first, who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly."
December 4, 2011.
"Dude," Dean Winchester said 'dude' in that way that added 'what the hell?' to it without him having to actually vocalize it.
The air outside air is frosty, cold enough to break. The Pinto they 'rented' is one part drivable and two parts rust; and it smells like cheese. Dean dumps out the nachos he was about to eat into the gas station trashcan. They were appetizing before he realized the car came with its own matching smell. Nachos are out, hamburgers and pie are in. Hands free, he blows into them, and rubs them together for warmth.
"Dude what?" Sam says from his place by the passenger side door, towering over the little car like it was a windup toy. "Dean you can't end a sentence like that." Sam blows into hands as big as dinner plates, but calloused like an old log. He smells his coffee in his cupped hands.
"Okay then," Dean takes the challenge, and points at Sam with an entire wave of his hand. "What's up with the Justin Bieber wardrobe?"
Sam eyes Dean's wave, but doesn't eye himself. He dressed himself this morning, he knows what he's wearing. "Dude, it's my hoodie."
"Yeah, which you haven't worn since you had gangly teenage boy arms in a college boy body." Dean comes back, eying the blue cotton wool thing that looks like it's on Sam like a gift wrapped with paper too small for it. "Thing looks like it doesn't even fit Justin Bieber."
"Stop saying Justin Bieber," Sam throws back. "I wear this thing plenty."
"Aside from today, when?" Dean waits for an answer.
"When I don't feel well for starters," Sam said in defense, it sounded very much like a 4-year-old line, all he needed to do was cross his arms and pout and he would be there.
"Do you not feel well?" Dean countered in inquiry.
"That isn't the point!" Sam volleyed back, rolling his eyes at Dean's amused look. "Dude, we ride around in the car all damn day, excuse me for wanting to be comfortable. And yeah, I'm not feeling well, if must know."
"Oh I'm sorry," Dean says, filing away that Sam is sick for reference, but not backing down, because it's a stupid argument, but those are the ones that are hardest to stop; and there is somewhat of a teasing note in it. Because that's what brothers did, make each other miserable once in a while. "You want me to put you to bed with some NyQuill and rub your little hooded tummy?"
"Man shut up!" Sam snapped back, he was banter-arguing with Dean, it was an art form to watch. "Why do you even care? I wore hoodies all the time in Stanford."
"Dude, have you checked yourself in the mirror lately? Cause 7 years seemed to have passed between then and now Sammy."
Sam laid a hoodie clad arm up on the roof of the car, she squeaked at the indignity of it. "What's your point Dean? I'm not allowed to wear hoodies anymore because of some rule you made up in your head?"
"Sam you have a million coats without hoods on them that you've worn since, I don't know two years ago," Dean says, seeing his breath in the space of air above the car roof between him and Sam. "That green one, that, that, canvas thing; don't even know where the hell you found time to steal that that from Jack Hanna's house." Sam cut him a bitchfaced look. "It's not like your hoodie is a freakin' go to piece when you feel down-"
"Go to piece?" Sam says, eyebrows raised, amused at Dean's choice of words. "Dude, you need to lay off the Oprah."
"C'mon Sam, I can see half your forearms through the sleeves!" Dean returns, and yes they are having this argument, here on Rural Route 9, by the 'Gas-N-Blow' And that stray dog trying to sleep under a sheet of corrugated tin roofing by the mini mart is starting at them like they're dumbasses. "How you've not manage to break your arms off inside that overly stretched thing and have them hang inside your sleeves like sausages is beyond me."
Dean waits for the inevitable response from Sam.
It comes quick from his younger brother, a "Shut up! I don't have to run every piece of my wardrobe through you like some subservient wife!"
"Dude, don't even go there, I'd marry someone way hotter than your ass." Sam's bitchface is back, Dean can't help the eyeroll. "Dude, it's a freakin' hoodie! It's three sizes too small; it's been three sizes to small since 2010." Dean raises his eyebrows in that big brother way. " You're seriously arguing about putting yourself into a blue wooly straight jacket?"
There is a harsh silence, like someone slapped someone else. After everything Sam's been through in the last few months, joking about being bound or confined was off limits.
Dean knew this. He swallows at what he didn't mean, the air is still cold, so is the look Sam is giving him, with equal parts hurt.
Sam points an actual finger at him, not the middle one, but a strong one. "Don't." his voice isn't raised, but it's a myriad of things. The door squeaks open.
"Sam-" Dean tries again, Sam cuts him with a look and gets back into the car that smells like cheese, in his blue hoodie, eyes facing forward, staring forward like a statue that's fixed there.
Dean sighs at Sam, not for being a girl, but for things he doesn't like to think about.
He climbs into the car.
December 4, 2011 still, but LATER.
Dusty towns pass them blinking in and out like winking lights. The Pinto still smells like cheese, the radio is nothing like the Impala. She seemed to know the songs Dean likes, even when the A-track on the fritz, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC and CCR just go with her. If this car had any form of theme song it would be from some sort of Boy Band identified by the smell and marks their hair gel leaves when it plops on the stage.
Sam still isn't talking.
The radio is playing a damn LFO song.
Dean really wishes Sam would talk, this song is making him want to gank something.
Sam's eyes absorb the lights they pass on the road, his knees are practically drawn up into his chest the car isn't giraffe size. It can't be comfortable. The cramped space, and the hoodie look like they're trying to do his brother in.
Eventually Dean starts humming some random rock song, Nickleback he thinks it is, adding his own bits and cadences to it to drown out that god awful song on the radio.
About 30 minutes pass by in this song filled/humming/silence before Dean looks back over to Sam, expecting him to still be brooding.
He is brooding.
But he's asleep, against the side of the car door, arms crossed, the sleeves of his hoodie hiked so far up his arms it looks like a short sleeved shirt. His breathing is wheezy and his nose sounds clogged as air is pulled into it.
Guess he wasn't kidding about being sick. Dean said this like a shrug, the concern was there. But he wasn't dreaming about stuffing Sam with Nyquil and carrying him to the bed like some weird romance novel with incestuous lovers.
He noted instead that Sam was drooling, and wondered how long it would take to freeze there because the heater in this car was as bad as the radio's songs.
Sam's jacket was threadbare near the elbows, Dean couldn't help but note that along with Sam's drool. Sam had barely worn it since he hit, around 24. But, there was a time that Sam wore it a ridiculous amount back early on, when his hair was short enough to curl around his ears. It had its fair share of use back then.
Sam was grown, had been grown for a while now. But, going from 22 to 29 he grew some more, his 'adult growth spurt' where the job had aged him from that college student he came to get. But, he hung on to the damn thing like that rabbit he had as a kid, what was it called 'Mr. Sockface?' Dean had actually named that toy and Sam slept with it until it got run over by the car when dad backed over it, bits of fluff and thread everywhere, it was a horrible maiming. The rabbit was salted and burned with table salt and a match at Sam's request.
The rabbit was gone, the hoodie remained.
Dean noted this as well, he slowed the car down at the next set of lights.
December 4, 2011,
still going on, but LATER, LATER.
"Rise and shine cupcake," A hand roughs up Sam's chest and then smashed itself over Sam's face, making him blink into the cheese smelling reality that was the Pinto's interior.
"Ugh, Dude," Sam pushed the hand off his face. "Get off me!" He blinked and yawned, and sucked up a stream of snot that had collected in his nasal passages while he slept. He stretched as much as the car would allow, which wasn't a lot, because he was 6'4 and the car was designed for growth stunted gnomes.
Sam stretches his hands on his knees like a cat stuck in the car for growth stunted gnomes. His face contorts in confusion when he feels something soft resting in his lap.
What the hell?
Sam finally opens his eyes completely. It's night outside, there's some random hotel sign in front of him. There were at their home for the night, and the lights aren't much to see by. He grabs at the bundle. It felt like a blanket. But their camp blanket in the trunk was too scratchy, and smelled vaguely of smoke and dry rot. Sam held it-whatever it was- up and squinted at it like his eyes were bad.
"You going to put that on or you wanna fondle it some more?" Dean's head is inside the car door asked this.
Sam unfurled the thing like a flag, his face creasing even more. Seriously, what the HELL? It was a hooded jacket, black, soft wool, no rough, worn parts at the elbows. It looked new, it looked so new the scent of 'department store' wafted up from it. "This is a hoodie."
"You're a genius Sam," Dean said, casually, staring at his brother like they were talking about a hunt, or a good looking woman. "You would've gone all the way at Stanford."
Sam climbed out of the car into the even colder air, with the jacket in his hand, eyeing it, and then Dean, who didn't look expectant, but had stopped looking completely casual as well. "Did you go shopping for me?"
"Damn right I did," Dean didn't put any embarrassment into his words. "You looked like some overgrown homeless waif in that other one." Dean waved a hand to Sam's current hoodie.
"Wait," Sam took a miniscule step forward to Dean, blinking in confusion, waving the hoodie at him. "You just busted my balls about me wearing these damn things; and you went out to the Gap and bought one for me?"
"It was J. Crew Sam; and so what if I did?" Dean returned. "You're not gonna stop wearing the damn things, so you might as well have one that fits."
Sam looked at him like 'Okay' holding the hoodie like it was a live bomb. It actually looked like it would fit him.
"Man, put the damn thing on," Dean said. "I spent a lot of other people's money on it."
Sam eyed Dean like he was crazy. "Seriously? Now? Dude you've got a sick way to get out your thrills."
"Put the damn thing on Sammy."
Sam shook his head like a tick, but he unzipped his blue hoodie, it came away from him like a dilapidated house, in pieces, fuzz stuck to his blue shirt, some threads with it. He slung the jacket on the hood of the car and pulled on the new one.
It had a zip up front with a damn toggle zipper, black like the rest of it, something functional and not overly fashion flashy. It was also insulated, not just some prep fashion statement. Sam zipped it up a little above midway chest level, and held out his arms to Dean in exasperation about having to do this.
Dean looked at him, stepping around the car to join Sam on 'his side', and blew out a low whistle, wagging his eyebrows once upwards. "Wow Sammy, I gotta say, in this light, you in black, I take back what I just said."
"Shut up," Sam snapped.
Dean couldn't help but smile at Sam being unruffled by this. "Like a glove dude-"
"I said shut up."
"O-kay." Dean raises his hand, his smile growing even more. That one he always reserved for his 'big brother to little brother moments' "You're welcome, Sam." Dean said to Sam's next look.
Sam huffed once. "Thanks," when he crossed his arms this time, the damn thing cursed him by not riding up on his arms.
Dean stepped the rest of the way over to Sam. "Anything for my little brother," he grabbed the side of Sam's neck with cupping hands. "I got some Nyquil too, but if you want me to rub your little hooded tummy we're going to have to go get more alcohol." Two quick pats with the same hand.
Sam shoved his hands off of him. "Seriously man, grow another foot, and we'll talk." He snagged his bags from the trunk of the car. He flung his duffle over his shoulder and the fabric of the new hoodie.
Dean watched him do all this normal activity, securing the weapons cache, now in a duffle bag, pushing the rock salt to the back of the trunk. Once this was done, and after Dean had grabbed his own duffle, Sam closed the trunk.
Dean stopped walking to glance up and address Sam with that glance.
"My go to when I'm not feeling well isn't clothes man." Sam left the remark to be absorbed.
Dean shouldered his duffle, blowing a fog into the cold air; staring at Sam in the hoodie. J. Crew was actually the first store he found closest to the exit doors in that damn mall. There were way too many teenagers in there for his liking, all wanting to worship at the altar of colored fountains, and really big pretzels.
The saleswoman asked if he wanted to gift wrap the jacket, and Dean had made the mistake of saying 'He won't mind it being au natural' Not for the 'au natural' part, but because the redhead in her black v neck dress, automatically started wanting to sell him some Brut to go along with his special gift.
It wasn't Dean's best moment.
But the damn thing actually looked good his brother, not in a creepy, let's incest way, just good.
["Dean Mr. Sockface'smashed!" Sam was staring at Dean with huge saucer eyes, while John swore about how the rabbit's eyes got caught in the tire of his truck and made a tear in the rubber. "He's dead!" Sam was 4, so naturally he cried over something like that.
Dean took the broken thing from his brother, seeing the huge hole where it's stomach used to be, stuffing vivisected out of it, it's remaining button eye dangling by a thread.
"Don't worry kid," Dean placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "He went to bunny heaven."
Sam wasn't comforted by that, he flung himself at Dean before Dean could stop him, because he was ten now, and well, it came with its own set of rules.
But, his little brother's form pressed against him out in the motel parking lot, crying over a dead toy named 'Mr. Sockface' – it all finally made him pull an arm across Sam's shoulders to offer some form of comfort, at least he hoped so. Sam had slept with that dumb thing so long that he didn't know what'd he do without it. "You wanna sleep with me tonight Sammy? We can bury Mr. Sockface in the morning."
Sam sniffed and nodded against his brother's gray shirt. "Kay Dee."]
"Yeah I know." Dean returned.
Sam returned that look with one that said: 'Good.'
Dean followed Sam when his brother started moving again, out of the cold and into the motel.
Hoodwinked –transitive verb – to deceive by false appearance.
This all came to me because of all the Sam hoodie fic's I've read. I liked them; but they all seemed to fall into a certain pattern. Sam has hoodie, Sam thinks or calls it his 'go to' piece, Sam wears said hoodie, Sam gets really emotional and sad, even for him. Crying and cuddling initiates.
Sorry if this upset anyone, I just thought I'd play with how I see a "hoodie fic" Like or hate, your deal.
Let me know, my deal.