Work Text:
Clothes That Make the Man
by Sam-Tony
Dean shouldn’t look good like this; he shouldn’t. He should look ridiculous, stupid even…Dean in a corset and thigh high black patent leather boots with one seriously nasty stiletto heel shouldn’t be turning Sam’s insides to mush, but…
Sam thinks it has something, maybe everything, to do with the fact that Dean’s all in black - boots, corset, garters in their black lace and metal hooks. It’s the no-nonsense way Dean is standing at the foot of their bed, skilled, nimble fingers loading the shotguns with shells of blessed shot and rock salt like it was any other hunt. It’s the hard, focused look in his eyes, those green eyes with their criminally unfair lashes and the freckles highlighted and called out by the eyeliner Sam had talked him into wearing.
But maybe - just maybe - it’s the black leather trench he’ll wear over it all, hiding it until they’re ready. Belted and wrapped around Dean’s lean but sturdy frame, given height to match Sam’s by the boots, the leather will hide the shotgun held at his side, and the knife…Sam swallows against a dry throat as he watches his brother slide the stiletto into the top of his right boot, the blade sliding smoothly between leather and flesh.
The look Dean throws him as he catches the movement is a cross between smug and irritated; the older Winchester torn between knowing he looked ridiculous and knowing he looked *good*.
Sam feels the smile tickle open, drawn out by the fact that Dean *did* look good; broad, pale chest encased in black leather and lace that played up the light blush currently riding down his throat, dusting his skin a soft pink. Those long, strong legs; muscles encased in shiny black leather that caught the single light of their crappy no-tell motel room, playing with the curves of calves and the good few inches of vulnerable thighs peeking out from lace garters over the leather. Those leather-and-lace panties that hid absolutely nothing. The leather cuffs and collar that encircled the strong wrists and throat, moving as Dean swallowed, cleared it, uncomfortable with Sam’s scrutiny when he actually had to go out looking like this.
The gun he swung up to rest over his shoulder helped. That, and knowing the Halloween party was bound to have more than one version of his ‘costumed heroine in bondage’ theme. It wasn’t Rush Week, but with the lure of Halloween in the chilly, damp night air, it might as well be.
Get in, distract the college frat boys/bad-assed secret society Skull wannabes while Sam found and switched out the dead Headmaster’s grimoire with its focal drop of blood holding the ghost to the House with a harmless fake and get out before the obligatory midnight spell-casting and orgy.
Should be simple enough.
End