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Beer, toilet paper, milk. Beer, toilet paper, milk.
Beer, toilet paper, milk, and pop rocks. Maybe some pie if there was any.
Fifteen minutes later, Dean’s hand was weighed down with beer, toilet paper, milk, pop rocks, and absolutely no pie at all. A shopping trip wasted, as far as he was concerned.
He took a detour on the way back to the bunker. He could take as long as he wanted to return; Sam and the giant stack of books weren’t going anywhere.
Walking down a paved street as leisurely as he pleased, he breathed in the chilly air, eyes turned to the overcast sky. It wasn’t dark yet, but it was starting to get gloomy. Then again, it had been gloomy for weeks. He tucked his scarf under his nose, lips warmed by his own breath.
Cars rushed by on his left, heading home after the nine-to-five workday. Their headlamps glowed like beastly eyes, unflickering. Dean tasted the vehicle exhaust on his tongue, where it mingled with the flat scent of woodsmoke; someone around here was either having a bonfire, or had a fireplace burning hot. He sped his pace, fantasising about lying back on a couch in front of a space heater. The quicker he got home, the quicker he’d be warm.
He came to a wide sidewalk, its paving set in awkward rows, like it was meant to be straight but the paver screwed up. Small plants grew through the cracks, and Dean was careful to avoid stepping on them – even the ugly ones. If they were strong enough to survive in such unforgiving conditions, he figured they deserved his respect.
On the same sidewalk, he passed a row of old buildings on his right, their adjoined roofs decorated with floral-inspired clay shapes, terracotta against the moribund daylight. Each of the buildings had been converted into neat stores, with hoods overhanging the fronts. Half of the stores were already closed for the night: the baker, the pharmacist, the dog-washing place. A technology store was currently closing up, the fat pinstriped owner pottering into the street to pull the shutters down. A handful of stores were still open, beaming warm golden light onto the sidewalk. The paving was slanted downwards away from the stores, and Dean found himself walking on the slope, his plastic bag balancing his lopsided weight.
He slowed his pace when he saw something in particular. The store farthest from him was still open, its glass front florid and vaguely pink. It wasn’t the fuchsia awning that drew him in, it was the sign above the store: elegant hand-painted script, gold on black.
☙ Boutique du Ballet ❧
So he stood outside, and he looked. His face became anointed by the light from inside, eyes watering due to how bright it was. There were mannequins posed in the window, and he looked past them, but the glass was slightly steamed up, and he couldn’t see more than hazy pink shapes. The mannequins themselves, however, were very nicely dressed. One female figure’s arms were held poised in a delicate circle, her bodice and skirt hanging sleek and pink and beautiful.
Dean felt pathetic, standing there in his leather jacket and ripped jeans, hair on the greasy side of not-washed, a bag of stupid things Sam wanted dangling from his crooked fingers. God, he was a perv. Dean knew he was staring, and he knew he’d look ridiculous to anyone who saw him. He couldn’t bring himself not to care about people seeing him; he was self-conscious. He swallowed and looked both ways down the street, then behind him. The cars went on driving, sluggish and droning. Nobody cared, Dean knew nobody cared, but he still didn’t enjoy being seen.
He pushed on the silver bar to open the glass door. A welcoming rush of warm air caressed his face as he stepped inside, and his feet triggered a buzzer that sounded from above the door.
“Salut!” a woman chirped in immaculate French, looking up from her desk. There were stacks and shelves and mannequins and racks either side of the aisle between Dean and the woman, but when Dean met her eye from across the small shop, she was the only part of the world that mattered. She was looking at him, and she knew he existed. Dean had been so keen on hiding from judgemental eyes that he’d willingly walked straight from the frying pan and into the fire. How could he have forgotten that people worked in shops?
“We’re nearly about to close,” the woman said in a local Kansas accent, straightening up. Her blonde plait swung on her shoulder, wrinkling the pastel cashmere sweater she wore. When Dean didn’t give any reply, she put on a smile and said, “Can I help you?”
“Um.” Dean took another step inside, finally letting the door close all the way. It clunked, and he was sealed into the warmth, becoming part of the light that gleamed in here. Everything the light touched was delicate and pretty; he was so out of place that the dust bunnies under the clothing racks were probably more comfortable than him. “Not really,” he answered. He was in trouble here. There was no helping him.
“Well,” the woman said carefully. She checked her wristwatch, a slim silver bracelet. “You have perhaps five minutes. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help speed up your search. Is there something you’re looking for?”
Dean shook his head, tucking his free hand into the pocket of his jeans. “Nah. I’m, uh... just looking.”
He turned his head to the side and stared at whatever was in his eyeline. He didn’t move his feet, and he didn’t see anything but blurs. The woman’s eyes were on him. He was being judged and scrutinised, and he couldn’t take this for very much longer. Even the classical music playing overhead suddenly seemed as loud as a plane coming in to land.
The woman fidgeted – then Dean heard a rustling noise. He glanced over at the woman, only to see her slump over the front desk with a magazine in her hand. She scratched her head, then turned a magazine page.
She wasn’t looking at him. She... really didn’t care?
Dean’s heart leapt, and he felt an unclipping freedom behind his eyes. He turned his gaze to the mannequins, looking at them properly. Their little skirts covered their rears and not much more, the backs of the leotards cut low, showing off toned plastic muscle. They were some of the most graceful mannequins he’d ever seen.
He reached out a finger, swiping the skirt of the nearest mannequin. The spandex material fluttered, swaying, and then was still.
His eyes roamed the shapes of the display model. Slim hips, he didn’t have hips like that. He would never be petite. He’d pulled off the occasional pink garment a few times in his life, but he truly doubted he had the gall or the complexion to wear something as dainty as a ladies’ ballet outfit.
He blinked and looked away. God, what was wrong with him? He couldn’t possibly be thinking about this, not for real. It didn’t matter how much he thought about these things when nobody was around to judge him, some daydreams ought never be made reality.
“Excusez-moi. Out of curiosity, are you here for a friend?” The woman’s voice cut into his thoughts, and Dean startled, beer bottles clanking as he whipped his face around to stare at her wide-eyed. She’d snuck right up to him, and he only noticed now.
“What?”
“Are you here to get something for a friend?” She gestured at the mannequin whose skirt Dean had been fingering. “Usually I’d recommend the woman who’s going to be wearing the costume would have to try it on. They’re quite tight-fitting, it’s important to get the sizing right. Do you have measurements?”
Dean gaped, swapping his bag to his other hand. “Uh. Uh, no,” he shook his head. “I’m... um, browsing.”
Oh, God. She probably thought he was a creeper now, here to drool over the children’s little dresses. He’d trapped himself.
The woman smiled, somewhat brusquely, her glossed lips pressing together. Her brown eyes sparkled, one shaped eyebrow arching as she considered him. “You know, I wasn’t joking about closing up soon. You can come back tomorrow if you want, we open at nine.”
Dean shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ll―”
He was about to say he would leave and never come back, but he didn’t want that. What he wanted was on the tip of his tongue, and there was no point in holding it back, not when there was a time limit.
He pointed to the mannequin’s outfit. “What’s the largest size you have that in?”
“Oooh...” The woman squinted thoughtfully. “I think that might actually be the largest...”
Dean glanced at the spandex leotard, his insides slowly becoming overtaken with a forlornness he hadn’t realised he’d feel. Even if he stretched out the fabric to the point the stitches ripped, he would never get more than half his hipbone inside. Damn being a dude, and damn this uncomfortable feeling of shame that came from realising how badly he wanted it.
Dean’s love of ballet wasn’t just a silly, faddish enjoyment, and it wasn’t a weird fetish, no matter what he let Sam believe. It wasn’t about watching scantily-dressed girls seduce each other in the movies – or about scantily-dressed girls at all, for that matter. It was about Dean. It was about expression, embracing the part of him that always wanted to show off. And it was private. It was so, so private that Dean felt sick because he had to speak about it to the shop lady if he wanted to get anywhere.
“Do... do you have this... Do they make this for men?” Dean gulped hard, trying his utmost to prevent himself from blushing. He never blushed, and he wasn’t about to start now.
The woman started to smile and frown at the same time. “There are leotards for men, yes. The tights are thicker – and the leotard is worn under the tights, opposite to the women’s costumes. Would you like me to fetch a set so you can see? They’re in the back room; men’s items aren’t very popular.”
Dean didn’t want to say aloud that he would rather wear the leotard over the tights, like the women did. The shop lady didn’t need to know that. Slowly, unsurely, he nodded.
“I will be back in one moment,” she said, flicking a finger. “Take a look around while I’m gone. Tell you what – if you promise to buy something today, I’ll keep the shop open until you’re done.”
Dean let out a breath, suddenly feeling more at ease. Now he was required to buy something, and that made it a lot easier for him to do. “All right,” he said.
He smirked at the woman’s retreating back. Her skirt was like the one the mannequin wore, a single circle of fabric with an elasticated waist, and it swished as she walked. Dean only realised as she went through a doorway behind the desk he’d been checking out her skirt rather than her ass. He felt the need to compensate by ogling her boobs whenever she came back, but after some deliberation, decided against it. He didn’t need it, and she probably wouldn’t appreciate it. The only person who knew he was in this for the clothes would be him.
While she was gone, Dean pawed at the mannequin’s tutu some more. Damn, he really liked how it moved. He felt like a cat toying with a bit of discarded string, no goal to the game except to play. He stretched his fingers out one by one, as his bag of groceries continued to make his hand ache.
The woman came back a short while later with her arms draped with clothes, and Dean shoved his skirt-touching hand quickly back into his pocket so she didn’t see how enamoured he was with the fabric. She had a smile on her face, and she held up a black shape, which unrolled to become a shiny pair of spandex tights. “That’s the tights, aaand,” she lifted a clothes hanger, on which hung a white t-shirt. “That’s the t-shirt. There are tank tops too, if you’d prefer that. And we have a small selection of dance belts if you need one of those.”
“What’s a dance belt?” Dean asked before he could stop himself.
The woman’s lips parted ever so slightly. “Oh. You don’t dance, do you? I thought maybe you did another kind of performance. No?”
Dean sucked his lower lip under his teeth, shaking his head gently.
The woman smiled. “A dance belt keeps male genitalia all tucked up nice and safe. No panty lines, no jolting movement. Saves injuries when you’re jumping around.”
“Oh. Cool.” Again, Dean’s eyes looked over the tights and shirt the woman was holding up. He had an anxious, nauseous weight in his stomach, directly related to the fact that what she was showing him was not at all what he wanted. His gaze slid down to the floor, to the woman’s tidy buckled shoes. He wet his lips with his tongue. “It doesn’t come with a skirt, does it,” he mumbled.
“A tutu?”
Dean winced, his insides curdling with the shame that radiated from his gut outwards. He wanted to wear a freaking tutu. Like a little girl. That made him gross and weird and a total freak, didn’t it?
The woman slowly wrapped the tights and the t-shirt over her forearms. “We sell tutus, sir,” she said, tentatively. “If you... um, if you need it in a larger size...?”
Dean couldn’t look away from the carpet. He wanted to speak and tell her she was wrong, she was assuming too much, he was buying for a friend, he was buying for a lady friend – his girlfriend, his sister, his daughter – but all that came out was a whisper: “I don’t know what size I am.”
He knew she was smiling, he heard her huffy laugh. “I’ll get the measuring tape. Wait here.”
Her back turned and he put a hand to his face, pushing back tears. Why did he get himself into this? He wanted to puke, or cry, or take a long, cold shower and wash away the gentle clothiness of this place. Sam would be able to smell the femininity on his skin once he got to the bunker, he was sure of it.
The woman came back, spinning a measuring tape around her finger. There was a crafty look in her eyes, and she was smirking. “Put your bag down, take your coat off, and we’ll take a look, shall we?”
Dean swallowed hard. “I’m um – I’m aaah – um―”
“You think you’re the first guy to come in here looking for something delicate? Come on, off with it!” She flapped a hand at his leather jacket and scarf. “I’m willing to delay closing time on your behalf, but I do still have dinner to get home and cook.” As Dean began to unwind his scarf, her eyes flicked up to his.
“Wh-What’s your name?” Dean asked, letting his leather jacket flop onto the carpet.
“Vivian,” the woman said. “Lift your shirt, I’ll sneak around your back.”
Dean nervously wrinkled up the hem of his plaid overshirt and baggy heather-grey t-shirt, worrying Vivian would see his stretch marks or the stitched-up scars from hunting injuries. Or his unhappy layer of spare tyre, for that matter. He wasn’t fat, not at all, but that did not mean he wasn’t incredibly aware of the slight pudge on his tummy.
Vivian’s measuring tape was cold on his skin. He shut his eyes, pretending this wasn’t happening. He was lying on a beach somewhere, wrapped in a parka so nobody could make assumptions about his blocky figure.
“Thirty-three,” Vivian said, straightening up. Dean detected a whiff of cigarette smoke in her perfumed scent. “Definitely not a dancer.” She winked.
“Did you just call me fat?”
Vivian laughed huskily, rolling up her tape measure with a practised finger-spin. “Most adults who come in here are stick-thin and one hundred percent toned – any deviation from that is unusual. Hence there being no women’s leotards larger than our mannequin over there.”
Dean folded his arms. Vivian shook her head. “No,” she said, “You’re not fat.” Her smile slipped into a grin. “I’ll go and get your tutu. Spandex, right? I saw you groping the mannequin. Any preference for colour?”
Dean’s left hand crept up to his neck, and he rubbed at his nape bashfully. “Pink,” he whispered.
Vivian heard him, and made no critical comment at all. “Give me a minute, then.” She turned around and stalked off, still spinning her measuring tape around her finger.
Dean sighed as Vivian busied herself going through stacks of tutus on the shelves at the side. While she did that, Dean nudged his floor-crumpled jacket closer to the side of the shop, pushing it against his grocery bag. Since he was sticking around for a bit, he may as well keep his hands free. He felt a bit more liberated without the jacket, too.
He started to wander the shop, eyes drifting from girls’ frocks to hair decorations to DVDs. The DVDs were squashed into one single shelf at eye-level. There were only one or two of each title, as digital media was not the focus of the boutique. Dean browsed slowly enough to let some titles leap out at him. There were beginner’s guides to ballet, children’s TV programs with ballet as the focal point – one program of which Dean had downloaded and watched himself, purely out of curiosity – and a number of live performances which had been filmed and digitised.
He recognised the title of one: Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake. The music was Tchaikovsky, Dean liked Tchaikovsky. He’d never seen a ballet live, but seeing it on DVD had to be the next best thing, right? He wriggled the DVD case out from between all the others, which collapsed into the space Swan Lake had left behind.
He flipped it over to look at the back cover, and his insides sparkled like falling glitter as he saw the photo of two men dancing, one topless with trousers of white feathers, a black dart painted down his forehead representing a swan’s bill. The other was a prince, wearing white clothes, black boots. Their bodies’ were lithe and exquisite and bold; none of their strength was downplayed while posing as lines of physical poetry. Both men were gorgeous – and Dean would never ever admit to anyone that the word ‘gorgeous’ was even in his vocabulary, let alone the fact he sometimes thought men were exactly that.
He turned to Vivian, who approached with Dean’s perfectly pink tutu rippling in her hands. He swallowed around his breath, trying to avoid eye contact.
“Ooh, Swan Lake,” she chirped. “I love that one, I saw it live in L.A. years ago. It’s still showing in the U.K., I think. Merde, I wish I could fly over there and see it again.”
Dean considered shoving the DVD back onto the shelf so she wouldn’t think he was legitimately interested. He could pretend he’d picked it up by mistake, hadn’t realised it starred two dudes in the lead roles. But before he could make any move, Vivian said gently, “Sir? I’m not judging you. I can see what’s going on in there, in your head, and believe me: you are not the only one. Okay? There is absolutely no reason to be uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable―”
“Want to try this on?” She’d tricked him into looking at her; she waggled the tutu about, a cheeky glint in her eye.
Dean’s unstoppable blush rose straight to his cheeks, and a flop sweat made his hands slip on the DVD. Vivian laughed at him, but not unkindly. Her playful teasing made him relax a bit more, and he managed to shake his head. “I’d rather, uh – y’know – try it at home.”
He couldn’t believe he was actually talking about this with another human being. After Rhonda, the most discussion with other people he had on this subject was to add delivery instructions to the things he ordered online. No way he was getting lingerie delivered to the bunker – that was what his private P.O. box was for.
“The waist on this is only thirty-two inches,” Vivian said. “It might be a bit pinchy, but it’s elastic, so you should be okay. I’ll put it on the desk, you can come pay when you’re done.” She flicked a finger towards Swan Lake, which Dean was still holding. “Want me to add that to the pile?”
Dean shoved it in her direction, looking as far away from her as he could. He heard her tittering laugh, and he let her take the DVD out of his hand.
“Buy two more things and I’ll knock ten percent off, just for you!” she called, striding over to the front desk.
Dean cooled with relief again. A ten percent discount was a great excuse for him. He allowed himself the license to look around freely, and he smiled as he did. Two more things, two more things.
He checked Vivian wasn’t looking – she was reading her magazine – so he slunk into the corner of the shop where the lingerie was displayed. There wasn’t much, and definitely nothing frilly or shimmery like he usually prefered, but there was a great deal of beige. These garments were streamlined, and he assumed they were nude-coloured for the purpose of hiding them under tights and leotards. There were some brown-coloured things for women with darker skin.
Dean thought about asking Vivian about those dance belts she mentioned earlier, but decided that if he really wanted it, he could come back. Getting a tutu was a first step. He had no intention of actually dancing ballet, so he most likely wouldn’t need the professional gear. As far as he was concerned, a pair of lace panties under a tutu would suit him just fine.
He slowly began to feel more at ease. The only person judging him right now was himself. That judgement never usually stopped, so why not let himself go for a while? This shop was made to be a sanctuary for people who favoured the delicate; it could be his sanctuary, too.
He ran his fingers over sets of women’s tights, which ranged widely in colour and denier and material. He’d never worn stockings before, he wasn’t sure how they would feel on his skin.
“Those rip easily,” Vivian said from the desk, several feet and a rack of girls’ tutus behind Dean. “They’ll ladder up and you’ll end up with something closer to fishnets than tights.”
Dean peeked around the rack, meeting Vivian’s eyes. “What would you recommend?” he asked, a smirk playing on his lips. The question was intimate for him, and he was close to feeling confident. This kind of exchange might even be fun, once he got loosened up.
Vivian hopped off her seat and swayed over to meet Dean. “Hm,” she said, peering at the rows of tights. “Men’s tights are like I showed you before – thicker material, better-fitted on the crotch.”
Dean shook his head. “I...” He felt breathless, strangely exhilarated. “I like the girl stuff.”
Yes, he was blushing, and yes, his toes were curling in shame and embarrassment, but he still felt tremendously glad that he could say it out loud.
Vivian tilted her head, pursing her lips as she examined the rows again. “As long as you don’t mind a bad fit...” she reached and plucked out the largest pair of tights she found, “these might do. Most of the ladies wear pale pink.” She handed Dean the skinny cardboard packaging, through which the tights were looped. A ballerina demonstrating her best pointe was illustrated on the cardboard.
“Mind the stretch when you put them on,” Vivian added, patting Dean’s forearm. “Go slow or you’ll snag them. They’ll seem incredibly frail if you’re not careful.”
“I gathered,” Dean smirked. His thumbs stroked the soft fabric, eyes captured by the sweet pink colour. They were the most feminine things he’d ever touched, there was something pure and faultless about them. No matter how frail Vivian warned him they were, they were made of titanium in his mind. They represented the audacious, the way he wanted to be. A woman.
He only felt sour because he knew he would ruin them sooner or later.
Taking a breath, he muttered aloud for Vivian’s benefit: “Guess I’d have to shave my legs.”
Vivian didn’t say anything.
Dean’s tension flooded away. He’d always wanted to shave his legs. Tomorrow he’d go back to the convenience store and get a real ladies’ razor, so it wouldn’t cut his ankles the way his facial razor did last time he’d tried. He nodded, and passed the tights to Vivian. “I’ll pick out one last thing, then I’ll get outta your way.”
“Take your time,” she said gently, squeezing his forearm. She turned away, again leaving Dean’s head fogged with the greyness of cigarette smoke. No matter what those public service ads always said about smoking, Dean supposed there was a certain pleasantness to Vivian’s poisoned scent.
Dean wandered around, looking at anything that caught his eye.
On a spire of silver hooks, there were keyrings with tiny ballet shoes on them. Dean played out two fantasies: the first, of the miniature shoes dangling from his car’s ignition as he gunned the engine and tore up a highway getting away from a demon army – and the second, of Sam and Castiel wearing twin frowns of concern as Dean thoughtlessly tossed his keys onto the table in the bunker’s library. John Winchester had probably turned over in his grave eight times in the last fifteen minutes, but there was no keeping him from doing it again. Dean’s hand left the keychain alone. There was such a thing as too much confidence. He didn’t have anywhere near that much nerve.
Or so he thought.
The moment he saw them, he got down onto his knees and reached a hand towards the real, full-sized ballet shoes, all of which were stacked and angled towards him. He barely held back a sound of yearning that purled in his breath, diamonds in his eyes.
His fingertips brushed the side wing of the nearest satin shoe. From his fingertips came a strike of need, of incorruptible desire. He’d been cursed once before, he’d felt a powerful lust for shoes like these. Only, those other shoes had been magical, demonic. The desire he felt now came from him. It came from years and years of repressed urges and prayers and whispers and fleeting, helpless thoughts. Beauty, elegance. Things he wanted but wasn’t allowed. Not those things alone – not just beauty, not just elegance. He wanted femininity.
“Do you want to try them on?” Vivian asked. Her voice was distant, like she was in another room, or Dean was dreaming.
Dean nodded.
Vivian handed him a pair of one-size-fits-all foot stockings. “What size shoe are you after? There’s bigger ones in the back, I’ll go check.”
“It’s okay,” Dean breathed, searching for his size on the rack. “I have small feet.”
He bit his lip and grinned in total glee as he lifted a box out, unboxing the contents so he could try them. He sat back on his ass, hastily undoing his bootlaces then kicking the boots off. He wrenched his socks to the carpet, not for the first time in his life glad he never had an issue with sweating. His feet slipped easily into the stockings Vivian gave him, and as his toes were all pressed together by the tan nylon, both feet went perfectly into the satin shoes, one by one.
Oh, it was like sex. He slid right in, the space filled up by his body, pushing on the sides. It was tight, but the tightness made it great. His breath shook, excitement of more than one kind running in his veins. The ribbon ties dangled from the shoes’ rims like pink rivers, soft and smooth on the backs of his hands.
“Magnifique,” Vivian said. “I never expected they could suit a man so well.”
Dean blushed, but this time not from embarrassment. “Thanks.”
The vamp of the shoes were flat at the toe-tips, the drawstrings putting a very faint pressure on the top of his foot. He reached forward and wound the satin ribbons up around his right leg, crossing them at the back, at the front, then tying a bow behind his calf. His jeans bulked it up; he couldn’t wait to try these on again while wearing his tights.
He could feel the shape of the leather sole, cold against his foot as he curved his feet towards him, then leaned forward over his outstretched thighs to try and reach his toes.
“Nuh-uh,” Vivian tutted, “You’re too stiff. Try yoga.”
Dean sighed, giving up on the stretch. He could barely brush his fingertips against his ankles. He was going to work on that, starting tonight. By the end of the week, his goal was to be able to touch his toes effortlessly, like real ballerinas.
He stood up and jumped up and down, chuckling when he lost his balance and Vivian had to grab him by his shirt to steady him. “Sorry,” he grinned.
Vivian grinned back. “If you’re taking those, pack them up and get your wallet out. Closing time’s come and gone, and my dinner is in much too distant a future.”
“Gotcha,” Dean smirked. He bent at the waist and stood on one leg to get his new favourite shoes off. The ribbon ties collapsed in a flutter of glossy fabric as he pulled the bow apart. Christ, they were so beautiful.
He crammed them back into their box – carefully, of course – where they bedded down amongst white tissue paper. He put the lid on the box... then on second thought, reopened the box, threw his old socks in, then put his stockinged feet straight into his still-warm boots. He grinned to himself as he tied his laces. This day was turning out to be the most awesome day he’d had in ages.
He dumped the shoebox at the front desk, grabbing a wad of cash out of his back pocket. He smirked proudly at the pink tutu and the pink tights and the DVD, knowing for sure that tonight was only going to get better once he got back to the bunker and closed his bedroom door. He’d dress himself up for real after he’d shaved his legs, but there was no harm in trying it all on first.
At the last second, right before he handed over a hefty amount of cash, his eyes lighted on a small tray beside the till. There were more keyrings there – not with tiny ballet shoes, but with tiny cat faces. Dean imagined they were aimed at a six-year-old audience; whether or not six-year-olds had keys to keep track of was irrelevant. Dean only thought of one person as he put a cat keyring on top of his pile of other purchases.
Cas would appreciate the gift, no matter how ridiculous. Dean could imagine the doe-eyed, soft-spoken thanks already. He anticipated making the other man smile.
He paid Vivian a total that made him uncomfortable even with the ten percent discount. Who’d have guessed that these satin pointe shoes were handmade and had genuine Italian leather soles? Not him. Once he had a black plastic bag in hand, however, he was a satisfied customer.
“May I ask,” Vivian said, before Dean could retreat, “what’s your name?”
Dean heard the tenderness in the question, and he looked at her properly. She had pure curiosity in her eyes, and a childish youth in her smile. She wanted to know the real answer, not some made-up name. “Dean,” he said.
“Dean,” Vivian repeated. “Then... I wish you and your partner all the best. I hope you’ll find the courage to tell them about the things you like. If you haven’t already, that is.”
What?
Oh. Dean realised what she meant. She said partner. Not girlfriend. She thought he was gay – or at the very least, she wasn’t certain he was straight. Wow, that was awkward. Serve him right for appreciating half-undressed ballerinos too much.
And, wait― What partner? Sam was his brother, not a partner, and... Cas was...
“What makes you think I have a partner?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing.
“Your ring?” Vivian said, pointing to the silver ring on Dean’s finger. He spun it around with his thumb, resting his hand on the desk so they could both look at it.
“It’s my mom’s wedding ring,” Dean explained, a sad smile lifting one corner of his lips. “She died, and my dad left this with me. I had it resized.” He lifted his hand, giving his fingers a wiggle. “See?”
“It’s lovely.”
Dean smiled, grateful she’d noticed it. He let his hand rest back on the desk, and he stopped there. He got caught up staring, seeing the way the golden light of the shop twinkled in the scratched silver of Mary’s ring.
Vivian didn’t know Dean. She knew his darkest secret, but that was all she knew. It couldn’t hurt to lie a little, could it? She’d already made assumptions, and Dean wanted to protect himself. There was no better way to do that than to weave himself a background story, and become a fictional persona.
“Actually,” he said, thumbing the ring again and again, “It... doubles as my wedding ring. You were right.” His eyes shot up to meet hers, and he felt satisfaction bloom in his chest as her eyes lit up.
“What’s their name?” she asked, leaning closer in interest.
Still with the neutral pronoun, Dean noticed. Vivian still wasn’t sure who or what Dean liked.
Maybe Dean wasn’t sure either.
And then again... maybe he was.
“His name’s Cas,” he said, breath soft on the name. Once it was out of his mouth, Dean felt completely that it was the best sentence he’d ever said. “His name’s Cas, and we’re... married.”
Sometimes the lies he told weren’t meant to be believed. Vivian was taken in by this one – and the problem was, Dean believed it too.
Shit.
Dean left Vivian there. Shock descended over him as he went to the front of the shop, dropped the bag and put his jacket on as quickly as he could. He grabbed both bags, one with beer, toilet paper, milk, pop rocks and no pie, and one with all the things he should never have touched.
Cas. Married to Cas.
And only one of them had a ring.
Why did he feel so happy?
He swept out of the shop and into bitingly cold air, shoving his scarf up over his nose. Night had eaten the sky, and the road had cleared of cars. House lights brightened squares on the second floors, but Boutique du Ballet was the only place lit at street level. How long had he been inside?
Dean got ten paces away before he had to stop.
He’d told one lie. Castiel was not his husband. But it had been more beautiful to think of that kind of bond between them, something societal and wrong-for-them and totally and utterly impossible, than to think of any of the pretty things Dean had bought. Dean loved Castiel far, far more than whatever materialist things made him feel beautiful. Because Cas, on his own, as a person, made Dean the most beautiful creature in all of creation.
Love did that to people.
Dean ran back to the shop, shoving the door open. He toppled inside, pulling his scarf down and marching between an aisle of spandex and tulle, going right up to Vivian, who looked astonished to see him again.
“Thank you,” Dean said, with pressure in his voice due to how heartfelt his thanks were. “I... I mean it. Thank you.”
Dean had the prickle of tears in his eyes as Vivian ever so softly replied, “You’re very welcome, Dean.”
Now his heart was weighed down in the best possible way: with hope.
He left the shop again. He went home, smiling, holding two bags and spinning Mary’s ring on his finger, not feeling the cold.